A Lot To Say and Don't Know Where To Start

This has been the week I almost became my mother.

I remember the faint burning in my chest to tell me that I was coming down with something. I remember the taste of illness in my mouth when I would cough. I don't remember how I got from the onset of a mild chest cold to the panting, dysneic existence I knew the night John rushed me to the emergency room. I just knew I couldn't breathe. I felt like I was dying. And the life of my mother flashed before my eyes, like her choices were manifesting themselves into what was to become of me. Alpha-1 Antitrypsin deficiency. That was all I could think. Genetic emphysema aggravated by several years of just plain ol' self-neglect in the form of Marlboro Lights. The last time I mentioned te disorder to a doctor, I was asked if I wanted to know how I would die. I said no. When death is the culmination of drowning in your own fluids, who wants to know of its appraoch? Certainly not me, so I declined the test. But this time, when I mentioned it to the pulmonologist, he didn't give me a choice. He just nodded and scribbled somethng down in my chart. An hour after he left, a lab tech showed up in my room to draw some blood. No questions asked. No chance to chicken out.

I will not die her death any more than I will live her life. The test was negatve. I have the time and the chance to make the choices necessary to ensure that I will not have the same demise. Those goals I have set for myself? They are still attainable. As I lay in that hospital bed this week, I told myself that, should the test be positive, I would abandon the whole doctor thing. I would instead focus on my son and my husband and live my life leaving well-enough alone.

Instead, I didn't have to make the choice. Instead, I was branded with bilateral pneumonia with secondary areas of atelectasis. In layman's terms? I had pneumonia in both lungs that was bad enough to require a week-long hospitalization, and was horrifying enough to cause some collapse of several lobes of my lungs. In other words yet? I became my patient. And for the first time in my life, I did not want a cigarette. I was scared. I was confronted with my own mortality. So now, here I am making soe major adjustments to my life.


Incidentally, this is what happens to an arm after 15 gazillion needle sticks and IV attempts.

Frailty of Life

So....I really want to blog about the experience I had this morning in a code. An experience so bad that it left me questioning if I want to stay in this world I have lived in for several years: The World of Medicine. A 36-year-old female with breast cancer suffering from complications from a lymphectomy. There were those of us on the ICU team that had been working on her for hours before one of us hit the blue button that would signal the hospital switchboard operator to make the overhead call of "Code Blue", then there was the general crowd that shows up when the code is called. Those of us that knew the story tried to resuscitate the young woman with faces that were streaked with tears. One of my colleagues came to check and see if I needed any help, and saw that I was crying, so he offered to relieve me. Her mother was already there, but we kept her alive until the "rest of her family" got there. When we realized our efforts were futile, the Nursing Supervisor went to get her family. Allowing the family at a resuscitation attempt is kind of controversial. Is it cruel? But studies have shown that families deal better when they see the effort we are putting in to save their loved one. So while I hate it because it does not always allow me the mental distance from the situation, if it helps them, so be it. But nothing prepared me for this. Her weeping husband. And her nine-year-old daughter who was wailing in pain and anguish. I tried to count the number of ceiling tiles in the room. I inspected my shoes. I didn't have to look. By now, my hands hold within them the rhythym of breathing and I can deliver breaths at a steady pulse while intentionally not looking. But this time that didn't stop the tears. This time it was my family I was seeing, no matter where my eyes tried to focus.

I could not get John's face out of my head. Or Evan's voice. My reasons for living. And undoubtably, the husband and daughter were hers. They were robbed by the intricacies and the mysteries of the human body. And like us, I am sure they had plans for their future. The husband had been out of town, and didn't know that he would never see his wife again. I still cannot get the image of his pained, tear-streaked face pressed to her cold, pale, lifeless one. The picture serving as a study in the contrast between death and life. And her death proved something to us all. She was in the MICU, the unit of the hospital to which I have been assigned for going on the past 2 months now. Our MICU is new. State-of-the-art facility and equipment. Staffed with the A-team of the medical world. Even we therapists are a select few. We are all oriented to the unit, but non-hackers weed themselves out. But this morning, nothing we had to offer could have been enough for her. Which is scarier than you could imagine, because it humbles all of us. It shows us that we cannot fix everything with almost unnecessary cruelty. And while we are all there, working our demanding schedules to pay for kids' tuitions or the new family minivan or the plasma tv that society tells us we need, we are forced to face the idea that we are away from the very ones we are doing it all for. That life is frail, and would it be better to be at home, snuggled in bed with our spouses or waking in the morning to sloppy kisses from our young children. Because as we were witnessing at that very moment, life could have other plans for us.

Guilt and Sadness

Before I know it, Summer will be gone. Evan will be back in school. And starting tomorrow night, I am back to the grind. By the time I get off of work on Monday, it ill be time to head to another quarter of classes. And at the end of the Summer, this baby of mine will be 8 years old. I know I will not be getting a break until we are both off for Christmas.

I look at those brown eyes and I miss it all: the sloppy kisses and macaroni and cheese faces after dinner. The cuddling and giggling. Getting his bubble bath ready at night. Making sure he learns math. And I look at the stretch of time ahead of us and I realize that by the time I finish medical school, this little boy will be 13 years old. Is it worth it?

I had a talk with Evan just now, asking him if he wanted Mommy to go to school to be a doctor, even though it is going to take a long time. He looked at me with those big brown eyes and said yes, very emphatically. When I asked him if he would still think I was a good Mommy if I continued to be away, he said yes again. I asked him why he wanted Mommy to be a doctor, and he told me that he has the smartest mommy in the world, and he knows I can do it. So now I am sitting here at my desk typing this, amidst the crepe paper flowers and finger-painted rainbows he has given me from art class in school, and I have found out the truth.

I am so very blessed. For some reason, whatever higher power is out there has decided that I am deserving of this amazing little person in my life. How lucky could I be?

Endless Downloads, Cracker Crumbs, and More

OMG.

I hadn't been into my office in days. I have instead been vegging out with the laptop on the sofa, which is infinitely cooler than the office in the absence of AC.

So today, I walk into my office only to discover that my desktop on the big computer is covered with icons for those free game trials you can download online. I have spent all day getting those off of there and making the computer like Fort Knox so I won't ever have to do that again.

And Chhez-Its. All over. The carpet beneath my feet looks like a pale shade of orange because they are ground into the carpet. They are between the keys of the keyboard, in the mouse, everywhere.

The kid is now banned from the office.

Electric Nazis and the Landlord from Hell

I. Am. In. Hell. I have had to resort to 60-hour workweeks again in addition to my crazy school schedule because of bills. I am a sort of magnet for drama. The therapist I saw after my mother died once told me that I have the tendency to get bored because my mind is capable of handling a lot at one time, and so sometimes I dramatize a little to entertain myself without realizing it. Back then, I would have to stop myself from over-reacting to little bumps in the road. Well, that was years ago. I can assure you that with motherhood, marriage, my career, and my rather ambitious educational endeavors, I am not bored. Not me, my mind, my heart, my soul.....All of the parts of me are challenged on a daily basis. And yet still, drama. Drama, drama, drama. Here is the latest:

We moved in to the property where we now reside back in November of this past year, right? Well, we have had trouble since. Trouble with neighbors and the general functionality of the house in which we live.

My absolute fave incident had to be the day I had my wisdom teeth cut out. As our luck would have it, despite best-laid plans, about an hour after Evan was dropped off at school, the school called saying he was vomiting. Yuck. But I had to have the procedure done, and John had to be there. I arranged for the sick childcare at work so John could take me. But we had to go. So John picks up Evan while I am in the shower. John and Evan are in Evan's bedroom changing Evan into pj's while I am in the next room getting ready. Apparently, Evan started projectile vomiting all over his room, so John shouts for me to help. The next thing we know, the neighbor from upstairs comes downstairs and is banging on our door, raising hell that we "jolted" his wife awake. I tried to apologize and explain that our son was ill and John needed my help. Before I could finish, he started talking about our "dumbass kid". Oh. Oh no. I called the landlord then and there and told him that if he did not do something about them, we wanted out of our lease.
But as if that wasn't enough...

We get a bill in the mail last Monday. Electric. $163.89. We have been paying about $200 monthly since we moved in in November, which is a pretty substantial electric bill for an apartment. I figured it was a little cheaper because we haven't been using heat. Sweet. Until the next day, when we get another bill. For...wait for it...$1,029.96. Ummmmm. Seriously? No way. I immediately get on the horn to the powers that be at the electric company. I pay my bill every month, in full, before it is due. What in the hell could this possibly be about? Well, as it turns out, they claim to not have access to our meters, which are under lock and key. Who has the key? The landlord. I didn't even realize that they couldn't read the meters. I mean, if they can't, how did they read it when the electric was first turned on in our name in November? So something is not right here. We start talking to our neighbors and find out that the upstairs neighbors got a bill for over $2K, and the neighbors across the hall got one for $1600. The neighbors upstairs aren't married, and thus have different last names, and so their solution was to turn it off in his name and turn it on in hers. But John and I cannot do that. I had no choice but to pay the bill.

Thinking that part of this fiasco is the landlord's mistake, I call him and tell him about it. I explained that, for the first time since we moved in, my rent would have to be 1 week late because I had to pay this enormous bill since he failed to provide a key to the meter reader. In other words, dude, even though you messed up and jilted your tenants, I will pay the sucky bill, but in exchange, I need you to give me one week. Nope. He wants us out. Which is fine. I want out. I am tired of the noisy neighbors and the bugs that crawl through the gaping holes in the screens because we cannot use our non-working a/c and thus must leave the windows open. I'm tired of trashy neighbors stealing my towels from my dryer downstairs when I turn my head for a second.

But then we start really looking at our lease. Boy was I stupid. It appeared to be a standard lease, and the day I signed it, Evan was running around like a madman and I was just trying to get home. But it is anything but standard. This asshole actually has it in his lease that we are responsible for repairs to electrical, plumbing, appliances, and even the roof if it leaks. In other words we got hosed again. So now we are looking for a new place...again. But not before I got my digs in:

We were leaving the house. There is already a "For Rent" sign in the front yard because one of the units upstairs is empty. Well this young couple pulls up and asks if I know how many bedrooms the empty unit has. "Two," I say. "Two pieces of crap."
"Really? You don't like living here?" the guy asks.
" Well, my electric bill was over $1000 this month. I make really good money, and I cannot afford this piece of crap." I tell him. This is when John walks up and pipes up about the bugs and the neighbors and the lease he makes people sign. The couple wanted to know if we knew of anyplace else around here for rent. We directed them to a place around the corner that has 1 bedroom, which we would have rented if we didn't have a child. They thanked us for our honesty. I doubt they will even inquire about this apartment. I figure that was my good deed for the day. At lkeast I could save them, if not myself.

Not the Break I Wanted

I came home from work this morning and went to sleep for 2 hours before I was awakened by this God-awful pain in my jaw. Being a bad girl has caught up with me, apparently. When I was 19, I went to get my wisdom teeth dealt with. Being the enigma that I am, instead of having 4 like a normal person,I had only 3. All 3 were in my mouth and looked great, but my dentist was concerned that the bottom 2 would get cavities or cause problems with my neighboring molars, so they were pulled in the office.. Years later, the elusive 4th tooth shows up. It has been in there for years, but it is either broken or jagged. I cannot tell which it is as it is too far back to see. I just know I will have periods where it will hurt for a while, then it goes away. Now it is killing me. So figuring that I have excellent insurance, I stay home from school today to deal with this. But somehow this has evolved from my trusty dentist to an maxillofacial surgeon, a major procedure, and being NPO after midnight. John will have to miss school tomorrow as well. I am now perched on my sofa with a laptop and the phone, trying to get ahold of all of my professors. This completely sucks. But this time tomorrow, I will look like the picture you see for this post.

Me Blogging about A Pic of Me Blogging

I had the night from Hades last night at work. 13 vents in just one unit, and I had multiple units. Here in a half an hour, I have to get ready to go back. So yep, I look like ass. No makeup, pillow creases on my face. I am dog-tired. I get my butt kicked just about every night at work. But tonight, I know I will. There is just something about the possibility of having an easy night that makes it much easier to go in in the first place. But for some reason, when you know the mountain of work will be insurmountable and there will be just some patients you cannot physically get to because you are so busy, followed by the realization that instead of being off in the morning, it is the start of your school day....Well it is enough to make you want to stay home.
But alas the time has come for my shower to get ready. I have to do my job.

I think I am running out of steam.

The Word of the Day: Juggling

Busy, busy, busy me.

John and I have this little thing going. There will be a show coming on the tv at night that I want to see. I will be posted up in my office, studying, and he will let me know when it is coming on. He then helps me transfer my pile of books and notebooks into the living room, where I will lay on the floor while he rubs my back and I study while absorbing the show through osmosis. Ivariably, after about an hour, I will tell him that I need a little nap, and will instruct him to wake me after about one hour of sleep. No matter what I say or how much I gruble or what name I call you, WAKE ME UP! I have x, y, and z to get accomplished because this is my only night to do them. DO NOT let me sleep all night. The problem is that once I am asleep, being as sleep-deprived and busy as I am, he cannot get me to wake up. It is like I go into a coma. After several nights of this same thing, he has finally wisened up a bit, and when I say "let me go to sleep for an hour", he responds with "Hell NO!".

The moral of the story is that I have this laundry list of tasks that must be completed and since I snoozed all of those nights, I have to get them done NOW.
But...

Today is my Monday. I work 12's the next three nights. Monday night I have biology and its lab. I literally have to make use of every free hour I have to get this crap done.

As soon as I log off, I plan to study until 2:30-ish. Then I plan to go to sleep for a couple of hours so I can function at work all night. If I wake up by 1:00 Saturday and Sunday, I can get a few more hours in each of those days. Monday will start with the completion of my night at work, followed by calculus and a meeting with my Pre-med advisor. If I hustle, I can get a few more hours in there before I have to head to Biology. If I stay up till 1:ooAM Monday night (normally I would say 2 or 3, but since I would have worked the night before and not slept, I am being nice to myself), I can get more done then. Thank God that my Chem lab is cancelled Tuesday morning. I don't have class until 2 PM as a result, and if I take all of my stuff to campus with a packed lunch, leaving the house at the normal time, I can get most everything else done with no distractions. Or interruptions. Or temptations.

This is what I mean by "juggling".

So I am left with this question for myself: Do I really want to be a doctor? Is it worth it to torture myself like this for many years to come?

The answer, after some thought: a resounding, unwaivering, Earth-shattering YES!

The Handprints They Leave

My boys, that is. Let me explain. I firmly believe that the people that come and go from our lives leave evidence that they were there in their wake. Some leave us smiling, and some leave us crying. Some stay longer than others. We are born alone, and we surround ourselves with others throughout our life, and we cannot take them with us when we go.

As I flit around from class to class, campus to campus, to work and to home and back again, the evidence my John and Evan leave behind is hard to miss. I spent the largest part of my day infuriated yesterday. You see, I stopped at a carwash to clean the salt grime that winter driving leaves on a car. And I thought to myself, "Self, why don't you vacuum it out while you're here. It will save you the hassle of tangled extension cords and a cumbersome Kirby being dragged to the curb at home." So I did. And for the first time, in the glaring light of day, I actually looked at my car. (Since John's car died a while back, he has mainly been driving my car and chaufferring me to the places I need to go.) What I found pissed me off beyond belief. Scuffs from gym shoes on the backs of the seats. French fries under the floor mats in the backseat. Dirt everywhere. What was supposed to be a quick stop turned into a 2-hour cleaning frenzy. Let me remind you that this car was brand spanking new in September. A 2009. The first new car I have ever purchased for myself. I was livid, and the boys got quite the lecture about respecting the things we own. I even broke down $20,000 to Evan in his terms, explaing that I could buy x amount of Webkinz for the price of the car, thinking maybe he would realize just how expensive automobiles are, and would respect the car a little more.

So I go back to class, and am a little early. I whip out my MP3 player from my backpack and am going to listen to some tunage while I am reviewing my notes for our quiz in biology. No music. What???? Why does it not work? The battery is charged, but it keeps trying to reboot itself. I try to remember the last time I used it. Or the last time it was used, period. And I flashback to a vision of little Evan wearing it and be-bopping around the house with it. He has his own, but mine has more memory, and thus more songs. Now I need a new MP3 player.

There is evidence all over the place that the boys are here. A discarded pile of school uniforms in the laundry room, holes in the knees of the pants or stains on the shirts (Pant: $45/pair, Shirts: $25/ each). Piles of shoes that are not outgrown, but simply worn out because they don't treat them well (I don't buy them the cheapies, either). Dirty dishes piled on the counter. Litlle pastel colored Post-It's all over my desk because the little one thinks they are "make-your-own" stickers. Money missing from my purse because someone, at some time, removed it for something they needed. It would seem that my boys don't leave handprints. They leave a path of destruction.

But wait...

This is the same little boy who came up to me early this morning and hugged my neck, telling me how I am the best Mommy he has ever had (LOL!). The one who gives me sloppy kisses on the cheek and presents to me Crayola masterpieces and macaroni sculptures, that I accept with such glee that you would be convinced that they are from Van Gogh. The one whose rendition of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" would have given Beethoven a run for his money.

This is the man who looks deep into my eyes and tells me how convinced he is that I can do this when I am doubting myself the most. The one who kept his hand on my leg and wore lead the entire time I was getting head scans done for a brain tumor, just to assure me that he was there, that he was not leaving me. The one who cried with me when the doctors told me to consider aborting our child who was sure to be too premature to survive.

My life with these boys is messy. And expensive.That's a definite. Yes, they leave paths of destruction through it all. I wouldn't trade any of it for the world, truth be told. These are all such small prices for the joy they can bring to my life.

Guess What! Calculus Sucks (And Other Random Drama)

The first week of school is officially completed. Biology was okay. I managed to work ahead there, completing an asignment and handing it in a week before the deadline. Chamistry? I guess it is okay too, other than the fact that he made a 3-hour online assignment due the morning after a 12 hour shift, and there was physically no way for me to complete it on time. After a discussion with the professor, we agreed that some points were better than none, and I would complete it for partial credit, with the intent of dropping that grade at the end of the quarter. Calculus? The good news there is that I actually comprehend the lectures. But it completely sucks. I actually have to use my brain. A lot.

Maybe it is because this is a new thing to me, but the whole issue of being a full-time student, and a mom, and a wife, and a full-time RT...Well the task has been rather daunting this week. I have had no breathing room in my schedule. I keep telling myself that this is because it is still oin the old schedule, where I am not off on the weekdays. This past week was the last week I have to worry about that for awhile. Hopefully this week will be better. I work a 12 tonight, then am off for 5 days, then I go back to working just the weekends.

So what is the other drama? Our neighbors and our landlord. When John called him to make arrangements to get our rent to him, he had some interesting things to say. Apparently the other tenants have been complaining about us and the level of noise that is coming from our apartment. Doors slamming and Evan playing, and even the time I come home from work on the weekend mornings. What are we supposed to do? Evan is 7. He has to play at some point. Toy trucks are loud on hardwood floors, especially with these 12-foot high ceilings, where the sound is amplified. Yet he cannot go outside to play because the yard is full of German Shepherd crap. The doors slamming? Same effect. When you shut a door here, it echos. And Evan's bedroom doors are pocket doors. They make a horrible racket when you close them because they don't slide smoothly on the track. And me? Coming home from work in the morning, I am as quiet as possible, because usually John and Evan are still asleep. But the same thing goes there as well. You can hear the front door to the building, I am sure, because I can hear when they all come and go. But they are complaining that they can hear me enter the building at 7:30 in the morning on Saturdays when they are trying to sleep in. Am I supposed to quit my job???
They say the noise starts at 7:30 in the morning. I can see that. During the week, that is when Evan is usally leaving for school. On the weekends, I am coming home from work. But they say it has been going all day everyday this week. How? Evan has been back in school. I have been in school. When I am not in school, I have been sleeping. Or studying. I guaruntee that Calculus-study does not get me into a wild frenzy enough to disturb my neighbors. The weeks before that? I was working so many nights a week that I was sleeping all day, and under fear of death, John and Evan were quiet to allow it.
I refuse to walk on eggshells. As it is, since we have heard of the complaints, we have stopped allowing Evan to close his bedroom doors. We are turning everything off at night so as not to disturb him while he is trying to sleep in the open room. I am afraid to even leave the house or return because of this. And I have been getting on my child and husband over every tiny noise.
Yet there is Kurt Cobain upstairs (we call him this in the hopes that he will have the same demise). This guy, at about 2 in the morning, will crank his stereo all the way up and try to play his electric guitar along with the songs. Most are asleep at that time, but you know my hours. If I am home, I am studying. On two different occasions, I had to stop because I couldn't concentrate. Yet I did not complain. There are just certain things you have to deal with when living in an apartment, especially in a building that was not designed initially to be an apartment.
The dog crap? It came to my attention that not only do we have Beowulf in the backyard, but the upstairs neighboir is allowing her dog (the ugliest dog I have evr seen) to do the same in the front yard, where I tread to go to and from the house. What is wrong with these people???

So...desperate times call for desperate measures, and I made a discovery that is going to be in the next post because there is too much to tell.

A Parking Issue and a Lesson Learned

Yesterday, on my only day off, when I had this huge list of things to accomplish, the public works department through a big kink -in -the -chain at me. Leaf Removal. Seriously! It is January, and they are worried about removing leaves???

Our house is on the corner of two rather heavily-traveled city streets. We have no off-street parking. I usually can find a spot that is either on the street directly in front of the house, or on the intersecting street that runs parallel to the side of the house. Thursday night, coming home from work was no exception. BUT...

There are these ominous-looking red and white signs on each street saying that there was to be no parking between the hours of 8 AM and 4 PM on Friday for leaf-removal. No biggie. I go ahead and park there anyway, as there are no other spots. I figure I will set my alarm for the morning to get up at 7:30 after everyone with normal jobs has left for work. There will be plenty of parking then, right? Wrong! Friday morning, there are no places to park, because there is only one side of one street on which to park for a 4-block grid of the city. In other words: Everybody was parked as tightly as they could in front of my house. The only exception was my neighbor who lives across the street and is a Covington police officer. He boldly left the police Suburban, light bar and all, parked on the street illegally. No one was brave enough to ticket that car!

We had no idea what to do with my car. My very shiny new conspicuous orange car. Still with Indiana plates long after the 30-day deadline because A) I have had the work schedule from hell since we moved, and B) it has been the holiday season, so the limited time I did have to go and take care of this wasn't always the time the license branch was open. Of course, though John has lived in a city before, he has never lived someplace quite so urban. He is completely flabbergasted/ pissed-off by this. Our only option was to hurry and leave the house before they started doing whatever it was they were going to do. After all, I had errands to run, and didn't know how long it would take me. Maybe someone would move before we got home.

I drive to the college to pick up my parking decal (Which boldly states University of Cincinnati Student. WOOOHOOO!), then we head to human resources at work to talk tuition reimbursement. This is where I find out that, if I pull an Andrea this semester and keep up my 4.0 GPA, the hospital will cut me a check for $3K in March at quarter's end. Aside from the pesky getting-into-med-school issue, what better incentive to study and keep my grades up???

The whole fam then decides we are hungry. Being the crafty mom that I am, I see this as an opportunity to kill time while the parking saga unfolds at home. I, armed with my copy of Twilight, head to the nearest Mickey D's with the biggest Playland that I can find. My intention is to stay there and let Evan play for awhile. The next item on my list of things to accomplish was getting groceries. John would have to carry the groceries four blocks from car to house if I didn't wait until we had a better place to park, so I was trying to stall. This is where I had a very interesting social encounter: a lesson in socioeconomic status.

You see, my kiddo has mainly lived in rural areas. Small towns where everyone knows everyone else. He has been adored all of his life by family and friends alike. As a result, he is confident and out-going. He has never had a reason not to be. Everyone loves Evan. Strangers have even bought him candy while waiting in line at stores, for crying out loud. But here is the thing: we live on the cusp of a very wealthy neighborhood. A neighborhood where they will look at you like you are a pile of garbage if your expensive Nikes have a scuff on the toe or your jeans are a little too frayed or, heaven forbid, have the wrong label on them. We have been a low-income family before, mainly while I was finishing college the first time. Evan has nice things, but he is a boy. He scuffs his shoes as soon as they are put on his feet. The hems of his jeans get frayed where he walks on them. Being the detail-oriented person I am, I don't pay attention to the fact that his clothing is expensive as hell. I notice these details. This is probably some huge indication of my abnormal psyche, but is true nonetheless. Being in a wealthy metropolitan area just feeds this flaw in an unhealthy way. People are unfriendly and keep to themsleves, and while is probably more related to city life, I see it as some sort of sign that we just don't measure up. I think this is just a remnant of the poor lifestyle we used to have. So...

Here we are at McD's in a snobby neighborhood. In my flawed mind, we do not fit in. I feel conspicuously out of place, though in truth we probably would have been a few years back, but are no longer. I am uncomfortable, and Evan's outgoing style of interacting with others is drawing even more attention to us. I could see the other parents sizing us up as we walk through the door with our tray of breakfast fare. I am wearing a UC sweatshirt, have no makeup on, and my hair is pulled into a sloppy topnot to get it off of my face and neck. I am assessing my flaws as I am sure they are. I see appraising eyes lingering on my expensive handbag, the prominent Versace label on my glasses, the clothing my son and husband are wearing. It makes me self conscious when everyone stares, and I am wondering if other parents feel this way ever. But then something magical happens...
About 10 little voices squealing "Hi Evaaaaaaaannnnn!" The progeny of these uppity people just happen to be my son's little classmates. At his private school. The entire mood changes. I stop being the mother in the sloppy college sweatshirt with the unkempt hair. I am now The Parent Who Can Afford To Send Her Child To Private School. They stop wondering if my purse is a knock-off. The frayed jeans are no longer an issue. We are one of them. The pinched appraising looks are replaced with warm smiles as our children play together. Only I can tell that the smiles are not genuine because they were noticeably absent when we walked into the room. Regardless, I am no longer feeling self-conscious. If anything, I become ashamed of myself and am extrapolating many lessons from the experience. I am no longer worrying about waht they were thinking. I am more appalled by their behavior than anything, and at myself for even caring. We eat our breakfast and Evan plays while I read and John watches the television. When it is time to go, the blatantly stare as we make our way to our shiny new car. I can already hear the invitations for playdates and social functions which I will turn down. The whole experience is disgusting.
I learned many things. We are no longer the poor family who does not measure up. With my education and hard work, I changed that. Great. But more importantly, why did I want to be one of them in the first place? I have always been the type to strike up a conversation with anyone. People are people, regardless of clothing brand or income level or skin color. Why would I even worry about what others thought of me, of us? And why would I even want to fit in with these fake, insincere, judgemental people? Lesson learned.

The To-Do List, $1200, and Taking the Bait

Yay! IAMOFFWORKTODAY! I have not had a day off since before Christmas!

Of course there is a myriad of things to accomplish today. The first on the list is to get my husband to wake up and move my car. For the past 2 days, there has been a sign on the street that there was to be no parking on the street that runs alongside the house because the city is conducting some sort of leaf removal. Ahh, city life! Why do I have to wake him up? I cannot parallel park very well, and I do not want to conduct an experiment in my newish car.

Next is the lovely task of securing a decal for my car, enabling me to park at the university. Apparently, you must have one for each campus you visit for classes. For me, there are two. I could've done this the other day, but the school had to make my life difficult. I could get them all from one campus, but no! If I go to the Clifton campus (home of calculus, biology, etc. for me) it is $150 per quarter to park my car. If I go to the Blue Ash campus (Site of History and chemistry), the parking decal is free with proof of enrollment, and all I have to do is show them my schedule of classes in Clifton, and they will give me a sticker for that campus as well. Free. SCORE!

Unfortunately, this is the only thing associated with my pre-med BS that is free. I next head to the bookstore to buy my books for the classes that will start in 4 days. Keep in mind that I just finished my respiratory degree in 2006. I had a 4.0 GPA, and thus people were willing to give me large sums of money to pay for everything. The small college I attended allowed us to charge bookstore items to our financial aid, so really, all I had to do to get everything I wanted (textbooks, school supplies, college sweats, bookbags, and even novels) was to sign my name on the line. I am sure I have spent 1000's of dollars each semster, but it wasn't like it was my money. Other than that, the last time I bough textbooks was as a freshman at Ball State in 1995. I took $500 in cash, along with my debit card in case I went over alittle bit. I only have 4 courses, and figured that if I buy used, I should have more than enough. I hand the man my schedule and tell him I need these books. He starts grabbing them off the shelves, and I pay no attention to the prices of each. I mean, I have to have them, right? We get to the register, and he starts ringing everything up. I am still not paying attention, as Evan is cruising the snack aisle, looking for junkfood after I told him he could pick out a snack. I am more worried about hurrying him up. Then I hear something that makes me pay attention: "That will be $998 please." Huh? Excuse me? I have more than that in my bank account, plus the $500 cash. I could cover it, but I had plans for the money. Bills to pay. Groceries to buy. Wtf? I had to call my bank. I was pissed. I got ahold of the VP of lending at my bank, the same lady who gave me my car loan. I told her the situation, and she replied that it would take her time to get me approved for a loan, that it was New Year's Eve and they were closing at noon, not to reopen until Friday. Could she do it then? That would mean the money would be in my account Friday night. No good. Classes start on Monday, I am working almost everyday, and the bookstore will also be closed over the weekend. She tells me to let her see what she can do and she will call me back. God bless her. I have no idea what she did, but within 20 minutes, she called me back to tell me that not only was I approved for the loan, but that the money was already in my checkjing so I just had to use my debit card to pay for anything I needed at the bookstore. All I had to do was go to the bank before noon to sign the paper for the loan. By the time I bought all of the books, then headed to Staples for all of my supplies (including a $200 calculator required for my calculus course), I had spent over $1200. Why did I do this to myself? I am a grown woman with a family and an established career. I don't need to go back to school. But then I remind myself: Dr. Ferguson.

What is next on the agenda? Well, I will give you a hint: John fed Evan mac and cheese for dinner last night. Yes, I must get groceries. This is the task of which I am most frightened. I found this video of a commercial, and I will show it to you, because it sums up exactly why I hate the grocery store!

Best Comercial - watch more funny videos

I splurged on something for myself for my B-day: I bought myself the 4-book Twilight series. Apparently there is this craze over it, so I was reluctant to even try it. I usually try to keep away from those. But then I saw a coworker reading one of the books at work. The whole series was apparently marketed for young adults, and thus was too young for me older self, but then I remembered that Harry Potter was originally for children. So I snagged myself of some copies of the books and started to read the first one on Thursday, between the end of my 12-hour shift and the beginning of my 4-hour shift later that night. I found that I actually am very into the story, and could not wait to get home from work later that night to continue reading. Now, I am almost finished with the first book. Very interesting.

A Happier New Year. Really.

I don't know what it is about New Year's. It always does something to me. It could be that it is my birthday, that I am turning older as everyone else celebrates the start of the new year. It could be memories of my mother, and us celebrating my birth together, just the two of us each year as the rest of the world slept. It could be some of the horrendous things I have lived through, remembering and learning from them, and hoping that the next year brings me peace. Whatever the reason, I always cry when the clock strikes midnight. Always, without fail. Despite the fact that I will be working as 2009 and my 32nd birthday strikes, I expect tonight to be no different. Now, I just want to relive 2008.

This was the year I was sure I was going to have to send my husband off to war...

...The year we became tougher as a couple.

..The year we said Goodbye to Holly, John's grandpa. The one who reminded me of a Norman Rockwell portrait with the suspenders and wire-rimmed specs and round rosy cheeks. As the years took his memory away, he never forgot John or Evan and showed me what a Grandparent is, having never known my own.

...The year that "brain" and "tumor" were put together in a sentence to wreck my world.

... The year I was faced with my own mortality and learned that my life is not a given.

...The year I had to worry about what would become of Evan and John if something were to happen to me.

...The year the rug was pulled from under us, the walls came crashing down and we had to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps and build anew.

...The year I learned that we could pull ourselves up by the bootstraps and build anew.

...The year we learned that our son truly is extraordinary, not just in our eyes, but to the rest of the world as well.

...The year a tragic event pushed me out of my comfort zone and forced me to do what I had always said I wanted to do.

...The year I came home.

...The year I finally bit the bullet and decided to go back to school in my hometown. I have never failed at anything I truly wanted. After this past year, I have learned that I am tough enough to take the risk. I am throwing caution to the wind and doing what I came here to do.

...The year I became a little bit stronger, a little bit wiser.

Would I relive 2009? No. I would not. Through all of the events of my life, I have never said I would not go back and do something. Even the most tragic event has taught me at least a little something. I get through them by chalking them up to lessons learned about myself and the world around me. This past year has been no exception, but I will never say I want to relive that hell. This past year has done something to me. I am changed, whether it be for better or worse, and I cannot go back and erase any of it. Never again will I take my life for granted. Never again will I assume that tomorrow is a given. Ever since March 12th, I have hugged my son a little bit tighter, kissed John for a little bit longer. I stopped leaving the house without a hug and kiss for them both, with a hearty "I Love You".

2009 can be nothing but better for us. I hope it is for you as well.

Now, here is my favorite song for this time of year. Happy New Year!

Working on a Decade

Yes, I know this is a terrible pic of me, but when we are working at being parents, one of us is always behind the camera, and thus this is a rare shot of us together.

8 Years Together. For the couple who married exactly 3 months after they met. For the ones who were completely insane. For the couple who was "not going to make it".

So this is John. He is my best friend. The love of my life. The one who can make me laugh in spite of myself and everything else that has gone on in my life. The one who supports my dreams and my goals and ambitions like no other. The one who understands me at times when it seems like no one else in the world is able to. He is the one who made me believe in marriage in a world full of couples who just cannot make it. My partner in this fine mess we call life. He is my angel, my hero, by biggest weakness. He is the only one in my life with the power to get under my skin and infuriate me within seconds, then turn around and make me feel so loved and supported and enamored at the snap of a finger. To date, he has been the only one who could take the tough-talking, no-nonsense city girl and turn her into the one who wants to abandon everything and get married, have a child, be a family. Later, he was the one to show me that despite what others say, I actually can have everything I want in life: the child, the marriage, the career, the education. He is still the only one.

This morning, he met me after work in the hospital cafeteria in an effort to have breakfast together before I went to bed for the day. He was sitting in the cafeteria, alone at a table, watching for me to come through the door. I came through the entrance on the other side, and could not see him. I turned the corner, and saw him sitting there quietly, waiting for me. In that instant that I saw him there, my heart skipped a beat. In the instant that followed, I was in awe that the sight of him can still have that effect on me after all of these years. And in that small moment, after a stressful night working the ICUs, I was home. I was safe, and nothing could touch me.

Now, as I pause at the keyboard, I am having trouble coming up with the words to express what I want to say. For the first time in my life, I am speechless. As the yaers have passed, we have changed. Both of us. But when I look at him, I still see the cute guy with the nice butt walking through the Party Source while our friend Dawn said "That's him. That's my friend John I want you to meet." He is still the sweet guy who made the trip home after meeting me, in the rain on a motorcycle. The one who stopped under a bridge to call me halfway through the trip to let me know that it would take him longer to get home than planned and to not worry when he didn't call. He is still the one who made me laugh with his cute southern accent (the years have caused it to fade for my ears because I am so used to it.) He is the only one who could get me on a ATV, riding on the back, laughing madly and completely trusting him to keep me safe. He is still the lovable dork who, when dressing to go into the OR when I had Evan, actually wore orange and blue polka dotted boxers beneath the pale blue scrubs. I can still hear the nurses' giggles. Can still hear him shouting "That's my BOY!" when we found out Evan's gender, despite the fact that he had told me he wanted a girl because I did. Or him shouting "That's my wife!" when I graduated from college and walked across the stage.

It's really strange. I cannot define the past eight years with a concise list of events. Our time together is more a tapestry of little moments. Happy, sad, beautiful, messy moments.

Which One?

I have decided that somewhere, amidst all of the madness, that the family needs a vacation. I need a vacation! John and I have been wanting to renew our vowels on one of our milestone anniversaries, since we pretty much eloped years ago and never had the romantic ceremony. I was going to have my dream wedding for the vowel renewal in a couple of years. But recently, I have been toying with the idea of going to one of the all-inclusive Caribbean resorts, just the two of us, for a little romantic getaway.
But then I did the dreaded thing: I checked on Disney rates. No, I do not want Mickey to be our officiant. But little Evan has never been to Disney, and the child wants to go so badly that he has even tried to register for flights online. (Thank God he does not know about my debit card, or the flights would be more of a reality!)
So I discover that for almost the same exact price, all three of us could take off to Orlando for some Disney fun. The price was only like $4K and included airfare, lodging, six days of park admission, car rental, and 3 meals plus 2 snacks a day for everyone. Basically I would have to take about $1K for spending, and that would be the only other expense. A romantic trip for John and I, to a Jamaican resort for 5 nights/ 6 days will run me about $8K if I do not skimp on the room I want. I could save about $3K here, but I want to be in luxury, not just so-so accomodations.
So I am sitting here and pondering the decision. I'm a Mom. 10 bucks says I end up choosing Disney.

That Time of Year

Christmas is just a matter of a couple of weeks away now. Most people think of snow and presents and religious figures. I think of John.

Christmas Eve will be our 8-year Anniversary. I cannot recall, other than the night we were actually married, in 2000, a single time when we have celebrated this occasion. We are always too busy playing Santa for Evan, who was born nine months after we married. Our acknowledgment of this day is always a quick kiss and a "Happy Anniversary". Christmas for a child is a magical time, even more so for the parents who love them so dearly, and we have always been too wrapped up in that to take away from it by celebrating anything else. But it does not mean that I do not think about it, about how special it is.

The other night, a colleague of mine asked me about John. They know of his struggles to find work but that is all. She asked me if I was truly in love with him. This got the gears in my head turning. I don't have to think about the answer to that. I am as in love with this man now as I was the day I married him. But for her to ask that question now, of all of the times out of the year, when my mind is raw with thoughts of John...

I did not know everything about my John when we married. I only knew that I loved him and wanted to be with him after only three months together. I have always considered us an exception to some rule about marriage: the ones who married quickly. There was a time where I wondered if we married too quickly. I have always stopped myself with the reminder that no amount of dating could teach you everything about a person. There are just some things you have to learn the hard way, by living day in and day out at someone's side. This has been the case with us.

Does John have his flaws? Absolutely, as do I. But John has some amazing qualities that go unmentioned, or not mentioned enough. One of my imperfections as a wife is that I get so caught up with my work, responsibilities, being a Mom, and my education and goals that I fail to remind him enough of what he means to me. What are some of those qualities? He can have days where he is completely selfless. He has the biggest heart of anyone I know. He is a great father to our son. He's smart and capable, and tough as nails. He is always there for me.

Did you know that each and everyday I return home from work, and my feet feel like they are breaking, he will sit and massage my feet until I fall asleep. If I am thirsty, I say so and he brings me something to drink without my even asking. If I am cold, I say the word and I am wrapped in a blanket. Right now, if I wanted to, I could go nudge him from his sleep and tell him I can't sleep, and he would stay awake for as long as it took, playing with my hair until I dozed off. Nowadays, this is worth more than diamonds and flowers and romantic getaways. He takes care of me more than even I realize.

Yes, I am in love with John. He and Evan make up my whole world. I don't need my career or my education, or anything else, in sight of losing either of them. I would give up everything for them, for him. The beauty of our life together is that I don't have to. He is my partner, so that my success is really our success.

I am a proud, headstrong person. I like to think I am tough and independent, but the truth is that I am not. I honestly do not think I could do any of what I do without John. It is not widely known, but John is the reason I have my career today, the reason I am able to approach my whole dream of becoming a doctor. Several years ago, he was in school and I was not. He was having some trouble, and asked me to go with him to meet the Dean of Academic Affairs. I went along, only to find out that he was meeting with her to talk to her about getting me back in college after surrendering my higher education almost a decade earlier when my mother died. I had always wanted to, and didn't think I could. John took me around, from the Dean's office, to the admissions office, and more. I left that day enrolled in courses that started 2 weeks from that date. After his help in making that first step, I realized that my dream of being a physician never really left me. I have been at it ever since. And when I was recognized at commencement, when getting my degree in respiratory therapy, it was his voice I heard cheering for me the loudest. When I was scared to death of my credentialing exams, he waited for me outside of the testing center, in the car, in 100 degree heat, until I was finished and had the piece of paper in my hand saying I had passed each and every exam. I honestly could not imagine finishing pre-med or Med School without seeing his face.

I am so blessed to get to spend my time here on Earth with a man who loves me. I get to laugh and cry and cheer with him over life's moments each and every day. I get to see him change, to evolve as a person. With each passing Christmas season, though we do not celebrate it, I can bask in the knowledge that we are closer as a couple, that we have managed another year together in a time when marriage is disposable. That is enough for me.

Little Fires Everywhere

In healthcare, we have this saying. We call it "putting out fires". This is when you run around like crazy all day, attempting to get something accomplished, and never seem to succeed or make a dent in that to-do list because of little things that crop up randomly. Yet you work your arse off that day. Mr. X's SPO2 has dropped and you need to tweak his oxygen. Patient A calls saying she is short of breath and you must stop and give her a PRN treatment. Mrs. Y's ventilator keeps setting off crazy alarms, to which you must be attentive, even though she is ventilating well and everything seems to be in order. So you put out these fires all day, and when your twelve hours are over and you look back at the day, with feet that are screaming and a level of mental exhaustion you thought impossible, you wonder why you were so damned busy in the first place.

We put out little fires at home to, I suppose. With the upcoming move, I have been busy organizing and checking off tasks from my mental list. I was so releived after Monday night, knowing I had days off, thinking of all of the time I would have to accomplish these tasks, and even planning on getting some other stuff done as well. Well, here it is: Friday night. I am off tomorrow for the much-anticipated OSU/ UM game (Go bucks!), but then I report back to work to start a 72-hour work week on Sunday night. What in the blue hell did I do withh all of that time?

Yes, I did manage to arrange the move. The surveyor from the moving company came by today, so that is done. I have placed orders for the new phone service and internet access (Zoomtown, Yay! It has a very good rep). I paid the deposit on the new property and have the old electric bill paid so we just have to make a call and it will be transferred to the new address. The packing crew is coming by on Tuesday to pack, then the stuff will be delivered to the new address on Wednesday. I guess I did get some stuff done. It just doesn't seem so.

But then little fires kept cropping up. My husband, my soulmate, my light of my life, was to call the phone company and let them know we were to be moving no earlier than December 1st to ensure that we would have telephone service for the duration of our remaining time here. He did call the company, but failed to mention the date, so suddenly we were without home phone service. We tried to get the account reactivated, because at the time, we had no idea we would be moving this week. They actually expected me to pay an installation fee and everything to get it started again, with a new nyumber and everything, as if I have never lived here. For one week??? I don't think so. So I figure for emergencies, I always have my cell. Wrong answer! I forgot that when I activated my cell account, it was mainly intended to be used for the days I work (weekends/ nights), plus I could pick 5 numbers I could call at anytime. So basically, my phone was free to use at the times I needed to use, and I did not need the expensive plan withan enormous amount of anytime minutes. So...Without a home phone, with only my cell with a pitiful number of available minutes, we ran through that resource within 48 hours. Sad...Mainly, right now we are relying on email to communicate. I am praying that the new phone is activated early.

So we go to pay the deposit on the property, and the owner mentioned that there had been missed deliveries. Huh? It seems that the day after I ordered the new phone service, Cincinnati Bell decided to deliver the phone I ordered. But UPS did not leave it. So I was left with this tag that was dated 3 days earlier, letting me know that in 5 days, my package would be returned to the sender. It was 2:00 and John and I had to be back in Indiana by 4:00. But there was no way in hell I was going to make a special trip to Cincy just to pick up this phone. We were 10 minutes away. So we head across the river....

Holy Crap! John is driving because I still am not completely used to driving the new car in close traffic. I can, but judging distance has never been my thing, and cars zipping by me, close enough for me to reach out and touch, in a brand new car kind of freaks me out a bit. As is ohmyGodtheyaregonna sideswipemynewcar! So John drives. Did that fix it? Not really because John is not as accustomed to downtown Cincinnati as I am, and he had trouble negotiating the grid of one-way streets, and I could see his blood pressure rising as I was thinking ohmyGodtheyaregonnasideswipemynewcar! All to pick up the new phone. Not even a cool new wireless phone, but instead, just a boring new cordless for the house.

So then UC decides to mess with me. About a week ago, after making sure I had met the deadline and getting my official transcript sent, I started checking the status online. And it kept telling me the same thing: my file was incomplete. So I would call and check, and the people in the transfer office kept reassuring me that all was golden, and they just have not put it into the system yet. So I wait... Then I call 2 days ago just to be sure. That is when I find out that they need the transcript from a college course I took in high school. Way back in 1995. Are you kidding me? I completed 98 credits in 4 semesters with a perfect GPA as recently as 2 years ago, and they are worrying about one class from over 13 years ago???? Seriously? But it gets better. She then tells me that that day in particular is the very last day to get anything in, and I can have it faxed. So I call the college. I get lucky because they don't purge their electronic files until after 15 years have passed. Yes they can fax it, but they need a written request with a signature! The only way to do that is by snail mail. I have no scanner. My digital camera died about 3 weeks ago. What am I going to do? Then I spy my phone laying on the table. I quickly scrawl my signature on a piece of paper and snap a picture. Then I email the picture to myself so I can save it to my computer and insert it into the typed email to the registrar. An hour later, UC has the needed transcript. Now I play the waiting game for them to put it into the system as well.

So tonight, I have ditched the clothes I have been wearing throughout the day in exchange for the most worn-out comfy sweats that say "Diva" across the butt (which I refuse to wear in public. The person responsible for that trend should be shot!) and I plan to tackle the very last bit of Molecular Genetics, followed by a chapter on Evolution in my MCAT review. Once I get that finished, I will have polished off the entire Biological Sciences portion and can start on my Chemistry review. But Chem will have to wait, as I have purchased a copy of Phillipa Gregory's The Boleyn Inheritance, the sequel of sorts to The Other Boleyn Girl, which I loved. I bought the book expressly for my vacation, and have only read a small bit of it. It is calling my name in a chorus with the comfy spot on the sofa.

Home Again Soon

These are photos I found online of the historic area to which we are moving. They are not my pics, as my digital camera is on the fritz. The first pic is the clencher. This is the view across the suspension bridge from Covington to Cincinnati. You can see downtown behind the bridge. This is the view I missed the most in all of my years away.

Just down the street from our new home are all of these older, gorgeous houses. This one is about a block away from us.

These streets will make a wonderful backdrop for family walks each night.

The cathedral. John and I were going to get married here before we decided to elope all those years ago. Now that my son is going to be going to a catholic school, I will be revisiting my catholic roots. We have talked about John converting to catholicism. We have been wanting to renew our vows on our ten-year anniversary, to have the ceremony we missed out on by eloping. Maybe, just maybe.....

What I Should Have Been Doing All Along???

Okay, just hear me out. John and I have not had an easy row to hoe since we got married in 2000. Things just do not go right for us. We are always fighting against the grain. (Let's see how many cheesy cliches I can use in this post!) Some of the struggle has been the direct result of some really unfortunate events. Some of it, because I am an adult and not above admitting this, were the result of our own poor choices. But regardless of the precipitating factors, we have had a struggle. And we have fought and fought and fought. And some of it has been recent, as recent as this past summer.

So we decide that we need to move closer to my work, which just happens to be in my hometown. We tell ourselves that we are going to take our time and find a place that is right for us. We realize it will be difficult. The events of our lives have left our collective credit in a pretty crappy state, and all of these rental properties will look at credit.

We find this place that sounds great by description over the telephone, so we take a day to go and see it. It is not great. It is a dup of such proportions that we do not even pause as we are driving by. We merely look at each other and say a resounding "No!" in unison. We get turned around on a one-way street, and we see it. An old mansion, like I love, that has been converted into rental units. John reads the phone number off of the "For Rent" sign in the front yard, and I hastily jot it down. We go to a nearby friend's house and we call.

It sounds perfect. Huge rooms, hardwood floors, fireplaces. Completely remodeled kitchen and bathroom. And rent cheaper than we are paying here in Indiana. So I explain that we have some issues with credit, but I have a great job and great ability to pay. I explain that I am in the process of completing the requirements for med school, that we need to be closer. He says he is not concerned with credit, so long as we are good people and can afford the property. We make arrangements to meet, and John and I love the old house. It is in a historic district near downtown, on a street filled with character that you cannot find in any modern neighborhood. We can see ourselves there.

I contact my employer, and they agree to cover my relocation. I call the utility people and the phone people, and no one needs deposits or anything. We tell the landlord that we would like to move in around December 1, but he had other plans and would like to rent it sooner than that. He says he needs to speak with his wife, and he will call back. An hour later, we get the word that they would really like to rent to us, that they would rather wait for us to be ready to move than to rent to one of the others that have shown interest in the property.

We are about 2 weeks away from D-Day. It is all falling into place. I have the new number, have signed the lease. The relocation company has called and we are sure that we can arrange the move without me even missing a beat at work. John took one afternoon and went and applied for jobs at any place he thought he would be qualified to work, and within the week, he already has had some bites. This is way more than he has accomplished within 2 years in Indiana. We met with the administration of a private school for Evan, and within 2 minutes of the conversation's start, they said what I have been wanting the school he attends now, the people who have known him for 2 years, to say all along. "It sounds like he really needs some extensive testing before we place him in a grade level." And should they not deem it appropriate to place him in second grade, to skip him to the next level, the classes are very small and they insist that they can give him more advanced work in the areas in which he needs a challenge.

So what am I getting at with all of this? For the first time in a long time, it is all falling into place for us. I'm not even going to have to pack. Hired men will do that for me. And it all makes me wonder.

The pessimist in me wonders what is gonna happen to wreck this. Things just do not go this easily for my family. But the other part of me, the one who believes everything happens for a reason, is left to look for the hidden meaning in all of this.

I left my hometown in 2001. I remember the tears as I watched Cincinnati disappear through the passenger side window of a U-Haul. I was scared, and I felt this sense of dread, even though I truly thought I was doing what was best at the time. Time marched on and we stayed gone for a long time. We would come up to Cincy and spend long weekends during those years. We would spend our visit doing things tourists normally don't do. Instead of visiting aquariums and zoos and amusement parks, we spent our time visiting our favorite stores and restauraunts. We would get our fix of home, then go back to our residence in Kentucky or Indiana or wherever we were at the time. And everytime I left, I felt like I was leaving the city all over again.

When I graduated from college,and I started to look for work, I loked up here. When I got an offer from a hospital in Southeastern Indiana, I figured that would be close enough. But Indiana has not felt right to us. We would still go to Cincinnati to do things like shop or go out to eat. And we would cross the Brent Spence bridge, where you can see the skyline with such clarity, and I would feel that tug on my heart: This is home. This is where you always will and always have belonged. Where people think like you and talk like you, while still being so different.

So are things going so easily for us because this is what I should have been doing all along? For the past 7 years? Because this will be the place where John and I can be a normal couple again? Because this is the place that has everything I could possibly need to live my life and achieve my dream? I cannot help but feel as if someone is trying to tell me something.

Gunny, Come Home!

I swear this shall be my dog. Our family needs a dog. Well, not really, I suppose. But I want an English Bulldog. But these pups are very expensive, and so ugly that they are actually cute. John insists that, should we get one, it shall be a He-dog and his name shall be Gunny. That is the Leatherneck in him speaking. He shall have a camouflage bed with his name embroidered on it, with an Eagle, Globe and Anchor. I mentioned we wnated one to the new landlord, and he smiled and said that he has an English Bulldog named Baxter. But we want our Gunny.