Goodnight Mama

Last night I had this whole post composed in my head, but I felt too sad and tired to post it. Since I have slept a bit since then, all those eloquent words have disappeared like smoke on this windy day. So now I lie here in bed, nursing my 2.5 year old son to sleep for his nap, while the tears roll down into my ears (I always hated that feeling) and my grief remains not fully expressed.

Yesterday I found out that a friend of mine, a mom in our local playgroup, took her own life. I am still feeling so stunned and at a loss for words. I know she had been struggling with being depressed. Less than two years prior she was finally diagnosed with Bipolar disorder, and she was hospitalized briefly last year because of it. Ironically, she was on medication and she and her husband and family were trying to decide if she needed to go to the hospital again. She had support and help to navigate what was going on. She had loving family and friends actively working with and for her. Yet her disease must have left her feeling so overwhelmed that she took her own life rather than continue. I am so sad for her children, husband, family, and other friends they will not have her bright light in their lives anymore. Goodnight Mama, I hope you have found your peace. I will miss you.

Words To Remember

There is always a certain element of danger, to me, in writing things down. Before the Internet, your deepest darkest thoughts or desires, once written down, could be discovered and used against you. Not that it was incredibly likely, mind you, but the element of danger was still there.

Today, whatever you write down is instantly made available to a whole host of people you don't even know, often from an entirely different continent, to be judged. Scary thought. I have often been hesitant to write certain things down, just because of that fact. I don't want my own words used against me, and I dislike having to defend my opinions that I held at a particular moment in time. I really don't care for conflict, unless it is of my own choosing. So with that in mind, I tend to think about what I have written before I hit the Send/Enter button.

I'm not sure exactly why I was thinking about that today, except that certain friendships (or memories of past ones) have been swirling about in my brain lately. I guess some part of me wants to have the last word, though the recipient would likely never even know it. With that in mind, I could fill the following with a tirade against those who have somehow done me wrong (or whom I have wronged), but my paranoia about the written word is getting the better of me once again.

Suffice to say that I am thinking about friends both current and past. Right now one is struggling with an illness that may take her from us. While I feel strongly that she still has much left undone, my gut feeling is that she will find her way to he next journey all too soon. I have learned to trust those gut feelings, if only because they have rarely steered me wrong, but here are times when they have turned out to be unfounded. I hope that this is one of those times. Keep on fitting, my friend, we all want you to stay rooted to this plane for a while longer.

An Update on Rune

So I thought now would be a good time to give an update on Rune, our little goat who broke her leg. It has been three weeks so far, and she seems to be doing just fine. Fine enough that we decided to add a little protective covering to the splint she has on (because of the snow and mud), and let her go back to the herd.

It all seemed to go well, being re-introduced to Alice and Rain (her twin sister), as well as meeting two out of three of the new does. The smallest one was in the garage/infirmiry we set up for her for about 2 days while she recovered from the stress of moving, etc.

Doesn't she look great?

That's Not A Designer Handbag, It's My Goat!

If there is one thing that this last year has taught me, is that opportunities come in unexpected places. Had someone told me where I would be at in my life today, I would have laughed myself silly. However, as much as I have realized that I can be a control freak over certain aspects of my life, I have come to recognize that there are times I simply need to let go and see where this path takes us.

Why am I bringing this up now? Well, my dearest husband has been thinking about trying to get a young cow or some pigs for a little while now. We have looked into several breeds (mainly heritage breeds, as this fits into our life and philosophy the best) and have tried to find locally based breeders if possible.  While we are still somewhat flexible on the cattle breed, he has his heart set on getting some Large Black Hogs. Yep, that is actually the name of the breed (so descriptive the English are!! Just kidding; I think the pigs are pretty handsome and their name obviously fits them), and they are pretty rare. so rare, in fact, that I believe one little piglet will probably run at least $300. Just for one, never mind several to try to start our own little colony with.

So with dreams of expensive ham in mind, he had me put an ad out asking people for their unwanted livestock for our family to raise. It wasn't specific, but he was hoping for a cow, or a pig or something of that ilk. Never did it even occur to us we would get the exact animal we really didn't want. Little goats. I don't mean baby goats, but miniature milk goats, Dwarf Nigerian Goats to be specific. Why on earth would anyone want a tiny milking goat??

Apparently, quite a few people are into keeping them. They apparently make good pets (goats in the house, are our serious?? I mean, they are literally eating and pooping machines!). Quite a few people actually prefer them because of their small size. After all, a herd is cheaper to feed and they might be easier for a novice to deal with, especially if big animals seem too scary. And people seem quite proud of the little buggers.

When we got our first goats, we looked at all the books, and decided that of all the breeds, the last ones we wanted were the miniature ones. Why? I guess for us it came down to personal preference; the larger breeds give more milk, and if we were going to have a herd of milk goats, we might as well have full-sized ones!

So here we are suddenly, with several more goats. Our little herd has suddenly doubled in numbers, though not in size. Some of these fellows (we now have 4 new bucks!) are truly tiny, and can not only walk under Splint, our largest wether, but under Panas our almost yearling Nubian as well. I never thought I would see the day. Aside from getting some rather small goats, they seem to have come to us with some issues as well. All have horns (yes, dammit, HORNS AGAIN!) that are delaminating which is a good indication of being effectively malnourished. And they are all bloated (a potentially life threatening condition for goats). So now we not only have to help them get better, but figure out what their optimal feed really is and hope that they can rebound from it. Plus, they all have horns (of course! Go figure. Better get the coping saw out again), and the hoofs on a few of them are so bad i'll bet they haven't felt the earth in a LONG while.

Thing us, after spending a little time with them, I can sorta see the appeal of these little Nigerian goats. They can be kinda cute. They look like miniature mountain goats. Maybe we can let the children breed them and use the proceeds to get a few Large Black Hogs. Just thinking of the possibilities here.

Never throw anything away

I admit it, I am a pack rat. I come from a long line of pack rats, as does my husband. It is something that often frustrates us, as we have a lot of "stuff" that we are trying to organize without anywhere to put it. We struggle with trying to decide when we should get rid of something, especially since when we do, we often end up needing it for a project weeks or months later on. It is especially difficult because we intend to build our own home, so we need a certain amount of stuff for it. Much is in the nature of building supplies (wood, countertops, metal, etc.) that will be useful when we start building, but can really get in the way when there is no easy place to store it. We also try to repurpose and recycle materials as often as possible, finding creative ways to resolve problems. Like when we needed to build a pen and shelter for our first goats with just what was lying around on the property (we spent about $4 total on clips for the gate. That is it); the Goatagon was the product of our creativity.

Yesterday I was once again thankful that we and my in-laws have this tendency to keep items we may need in the future. Early in the morning during my husbands routine of feeding and watering the goats, one of the little ones (Her name is Rune) got her back leg stuck in the fence of the goat pen and broke it. Hubby was very upset and came to get me inside, where I was working on the goat milk and breakfast preparations. We checked it out, and it was indeed broken cleanly between the hock and the knee along the cannon bone. 

Neither of us had ever dealt with something like this before, but since I remembered reading a few months prior about goats and broken bones (and in light of our recent successful experiences with our goofy dog), I felt confident that we could deal with it ourselves.

We quickly grabbed some thin scrap wood from the garage/shop, and some self-adhesive bandage from my mother-in-laws vast stores of random medical supplies (she was a nurse until she retired) and set about making a splint to keep her leg together while we figured out if there was another way to keep it stable. The way it worked out, Hubby realigned the bones and wrapped the splint while I held the goat and kept her stable and helped keep the wood from moving too much. It seemed pretty easy to wrap, and she didn't complain much while we did it. In fact, she happily munched a little grain we set out without so much as a peep. Of course, it was too easy. After setting her back in the pen with her newly stabilized leg, we set about our own breakfast and research on goats and broken bones.

My father-in-law, in his infinite wisdom (insert heavy sarcasm here) claimed that you couldn't put a cast on a goats leg, and we should just splint it (using the materials we already did, only he treated it as his original idea). During our research we found that you can either cast or splint a broken leg, and it should heal just fine after the 4-6 weeks it takes for a bone to knit. We both thought that a cast would be the way to go, but after spending a few hours calling around the various medical supply places in the nearest town we weren't able to locate any plaster cast material. Weird. The ironic thing is that I have several rolls of the stuff back at our home since that is what I have used to make plaster casts of peoples faces for my artwork.

So after also calling a vet (who was currently being snowed in, in the next state over and couldn't drive the hour here to check on our little doe), we decided that we needed to replace the splint with a studier one. We also realized that she would do better in an "isolation" ward so that Alice wouldn't act like a normal goat and head butt her or push her around while she is healing. So we gathered our supplies again, plus some metal splint material normally used for fingers (and an ideal size for an almost yearling doe) and we set about to re-splint her leg. It wasn't as easy this time around. I think the leg was starting swell more, so she was pretty unhappy with having the bones realigned and splinted again (and was rather vocal about it). We also had our daughter take photos (hence the occasional finger in the way and viewpoint) since I had to pin down the doe so her leg could be worked on by my wonderful husband. I am sure it was quite the scene, with us doing the mending while also having to answer her questions, keep Rune calm, make sure our son was staying out of the way, while handing over the necessary supplies as they were needed. We ended up putting her in a large dog kennel (another very useful item we rescued from a neighbors trash) in the garage where we can keep her warm, dry, and in a small confined area for her recovery. Hopefully we can set her out in a few weeks once it starts healing, but we will have to play it by ear and see how it goes.

I suppose there are several lessons to be found here, if you are the sort to look for them. Always be prepared (luckily my husband is a former Boy Scout, and a creative man to boot) would be an important one. He says this last year has been all about learning patience and a certain amount of veterinary medicine, which I would not argue with at all!! Prepare for the worst but expect the best; I feel is one that is always good to keep in mind. And to bring us back full circle, dear readers: Never throw anything away. You never know when you may need it to fix a goats' broken leg.

Insomnia

When I was growing up, my mother used to have terrible insomnia. She would spend hours in the kindle of he journal awake, but she made good use of her time at least. We would often wake to freshly baked cobblers, cinnamon rolls, or tarts for breakfast, or bread just coming out of Tue oven to be gathered would a thick helping of butter and homemade jam. You could say that baking has pervaded my senses from a very young age, as the scents intertwined their way through my dreams as well as spirit. I have fond memories of waking up to these scents from the oven of my childhood. When she wasn't baking, she painted, drew, or worked metal; whatever medium she happened to be involved in at the moment. I suppose it was how she dealt with being unable to quiet her mind when most others were ensconced in slumber.

I rarely knew what it was like (the inability to sleep when every other signal around me said I should be) until I had children. As is often the case with the young or college bound, I stretched my wakeful hours into those nocturnal times readily; paying for it the following evening when the wall of sleep would hit me head on. Little did I understand the restlessness and frustration I would encounter when I didn't have the goal of a paper to finish or a game among friends to greet the sun with.

I first brushed up against this wakefulness when I was pregnant with my daughter. My belly round, I lay in bed thinking of who she would be, and how to be a good parent to her. The books and websites I read all said to treat insomnia as a sick child: stay in bed at all costs, sleep will come to your tired body eventually if you remain there. So I followed their advice. Tossing and turning as my growing family slumbers blissfully unaware. My mind turning, drawing, writing letters, stretching, baking, balancing. For five years I have lain here randomly awake (as the sleeplessness strikes erratically) and eventually slipping back into sleep with my loved ones surrounding me. Tonight I wonder if I had it all wrong. There is a certain utility to actually getting up and being productive without the inevitable interruptions that small children bring. And the peacefullness of the early morning is soothing. So to still my mind this early day, I instead chose to get up and look out at the falling snow and write out these errant thoughts while they were freshly baking. And now that they are done, I shall go back to bed. You see, I am truly my mothers daughter, but not so entirely that I cannot learn from her mistakes. Goodnight.

Fear and Something Else to do with Fathers

Right now I am lying in bed as I type this, trying to figure out a cohesive way to write what is on my mind. It probably won't happen, but here it is for better or worse. I apologize if it is a  random train of thought.

Tomorrow morning at 7:30am EST my father heads in for surgery to repair a damaged vertebrae (C5) in his neck. It is the first of at least two major surgeries, and could take two days to accomplish. Why so long? Well, he also has a rare bone tumor that has destroyed that vertebrae as well as encapsulated a major artery to the brain and is impinging on several other nearby structures. Like his esophagus. His vocal cords. Oh, and a whole mess of nerves that lead to his arms. Oh, and he has osteoporosis to top it off.

This egg-sized tumor is called a Chordoma, and has been growing there since, well, probably since before he was born. The theories are that something went wonky in the bone cells as he was developing and they just kept growing, albeit very slowly. Tumors like these are incredibly rare; in the US, only 300 people a year are diagnosed with them. Having a rare bone cancer is bad enough, but this is the rarest of he bone cancers. Chordomas also are usually found at either end of the spinal column, not along the neck like his. Go figure. Seems pretty typical for the family though. We seem prone to living "interesting" lives.

The first surgery is to repair his vertebrae so it doesn't break and leave him worse off (either paralyzed or, well, dead). The plan at the moment is to fuse C2-C7 (his whole neck) and possibly down to T2. Plus add several rods for strength. And a bone graft from his hip to boot. This might take 2 days depending on how things go during the operation, as there is always a certain amount of unpredictability here. Did I mention that he has a team of, I believe, 8 different doctors? He has a lot of confidence in them, so I have to trust his feelings on it. I would like to be there for additional moral support, but we just can't swing a trip across the country for potentially several months right now. So it falls to my mom and sister to be his support. I wish we could be there though. The second (or third) surgery will be to actually remove the tumor. Then after a short recovery, five MORE weeks of radiation. Then lots of physical therapy since he won't be able to turn his head, and hopefully he WILL be able to play music again.

My father is an excellent musician. Growing up, we were surrounded with music and art (my mom is an artist), and we learned to play different instruments from a young age. While I don't play like I used too (I really miss playing piano and other instruments), I still have a love for music. It really speaks to my soul, and has the ability to completely change my moods. I would be terribly sad if he could not play again (as would he, obviously!)

I have so much more on the subject to say, but I am getting tired, and tomorrow will be a stressful enough day as it is that I really need some sleep. Plus some quality cuddling time with my fabulous husband while the kids are snoozing.

Do I dare write down my worries? If I acknowledge my fears, does that give them more power to actually happen? There is power in giving things a name, but who will that power best serve? I am afraid of losing my dad. We have finally become much closer after years of being somewhat aloof. And I would hate for all those amazing experiences he had as a child/teen to be lost since he is the repository of so much family history. I want him to play mandolin to my children and tell them of his boyhood, and escaping the Nazi as they swept through Hungary. Be strong Papa, we aren't done with you yet. We love you.