Yesterday was the first day of April, or as I would rather call it, March 32nd. I am not really a big fan of the pranks and jokes and general tomfoolery that accompany this particular calendar day. I never remember that it is April Fool’s until it is too late and by then I have fallen for a handful of pranks completely, thus becoming a literal fool (archaic: a person who is duped). Or, I see right through people’s trickeration and have to pretend. So, nope. I’m not really a fan.
But my kids are a whole different story.
A few years ago Kid B contributed to this blog by posting about her favorite pastime… pranking her siblings (Kid B Uses Her Powers For Evil). Kid C, Kid D, and Kid E seem to have gone the way of Wazaah, so they spent a good part of yesterday afternoon hiding each other’s shoes and pillows. It was all very annoying, especially at bedtime harmless and funny and made everybody giggle. Even I couldn’t keep my icy heart from melting each and every time I heard Kid D yell out “APRIL FOOL’S!” followed by a giant guffaw. He was on a roll by dinnertime.
Sheepdog had ridden his bike to work yesterday, so he came in through the basement workshop and not the kitchen door when he got home last night. He showered first and then joined us for dinner. When he came upstairs, he had the remnants of panic smeared across his face. Then he greeted us with, “Are you TRYING to kill me?”
I was talking to a mom at the baseball field last weekend. Her son is on Kid D’s team, the Padres. She also has a daughter in 5th grade and another son in high school. He is 16. We were bonding over the scourge of parenting teenagers. Because that crapfest is more complex than a Gordian knot.
Gordius was the King of the capital city of ancient Phyrigia (located in the Ankara Province of Turkey). He tied an intricate knot and prophesied that whoever untied it would become the ruler of Asia. According to ancient tradition (and Wikipedia), Alexander the Great simply walked over and lopped that thing off with his sword. And guess who was King of Asia from 331 – 323 BC?
Way to think outside the box, ATG!
As far as I can tell, one of the big hurdles with kids seems to revolve around one central theme… honesty. Even the best of them are inclined toward half-truths and omissions. “It is easier to get forgiveness than permission” is the song of their people. There are various degrees of lies being told and sundry ‘failed-to-mentions’ which they are failing to mention. And there does not always seem to be sound reasoning for the lack of candor. One of my kids lied the other day about taking a shower. To what end, you dummy? I just don’t get it.
So, when you kids get caught – oh, and you will get caught – whether it is for throwing a party at your house when your parents go out of town for the weekend, or for picking your boyfriend up before school even though it has been explicitly prohibited because of the very unsafe left turn out of his neighborhood, or for wearing yoga pants out in public even after your father has said very clearly and with very little exception, “NO YOGA PANTS TO SCHOOL,” we, as your parents, have to come up with suitable and effective penances in order to deter this bad habit.
Sheepdog and I over the years have employed penalties that run the standard gamut from ‘go to your room’ to ‘give up your phone.’ We have explained that lying begets more lying, it does no one – the liar or the person being lied to – any good, and, most importantly, it hurts your heart by causing guilt. It has proven most effective with our kids when there is a retributive theory of justice (the punishment fits the crime), but also when the punishment is tailored to the offender. I once heard a story from a mom who kept a pile of bricks in her backyard, which she would make her very logical son move from one location to the next for absolutely no purpose whatsoever, whenever he deserved punishment. Another mom made her daughter hold a sign up at a busy neighborhood intersection that said “I disrespected my parents by twerking at a school dance.” Now that’s hardcore. But was it actually effective with those particular kids? That is the ultimate question when it comes to punishments.
Recently, Kid A was making some bad choices. Sheepdog and I sat her down and yelled had a discussion with her about the behaviors we wanted her to adjust. As incentive for her prompt alterations, we decided that she, an 18-year-old girl who has been driving her own car for two years, had to ride the dreaded bus to school. Dun dun dun!
Who says parenting can’t be fun?
Shortly after I texted Sheepdog, Kid A sent me a message that her boyfriend had just broken up with her. It was not a huge surprise given recent events, but she was still sad about it.
And now she’s all mad at me. Whatever. I’m just sitting here, trying to cut my way through this giant knot.
As it so happens, more often than not these days, it was just me and the boys at home on Friday night. Kid C was sleeping at a friend’s house, Kid B was at the high school to watch baseball and soccer games, and Kid A was at a meet and greet for her currently number one college choice (Go Jackets!). Sheepdog was working late.
I wanted to make a nice dinner since I hadn’t cooked very much since we got back from our vacation. I bought some steaks and planned to grill them for Sheepdog and myself after I put the boys to bed. The boys, however, were getting peanut butter sandwiches and calling it a night. I wasn’t wasting good, grass-fed beef on those ingrates (“It takes too many bites for me to chew it all up!“). No problem. More yummy cow for me and your father.
But first, I needed to take a shower. If you’re going to woo your husband, you need to start with the basics (although ‘dirty’ is rarely a deterrent when it comes to my husband and lovin’).
So I spread the peanut butter, poured the milk, and turned on the SpongeBob. I set the boys up for success and asked them to please give me ten minutes. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t answer the door. No one goes in or out. No couch jumping, stair diving, or playing baseball in the living room. Please try not to hit your head on anything (it happens more often that you can imagine). Come get me immediately if someone is choking.
I went upstairs. And miracle of all miracles, I actually got to take an uninterrupted, hot shower. I even shaved my legs.
I came back downstairs and praised both boys for their excellent behavior and ability to follow directions. Their faces beamed and their chests swelled from the accolades. Then I noticed a notepad sitting out on the counter. I asked Kid D if he was starting a new grocery list.
“Oh, no, Mom, ” said Kid D, matter-of-factly. “Someone knocked on the door while you were in the shower.”
“…aaaaand?…” I prompted him to link it back to the notepad by waving it about in the air. “Who was at the door and what exactly did you do?”
“A man was at the door. I didn’t know who he was.”
Awesome.
“So I told him to hold on a minute and I came in here and wrote a note.”
Oh, crap.
“And then I took it to the door and held it up for him to see. And I never opened the door, Mom. Because I know that I am not supposed to ever open the door without you right here. I just showed him the note. The man smiled and said he would come back later.”
“Gary was just taking a shit.” Bathroom meeting scene, Weird Science (1985)
It says, “My mom is in the bathroom.” Apparently, I need to teach some more stranger danger lessons around here. And maybe a lesson or two about “things we share and things we keep to ourselves.”
OK, so I’ve been a total slacker lately. First, all of this horrific winter weather crap happened. I don’t know if I have seasonal depression, or just depression depression, but I was definitely on the verge of curling into a ball in the corner. Then Sheepdog and I escaped for eight days in Mexico. It was glorious… sun, exercise, quality time with my husband (high-five to us for breaking the headboard), and complete autonomy over my day. It was complete and total bliss in paradise.
It physically pains me to look at this picture right now.
But everything has a price, so we returned to a gaggle of kids with multiple versions of the plague. The only place I got to show off my tan was at the stupid doctors’ office. I mean, the kid who puked on the floor in front of the check-in desk didn’t even mention my glow. Not once, the selfish little bastard. What a complete and total waste.
It already feels like a month has passed since our trip, yet we have been home fewer than six days.
But I think it is safe to say that things are starting to turn around for us in the health department. Antibiotics and other various medicines have started to work, viruses are running their course, and quarantines have subsequently been lifted. And today, praise generic zithromax, everybody left the house for work and school at their regularly scheduled times.
But not before a few of us had a morning hang-out in my bed, starting somewhere around the six o’clock hour.
First to crawl in with Sheepdog and me was Kid E. He succumbed to a stomach bug earlier this week, but rallied within 24 hours. I attribute this exclusively to the fact that he has finally been named Star Student in his kindergarten class, with his reign to begin next Monday. It also happens to be his exact half-birthday. “Abuzz with excitement” is a bit of an understatement when it comes to describing this kid right now. We even already started filling out his information packet, which lists facts and favorites about him.
Family Pets: Robo Fish. Why, yes, it is battery-operated inside of an empty, plastic bowl. Mainly because his mother can’t handle one more living thing right now. Case in point: the dead, yellow leaf in the middle of the potted plant. Don’t you judge me.
Much of our conversation this morning consisted of him asking questions about himself (Q: What is something special I have done for someone else?), followed by me prompting/ providing answers (A: Well, you brought home all of that homework for your big brother, who has already missed four days of school this week.)
Please, please, please do me a solid and let him be well enough to go back to school today.
As if on cue, Kid D bounded into our room and crawled on in with us. Kid C arrived shortly thereafter and squeezed in as well. Everyone was feeling good and planned on going about their regularly scheduled programming. Joy to the world!
This week I have been overwhelmed upon re-entry to my real life. I have post-vacation blues. I am tired. I am sick of everybody getting sick. So I am sitting here, watching the rain fall outside my office window, daydreaming that I am out by the pool in the warm sun with a cold beer in my hand. At 9:42 in the morning.
Unless you are completely unplugged, y’all may have heard that we have had a little winter weather down here in Georgia. Twice. In the span of two weeks. These events resulted in six official days off from the public schools (an “early” dismissal, followed by three full days at home the first go-around and then three more days off this past week). Today marks the end of the 4-day Presidents’ Day weekend, which punctuated our impromptu vacation with an exclamation point.
“No big deal,” says everybody I know in the Northeast. “We have had so many snowstorms this winter that they are about to loop back to the letter “A” in naming them. Our kids haven’t had a regular, 5-day school week since before winter break.”
True. But that’s what you get when you live above the Mason-Dixon. Eleven and a half years ago, Sheepdog and I made the conscious choice to pack up our U-Haul and leave that bittersweet nonsense up North. Sure, we would miss the peaceful, thick flakes that fall so quietly and leave everything looking like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Of course, we would lament our lack of white Christmases. We would even long for the occasional snow day here and there. But in the plus column… no more grey slush. No more filthy cars from November through March. No more bruised tailbones from slipping on ice in the driveways and parking lots. No more gravel and sand giving our vehicles microdermabrasion of the chassis all winter long. Heck, I didn’t even buy winter coats for my kids in 2005 or 2008. It rarely dropped below 40° F those winters and when it did, I just told them to wear two sweatshirts!
But ever since I sold my like-new ice scraper and snow shovel in a yard sale for 25 cents each (they sat in the garage, mocking my northern roots, for more than ten years), it seems like everybody from Mother Nature to Jon Stewart has been busy making fun of us down here in the bible belt. One day we are pruning our crepe myrtles, the next day we are doing scratch spins in our electric cars on I-75/85. And before we know, it will be 108° F in the shade again and we will long once more for the cool days of February.
In the meantime, we’re all just hanging here in the ATL with our excesses of bread and milk and alcohol, trying not to kill our children or spouses due to the incredible amounts of quality family time we have been given. Nothing to do but sled in our laundry baskets, swim at the indoor pools at Lifetime Fitness, and play an 18-hour, six day game of Risk.
Serene snowfall from Round 1
“Show ’em who’s boss!” Sheepdog has not forgotten how to throw a snowball.
Round 2: Ice-lanta
The never-ending board game from H-E-double hockey sticks.
Good times. Great memories. Seriously. When’s Spring?
NSFW – (from http://www.urbandictionary.com) Not Safe For Work. Used to describe Internet content generally inappropriate for the typical workplace, i.e., would not be acceptable in the presence of your boss and colleagues (as opposed to SFW, Safe For Work).
Unless, of course, you work in a strip club or in the porn industry, right?
This past weekend, after having been in the house with Sheepdog and the kids for Atlanta’s Snowmageddon 2014 for six long days, I decided to go out and run some errands. The kids and their friends had eaten us out of house and home during our impromptu vacation, so I headed for my number two most frequent check-in on Foursquare, the grocery store.
I loaded my cart with the basics, then checked the list to see what other goodies the kids were asking for. One of the requests was “the conditioner that you use that smells good.” Considering the fact that I have no less than 9 bottles in my shower, I had some detective work to do.
So I moseyed on down to the hair care aisle, and started pulling random bottles off the shelves.
Pop! went a lid. Sniff. Eh, I thought to myself. That one’s just okay-smelling.
So, I tried another. And another. And another. Lather, rinse, repeat. They were all starting to smell the same to me until…
Pop! went a final lid, and the creamy, white conditioner shot out all over my face, my hair, and my chest.
Oh, how I wish I was kidding. That totally happened. And my kids are old enough now that I no longer carry a roll of paper towels in a Mary Poppins carpet bag just in case.
I remember making a sort of moaning, why-me? kind of noise, which – in hindsight – probably did not help my NSFW status. I ignored the people around me as best I could while I tried to get all of the conditioner off of me, but I was imagining the worst-case scenario at the same time… mothers pulling 180’s with their carts while shielding their young children’s eyes, and dirty-perv men lingering and watching me while they pretended to peruse their Just For Men grey-blending options. Please, oh please, do not let anybody have a cell phone camera pointed at me right now.
This is what my hair looked like by the time I got to the checkout line
When I was finished with my clean up on aisle 10, my elbows and hands were silky smooth. Then again so were my face, my knees, my pants, my fleece jacket, and the grocery cart handle. There was not a rough patch of anything anywhere, but I decided that it actually smelled really good (thankfully, because that smell stayed with me for days), so I threw two bottles into my cart and moved on to the next aisle.
Oh, the lengths this mother will go to in order to check something off the to do list.
… give them to your cat/ baby and put the video on YouTube.
… take them. Don’t waste free food.
… wing ’em right back, and add some more lemons of your own.
Those are just a few of the gems I found when I googled the old adage. Why was I doing that, you ask? Well, the Swigers have had a run of bad mojo as of late, so I was technically doing some parenting research.
Kid A did not get a fancy scholarship that she was really excited about from one of her top college choices. Kid B did not make the varsity soccer team at her high school. Kid D only qualified for the rec baseball team, not the select one. Kid E was dismayed that I eventually sent him back to kindergarten after a couple of days of staying home sick, watching TV, and playing Minecraft. And Kid C is always very sad that no one else in our family busts out into dance moves when her favorite song comes on.
There has actually been quite a bit of disappointment around here, and the mood at our house hasn’t been awesome. And I hate it when my kids are sad. It makes my Mama Bear come out, and it makes me feel icky feelings. I have been trying to deal with them in a healthy, productive way, but all I really want to do is punch people in the face. Instead, I have been taking lots and lots of deep breaths.
But I guess it also gives me and Sheepdog the opportunity to teach these kids some important life lessons. We are trying to teach them lessons about resilience, dignity in defeat, good sportsmanship, and overcoming adversity. Don’t quit. Work hard. Try harder, try again, or even cultivate a different dream. Life isn’t always fair, you are not as important as you think, and – sometimes – things work out better than you imagined they would, just not in the way you expected.
It’s like a motivational poster factory up in here.
One of my favorite pieces of advice came today from Kid B’s travel team soccer coach. First, he told her it was okay to be disappointed. But only for a minute. Then, he said, “No one else will feel sorry for you in sports. Don’t feel sorry for yourself either.” His message was so good that it made me cry in the frozen pancake aisle at Kroger. But I’m sensitive like that. And it was exactly what she needed to hear. She’ll get lots more playing time on J.V. and she will be just fine.
The other kids will be alright, too. Kid A is in the running for another fancy scholarship at another of her top-choice colleges, and she has already been accepted at some really great schools. Sheepdog ended up signing up as head coach of Kid D’s rec baseball team, went to the draft last Sunday, and amassed an awesome team of great kids and parents that will make for a really fun season. Kid E went back to kindergarten on the 100th Day of School and came home with a fancy hat. And Kid C has decided that she doesn’t have a favorite song, but she’s going to keep dancing anyway.
So, even when life gives you lemons… it’s all good.
Once upon a time, there were two young girls. They were friends with one another. They laughed together, they imagined together, they danced together. They enjoyed their time together very much. They became better people for having known one another.
One day, the friends discovered a boy. He was smart and funny and kind. One of the girls decided that she liked this boy. Coincidentally, so did the other girl. But when friends like the same boy, it can often lead to trouble.
The girls were aware of this, so they decided to settle their dilemma with a contest. They would both try to learn information about the boy. Each unique fact would be worth a point. At the end, the girl with the most points would be the winner.
So the girls set off separately, each trying to gather as many particulars relevant to the boy as possible. Eye color = 1 point. First job = 1 point. Most cherished book = 1 point. Preferred style of music = 1 point. Strongest subject in school = 1 point. Most frequently quoted movie = 1 point. On and on the girls went, gathering their data.
After a fair amount of time has passed, the girls totaled their points. They were tied, dead even. How ever would they determine the victor?
They decided that the girl who could be the first to learn the boy’s favorite color would be the winner. Conveniently, the girls were both performing in a dance recital, which the boy planned to attend.
The girls were very excited about dancing on stage… the costumes, the makeup, the lights, and the applause all brought them so much joy. Most of all, the girls loved to dance. Dancing is freedom and precision and feelings, all rolled into one. For these two girls, there was little else better than dancing, except dancing with a true friend.
As the girls prepared to take the stage, they remembered this. At that moment, they decided that no boy was worth the destruction of their beautiful friendship. They hugged right before they took their positions.
After the show, the girls saw the boy and posed for a photograph with him. The girls stood on either side, but a boy would never come between them again.
…and then there was MY kid, photobombing their beautiful moment.
Tuesday ended up being one of those days. It started off per usual (fighting with Kid E over wearing a winter coat as he headed out the door into, um… what’s that word… WINTER!) and then I did a deceptive little workout called “Isometrix” (I felt almost nothing while I was doing it. I didn’t even break a sweat, really. Then, throughout the day and night, I started to totally feel very painful things in places that I forgot I had…). By midday, I had done my chores, my workout, and I even showered and ran an errand. I was just about to wonder “What will I do,” when I got an email regarding an urgent request to completely redo the program for a ballet that Kid A and Kid C are performing in this weekend.
It was just me and another mom who make up the Program Committee, so I spent the next few hours mocking up a new one, and then I edited and sent it out for review. It was a crazy afternoon of paying attention to small details of the program, all while fielding questions about homework, whether so-and-so could come over to play or Kid D could go to his house, responding to requests to make snacks and what was for dinner, as well as getting Kid C to focus and get ready for ballet class on time (Kid A was driving her right after she got home from her tutoring job), and then driving Kid B to her boyfriend’s basketball game before picking Kid D up from his playdate (on time, because last time I almost left him over there…seriously). Oh, and we were out of milk and stupid Aunt Flo just knocked on my door three days early.
When Sheepdog got home that night, my head was spinning. He could tell just by looking at me. I was speaking at high volume and with excessive speed. I moved about the kitchen like I had eight arms. I was still doing too many things at one time, mostly because I couldn’t figure out how to gear down. I even predicted the full moon before the sun went down. So Sheepdog reminded me to take some deep breaths… like a million of them. I did, and I felt better. The wine helped too.
I had prepared a delicious dinner with my octopus arms and everybody who was home sat down to eat together. During dinner I announced to everyone – despite the craziness of the day – I felt like I passed the test. It had been hard, and my body and mind ached all over, but I had kicked one of those days in its bootie. Yay, me! I won this day! Yesterday was not so good, and who knows about tomorrow, but I felt like I won this day! On this day, I was in control.
I woke up Wednesday morning feeling really strong after a great night’s sleep. I got in another fantastic workout (this one was not sneaky at all… it was quite forthright in its delivery of pain and sweat), showered, and went over to my neighbor’s house to hear about her new business. I met some interesting women over there, and I ended up having a really good time. I came home, ate a healthy lunch, and soon the boys were bounding off of the school bus and into the house.
Kid D was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework, and Kid E was eating (something other than a peanut butter sandwich… Hallelujah! for another small victory in the food wars) when my cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was one of my friends from the neighborhood. Our daughters play soccer on the same team and we do a ton of carpooling and soccer travel together.
As soon as I answered I heard the fear and panic and tears in her voice. She was driving home from work early because her house was on fire. She had no idea what would be waiting for her when she arrived. None of the people in her family were home at the time, but she didn’t think that they were able to get her two dogs out in time.
Oh my goodness. What can I do? What can I do? What can I do?
I was scheduled to pick up the girls after high school soccer conditioning later that afternoon. She asked me to give her some warning when we were on our way so she could prepare her teenage daughter for the devastating news. Her boyfriend ended up coming to get her before practice ended because word of the fire had started to spread on social media and they didn’t want her to find out that way, but I, like so many people in our neighborhood and the surrounding communities, have spent the time since I heard the news praying for the family and wondering “what if…”
My head had gone right back to spinning.
Fully aware of my life-long fear about house fires, Sheepdog texted me the next morning and asked how well I had slept.
That Sheepdog sure is a smart one.
So I’m taking deep breaths, and praying for my friends and about my fears, and I am (trying to) let it go. And tonight at dinner – despite the craziness of the day or not – I am going to announce to everyone at the table that I am not in control, and that’s even better than what I said before.
Our amazing neighborhood has put together several ways to help our friends in their time of need. Please pray for them, but you can also help in other ways if you are so inclined. Email me for further information at tihidiblog@gmail.com. Rest in peace Layla and Bella.
A week ago, on New Year’s Eve, I had an appointment to donate at Atlanta Blood Services. I have been going there every other month ever since Kid A’s boyfriend, Braden, was diagnosed with leukemia, mainly because he needed blood products (we always joked that he would know when he got mine because he would have a wine hangover afterwards), but also it gave me something to do at a time when I felt in control of nothing. Even after he died, I keep going back to donate.
It was really hard to go back at first, especially since the infusion clinic is directly across the hall and he and his mom spent a lot of time over there during his treatment. The very first time I returned, I stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts and got some treats and a jug of coffee because I wanted to give it to the staff over there. I even planned ahead and made a little card with a picture of him that said something like “In Memory of Braden Dean Smith” so that everybody would think of him while they were eating their yummy donuts. I intended to ask the receptionist if I could put them in the break room once I got there. But I was so overcome with emotion and grief that I was a blubbering, snotty mess and I couldn’t even get words to come out of my mouth. Instead, I showed the girl the picture of Braden and held up the jug of coffee, all while tears and weird noises kept pouring out of me. I was like the deaf/ mute people who hand out cards asking for money, except I had a Box O’ Joe and two warm dozen. She didn’t even bat an eye as she buzzed me through to the back and guided me through the labyrinth of halls to a room marked “Staff Only.”
I was eventually able to calm down and I finally went across the hall to Atlanta Blood Services to start the donation process that day. Each time has gotten a little bit easier after that.
Until last Tuesday.
Looking back on it, it turns out that last Tuesday, the 365th day of the 2,013th trip ’round the sun, Anno Domini, was a fitting end to a quite sucky 2013.
Each time I go in to donate, I first have to do the dance for the lawyers (reading some legalese, mumbo-jumbo, CYA crap that basically says “I know I can die at any time and it’s nobody’s fault but my own”). Then I answer a long set of questions on a computer from 1999 in a tiny, private room (questions like “Have you ever had a transplant of your dura matter?” and “Have you ever had sex with a man who has had sex with another man?”), and then they take my vitals. Following the computer exam, I get poked for a blood sample, and they run tests to see what and how many blood products they can safely and most efficiently extract from me over the next two hours. They always want my platelets.
Last Tuesday was no exception, as I had just shy of 400,000. Be amazed, people, because that makes me a rock star, if only in that room.
So I went into the donation room with the nice nurse (are they even nurses?… I honestly don’t even know) who had reviewed my Scantron and all of my bodily tests (she was new), and she put me in a bed which was not my regular spot. That kind of thing doesn’t really bother me, so I didn’t say anything, but the other nurses/ people who enjoy extracting other people’s blood products without proper qualifications were all like, “Whoa, Nelly! That’s not her bed. She goes over there!” The new lady and I just laughed at them and I stayed put. Mistake #1.
The machine was on the other side of this particular bed – the right one, which meant that I would be donating from my dominant arm. Traffic had been really easy that morning (some days it takes me 2 hours to get there, especially since they started taking down the toll on GA-400!), so I was all, “NBD and whatever!” I climbed in and snuggled under the warm blankets (it makes the blood flow better). Mistake #2.
While she was setting everything up, the machine started to do weird things. It was being quirky and disagreeable. It crossed my mind that I should suggest a move to my regular spot then, but I was doing a great job of being laid back, so I decided to commit fully. I said nothing. Mistake #3.
There was a man donating to my left who is also a true regular. He comes in every two weeks and donates one or two bags of platelets, which means he donates at least 26 bags a year. That is super impressive. It also takes a whole lot of his time, but he teaches yoga and his schedule seemed flexible. He also video blogs (or “vlogs”) about his donations, because he wants people to see that donating is easy and painless and everybody can (and should) do it. He had already vlogged on YouTube about his own New Year’s Eve donation, his final one of 2013, but made a big deal about me sitting next to him (remember that I am a triple donation rock star here), so much so that he made an addendum vlog about me!
So, I had fully committed to this different spot, and I was talking to my new friend, and the new nurse finally tamed the machine and got me hooked up and started my actual donation process. Pinch, release, then slowly and continually squeeze the stress ball to keep the blood pumping. Eventually, I settled in and everything was A-OK.
About two bags in to my donation, I started watching The Truman Show on my laptop. When the second bag was just about done, the nurse wanted me to eat a snack and drink something. I asked for crackers and water. She brought them to me and proceeded to open the water bottle (I only had one free hand… everybody knows you are not supposed to move the arm with the needle in it).
Then came the slow-motion, yet speeded-up combination of events.
The water bottle was not level on the bottom, as sometimes happens with disposable plastic water bottles (I suppose it is karmic punishment for selfishly destroying Mother Earth with those BPA-laden landfill staples). When she put the bottle on my tray, it promptly tipped over onto the keyboard of my MacBook Pro. She reacted and I reacted too. She yelled something and ran to get paper towels, and I moved my dominant arm (along with my left one) to save my laptop.
Yep. I did that. Even though I know better, I moved my arm with the needle plunged into the vein. It immediately hurt (I don’t know which hurt more… the needle or knowing that my laptop just took a shower), so I quickly brought it back to immobile station zero on the arm bar. All of the nurses freaked out and checked on me, making sure I was okay, drying off my laptop, and checking on my arm and the apheresis machine. The new nurse was so freaked out that she came over to help clean up and accidentally dropped the water bottle again, this time into my purse (fortunately, my phone was not in there). I honestly felt so bad for her. It was a complete and total accident. And for whatever reason, I was (honest to goodness) not even upset about it.
The pain in my arm went away quickly. We determined that the needle likely punctured through the vein and I would have some bruising afterwards, but it was not life-threatening. I even finished my full donation and they collected three whole bags from me. I’m still a rock star!
Except this past week, my arm looked like that of a rock star who shoots up (poorly), or maybe a rock star who dates Chris Brown.
Day 1
Day 4
Day 7
“Yes, but you should see the other guy!”
It is getting better every day. It doesn’t hurt at all. It just looks awful. And because Sheepdog took excellent care in drying out my laptop, even the MacBook Pro is recovering nicely. No harm, no foul. I plan to go back in 7 weeks or so. I promise that donating is easy and safe and something that I hope everyone will consider doing.
Except next time, I am sitting in my regular donation bed. And I’m bringing my own reusable water bottle.
This is How I Do It... 