Dear Nashville…

It is no secret that we have not always gotten along. I did not come to you by choice. Perhaps the words kicking and screaming could even be used. My arrival was not a good one. I was incredibly sick, got bit by some odd TN insect, developed hives, followed by a whopping staff infection around foreign TN bite, and then settled in for the hottest, driest summer in your history.

And from there time slowly dragged on. Very slowly. Somehow I managed to survive the summer, watching our beautiful, lush green property turn brown and wither away. During this time I began my first nursing adventure with the mobile pediatric unit. Compared to the rotating nights, 15 hour days, and sheer panic of inpatient pediatrics, this job was perfect.

Time somehow took on a life of its own. It always felt as if it was stopped still, yet somehow months had passed. And somewhere in there, Bogey took root. And those 9 months passed and all of a sudden there was Bogey in person. By now the dream job was lagging and on the city budget chopping block, and it was time for a change.

Welcome, hospice. A second dream job allowing Cameron to stay home with me in the mornings, and go to his grandmother’s in the afternoon.  And amazingly more months passed and suddenly we had been with you for three years. But John’s job offered to transfer him back to NC. So we decided to leave.

Leave equals change.

And I despise change.

I mean, really despise change.

But this was a return to my much heralded home. Mountains three hours to the West, beach two hours to the East. A place where cars with bumper stickers are the norm, not like with you, where my friend was routinely stopped and/or harrassed because of her bumper stickers. All of which spoke of peace and unity, none with any religious overtones.

Oh the stories I have from my time with you. The gun laws passed, the passengers riding in cars with open containers of alcohol, because it’s legal. The woman in labor arrested, transported to the hospital, handcuffed to her hospital bed, because she didn’t have her immigration papers with her. And this was before Arizona. So I have stories. Stories that confirm my initial resistance to moving.

But, you see, I think in some sort of twisted attempt to apologize for the summer of drought and despair, you let in the rain. Just for me. John was out of town, the only time in a year he was gone without me. His entire family was out of town. It was just me, Cameron and my mom who happened to fly in for the weekend. It rained. And rained. And rained. A rain I have never seen before and I hope to never see again.

And there was change.

Change as homes were gone in a flash. Change as one after another of my new familiar disappeared. I watched over the course of days as the past three years began to wash away. Greenway, gone. Opry, gone. Target, gone. Friend’s homes, gone. Downtown, gone.

And slowly, very slowly, as the national faces started to arrive, the response from all of them was the same, unlike any other national disaster they had ever seen, you came together in an amazing way. And just like that, my Nashville World shifted.

Because you did come together. The only surviving water treatment plant was spared due to the 36 consecutive voluntary hours of sandbagging put in by inmates. The people who had every item they owned including their house submerged, without any flood insurance, stating, “it could have been worse. There are those out there worse off than us.” But I never heard from the worse off people, because everyone started their sentences with “it could have been worse…” The volunteerism. The compassion. The assistance. And the complete and total heartbreak.

I drove back to NC with the pets by myself and thanks to some I40 construction it was a lengthy, lengthy drive. So I had time to think. And while excited and delighted to be moving back to my holy land, I realized despite my protests and refusals to change, I am a different person.

You raised me as a nurse. I came to you 7 months out of school, having nightmares of med errors and infiltrates. I left with the ability to walk into a home and manage the crises facing dying patients and their families without a moment’s pause. The confidence to tell a family these are the last moments of their loved one’s life and medically walk them through the process, staying until the death.

You raised me as a mother. Not that I necessarily agree with everything relating to motherhood there, but you will forever be my first child’s birthplace. You happened to have an incredibly specialized group that was able to put me back together again, something I may not have been able to find so quickly here without knowing what to look for.

You facilitated my growth as a spouse. It was a time of learning about communication. Learning what we needed as a family, how to be a family.

You taught me about faith and spirituality. I was raised Quaker, a statement that usually resulted in questions about whether I had electricity growing up. So I was able to educate. And be educated. I often did not agree with the religious ideals surrounding me, a lot of times due to the politics and money wrapped up in them. But I was closer to faith than I have ever been. I have stood with families as they prayed for healing miracles, or been with them as they realized that their miracle is an end to years of suffering.

You surrounded me with an amazing group of people who helped shape who I am as a mother, a nurse, a wife, a person.

So Nashville, I guess we left on good terms. It was time for me to go, you made that clear by washing out the first 30 boxes I packed. But I have left as a better person.

With a super awesome souvenir.

Transition

I would like to be able to say that I have not posted anything in months because I have been crazy busy, barely able to breath. And I have been crazy busy, but to be totally honest I am pretty much incompetent when it comes to computer stuff and for the past two months have thought that my blog disappeared. But, um, obviously it has not. And this has been pointed out by MANY people. My apologies to all of them.

Back to the crazy busy. Now that I know the blog is up and running I will actually return to posting on it. At this point I am somewhat at a loss to even know where to begin. There was the decision to move, the unrelenting floods of Nashville, the move of animals, child and myself, the ever evolving job hunt, and millions of other things to jump back into. For now, know that I’ve found the blog, I’m back, and there will is more to come.

And Cameron continues to out-cute himself on a daily basis.

Eczellent

Cameron has never been a good sleeper. This is not news.

When Cameron has a bad night of sleep, we go through the list of things most commonly causing poor sleep in a child. Ear infection. Nope, he’s only had one of those and he became seriously ill, so if crying is our only culprit, it’s not an ear infection. Teething. Nope, he ONLY HAS FOUR TEETH, and while statistically you’d think his crying is BOUND to be from teething, it never is. So we resigned ourselves to the fact that he hates sleeping and that we had created bad habits in him because we go in and give him Snuggle Pig or a pacifier to get him back to sleep.

But then he got laryngitis. Something I didn’t realize toddlers got, but apparently they do. It was awfully cute, but we sort of felt bad getting pleasure out of his uncomfortable squawks. After about a week of his squawking (with increasingly poor sleep) we decided to take him into the pediatrician to make sure it wasn’t something more serious. Nope, just laryngitis. Anything else bothering him they asked?

Nope. He’s a healthy kid. Oh, well, a couple of weeks ago he got this rash on his arms but it’s been getting better. OH MY GOD. I FORGOT ABOUT THE RASH. When he got it we kept an eye on it and it didn’t get any worse, started to get better so I stopped checking it AND FORGOT ABOUT IT. The doctor starts pushing his sleeves up and just by feel, before she even sees his arms, she states, “Oh. yeah. he totally has eczema.”

Eczema. I AM A NURSE. I WAS A PEDIATRIC NURSE. I SPENT FOREVER WITH KIDS ON OUR PEDIATRIC UNIT COMING UP TEARING THEIR ARMS TO SHREDS FROM THEIR ECZEMA.  My child? I figure he got into something outside, and promptly forgot about it. It was a horrifying moment. It was as if she’d looked at him and said, “oh. Did you notice his left arm was missing?” Why no, I didn’t. Because  I am a terrible parent.

But it turned out to be not so bad. She had this magic combination of water and a special oil we put on the affected areas and within 48hrs it was almost totally gone. Bam. 72hrs after that, softest smoothest skin around. And while we now have to slather him in lotion 2-3 times daily forever to hopefully prevent more patches from coming back, his skin is beautiful. And after 48hrs, the kid started sleeping. Hard. Through the entire night.  And when thinking back through the winter, I’m pretty sure he’s been having trouble with this for months but we just chalked it up to the dry winter and him having sensitive skin. Come on kid! Suck it up! We all itch sometimes! We did not perhaps notice that maybe, just maybe he was totally miserable.

And now, with his healthy glowing skin and well rested self, we’re getting him ready for his 2011 Men On Fire Calendar photo shoot.

Scheyer’s Mom

UNC fans, don’t turn away. While it would be easy to dedicate a post to Jon Scheyer’s accomplishments for the year, including an in-depth discussion as to how on earth Greives Vasquez (a true Slytherin name) won ACC player of the year over Scheyer, that is not what this blog is about.

This is about Bogey. And our life since his arrival. And how everything has been flipped, turned upside down since his arrival. Not always in a bad way. So many incredible positives.  One of the most striking being the entirely new way I view the world. Not just that I see every object in our house as a potential weapon/choking hazard. But everything seems more raw and emotional.

Which brings me to Scheyer’s Mom. Senior night at Duke. A game of legend was played. In case not everyone is familiar with it, a team from Chapel Hill called UNC begged for mercy as a far superior Duke team slaughtered them in an epic win. UNC fans, don’t leave, again I digress.

Scheyer’s last night playing for Duke. Now I like Scheyer, but I’m not as crazily obsessed about him as I have been about some players in the past (G-Hill, I’m talking to you). So I watched all the pregame senior stuff and then the game, and then at the end of the game, Scheyer was pulled out of the game to receive his well deserved applause.

And they showed Scheyer’s mom. And she was bawling. And before I knew it or could explain it, I was bawling. And I looked over at John, whose eyes were tearing up despite his protests. And immediately some sort of Pavlovian reaction occurred wherein every time I see John Scheyer, or his mom, I begin to cry. UNC fans, insert your snarky comments here.

As I tried to figure out my unexplained crying reaction to John Scheyer’s mom, I realized it is the pure unadulterated pride surging from her for her son. And I can’t even begin to imagine what that must feel like. To have a child who has accomplished such great things. Don’t get me wrong, I can imagine the pride part. I spend my day full of pride for my son. Heart exploding pride. I just can’t imagine the pride for something truly spectacular, such as winning an ACC Championship. Because right now, I have tremendous pride in my son for the simpler things he does, like finding his nose.

BYOBS

I’m not quite sure what John and I did last year for Valentine’s day. Cameron was four months old and I had just started a new job so I’m figuring it involved sleep, breast pumps, and maybe some more sleep.

Not really a huge fan of Valentine’s day, but this year, John decided to try to make it special. Seeing as we spend the majority of our non work days in sweats covered with who knows what combination of smashed food, boogers, and possibly poo, it isn’t too hard to make a day special around here.

But John went above and beyond. He ordered my favorite flowers. He secretly arranged for our babysitter to come over and then for us to go out, SOLO, for a nice quiet, romantic, dinner, SOLO. Have I mentioned there was not going to be a child involved? SOLO.

And as we reflect back on last night, John and I actually both agree on the moment we knew the evening was doomed. And we should have just turned around, but were tempted by the idea of a SOLO dinner out together. With romance! And Candlelight! And Wine! Right. That would be the moment we both agreed we should have just called a spade a spade.

The moment it was all over was when the over zealous waiter ran up to our table and offered to open our bottle of wine. Umm…we didn’t have one. And as the look of panic overran his face, his sheer grit and determination of being the best darn waiter around took over and he blurted out  ”We’re BYOB!!:) Why don’t you guys just run out and grab a bottle ?!:)” Um, gosh Brandon. Not that his name was Brandon, but he was definitely a Brandon, with the full “Hey Brando!” He gets when he high-fives his four roommates. You see, Brandon, we live in TENNESSEE. In TENNESSEE, you CAN’T BUY WINE ON A SUNDAY. Beer? Sure!  And I kid you not when he told us to go grab a six pack. FOR OUR SOLO ROMANTIC VALENTINE’S DINNER.

And from there, the evening really took a downturn. From Brando’s decision to TURN UP THE LIGHTS because he felt it was too dim!:) to the fairly edible bread sticks, it was an evening not meant to be. It was an evening that hit it’s pinnacle as Brando brought out my meal, which looked like a giant lean cuisine. Sadly, the lean cuisine easily won. Without a fight. We skipped dessert for fear of how much worse the cooking could get.

As we left we ran into a couple with a young child who didn’t have reservations and were turned away. John kindly tried to convey they shouldn’t feel too bad. They had dodged a major bullet.

At this point we’ve been gone for an hour and a half, we had the babysitter for two more hours so we tried to think of what to do. But it was Sunday. In TN. And it was raining. And foggy. And cold. And as we neared our house and I saw Cameron’s light on I told John all I really wanted for Valentine’s was to go home and see my son.

And after a less than memorable night SOLO, it turned out that the very best Valentine’s I could have had was a night home, in sweats, with my two most favorite boys.

Pages

I’m finally beginning to get new pages completed. At the top of the post there are little tabs, which are the pages I’ll be creating. I haven’t written anything in the About one yet, so just ignore it. But keep checking as I add more!

Graduation Day

It’s been a rough few weeks here in the Gillmor household. I was going to post about the various ear infections, sinus infections, GI horror illness, and colds, but then I figured the majority of the world has had the GI horror illness recently and probably didn’t need nor want to read the rehashings of our version of it here. So instead I figured I would switch to the other squeamish topic I love to talk about.

My Vajayjay.

But this is a different post. No graphic explosion stories. This is about repair. Because I have officially graduated from Vagina PT, or as it is referred to in a PC world as Pelvic Floor Rehab.

This has been a long journey. 15 months since the original trauma. 9 months since I was referred to PT. For a few months in the middle I was going to a specialized clinic where I was getting weekly injections of steroids/muscle relaxers directly into the damaged muscle. That part was super awesome, and probably the closest I’ve come to losing my sometimes shaky hold on sanity throughout this process.

After all of this, you would think I would be cracking open the champagne and running around the house celebrating. And I am happy, believe me, but there is also a surprise emptiness that hit me as I left my PT’s office.

My pelvic floor pain has been with me since Cameron was born. Obviously. His birth, a traumatic one on many levels, was the start of a huge paradigm shift in my life. The past 15 months have been  full of more changes than I ever could have imagined. My pain has been my constant. It has been my security. And as I try to wade through my brain and figure out why after 15 months of pain I’m not running around shrieking with glee, it is because of the loss of my constant.

Around the time they finally figured out what was going on and I began PT, we knew my dad was going to have to go in for surgery. He had been given a similar timeline of recovery as I was given, something that was totally unrealistic on both fronts. But he and I would discuss the upcoming six months; we were in a race for a pain free life.

Pain free life. A seductive tease of riches. A promise of healing and recovery. For him an impossibility. For me, an unrealistic dream of perfection; as if the whole thing had never happened.  But it did. And while I am relatively pain free now with many more pain free days than painful days, I won’t ever be back to normal. My pelvic floor muscles were ripped through and while they heal, the damage is there. It is my weak spot. As my PT put it, whereas other people get pain in their shoulders and back with stress or fatigue, I’ll get mine in the vajayjay.  Insert your own joke here, everyone at work did.

But with the ending of my PT, I am ending a significant chapter in my life. I’m ending a battle I shared with my dad. I’m ending a weekly meeting with the only person who truly understood what I was going through and whose job it was to sit there and listen to me talk about it as she fixed it.

So I begin. A life not shadowed by pain. A life of realizing I am not actually broken anymore, just refurbished. Upgraded.

And for all of that I got a graduation present from my PT.

I spent 9 months in physical therapy. 9 months of, at times, pure torture, and all I got was this t-shirt.

A Very Useful Engine

It’s been awhile. Cameron is teaching us Russian Literature in between his conversations with NASA through the various telephones and remotes he seems to understand better than we do.

I can’t  think of where to begin with all of his new developments. He is a person now. A complete walking, talking (in a toddler sense), being. He is obstinent, tries to pull things over on us practically on an hourly basis, rules the world, and continues to capture the hearts of anyone who lays eyes on him. I fully expect a physical brawl someday at Publix as the employees battle out who gets to help us  to the car. Although his favorite employee usually is headed out with him before we’ve finished paying.

He continues to not be a big fan of TV, which is great, except for when his parents are contemplating the ethics of leaving the dogs in charge so they can escape the house and wouldn’t it be nice to have a ten minute foolproof distraction for the child. Sesame street, which used to hold his gnat-like attention span for 5-10 WHOLE MINUTES, lost its sheen, so Cameron changed the channel and discovered it. The Holy Land.

The Holy Land. Run by Himself. The Honorable. In Charge of Him. The Fantastical. Oh yes, every parent of every little boy knows who I am speaking of. Thomas. AND his friends. Oh yes, that’s right. THOMAS HAS FRIENDS. There’s 2. There’s 4. There’s 6. THERE’S 8!  8 GLORIOUS TRAIN FRIENDS. And New Year’s Eve, when Cameron was up EVERY 2 HOURS due to the two monster teeth he decided to grow, THAT DAY? Well, that night, as John and I were discussing a blood sworn oath of lifetime celibacy to prevent the possibility of ever creating another one of the teething monsters currently sucking the lifeblood out of us, I would have sold crack on the street for a Thomas Video.

Luckily Target was open. And they had a combo pack of Thomas DVDs. Three DVDs. A total of 345 minutes of The Island of Sodor, an island so fantastical I hardly dare utter it’s name for fear it might disappear. The cost was amazing. It averaged out to 3 cents a minute. 3 cents! I would have paid far, far more. Like his college savings. Which don’t actually exist yet. But you get the point.

An even after all that. 13 months of growing the first two teeth, followed by 24 hours growing the second, the screaming, crying, the fevers, the endless nights and days without sleep. He smiles. And laughs. And I have to resist the urge to have ten more like him.

Snuggle Pig

I was a child of stuffed animals. No dolls. O.k., I had two cabbage patch kids and I LOVED them, but generally no dolls.  Only stuffed animals. Stuffed animals that would make a toy store jealous. Every breed of animal, plus some, were represented, often multiple times. I had a chubble. I had a furskin. I had any and everything.

It would therefore only follow that one of my secret (or not so secret desires) was that my son would follow in my footsteps. And not just for the sheer fun of having MORE stuffed animals in our house.  I also loved the security I had with my blanket and teddy bear, creatively named, Blankie and Teddy.

The one responsible for the 98% of my stuffed animal collection was my father. Always a sucker for a cute stuffed animal and a little blond girl with huge brown eyes, which turned out to be a wicked combination leading to the animal zoo in my bedroom.

Right after my dad died, my mom and Cameron and I were out shopping at a well known southern food store, when we came upon a basket of stuffed animals tucked away to the side. We stopped to look at the giant stuffed pig. I told her that the baton had been passed and now she, the anti-stuffed animal giver, would  have to supply my son with his own zoo of stuffed animals. There was an eye roll and a groan and as we were walking away, due to the impractically of bringing a giant stuffed pig with us and maybe slight guilt on my part about shamelessly using my dad’s recent death, she stopped, dug to the bottom of the basket, and pulled out a small stuffed pig.

She handed it to Cameron, who snatched it up immediately with a sound (very much like what The Chubble used to do) and wouldn’t let it go. The tags were cut off in line and out we went. And so began the love affair with Snuggle Pig.

Snuggle Pig, who holds the highest rank in the house, far above mom or dad or even the beloved pets. Snuggle Pig, whose name was recognized before anyone else’s. Snuggle Pig who can de-escalate a child in the midst of a thermonuclear meltdown.  Snuggle Pig, who we’re pretty sure qualifies as a health hazard due to grime he sustains on a daily basis. Snuggle Pig who takes secret baths because the trauma of being without him for JUST TEN MINUTES could be too much to handle.

Snuggle Pig, who is the very best friend a little boy could ask for.

Cameronazolitin plus Vitamin A & D

Cameron’s butt. His bootie. His bum. Perhaps one of my favorite parts of Cameron as it is this little compact bit of cuteness that fits in my palm. Definitely pulling this post out for his first date. Maybe the prom.  Perhaps I can wait until his wedding.  And I want people to recognize the restraint I am showing by not actually posting a picture of naked Cameron.

On Monday, I changed Cameron’s diaper to discover an angry fiery red diaper rash. Immediately quelling the pediatric nurse part of me, I decided to wait 24 hours, at which point he still had a fiery red diaper rash. Called the MD, an outrageously expensive medicated cream was ordered. Luckily a kind Walgreens’ pharmacist didn’t fill the prescription instead offering to show us how to make our own version for literally a tenth of the cost.

And it was sometime during, or maybe after the mixing of the various creams on our table, that I realized we are fully ensconced in parenthood.

A place where medicated cream cocktails have replaced the alcoholic ones at a time when the alcoholic ones are most needed.