Short but Painful Story

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

Tuesday Morning

Nick often wakes up before I do. Unlike me, he actually responds to his alarm clock and gets up when it sounds. I either sleep right through it or turn it off.

He gets ready for work and before he leaves gently wakes me up in the morning. To put it mildly, I’m not the greatest person in the morning. This is not hard to imagine.

But, Tuesday morning had some unusually intense moments when I felt Nick chiding me to reality and I instinctively raised my arms and stretched out my body, including my legs.

As Nick leaned over to kiss my cheek, I felt a sudden jolt in my lower left leg, followed by a searing pain that forced my eyes to fly open and promptly scream in Nick’s face as it was inches from mine.

I thrashed around under the comforter, trying to grab my spazzing leg and feeling like it was self-amputating while Nick tried to grab my hand and ask why I was so hysterical.

I just kept screaming.

“HELP ME! TELL ME WHAT TO DO!” As I nearly ripped his hand off his wrist. I didn’t even really consider he had no idea what the problem was or how to diagnose why I was screaming in his face.

Of course he remained calm, “Is it a Charlie horse?”

A sudden image of me, 13 years old, getting my leg massaged by my basketball coach after a grueling practice flashed in my brain. That was my last Charlie horse – 17 years ago. But my brain appropriately filed it away under, “FEELS LIKE DEATH,” and I automatically withdrew the file from memory and screamed, “Y-Y-Y-E-E-E-S-S-S!”

Nick squeezed my hand, probably thinking this is what labor and birth will be like in 3 months, “Ok then, try and flex your toes. Point them upward.”

“I C-C-C-C-A-A-A-N-N-N-T!” I felt like Isaiah was trying to birth himself through my calf muscle.

“You probably didn’t drink enough water yesterday and you’re dehydrated. Point your toes upward and it should help.”

Through my hands, I could feel waves of knots and energy passing in and over each other in my leg. I flexed my foot and let out one more scream that, I’m sure, woke every neighbor on our block and then, suddenly, it was over.

Just like that. It passed.

I lay still, opened my eyes, and looked at Nick.

He held my hand and smiled, “Good morning!”

An Impending Change

Published on by Lisa Category: Announcements and Plans, Notes From Home Plate

Notes from Home Plate has been going strong now for about two years. I first began it as a way to keep everyone updated when Nick and I moved to Boston. Digital technology, I’ve discovered, has a marvelous potential for keeping people together. Through online tools, I’ve been able to connect with family as far as the Philippines, as close as Russia, Ohio, and spread news to neighbors on our street.

Well before I started this particular blog, I had been slowly spreading my writing to different magazines, both in print and online, and have been able to forge relationships with different publishers, press houses, and writers. The majority of my assignments, requests to present at conferences, and basically any opportunity to advance myself as a writer has come from opening my writing to the web. With careful navigation and a discerning eye, the internet is and can be the leading tool for freelance writers, especially those like me are looking to stay independent, but advance in my writing projects to become more streamlined and long-term. In a nutshell, I’m growing out of short stints for magazines, quick reports, and blog posts. It occured to me in a car ride with Nick, after one of my photography shoots, that I had reached a point in my pregnancy, or rather, in my life, where I finally had my first encounter with physical limitation: I wasn’t just physically exhausted, I was mentally drained by my desire to accomplish so many different things.

Not only was I tired, but I realized after shooting a wedding for 13 hours, that to be good great at anything requires much more than just love and passion. I’ve got plenty of that. It takes large doses of discipline and a thick skin for rejection. As I collapsed in the car and Nick drove me home, this epiphany of age dawned on my noggin: I have to choose.

You don’t become great at anything spreading yourself too thin or promising your time and energy to 10 different ideas. You choose one. And the rest is a lot of prayer, luck, and work.

As Isaiah lets me know more and more everyday that my life is about to take on a monumental and glorious change, my concept of “time” and “freedom” is going to undergo a radical makeover. It’s time for priorities.

How does that all affect this blog?

Well, let this post be a sign of an impending change. At the endless prompting by writing colleagues, support from my editor, and a profound desire to retain and grow my readerships from various circles, I am working with a webdesigner to create my own site. It will be a forging of several blogs and websites that I already contribute to, a home for my writing, a place where people can find me. As I begin to present my writing and work to different audiences, it will only behoove me to settle into one place where everyone can find me — family, friends, strangers, publishers, and readers. Also, it will allow me to focus on ONE place, one site, one project. The easier it is to find me, the more obtainable my writing goals become.

The new site will be much different than this blog, obviously. Notes from Home Plate has largely been anecdotal writings about my personal life with Nick, our life together, and glimpses into our domestic creation we have called home and marriage. It is quite different than, say, articles I have written about social activism, gender equality, or spiritual liberation. It won’t be easy, but my vision is to incorporate ALL of my writing, all of who I am, into one place.

As a writer, especially as an online contributor where readers respond instantaneously and emotionally-charged, I’ve learned much about disagreement and criticism. Opening ALL of my my writing to strangers is not what makes me nervous, it’s opening it to those already in my life! It’s to my family and friends who often see me, know me, and will also be reading my work. But, in addition to coming to a point in my life where I have grown tired of separating my audiences, I have come to point where I feel the need to allow those in my life to read me, to know me, and pray that that will lead me to a better place as a writer. I’m planning on writing more courageously. There is a very, very fine line I must observe when it comes to boundaries and taking risks. I’ve been sitting on this decision for a mighty long time and I finally decided to bite the bullet. Pull the trigger. Jump in the deep end. Hit the gas pedal.

My own website is on its way.

The spirit of change is always fraught with unpredictability and fragility. It’s always a channel of excitement, opportunity, and novelty. Watch for it in the next month.

Deadly 2009 Philippine Flood Compared to 2005 Katrina

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

In the customary USA-bootlicking rhetoric that has become a signature of the corrupt Philippine government, President Gloria Arroyo defended the government’s actions when it received harsh criticism of its slow efforts and rescue pace after a typhoon settled over the Philippines Saturday and dropped a record amount of rain in one day, saying more rain fell on Manila and surrounding areas in Saturday’s deluge than on New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina hit there in 2005.

I’ve grown accustome to Philippine presidents, especially Arroyo, making comparative statements between the Philippines and the United States, as if trying to solidify a positive, allied relationship. After buying a stamp in the Philippines with the image of George W. Bush, I learned political leaders side with the US, identify with the US, and see no sacrifice as to large in striving to be the Robin to the US’s Batman. So much so, the Philippine government pushes English in the schools and keeps Tagalog at home. It encourages and honors workers to leave their families, their country to work overseas and send home their paychecks to keep the economy “moving.”

But if there is one similarity between the Philippines and the United States that reveals itself most clearly in times of natural disaster, both countries are ill-prepared, slow in response, and give preferential treatment to the rich.

What is the state of Katrina four years later? How has the city rebuilt itself? Have we forgotten already how many lost their lives, families, and homes?

And the Philippines shows similar characteristics – leaving the poor to fend for themselves as the skies drop a month’s worth of rain in 9 hours and displacing millions as another storm moves in and is expected to arrive Friday.

As for recovery efforts, the US pitched in $100,000, a military helicopter, five rubber boats, and 20 service people.

With that kind of response to the worst typhoon the Philppines has seen in 40 years, the Philippine government needs to learn something about its relationship to the US which is eerily similar to the lesson it is teaching its own citizens: when disaster strikes, you’re on your own.

Letter #2

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

Dear Isaiah,

So apparently, you LOVE yoga. Perhaps you would have loved it even more if your mother wasn’t such a bluthering baffoon sometimes.

Since our yoga class didn’t start until 6:30pm and I made arrangements with my belly to eat a nice healthy lunch and snack the rest of the day and then eat a somewhat late dinner circa 8pm.

Apparently 1.5 hours of stretching, downward dogs, and holding odd poses can zap all the calories left that you decided to leave behind. So, you were as happy as a leaping frog and my body crunched its way through yoga, using the last of the 4:30pm banana and peanut butter snack I inhaled.

By 8:40pm, I walked into the living room, greeted by your father ready to pounce on me for cutting it so close to the season premier of Grey’s Anatomy, the only acceptable trash prime time show on TV I will expose you to which started at 9pm.

It was then that I felt a prickly sensation at the top of my belly, the roof of your home, the oven.
I figured my body was responding to my out of routine eating habits and so I gobbled down a black bean burger on a small bagel with some naked spinach thrown in there. It was a delish, globby mess.

By the second round of commercials of the two hour opener, you were a full-fledged boxer, taking on your vision of a miniature Oscar de La Hoya, I’m sure. Between that and the ring of fire that was spreading over the insides of my belly, I started worrying something was wrong. Two hours later, I could bare stand up or exert any effort because it agitated this burning sensation. Getting up the stairs to bed took forever and I could barely enjoy the newly finished bathroom that I had landed me a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records in the “HOW MUCH CAN ONE PERSON COMPLAIN ABOUT ONE THING FOR 16 DAYS STRAIGHT?” category.

My dear boy, I broke a rule that I swore I never would: I googled pregnancy symptoms. By the end of 10 minutes, I was convinced I was dying of a ruptured absess in my intestines or I was in premature labor (never mind I didn’t have contractions).

I sat up in bed because it was too hard to lie down and you fought your way to a comfortable spot inside for a long time. I kept apologizing that I didn’t do a better job of whatever caused this and even your dad, furrowed his brows at my incessant whimpering. Eventually, in the wee hours of the night, I fell asleep on 8272 pillows that propped me up.

This morning, my stomach was sore and you were quiet which freaked me out so much I placed a call to the doctor. I cursed Cleveland Clinic for being so complicated. I was patched into different departments until I got Nurse Nancy, who works with our doctor, Dr. McElroy. After what seemed like eons, I explained the ring of fire feeling, what I ate that day, (“Do I have food poisoning?”), and prenatal yoga poses that I held.

Her assessment, “Is it above the belly bump?”

Yes.

“Is the pain below your chest?”

Yes.

“Is the baby still moving?”

Like a ferocious upset animal.

“Well, that’s good.”

What’s the problem? Do I need to come in?

“Nope, just take some Tums.”

TUMS?

“Sounds like acid reflux.”

“What’s that?”

She sounds incredulous,”You’ve never had acid reflux?”

No, does that hurt the baby?

“No, you probably had an empty stomach and there was nothing to soak up the acid so it burns like that for a long time.”

Oh, so it’s common to feel like I’m about to die and that can be acid reflux?

“Sure. Take some Tums and call me at 4pm if it doesn’t get any better.”

Hang up.

So now I feel like an idiot. And overreactive. And naive of acid reflux. And lucky that I never had acid reflux. And dumb when my co-worker heard that I have acid problems and promptly handed me a roll of Tums. I promptly popped 4 in my mouth.

They taste like Pez candy.

So, my renewed promise to you, my son, is to never again let so many hours go by without some nutrition because apparently that can lead to death-like experiences when pregnant.

Your mom has learned her lesson.

I hope you enjoyed the variety of today’s eating selection.

Love,
Mom

Letter # 1 – About 3 Months to Go

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

Dear Isaiah,

You are almost 26 weeks old and we are almost exiting the second trimester together. You and I, if you haven’t noticed, are in this together.

I’ve been enjoying our morning talks about the world, my observations about the kind of life you might lead. I do apologize for the random profane words that shoot out of my mouth from time to time which disrupt our profound conversations. You see, my son, I am usually driving when we have our talks and sometimes a disgustingly irresponsible driver will cut me off or turn without signaling or speed by me and, involuntarily, your mouthy mom goes off.

Your father does an excellent job of telling me to calm down and, for the most part, I have. I drive in the right hand lane, rarely go above 5 miles past the speed limit and, instead of barreling through yellow traffic lights as I used to, now come to a complete stop without acting as if I’m in the Indy 500.

You’ve been quite a lovely baby to oven. I like when you’re tumbling around in there, doing whatever it is your doing. Your father says that if he were you, he’d spend a lot of time playing with the umbilical cord, studying its flexibility and seeing what tricks he could do with it. That sounds fine, except just don’t put it around your neck. That’s one of my fears.

We’re getting your room ready and this morning, I just sat in there, staring at all these little gifts, slowly appearing in your room, waiting for you. Sometimes, I just really can’t believe you’re on your way. You’ll be here before we know it and neither me or your dad can wait. We’re so excited and talk about you all the time.

Today at work someone commented to me, “Guess what’s in 3 months?” I shrugged and she said, “Christmas Eve!” That sounded absurd, but it’s true. In about 3 months, it’ll be Christmastime and you’ll be nearly here. Sometimes when people say time-sensitive comments like that, it just brings your reality that much closer. 3 months. That’s not far away at all.

Well, I hope you enjoy our activity this evening. I am going to try pre-natal yoga and see if it is all its cracked up to be. Maybe you’ll benefit from some of my deep breathing and stretching. If you don’t like it, I’m sure you’ll let me know. You certainly let me know your thoughts the other night after I ate spicy Thai food.

I’ll be more considerate in the future.

Love,
Mom

Letter #10

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

Dear Isaiah,

I’ve known that you are a boy for several weeks now and I feel somewhat guilty that when I thought you were going to be a girl, I wrote you several letters. Now that I know you are going to be a boy, I think my fear of raising a son has put me in an even deeper, inward place of wondering one thing: what in the hell am I going to do with a son.

You are kicking up a storm. Most often, you kick when I am sitting down and leaning over my laptop or computer to write, you tumble a reminder that you are inside me, waiting to come out, slowing maturing into something independent.

Physically, I’m beginning to feel a bit off balance, like you’re protruding forward in my belly makes me feel like I could fall forward if I’m not concentrating on keeping the small of my back tucked back in. There are funny things happening with my vision; small circles appear at the lower half of my right eye when I look away from my computer or suddenly get up. The doctor says it’s probably normal. My legs look like two pillows squished into shoes and my hair is a wild mane of thick black gloss, swinging across my back, keeping me warm. My fingernails grow a mile a minute and my acne-free life has been interrupted by these small soldiers, bumping their way along my forehead. My skin is warm, always warm and my mind elsewhere. It’s never with whoever is standing in front of me.

I’m starting to get out of breath and none of my clothes fit. Slowly, but surely, you are taking over my body and I’m beginning to understand both the overpowering love women feel toward their unborn child and I’m beginning to understand the frustration of feeling completely alien in my own skin. It’s kind of a bipolar experience.

Have I mentioned to you how I am in mild denial that I have to go through labor? It’s not the pain, it’s the UNKNOWN about labor that puts heavy anxiety in my abdomen. I don’t know anything — how long you will take, what a contraction feels like, if something goes wrong, if I will tear, a c-section…? And there’s no comparison. No metaphor that makes me feel better. The more others try to explain it, the smaller my ear canal becomes. I don’t want to hear what it was like for OTHERS, I want to know what it will be like for you and me.

Eventually, inevitably, without a doubt, sooner or later — I’ll know.

In our morning talks, I try to tell you what the world might be like by the time you get here, but each week, the world changes a bit. Health care reform stays stagnant though. Celebrities take turns in the headlines. Feminist news is on recycle. The seasons change. It’s now Autumn. World leaders continue their facades while citizens lobby their hearts out. In about 14 weeks, I don’t know what the world will tell you when you breathe it in for the first time. I’m hoping, selfishly, maybe I can breathe it in and try to see the world for the first time again with you. Maybe I’ll be full of curiosity, stubborn in my will to forge my own path, and open to all the possibilities of life.

But, maybe you’ll need me to be me. I’m far from new. I’m not nearly a newborn. Nor am I an old-timer. The only expertise I have to offer is the observations from my own two eyes and the scrapbook of lessons, the journals of my discoveries to share with you. Maybe you won’t need a partner to be curious with you, maybe you’ll need a mom who still believes in her own dreams, full of art and creativity, stubborn in my own right, loving in every decision.

I hope that will be enough for you. And I hope you and I will be born with an understanding of each other that surpasses my fear of raising a son.

With love always,
Tremendously,
Mom

Baby Grand, Baby Isaiah, and the Headache that Won’t Go Away

Published on by Lisa Category: Household Hell, Notes From Home Plate, Our House

It has been two weeks now that our bathroom (at least half of it, that is) has been gutted. And, thankfully, since my last post, much progress has been made.

Just last night, I came home and was pleased to find pretty white tiles in place, a new fan and light installed above the shower, new handles and a very high-placed shower head (Nick was very pleased), and the ceilings all patched up.

With our Cleveland baby shower/Isaiah party coming up in a little over a week, I was beginning to feel some relief off my shoulders. There’s still a lot that needs to be done, but, literally, the dust has settled, some clean-up efforts have commenced, and Nick tried out the shower and reported that the water pressure was not perfect but was definitely better than the trickling down effect we had a few weeks ago.

So, all was well and good last night that we even began to play with our newest toy: a donated baby grand piano!

About two months ago, I was approached at work by a woman who asked if I knew of anyone who would want a baby grand piano – for free – and all that needed to be covered was transportation. She didn’t lie – it was in decent shape and hadn’t been tuned in years. Of course, my ears perked up at the sound of “free,” “piano,” and “grand.”

I took piano for a few years when I was a kid and, as my father predicted that I would, now regret that I didn’t stick with it. As an adult, it would be nice to have a musical vice. However, the scale lessons and hard practice hours I put in as a child were not entirely lost. My family is a piano family. My father and sister play by ear. Nearly everyone on my father’s side can play. To say that a piano is a filipino trademark would be an understatement. Nearly every wedding, gathering, reunion, funeral, or meeting involves a bit of the piano and belting out a song or two.

And so, you can imagine my excitement when the possibility of a baby grand fell into our laps.

A few weeks later, the transaction was final and the piano is now sitting in our living room. I hired a professional piano cleaner and tuner and he affirmed what I already suspected: the piano was in “wild” shape. AKA – it hadn’t been played and/or tuned for YEARS. That kind of neglect is destructive. Imagine a piano like a living body. If you don’t go out for a run or walk or if you don’t do anything but sit in a corner eating Twinkies, you’ll be out of tune as well.

And so, the long journey of repairing our Baby Grand has begun, which is perfect timing as I sing to Isaiah, teach him chords, and fine-tune his ear for the ivory keys. Baby Isaiah, I think, is loving it.

One of the instructions left by the piano cleaner was that we had to play the piano “hard” in the next few weeks and really get the keys moving around again. I made an emergency call to my sister, asking her to come over and play for a while because I am not nearly at the level she is. Even Nick is pitching in. Now, if you can imagine NICK, who may not know a xylophone from a french horn, trying to play the piano just to get it out of its rusty stage, you can understand why I’ve been doubled over, laughing my ass off in the kitchen when he plays.

He sits and plays the keys like he is taking a type writing course and then out of nowhere, he runs his left hand from the bottom to the top of the keys as if finishing off a Bach masterpiece. Oh, my dear spouse. He is such comedy.

So, last night, after I was fiddling with the piano while Nick was huffing and puffing going up and down the steps, clearing out furniture of the soon-to-be nursery when I hear an extremely rare, “You’ve got to be shitting me!” from Nick.

My first thought, “He either found a rat or there’s another leak in the kitchen.”

The ceilings in the bathroom and kitchen HAD JUST BEEN SEALED and I was looking forward to new coat of paint and moving forward in our showering amenities.

For one moment, in all honesty, I almost preferred that he spotted a rat.

I walk into the kitchen to see my hubs staring at the ceiling and, sure enough, there were droplets plopping down onto our newly cleaned floor.

I nearly crumbled in frustration.

As if on cue (I have an emotional reaction, Nick moves into action), our contractor is called and comes right over and accesses the situation. After about 20 minutes of rooting around, he reports it can be fixed first thing in the morning, but he does need to cut out the kitchen ceiling again.

At this point, I am staring like a zombie at the television, wondering if we’ll ever get our lives back.

Even the sight of our baby grand, even the feel of Baby Isaiah kicking his disapproval couldn’t remove our frustration and disappointment of the new deadline: FRIDAY.

Remember, this entire job was supposed to be done LAST WEDNESDAY. ONE WEEK AGO.

But, at least, we are able to shower and I took my inaugural shower this morning and it is quite lovely. I would just love to be able to clean again, move our kitchen out of the dining room, and get ready for more important things.

The saga continues.