Two weeks ago

Two weeks ago, right now, I was trying to settle into my window-seat-bed in the ICU at St. Joseph's Hospital. I had endured the hardest day of my life. In my sight was Brian, quite sedated from all the anesthesia and trauma. He would occasionally awaken, and not let me forget that hockey started at 8. At 10 that night, he really came to, and we watched the last period of hockey and reflected on the day.

What a day. It started at 4:00, when we awakened, and prepared to head out to the hospital. We got there at 5:30, registered, and waited for Bri to be taken to pre-op. After they had him prepped, I got to go back to see him. My parents, and his, were there, too. My aunt was watching our girls, and sent us a video of them saying they loved Daddy. This was the last thing he watched before being sedated to have an arterial line inserted. Shortly after, he was wheeled back to the operating room, right at 8am. The nurse promised that I would get calls every 90 minutes or so, updating me on their progress. When my phone rang at 9:20, I was informed that the surgeon was preparing to insert the cannulas to start Brian on the heart lung machine. Then, his heart would be stopped.

I am sure that the medication injected into Brian's heart to make it stop beating was given at 9:40. I felt it. Like a weight in my chest. The part of the surgery that I most feared. I felt compelled to run through the hospital and find him, to be by his side. Everything I knew logically told me the work of his heart was being done by the bypass machine. But there was something innate, instinctual, in me that could not make peace with the idea that the heart in the chest where I have lain my head for nearly 20 years, was not beating...

I passed the time in the waiting area surrounded by our village. Our parents, my aunt, my Papa, a dear friend... all came to support Brian, and to help me stay strong. My next update came at 11:30, when I learned that Brian was still on the bypass, as the surgeon had to do extra work to get his aorta closed. The nurse assured me that this was not of concern. Finally, around 12:15, I learned that Brian was off the heart-lung bypass. Our village and I shed tears of relief.

Brian was taken immediately to the ICU after surgery, and I was allowed in with him shortly after. He was still intubated, but aware. It didn't take long for the tube to come out, and with a warm blanket and pain medication, he rested. The first time he spoke to me, he told me he dreamed of me.

And there we were. His heart was beating, all on its own. And over the next 5 days in the hospital Brian would face pain, discomfort, irregular heartbeats, hot flashes... all the things they told us he would experience. I spent 5 nights in the window-seat-bed. I held Bri's hand, watched him sleep, fed him soup. All the things I was so grateful to be able to do. I struggled between the strong desire to be there with him, and also to be with our girls- to reassure them, to help them feel secure in the fact that everything was okay. I went back and forth a lot. And, I had the support of many amazing people, so that all the most important people in my life were well cared for.

A week after being discharged from the hospital, Brian and I finally left Denver two days ago and returned home. Our girls had come home 6 days earlier, with Brian's parents. Our hearts ached without them, and we both got much needed rest. And they got back into their routine, with a few minor changes- like dessert before their meal. They were in such good hands.

Driving away from Denver, tears flowed. I thought about what the last two weeks had held. I felt victorious. But not the kind of victorious that comes from winning play off football. This was the kind of victory in which we endured one the most difficult challenges we'd ever faced. We overcame. Brian survived. We could go back home and not have this weight hanging over us. We could go back to living our simple lives.

Our reunions with the girls were beautiful. We picked Kinnie up from school. When she spotted us, she ran to us and I scooped her up, and we three embraced and cried. Then we got Ellie from daycare, where the scene repeated itself. It was one of the warmest experiences I've ever had.

Brian has a long way to go until he is fully recovered. We're told after 3 months, he'll be at 90%, and after a "full trip around the sun," as his surgeon said, he'll be back to "normal." I have never loved him more. This experience peeled away all the things that can get in the way of love. The annoyances, irritations, general disagreements. I wanted nothing more in the world for his heart to beat again. Everything else melted away.

And I can't say enough about our village. Since we found out, 3 months ago, that Brian needed this surgery, we have been held up by our loved ones, and by complete strangers. I wish I had a way to share the gratitude in my heart. There are not enough thanks in the world... But thank you, to anyone who prayed, or put out good vibes, or visited us, or held my hand, or gave us food, or watched our precious girls, or donated money. I truly believe that you got us through.

One week

One week from right now, I'll be at the hospital with Bri. They'll be prepping him for surgery- IVs, shaving his chest (I'm hoping to convince them to shave his armpits, too). We will be two hours away from surgery time. I hope that that morning, we can use our humor to get through. Surgery is this thing that we have been anticipating, worrying about, sometimes terrified of. The last two months have been some of the strangest of my life. I've know it was coming, and it's a reality that has weighed on both of us like nothing else ever has. While we were trying to come to terms with what it all means, we were trying to live life, work, take care of our girls, make Christmas magical. And through it all, there is this weight. A fear.

I'd never fully understood the phrase "burst into tears" until this time. I'll be feeling okay, strong even. And then, an image will pop into my head- of seeing Bri wheeled back to surgery, or intubated in the ICU, or of Kinnie crying for him- and the tears come. I don't have control. I had to walk Ellie into daycare last week with tears in my eyes. The daycare provider noticed and asked "just life?" I suppose that's one way to put it.

The flipside of fear, anxiety, and worry, is gratitude, I think. The moments when we are present and aware of how lucky we are to have the things we have. When Bri is cuddled up with both girls. When we're all playing on the bed. When we can hold each other and help each other through this. When our family and friends offer to do anything they can to help us through this. When our jobs approve extended time off. When our community, including people we don't even know, raises $12,000 to help us with expenses during this time. That is definitely the flipside. The side that warms us from the inside, and reminds us that it will all be okay.

It will be okay. I anticipate that the four to five hours of surgery may be the longest in my life. But when I know that Bri's heart is beating again.... and when I can hold his hand... when I can bring our girls to see him. Those will be the best moments of my life.

My husband's heart

Anyone who knows Brian already knows what I'm going to write. He is an incredible person. His heart is of gold. He cares greatly, loves deeply, laughs heartily. There is nothing he wouldn't do for his family. He is an amazing father. He rubs my feet and makes ice cream runs anytime without batting an eye. He is my best friend, the first person outside of my family to whom I shared my soul, my safe place, my home.

The problem is that his heart is faulty. Literally. It has been so since he was born. And two days ago, we learned that it is time for him to have open-heart surgery to correct the problem. Replacing an aortic valve is an incredibly well practiced and safe surgery. But when we read that his heart would be stopped during the procedure, while he his hooked up to a heart-lung machine... well, that took my breath away.

My life partner is facing a huge challenge. In the end, it will be good. In the end, he may feel stronger than he has in years. But the process... it is huge.

I was talking to a dear friend yesterday, and told her I feel so sad about this news. In  her wise way, she asked if I am grieving. And I think that fits. Here we are, just settled into this new life in the mountains. We are comfortable, happy in our new home. Our girls are absolutely thriving. We are financially okay for the first time in our marriage. And for a while, all of this is going to be different. We will have to be away from home for weeks, possibly, while Brian has his surgery. His recovery will be long, and he will have to be out of work for 6 weeks. There are so many logistical questions.

The good, the blessing in all this, is our village. Already, our parents, family members, and friends are offering to do whatever they can to help. I am not surprised, but always reminded of how lucky I am. And, when it is all said and done, we will have many years before we have to worry about Brian's heart again.

And, there is nothing like facing a huge new adventure to remind me how thankful I am for my husband. Together we can get through anything.

Charlie

The fact that Charlie came into our lives was some kind of fate. After we lost our little Fifi in 2010, we decided it was time to expand our crazy lives with another pup. I headed to the Dumb Friends' League, just down the street from our house. As with most shelters, there were so many dogs, and I wanted to rescue them all. I made a list of those that called to me the most, and approached the main desk to find out who I could visit. As the volunteer made her way down my list, slowly but surely every dog that I had eyed was out of the running. This one did not get along with other dogs. That one didn't like kids. This one did not like kids or other dogs.

When every dog on my list had been eliminated as an adoption possibility for us, I asked a question: were there any dogs in the shelter that would both get along with other dogs AND be good with kids? The database was searched, and the result was just one dog. Charlie.

I decided to meet him. He was obese, and though they had bathed him he stunk. He was happy and eager to get close. I indicated my interest and went home to get Koda, Brian and Kinnie for a family meeting. It was a snowy day in February, and rather than have us gather in an outdoor run, the shelter allowed us to use their conference room for introductions. As the volunteer left Charlie there with us, she asked that we please just watch him, in case he seemed to need to go outside for a potty break. As soon as she left, Charlie promptly pooped on the floor.

Koda and Charlie were easy friends. They played from the moment they met, despite Koda's typical reaction to other dogs that indicated that she was way too good for them. We knew this meant good things. To us, Charlie seemed happy-go-lucky. We brought him home. As we got settled in, and all played on the floor, Charlie mounted Brian. Several times.

Charlie was an easy fit into our family. He didn't ask for much. He loved us, and he LOVED Koda. We came to realize that whatever happened in his life before us had scarred him. As much as he played, he was also insecure. It was as though he was never sure where he belonged. He was often under foot, despite being scolded to go lie down. When not playing, he could usually be found lying under a table or in a corner. Someone had not treated him well.

We first learned of Charlie's heart failure about a year after adopting him. We started medications- first one, then three, and finally four. We were told his time would be limited, but we didn't really know how. He continued to chase a ball like a maniac. And swim until he was shivering. And lick and lick and lick our faces, or our pants, until we had to turn away. He sprinted through the snow. There were some signs of decline along the way. His once voracious appetite slowed. But he was pretty much himself. Until 10 days ago.

Charlie's final illness was dramatic. His light step turned heavy. The ball and the river no longer called to him. We had to beg him to eat people food- or anything else. It was so sad to see life slipping from him. He deserved more time. But today, we realized no amount of hope or medication could provide that, and we let him go.

Tonight, the house feels lonely. I keep expecting him to be under foot. I wish he was.

Charlie was our boy. He loved us so. And I loved him. As he left our world, I told him I hoped he'd be playing like a pup soon. That he wouldn't feel so tired, or in so much pain. That he would romp through the snow. That he could eat again.


I told him how grateful I was that he was a part of our family. I thanked him for looking out for all of us in his own way. I told him I'd miss him. And I do.

Rest in peace Charlie Boy. You will always be a part of my heart.

The village I don't even know

There is not a single daycare spot for a 17 month old in my new hometown. Not one. I've called every home daycare and preschool there is. If someone wants to move to Salida, the way to make a steady living is to open a daycare center for kids under 2. The demand is high.

So this has left me in an interesting spot. This week I started my new job. And fortunately for me, I have my village to help us out, with my mom here this week, and my in-laws next week. After that... who knows. My fingers are crossed that something will work out.

We have reached out to our local connections- people we've only just begun to get to know- to ask for help or suggestions. It dawned on me today just how much support we are getting- some from people we've never met. I emailed my new supervisor, who passed my question on to other people in my office. Even though I have yet to set foot in that building, I have received two messages with ideas for us. I met a new coworker today, and when I lamented about our situation, she immediately texted friends who have young children. Brian's coworkers are asking around, too. It's as if we have a whole team we inherited just because we live here. And I feel so lucky.

Kinnie is thriving in Kindergarten. She just started week 3, and is already a whole new kid. My shy girl is ordering her own ice cream, approaching friends in the grocery store, and responding when strangers ask her about her new toy. She used to hide behind my legs in all these situations- and this has truly all changed in 2 weeks. It's as though she realized that she can feel safe in the world around us, and she is blossoming. I feel so proud of her, and excited for her. The light I always get to see is being shone more and more.

And Ellie... Oh, Ellie. Turns out she's a feisty as her sister. We didn't get to experience it when she was an infant, but now that she's a full-fledged toddler, watch out. She is into everything. Lucky for her, and us, she is adorable, and gives the best hugs to make all okay. She learns new words every day. She loves the cows who live in the pastures nearby, and moos at them every time we bike to school. Just like her big sister, if she's outside, she's happy.

I miss my people, a lot. Which I was expecting. Some days are more difficult than others. Everything else about this place is amazing. It's quiet, and friendly, and fun. The sense of community is incredible. All of this moving business has been so challenging... and overall, worth it so far. I'm a grateful Mama.

The (proverbial and literal) other side of the fence

Today, Kinnie, Ellie and I rode bikes to Kinnie's new school- where she will begin kindergarten in two short weeks. It is a beautiful building, with super friendly staff. I alternate between being excited for this next step, and being devastated that my baby girl is growing up so quickly. I have had a few lose-your-breath kind of cries over it. There is something about not being able to just have her with me whenever I want... I will miss her so much.

That's where the proverbial other side of the fence comes in. I have been a stay-at-home mom for just over two months now. Granted one of those months was a time of complete chaos, and selling the house, and then selling it again, and then being "homeless" and making a major move. But I have been with my girls pretty non stop for the last 68 days. It is a blessing. And I'm exhausted.

I don't know how stay-at-home Moms do it. I feel constantly on demand. I laughed to myself this morning when in the span of a half hour I went back and forth to the kitchen at least 10 times. One of the girls would want something, so I'd get it, come back, and then the other would ask for something else. I played at least 4 games of Go Fish. I blew up the backyard pool, and then cleaned all the poop out of it after the naked baby had a "yucka." I watched the tricks Kinnie did on her new swing set. I played that I was a friend of Kinnie's, and that she came to visit me with her two new babies, and then I babysat them while she went to Africa. I chased Ellie and tickled her to delighted squeals. And, all I really wanted to do was nothing. I was so tired today. And my house was a mess. I can't seem to find the balance, if there is such a thing. I have this idea in my head that stay-at-home Moms keep their houses clean, meet their childrens' demands, and look pretty doing it. I started searching the internet to find proof that I'm wrong. But I swear, there are some people who can do it all. Having a "job" is WAAAAAY easier.

While we were out in the yard today, playing in the pool and on the swing set, two girls inched closer and closer to the fence. Our house backs to an apartment complex, and there is a simple chain link fence, and a few shrubs, between our yard and the property belonging to the apartments. Here's where the literal other side of the fence comes in.

As the girls inched closer, I smiled and said hi. We have several kids who come around and ask what we're going, or watch as my kids play. These girls, it turns out, were 6 and 7. Sisters with a 1 year old brother. A Dad who works three jobs in hotels and fast food. And a Mom who spanks them if they have an accident in their pants.

I can tell that they and the other kids who come to the fence wish to be invited over. I see in their eyes the looks of envy. And I imagine their hearts, knowing they don't even have their own bedrooms, and watching my girls with their swingset, pool, slip 'n slide, and a million toys. The older of the girls asked how many bedrooms we had and proceeded to tell me that she, her parents, and two siblings live in a two bedroom apartment. She quickly explained that there is also a furnace room, that they use as a bedroom.

My privilege is thrown in my face, not in a malicious way, but in a very real way, when I talk to these kids. I'm middle of the road, but to these kids, hanging on the fence and wishing they had all we do, it must look so amazing. My heart aches for them, and I want to be able to provide them with more. But then, I realize I'm barely keeping up with what I have to for my own kids.

I suppose it is all about perspective. Perspective that I'm doing a good job caring for my kids, even if the floor REALLY needs to be mopped. Perspective that we have so much. Perspective that I can't bring all the hurting children home with me, but perhaps I can offer some kind of connection, compassion.

I'm still trying to find the balance. But I'm so grateful, even when balance isn't there.

A new beginning

Last night was the third night we spent in our new house. Everything worked out, and I think we are right where we are supposed to be. Before moving in here, we spent 4 nights in a vacation rental. So I guess I can say I've lived in Salida for a week. A few of the highlights:

- Last night, I called out to the cul-de-sac to get my family into the house for dinner. As soon as she finished, Kinnie went right back out to scooter with two girls who live 3 and 4 doors down.
- I did my first big grocery shopping trip yesterday afternoon, and given that it was a Friday, I figured the store would be packed with residents and tourists alike. The parking lot was full, but the store itself felt about as busy as my usual grocery shopping stop in Denver on a Wednesday afternoon.
-Speaking of grocery store, it appears to be a great meeting place. There were at least three conversations occurring in various aisles between friends who just happened to run into each other there.
- Our next door neighbor brought a fantastic cinnamon loaf from the farmer's market as a welcome gift.
- Our neighbor two doors down provided me with enough free plants to officially start my vegetable garden.
-Our neighborhood is so quiet that I can let Kinnie out to play without worrying too much. I already know that everyone is looking out for her, along with the rest of the kids.
- I'm sitting on my couch, in my living room, typing this. Out the window to my left is a stunning view of the Collegiates.
- Every morning so far, the air is crisp. Even though it is July.

On day 3 of being here, I had to take the pups to the vet for what turned out to be kennel cough. The man working the front desk there told me he had come from the metro area, but now "develops a rash" if he gets within 15 miles of I-25. He went on to say that the only time there will be traffic in Salida is when two trailers are moseying down highway 50 side by side at 30 miles per hour. He noted, though, that it doesn't really bother people here.

It's too early to know how this will feel in the long run. And there are parts that are hard- particularly being far from family and friends. But, so far, it is exactly what I hoped for.