ever-fixed mark

Hint: It’s a pretty short list.

Normally I would be excited by the propsect of a visit to Colorado covered by snow, but after this involuntary visit, I can say that nothing quite became Colorado like the leaving of it.

(I just got a cell phone with a camera on it. Imagine the people on my plane looking at me taking a photo and thinking, “How sweet–her first time on an airplane.”)

I bring you the latest installment in the continuing series I like to call Snakes on a Plane, detailing the absurd remarks of weird people I meet on my travels.

I was trying to read Uncle Tom’s Cabin, a book I, a former English teacher, have never read. I was just getting offended by the description of the slave Eliza’s being “indulged and petted” by her mistress when my seatmate decided he wanted to talk.

“Do you work?”

“Of course,” I said, with a look to indicate, “Do I look like I would fly first class if someone else weren’t paying?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You might have a rich husband.”

“Hmmm.”

“My wife doesn’t work. Well, she’s involved in a lot of charity work. It keeps her busy. She has her girlfriends she plays golf with, and her sisters. It’s good for her to have some outside interests. Some men like to isolate them, but I don’t believe in that. That just backfires on you. Then you become their only source of entertainment.”

Women of previous generations: You mean to tell me that back in the day you had to listen to that stuff with a straight face?!

Women of this and future generations: You mean to tell me that you still think feminism is an outdated, unnecessary concept?!

It was the worst of times. I was distracted from Minor’s imminent surgery by Dog’s sudden gastrointestinal complaint. He threw up a few times this week, not an uncommon occurrence for this dog with a goat’s appetite for any bit of garbage he encounters on the beach. But on Thursday morning he was vomiting bile, so we rushed him to the vet.

The vet could not really say what was wrong. It might be pancreatitis, a perforation in the stomach or intestine, an obstruction, or just a garden-variety “dietary indiscretion.” He was so dehydrated, though, they decided to keep him overnight for observation while they began to rule things out.

Late in the afternoon, they permitted us to visit him at the animal hospital. We went into the exam room to meet him, and they brought him into the exam room from the back door. He had an IV, and the vet tech was wheeling a stand behind him, just like a hospitalized person. He didn’t seem that sick. He was happy to see us, of course, but he quickly walked to the back door of the exam room and sat, as if to say, “Visiting hours are over.” It seemed like he wanted to be rid of us, but I think he just wanted to leave, the back door being the entrance with which he was most familiar.

That night was the first evening we’ve ever spent in the house without Dog. It was strange not to do Dog-related chores, like feeding him, tithing part of our dinners to him, and spreading blankets on the couch and bed for him to lie on. I missed him, and I missed taking care of him. Even with two adults and two children, the house felt lonely.

It was the epoch of incredulity. So I was already feeling sad and off-kilter when I woke up at 4:45 on Friday to make sure I was dressed and ready to leave by 5:30 to get Minor to the hospital by 6:30. I made it with a few minutes to spare and within ten minutes was brought in to see the intake nurse. She asked a round of questions, the ones they repeat with each contact they have with you (”What surgery is he having today?” “My God, don’t you have that written down somewhere?”). All was well until she said, “We don’t have an informed consent signed for Minor. Do you have it?”

“I don’t believe that,” I said. “That’s not possible. I spent the whole week being the middleman between the agency and the doctor’s office, and last night the doctor’s office called and left a message saying that everything was signed and there was nothing to worry about. I can play you the message.”

“Well, there’s an anesthesia consent, but not a surgical consent.”

“It’s right there.”

“It has to be on our consent form.”

“The nurse specifically told me that she had no form, and that they should just write a letter.”

“We have to follow the rules. Don’t worry, we’ll call the agency and get it straightened out.”

Don’t worry? It was 6:30; the adoption agency didn’t open until 9:00, assuming the director was working at all, or would check her messages first thing instead of going straight to a meeting. The nurses did not seem really concerned about tracking her down, either; they told me they “left a message” and she would call back, don’t worry. Around 8:00 I started dialing the adoption agency, figuring that by punching all the extensions I could raise someone who would know the director’s cell phone number. When the nurses saw me with my cell phone, they quickly ushered me into the office to use the land line, cell phones being verboten on the surgical ward (they make the plane crash). By 8:30 I had reached the secretary, and by 9:00 we had the consent.

By then the doctor was several surgeries into his day. Minor was supposed to have been first. They kept us back in the office, though, to go through the anesthesia consult (”What is she having done today?” He is getting tubes in his ears”). Then Minor and I both fell asleep in the anesthesia office. Finally, at 10:30 they had me put on a gown, and then suddenly it was rush, rush, rush.

The nurse anesthesiolgist accosted me in the hallway and began talking rapidly as we walked toward the surgical suite, telling me what would happen. They asked me to place Minor on his back and talk to him soothingly while they gave him the gas. As soon as they placed the mask on his face, he started screaming. I tried singing to him, but he didn’t even notice me. I think the whole performance of having me sing him off to dreamland was more for my benefit than for his.

Then they whisked me out. It was past 10:30 and I had not had any breakfast or coffee or even water all morning. I asked for a beeper so I could go to the cafeteria. “I don’t know,” the nurse said. “You want to be here when he wakes up, don’t you?”

“Five minutes?” I said. “He won’t be done by then.”

“He might,” she said, and let me into their kitchen, where I had a surprisingly good cup of coffee. The anesthesiologist stopped by to talk to me. He was Korean, and his surname was the same as Minor’s original surname. We chatted about Korea for a few minutes, and then the nurse called me to the recovery room.

Throughout the morning, when I was in and out of the intake offices and using the nurse’s phone, I had observed other children, older than Minor, waking up in the recovery room shrieking. I had assumed that they were frightened of their surroundings, and that Minor wouldn’t react that way since he was not concious of being in the hospital. I was surprised to find Minor also screaming his lungs out. His eyes were closed. The nurse explained that he was not really awake yet, and the screaming was just a reaction to the anesthesia wearing off. For five to ten minutes, he acted as though he were having night terrors. He wailed and arched his back. Nothing I did calmed him. Eventually his eyes opened and he continued to cry, although now it was just a typical angry cry. The nurse got me some water for his bottle, and as soon as he sucked it down he was a new baby.

The doctor came around to give discharge instructions and told me that Minor had had a lot of fluid in his ears, and that both of them were infected. “I see a lot of ears, and these were pretty bad,” he said. I felt terrible. Minor had been pulling on one ear the day before, but there was no indication of a full-blown double ear infection.

It was the spring of hope. So now both Dog and Minor are returned to the family fold. Dog seems much the same as always, except that he has lost a few pounds that frankly he could stand to lose. We have been forbidden from feeding him his usual leftovers. He has reacted with the obsessive compulsivity of a Prader-Willi dog. We are trying to convince him that love does not equal food, but he’s not buying it.

Minor is also doing pretty well. He was up pretty frequently the first night, but that may have been due to our new heating system malfunction or the six teeth erupting simultaneously at glacial speeds (four top, two bottom). Since then, he has been pretty cheerful. We’re hoping that the sudden cessation of ear pain will change his personality into something slightly lower-maintenance.

One can hope.

Tomorrow, Minor is going to have tubes put in his ears. The ear specialist said that he has “significant,” if temporary, hearing loss due to the build-up of fluid. I don’t really believe this, as that kid is awakened every night around 11:00 by the gentle thud of my upper eyelids descending to touch their lower counterparts. But we are taking his advice in the hopes of avoiding a miserable winter of ear infections. This is a fairly significant departure from my usual policy of “no elective surgeries,” and I’m nervous about it.

One odd aspect of adopting from Korea is that, unlike adopting from China or Russia, the adoption isn’t finalized in country. That means it can only be finalized in the US, a process that takes place about a year after the child arrives. There is a six-month post-placement period during which the adoption agency is Minor’s official guardian, and then another few months until the adoption is finalized.

The six months post-placement is a strange kind of limbo, almost as if we have Minor “on approval.” We have a photocopied piece of paper with our names filled in the blank that explains we are in loco parentis, but we still need to notify the adoption agency every time we take Minor out of state. Since we live near the state border, this means e-mailing our social worker every time we go to Home Depot.

We also need to get the agency’s permission before allowing Minor to have any non-emergency surgery. Our social worker, typically, was non-committal when I spoke to her about it, and also, typically, not quick with her official response. It took a few days of back-and-forth before we finally got the proper documents signed. This reminder that he’s not really “ours” irks.

Not surprisingly, the agency will not give permission for elective surgeries, which was a large factor in our decision not to have either of the boys circumcised. Infants are not routinely circumcised in South Korea (although older children and adults often undergo the procedure). Aitch was, and Minor will be, just under a year when they officially are ours. Most doctors recommend delaying cosmetic surgery until the child is 18 months or 2 years to avoid any problems with anesthesia. Many insurance companies do not cover circumcisions that require general anesthesia.

What’s more, I couldn’t find any really good reason to circumcise. It certainly isn’t part of any religious tradition for us, and everything I’ve read about infections in intact males seems to be more than counterbalanced by the risks of surgery. We did have one friend, a doctor, who felt strongly that the short cut was more hygienic, having seen a number of infections in her practice. And I certainly don’t condemn anyone for having their child circumcised at any age, for whatever reason. (Honestly, I don’t care. Circumcise them, get piercings…it means nothing to me.) But I was not motivated to schedule surgery, battle the insurance company, and subject Aitch to general anesthesia when the most compelling reason for circumcising that anyone could muster was, “When he grows up, it will be important to him to look like his father. . .down there.”

When my Korean sons grow up and start to notice that they look different from their Caucasian Dad, I’ll bet that . . .down there. . . is not the first difference they’ll notice.

So my mother-in-law’s visit went reasonably well, I suppose. I was enjoined, like Margaret in the movie version of Sense and Sensibility, to confine my conversation to pleasantries (weather, the state of the roads), which I dutifully did. It was my mother-in-law who brought up Religion by giving us two pamphlets of devotions for St. Anthony, and then raised Politics by asking if there was a Barnes & Noble nearby where she could get Bill O’Reilly’s latest book.

The funny thing is, Husband and I had just been talking about this very topic. Two weeks ago, we got a babysitter, and we were killing some time before dinner by puttering around the local bookstore. (No Barnes & Noble–all the local shops are independent.) We were enjoying the novel sensation of browsing without children in tow. Husband noticed the prominent placement of Bob Woodward’s new book, and asked why liberal pundits seemed to write more political books than their conservative counterparts.

I think I asked if he was high, and had he never heard of Coulter, O’Reilly, and their ilk? He pointed to the shelves, where, indeed, they were underrepresented.

So I had to tell my mother-in-law that yes, there was a book store within a few blocks, but it might not sell the O’Reilly book because the market for it in this liberal Massachusetts town would be small. She got a chuckle out of it, and dispatched Sister-in-Law #1 to investigate.

For the record, our local store does carry O’Reilly’s book, but Sister-in-Law #1 reported that two clerks pointedly averted their eyes while ringing her up and then failed to thank her for her purchase.

Some months ago, my mother-in-law expressed an interest in coming to visit us. The last time she came to visit was at our wedding, almost eight years ago, so we didn’t really take it seriously.

Two weeks ago, Sister-in-Law #2 (or maybe she’s #3; she’s a twin) called to tell us that my mother-in-law and Sister-in-Law #1 would be driving down this weekend. Shortly thereafter, Sister-in-Law #4 called to tell us to ignore all plans, because my mother-in-law rarely goes anywhere and always cancels everything at the last minute. I believe her exact words were, “I can promise you that Mom will never set foot in your house.”

So we figured, what are the odds? and we did little preparation for her visit. It’s been a busy week, with me in California, and all our technology has been in limbo as we move it to our new office. Plus, we had plans to go out last night to celebrate Friday the 13th, something we do whenever possible because we were married on that auspicious day.

This morning, Sister-in-Law #1 called to say that they were already in Connecticut.

In addition to the things that one would normally do to prepare for guests, we need to move the office furniture to the new office, Aitch’s furniture to the old office, and Minor’s furniture from the guest room to Aitch’s old room, to free up the guest room.

We’re out of milk, so I’m just sitting here paralyzed, unable to take any decisive action, because I haven’t had my coffee yet.

The woman flopped down in the empty seat next to me, on the aisle. “I guess I’ll sit here,” she said. “The line is just too long.”

Sure, make yourself comfortable. That number on your boarding card? A mere suggestion.

She was chatty. “Is that a good book? It’s SO hot in here. I can’t BELIEVE this airport doesn’t have a place to get your nails done.” I responded politely, waiting for the seat’s rightful owner to claim it.

He came along, looking confused. “Do you want to sit here?” he asked. “I guess I can just take your seat.” Dude, no way. You’re giving up an aisle seat in row 4 with the extra legroom — a seat you pay MORE for, by the way — for God knows what in aisle 21?

She flipped open the Sky Mall magazine and gave a little laugh. “Hmm?” I said, because a response seemed to be called for. “Look at this ice scraper with the fleece mitt on it,” she said. “It’s so cute!” After that, I ignored all other Sky Mall-related ejaculations.

I opened my computer. “Is that an HP?” she asked. “What model number is it?”

“Uh, no idea,” I said, opening up a file.

“Hey, do you mind if I check out the ports on the side of your computer?”

“Yes. Yes, I do mind.”

After that she contented herself with staring blatantly at the Standard Operating Procedure I was writing. It took all my self-control not to type, “The Programmer tests and validates STOP READING OVER MY SHOULDER, YOU FREAK.”

Because Minor slept through it. 7:00 p.m. to 6 a.m. For the first time in his life.

Can you imagine going for eight and a half months without getting a full night’s sleep?

Wait–I guess I can.

I’m on a business trip once again, and consequently watching way too much CNN in airport lounges, hotel rooms, and hotel gyms than any sane person should.  Sandwiched somewhere within the round-the-clock pedophile coverage is a little story about a woman who was kidnapped by her parents on the eve of her wedding.  They took her on an enforced road trip until her wedding date had passed, then released her.  She got married when she got home.

This happened to someone I know:  my grandfather.

When I was in college, one of my English professors gave us an assignment to tell a family story. We had to recount the story in class, and then develop it into a personal essay. I couldn’t think of any interesting stories, so I called my grandfather to ask him for one.  Despite a fairly interesting life — emigrating to the US, serving in World War II — my grandfather, who was extremely taciturn, couldn’t think of anything to say, so I asked him to tell me about his wedding day.

My grandfather had six brothers and sisters.  At a young age, he was already working to help support his family. (Incidentally, his granddaughter, my cousin, would one day marry the grandson of the owner of the factory where he worked.) When he became engaged, his parents were concerned that his income would soon be diverted to his new household, and they decided to prevent the wedding by locking him in the basement.

His parents were about as successful as the “kidnapped bride’s” parents; although he missed his wedding, my grandmother forgave him and married him later. 

Amazingly, in fifty years he had never thought to tell this to any of his children. When I retold this story to my family, it encouraged them to ask the few remaining members of the older generation for more stories and pictures of their lives. This is how some of these stories came out.

You should do the same. Call someone up and say, “Tell me about your childhood/your wedding day/when you served in the Army.” My professor got a book out of her family stories. You might get something valuable, too.