Ramblings

My sleep cycle is so messed up...
Last night, I woke up three times. When I woke the last time at 3am, I stayed up until 5am and then slept 2 more hours until 7am. One of the times I woke up, I was laying there feeling my baby "kick" wildly (though it really seemed like my baby was maniacally techno dancing) when katy started sobbing in her sleep.

It was awful.
I stroked her and whispered that she was safe and she soothed and settled easily.

The night before, I had the first bad dream I've had in a while. (I just wrote out what I remember from it, but decided to erase it- too graphic and un-necessary for the context of the post...) The point is, I'm up again at hours too dark to get anything done on my to do list- lawns are hard to mow in the dark and the "little lady" in my life doesn't deserve to wake up to me vacuuming the living room or cleaning the attic at 4am.

We've been experiencing tremendous anxiety, inner turmoil, and sadness. We are truly appreciative of our life, our relationship with each other, our active and developing baby, and the people we are blessed to call family and friends. Still, it is amazing how you can't talk yourself out of the melancholy and apprehension that tragedy leaves in its wake.

I see Katy fall apart at the sight of a friend and mentor who has lost nearly everything... I ache for him, I ache for her. She weeps for the 3 women that the world has lost. She weeps because she knew them and misses them. She weeps for him because she knows there is little that can be done to help- except to bare witness. She weeps for the loneliness he will need to meander through. She weeps because he will never be the same. She weeps because though he is forever changed, he is not gone- he has been spared- and though that may be the greatest cause of his grief right now, it is one of the causes of our gratitude. She weeps... but most of the weeping is private, inside herself, without tears. I weep (sometimes with more tears than her) for all these reasons too... and for her- my beloved, to see her strength and beauty, the way she looks out for me, and the way she fully experiences this pain- it touches me in a manner that is physically exhausting.

I have seen many examples of class, strength, dignity and beauty in this life. I have been raised by and alongside people I truly love and respect. I have married into families of strength and kindness. I have friends that would tear down walls to care for me and help me stand tall. I have a wife who is 100% raw, hardened intelligence and (somehow also) 100% kind-hearted, intuitive generosity.

And this week, I have witnessed some of the best that the human spirit might offer. In the wake of terrorism, I have seen faith that is not self-righteous, preachy, or arrogant. I have spoken with broken hearts that have chosen humility as a coping mechanism, patience as a plan of action, and gratitude to anesthetize their grief and vulnerability. I am sleepless because it has left me spinning, reeling... I am in my body feeling thoughts and emotions as aches and muscular skeletal throbbing. I feel Kicking and Screaming inside of me that is not my imagination. I am growing a son that I know - even at this early stage - is OF me and us, but not mine or ours... That the promise we make to protect him is only what our best intentions can provide.

Maybe I am sleepless because the dark is little scarier right now, or because I'm afraid of wasting time in sleep. Or because I worry of all I have to do. Or because life is the opposite of intellectual and "normal" right now. Or because for most of the day and night, it feels like my son is a one-man-marching-band inside my womb.

Or maybe it's just because I don't sleep all that well.

Very bad things

Yesterday we found out that katy's boss' family died in a break-in, robbery, arson attack.

We don't know much, the details of the story are still unfolding, but we do know that he was beaten very badly, and his wife and 2 daughters are all dead. This is clearly one of the most surreal and tragic things that could possibly have happened. We are grief-stricken and more than a little freaked out. We met them last summer when we were invited to attend the summer picnic for the job that katy was about to start. We immediately felt welcomed by this family and the large work-family they were the center of.

Assuming that katy would work at this job for a long time, we looked forward to many times together with their family... There was no need to rush to get to know them better. We attended a few Uconn basketball games with them; we planned on having them over for dinner after the baby was born. Without realizing I was making these plans, I envisioned everyday socializing and big events that we would share: their younger daughter maybe babysitting on occasion and probably us attending the wedding of their older daughter. I imagined his wife cooing over our little one and us soliciting parenting tips from them.

It is strange. And that is an inadequate word.

Kt's boss is still in the hospital- recovering physically will likely be the easiest part of whatever comes next for him. Please keep him and his family in your prayers.

Taking shape

Tracy's sister (with help from her mom and Mackenzie) surprised us with some key ingredients to the nursery. It looks amazing. I just want to sit in there and wait for the kid to arrive. But then I remember what I have to do in the short 11 weeks and 5 days until he gets here.



We were a little worried about the blue rug and green walls... but somehow it all fits together with the white furniture and multi-colored dinosaurs. All it needs is our little rugrat.

Getting ready

I'm reading a book called Broken Open. It's not a book about childbirth (believe it or not.) It's a book that's been in our house since someone gave to katy last year when she was going thru a "Pheonix Process".

[The mythical Phoenix bird sat in the fire of change until the flames had consumed his old self. Then he rose from the ashes a new bird—stronger and wiser.]

The giver of the book was an important person from katy's past, but a stranger to me- someone I regarded with at least a dollop of suspicion. Broken Open sat on our night stand for weeks or months and though the cover was appealing and the title interesting, I never opened it. In truth, I hated it; or at a minimum resented it. Even without being told, i knew the book represented a place or journey I was not necessarily invited to travel with my wife.

At some point, the mostly unread book got moved to the bookshelf in the office and a few months ago I found it during a restless bout of insomnia. i tore through the introduction and the first few sections in a matter of hours and returned to my bed comforted and peaceful. I was conscious of the manner by which the book had fallen into my hands- the painful circumstances that brought it into my house, but after reading a few hours worth, I felt centered in a way i can't describe. It was like hearing about something you never knew existed before and like proof of something you have somehow always known.

This pregnancy has been mostly wonderful. It has also brought up some serious pondering- inside of a woman that probably has spent too much of her life "pondering." The section I turned to tonight is called Birth and Death. "Uh-oh," I thought, here's the part that's going to send me over the edge (and make my blog readers think I am utterly obsessed with death right now...)

Instead, it brought me back to a time and career I haven't considered in a while. And it made me embarrassed that of all the labels on this blog, I've never written a post that should have been labelled NURSING.

I spent the better part of seven years working in in-patient care. And during much of that time, I was literally fending off, beating back, or sitting patiently near, holding a hand, stroking a brow, holding open a door for death. I saw a lot of people die and it is one of the strangest and greatest blessings in my life to have participated in the runoff and aftermath of each. All of them were uniquely tragic and simultaneously insignificant in the scheme of the history of the universe...

Working in an ICU- if you do it right- you get to practice science in complete confidence without ever sacrificing the knowledge, the surest certainty, that there are things beyond the reach and explanation of science. You get to operate within both frameworks- hard empirical, factual, numerical, chemical, formulaic, algorithmic, provable, systemic, time-honored, hard-won knowledge; and instinctive, crunchy-hippy, celestial, emotional, soulful, non-sensical, improbable, time-honored knowing. There are hundreds of stories inside of me, examples of each. And perhaps now is the time to start writing them down. Some of my favorite are the ones where science, protocol, and honest, rational, therapeutic dialogue save the day. But the one that is so clear in my mind right now is of the other variety:

The summer I worked on the island, I took care of an elderly man who was in the ICU for basic cardiac observation until an ambulance took him on a ferry the next morning to get him to the big city for a cardiac cath. He was very stable- even by "island ICU" standards. More than that, he was pleasant, gentle and kind. It looked to be a quiet night for me, I easily completed admission paperwork while chatting with him and he wanted to go to bed early. At some point, he woke and called me over. "Whose that guy out there? What is he saying?" I looked out his window into a dark, locked courtyard. It was possible there was someone out there but unlikely. Now I realized my patient/friend might be experiencing confusion we often refer to as "sundowning"- when it gets dark, the sanity slips away a little, or sometimes a lot.

I drew the curtains and repositioned the gentleman- taking time to use a warm cloth on his back and follow up with a long, relaxing back rub. He thanked me, made sweet conversation that indicated complete sanity and closed his eyes to fall back asleep. Then he woke again.

"Tell him to leave me alone. I don't want to go out there."

I stared at the closed, vinyl drapes. "Who is he? do you know him?" I asked.

"No, he is old. But he wants me to go with him."

The hairs on my neck stood up and I shivered like in a mystery novel.

I check his vitals, checked his nitro drip, and checked his code status- DNR. I asked him how he was feeling, if there was any pain, if there was anything he needed. "Only to get some sleep." He smiled sweetly, "I have a big day tomorrow," he reminded me, again referring to the surgical procedure and reiterating a competent memory and normal level of consciousness.

"Are you afraid?" I asked.

"No," he replied, "I think they'll take good care of me." He missed that I wasn't asking about his impending medical procedure, but about the man that only one of us could see. I hesitated and then pushed it one inch further...

"What does the man look like?"

"He's right there. Don't you see him? He has a beard. He wants me to go with him... but I think I'll stay here with you." He smiled in his kind, calm way. He fell asleep and a few hours later died. I knew this was coming. I don't know how, but I can tell you that I watched this man carefully for any scientific clue that his heart would stop, and there was none. There was no labored breathing, no pain, no change in vital signs until the monitor indicated his heart had stopped. There was no resuscitation- per his documented wishes. There was no medical explanation not only for his death that night but also for me to have known it was coming. It was hogwash, hokey, and freaky, but it was real and somehow predictable based on his and my observations. That was the night I saw death. Or more accurately, the night someone I was with saw death and described death's appearance to me. I've always wondered if I should have had a conversation with my patient that the man he saw might be coming to take him from this life, but at the time, that option seemed impossible and cruel.

I am fully accepting of the plausibility of coincidence. It is frequently documented that there is confusion and hallucination before death. My take on this story might be wrong. If you debate me, I won't argue my point very hard or long. But you weren't there and I was. And I know what I believe. And I don't think my experience of this night proves or disproves anything- so there is barely a reason to debate.

Before we die, we are all transformed countless times by experiences, miracles, and devastations. Where we encounter fear, there is also life and love to enjoy. For every death, there is a birth. And every birth breaks us wide open... Let the stretching and bursting begin!

PJG- The orignial Bean

In May of 2004, my sister got married. Katy and I followed suit the following September. Well over a year earlier, Web and I were simultaneously ready to commit to our partners. The dates for the weddings were carefully determined by sisters who tried to be accommodating and considerate of one another without either of us donning a sacrificial cloak. There were several moments of negotiation (which couple knew each other longer, who got engaged first, who was older, and who preferred what season) in attempting to determine whose event would be when. Marrying in the same year without looking ridiculous and competitive would require a certain level of sophistication and I like to think we all put our best foot forward.

My sister’s wedding celebration was perhaps the most fun and happy day I had ever experienced. I deeply approved of her choice in partner. I was in awe of her capable, amiable, and generous nature throughout the planning and the event. My parents were stunning in their formal-wear and their delight. I was on the arm of my beautiful, soon-to-be wife. We laughed and drank, danced and smiled until I thought all of our faces would fall off.

In the time between the two weddings, the structure of my family changed entirely. My grandfather fell ill, spent over a month in an ICU, and died. My Mom and Dad lost their father. My grandmother lost her beloved. My sister and I lost our Bean. We didn’t know it at the time, but my sister’s wedding was the last time my grandfather would dress in a tux, escort my grandmother down an aisle, raise a glass of champagne in celebration, or look out admiringly on a banquet hall full of the immediate and extended family he had created.

I had no idea as a little girl, that my mother’s father was not her biological father. Even though there were various surnames attached to different aunts and uncles, the news that grandpa was evidently a “step” grandparent was something I almost missed entirely. His exhibition of grandfatherly devotion was no joke. He provided a never-ending stash of candy, dinners out, hugs, adventures, and naps together on the couch. He sat through dance recitals, praised our report cars, established loving nicknames, and tore us a new one when we stepped out of line. Every action was authentic and bound us to him in a way that mere genetics could not.

When I was too young to be unique or clever, he started calling me Bean, and I parroted the name back whenever I saw him. While all adults around him called him “Chief” or “The Chief,” us kids re-marketed his brand. In the end the softer nickname won out as a more powerful expression of love and respect. We sang it to him every time we said hello, and whispered it reverently when, finally, we had to say goodbye.

I had so many conversations with my grandfather that sometimes it’s difficult to remember any specific thing we might have said to one another. He wasn’t much to talk politics or religion or current events, except those that involved our family. He told lots of stories about things he had seen or done. He liked a practical joke, or straightforward joke, or just a funny tale. He liked to find out what his kids and grand kids were up to. He could tell you how to fix anything, how to keep a furnace running or what to pay for a car or any of its parts. Before you even knew what he was getting at, he would easily recruit you for some project he needed manual labor to finish. He started and ran a business. He was a hard worker. He was a risk taker, an entrepreneur. He used a PC to keep records and balance his books before Bill Gates made the little bastards user friendly. I know he barked orders at friend and foe for most of his life, but in my memory he was gentle and kind.

A long history of heart and kidney disease slowed Bean down considerably, perhaps mellowed him out- creating the gentler man I will always remember. By May of 2004, he was not able to walk any significant distance, he was cold nearly all the time, and he was frequently exhausted and grumpy. He had lived such a voluminous life. He was a man of such strong will, independence, and action, that this assault on his body was disgusting to him. We frustratedly implored him to be more patient and gracefully accept the limitations of old age. What the hell did we know about it- he often reminded us.

My grandpa and I never discussed the fact that we were not biologically related. Strangers observing our teasing and intimate interactions frequently remarked that I was the spitting image of Bean. We would always smile at each other and agree that I was the apple and he was the tree. When I realized that I was gay, in the absence of other role models, my grandparents had provided a clear and obvious footpath for following your heart even if that requires defying conventional norms. I re-wound the clock and imagined a time I could not fathom- when women did not get restraining orders against abusive husbands and society did not “agree with” divorce. When a single mother of five would be rejected by her church, stigmatized by her neighbors, pitied by her extended family, reviled by conservative watchdogs, or “tolerated” by society’s generous liberals. And a man raising another man’s children with the same degree of love and commitment he showed his own children might face the same characterizations.

I was once told by a girlfriend (who was operating within the framework of a ton of self-hatred) that gay men or women should never have families because they could never be “real” families and society’s non-acceptance would always do damage that could not be overcome. Her words were so foreign to me because I knew a family that started out similarly unacceptable, but the detractors and antagonists of that family died off, gave up, or were proven wrong- while the members and supporters of that family lived, succeeded, were born into, and/or grew stronger as a result of the family’s love and resilience.

My grandfather taught me that family is who you chose and who you care for, who you set yourself up as responsible to and responsible for, who you love… He taught me that choosing the right woman- a smart, strong, capable, generous, hopeful, funny, loving, woman- someone connected to nature, eager to see beauty, committed to children/family, accepting of wisdom, willing to be sometimes stubborn, sometime protective, sometimes proud, sometimes humble- is the most important thing you can choose.

When I got married, it was a truly blissful day and still it was heartbreaking to look out and see my grandmother sitting in the front row alone. Bean had told me in no uncertain terms that he loved me and loved anyone who I loved and still there was a tiny voice in my head that retold the stereotypical “joke,” some version of: “You can be gay, just don’t have a big wedding, it would “kill” your grandfather.” I have to admit, there was a ridiculous, egotistical, self-pitying part of me that wondered if he died or gave up trying to live so that my sister’s wedding would be the last he attended. And at some point I realized, I had to get over myself, not make things up that were incongruent with his words and actions, and let the man rest in peace.

Today marks 3 years since Grandpa died. He’s missed a lot since he left us, and yet he’s been right here (point to heart) the entire time. He passed away on my father’s birthday, and while initially that seems pretty sucky for my dad, it is fitting to have an excuse to honor these two men together. I am grateful for my grandfather and all the time we had with him and all that I learned from him. I am grateful for my father- for the times we've had and the times we have ahead. I am grateful that world is still turning.

My father is now a grandfather himself and while that is still a little hard to believe, the role fits him perfectly. My sister and I are currently growing some new grand kids for him to teach and play with- one boy and one girl- due to be born a day apart. Early on, we started calling the little boy "Bean" because baby-center-dot-com compared him week after week to various sized beans during his early development, but if the nickname happens to stick even beyond his birth, he will be in good company.

Happy birthday, Daddio.

We miss and love you, Bean.

The belly at 27 weeks

Birthday dinner at Sally's

IIIIIIIIIIIiiiiiiiiice Creeeeeeeeeeam!

3rd consecutive day of 90 plus degree heat and to be honest, I haven't been outside enough to notice...

so I can't really complain.

Tonight, katy and I came home from our first prenatal class and when we opened the doors to the car, we heard the ice cream man boy turning onto our street. Usually, we hear this guy coming from several streets away, but with our sealed up, air-conditioned lifestyle, tonight he snuck up on us.

I bolted- belly first- out of the car and shouted, "do you have any cash?" as I headed to the road, frantically waving my arms in the air like a woman trying to track down a rescue plane. If the wife had been unable to produce money, there would have been an appreciable expression of despair. The disappointment would have clouded all of your distant computer terminals.

Mister Ice Cream caught my pleading gesture out of the corner of his eye and hit the brakes before he had crossed our property line. I was almost laughing too hard to order, my immediate drive for a Cotton Candy Popsicle appeared pathetic and desperate even in real-time. It might have been the most authentic Pavlovian response I've ever had in my life... I heard the music and before i could process the reason, went RUNNING toward the street.

Sweet, sweet summer!

The twins

Notice his sister's crossed feet in the background. So. Cute.

Oh the puzzles we'll see...

He won't update his blog so....

My brother refuses to update his blog despite starting one so that he could update it. So I'm using my blog to update his life.

He is currently in Unalaska, Alaska. He hiked up the mountains behind the town and got a picture of the volcano puffing some steam:



Him at the summit of the tallest mountain near Unalaska:



and a super wide angle of the island looking out on the pacific and a couple of other Aleutian islands:



Notes: I stole the descriptions right out of his email. And you can see from this last picture why my brother might be snickering at my camera and lenses.

If you want a miniature layout of your living room...

... just ask Tracy.

The weather on the 4th of July

It's hard to take a bad picture of this kid

No wonder I can't sleep

President Bush commuted Scooter Libby's prison sentence yesterday, stating the punishment was "excessive".

Once again, I feel the main premise of this story has been grossly missed by the general population of the US. In a time of WAR, the people running the white house revealed the SECRET IDENTITY of an ACTIVE CIA OPERATIVE to the PRESS because the 'powers that be' didn't like the POLITICAL OPINIONS of that SECRET CIA OPERATIVE'S husband.

In a time of WAR, the very leaders who have been SCREAMING about PATRIOTISM and UNDERMINING THE TROOPS and putting NATIONAL SECURITY above all FREEDOMS, sold out one of our highly trained, super-secret, real-life-Sydney-Bristow-type-spies for political purposes. Then they claimed they didn't. Then they claimed that she wasn't a covert operator. Then they claimed they would do whatever it took to uncover the truth. Then they claimed whoever was responsible would be taken care of. Then they claimed that if anyone BROKE THE LAW, they would be punished. Then they would not comment. Then they claimed (some more) that this person- this highly trained, covert CIA agent- was not really that important to national security. Then when the vice president's former chief of staff was convicted for obstruction of justice because he lied about what he knew and who he told what he knew to during the investigation, the President decides he should not go to jail- he should not have to serve 2 1/2 years in prison... he should not have to serve a day.

These people are masters of hypocrisy.

The first echinacea of the season

I'd like to phone a friend

Here's a snippet of a conversation the feds overheard two days ago, if they had my cell phone wire-tap turned on:

womb whisperer: Why didn't you call me crying about the one hour glucose test?
tt: Well, we had it pretty much under control and I was trying not to make a big deal about it.
ww: I want to be kept in the loop with all the little details.
tt: okay, well here's one... Some clear stuff has started occassionally leaking out of my nipples.
ww: HOOOOOOOoooooooooooRRRRRAAAAAAAAAaaaaaayyyyyy!!!
tt: That wasn't my exact emotion, but okay... I'm glad you approve.