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We have been so preoccupied with Lily's foray into big school, the tears and panics, that I have all but forgotten my dear Virginie. She's been going along for the ride and taking it all in stride, that apart from not being able to wean her, she has been easy. I must have said it aloud, as it seems the fates were tempted and Virginie let out a huge roar! Well, more of a whine and a scream and a constant hum like the air leaking from a stretchy, animal making balloon. Our girl has six teeth coming in, four of them molars. Oh the joy.
It had been a while since those first eight teeth in the front came in, so my memory of that torture seems to have faded. When she started waking in the middle of the night screaming and nothing I'd offered could soothe her, I remembered. For the past few nights I've tried all sorts of remedies--ice on the gums, Oragel, massive amounts of nursing (Say nothing. I know.), serving soft foods--yogurt, oatmeal, hot dog chunks, ripe cantaloupe. None of this has cured her from what appears to be immeasurable suffering. And so I have returned to the amber necklace.
I know it sounds like hocus pocus, but it works. Apparently, amber has some sort of healing property and when Virginie is wearing this necklace, she is at peace. Or at least not screaming the paint off the walls and the hearing capabilities from all within a 10 kilometer radius. I have three necklaces. She might wear two tonight.
Lily too was a monster teether and I remember our neighbor in Manhattan banging on the paper wall between us in the middle of the night begging us to abandon Lily and leave her on the subway. I don't know what she really expected, but I did feel her pain. Actually, it was my pain. Lily too was an ear shredder. In Barbados, we have relative peace and quite. I have only to worry that the monkeys will find her screams enticing and coming running to see what all the commotion is about. And I don't think I need to tell you again where I stand on the monkeys running over to the house.
Virginie is meant to be our last child, and as she passes each milestone of babyhood, I do feel teary-eyed and nostalgic. Her teeth will all soon be in and she will continue her chattering away and the sleepless nights sitting with her while she screamed in pain will be in the past. I see how the youngest child can get spoiled with love. When you know there is not another tiny baby coming, that this is it, you hold on a little tighter, indulge them a little more, endure screaming fits of terror and torture in the middle of the night with a tiny little smile at the corners of your lips, heart filling with love.
Lily continues to struggle with the morning drop off. I know she likes it at school and keeps up with the work, but saying goodbye is proving too difficult for her. And for me too. I can stay in a funk for hours after the separation because I wonder and I worry. Any suggestions or recommendations leave me more confused than just minutes earlier. I wish I knew what would be best for her. Should I take her in alone, without Didier and Virginie? Should I forgo the trip altogether and let Didier drop her off? Is she crying for me or is she truly scared and overwhelmed?
This hits me at my stuff. Psychiatry speak for "this feels really familiar and I am being triggered by the entire experience, reflecting back to myself." I feel shame and fear around Lily's crying. I never felt safe as a child to cry or show my feelings, especially sadness or fear. There was something about not feeling strong enough, tough enough to "take it like a man," which of course I was not and, as should be noted, am still not. I was silent a lot, difficult to imagine now, but I would bite the inside of my cheek and try not to let tears or a shaky voice reveal my fright. I know the loneliness, the feeling of alienation that makes crying involuntary. It just wants to burst out. When I see Lily's little quivering face, I already know what's coming. I feel it too.
So is it my fault if I have a four year old preschooler who is tearful? Who responds to criticism and teasing with sadness, even shame? Who doesn't want to leave me and tells me she misses me already before we have even let go of hands outside the classroom? Apparently, yes. It is always the mother's fault. Have I been overindulgent because when she feels sad or hurt I hug her and let her express her feelings? I wonder, should I have told her to buck up and hold it together?
After a great first week, save Friday's teasing episode, Lily has been melting into tears before we even walk away from her at the drop off. She got the gene. And she got it from me...and Didier. We are sensitive. I am often emotional when I am frustrated or moved by love or beauty or fatigue. I try my damnedest not to cry in front of the girls, but they know that Mommy has feelings. I suppose this is a choice to let them see me as a human being and not an automaton/autopilot mommy. My mother was quite stoic, still is, and rarely showed any emotion other than a slight smile and blank eyes. I think she was taught that this would actually protect her from feeling her feelings. My father, try as he might, has puppy dog eyes, much like Lily, and his hurt showed in his eyes, so he barked loud and fast so you would never see the tears. I want Lily to know that all emotions are fine. That they are part of our human experience. I love that she can tell me how she feels, but hate that I often can do nothing but hug her and tell her how I love her.
I cannot take the sting of being lonely from her. I cannot show her that she is loved even when she is not the center of a group telling jokes and getting all the attention. I cannot convince her that clinging to someone else, even a teacher or aide, will not ease an unsteady heart. She must learn, like we all must to trust herself and love herself in the midst of the teasing and ignoring and loneliness and stillness. When the eyes of my beautiful girl well up with tears, I want to drink them away, to take the pain on myself, but I can't. She is entering the race and the soft fuzziness of babyhood is getting rough from wear and tear. Reality is meeting Lily on the school yard and in the classroom and it is a shock to her tiny little system.
The first day of school came with such drama and fanfare, frustration and fatigue that it seemed only fair to consider the week as a whole. After a twenty minute drive to the school orientation one week before, on the first day, we found ourselves boxed into hellish traffic unable to move as we were on a tiny road with only one lane in each direction. What we'd prepared to be a forty-five minute drive at max, turned into an hour and fifteen minute stress-builder that included a crying baby, frustrated pre-schooler, near to exploding driver (Didier), and to my embarrassment, a just released from hospital kidney stone survivor forced to pee in a cup in the standstill. All of this before Lily had stepped one foot on campus that morning.
When we finally arrived at school, some of the kids in Reception (which is basically a pre-school, kindergarten combo) were in their games/PE/gym tshirts and Lily, like many others, was in her full uniform. Turns out the weekly schedule had been changed without notification to half the class's parents. Due to some interesting scheduling, half of the class had started school the Wednesday before to prevent mass hysteria amongst the 4 to 5 year old set not used to spending the day away from their parents. Those parents were told of the schedule change. The rest of us, not. As the kids are required to participate in activities with a tshirt, the remaining parents were forced to purchase tshirts with the school crest. Uh huh. Those, as one can imagine, cost quite a bit more than a regular tshirt from Woolworth's.
Lily loves big school and her teachers. Her full time job as a student at Blossoms Nursery School prepared her well for the long hours and her teachers were just as sweet and caring as they could be. They are enthusiastic about Lily, which makes me happy, and she is excited about learning. I can ignore the whole uniform thing which I really am not into and tolerate the excessive religious indoctrination. There's a lot of praying and singing and talking about the Lord. I was raised in the Christian church and have a healthy relationship with my God, but my little four year old is like "Jesus's love is bubbling over." OK.
God bless him. Didier was responsible for the two monsters while I twisted and turned on the bed at Sandy Crest and was now to care for them overnight while I stayed at Bayview Hospital. While drifting in and out of consciousness waiting for the pain and vomiting to end, I was asked by the doctor if I would prefer a public or private hospital. Never presented with this before, I remember hearing something about having to bring your own toilet paper to the public hospital. I knew I could not be responsible for that kind of business, so I chose private. When posed the same question, Didier was advised by our doctor to preserve our marriage and book me into Bayview.
We came home to get some things. I was hopped up on drugs so at least able to give a good face to the girls. I told Lily that silly Mommy had eaten something bad and hurt her tummy and would have to go stay with the doctor until we figured it out. Her watery brown eyes were so concerned. She was terrified of seeing me in pain. I was tortured by her seeing me that way. Virginie, on the other hand, just kept calling my name. "Mommy! Mommy? Maman. Mommy, mommy, mommy." She smiled at me and reassured me everything would be alright. That is how I chose to read her chatter. I worried for her. We'd meant to start weaning her, but this would be rather abrupt and I worried about Didier handling her screams in the night. She is so small, no matter that she talks our faces off, and it brought tears to my eyes to think of her alone in the night missing me. And my boobs.
When we arrived at Bayview Hospital, they were indeed waiting for me. It seems there were very few people on the ward and I was new and exotic. I got tucked into bed, hooked up to an IV, kissed my beautiful family goodbye and was left staring out the window at a rainy Barbados, wondering just how the hell I ended up here. I have never been a fan of hospitals, since being left for two weeks as a five year old at Freehold Area Hospital with an undiagnosed gastrointestinal disorder, and this situation was no different. I missed my family before they'd left the parking lot. As I hit the call button to get someone to quickly give me a barf bowl, I had to admit that there really was no other place for me that night. I needed to be there. My IVP (intravenous pyelogram) was scheduled for the morning some time and I was to just catch up on rest and prep for the test.
I watched TV. I read my book. I read the pamphlets about the hospital and all the things they'd expected me to bring along with me. My own towel, soap, shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste, pajamas/gown, clothes. I'd done OK with most of the list, but my own gown and towels? soap? I used my facial soap to wash my body and had some breathsaver brushes in my pocketbook that, though designed for a night out at the club and a quick tooth brushing before making out with a stranger, did the trick. Dinner of clear broth, jello, and juice was brought to me and was quickly vomited. This was exhausting. Sleep came in fits and starts, as I was a little afraid and lonely and wondered what was happening back at the ranch.
I'd experienced being away from Didier before and that is hard enough. But being away from the girls was just too much, especially Virginie because she is the baby. We'd never been apart and I missed her soft fat little knees and baby curls. I laughed when I thought of the only time I'd ever been away from Lily and that was when Virginie was born! She'd come to see me the next day in the same outfit as the day before with her hair looking positively wild. I missed her. I wanted her to tell me something funny.
The next morning there was breakfast. Followed by a quick vomit and then the scheduled IVP. For the IVP, a dye is injected into the IV that highlights any obstructions in the ureters, kidneys, or bladder and helps determine the size, shape, and then next course of action. For all that falling down, twisted eyebrow, continuous vomiting, my stone was found to be the size of the head of a ballpoint pen. Say what? I thought I was dying. What the heck would I have done if the thing had calcified and was as big as a marble? I am determined not to find out.
When my family came to visit with me that afternoon, Lily dressed in the clothes from the previous day and Virginie dressed as Heidi with green jellies on her feet, I called the doctor to find out our plan, get some results. He told me that I would have to pass the thing myself and that there was nothing more he could do for me other than review the slides from the IVP and give me some details and prescriptions for pain. So I went home. And though in pain and hopped up on drugs, still unable to nurse or really be of any help to Didier, I packed up my little suitcase, said goodbye to the ladies who had taken such good care of me and the orderly who checked me out since I walked in even though I wreaked of vomit and was swollen like a balloon, and rolled on home.
I truly believe one should never say, "It can't get worse than this," because if you do, man, you are asking for a sign of the Divine's power. I don't know that I actually said it out loud, but I surely have thought it. When I woke up on Tuesday morning in Virginie's bed with her feet in my face, I noticed that I was somehow still exhausted, despite a relatively good night's sleep. (Well, as good as one can get in the twin bed of a one year old who nurses and cuddles during the night.) I had an ache in my lower back on the right side which I figured was due to my new exercise program or even from carrying the 22-pound Virginie around from time to time, okay often. Fifteen minutes later the pain was more intense and had started to wrap around my side to my front. I was sweating profusely, had a piercing headache and immediately thought appendicitis. Two minutes later I was doubled over on the floor, after straining to urinate but finding myself unable.
The pain was complete, all encompassing. It wrapped around me and through me and I thought of Michelle Pfeiffer's character in The Witches of Eastwick who was terrified of pain. Had I known something like this could come on so suddenly, it would have been my vision of a personal hell too. And now I was in it. It was my personal hell. Didier was trying to get out to work when he stopped in our room to say goodbye. His reaction was immediate and endeared him to me even more. He got on the phone and told his colleague that he would not be in that day and that his wife was very sick and asked that the man let all others be made aware. He called our doctor and made arrangements to meet her in Bridgetown at her office. He changed his clothes. Got the girls dressed. Packed some juices and food and got us all in the car. I believe he would have carried me if he'd had to. I walked, crept, crawled to the car.
We never made it to Bridgetown. I was crying and shivering and aching all over. In my irrational mind, I considered that I was one of those women on that medical channel that has no idea she is pregnant until she starts giving birth in the bathroom or in a car or something. Childbirth was the only other pain that matched this one so I figured I must be pregnant. How could that be? I thought I would pass out or vomit or worse, pass out in my own vomit in the front seat, so we made an abrupt left turn to the Sandy Crest Medical Center. Reminiscent of the scene in Terms of Endearment where Shirley MacLaine goes ballistic on the nurse who dares not respond immediately to her daughter's pain, Didier ran me into the waiting area of Sandy Crest and told them in the sweetest French-accented English, "My wife is sick. I think she has appendicite. I have to get the kids from the car." He left me there and got the girls. When he returned and I was still there, Didier was pissed. It had been about 45 seconds since our arrival. God love my husband.
They did admit me rather quickly and got me into a small triage area. They asked me a series of questions, saw me quivering and sweating and writhing in pain, brought me a pan to vomit in, at which time I obliged them. After three attempts at an IV, I was soon hooked up and the drip of Voltarin and fluids had begun. My allergic reaction to the Voltarin was instantaneous. I couldn't talk and my throat and ears tingled. I was given a dose of Histal to correct it and was then given the mother of all painkillers, morphine. It was while swimming in the hallucinatory haze of the morphine that I looked down and saw myself for the first time in hours. I was wearing khaki shorts, the t-shirt I'd slept in with no bra, flip flops, and a haphazard ponytail I'd probably put up to wash my face and never got around to. I think my teeth had been brushed because I do that first usually, but who knows. Even if I had, it had been negated by the constant vomiting.
The team was efficient and quite kind and, given my state, very gracious. I know it is their training, but it must be tough talking to someone as they prepare to vomit on you or in your direction. As she waded through my answers and examined me, the doctor began to suspect kidney stones rather than appendicitis. An ultrasound was done to confirm her suspicions. Two actually. When I arrived for the first ultrasound, the waiting period was too long and I proceeded to get sick in that waiting room too. I was moved by the kindness of strangers, many of whom held my hand, rubbed my shoulders, carried my IV bag and consulted with the doctors on what to do with me. One even gave Didier her telephone number and said she was experienced with housecleaning and babysitting should we need the help.
I returned for the second ultrasound after being flooded with fluids via double IV where irritated kidneys and ureters were discovered, although no stone was visible. The good news was that no visible stone meant it hadn't calcified and was more than likely rather small. The bad news was that I was still vomiting and would have to be moved to another hospital as Sandy Crest did not admit patients overnight and my vomiting and nausea was cause to keep me under observation. The only urologist of note on the island was notified of my need for him and we were scheduled to make a special guest appearance at Bayview Hospital, a private hospital recommended over the public hospital by everyone we spoke to. A toast to new adventures.
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
The other day I was reading an article about Brooke Astor that made mention of her favorite retreat, an estate in New York called Holly Hill. I had to giggle as Holly Hill, a friend from Sussex, England I'd made in Barbados offered me a much needed break too. She was a place for retreat and for strength when I was here in Barbados with no friends or truthfully, friends from whom I got little solace and more stress. I miss Holly.
She was my best friend in Barbados, a friend I want to keep for life, even though she was here just a few months before she and her husband took their girls back to England. Holly's husband was a chef like Didier, quiet, artistic, an outsider not interested in the games or politics that are often played in ex-pat communities, and a bit shy too, like Didier. Their girls were the same age as Lily and Virginie and they played well together, all four of them. I'd met Holly at Blossoms Nursery School as she was dropping off her daughter Daisy and immediately wanted to be her friend. I thought of writing a note and leaving it in Daisy's schoolbag, but feared I might appear a bit desperate and slightly pathetic. Truth was, I was desperate. I needed a mate and got a soul sister.
Holly reminded me so much of myself when I was younger. She is truly hopeful and a bit cheeky and irreverent and funny. She dreams big but doesn't feel safe sharing those dreams without a laugh. I think she can do anything if she trusts in her own strength and beauty, and I hope she will. She understood how hard it was to have a husband who couldn't be home at night to feed the kiddies or bathe them or read to them or kiss them good night. The life of a chef's wife can be awfully lonely. Add two small children with demanding personalities and long hours on your own and it is depressing. Holly made me laugh about it and all the newness of my surroundings in Barbados, even as we both struggled in this situation, and when we couldn't squeeze out a giggle, we'd listen.
I knew early on that she'd leave. She told me herself before she'd told anyone else. I couldn't even allow myself to feel that loss, sometimes I feel that I have still refused to let it completely touch my heart or I might break. We chat and text nearly every day and I hear her voice in every key stroke. As she and her husband struggle with their next move (he's had a tough time finding desirable work and a good compensation package), Didier and I wonder what's next for us. What they are experiencing is exactly what we are afraid of. Taking that chance. And yet, we know that is the only way that we will be living truthfully. Even if we lead ourselves down a tough road, it will be on our terms.
Before Holly left Barbados, we spent the last night with the families together. Eating, drinking, playing, making promises and pledges of friendship. Steve had left for England a week earlier for some family business, and my mother was visiting for Virginie's birthday. As my mother is quite stoic, I was unable to really express myself freely, something I still regret. I was a little embarrassed to just love this person so openly when I'd known her only a short time. Tears would just explode from our faces, mid-sentence even, as the gravity of the goodbye became obvious. Didier would look up and say, "Not again!" as one of us would be wiping our eyes, trying to paste a smile on. The girls could not imagine what the great tragedy was, as they were playing and fooling around as usual. And just like that, dessert was served, a little rum, and then a farewell. A long goodbye made short by screaming kids and a steady rain falling. I could barely speak, nor she. But we'd both written notes and left gifts for one another.
