the annoying thing about my husband

My husband is a terrible photographer. He doesn't understand which angles are flattering and which aren't. He doesn't know what to do about lighting. And he just doesn't ever even THINK about taking a photo, so I don't actually end up being in a lot of photos since I always have to take them. I guess it isn't his fault. Not everyone has a value for capturing the beauty of a moment in a photo. But I do, so TJ gets to be in ALL the photos, which is really annoying. How annoying that there is so much beauty in the way that my husband interacts with his sons, am I right? Gosh. If he was a crappy father, maybe I would be in all the photos.

Then again, when my husband takes a photo, he always catches me in a really unflattering pose. Maybe it's my fault for not knowing how to be a model. But it's like he doesn't even notice that the way that I was standing, plus the angle from which he was taking the photo, made me look like I was five months pregnant! He hands me the camera with the photo display on it, and he says, "This one is really good!" What?! How annoying. Can't he see that I am fat in this picture? It's as if my husband doesn't look at me and see a fat lady.

-"TJ, I look really fat here. Why didn't you tell me I was sticking out my stomach like that?"
-"What do you mean? I think you look great!"

Ugh. How annoying.

And then last night, there was the fact that I specifically explained that there was a bottle with breastmilk in it, and there was some formula in the fridge to add to it when Malcolm woke up. Then when I woke up feeling refreshed four hours later, the bottle had been given with the extra container of breastmilk, and the formula was still in the fridge. How annoying that my husband was too busy preparing his midterm tests to understand my specific instructions about the formula. Now we will probably have to throw it away. What a self-absorbed jerk my husband is!

Then again... I suppose there are worse things in life than a husband who always thinks his wife is beautiful and who stays up late to give the baby a bottle so she can rest.

post c-section

Malcolm is finally here! He is so wonderful and was definitely worth all the aches and pains. He weighed in at 8 lbs 8 oz and 20 inches long. I was shocked to hear how big he was because I was guessing he would be just over 7 lbs!

Anyway, I had a much more pleasant experience this time around. The pre-op ritual was annoying because once you get to the hospital, you are just ready to get the show on the road, but it took almost two hours to get ready for surgery. It was very strange to walk into an operating room and lie down on the table! They gave me a spinal epidural, which was VERY painful. I cried. I was so panicky as they were preparing for surgery that I almost started screaming for TJ. I was just really scared. When TJ was finally allowed in, I could hardly speak. I was stuttering, and I just kept repeating, "Afraid. Afraid." (I don't seem to handle anesthesia very well.) I could feel a lot of tugging as they did the surgery, and when they were ready to get Malcolm out, they pushed really hard on my stomach. I don't remember that part being so unpleasant with Blake's birth.

But I said that this time around was more positive than last time, didn't I? Now to the good part! They lowered the drape, and I saw the most beautiful little face! Then I cried again. They cleaned him off, and I was able to hold him for the rest of the surgery. I was a lot more with it than I was with Blake's delivery, so as they wheeled me into the recovery room, I got to keep Malcolm with me. It was so wonderful.

Recovery from c-section is rough. It is hard to take care is your baby when you are hooked up to an iv and cant get out of bed on your own. It's an emotional experience because all you want to do is go pick up your baby when he's crying, and I just couldn't get up. I actually pushed too hard at one point while TJ was away and opened up my incision getting up out of the bed. I have been healing much quicker after this surgery than I did with Blake's though, which is such a blessing. But now that we are home, I am so emotional from missing Blake. TJ has been taking care of him since I can't lift him or get on the floor to play with him. Blake is handling the transition well so far, but I think it is only because he has daddy to play with him. The real test will come when TJ goes back to work next week.

I am so thankful for a much more positive experience this time around. I know that repeat c-sections are controversial in the mommy wars world, but I am so blessed to have two healthy sons, regardless of how they got here.

pre-c-section

Most women push babies out of their who who's. It's the way that God has designed us females. And it's really cool, albeit painful and gross. It wasn't until I was probably about 40 weeks pregnant with Blake that I watched some documentaries about natural childbirth, and I realized that there were options like a birth care center. Not impossible, but still, a little late in the game to change my hospital birth plan. A certain set of circumstances with Blake's birth, induction and epidural, led to an ultimate c-section. I was so devastated and traumatized. I was in labor for 30 hours, and I pushed for 3 hours. What can I say, the kid is stubborn! Since then I have come to terms with having a c-section for Blake. I have learned that it does not make me less of a mother because I didn't push him out of my who who. And he's a beautiful, healthy boy, so I have so much to be grateful for!

But I wanted this time to be different. I knew even before I was pregnant again that I wanted a VBAC. At my first doctor's appointment, I began discussing this with the doctors. They didn't even care to talk about it so soon, but they seemed supportive enough. So my "birth plan" this time around was to schedule my c-section at 41 weeks (which was the longest they would allow me to wait), and I just had to hope and pray that I went naturally before then to pursue my VBAC. No problem. My insurance deductible would restart Feb 1st, and I was to deliver Jan 9th at the latest.

Then in November, it all changed. I got a letter from my insurance stating that my plan was ending, effective Dec 31st, and I needed to apply for an "affordable" care act plan. WHAT?! Well, as some of you may have already experienced, those be some HIGH deductible plans! I don't have that kind of money. This was terrible news for me, but thankfully, I had a choice to schedule my c-section at 39 weeks, which is the traditional time that someone would schedule a repeat c-section. It was devastating, but it was a no brainer. Money talks, right? So December 26th c-section, it was.

The chances of going into labor before 39 weeks is slim, for someone who previously delivered, by force, at 41.5 weeks. But I certainly tried my best. As soon as I hit 37 weeks, I started trying natural induction methods. Nothing worked. Here I am, 3 days pre-c-section, and I am STILL pregnant and huge! I can't even wear my maternity shirts anymore; they have just become belly tops.

Anyway, as the days wore on, I started becoming more and more desperate to go into labor. I was ready to go outside and jog until my water broke. It became clear that this VBAC was insanely important to me. Was I tired of being pregnant? Did I really want Malcolm in my arms on Christmas morning? Yes, absolutely. But moreover than that, I just really want the experience of going into labor and pushing a baby out of my who who. Those of you who have done it might say, "Jess, believe me, it is painful! You aren't missing anything!" And those of you who have had c-sections may say, "Jess, the planned c-section is much less traumatic than the emergency c-section." And anyone might say, "Jess, it doesn't matter how your baby gets here, so long as you are holding your baby in the end!" I know all of these things. But this is my last baby. My last chance for feeling contractions. Screaming expletives. Knowing what it means to be ready to push. Pushing him out of my who who and having the experience of immediately holding him.

I didn't hold Blake for maybe eight hours or so after delivery. After many hours of epidural and anesthesia, I was a mess after my surgery. My whole body was shaking. Poor TJ was terrified. This c-section will be much less traumatic, I know. But that doesn't mean I'm happy about it coming down to this. I suppose some women are not meant to push babies out of their who whos. And I suppose, at this point, I have to accept that I am one of those women. Doesn't make me less of a mother, but it does mean that I will miss out on this very special experience. I am pretty heartbroken about it. Could still happen between now and the 26th, of course. But at this point, I am accepting the fact that it probably won't. And I will get over it, as soon as I am able to hold sweet Malcolm in my arms, and definitely by the time I start to heal from surgery and can get out of bed unassisted. But for now, I am sad, wondering why I can't manage to push a baby out of my who who like so many others can.

advent

The day after my dad died, I was taking the trash out, and there was a beautiful sunset. I'm not usually one to marvel at sunsets because I think they are generally overrated. But this sunset had the most beautiful pinks and purples, and it just seemed so big. I felt like God was showing me how big He is--that He is much bigger than my circumstances. For a moment, I felt comforted and, I don't know, like I had gotten a bit of perspective. I pictured the big tapestry of everyone in the world's lives. But then I said (out loud, I think), "But God, you took my dad away from me." And He said to me, "I am your dad." Again, I felt comfort for a moment. But I didn't want to talk about it anymore. So I ended the conversation and went inside.

About a week later, I was going to a doctor's visit, and it was that time of evening when, if you are driving westward, the sun is RIGHT in your eyes. I was blinded the whole way to the doctor's. But on the way home, I was being mooned. I had a perfect view of the moon the whole drive home. It was beautiful and clear and huge. And if it wasn't a full moon, it was pretty darn close. Blake loves the moon, so I have a new-found fondness for it. The moon makes me smile in ways it never did before. I cried the whole way home that evening because I felt like God was trying to be with me. He was like a boyfriend, trying to cheer me up with a beautiful bouquet of my favorite flowers. He was throwing rocks at my windows and holding a boombox on His shoulders, trying to get my attention. I accepted the bouquet and the serenade, but I told Him, "This doesn't change things between us. I'm not okay, and this still isn't fair."

All I could think for weeks, over and over, like a broken record, "It's not fair." I get it: God is the one who gives and takes away. God works for the good of those who love Him. But it wasn't fair. My dad was fine, right? He wasn't sick. He just had a bad cold, a few nosebleeds. I didn't understand why my dad could be suddenly gone after just a few nosebleeds.

In this season of advent, I am anticipating spending my first Christmas without my dad. We set up my dad's Christmas tree in my dad's house. We will wake up Christmas morning and not have to wait for my dad to wake before opening presents. I was really looking forward to decorating for Christmas because I was thinking it would make me more cheerful, but it's not helping too much. It's no beautiful sunset or clear moon for me.

But here we are, entering the time of year that we celebrate and thank God for coming to earth to be with us. I cannot celebrate the holy holiday of Christmas without fully believing that God my father came to earth to be with me. He is with me. And actually there's nothing fair about that, considering none of us deserve God's outpouring of love to us. This advent season, I can either numbly go through the traditions of decorating a Christmas tree, buying presents, and busying myself getting prepared for baby Malcolm's arrival. Or I can stop and rest in the truth that God is with me.

When my dad was intubated in the hospital, and they were trying to wake him from sedation, my dad was coughing a lot. He was moving around, but he wasn't very "with it" mentally. It scared the hell out of me because he's supposed to be the strong one, right? I sat by his side and held his hand, telling him that it was going to be alright. I picked up his legs when he would kick them off the side of the bed. I readjusted his blanket when it moved, and I put an extra blanket on him because he seemed to be cold. I talked to him about Blake and Malcolm. I told him how scared I was. It is so painful to see those images in my mind. And yet, after some time has passed, I have come to view these moments as holy moments. It was a gift to be there with my dad so that he wasn't alone.

Beautiful sunsets and clear moons can be holy. But not everything that's holy is peaceful. In the pain and tumult of my dad's final days, there was much holiness for me to experience. What makes a moment holy? When God is there. And God was surely there with me in my dad's final days. So though my dad is gone, and I miss him terribly, there is no other option than to celebrate God's presence this advent season (and always) because God our heavenly father is here.

Reprise

I used to be a poet. In fact, I was getting to be quite a good poet, and then... I don't know what happened. My feelings started getting too complex to write about. Heck, maybe I'm not a good poet! Ha! Anyway, when we moved to my Dad's house, I lost my poem book. Of course I had them typed and saved in multiple places, but for some reason, there was just one poem that I couldn't find anywhere. I was heartbroken because I loved this poem. This poem, entitled "Reprise," is a reprise (obviously) of a poem I had written about two years prior. I could write a novel about my misadventures of dating my college boyfriend, but to be brief, this is the very last poem I wrote about him. I wrote "Reprise" at the beginning of 2010--approximately five months after we broke up for the fourth time (yes, seriously). I never made a habit of posting my poetry online because I thought maybe someone would try to steal it and claim it as their own. But today, I make an exception because I am so thankful to have found my poetry book containing this gem. (It's a gem to me. Don't rain on my parade if you don't think it's a gem!)

Reprise

You believe that we were never friends,

and we were never dating.

So maybe I did imagine it all.

The scenes play over and over in my mind,

like a bad movie that you wish you had never seen.

I only kept watching because I wanted to see the ending.

I wanted to resolve this mess and rectify your wrongs,

but justification never came.

I loved you. Didn't I?

I took your hits of blame and control,

seeded with the weight of the hurt you carry,

always thinking I was waiting for you to heal.

And since I loved you enough to stick around

and be understanding of where you have been,

I thought that things would get better.

But redemption never came.

We never got better. We could never heal

from the ways you threw my pearls before the swine

time and time again.

And the damned thing is, I let you.

I handed them to you. It must be my fault.

People are supposed to learn from their mistakes

and grow stronger and wiser in time.

So I thought I was learning. I thought I was being refined.

But sanctification never came.

Maybe you were right.

We were never friends or dating

because after dating, I couldn't just be your friend.

And after being hurt, I couldn't truly be with you

because there were just too many walls.

Donc, le chagrin qui marque mon coeur--

le chagrin que j'ai apporté pour si longtemps--

il doit être tué.

Why? Because I can live without you.

And it's time I started resting in that truth

so that my restoration can come.

my obituary for my dad

When I was really young, my dad drove a rusty truck. I was so embarrassed to be seen in it. As a six year old, if we were driving through the neighborhood, and I saw another kid on the street, I would duck so that no one would see me. Like many kids, I didn't understand money, so I wondered why we couldn't have certain things. I was soon told about how we had family in Vietnam, and we sent money to them every month. A little money to us can go a long way in a third world country. (Is that phrase PC? Sorry if it's not.) I learned that through the money we were sending to our family, my cousins were able to attend school, and my aunts and uncles were able to improve their homes. This changed my entire perspective on things, and it made me see that our sacrifice meant big things for our family.

My dad came to America after the Vietnam War ended. He was in the South Vietnamese army, and when they surrendered, it was completely mayhem. Soldiers were being sent to "reeducation" camps, and so, on a whim decision, my dad decided to jump on a boat and, then, on a plane. There were four planes going to different states, and the most popular destination was, of course, California. But the line for Pennsylvania was very short, so again, on a whim decision, my dad decided to go to PA. And that's the short story of how my dad landed here. By the way, in the mayhem following the South Vietnamese surrender, my dad took off his uniform. He came to this country, basically, in his underwear. He had absolutely nothing. Probably a rusty truck was not quite so embarrassing to him. After his death, we are now left with a home, a nice truck, and retirement accounts. Will there be any retirement account money left after we pay the hospital bills? Probably not. But my dad has come a long way since coming here in his underwear in 1975.

My dad had a lot of files for us to sort through after his death, Most of them were not his. My dad took care of his brother's and sister's families, so our home held all of their tax files, immigration papers, etc. When my dad found his family in Vietnam, over ten years after he had left, my dad signed up to have his youngest brother and his sister come to America. I was probably about three years old when that happened, and my uncle didn't come until I was maybe 16. It takes A LOT of paperwork and money to bring family over, but my dad handled all of it. He opened up our home for them to live until they got on their feet, and he found them jobs. My dad was no hero. He was not perfect, but he is highly regarded in our family because he took care of everyone.

My dad was never warm and friendly. He was not affectionate. I often say how I have daddy issues, and I believe that it is true, though perhaps a slight exaggeration compared to people who have serious daddy issues. But my dad always took care of us. Going to work every day, paying the bills, taking the trash out... these are the things that gave my dad his self-worth as a man. His presence is certainly missed in these areas, but the void that I feel is having that person to take care of me. I know, I'm an adult, and I'm married... but my dad was always there to call with a car issue or a home repair. He always said, "I don't have much. But if you ever need anything, you just have to ask."

When I went off to college, my dad was so upset that he bought himself a big TV. And the first time that he heard me say that I was going home, meaning college... he was very angry and said, "No, THIS is your home." I was his baby. TJ and I thought that we were mutually helping each other out when we moved in here, but now I can see that my dad was really helping us out, especially in the financial sense. But he liked taking care of us. It gave him purpose.

My dad was not perfect. He spent much of his life being depressed. And this was very hard on us as a family. But in his way, he consistently showed that he loved us. To me, he was rock steady. In his last few days, he was helpless, and it was really difficult and scary for me to see. I held his hand, and I told him it was going to be okay. But I was terrified. And I'm just so sad. I'm sad for the day when Blake doesn't look at a picture of my dad and say, "Pap." I'm sad for the day when my dad's voice isn't as clear in my mind. I'm sad that dad won't be here to meet Malcolm. I'm just so sad.

But we are his legacy now. He would want me to keep going and keep taking care of my family. When we were in the ER, he kept trying to make us leave because he was worried about Blake. So, all I can do is keep on keeping on. Ugh. I actually hate that phrase for some reason, but I'm using it now because my sentiments are basically fake. I mean, yes, I have to just keep going. Life keeps going. But I mostly feel like staying in bed. So I guess there's no neat and pretty way to end this blog post.

aftermath

There are few words to describe what it's like to see your dad in a casket being lowered into the ground. You just want to yell, "Stop! What are you doing? My dad is in there!" To see his body lying in a casket, and you wonder why he isn't waking up. To come home every day and see his truck on the street and think, "Oh, dad's home. No... he's not..." And the memory of watching him coughing up blood, moving around in his hospital bed while only half-conscious. I held his hand and tried to comfort him, and meanwhile, I needed someone to comfort me. I was so scared.

But the images that haunt me daily are the ones of Blake sitting on my dad's lap watching videos on the computer. Blake would go have time with Pap usually twice a day, and I was always encouraging him to go find Pap (aka leave me alone for a minute). I don't even know if Blake noticed Pap's absence because for a week or two before we went to the hospital, Blake would go knock on Pap's door, and I had to keep telling him to leave Pap alone because Pap was not feeling well. How can it be that a grandparent would be taken from such a young boy? Blake could make my dad smile like no one else in the world. I think he loved Blake more than anyone. Pap was one of Blake's first words.

I don't know what to say. Everyone keeps asking me, "How are you?" and I don't have an answer. I don't even know what people want to hear. Do they want to really hear all that I have to say? Do they want to hear how angry I am that my dad was taken from us so suddenly? Do they want to hear how overwhelmed I am when trying to figure out how to handle all of this financial stuff? Well, I don't feel like talking about it because it's just too much. That's why I had to type it now. So you don't have to ask, you can see it all here.

On my dad's death certificate, there were three causes of death. The first was my fault, the second was the hospital's, and the third, God's. I use the word fault on purpose, though I know that in the future, I will replace the word fault with other, more accurate words. I do not think my dad's death is "my fault," and yet, when you choose to take out someone's breathing tube and respiratory failure occurs... you feel responsible. Even though that's what he asked for in his living will. Eventually, I will feel more at peace and will call this my choice, and more accurately, his choice. And I use the words "God's fault" because I am angry at God for this. I'll get over it, but for now, that's how I feel. Might as well be honest because he already knows I feel that way. The cause of death that was God's fault, by the way, was metastatic blah blah blah carcinoma (cancer). I am not angry that my dad got cancer. I am only angry that he was taken from us so suddenly like that. The only cause of death that I will continue to use the word fault is pulmonary hemorrhage. That was the hospital's fault. Dad was perfectly conscious before he got his biopsy. The nurse called me to say he was getting the test done, and that Dad requested I bring him some toiletries from home. And I never got to speak to him ever again. Did Dad know there was a big risk in doing the biopsy? I sure as hell didn't. Doctor said, "It's easier to take tissue from the lungs than it is from the liver." Okay, but you killed my dad because you punctured his right lung. So it doesn't seem like it was easier to me!

Perhaps I am just rambling at this point. I have not had time to process my feelings due to all the funeral preparations of last week and just trying to get finances in order this week, even to things as simple as switching household bills into my name. Tonight while I was driving home from an appointment, there was a beautiful moon. I think I will have a special fondness for the moon for the rest of my life because Blake loves the moon so much. He gets so excited. On the drive home, I got to stare at the moon the entire time. It really was stunning. I told God that this didn't change things between us, that I am still angry, but I appreciate the kindness.

Oh, and another thing... there is no reason why I should have to "be strong." So don't tell me to. This period of grief should be spent grieving. Forget picking up toys, forget doing the dishes. I'm doing what I have to do to take care of my babies, but other than that, I should not have to be strong. I'm just a kid, aren't I? In the world, I know I have responsibilities and that this financial stuff has to get done. But even though I'm mad at God right now, it is (sometimes) comforting to me to remember that though I have lost my dad, God is still my father. And I don't have to do this all alone.