Friday, September 10, 2010

The Mean Reds and a Move to Blogspot

Friends and Fellow Bloggers, I have made my return to the world of pinkpancakes. SInce March things in life have been rough and beatin me down.

In March I lost my job for some really awful reasons of which I will not go into and was too mild mannered to have the guts to file a complaint or contest the job loss. At first being home with Little O everyday was fun. Then the $ ran out and I wasn't even getting any nibbles on my resume and applications. Not in this economy and certainly not in the saturated social work field. This isn't to say that I didn't cherish and fully appreciate every second that I got to make pb&j sammies, clean up pb&j sammie faces, and snuggle with my Little O under his pb&j sammie covered "bankie".

Then one ordinary evening in April I stood over my sink eating the crusts of Little O's pb&j when one little phone call from my Mom in Indiana started a snowball of awful events. "Something's not right with Grammie, she said. She sounds depressed and won't talk to me". I can safetly say that "not talking" and "depressed" are about the least likely adjectives to describe Grammie. Mom said, "You call her. If she won't talk to you then something is up". So I did and I new instantly that she was ill. I called Mom right back and screamed "Get me a flight NOW". Within two days I walking through the doors of my favorite place in the world. The house where I'd spent countless summers goofing off with Grammie, learning the secret family recipes, watching old movies, and laughing so hard that it hurt. I called her Mz. Scarlett and she called me Mz. Prissy. One summer, we spoke only in Southern accents and spoke of "gettingthevapors" and blamed "them damn Yankees" anytime anything went missing. Only this time as I walked into the house she wasn't "draping" on the back of the couch waiting for me. As I curved around into the kitchen I nearly burst into tears. There sat a withered, wisp of a version of my loud, large, booming Grammie. After several doctors offices, ER visits, screaming matches over taking pills, wound care, Nurses aids visits, and home health care I returned to Texas thinking we had cheated death and she was on the path to healing. I was ever so grateful that I didn't have a job during this time, as I'd probably have had to quit, anyway. I made plans to come back in September. Thursday April 15th at 5am as I kissed her goodbye and headed for the airport I had no idea that would be the last time I'd feel happiness in that living room, the last time I'd hear her voice, the last time I'd listen to oxygen machine humming along with the Refidgerator. My Grammie past away peacefully in her sleep on June 8th. Just two days before my birthday.

I wonder if I had known that was my last time with her in that house would I have done something different? I know I certainly wouldn't have left to catch that plane. Would I have lingered longer near the big wood fireplace? Would I have looked at more old pictures? Would I have asked her to tell me all the old family stories that I'd heard a hundred times? Probably, but I didn't. In losing Grammie I experienced my first real sense of loss and desperation. I felt true agonizing pain in my chest that I thought for sure would never leave. I sobbed without tears, then with tears. I begged Mom to make Grammie come back, I sorted through endless pictures staining them with more tears. The showing, the funeral, the family dinners, the arrangements, and the flight home are now just one long painful blur. My emotions shoved me down and took over. I didn't feel like Kathryn without her. I couldn't stand to watch all her trinkets and collections removed and given away. If I had my way I'dprobably have locked up the house and left everything as it was.

I no longer cry everyday but the tears come in floods when they do. The sobs rack my ribs cage, and I'm once again certain that I'm having a heart attack. I think of her most in the mornings when I drive to work, a time when I used to call her and late a nights when I imagine her empty house. Knowing that she was sitting on the couch, watch Turner Classic Movies, and fiddling with the buttons on the remote was always a comfort for me. She was my constant. Life goes on without her but a part of me is missing.

Next up on the insanity that has been 2010 was the apperance of the most perfect job for me. I accepted a position as a Disease Intervention Specialist where I do disease intervention, tracking, and public health case management. Most you know that my passion for HIV/AIDS awareness is strong and a major part of my life. It inspires me and I'm certainly thrilled to be back in the field (and far away from abused children). The learning curve has been substantial and adjusting to 14 hour days, commuting, and the joys of daycare have drained my brain of it's ability to function.

Lastly, I've been dealing with Little O's man parts. If you don't want to read about baby balls read no further (just a warning!).

Now to start off with let me just say that Doctors offices are not a place for almost 2yo's, even at a Children's Hospital. I'm fairly certain that at the end of our hour wait every parent in that room wanted to strangle my precious baby boy who pointed at the fish tank and said "FISHIE?" "I DON'T SEE FISHIE." "FISHIES!" at a volume level usually reserved for say being murdered. On top of this he yelled it in screechy almost 2yo voice about 456364767 million times. If you are reading this and were one of those lovely parents with lovely, quiet, non-FISHIE loving children in the waiting room, I deeply apologize. Feel free to send me your doctors bills when you lose your hearing.

Anyway, in June Little O had a well-check visit. For those of you out there that don't speak the secret language of Parent this is a regular visit where they check all things baby such a the belly button, the vocal chords when they shove a light up their nose, and their reflexes and they dodge flailing arms as they apply a cold stethescope to a baby chest. If I were a Pediatrician I'd wear full jousting armor and ear plugs. Anyway, part of this check involves checking out baby man parts. The only part of the exam where Little O giggles (men, sheesh). The Pediatrician noticed some swelling of his baby balls and diagnosed a hydrocele. I then spent 59034760376 hours researching hydroceles on the internet. I gave up showering and all other hygiene for a good while. The internet can be a bad, bad thing. D eventually dumped a bucket of water on me and told me to take a chill pill and a shower. So I did.

The Urologist explained a hydrocele in less scary proportions. Basically there is a small hole from his abdominal cavity into the sac that holds his little baby balls. When he stands up more fluid rushes in. When he lays down the fluid rushes back out. If not fixed, via surgery (the whole nine yards including a spinal tap etc) little bits of his intestines can start to enter through the hole and then we gots lots of bigger problems. As the Doc-Doc described all this I had to fight not to tear up. Then I thought of all the other Mom's throughout the hospital, in other sterile rooms hearing news much, much worse than my news. I wanted to give them some of my strength as I hugged my squirming Little O so tight I had to search for his eyeballs on the floor. Luckily, we were in a sterile hospital room so I popped them right back in. Well, our surgery is scheduled for November 19th and is most certainly a day I am NOT looking forward to.

After all this drama I just never had the energy to blog.

So I cooked. I mean I COOKED.

My friends, family, D, Little O, neighbors, random people on street corners, Mr. and Mrs. Across the Street, and the postman have all mysteriously gained weight. Have I gained weight you ask? I plead the Fifth. Let's just say that today I woke up early to go for a run, I ate a handful of crackers for breakfast, and I threw my mirror in the dumpster. Convinced myself that the reason my pants were tight was because I needed to color my hair. Auburn was making my hips look fat for sure. When red didn't change my jean size I decided it' stime for change.

Change. Change. Change. Change. Change.

All yesterday I had that word on my mind and I think it's about time it happened. I need to wash away the pain, worry, and despair of the past six months. Rid myself of some baggage, rejuvinate my relationship with D, and re-find happy Kate.

The Grand Make Kate a Happier, Healthy, Energized, Relxed, and Productive Person has begun. I shall call it The GMKHHERP plan.

1) running

2) getting my finances back in order (that is a horror story in itself of which I shall spare you the gorey details)

3) stop snacking so much

My fingers are now tired from all this typing. They need a work out after the haitus from pinkpancakes. Maybe I should add "finger exercises" to my list above?? Shut up brain and let these nice readers get on with their lives. Although, if anyone has any finger workout moves, finger sweat bands, or finger track suits please let me know.

P.S. Part of the change is a change from my old blog at blogster to a new spot here! I did this for many reasons 1) I love Casondra @ 2) I love Elsa @ 3) It's part of the whole change movement and the GMKHHERP 4) All the cool people are doing it 5) I want to be one of the cool people

P.P.S. Please be kind while I learn how to use blogspot and make my blog full of awesomeness.

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