Tomorrow Today is my 39th birthday.
I’m excited to spend the next year in anticipation of 40 — I know a lot of women who fully grew into themselves in their 40s and continue to up their ass-kicking quotient as they go. I just hope I’m able to have a 40th birthday party the way god intended — drunk, in a bar, hugging everyone. I have the feeling this 40th trip around the sun will be nothing if not interesting. And also a little boring, probably. Hopefully.
It’s tough and it’s tiring when you go it alone
I learned about wiring, I learned about stone
The building is done but the work’s never through
And I won’t give up, no how, it reminds me of who I am and where I am now
I remember myself, that’s the work that I do – Dar Williams, This is Not the House That Pain Built
Every time I start to write this, I let out a huge, deep, involuntary sigh.
Then I sit here for a while, unsure where to start.
The golden box was maybe a foot on each side. Definitely smaller than a breadbox. Way too small to contain my dad.
Squirt is still with us. He’s consistently below five pounds now and his legs collapse every couple of steps. But he’s still eating and getting where he needs to go with no signs of pain. He can’t get in and out of the litter box very well, but puppy piddle pads (brand is called lil squirts!!) are working just fine.
Two years ago a phlebotomist came into my room at 5 am. She inserted a needle into the crease of my elbow like someone had once every few days for the last two weeks. I was amazed they were still able to find a vein. Nothing stands out about that particular needle stick. It melts together with all the rest of the early morning wake up calls that involved someone standing over me with a needle and vacutainer.
I still have dreams about the NICU. Two years out and I find that to be one of the most surprising remnants of Rowan’s birthday. Most of my dreams are stress dreams anyhow, though they tend towards scary wizards and plots Steven Moffat couldn’t come up with in his own wildest dreams.