This originally posted March 19, 2007. I am re-posting both parts today in honor of a very special date.
March 19 is an anniversary date for me. That one date marks two separate events 13 years apart that divide my life into chapters.
On March 19, 1990, Jason and I became a couple. I can't really call it our dating anniversary, because our first date would actually come a month later and was pretty anti-climactic given everything that had already happened to that point. And if it hadn't been for Harry and Sally, we probably wouldn't have hooked up at all.
We were only sophomores, but we had been friends for years. We even had a brief 7th-grade relationship where we called each other "boyfriend" and "girlfriend," but at 13 it meant little more than holding hands and having someone to slow-dance with at the spring dance. We were both involved in music at school, and we found ourselves together a lot through our middle- and high-school careers. Sometimes we were competitors, other times collaborators, and by late winter of our sophomore year, we were partners in speech and drama competitions, performing a cut from When Harry Met Sally for duo acting at the state tournament.
Whether it was the power of suggestion from that scene we did from a movie about two friends who fall in love, or whether it was inevitable given how much our paths had crossed over the years, I started to look at Jason differently. When I made a comment to him that February that "Valentine's Day doesn't mean anything," (a comment made because at that point the only person I had ever gotten a V-Day gift from was my mom) he responded by suprising me with a rather suggestive (but humorous) Valentine card. The card was addressed to "Sally" and was signed "from Harry." I didn't know what to think. Was this real, or was it just a joke in reference to those two characters we had had to assume?
I called a girlfriend with infinitely more boy smarts than I had and asked, "What does this mean?"
"It means he likes you, you idiot."
And then I knew: I had fallen for him, too.
Another month of flirting and wondering and second-guessing went by, and on the late afternoon of March 19, after practicing our duo scene and while I was waiting for my mom to pick me up, we found ourselves alone in our high-school band room. There was uncomfortable silence. Then he told me he loved me. Wow. For a few seconds, I think I forgot to breathe. Somehow I managed to tell him that I loved him, too, and then I left. And that, as they say, was that. I don't think we so much as hugged after our big revelation. But I didn't need a big "Ross and Rachel" moment to know that we were official. And even though I had a feeling that this was it, that we were for keeps, I could not have guessed where our road would lead us on that same date, 13 years later....
To be continued...
Showing posts with label husbands. Show all posts
Showing posts with label husbands. Show all posts
Friday, March 19, 2010
Anniversaries, Part 2
Continued from March 19
Written originally in 2007; it's actually been 7 years now since this day! Woohoo!
Seventeen years ago today, my best friend and I took our first steps on a road that would eventually lead us to get married and have our beautiful daughter. Four years ago today, I passed another milestone: I had my first chemotherapy treatment.
When Ainsley was only 6 months old, I found out that I had stage II Hodgkin's lymphoma. I had discovered lumps under my arms before she was even born, but after being misdiagnosed for months the cancer had spread to almost every lymph node group in my chest. This was the bad news; the good news is that Hodgkin's is one of the most curable cancers, even in more advanced stages.
I had no doubt in my mind that I was going to beat it. Like any cancer patient, though, I was afraid of the chemo. I knew only a few things going in: I knew I would have four different chemo drugs plus some other medicines to counter the chemo side effects on a four-hour-plus drip once every two weeks. I knew I would probably lose my hair, and that I would feel nauseated and fatigued. And I knew my husband would be by my side.
What I didn't know was how much fun a little Ativan can make the whole chemotherapy experience.
The first part of that day, I had to have a bone marrow biopsy. When I was scheduled for this procedure, I was asked whether or not I wanted to be sedated. Now, I'm someone who tried really hard to have a drugless childbirth and who hates feeling groggy and out of touch. But this was a no-brainer. Who really says, "No, thanks, I want you to drill a hole in my pelvis and extract tissue from my insides with a really big needle without the benefit of medication"? So as soon as I arrived that morning, they got me going with an IV full of calm and forgetfulness. That's the thing they tell you with Ativan--it allegedly makes you forget all the crazy stuff your doctor is doing to you so if you ever have to go through that again you don't run away screaming with your paper gown flapping in the breeze.
Whether or not this is true depends on the timing of the Ativan. I hadn't been on the drip for very long before the doctor came in with the corkscrew and some lab slides, so I remember more than I'd like about the biopsy. For most of the chemo, though, I just have to take Jason's word for it.
I remember curling up in a ball and feeling a little stick. Wow, I thought, this doesn't hurt bad at all. Then the doctor informed me he had just done the first shot to numb the area. Darn. I knew it couldn't possibly be that easy. There was itense pressure on my hip as the real needle went in. It was almost more than I could take without crying out. I closed my eyes, and in my head, I saw the doctor pulling and pulling a bright red magician's scarf from my hip, and the more he pulled on it the more I felt my very life-force being pulled from all the way down in my toes. Finally, in my drug-induced hallucination, I saw him wave the end of the scarf and proclaim, "I've got it!" It was over. But 4 years later, I can still feel that pull as the marrow was being sucked up into the syringe.
And then memory starts to fade. I remember that I had a very good (and very funny) nurse. I remember getting up to go to the bathroom, and even though I thought I was sitting down on the toilet, completely missing it and peeing all over the floor (and since they had just pushed the most toxic chemo drug in my cocktail, the nurses had to put on their haz-mat gear to clean up my deadly bodily fluids.) The rest Jason has filled in for me. According to him, I got fixated on the anti-nausea medicine and insisted that the nurse hadn't infused it and proceeded to ask her about every ten minutes. Fran, the nurse, just went along with me and made good-natured fun of my altered state with my husband. They had a lot of fun at my expense that day, apparently. I also know from today's news reports that 4 years ago today we also entered into combat in Iraq, and Jason is surprised every year when this is news to me. We were together when the first reports about the war started coming in that day, but that memory has also been erased by Ativan. And I must indeed have had my anti-nausea meds--though it makes my stomach feel a little icky even now that chemo is long over, Jason says I requested a burger and salad from Wendy's on the way home.
I don't need to remember the details to remember that I had never felt closer to my husband than I did on that day, our lucky-number-thirteenth "dating" anniversary. This man, who does not like blood and gore and big, scary needles, sat right there with me through the biopsy and through every drip. He remembered all the rules and all the things I was supposed to do those first couple of days to stay comfortable and help the drugs do their job. He cooked for me, he took care of Ainsley--he made it possible for me to get better. It's not something you ever see coming in a relationship; you take those vows and say the words "in sickness and in health", but you assume that you have the better part of a lifetime to spend with someone before you have to nurse them through a life-threatening illnes. You sure don't expect to spend your thirteenth anniversary with your high-school sweetheart in a chemotherapy suite.
When I look at Jason today, it's sometimes hard to recognize the teenage boy who first got up the nerve to blurt out his feelings for me 17 years ago. And I know I have grown up, too, and am no longer that naive, skinny little thing who could barely look him in the eye and stutter back a reply. Those two kids have become thirty-somethings balancing careers, parenthood, and marriage. The feelings we had for each other back then have grown up, too. On March 19, 1990, he told me he loved me in a cold high-school bandroom. On March 19, 2003, he showed me he loved me by taking my hand and helping me through the darkest place I have ever been. And that, my friends, is true love.
Happy anniversary, Jason.
Written originally in 2007; it's actually been 7 years now since this day! Woohoo!
Seventeen years ago today, my best friend and I took our first steps on a road that would eventually lead us to get married and have our beautiful daughter. Four years ago today, I passed another milestone: I had my first chemotherapy treatment.
When Ainsley was only 6 months old, I found out that I had stage II Hodgkin's lymphoma. I had discovered lumps under my arms before she was even born, but after being misdiagnosed for months the cancer had spread to almost every lymph node group in my chest. This was the bad news; the good news is that Hodgkin's is one of the most curable cancers, even in more advanced stages.
I had no doubt in my mind that I was going to beat it. Like any cancer patient, though, I was afraid of the chemo. I knew only a few things going in: I knew I would have four different chemo drugs plus some other medicines to counter the chemo side effects on a four-hour-plus drip once every two weeks. I knew I would probably lose my hair, and that I would feel nauseated and fatigued. And I knew my husband would be by my side.
What I didn't know was how much fun a little Ativan can make the whole chemotherapy experience.
The first part of that day, I had to have a bone marrow biopsy. When I was scheduled for this procedure, I was asked whether or not I wanted to be sedated. Now, I'm someone who tried really hard to have a drugless childbirth and who hates feeling groggy and out of touch. But this was a no-brainer. Who really says, "No, thanks, I want you to drill a hole in my pelvis and extract tissue from my insides with a really big needle without the benefit of medication"? So as soon as I arrived that morning, they got me going with an IV full of calm and forgetfulness. That's the thing they tell you with Ativan--it allegedly makes you forget all the crazy stuff your doctor is doing to you so if you ever have to go through that again you don't run away screaming with your paper gown flapping in the breeze.
Whether or not this is true depends on the timing of the Ativan. I hadn't been on the drip for very long before the doctor came in with the corkscrew and some lab slides, so I remember more than I'd like about the biopsy. For most of the chemo, though, I just have to take Jason's word for it.
I remember curling up in a ball and feeling a little stick. Wow, I thought, this doesn't hurt bad at all. Then the doctor informed me he had just done the first shot to numb the area. Darn. I knew it couldn't possibly be that easy. There was itense pressure on my hip as the real needle went in. It was almost more than I could take without crying out. I closed my eyes, and in my head, I saw the doctor pulling and pulling a bright red magician's scarf from my hip, and the more he pulled on it the more I felt my very life-force being pulled from all the way down in my toes. Finally, in my drug-induced hallucination, I saw him wave the end of the scarf and proclaim, "I've got it!" It was over. But 4 years later, I can still feel that pull as the marrow was being sucked up into the syringe.
And then memory starts to fade. I remember that I had a very good (and very funny) nurse. I remember getting up to go to the bathroom, and even though I thought I was sitting down on the toilet, completely missing it and peeing all over the floor (and since they had just pushed the most toxic chemo drug in my cocktail, the nurses had to put on their haz-mat gear to clean up my deadly bodily fluids.) The rest Jason has filled in for me. According to him, I got fixated on the anti-nausea medicine and insisted that the nurse hadn't infused it and proceeded to ask her about every ten minutes. Fran, the nurse, just went along with me and made good-natured fun of my altered state with my husband. They had a lot of fun at my expense that day, apparently. I also know from today's news reports that 4 years ago today we also entered into combat in Iraq, and Jason is surprised every year when this is news to me. We were together when the first reports about the war started coming in that day, but that memory has also been erased by Ativan. And I must indeed have had my anti-nausea meds--though it makes my stomach feel a little icky even now that chemo is long over, Jason says I requested a burger and salad from Wendy's on the way home.
I don't need to remember the details to remember that I had never felt closer to my husband than I did on that day, our lucky-number-thirteenth "dating" anniversary. This man, who does not like blood and gore and big, scary needles, sat right there with me through the biopsy and through every drip. He remembered all the rules and all the things I was supposed to do those first couple of days to stay comfortable and help the drugs do their job. He cooked for me, he took care of Ainsley--he made it possible for me to get better. It's not something you ever see coming in a relationship; you take those vows and say the words "in sickness and in health", but you assume that you have the better part of a lifetime to spend with someone before you have to nurse them through a life-threatening illnes. You sure don't expect to spend your thirteenth anniversary with your high-school sweetheart in a chemotherapy suite.
When I look at Jason today, it's sometimes hard to recognize the teenage boy who first got up the nerve to blurt out his feelings for me 17 years ago. And I know I have grown up, too, and am no longer that naive, skinny little thing who could barely look him in the eye and stutter back a reply. Those two kids have become thirty-somethings balancing careers, parenthood, and marriage. The feelings we had for each other back then have grown up, too. On March 19, 1990, he told me he loved me in a cold high-school bandroom. On March 19, 2003, he showed me he loved me by taking my hand and helping me through the darkest place I have ever been. And that, my friends, is true love.
Happy anniversary, Jason.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Food Fight
If you ever come to dinner at my house, beware: one of us is a known food thief. There you'll be, minding your own business, when bam! A hand comes out of nowhere and steals your hot dog. While you stand in disbelief, waiting for your grilled delight to return to your plate, this person will eat the stolen item right before your very eyes. It's true, man. I've seen it happen with my own two eyes.
Those of you who know I have a 4-year-old are probably thinking that she is the food thief. After all, children are still learning boundaries and the rules of possession and take what they want until they are old enough to know better. You'd be thinking wrong. In my house, my husband is our food thief.
OK, I'll be fair. It's only happened once. But it was such a memorable event that our friends guard their food a little more carefully when Jason's in the room.
Back when we were starving college students living away from home, a cookout was a big deal. Every summer through college my high school friends and I would reunite at "grandma's" for a feast. My friend's grandmother was a surrogate grandma for us all, and good lord, can that lady cook. My friend would man the grill and "g-ma" would put together all the sweets and sides that hungry undergrads dream about when they're back on their cafeteria meal plans. Then we would all swarm around her kitchen like lions circling a kill, filling up our plates and growling if anyone got too close to our staked claims. We were preparing for the long fast ahead.
Once while we were circling the spread, my husband snatched a hot dog right off my librarian friend's plate. Jason does stuff like that; he lives for surprise attacks, for catching people off guard with an action or comment. It's part of what makes life with him so gosh-darn fun and unpredictable. But he usually stops before he goes too far with the joke. This time, though, while we were all laughing and waiting for his big "Just jokin'!" move to put the sandwich back on said friend's plate, he proceeded to stand there and take a big ol' bite. Then eat the whole thing. While we watched, shocked. And I don't think there were too many hot dogs left for my friend to replace hers with. It caught us all unawares and from then on, we knew to guard our kills a little more closely around Jason. Chances are he wouldn't do that again, but with him...well, you just never know.
So it cracked me up last night when I learned my daughter is on to him.
Ainsley is, in general, a good eater. I can't complain, really; any kid who will choose beans and rice from Chipotle over McNuggets from McDonald's 9 times out of 10 is a kid whose palate I can appreciate. But she's easily distractable and it's not unusual for her to take, like, an hour to eat a single meal. She talks some, she sings some, she eats some. So to get her to stay focused on her food, Jason will sometimes say, "I think I'm just going to eat it," and make a move for something on her plate.
Last night in the shower, out of the clear blue, Ainsley asked, "Why does Daddy always try to eat my food?"
I told her her daddy was just joking with her because we wanted her to eat her dinner instead of playing around sometimes. But I did tell her the tale of the swiped hot dog. Partly because I was laughing at her question and thought she might want to know what was so funny, but also because I wouldn't want her to be as shocked as we were should she fall victim to frankfurter theft.
When dealing with a food thief, you just can't be too careful.
Those of you who know I have a 4-year-old are probably thinking that she is the food thief. After all, children are still learning boundaries and the rules of possession and take what they want until they are old enough to know better. You'd be thinking wrong. In my house, my husband is our food thief.
OK, I'll be fair. It's only happened once. But it was such a memorable event that our friends guard their food a little more carefully when Jason's in the room.
Back when we were starving college students living away from home, a cookout was a big deal. Every summer through college my high school friends and I would reunite at "grandma's" for a feast. My friend's grandmother was a surrogate grandma for us all, and good lord, can that lady cook. My friend would man the grill and "g-ma" would put together all the sweets and sides that hungry undergrads dream about when they're back on their cafeteria meal plans. Then we would all swarm around her kitchen like lions circling a kill, filling up our plates and growling if anyone got too close to our staked claims. We were preparing for the long fast ahead.
Once while we were circling the spread, my husband snatched a hot dog right off my librarian friend's plate. Jason does stuff like that; he lives for surprise attacks, for catching people off guard with an action or comment. It's part of what makes life with him so gosh-darn fun and unpredictable. But he usually stops before he goes too far with the joke. This time, though, while we were all laughing and waiting for his big "Just jokin'!" move to put the sandwich back on said friend's plate, he proceeded to stand there and take a big ol' bite. Then eat the whole thing. While we watched, shocked. And I don't think there were too many hot dogs left for my friend to replace hers with. It caught us all unawares and from then on, we knew to guard our kills a little more closely around Jason. Chances are he wouldn't do that again, but with him...well, you just never know.
So it cracked me up last night when I learned my daughter is on to him.
Ainsley is, in general, a good eater. I can't complain, really; any kid who will choose beans and rice from Chipotle over McNuggets from McDonald's 9 times out of 10 is a kid whose palate I can appreciate. But she's easily distractable and it's not unusual for her to take, like, an hour to eat a single meal. She talks some, she sings some, she eats some. So to get her to stay focused on her food, Jason will sometimes say, "I think I'm just going to eat it," and make a move for something on her plate.
Last night in the shower, out of the clear blue, Ainsley asked, "Why does Daddy always try to eat my food?"
I told her her daddy was just joking with her because we wanted her to eat her dinner instead of playing around sometimes. But I did tell her the tale of the swiped hot dog. Partly because I was laughing at her question and thought she might want to know what was so funny, but also because I wouldn't want her to be as shocked as we were should she fall victim to frankfurter theft.
When dealing with a food thief, you just can't be too careful.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
I Love the 90s--Birthday Edition
Birthday before last, my friends threw me an 80s-themed birthday party. It was a blast. They put together an 80s trivia game (complete with quick-recall buzzers!), hours and hours of 80s tunes, and a basket full of fad items from the decade that brought us jelly bracelets and the Rubic's Cube. It was so much fun that I brought up the possibility of another 80s party sometime soon with that same group of friends. Not for a birthday, mind you; just for a night of nostalgia and fun music (we couldn't party long enough to get through all the music my librarian friend burned for us.)
But then my husband had to get snarky. See, I am a devoted fan of Entertainment Weekly's columnist and blogger Whitney Pastorek and her Chart Flashbacks (see the most recent entry here.) In one of her Chart Flashbacks, she discusses how hard it has been to find "good" songs in the charts she has picked from the 1990s. Her Flashback from 1984, however, contains so many gems that it's a little awe-inspiring. This got us talking one night--which decade had the best music? I am firmly on the side of the 80s, at least as far as music that cracked the Billboard charts and got airplay on the radio. Jason strongly disagrees. He doesn't have particularly nice things to say about 80s music.
So, in honor of his affection for 90s music (and perhaps, too, to remind him of all the Spice Girls/Macarena/Backstreet Boys/I'm Too Sexy crap that topped the charts in that decade and how inferior I feel that garbage is to my beloved 80s pop) I want to have a little birthday party for him with a 90s theme. But since I spent most of the 90s on college campuses living on student loan money and watching Army of Darkness and The Adventures of Brisco County Jr. in an obsessive thirst for all things Bruce Campbell (yep, I have issues), I can't think of very many distinctive things about the 90s. What did we wear? (Besides the flannel-shirt-unbuttoned-over-a-t-shirt thing.) What were the fads? What did people who weren't obsessed with Bruce Campbell do for fun?
Post your ideas below. Suggestions for music, clothing, games, and decorations are all welcome. Have fun!
But then my husband had to get snarky. See, I am a devoted fan of Entertainment Weekly's columnist and blogger Whitney Pastorek and her Chart Flashbacks (see the most recent entry here.) In one of her Chart Flashbacks, she discusses how hard it has been to find "good" songs in the charts she has picked from the 1990s. Her Flashback from 1984, however, contains so many gems that it's a little awe-inspiring. This got us talking one night--which decade had the best music? I am firmly on the side of the 80s, at least as far as music that cracked the Billboard charts and got airplay on the radio. Jason strongly disagrees. He doesn't have particularly nice things to say about 80s music.
So, in honor of his affection for 90s music (and perhaps, too, to remind him of all the Spice Girls/Macarena/Backstreet Boys/I'm Too Sexy crap that topped the charts in that decade and how inferior I feel that garbage is to my beloved 80s pop) I want to have a little birthday party for him with a 90s theme. But since I spent most of the 90s on college campuses living on student loan money and watching Army of Darkness and The Adventures of Brisco County Jr. in an obsessive thirst for all things Bruce Campbell (yep, I have issues), I can't think of very many distinctive things about the 90s. What did we wear? (Besides the flannel-shirt-unbuttoned-over-a-t-shirt thing.) What were the fads? What did people who weren't obsessed with Bruce Campbell do for fun?
Post your ideas below. Suggestions for music, clothing, games, and decorations are all welcome. Have fun!
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