#2 – The Guardians & #3 – Making Light of Tragedy

A friend at Doubleday sent me a galley for Andrew Pyper’s The Guardians way back in the way back, and then asked that I not post until closer to the book’s pub date, which was the beginning of the month, I think. Regardless, I put the book on my shelf and forgot about it until one day last week when I was searching around for something BETTER to read than the Joyce Maynard I had just finished. I described the book on Twitter as such: “The Guardians = Stand By Me + River’s Edge / Mystic River without the Boston setting.”

And I stand by these comps. The book, about a group of hockey-playing young men, friends since grade school, who end up embroiled in a tragic situation involving their hockey coach, a young woman and a haunted house, was seriously not what I expected. As you know, I have little faith in “haunted” stories. Blame my reticence on Sarah Waters, I think The Little Stranger ruined it for me forever, and maybe it’s because I don’t think any book can do “haunting” better than that Alejandro Amenábar film, The Others, I’ve given up finding satisfaction in being scared in print. Also, I really hate being scared so why would I put myself through days of it versus 1.5 hours of a film.

Yet, I found myself inexplicably drawn into to Pyper’s narrative. He has a cool way with character, they’re masculine, very Lehane-esque, but that’s not off putting to me as a female reader. The main character, Trevor, suffers from Parkinson’s, which, while the disease isn’t remotely the same as mine, I can kind of relate to — simply the idea of your body not cooperating with itself. When his childhood friend commits suicide after years of protecting both the secret the group of four boys harbours and the house across the street (the haunted house), Trevor and Randy (the second of the foursome) head home for the funeral. The truth unravels from there, and I didn’t even mind the “memory diary” device that Pyper uses (Trevor’s therapist insists he keep it as a way of dealing with the disease; should my shrink ever do such a thing I would terminate treatment immediately; who wants to be constantly reminded of what the farking disease has taken away from you, seriously?). The narrative switches back and forth between Trevor’s diary and the action in the present tense.

There are all kinds of interesting things that happen when someone goes home, especially someone who made the conscious choice, after the tragedy, that Trevor did to never go back. The small-town Ontario setting adds to the nuance of the novel — things like this couldn’t happen in a big city, someone would tear the house down, raze the trouble before it even started or simply not notice, walk on by. But in this town, a hockey town, the house stands for over forty (I think) years creating havoc for not only the four boys who are deliciously intertwined in its grasp, but a few other tragic souls as well. It’s a terrific book, a perfect read for a snow day if there ever was one, and I’m glad that I read it in the deep, deep hours of the night, just for those extra chills.

The other title I read last week was Jessica Grant’s Making Light of Tragedy for my book club. The cover sucks so I am refusing to put it up here on the blog, and Kerry’s done a wonderful job of wrapping up our meeting. Everything she says about the book, well, that’s what I think about the book too. I fell on the Grant’s writing was a little bit too twee for my liking, and kept thinking of that old-school writing class line that if you’re in love with your prose that’s the stuff that should be cut right away, and there were many, many, many loved lines in these stories that could have been sliced to the benefit of the writing. However, there were also some amazing metaphors — and this coming from a girl who actively removes every single metaphor from her own writing she finds them so distracting — where I found my breath catching just a bit at her turn of phrase it was so beautiful. So, uneven, but enjoyable. The company, however, and our meeting, was a serious breath of fresh air. I even managed to feel like I was using a part of my brain that a) doesn’t sing everything I’m doing, b) actually considers thoughts before they come out of my mouth, and c) had nothing to do with talking to or about the RRBB.

WHAT’S UP NEXT: I’m reading The Keep right now, as recommended by a few friends, but am actually spending far too much time playing iPad Scrabble during the late-night feedings. It’s scrambling my brain a little so I am going to stick to just the book tonight, we’ll see how that goes at 2 AM.

Notes From A House Frau VII

RRBB’s First Toque: O, Sweet Child Of Mine.

I am a woman who loves a toque. I wear them all the time, who cares if I look like Jay of Jay and Silent Bob, I love them. And, I am instilling this very real, very Canadian love on my child. This toque is a present from his Grantie Judy. And it’s awesome. Although I am afraid he’ll out grow it before too long and then I might have to frame it. Along with his umbilical cord stump and my pregnancy test. Is that weird to want to frame all that stuff and put it on my walls? I don’t think so, but someone might.

We aren’t sure if we are through the rough patch yet. Starting on Christmas, as I said, RRBB went through a period of intense fussiness at bedtime. It was almost too much to stand. A friend said, “Oh, yes, you think it’s done and then they break you.” And she was right. On New Year’s Eve, instead of starting at 830 or so, RRBB decided to start his fussing at 11 PM and go right until 4 AM. And we are now in week three or so of this phase. Everyone says that it’ll calm down around three months, but counting from his due date, that’s another five weeks or so. We can do it right? If people can climb Mount Everest, my RRHB and I can cope with a crying baby. The whole concept of The Witching Hour is fascinating — that his little brain/body is working so hard to grow at such a furious pace that it simply can’t contain itself — that it almost makes up for how rough the few evening hours are.

Luckily, he’s an utter delight during the day for the most part, and is a great napper. We take amazing walks along the rail path by our house, and he doesn’t mind at all being in the stroller (once he’s in and outside). We’ve even managed to go out for dinner twice, and tomorrow I think, if I am not so diseased, we might go to a Mommy and Me movie. Maybe. That might be pushing it. All in all, there’s little bits of life coming back into my life these days — I am clinging to them. He’s smiling a tonne, is awake and alert more, and is starting to really recognize us. But what I’ve been thinking all along is how different the idea of parenthood has always been for me, for someone who always imagined it was out of reach because of the disease and other factors, from the reality. The emotions are so much more intense in both directions. I never imagined I’d miss myself so much. Hell, I spent x-number of years hating myself intensely, why would I miss myself? But I do, and just those little bits of me coming back, along with some better test results from my blood work lately, I’m starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

So, we might be a bit behind in terms of birth date/due date, and it might take a few more weeks of losing our evenings entirely to a wailing child, but by the summer, hell, by the spring, I think we’ll be in a much better place. I’m even feeling confident they won’t switch the drugs over… but we’ll see about that because I’m still having disease symptoms three months into treatment. I wish I wasn’t puffy. I wish my hair wasn’t falling out. I wish I wasn’t eating terrible predisone-induced food. I wish the baby wasn’t fussy. I wish we weren’t so broke. But I don’t at all wish for anything to be different because I am content in a way that I never knew possible. Things are miserable with my health, worse than ever, but I made it through, and sometimes being tough is just the point. Maybe there’s nothing else to it — and that’s what almost three weeks of fussy baby is pointing us too as well. You can battle it all with a good sense of humour, an awesome RRHB, and some really, really good drugs. But being tough, being strong, being someone who survives, these are not poor qualities to have, are they?

#1 – The Good Daughters

Sometimes it’s hard for me, professionally, even though I know this is a blog for which I am not getting paid, to separate my true feelings about a book from a more balanced approach in terms of reviewing. Joyce Maynard’s The Good Daughters puts me once again within this dilemma. Other aspects conflicting my ability to write a non-biased review: I have met and interviewed the author, and was incredibly inspired by her; and I loved her previous novel, Labour Day.

But that doesn’t take away from the fact that there is something definitively lacking within this book. If I had to put a finger on it — and this may seem harsh — it’s story. Told from the alternating perspectives of two “birthday sisters” born on the same day in a small rural community in New Hampshire, the book feels more like a character study than a novel, and it lacks a certain polish. The writing is often redundant and repetitive, parts that could be interesting are told in shorthand in the rush, I suppose, to get through the entirety of each woman’s life. The book skims the surface and uses cliche to describe key elements (no woman should ever be described as a rare fruit, like, ever) and the constant back and forth feels gimmicky.

It’s obvious that there’s more to the story than the fact that the two girls, Ruth Plank, a farmer’s daughter, so inherently different from the rest of her family, not just physiologically but also emotionally, and Dana Dickerson, stuck with parents who never should have been so, awkward and incredibly different than her flighty family, were both born on the same day in the same hospital nine months after a terrible hurricane (yes, a hurricane, boy it does stir up some awful human emotions and some truly interesting mischief, yawn). And, not to brag, but I had figured out the “twist” by about page two and then had to read on until the big reveal — Maynard parsing out little clues here and there throughout. What’s most astonishing is that both Ruth and Dana, intelligent, well-adjusted women both, didn’t give more thought to how different they are, to the real story, before just about everyone around them who knew the truth ended up dead.

There’s a sweetness to the novels that you can’t deny, and I think it would make a very good book for, forgive me, suburban mom book clubs. But it really wasn’t a book for me — a quick read, which I always appreciate, with a really great setting (I love the Plank farm; its history and its roots [been in the family for 10 generations]) and I can see what Maynard was trying to do but I always find that books that try to encompass so much, like entire lives instead of those pivotal moments, sometimes lack the depth that I crave in a more literary sense. Yet, the stereotypes and the coincidences are a little too much to take in places — I appreciate Maynard’s inclusive writing, international adoption, a truly beautiful lesbian partnership, are just two examples, but when it all comes together it feels forced, a little too Jodi Picoult movie-of-the-week for my tastes.

Overall, I was disappointed in this book, and I hate to start off a reading year on such a note, but there’s always tonight for another try. I’m not sure where I’ll go next. There are so many books to choose from. What I’d really like to know is what everyone else is reading and have some recommendations. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to find one or two titles on my shelves.

New Year’s Revolutions 2011

We had a bit of rocky start to the New Year. RRBB fussed until about 4 AM so there was a lot of up and down last night. I haven’t given the same kind of thought to my New Year’s Revolutions as I normally do — I honestly take the week between Christmas and New Year to reflect on my year and to read as much as possible. At least I’m still accomplishing the latter.

To review: New Year’s Revolutions 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009 and 2010

I did really well compared to last year: I kept the weight off, exercised regularly, even during pregnancy (swimming at lunches at work), spent a lot of time at the cottage, and even managed to get my book out into the world (it was rejected; but that’s okay). Instead of the more philosophical goals I generally set out to accomplish, I am taking a slightly different stance this year.

1. Be Well
This means doing everything I can to fight the disease whether it’s taking my meds, adjusting to the new course of treatment, taking restorative yoga, going for walks with the RRBB, or simply accepting the fact that I am very sick right now and the most important thing is to get better. I have too much to lose otherwise. But it also means being well in my mind. I have a lot of work to do still in terms of accepting everything that happened over the last few months: I still haven’t forgiven myself for letting the disease get so out of control. I know technically it’s not my fault but I could have been more aggressive in letting the doctors know exactly how I was feeling or being more persistent in terms of my own care. I was just so happy to be having the baby — I got cocky.

2. Write
Any words, in any place, in sentences or just in thoughts. I just need to keep going. Between the disease and the RRBB, I have lost myself entirely. This wasn’t something I was expecting with motherhood. The sea shift in terms of where my attention needs to be. There’s nothing wrong with an old fashioned pencil and paper in a cafe. That’s something I can do during the week with the RRBB. He does love his walks. Winter be damned.

3. Be a Better Friend
People were so very, very good to us during our tragedy. Old friends, new friends, it was amazing the outpouring of goodness. I need to find small ways to give that back — to let everyone know how much I appreciated it, how special it made us feel.

4. Enjoy Our New Life
This one’s easy. It’s the simplest thing to do right now. Even when the RRBB is screaming and bawling at 330AM we still love him to bits. He’ll work it out. Just seeing my RRHB laugh at him when he’s turning purple lightens the stress of the situation. Now, if I could only get some more sleep.

5. Stop Worrying About Money
We aren’t going to make very much of it. We are probably going to go into debt. I have to let it go and get through the year. I need my RRHB’s support during this time. We need to be together here for the RRBB. Everything else will work itself out.

So, only five — of course, the usual revolutions are in there — watch less TV (which I have done in spades, I have barely seen the TV since the RRBB was born), read more (which I’ve been doing exceptionally well with), make better choices when it comes to the internet (the iPad makes this easy; no more internet coma), and use what we’ve got, consume less (this might be hard as we are, of course, wanting to do so much with the house this year).

What are your New Year’s Revolutions?

#67 – Amy And Isabelle

After suffering through Pearl, was I ever grateful for Elizabeth Strout’s excellent Amy and Isabelle. When I was combing the shelves for something to read, I had forgotten that Strout wrote the excellent Olive Kitteridge, and you can see similar themes in her earlier novel: small town life, history repeating itself, the problems of parenthood, mother-daughter relationships (even though Olive had a son, correct?), so I should say parent/child relationships.

Regardless, Amy and Isabelle remains a thoughtful, engrossing novel that takes place, I think as the 60s are turning into the 70s. Isabelle, the mother, and Amy, the daughter, each live with their own internal restrictions that affect their relationship. Isabelle is strict, complex, sad — she tells everyone she’s a widow, but you know that’s not the whole story — and is in love with her boss at the shoe mill where she works as a secretary. So proper she always wears pantyhose in the heat of summer (the hottest on record), her thin brown hair consistently pulled into a French twist, she’s unprepared for the issues that arise over her daughter: typical teenage stuff, lying, inappropriate love affairs, and then a shock that changes everything.

Amy’s naive in an intelligent way. She was raised by an honest, forthright person (for the most part) and believes that when someone says something, they mean it. And her good heart, her good nature, gets her into a situation that ultimately disappoints her, it’s heartbreaking for both mother and daughter.

Strout has a gift for small town life, like in Olive Kitteridge, she intersperses the story of the main character with other colourful people — people like Amy’s best friend Stacy, her parents, the church women and a truly delightful character called Fat Bev (who comes from French Canadian stock; naturally).

Shirley Falls, Maine might be experiencing a heat wave but the weather isn’t the only thing stagnating. As the summer progresses, and as the lies pile up both for Amy and for Isabelle, it’s a relief when the truth rains down, both metaphorically and literally — the storm breaks not just the weather, and it’s glorious. The novel itself reads like that moment just after a storm when everything feels fresh and renewed. I honestly enjoyed this novel so much that I spent the few spare minutes finishing it yesterday morning when I should have still been sleeping. I did regret this for a moment when the RRBB had such a rough night last night, but good lord, it was a good read. I honestly think that Alice Munro is an excellent comp for Strout, so if you’re a fan, I’d be curious to see what someone else thinks.

READING CHALLENGES: What else? Off the Shelf!

WHAT’S UP NEXT: I started Joyce Maynard’s The Good Daughters and am already finding it a bit lacking. The prose feels a little sloppy and repetitious at the moment, but I’m hoping the further I get into the actual story, the more this will abate.

#66 – Pearl

Oh, this book. OH THIS BOOK. I wish I had better things to write about Mary Gordon’s Pearl. I know how hard it is to write a novel, and I always try to judge books with that thought in mind, but I couldn’t get over how annoying I found the narrative voice in this book. Gordon uses the second person, a device that rarely works beyond Choose Your Own Adventure, and the narrator TELLS the entire story. I know it’s obnoxious but it’s the kind of writing I hate — the storytelling, the David Adams Richards-esque, perspective that ultimately means that the writer doesn’t trust the reader to GET it.

Pearl, the title character, is a, natch, beautiful young woman in her twenties; she’s impressionable but brilliant at languages, so she’s studying Irish in Ireland in the 1990s. Taking a very tragic accident to heart, she chains herself to the American embassy after putting herself on a hunger strike for six weeks. She’s going to die for a cause — in a roundabout way, the Peace accord that Sinn Fein signed — and feels her actions are right and just. Her mother, Maria, a strong-minded, strong-willed woman who came of age in the 60s, flies to Ireland to try and save her daughter’s life.

The premise feels so forced, in fact, the melodrama of the entire story degrades the very real politics in the novel. It belittles them to the point that I was a little offended. That Pearl invokes Bobby Sands, that she is so taken by his very real and very necessary actions, isn’t what bothered me, what bothered me the most is the arrogant way the narrator speaks from her perspective. It’s not that Gordon is a bad writer — she’s just far, far too precious of a writer. It’s as if she’s in love with every single sentence and doesn’t have the heart to cut to the actual story, which, had it been allowed to be shown instead of told, could have been quite affecting.

There’s also a moment of such pure absurdity, I mean, eye-rolling absurdity, between Pearl, Maria and Joseph, Maria’s quasi-adoptive brother (he’s the son of her housekeeper; Maria’s mother died when she was two and her father employed Joseph’s mother; he became like Maria’s brother, caretaker, and so much more), that put the nail in the coffin for this novel for me. I almost didn’t finish but I am on a mission and I stuck with it. But I’ll tell you one thing — it’s hellish to try and read a book you really aren’t liking at 4 AM. On the whole, I didn’t find a single part of this book believable, not the characters, not the situation, and especially not the intrusive, annoying, overbearing narrator who just wouldn’t remove themselves and let me enjoy the writing. It’s the first dud from my shelves. How disappointing, eh?

#65 – Payback

Margaret Atwood is one of the few authors, Canadian authors, where I’ve read almost every single thing she’s ever written. It’s not even a love-hate relationship: I count a few of her books among my absolute favourites (Surfacing), and when I saw her at the IFOA a couple of years ago, it was one of the most entertaining readings I had ever been too. So, I bought Payback, years ago, I think, and it sat on the shelves. Atwood’s Massey lecture looks at the philosophical and literary implications of debt — what it means from a balanced perspective. This isn’t a book about the recession or about the failure of our monetary system but it’s about what it means to be in debt from a moral perspective.

I was honestly surprised at how much I enjoyed reading Payback. I actually learned a great deal about the idea of balance. Atwood takes a very thorough look at what defined debt throughout the ages — starting with early philosophical positions (there’s lots of talk of mythology) and ending with a modern-day take on Dickens’ character Scrooge (with all of the implications of how we are living today), Atwood’s point is simple: we can’t keep taking so much without giving something back… and if we don’t give it back, the universe will just take it.

Anyway, I don’t have much more to say about it — this is probably my shortest review ever. Balance is good. Taking advantage of our resources isn’t. Money is so much more than dollars and cents, and there’s a surprising amount of debt in literature. If I ever go back to grad school, what a fascinating thesis that would make.

READING CHALLENGES: Off the Shelf, naturally.

Notes From A House Frau VI

The Calm Before The Storm.

Oh, the baby book warned us. We were told that six weeks beyond RRBB’s due date of November 19th he would hit his fussiest period yet, and they weren’t joking. Between his first shots, the fact that he just can’t seem to get to sleep at night despite being so tired his face looks like he just went twelve rounds with Ali, and then that whole holiday insanity, it’s been a hellish ten days. He’s sleeping right now but chances are I’ll have about fifteen spare minutes because he already looks like he’s waking up.

The adjustment to motherhood hasn’t been an easy one. I think even having a spare hour to myself would help at this stage but the baby’s not in a place to give that to me at the moment. Then, we need patience. But we’ve talked about that before. That’s not a new lesson. I am constantly thinking and rethinking my approach to everything. Consistently questioning and requestioning my decisions in terms of his care. It’s a guessing game most days and I’m waiting for the answers to present themselves.

There’s a lot of introspection that goes on when you spend so much time with a little person who can’t communicate back to you. And when you mix in the life-threatening disease stuff happening, I spend a lot of my interior life contemplating how I want to live, what I want this all to really look like, and then being utterly unable to put my thoughts into action. Not for lack of trying but for lack of energy — and I know recovery, especially from a flare as serious as the one that I had, will take some time — I keep expecting myself to be back to normal. It’s been twelve weeks now since I started coughing up that blood, and I had hoped that things would have turned around by now. But I need to keep my expectations in line with my actual health. Being sick is so hard for me to take — it sits at direct odds with my personality.

I also keep overestimating what I can get done in a day, both with the RRBB and with my health. I spend a lot of time worrying about things: about money, especially. We don’t have enough at the moment. That is a fact, UI barely covers our mortgage payment in a month. The downside of loving to manage money would have to be the insane spreadsheets and complex accounting that I tend to do during times of stress. I mean, truly, I have an awesome spreadsheet that keeps track of our spending, which is totally out of control at the moment. You see, the other downside to being home all the time? We really want to get the house into a finished, final, state. We bought some art — two beautiful paintings by Toronto artist Matt James — we bought a chalkboard for the kitchen, we put up the posters we got framed earlier in the year, and my RRHB finally hung up my garage sale finds in my office. The house looks great. And then Christmas came. So we are a little behind. So, late one night when the baby was feeding, I bought Gail’s latest book, Never Too Late, and read it on my iPad (#64), because I needed to feel like I had at least a little bit of control over what’s happening in my life right now. As you know, that generally only comes from reading. The book is mainly about saving for retirement, which I’ve been doing since I was in university (I used most of those savings to buy our house; and have continued to build our RRSPs up over the subsequent years), but there are some great management tips in there too. However, the main thing I realized was that using our Emergency Fund, which is quite healthy, over the next few months is exactly what it’s for — I am sick. I need help. Even though it would be better for my RRHB to work when and if he can, what’s better for our family is to have him home helping me, helping us, and just being with us. The most important thing in my life right now is getting better so I can be the kind of mother I imagine in my head, and to get back to being myself a little too.

Anyway, Gail has some great tips — putting away the dollars you save by using coupons in a vacation fund, or just using it for savings. Her whole point is that it isn’t hard to save, it just takes a change of mind. Oddly, that’s what all of these quasi columns are about for me, learning how to change my mind as my life changes. There’s a constant evolution that takes place on a day-to-day basis when it comes to the baby but also when it comes to us as people. The change might be dramatic at first: you stop working, you spend all your time at home, you almost die for the third or forth time in your life, you are taking bucketloads of medicine, and normalcy becomes relative. It’s as if it shifts like time does when you have an infant: there’s very little difference between night and day. That’s why I’m clinging to certain things, repeated again, reading, writing, thinking, and hoping. I know I am watching way too much Oprah but trying to be in every moment is actually quite entertaining. Last night, our little RRBB was throwing him umpteenth fit and we were just laughing with each other… trying to calm him down, obviously, cuddling him, rocking him, kissing him, but also laughing because he’s so damn cute when he gets that upset. If we can hang on to that manic happiness, I know everything will be okay. Love is a pretty magical thing, and I’m not just saying that because I’m feeling weepy and a little introspective because it’s the end of the year.

We have two more weeks until he’s three months, then another four after that until he hits his due date “three months” so we’ll see how things go until then. Everyone keeps telling us that it gets better but maybe it getting better isn’t the point. Experiencing it is. Looking at what we can learn from his point of view, however undeveloped that might be, and knowing that “unexplained fussiness” might just be the death of us, it’s just a stage like so many other parts of life. Our biggest success today? We left the house for a walk, and it was a gorgeous day.

#63 – Moonlight Mile

Murderous Christmas continues, and I finished Dennis Lehane’s Moonlight Mile in record time. I read about three pages last night before crashing into sleep and then, in between visits to the hospital (blood work), visits from my Aunties, and a trip to the Duff, I finished the book about three minutes ago waiting for the baby to go to sleep. The book picks up twelve years after Gone, Baby, Gone, the other other Patrick and Angie book I’ve read (which I enjoyed immensely), and a lot has happened. Patrick and Angie are back together, they have a daughter, and they’re once again hired by Bea to find Amanda McCready, who has once again disappeared.

Nothing is at it seems, of course, and Patrick finds himself stuck in this case that, like all those years ago, puts his life on the line and then changes it forever. I can totally see what Sarah Weinman was talking about in her review of the novel, but I didn’t read and/or experience a love for crime fiction in the same way, so I don’t have the same expectations. The book gripped me from the beginning, and not just because the characters are terrific, but more because the story just dove right into the action. Then, it doesn’t let you go. I appreciate a good, plot-driven novel. I mean, I am a snob, don’t get me wrong, and years ago, if someone told me I’d be reading bucketloads of mystery/crime novels after giving birth, I would have laughed and said something obnoxious.

There are flaws with Lehane’s writing, don’t get me wrong. I’m not convinced that every single character needs their hair described in such immaculate detail but, in the end, it doesn’t matter because the story itself flies off the page — and once you pick up the book, you seem to get to the end before you even realize it. I guess you have to forgive him for these petty details, for the odd over-description and the sometimes melodramatic sentences, because he writes great dialogue and has created such a hard-driving narrative. It’s immaculate commercial fiction and that’s a hard balance to strike — it satisfies literary snobs like me and more general readers in one fell swoop. That’s not something to be overlooked or under appreciated.

Many of my co-workers tell me that the entire series is just that good. Maybe I’ll go back and read more than just the two I have done, but I’m satisfied with my Lehane experience. Maybe I don’t want to ruin it. I’ll just leave it where it is for now. So, no reading challenges accomplished with this novel, but that’s okay too, right?

Notes From A House Frau V

He’s a little blurry but our RRBB has started smiling. It’s pretty terrific to see him open up like that and it makes us both a little giddy. It’s been a hard few days. The SFDD has decided for us to stay the course — I am taking more meds, but they are the same meds, so we can keep breast feeding for now. As I’m still having disease symptoms, they are slight, but they are there, and that means that chances are we’ll be taking the “big guns” meds in January to try, yet again, to calm the storm. The disease is a light rain at the moment; they want to completely clear up the clouds, bring on the sunshine, but because the weather system inside my body remains so severe, it’s touch and go until the drugs start to work.

What all of this means for me — being stable but on the edge — is more blood work, heading to the hospital every 10 days, more doctors appointments and lots of careful monitoring. But, we get to breast feed. I think the sacrifice is worth it. I’d rather give him three months than two, but I also don’t want to be on dialysis in six months either. The thought terrifies me. And my lesson for this week?

Irony.

Funnily enough, the first thing that happens when you become a parent, regardless of how old you are, how far along in your life, people come forward with advice. This doesn’t bother me in the slightest, I am a big giver of advice, so you can’t be obnoxious about receiving it (and I can’t remember if I’ve talked about this before), and the #1 thing that everyone tells you: rest, rest, rest. It works both with the Sickness and with the Newborn. Yet, the prednisone makes you so wired — it’s kind of like being on speed (not that I’ve done speed; I’m extrapolating) — that it’s impossible to rest. The drug keeps you awake all the time. The RRBB keeps you awake the rest of the time. This means that I am wiggy with lack of rest, my body under siege and no release on the horizon. Some days I kind of feel like that boat in that George Clooney movie (I know, it’s not very good, The Perfect Storm). Right now, I’m Marky Mark floating on the horizon. In my case, I know I’ll be rescued. I’m not going to drown but getting through the irony of having to rest but being physically unable to do so because of the very drugs that are meant to keep me alive, well, it’s an interesting conundrum.

I’ve signed up for Restorative Yoga in January. I’m going to do private lessons. They will be expensive, and I know Gail Vaz-Oxlade wouldn’t approve, but I need to heal and it’s one way that I know works for me. I’m also keeping the crazies at bay by making lists and trying to cross things off one-by-one. It’s a recurring theme for me — trying to get a handle on the psychological side effects of the disease by doing small things that I actually do control — and it’s the first thing that gets out of hand when the psychosis hits. Thankfully, and I don’t know quite why, but I am thankfully free of this side effect this time around. That’s not to say that I don’t break down every few days, bawling, and I know it’s because I’m just so bloody tired but, on the whole, I am not wanting to drive my car into oncoming traffic (that’s what happened the first time I became sick) or jump off the top of a tall building (which happened the next time I took this much prednisone).

Laying it all out, the rareness of the disease means that I am a bit of a science experiment for my doctors. It’s always worked well for me in the past, and patience to truly wait for everything to calm down is needed. I’m finding that in books right now. I’m finding that in little moments here and there, writing here. Truly, as long as I keep putting the words down, taking them from my brain and putting them out there, I can keep a little bit of myself back from the disease. It doesn’t get to own all of me. Even if it feels that way a lot of the time.