What the heck is a "basis" anyway?

This is gonna be a rant.

Sorry.

I haven't done a rhetoric rant in a long time, but today, I simply can't avoid it.

It will be short. I promise.

Everywhere I go, I hear this word: basis. And I hate it. Why? Because it's wordy. And I'm not even sure what it means exactly. What the heck is a "basis" anyway? I assume it's related to the word "base," meaning the groundwork of something or the thing on which something is based? But I'm not really sure. All I know is people use the word all the time, resulting in wordy, cluttered sentence constructions. 

 Here are some examples:

I shower on a daily basis.

In the summer months, I mow my lawn on a weekly basis.

I exercise on a regular basis.

I see and hear these phrases everywhere: on T.V., on social media, in church talks, in political speeches, in magazine articles, in celebrity interviews, and more.

Please, everyone, let's put these verbose sentences on a diet, by eliminating the word "basis" whenever possible. The use of a simple adverb will suffice:

I shower daily.

In the summer months, I mow my lawn weekly.

I exercise regularly.


Together, we can change the world. 

"At least limit it down to just snakes."

I don't write a lot about Shulamith's husband, Mathew. The reason is he honestly doesn't like to be the center of attention. I'm sure the last thing he would want is to be the focus of one of my blog posts (I don't think he reads it, so we're probably safe).

He's a lot like Gerald in this respect; neither of them craves the spotlight.

But today we celebrated his birthday, along with their son, Swen's. Matt's and Swen's birthdays fall just a week apart, on the 19th and 26th of May, respectively. It was a quiet celebration, much like the two of them, and just about right.

Perhaps the thing I like most about Matt (other than his unwavering devotion to Shulamith), is that he can make me laugh, even through a puddle of ridiculous tears. Most recently, my anxiety disorder had taken firm hold, and I was bordering on a full-on panic attack when I texted him.

Keep in mind that I don't text Matt. Ever. He's busy, I figure. He has a lot of things to do. The last thing he needs is me bothering him with text messages. So I don't. Except this one time last week, so you know how bad off I was.

The thing is I'm not quite recovered emotionally from the whole ordeal with Shulamith. I'm still in fight or flight mode most of the time, fearing every second that something terrible is just about to happen. And ooooh can my imagination run wild! You don't even want to know the gruesome places it goes. Trust me.

So a few days ago, Shulamith wasn't texting me back. This is highly unusual; we text back and forth all the time. And this was the exact time I knew she'd be putting Swen to sleep, and she always has her phone in the bedroom with her.

Anyway, she wasn't writing back, and my anxiety was spinning out of control. Convinced she was lying dead in her bedroom, I finally broke down, broke my own rule, and texted Matt. This was our conversation:

Me: Sorry, but I'm a wreck these days, and she's not texting me back. Is she okay?

Mathew: Ha yeah she's just putting Swen to bed, so they are probably watching something on the phone?? Or she's dead in there, and neither of us know it...

Me: NOT FUNNY. And I peeked in earlier when you were gone, and I heard the noise machine, so I knew she was putting him to bed. But then my anxiety spun right out of control.

Mathew: Ha yeah you gotta do something about that whole spinning out of control thing. At least limit it down to snakes.

And right there I sat, laughing out loud through a puddle of blubbering tears.

Thank you, Matt. And Happy Birthday!

I'd like to talk to you today about a miracle

“Miracle” is not a word I use frequently. Years ago, before we joined the LDS Church, we knew a Protestant pastor, a wise and gentle man, who once spoke on the topic of miracles. In his opinion, the thing about miracles is that they don't happen very often. That's what makes them miracles. If they happened all the time, they would be everyday, awesome occurrences, but not miracles. I was intrigued by his perspective because, as many of you know, I love language, especially precise language. For example, if you tell me you were laughing so hard you literally crapped your pants, well, my hope is that you don't know how to use the word “literally.” Or if you tell me that something is unique, it had better be the only one like it, anywhere, on the entire planet. Otherwise, it might be unusual; it might even be very unusual, but it is not unique. So I loved this pastor's take on the word “miracle,” and I have embraced it as my own.

That said, we had a miracle happen this past month in our family. Shulamith wanted to wait until it was all over and she knew the outcome before she shared it with anyone, but with her permission, I would like to tell you about it now.

A couple of months ago, Shulamith learned that she was pregnant with their third child. This came as a big surprise to her and Matt, nevertheless a happy one because all babies are perfect gifts from Heaven, so even the surprise ones are happy surprises; just ask Luke and Shulamith, our two surprise babies! (After that, we somehow figured out how to plan our children).  A Thanksgiving baby she would have, just in time for the holiday season. But about a month after she found out she was expecting, and right after the joy of Eli's wedding, an ultrasound revealed that the baby had stopped growing a couple of weeks earlier, and she would have a miscarriage.

She and Matt and I had just about 24 hours to process that shock, when her doctor called with more unfortunate news, news that would lead to a month of uncertainty, unanswered questions, high anxiety, and both physical and emotional trauma. Shulamith had a ridiculously rare condition called Placenta Accreta. It's rare enough in the third trimester, but it's basically unheard of in the first. Her wonderful doctor (and he truly is!) had never seen it in his 25+ years of OB/GYN practice. In this condition, the placenta from the current pregnancy intertwines into the scar tissue from previous C-sections, creating a serious risk for both hemorrhaging and internal bleeding. Treatment when it happens in the third trimester of a viable pregnancy is almost always a C-section followed by an immediate hysterectomy. When it happens in a first trimester miscarriage, well, no one really knows what to do then because it doesn't happen.

Except it did.

But that word: hysterectomy. It sort of hung over us, a shadow all around our lives. Shulamith's doctor asked if she and Matt were planning to have more children. Yes, yes of course they were! At least two more. And right there began the plan to do everything possible to treat this condition without surgery, because even a simple procedure would likely cause uncontrollable hemorrhaging and result in a hysterectomy. Her doctor called several different specialists around the state, none of whom had ever seen this condition in early pregnancy, but their consensus was to try a Methotrexate shot, a low dose of what they give cancer patients to kill cancer cells, in hopes this might kill any remaining placenta tissue and reduce blood flow to the region. And then to wait. Wait and see if the shot would work and if perhaps her body would take care of this on its own. The next day she had the shot, and the waiting began.

The problem with waiting is it's hard. Really hard. And scary. Especially when the doctor tells your daughter that at any moment she could begin to hemorrhage and need to be rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery. Especially then. Matt and I never left her alone from that point on. We slept with our clothes right next to our beds in case we'd need to rush out in the middle of the night. Day after day after day, we waited. Over and over she went in for blood draws to check her hematocrit (red blood cells) and HCG (pregnancy hormone) levels, and most importantly, ultrasounds to see if anything was changing. It wasn't. Day after day it looked exactly the same.

Emotions were crazy. Some days I'd go through all the grief stages, all in the same day. I'd wake up sad. Then I'd get angry. Then I'd end up right back in denial because this just couldn't be happening to my baby. In an especially bad moment, when I was sorta losing it, Shulamith said: “Why are YOU crying. You got to have all five of your kids.”

Yes, yes I did. And that is exactly why I'm crying. Because I did get to have all five of my kids, and you deserve to have all five of yours. Or four. Or three. Or six, or however many you and Matt decide you want. It's not fair that this stupid condition might take that away from you.

I just wanted to fix it. To take all her pain away. I felt so horribly helpless. Whoever said “A mother is only ever as happy as her saddest child” spoke pure, unadulterated truth.

A week ago, at around 5:00 a.m., my phone rang. Terror pulsed through my body, as I heard her tiny, frightened voice say, “I'm in the bathroom. I've been hemorrhaging, and I blacked out. Come downstairs and wake up Matt. We need to go to the hospital.” Functioning on autopilot, I did just that, and we were gone within minutes. Emergency room staff at the hospital took amazing care of her, but it was still so terrifying, especially when the doctor wouldn't let her eat anything, in case she would wind up in the operating room that day.

But here is the miracle.

Three days in the hospital and three units of blood transfused (including a crazy allergic reaction to the blood, which made her lips swell up so huge that she looked like she'd had way too many Botox injections) and finally some good news. No, not just good...great! Dare I say miraculous? The ultrasound showed that the shot had worked. Everything had cleared out of her body, and her HCG levels were dropping rapidly. She hadn't had any hemorrhaging in over 24 hours, and her hematocrit was up to a not-dangerous level. After three days, we were finally headed home. And no, she hadn't had any surgery. :-)  :-)  :-)

Six days have passed since then, and lab results from Monday indicate even more progress toward full healing and recovery. What will the future bring? Only God knows that. But based on everything her doctor can tell, there is no reason why she won't be able to have more children.

Miracle. It's not a word Pastor Karl or I use often. But I'm using it today.

Botox lips

Resting with Mom

They took over the bed!

You might not remember, but I always will.

As our kids get older, time plays funny tricks. Things that happened "just a short while ago" are entirely missing from their memories. Seth, for example, has no memory at all of ever living in Washington. We moved away when he was four, and really, it wasn't all that long ago. So this Mother's Day, to my five beautiful children, may I share some memories that you might not remember, but I always will.

Luke, you may not remember the Challenger explosion, January 26, 1986. You and I were together in a hospital room when it happened. I had crawled up into the big metal crib and under the oxygen tent in order to hold you in my arms as you struggled to breathe, your worst asthma attack yet. We sat there in that crib together as I watched the explosion happen live on TV. You may not remember, but I always will.

Shulamith, you may not remember New Year's weekend, 1988. You and I rode in an ambulance to Seattle Children's Hospital, where you would have an emergency procedure to remove a peanut from your bronchial tube. Note to self: Don't let older cousins give your toddler peanut brittle while she is jumping on the bed. It was so scary for me, but you were the brave and strong person you are today, even way back then. You thanked the nurse when she finished drawing your blood but firmly expressed your displeasure when she assumed that at age 20 months you would need a diaper: "I am not a baby. I do not wear diapers!" You may not remember, but I always will.

Isaiah, you may not remember fall of 1991, when Shulamith brought home chickenpox from kindergarten. This was before immunization was available, so most kids had to deal with the disease, but preferably when they were older than just seven  months. Luke got it too, so I had three kids with chickenpox. Luke and Shulamith lay on the couch, covered in pink Calamine lotion, and watched TV. They understood what was going on. You didn't. You looked up at me with sad, pleading eyes as if to say, "Mommy! Why can't you fix this?" And oh how I wanted to because you were so miserable. You may not remember, but I always will.

Eli, you may not remember when you and I flew to St. George to visit my friend Corrie and were in her home only five minutes before you tumbled down an entire flight of stairs onto the hard floor beneath. You were eight months old and had just barely learned to crawl; I wasn't accustomed to your sudden mobility. You cried. I cried. But in the end you weren't even hurt at all (thought I felt like the worst mother ever!). You may not remember, but I always will.

Seth, you may not remember the day you decided to walk to Haggen to get some Skittles. When you were barely four years old. I turned around, and you were gone. Vanished. Never had I felt such panic. Fear pulsed through my body as I searched for you. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the relief that flooded over me as I saw you pull into the driveway in the backseat of that police car. And though the cop was a total jerk to me, nothing mattered except that my little baby was safe. You may not remember, but I always will.

This weekend we made a few more memories. Eli was here but spent nearly all of his time slaving away at the Mac Shack. We managed to fit in breakfast together Saturday morning, and like I told him, even a tiny visit is better than none at all. I miss him. Today, Shulamith and I sneaked away after church and ate yummy Buffalo Wild Wings, just the two of us, the two mommies. It was a warm-up for our "real" Mother's Day celebration which will come sometime in the next couple of weeks and will include such things as The Melting Pot, pedicures, a movie, and massages. Uh huh, be jealous. This evening, Gerald and Amanda and I dined at Mac Grill, served by Eli, with Seth busing tables and Isaiah serving in the section right next to us.

Restaurant work isn't easy, especially on Mother's Day. All three of them worked the entire afternoon and evening with no break. They say millennials don't know how to work. I disagree. These three are some of the hardest working people I know, and I am so proud to be their mom.

My dear children, Mother's Day 2016 will soon be only a memory. And you may not remember, but I always will.

April Babies

 I have two April babies. My second and third children were born in April, five years apart. On Shulamith's fifth birthday when Isaiah was brand new, she brought her friends over, one at a time, to peek at him sleeping on the couch. "See how small he is?" she would say to each friend.

That was 25 years ago. Or was it? It doesn't seem that long. She was a little mama to him right from the start, and even today, she likes to be the "mom," telling him what he ought and ought not to do. Every young adult needs two moms telling him what to do, so it's all good.

Today we celebrated both their birthdays. I'm pretty sure it's the first year we have done a dual celebration, but we were all out of town two weeks ago on Isaiah's birthday, so today served double duty.

As in many families, it's our tradition on the Sunday family celebration for the guest of honor to choose what we eat for dinner. I started with Shulamith, the pickiest eater in the family (well, on the entire planet, truth be told, but..). She couldn't decide. I'm a terrible cook, so the choices are fairly limited; still, she didn't know.

So I asked Isaiah:

Me: What do you want for your joint birthday dinner with Shulamith?

Isaiah: Hmm. What is her least favorite food? Sushi. And some sort of fruit, ah, I know! Sushi and raspberry pie.

Back to Shulamith.

Still no idea. Finally, at the very last minute (like I was going to the store right then), she decided on nachos and ice cream sundaes. Done.

It was a low-key celebration. We are all tired from a long couple of weeks. But it was still nice just to be together. We never know what to get Isaiah, the kid who wants nothing. So in the running for the recipient of the lamest birthday gift ever, Isaiah opened a Barnes & Noble gift card and a package of Red Vines. Now he can go buy another long, boring book to read, or in Eli's words, "This looks like one of those awful books I was supposed to read for history class, but didn't."

Shulamith is much easier to shop for. I can always think of dozens of things she would like. I settled on a denim jacket, exactly like the one my mom bought for me when she was in town for Eli's wedding. Every time I wear it, Shulamith tells me how much she wants it. Mathew, on the other hand, was less than impressed: "It looks like the 90s." We tried, with zero success, to convince him that denim jackets are back. We're right, though.

Happy, happy birthday to my second and third children, my precious April babies. I love them so.