Saturday, February 25, 2017

And then I went, "Well. This dream is very unsubtle."

I dreamed that I went back to visit my old BYU colleagues. They'd been relegated to a temporary building--the kind that made up the bulk of my over-crowded elementary school. On the white board in the front of the classroom/office was a quote about "Daughters of Zion."

Lisa Rumsey Harris came up to me, apologetically. "So..." she said. "BYU has this new policy?"

I knew she meant just for the women. (Or maybe just for me.) Because it was a dream and you know stuff like that.

She was holding a chain in her hands. "We're going to have to actually bind your hands. I'm sorry. I won't do it very tight."

I held out my hands for her to bind. "This is so BYU," I said. "It's not like I'm gonna hurt anyone with these. Boys are, like, way more likely to do that. Yunno. Statistically speaking."

Lisa said, "Oh, I hear you. It is ridiculous." She wrapped the chains around my wrists once, twice. Three times. "But, hey," she said. "At least these chains are really cute ones."

I looked down at them. They were cute. They had little sparkly hearts on them.

And then I went, "Well. This dream is very unsubtle."

And I woke up.

Saturday, February 04, 2017

This morning I woke up thinking, "I was having a sex dream..."

and I was super excited cuz I never do, so before I opened my eyes I tried really hard to remember it...

and I did...

but I wasn't having sex.

I was eating a sandwich.

Monday, January 30, 2017

Caterpillars, Hamburgers, and Mayonaise


Something happened in my class today.
Or rather… it didn’t happen.
And it’s not happening… I am haunted by it.

We were discussing our biases. (It’s a rhetoric class. We do that sort of thing.) The class was lively, everyone chiming in with only perfunctory attention to traditional decorum. Hand raising was half assed, at best.
“I have a bias,” someone said, “against caterpillars.”
“Against Caterpillars?” I asked.
“Yes.” She nodded and sat back in her chair. “I love butterflies. But I cannot stand caterpillars.”
I tilted my head in mock shock, “Isn’t that, like, the insect equivalent of hating babies?” I asked.
Someone from the back of the room shouted, “I have a bias against babies!”
There was a gasp of laughing horror at that.
“I will tell my mom everything about my roommate’s love life,” someone said. “But I refuse to tell her about my own.”
“I only like little dogs,” said someone else.
“I don’t even like dogs!”
And then a girl in the front row said, “I am always falling in love with women. I don't ever want to date anyone but women. But I just never like sleeping with them as much as I like sleeping with men.”
“Well,” I responded. “Pretty sure you’re not the only one who’s felt that.” Which made people laugh even harder than they already were.
And then someone said, “I hate hamburgers with mayonnaise. Just hate them. I mean, why even have a burger if you’re going to do that to it?!”
And then game went on.
NBD.


About five years ago, before we moved to Maryland, when I was at still teaching at BYU, a boy—brown hair, troubled expression, wrinkled T-shirt—said during class, “I think we’re too mean to gay people in this church.”
The initial response from the class was silence. It lasted maybe ten seconds.
And then there were protests. Polite at first. “We love the sinners,” someone said. “We hate the sin.”
But the boy, his face growing ever more troubled, said, “I… I guess I just don’t see the sin.”
At which point the class completely pounced on him.
I don’t even remember what they said.
Stuff about obeying the prophets.
Stuff about right and wrong.
Stuff about morality and purity and chastity.
The carpets had been cleaned that week. I remember the stale smell of still-wet fibers, clinging like a mildew to it all.
Because there was something nearly primal about the way they turned on him. Animals, encircling a threat.
And they literally encircled him.
They turned from all corners of the room, some nearly jumping out of their chairs. Everyone facing him. Everyone talking over each other.
They utterly and completely shut.him.down.
I felt helpless as I watched. Their reaction was so much more violent than I expected. Their speech so little concerned with charity.
They seemed to have absolutely zero awareness that, odds were nearly certain, at least one person in that room was gay.
I stuttered.
I tried to interject.
There was nothing I could think to say.
In my entire teaching career, I have never felt more helpless, more at a loss, more of a failure to my students than I did that day.

And then today happened.

Today: when we talked about caterpillars. We talked about how it was just so hard when you couldn’t decide which gender you preferred to sleep with. And the (non) response?

That hamburgers are so destroyed by mayonnaise.

Sunday, January 29, 2017

And then I go, "Oh. This is an allegory."

The good news: I remembered my dream last night for the first time in forever!

The bad news: It was as judgy as a bad Sunday School lesson.

It started with an earthquake.

But it wasn't, like, a scary earthquake. It was more like a, "Hey! Pay attention!" Earthquake.

And then I looked outside the window & there was this bum who was eating the leaves off our bushes. Then he'd spit out the berries cuz poison. He was obviously hungry.

Then I was all, if I were Christian, I'd feed him.

But he was scary looking so... I just sat there.

But then I did a re-take & was like, *if I were Christian I'd feed him.*

So I drag myself up, go to the door to look for him & invite him in.

But he's gone, and instead there're crowds of hungry people.

And then I go, "Oh. This is an allegory."

And I wake up.

Monday, November 28, 2016

Afternoon conversation

Me: Hey, Lil. How was school?

10yo: Productive. Catherine and I spent some time conducting Scientific Research.

Me: What kind?

10yo: We timed how long it would take to spin in circles, get dizzy, and fall down.

Me: That sounds like two physiological events: first, the onset of dizziness and second the point at which the dizziness resulted in catastrophic loss of balance. How did you separate the two?

10yo: We didn't. It's tricky to tell the start of dizziness, but when you fall, you fall.

Me: So what you're saying is that you favored the objective event over the subjective reporting of one?

10yo: Exactly. I spun for six minutes before I fell down. My head hurt at the end.

Me: That was probably a predictable outcome.

10yo: But worth it. Because Michael only made it five minutes before he fell down.

Me: Impressive.

10yo: Unfortunately, Catherine's dad showed up to take her home before she got to spin.

Me: Well, that's just going to skew your whole dataset.

10yo: I know! It was a very disappointing end of the study.

#sometimesitssohardnottolaughwhentheytalktome

Sunday, November 20, 2016

Afternoon Conversation

10yo Lily: You know what the problem with this world is?

Me: No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me.

Lily: Gender normative hegemony. That's the problem.

Me: I never should have taught you that phrase.

Lily: Do you know what that means?

Me: I literally just said I taught you what it meant.

Lily: It means that maybe I don't want to have an appropriately girly Halloween costume. Maybe I want to dress up as Thor.

Me: Be honest. You just want that hammer.

Lily: It means that maybe I'm sick of people asking me if I'm going back to work after I have my baby. Maybe I wish they'd ask my husband that.

Me: You realize you're neither pregnant nor do you have a husband, right?

Lily: And don't even get me started about Trump and Hillary.

Me: Please. Please don't get started on that.

Lily: The thing is...

Me: You're right. One day without talking about the election was WAY too much to ask.

Lily: The thing is, people don't even realize that, like, so much of their dislike for Hillary comes down to bias they're not aware of.

Me: You really don't need to have this conversation with me.

Lily: I bet you never thought of that, did you?

Me: Oh for the love.

[& BTW, Lil: yes. Yes I did. http://www.feministmormonhousewives.org/2016/05/implicit-bias-and-authority-why-voting-for-a-woman-simply-because-shes-a-woman-isnt-actually-a-bad-idea/ ]

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Implicit Gender Bias and Authority

FMH just posted an essay I wrote about implicit bias. I think my sister's post on gene editing still probably wins the "coolest blog post of the month" award. But she works for Mayo, so that's a totally unfair comparison.

Also: my mom is totally not going to believe me when I say my motives are more about discussing the neuro/cognitive effects of bias than politics. But, yunno. Full disclosure: not a Trump fan.

Friday, May 22, 2015

Afternoon Conversation

Me: [playing the piano]

Sam: “MOM! What IS THAT?!”

Me: “It’s called ‘Jupiter.’ It’s from the ‘Planets.’”

Sam: “OMG, MOM! It sounds SO GOOD. It sounds like… It sounds like it’s from a video game!!”

Me: “Well, it is a classic.”



[Obviously that’s not me in the video. That’s cuz I didn’t take one. The part I was playing was the “Chorale.” It starts at min. 3:30.]


Monday, May 18, 2015

Morning Conversation

Lily: “OMG, Mom. It is, like, wet outside. I can feel it on my toes and my face and my arms… But there isn’t actually any water! There’s no rain, there’s no puddles. But it’s just... so… wet!”

Me: “Yes, Honey. That’s called humidity.”

Lily: “It would never do this in Utah.”



Tuesday, March 24, 2015

First sign that spring is coming

There are no leaves on the trees, no grass, no plants at all, really, and there are snow flurries in the air. But this little guy was sticking straight up in my front yard this morning, defying all of it.

Thursday, August 14, 2014

We’re Moving to Maryland!

And it is a crazy beautiful place. For example: a tree on our street, and our new backyard.

Monday, May 12, 2014

Lily and Mette: On Happiness

I was reading this post by Mette Harrison (author of, among other things, one of my favorite books from my dissertation sample, The Princess and the Hound).

She pretty much outlined everything that people don’t want to think is true about publishing their books. (And she’s pretty much right about all of it!) Publishing a book isn’t going to automatically fix our problems and make us suddenly more confident and/or emotionally stable. The people who will be happy after publishing a book are the ones who were happy when their book was unpublished. The miserable will find a way to stay miserable and the goal-chasers will discover that achieving the goal of publication only leads to the sudden appearance (and importance) of newer, bigger, more urgent goals. It’s not the achievement of our ambitions that makes us happy. It’s not really any single event that brings happiness to us. We are happy people, or we’re not. Maybe we can choose to be happy. But it’s never going to come from outside. Happiness is internal, not external.

I’ve known that. I’ve read people who argued the same and I’ve seen studies confirming the argument and I believed it before and I believe it now. (Most of the time.)

But Lily hasn’t. And Lily doesn’t.

And the timing of Mette’s post (well, the timing of my reading of the post)… it made me laugh!

See, just yesterday, Lily was having this epic meltdown.

This, in and of itself, isn’t terribly surprising. My beauty of a daughter has a meltdown every.single.night at exactly 8:30pm (or, yunno, pretty close to then;). She has done this every night for the last eight years. (aka, her entire life.)

We call it “The Eight O’Clock Blues.”

But even though it happens every.single.night, even though I take pictures of her crying every night and post them in a “eight o’clock blues” journal next to a picture of the clock and her explanation-of-the-day-for-said-tears-that-is-absolutely-not-and-never-will-ever-be-just-because-she’s-tired, she will NOT believe there is a pattern at work. She says,  “Mommy, I’m crying because I had a fight with so-and-so” or because “I miss grandma,” or “I just can’t get over how much it bothers me that even though I want a puppy so much Daddy keeps being so mean and lame and saying no just because he’s allergic and afraid his throat will close!” or she says she's crying “Because, Mommy! You always take my picture when I cry!" (okay... I’ll give her that one!) or “Because, Mommy, YOU WON’T BELIEVE ME THAT I’M NOT TIRED!”

Basically, she’s sad for a million reasons as long as they’re NOT about the clock on the wall. (Or the “T” word.)

So, yesterday she’s having this epic meltdown and it’s escalating and devolving rapidly into full on tantrum/F-5-level-destruction mode.

I said to her, “Honey, just take a breath and close your eyes. If you just trust me, I promise you will be totally asleep in 2 seconds and it will fix all of THIS!”

She did not appreciate this advice.

She said, “Mommy, you just don’t understand! If Daddy had just listened to me and put a swing in my bedroom today like I wanted him to, I wouldn’t be sad at ALL!”

I said, “Honey, I promise you: you still would.”

Her face got that purple hue of that kids faces get when screaming at the top of their decibel range. “I WOULD NOT!!! IF HE HAD JUST LISTENED TO ME IT WOULD HAVE FIXED EVERYTHING!!! I WOULD BE COMPLETELY HAPPY AND I WOULD NOT BE CRYING AT ALL!!!"

I stopped trying to reason with her.

wanted to tell her about all those happiness studies. About how external events don’t really have control over your long term happiness. About how the experience of happiness is a chemical one and how her brain would be miserable at 8:30p even if every single one of her wishes came true and every person on earth listened to her demands and readily agreed to them.

But I would be wasting my breath.

Because none of us really want to believe that. (Let alone tired 8 year olds.) We all want to think that something can fall out of the sky and make us permanently happy forEVER. That the “fix” for our problems can and might and will probably occur without our work or thought or input. It will just happen and everything will be better.

Actually, yeah. That sounds really great. Maybe I’ll change my vote on the issue...

So. What would make you happy?


Friday, April 11, 2014

Lily: On Doctors and Mommy

me: “You know what Lil? You should be a doctor when you grow up. You’d be great at it.”

Lily: “OMG NOOO! I will NEVER EVER do that!!”

me: “Why? You’re driven, smart, you work hard…”

Lil: [interrupting  me] “MOM! Doctors are HORRIBLE PEOPLE.”

me: “Horrible? They’re healers!”

Lil: “They’re sickos!!! They stab people with needles, they use knives and they cut you open! Sometimes, they cut stuff OFF. And I know they do it to kids.They’re the worst kind of people possible. I will never, ever, ever be a doctor.”

me: [confused]

Lil: [pauses, cocks her head a bit and says…] “You could, though!"

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Lily: On why Santa Should Bring Some Pepto

Lily was walking around the house looking stricken yesterday evening.

me: “Lil, you OK? You look really stressed.”

Lily: “I am. I am stressed.”

me: “Why?”

Lily: “My stomach hurts.”

me: “Oh, no. What from?”

Lily: “Nervous. It’s from me being nervous.”

me: “Honey, why are you nervous?”

Lily: [looks at me like I’m crazy] “Christmas, Mom. It’s, like, tomorrow. I can’t take the pressure. It’s just stressing me out. Elves are watching and there’s going to be presents and I have to be good and I don’t want to be good. I’m supposed to, like, go to sleep. Well, what if I don’t want to go to sleep?" [pauses, takes a breath and shakes her head] "Nervous. I’m just... nervous.”

me: “But you got a video. You’re on the ‘nice’ list. You don’t need to be nervous.”

Lily: “Tell that to my stomach.”

me: “I’m so sorry, honey.”

Lily: “Me, too. This whole thing is making me feel all gassy.”



(There’s really no good response to that, is there.)

Merry Christmas!

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

The Wind that Feeds the Fire; OR, why it is a very good thing I studied all those "rare words" so hard for the ACT

Firestrom

English: Firestrom
French: Tempête de feu
Spanish: Tormenta de fuego
Portuguese: Tempestade de Fogo
Italian: Tempesta di fuoco
Greek: Πύρινη Λαίλαπα (Καταιγίδα)
Definition (EN): 
Strong inrush of wind at the base of a large fire induced by the buoyancy generated upflow above the fire.
Definition (ES): 
Fuertes vientos interiores en la base de un gran incendio inducidos por la flotabilidad generada corriente arriba por encima del fuego.



Too bad this word isn't in a lot of dictionaries, right? It ROX.

Why we don't remember being a baby: Cuz it SUX!

This obviously-written-while-feverish-and-drugged gem of a piece I wrote on July 24 this summer. If memory serves, that was after my first surgery (which TOTALLY failed) when I didn't yet know I was in the initial stages of a massively life-threatening MRSA infection which, after a week or so, was to land me in the ICU for a month and mandate two more surgeries. Awesome. 

I remember starting out to write a (funny?) list of reasons that being a baby sucked. (Because I felt about as helpless as a baby at the time.) Then in the middle it... morphs... into this biological clock thing. And then it delves into my childhood. And somehow ends with a plea for parents everywhere to give their babies some slack.

It's fascinating.

And, yeah, while normally I wouldn't post it (there's a reason it sat in the draft box for all these months), I think there's a tantalizing hindsight thing to looking at it from my (mostly-healed)(okay, okay, my partly-healed-and-at-least-not-feverish-or-stoned) perspective now.

So, without further hedging:

Why Being A Baby SUX
A little something to read the next time your little buddy has led you to a point wherein you find yourself ripping out your own hair from your own skull. 
(And possibly other people's too.)

Here are only some of the ways:

1. They have no control over how loud they fart. They haven't built those specialized American-Retentive muscles that allow more developed release of gas. They can't hold it in during a prayer, or when the doctor is looking right at their butt. Heck! They can't even do the squeezy thing we all do to slow the fart down and keep it quiet! Now, imagine that this was happening and you were a 33 y/o grownup. Awful, right?

2. Nobody loves diaper changing. But imagine that you're the one who has to splay your legs (so dignified!) so Daddy can make sure he got all the accidental spillage. Not pretty, folks.

3. Worse, though? It's when your abdominal muscles aren't strong enuf to keep you from peeing all over the carpet. Gosh it is just so gratifying to need your mom to scrub the carpet when it was your fault. Not. Shame inducing is what it is.

 4. When you're a brand new baby, you can't even roll over. So the only things you can touch are the things arm's length away. An arm's length away from you as you are pinned by your non-existent muscular development means what you can reach while you are flat on your back. This is? Not much. So you try to be OK with it. But being in a darkened room by yourself gets so boring. So you call out to Ma and Pa (aka you cry rull loud cuz you're not sure where they are.) When they come and figure out that all you wanted was that &^;@€£! Elephant, you can tell they're not happy to have been yanked out of the shower. But you didn't know about the shower, just that you rully wanted to grab something. You would have done it on your own, but you weren't physically capable! Being a baby = absolutely no independence = asking people to do everything for you = they have to drop whatever they're doing to help you = they get bummed when it turns out it was something stupid = you feel crazy bad about being so needy.  Which SUX.

5. The independence thing is huge, actually. Imagine that you couldn't walk on your own, roll over in bed on your own, get your own food when you're hungry. Forget being able to drive yourself anywhere, you can't even get in the car or get your own seatbelt on! And your dearth of physical capacity means even when you DO go somewhere, it is almost never somewhere you want to go. And let's just forget the whole peeing, dressing, showering, issues. Too humiliating to talk about again.

 6. Last of all (for now) let's talk about sleep. When you're a baby, you sleep ALL THE TIME. And it's not like you want to. It just happens to you. And when you fight it? Oh the crankies that result! So, you either miss EVerything interesting going on, or you stress the whole house out so bad, there isn't anything interesting anyway! (Except maybe that throbbing vein on Dad's forehead.) But the irony of it all? So many of your best "awake" hours are when everyone else is sleeping. And it's dark. And lonely. Does anyone love you? Why are you alone? So, the crying. And Mommy reappears! Yay! But... But... She doesn't seem happy to see me... [Ends with everyone crying.]

So, people yak and yak about this "biological clock" thing. Seems like possible hooey. Until, of course, yours starts ticking. Then it's this insane force of nature. Now, my oncologist has forbid me from having any more children. And I am totally OK with that. My two kids already kick my trash. Sometimes literally. (Kids don't usually have super developed senses of hygiene.)

Nevertheless, I am 33, so there is ticking. And it has played out pretty lovely so far. I am deeply in love with babies (I wasn't always that way. A prize to the first person to post the link to the "I hate babies" post from the archives!)

Now, although the love is as deep and pure as any biologically foreordained brain-chemical-palooza, I know I don't want to have my own new baby. For one, half of the joyful surge of dopamine comes from me knowing that soon enough, the baby I borrowed for cuddling goes back and DOESN'T come home with me.

Second, it's the babies who blind me with the oozy primordial lovey love. But when you have your OWN baby, they only stay that way for, like, 45 seconds. Then you have KIDS (who, incidentally, I happen to like better than babies) but your biological clock doesn't care about that, it's all babiesbabiesbabiesbabiesbabiesbabies!!! And you want more. You're never satisfied. The hunger goes on and on and on.

My solution to baby hunger: Baby Snacking. If you snack on other people's babies to sate your hunger, there's an ever-replenishing supply (I live in Utah) and you can just keep on snacking, staying (mostly) satisfied all the way to menopause. Not literal snacking, I'm not a cannibal. I mean, like, borrowing people's babies to love on. Other mommies like the break, I like the cure-to-the-hungries.

My point?

I heart babies. And want the best for them.

And after my surgery, I have had a most unique experience! Having (temporarily) lost the use of my abdominals (they call them your core for a reason; losing them is seriously paraplegic) and also the use of a leg [side note added later than this was written: by the end of the ordeal, it was TWO legs], I have gone back in time a bit.

All those things up there? (Plus a plethora more!) Kinda exactly what has happened to me. (Minus the "kinda" part.)

There has been one difference, though. My parents have been so friggin wonderful to me! Much more wonderful than I'd imagine they were when I was an actual baby. (At least... much more wonderful than *I* was when I had babies.) When I wake them up at 3a, they don't whimper (as is the normal, human, response). They smile at me and say, "how can I help, honey?" When various body fluids are spilled, there's no parental panic. There's just this sweetness and tenderness and devotion. Heck, my dad literally BROKE HIS FOOT taking care of me. But did that stop him? No. He was just as devoted and sweet and tender as ever.

Now, from what I recall about my own babyhood (I actually do recall some, buy, yeah, not tons) and from the babyhoods of my siblings (cuz I was older and I could watch), my parents' angelic aura as they have been taking care of me this summer is a bit... more glowing... than when we were actual babies.

And dude. I get it. I get it SO MUCH. Maybe I didn't realize how friggin awesome my parents were until the haze of parenthood hit me in the face so hard I saw stars for four years, but they were awesome and they loved us and helped us and were generally amazing parents.

They were human, though.

If I peed all over them, they'd make sounds of protest. If I woke them up at 3a, they'd be groggy and maybe even cranky (who wouldn't?). And I'm guessing that it wasn't fun to lose their independence because they were responsible for someone so... dependent.

So what's the difference between my parents (who were great parents) when I was a baby and with my supernaturally angelic wonders of human kindness parents now?

What I can come up with (post-surgical haze is like moving neurons through nano pools of molasses) is Understanding.

They get it. The get me. They know what's hard for me and what sux. And their empathy and parentally fierce love takes over. They had that parentally fierce love when I was a baby, but they didn't totally know me yet. (I was surprised when I had my own babies how I could be holding and loving these creatures who I knew absolutely. nothing. about.) I couldn't tell them what I was thinking/feeling/intending/etc. If they thought they understood me, well, maybe they were right, but maybe they were just guessing.

So this is my offering on today's celebration of our foremothers and fathers [Remember, this was written on Pioneer Day]: an inter-generational understanding of how much being a baby SUX. (In hopes that such understanding promotes empathy and stuff.)

Sounds all grand, right? I swear when I started this post I was going for funny, mixed with gross, mixed with over-share. But you can't trust those pills they send you home with. They take away pain (and your brain's filters), so u can't stop yourself from goin on and on and on. And as it gets harder to type? It just gets worse!) but when the pain is gone, you feel so damn....wise or something!

 So let's end with a recap: being a baby sux.

I know this WAY too well for someone in her 30's cuz surgery and cancery crappy crap SUX. And my bio-clock makes me want to love on babies.

So mothers and fathers be good to those adorably edible tiny round humans. They can't thank you right now, but there is a reason they adore you. (And they DO adore you. Even when they don't know how to let you know.)

Yeah, I'm alive (barely). Someday I'll tell you about it, but for now, here's a pitch.

I'm not sure how many of my friends may be expecting (or are planning on it), but for any of you who are, here's a shout out for banking your baby's cord blood.

I banked my daughter Lily's, never thinking that ANYTHING could POSSIBLY happen where I might need it. I remember thinking it was more money than I wanted to spend on a gamble, but then again, Steve was in grad school--meaning that it must not have been TOO much money, especially considering how sure I was that I'd never, ever need it. Things might go wrong for other people, but they always seemed to work out for me. Right?

Heh.

This is what I have learned since then: SH*T ALWAYS HAPPENS.

Life is long and families have a lot of people in them. Tons of the time, stuff is boring and happy and free from problems. But inevitably, stuff goes wrong. And it doesn't matter who you are or how smoothly your life has gone thus far, stuff still happens.

So, yeah. I am really grateful I made the decision to bank Lil's blood even though I was super naive at the time. (I was 25 and thought I was totally mature and wise and crap. Hahahaha!)

In case you're wondering what on earth you can do with cord blood: Blood from a neonate's umbilical cord is rich with stem cells. Stem cell therapies are already in use for cancer (which, for some strange reason, I happen to care a lot about... hmm...), blood diseases, auto-immune diseases, and certain genetic diseases. Future research may find therapies for diseases like Parkinson's (another one that hits close to home), Alzheimer's, MS, and many others.

Umbilical blood also has the added plus of letting you avoid the firestrom (not a typo) of controversy that goes with embryonic stem cell extraction. Or to use an equation since I haven't done that forever:

UCB = (all the benefit) - (that particular stress)

If you'd like more information, here's a link.
Or you can call 1-800-747-3319. Mention code MJL8 and either you or I will get some kind of reward. (They weren't entirely clear about that.)

You may never need the blood (here's to hoping you DON'T!) but it's really comforting to have it just in case. I think of it as part of my "emergency preparedness" because, turns out, cataclysmic disasters come in all kinds of forms. Some extremely personal.

You can message me if you have any questions or reservations or whatever. I'm not an expert, but I'll tell you whatever I know!

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Going in for (another!) massive surgery tomorrow

and all of our little gang of Spencers is scared shitless.

apologies to everyone who doesn't like swearing.  I don't particularly like swearing either.  sometimes, there's just not a better word though. (and I have a PhD in English.  I know a LOT of words.)

I probably won't update for awhile--but that's not unusual lately, right?  Steve might update his Facebook status with details, though. (I don't expect to be terribly conscious for a month at least, and certainly not on Facebook; although, you never do know what shenanigans those post-surgery drugs effect, right?) 

prayers, of course, are welcomed.  from whatever god/goddess/deity you happen to ascribe.

we are not picky.