The Shot Heard Around Shaker Heights

Published on by Lisa Category: Health, Life is Never General, Notes From Home Plate, Pregnancy and Parenting, This is Us

Yesterday was a normal day for most people. A typical fall day with Halloween costume chatting, and leaf raking commencing…a very normal day indeed.

And yet, a raging two month mental battle also ended yesterday with my wondering over whether or not to get the h1n1 shot.

I’m fairly knowledgeable about the issue. Research is one of my specialties and I spared no pamphlet or website when absorbing the pros and cons of vaccinations for pregnant women. Despite my insides telling me that regardless what I choose, I will likely be fine, my housemate seems to be a magnet for all local and national news reporting bad news about the swine flu. Steeped in worry, Nick passes the information along to me as if I need more momentum to swing me back and forth in my decision.

To get or not to get the h1n1 flu shot is risky. It’s risky either way, I saw it, and in the end, seeing how slow my body was recovering from a simple, albeit nasty, cold and cough, convinced me that I probably should go ahead and get stuck by the needle.

So, after work yesterday Nick and I made plans to get to the middle school where they were administering round #2 of the vaccine. I imagined it was going to take hours, Nick disagreed. Of course I was right.

But before I took the shot in my arm, I felt like I had to confess something to Nick. A deep, dark secret welling inside me like a balloon. I looked up at him in the kitchen over chopping Bok Choy and green beans for dinner and announced,”I realized today I have been stalling to get the shot because I think if anything goes wrong with the vaccination and hurts Isaiah, I’m afraid I’m going to blame you for the rest of our lives.”

There. I said it.

Nick had a confession as well. “Last week, when you were sick, all I kept thinking was that if you had the flu and something happened to Isaiah, I was going to blame you for not getting the shot for the rest of our lives, too.”

Immediately, I brightened, “Really? We were ready to blame each other for the rest of our lives? This sounds demented, but I feel SO much better!”

We hugged.

Now that our confessions were confessed, we headed to the middle school and saw the lines wrapping around the building. It took several minutes to find parking and finally got in line. It felt something like a combination of the lines at Cedar Point, a huge pediatrician’s office with a million kids running around, and a gigantic holiday sale where they haven’t opened the doors yet and make you wait outside.

In other words, it was hell.

Immoveable and inflexible situations are prime time conversation periods for me and Nick. The possibilities were endless. We had hours to wait, so talked about numerous things:

Nick’s Topics: the lack of efficiency when it came to setting up the lines (half the people were waiting outside when the whole middle school could have been utilized), his brainfart that he did not bring a heavier coat, how people were supposed to “prove” if you were on the priority list (pregnant people are kind of obvious, but healthcare workers? ), and other issues relating to orderliness and publicity.

I was fairly single-issue minded: WHY ISN’T THERE A SEPARATE LINE FOR PREGNANT WOMEN?

Seriously.

No chairs. Standing out in the chilly air with children running amok.

A thought occured to me and I shared it with Nick, “Do you think that it’s slightly ironic and even more slightly idiotic that they make us stand outside in the cold with a bunch of screaming children with no heat or chairs so we can get vaccinated for the FLU?”

The women behind me had a stroller for her perfectly big 6 or 7 year old. She was not careful with the wheels and kept rolling over the back of my foot. I was feeling a bit snappy but bit my tongue countless times. After all, she’d be right behind me for God knows how long.

We make it inside only to wait another hour or so. A volunteer took pity on my very pregnant state and asked if I wanted a chair. I nodded gratefully.

So, Nick held my place in line while I sat for about 20 minutes, giving my back and feet a rest. Watching Nick, I just shook my head while he made friends in line – chatting with people in front and behind him – and even helping a stranger get their stroller down the stairs. What a good samaritan. All I kept thinking of was how much I wanted a Twix bar.

I got back in line with Nick and discovered he’d made his own h1n1 support group in line. Everyone was offering us advice on birthing, breastfeeding, sleeping, pain meds, and Hillcrest Hospital where we’d be deliverying Isaiah. It was nice to be talking, inside the building and shielded from the cold, but my energy had depleted and I just wanted to get it over with.

Surprisingly, Nick was able to get a shot as well, thanks to Isaiah’s due date of 1.1.10, Nick qualified as a parent with a child less than 6 months.

Then came the time to decide whether to get nasal mist or the needle.

Another decision. Not my specialty.

The nasal mist is the activated vaccine. It has no mercury.
The needle is the inactivated vaccine with mercury to keep it germ free.

My only question was, “So where’s the INACTIVATED vaccine with NO MERCURY?”

One of the volunteers replied, “They are just starting to make that now, but we have no idea if or when those will ever come to the Cleveland area.”

Awesome.

So, loaded with all different kids of information pamphlets on brightly colored paper, we got in line – Nick in the nasal line, me in the needle line.

And within 3 minutes, it was over.

How can one seemingly simple decison be so complicated and anxiety-ridden?

As someone said to me, “Welcome to parenting.”

Dr. Tiller’s Second Murder on Law and Order

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

Charlotte Taft wrote a piece, “Dr. Tiller Murdered Again on NBC’s Law and Order,” critiquing last Friday’s episode in which shades of Dr. Tiller’s murder became fodder for the “fictitious” storyline in which an abortion provider is assassinated in his own church.

Taft writes passionately, clearly from a place that most people cannot empathize. Most of us are not abortion providers or work closely with abortion providers who see first hand the complex and often heart-wrenching decisions that are often hidden in the shadows in the war between “life” and abortion.

With due respect to Ms. Taft’s piece, I didn’t pick up anything overtly offensive from the episode. Mildly surprised that it vascillated between the values of pro-choice and pro-life audiences, I was most pleased to see that some parts of the script were encouraging debate and revisiting what reproductive health means today, after almost four decades of Roe vs. Wade, where more women have access to care, where we know more about what women’s health is and what is needed. We know more. We still have long miles to go, but what I took from that episode is that the water is murkier than ever. Unfortunately, the ringing question, “When does life begin?” seems to trump the fact that we know more in 2009 than in 1973. Women’s roles and contributions have shifted. Our consciousness as a society has (slowly and painstakingly) shifted. We have not arrived at full equality, but we are not in the throes of ’73 anymore.

Certainly, I can appreciate and support Taft’s piece in RH Reality. If I were on the frontlines of abortion clinics, worked and befriended Tiller or people like Tiller, I probably would have been up in arms, too.

But I am not.

I’m a regular bystander of NBC. I’m a regular person who stayed in Friday night with a virus and ended up watching Law and Order because there wasn’t much on TV. In many ways, couched in the heart of America, I am just like everyone else – trying to feel my way through this process of where this country is headed with the most contentious and violent issue in our hearts. And in my opinion, a 1 hour show that has a track record of simplifying issues, making them dance with good script-writing, and long up-close shots of usually Caucasian actors will never make the grade, but it does make a point.

The point I got was good: this issue is only resulting in more violence and staunch pro-lifers and staunch pro-choicers are not going to be the answer. The inflexible pieces of abortion and life keep us in circles, yelling matches really.

It’s going to come from the compass of middle America. And middle America is torn.

Cleveland Tea Party

Published on by Lisa Category: Notes From Home Plate, Pregnancy and Parenting, Random, This is Us

Have you heard that tea is our newest rage in the house?

It’s true.

Warm drinks have always been high on my radar, especially this time of year. I drink coffee as a dessert, a special treat from time to time. I would probably drink it more if I did not have such drastic and noticeable effects from the caffeine.

When I drink coffee, if feels like there is a special vein that is activated in my body that filters out the milk, sugar, coffee bean, and whatever flavored syrup has been added, and sends the caffeine to my brain like an express train. Within minutes of a few gulps, my heart starts beating more quickly, my thoughts begin racing, and my mouth starts yapping at even FASTER levels than normal.

On road trips with Nick, pre-preggers state, Nick would watch the evolution first hand. First, I’d be quietly content watching the trees out the window and then we’d exit to get food and if I was tired, I’d get a nice small coffee. By the time we’re on the ramp heading back on the highway, my head is bopping toward the car roof and I’m playing 20 questions, laughing, and talking a mile a minute.

So, it’s natural for me to look for substitues now that cooler weather has arrived and I yearn for something warm to drink. I’ve always loved tea as well. It’s better for you anyway.

So I began drinking herbal tea, non-caffeinated. Then I began hearing that herbal tea can be bad for you during pregnancy. I don’t drink gallons of it, an occassional raspberry leaf treat in the evening is just enough to settle me in for the evening. Getting over this cold has been rough and tea smoothes the road just a bit more for me.

But you can imagine my surprise when Nick and venture to Giant Eagle to grab groceries for the week and while I am elbow deep in the produce section, notice he has wandered away. He normally does this when he remembers we need practical things like toilet paper, his Pert Plus shampoo stock is low, or wants more granola bars in the house. I was even more shocked when I found him in the tea section, peering closely at the labels and, after finally deciding on something, tosses it in the cart.

“I’m really getting into tea,” he confides.

“I noticed. It’s really good for you. I’m going to start drinking it more once I’ve popped our son out.”

“I just realize that I feel like drinking it when I’m reading,” he muses.

Nick has this, like, tendency to pick really amazing books to read. You know, some people choose New York Times best sellers or the latest from David Sedaris. No, Nick chooses Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. This book is something like 1300 pages long. Meanwhile, I am trying to balance reading my pregnancy books, online articles, links, research, and one fiction Wally Lamb book and then find my forehead falling backward because I fall asleep so easily these days. Pathetic.

Champion Nick is over halfway through Atlas Shrugged. And it was this book, apparently, where he heard his tea calling.

“Maybe we should get a tea kettle,” I offered.

“I can’t imagine they’d be that much,” of course Nick thinks of the cost vs. benefit relationship.

“No, they’re not expensive at all. And you can have a lot of hot water waiting for you in case you want another cup. You don’t have to use the microwave or anything. It might be worth it.” I, of course, get excited at any prospect to buy something for our kitchen, even if it’s just a tea pot.

“Mhm, yeah. That’s probably a good idea.”

When Nick says “that’s probably a good idea,” that means his eyes turn from a yellow to a green light. It’s the go ahead sign.

So, Nick has been experimenting with his new vice while I enviously sniff the fresh aroma from the next room. Last night he picked up the box and said, “I hope I’m going to look like this guy when I’m done drinking it.” The tea box had an adorable and huge brown bear, tucked away in a couch by a fireplace, a red-striped frock for pjs and a matching hat. The tea was called SLEEPY BEAR.

I studied the picture, “I think this is what you’re going to look like in about 50 years.”

Nick hollered from the kitchen, “50 years? Try 15 minutes.”

Poetry on Feminist Catholicism

Published on by Lisa Category: Mixed Media and Poetry

I wrote a poem about Adam and Eve. Well, more about Eve than Adam.

I don’t believe in the literal interpretation of Genesis. I don’t believe in the apple, the garden, the tree, the temptation, the Fall, or the banishment.

I do believe that oral story telling is a rich part of tradition and somewhere along the way, telling stories began to lose their power of metaphor.

In the literal, vein, however, I wrote this poem and designed a backdrop as I think more about my Catholic faith.

The New Schedule

Published on by Lisa Category: Notes From Home Plate, Pregnancy and Parenting

Nick, Isaiah, and I have been bumped up on to the 2 weeks rotation for seeing our doctor.

This morning, Nick and I went to the doc, eager to see how Isaiah was doing and what her diagnosis would be for the bug in my system.

It seems like the regular common, nasty, horrible cold with accompanying cough. I’m supposed to watch my temperature in case this turns into anything that resembles the flu, but it’s unlikely that that is what I have. My temperature was normal, my lungs sounded clear, and I have no runny nose. Apparently, those are the big three for causes of concern.

But, I’m to rest, rest, rest and drink drink drink liquids until I feel better.

Other interesting news to report is Isaiah F. Borchers is measuring a bit big for almost 30 weeks. Doc said we have to keep an eye on him and possibly take a look with an ultrasound later to see just how big he is getting.

If he is either too impatient or too big to wait until his 1.1.10 due date and possibly forsake his early fame of getting in the paper for being the first baby of 2010, either Nick or I are to blame. If it’s impatience, blame the mother. If his limbs are just too sticking big and he’s breech because his feet are like paddles, blame the father.

Germaphobe

Published on by Lisa Category: Health, Nick's Hearing and Ear Issues/Philosophies, Notes From Home Plate, Pregnancy and Parenting

http://allaboutadvocacy.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/movie_i_see_dead_people.jpg
Kinda like how that little kid in The Sixth Sense said, “I see dead people,” in that freaky whisper, confiding to Bruce Willis his longtime secret and hidden power, that’s pretty much how I want to tell you

I see germs and bacteria.

Everywhere.

I’m becoming neurotic about washing my hands and walking 10 feet behind any living thing that I think looks pale, sounds raspy, or coughs into a shirt sleeve.

All this worrying is justified.

Yesterday, I woke up with a slight tickle in the back of my throat. By 11am, it had moved into a dry cough and irritating the hell out of me. (Coughing means I am constantly holding my belly and trying not to jostle Isaiah around as much.) By 6pm, scheduled to stay later for work, I sent an email to my boss explaining that my cough was getting worse, felt like my head was compressing, and felt a little warm on my forehead.

It could be a number of things. It could be a common cold. It could be the erratic change in climate (40-50s to high 60s in one day?). It could be the annual visit from the bronchitis family that loves to descend onto my lungs once the weather provides an easy transport. It could be the damn space heater in our bedroom that dries the room out. It could be that my office swings from sauna to freezer every other day. It could be that my hand sanitizer obsession is proving futile in the wake of GERM SEASON 2009. It could be something Nick brought home from hanging out with high school kids with youth ministry. (Yeah, I know – blame the spouse!) It could be…anything.

I don’t know.

So, I do what most people do when they’re in the limbo of sick and well — commiserate on the couch and think of the worst possible situations while flipping between Dancing with the Stars and the ALCS between the Angels and Yanks.

The worst thing is I feel stripped of energy yet unable to sleep.

To make team Borchers/Factora-Borchers even more hapless these days, Nick’s ear problems have returned with a vengeance. His ear is ringing, making his head feel like it’s going to explode each night and thus scheduling an appointment with an ear doctor. It never ceases to infuriate me how LONG it takes for ear doctors to understand that Nick is in a lot of discomfort and needs to be seen NOW. Not now-ish, or next week, but NOW. As in yesterday; that kind of now.

But he scheduled it last week and still has to wait until Monday. Until then, I try not to talk as loud or as much (that’s hard when I want to tell him all about my lungs and Isaiah’s latest acrobatic stunts), but we’re managing.

We’re still keeping ourselves busy. Nick is caulking the outdoor windows and I’m registering us for a bunch of baby classes and tours of the facility where I’ll be delivering. As thrilling as, “Baby Basics,” and “A Night with the Anesthesiologist” classes sounds, we’re not very exited over a jam packed November of classes and learning.

I keep thinking that people have become really effective and good parents by good ol’ fashion living and learning. Why do we have to go to these classes?

“Because we don’t know anything about anything,” says Nick.

In the end, I concur, “It’s probably a good idea to figure out how to use a car seat, I guess.”

Letter #3

Published on by Lisa Category: Letters to Isaiah, Notes From Home Plate

Dear Isaiah,

Sometimes I just wish you could just stay inside me forever. Even if I’m moving at the pace of a 1983 VCR on SLOW MOTION, I derive a sense of security knowing that I can protect you at all times. You have no choice but to eat vegetables and fresh fruit. You WILL listen to my piano playing and lukewarm voice exercises. Water is our primary drink and we get plenty of sleep most nights.

I can keep you safe.

But, my son, it occured to me the other day that as your neurons continue firing in your brain and you skeletal frame solidifies, there are some things that are out of my control. The more I look at myself and your father, the more I wonder, “What have we DONE?”

You’ll inherit all kinds of wonderful things from us: love, compassion, forgiveness, understanding, empathy, faith, and resistance. But, you’ll also stand to inherit a wealth of odd quirks.

Like the other day, your dad’s ear problems have returned and I wondered if you are going to have ear aches to battle against. Or, I wonder if you’ll inherit my inability to estimate ANYTHING. (E.g. How long does it take to get to east Cleveland from the west side? I always say about 20 minutes. In reality, it’s at least 35 minutes to get across town.)

What if you inherit our dually acknowledged competitive nature? If you have siblings, this could spell disaster.

What if you are chronically late for things? (me)

What if you have no idea how to cook anything? (your dad)

What if you cannot resist a great sale on art supplies even if you don’t need anything? (me)

What if you fall in love with the feel of tube socks? (definitely your dad)

Will you obsess over human rights, germs, gender issues, owning good pens, the paranormal, and keeping one souvenier from every beach trip and graduation in your life? (ALL me)

Or what if you cannot reconcile wasting time in poorly run meetings, applauding after a catholic mass, mechanics, grocery shopping, or Bobby Kennedy’s assassination? (ALL your dad)

These questions weigh on my brain and the closer we are to your arrival date, the more my curiosity is blowing up in to full-fledged anxiety over the unfolding of your life.

Not surprisingly, your dad remains calm and says, “Some things we’ll get right. But we’ll mess up a lot. He’ll be like nothing we expect but he’ll be himself. He’ll be a little bit of both of us.” Also not surprisingly, that does little for my need to know how you’re doing and what you’re going to be like. Needless to say, I must work on my patience.

I’ll try.

Love,
Mom

Letter #11

Published on by Lisa Category: Letters to my Daughter and Son

Dear Isaiah,

Yesterday I took a walk outside on an unexpected 60 degree day. My shoes came off and I dug my feet into the lush, autumn green. A tiny ladybug had landed on my knee and I played with it for about 10 minutes, flipping the tips of grass onto its pathway so it changed directions.

I wondered how in the world a God could exist that thought to create an insect with a red shell and black polka dots on its back. I wondered how in the world a God could exist that could create you inside of me.

You, me, and the ladybug hung out for a while before I went back to my office to finish the rest of the work day. But the fresh air and colors of yesterday stayed with me.

Today, I began fearing if I might be sick. A tickle in my throat, dry cough, slightly warm forehead…I began talking to myself, convincing myself that I was fine, you were fine. WE are fine.

I walked into my office and saw a storm of lady bugs on my ceiling, crawling on the window, more flying around on my screen, trying to find a way in. No where else in the building was there a concentration of ladybugs. I frowned, wondering why I would be so unfortunate to inherit all these pesky things. The wonder of yesterday was gone.

A co-worker walked in and gasped, “Look at your ladybugs! They are a sign of good luck!”

I googled it “symbolism of a ladybug,” and, sure enough, it means good luck and if one lands on you, it’s a sing of impending good fortune. It also means I/we are being protected.

Given my worry and anxiety that I am sick because of this tickle at the base of my throat, a small sign, smaller than a thumbnail, gives me some irrational comfort that you/we are going to be just fine.

Someone recently shared with me, after listening to my worries about becoming a mother, “It’s already begun. I can hear it. You want so much to keep this brand new life as pure as possible for as long as possible.”

My eyes filled and I nodded.

She laughed compassionately, “We don’t have a prayer! Even their first breath is already tainted.”

I smiled sadly, knowing it was true, but intuitively feeling like this impossible effort to keep you pure was still attainable.

Her eyes leveled mine, “But we do the best we can. Always. That’s what we do.”

I am doing the best I can. I hope that is enough for you/us.

Actually, maybe it’s more than enough for you and it’s ME who is expecting more.

Love Always,
Mama

The View Going Downhill

Published on by Lisa Category: Culture and Race, Notes From Home Plate, Pregnancy and Parenting, Roadtrips and Travels

The combination of being pregnant and growing older makes me more attached to being at home. More and more, I take restorative comfort in the familiar couch, the wooden frames of our dining room threshold, the little nooks and crannies that make home HOME.

No matter how exciting the roadtrip, no matter how great the people we are venturing off to see, no matter how climactic the event we attend, these days, the thought of leaving home means two things: it’s going to be a long trip because we have to stop all the time for me to stretch or use the loo, and, if we’re staying overnight, I will lose sleep and be even more tired the next day.

So, you can imagine how excited I was to get through this past weekend which marked the absolute last planned roadtrip for me. On Saturday, I headed to Columbus for a conference I was to present at and have been preparing for diligently for weeks (hence the few blog posts in October).

My plan was to head to the heart of the heartland on Friday when I get an odd text from my buddy Christy whose house I was to be staying at Friday night. In the text she informs me she is sick but I am still welcome to stay.

Clearly, she has not been informed that I am the lead consumer of Purell’s hand sanitizer and the most informed citizen reading the CDC’s website. (Center for Disease Control)

Sick?

How sick, I ask?

“…well, it’s knocked me off my feet this week.”

Christy, my childhood friend who was the first person I met when I moved to Ohio when I was 8 years old, was the lead point guard on our basketball teams. She was an athletic volleyball player and is a general knows no sickness kind of gal. For her to say she was knocked off her feet means for a pregnant, low immunity system waddler like myself these days, there was a 35% of my collapsing Saturday morning from her bug and a 100% chance of my getting SOME sort of viral infection.

It was a no brainer.

So, I had no place to stay in Columbus Friday night and ended up getting up at 5:15am Saturday morning (OOOOUUUUUCCCCCCCHHHHHH) and driving to Buckeyeland for the conference that started at 8am with registration. My presentation wasn’t until 9:40am, but I wanted to get there early and test out my AV equipment and relax.

At 5:15am, I expected to crawl like a cavewoman out of bed, dreading the cold, and trying to leave Nick undisturbed. To my sweet surprise, Nick, the loyal cheerleader he is for all things I try to achieve, pops out of bed when the alarm sounds, turns on all the lights, and starts fist pumping. I was putting on my jewelry and make-up with the speed of a tortoise when he begins blasting Kanye West’s, “Stronger,” (my favorite pump me up song) and starts clapping like it’s game day. I smile.

I make it to Columbus without any problems and my presentation on feminism, race, and politics in the Midwest goes beautifully. I receive countless compliments from professors from all over the country and even an invitation to submit my work into an academic journal. The raving strokes my very tired and dusty ego which hasn’t been activated in a long time. Around 2pm, I duck out when I feel Isaiah happily kicking his excitement and my already low bank of energy begin to go into the red.

I head home to Cleveland.

Nick and I celebrate Saturday night with a dinner date at Anatolia Cafe, a mediterranean restaurant not far from our house and beam like stars at our table. It was wonderful but I was glad that the traveling piece was over. That night, I nearly drowned taking a extra bubbly bubble bath to relax because I nearly fell asleep in the warmth of our new tub. (I guess I’m not used to such luxuries.)

And so, here we are, approaching week 30 of pregnancy, and continuing our efforts to make room for Isaiah and prepare the nursery. As he gains momentum, weight, and strength with each passing week, my appetite and fatigue are skyrocketing. I believe I slept 11 hours straight Saturday night and still felt like I could use a nap in the afternoon. Knowing, though, that I have no plans for the rest of the pregnancy relaxes my body and mind.

Nick I agreed last night that each week of pregnancy feels like you’re counting upward toward 40 weeks. 5 weeks. 10 weeks. 20 weeks. But once you hit 30 weeks, it suddenly feels like you’re counting down. Very similar to New Year’s Eve, we’re just anxiously waiting for the Big Apple (Big Baby) to slowly drop and make his way into the world.