Thinner than Water
I had to have blood drawn this week. In general, I’m a pretty tough chick and a savvy patient. But I have a weak spot (read: irrational fear) for having blood taken. It was the worst part of pregnancy for me—I didn’t mind the bloating and the sleep disturbance nearly as much as the many needles that pierced my delicate vein and stayed there, rigid in the flexing tubes, shunting away circulating red stuff. Yikes—I got clammy just writing that.
I’m not sick, just in need of a check up. I’d put off the lab work for 2 months, and then found myself barred from registering for graduate classes until I proved I’d had my MMR shot. Now I need a titer to be able to attend school, so there was no more delaying.
It’s been years since I braved this, with Brett and Ben at my side. Ben, age 5, even called me a wimp. And he was right. I told Joshua he needed to come with me, but then I felt like a big baby and told him to never mind.
How hard could it be? I’d spent 3 days out of the last month with my dad, as he took in 7 units of blood by transfusion. The first time I went with him, we arrived at the Johns Hopkins Oncology Center and I looked away while they took a sample. No problem. Then we waited for several hours while they “typed and crossed” the blood. Dad dozed in the borrowed, double-wide wheel chair while I joined a conference call and took notes on the back of the patient information sheet. Piece of cake, but being with so many people with cancer gave the call a backdrop of heart wrenching. They were young and old, some bald, some disabled, some looking way too healthy to be there.
Most didn’t use a wheelchair…maybe a cane or a shuffling walker. But dad is the only fat cancer patient in the world. Honestly. Despite barely eating for weeks, he’s only lost muscle mass and has to carry his big, jiggly middle around while barely being able to feel his feet. The persistence of this belly makes me wonder if we’ve unfairly mocked him for not getting rid of it all these years. It resists even cancer.
When they finally called us into the transfusion room, I was ready to just sit on the other side from the IV and ignore the blood dripping into dad’s arm. My plans were shot, though. The “transfusion room” is a big, open space with cots and recliners, and no less that 15 people getting transfused. It’s like a reverse vampire suite. I had to leave for air.
Since then, dad has needed more and more transfusions, and no one can figure out exactly why. The chemo didn’t work so he stopped it weeks ago—that’s not it. He doesn’t seem to be bleeding anywhere significant—that’s not it. He doesn’t have organ failure. He is, however, the sickest person I have ever personally spent time with. And apparently his blood is ever-thinning.
The truth is, he’s not my biological father—he adopted me after my father died of cancer when I was five. He married my mother a few years later, and I became his daughter, though not by blood. My sister says she’s the only one cursed with “the fat gene,” but I’m more worried about the melanoma gene. The doctor tells me I’m clean, that my dark skin was a blessing. And dad’s fair skin, not part of my DNA, turns out to be a curse. But man, those blue eyes…my sister got those, too.
His blood is thin now, and it has never run in my veins. But there was never any doubt that he was mine and I was his. I wish I could give him some of my heartiness, the health I’ve always been blessed with. But I can’t even give him a bag of blood. I went by myself to have that vial of blood drawn, and fainted right into my own lap. Maybe I’m not as tough as I thought. I hope dad is tougher.
An Open Letter to Brett’s Family
I wrote it, but I didn’t send it, just like all the others. I am at the end of my rope, but I guess no good will come of dragging his family in. Here it is anyway…
Bill and Liz,
I am writing to you confidentially, and if you can’t honor that, please don’t continue to read.
Every interaction with your son is exactly like the one below. He treats me with such loathing and disdain, it is hard to believe that he is the same man I married. I hesitate to ask him simple questions, because his answers are always (and I do mean always) couched in these terms.
I am concerned about the atmosphere that this attitude towards me and all I do with the kids (including religious education, extra curricular activities, medical care, involvement with my new friends, and interest in professional sports) can not escape the attention of my astute children.
And his refusal to partake in anything “scheduled” leaves me trying to cram a lifetime’s worth of activities and appointments into the half lifetime I am now afforded with my children.
I am sure you are hearing many tall tales about me, but I assure you that I am the same mother to the children I ever was, better even, and while you might not always agree with my parenting, I certainly have not been anything like the neglectful, junk food wielding, sedentary mother he keeps telling me I am. And as for his latest contention that I am “subcontracting out” my parenting, I have had a babysitter exactly 3 times in the last year: a Springsteen concert, a business meeting, and Yom Kippur Eve services.
As he and Tiffani move toward living together in the coming months, I am deeply concerned about what Ben and Tillie will be expected to do and feel toward me. I am confident in their love for me, but I fear they will be made to feel ashamed of it.
I also am a person, the mother of your grandchildren, who deserves to be treated at least as a human being, if not treated with respect. I have not heard of a single other divorced person behaving this way, and I don’t know what it is he wants from me. He got what he wanted; I was left to rebuild my life without my husband and best friend in a city I am only mildly fond of, hundreds of miles from my family.
I care for and respect your family. I don’t know that there is anything to be done, but if there is, and you can see it, please help me and the children live in peace.
—– Original Message —–
From: Sokolov, Becca
To: Brett Lewis
Sent: Tue Oct 20 13:28:12 2009
Subject: Re: Flu vaccine
Brett,
The children had the nasal spray vaccine for H1N1 this morning. I have not had them vaccinated against seasonal flu, because that would have required an injection this morning. Most of the current cases (and the serious disease) is caused by H1N1. If they have any side effects that last into Wednesday, I will let you know.
—– Original Message —–
From: Brett Lewis
To: Sokolov, Becca
Sent: Tue Oct 20 20:53:32 2009
Subject: Re: Flu vaccine/unmindfulness
Yes, do keep an eye out for side effects, since according to the CDC the stabilizing medium for the nasal vaccine hasn’t been at all widely tested on the young or even the middle aged, and one state even bans it for toddlers and expectant mothers. As for the seriousness of H1N1, according to the CDC’s Dr. Daniel Jernigan, “There is some increase in the rate of hospitalization for younger children and for adults, but it is not up at the levels that we would see for seasonal flu.”
It’s a shame to be just concerned enough to go with the moral panic, but not serious enough to think through the nature of the vaccine, and you don’t seem to have been committed enough to cause the kids the momentary pain that the more useful vaccination shot might cause them.
You may get final say on medical stuff, but I wish you would approach it a bit more mindfully–and before you go through your standard mantra about how you have some special insight because you work for CDC, let me remind you that you are a lobbyist, not a doctor; we read the same news.
The Size of Me
I knew I was losing too much weight. I even liked it, in a way. Since having a second child, my body didn’t seem like my own. It was stretched and flabby, and don’t even get me started on what happened to my boobs.
Plus, I did miss eating. Stress always made me eat in the past. Potato chips—lots of them. I wish I was one of those sensuous women who dive into a vat of chocolate and feel better, but I just end up licking the salt off the Ruffles bag. It isn’t pretty.
And neither was I. Thin, yes, and the belly was the closest to flat I’d had since the 80s. But months of nausea, accompanied by random gagging, left me pale and drawn. I was under 95 pounds—my clothes were literally falling off me. I was cinching my size 2 petite pants tight, and by the end of the day, I had to hold them up when I stood. It was the divorce trauma diet, as someone called it.
I ended up in the dressing room at Old Navy, trying to buy some shorts that would fit. It’s much harder to wear clothes that don’t fit in the summer, and I was headed to the beach, where my whole family was gathering for my brother’s wedding.
My college friend, Christie, was with me. She is a tall, curvy woman who hates her body, despite how beautiful it is. She was bringing me Size 0 petities, juniors size ones, and rolling her eyes at the way they slid right down my thighs. Finally, I put on a pair of shorts that stayed up. They were cut a little strangely, but they fit. “They’re size 12 girls,” she admitted with a sigh. I bought them in three colors, feeling strangely proud about it, and happy that kids’ clothes are cheaper than adults’.
This method continued to work for the rest of the shopping spree. I even found a pair of Seven for All Mankind jeans in a boys size 10 that fit me to a tee. I figured I would grow out of them about when Ben grows into them. Bonus!
So, I headed to the beach with a small wardrobe of cheap children’s clothes and a beautiful, summery sister-of-the groom dress that had been tailored to within an inch of its life. I was prepared to sing at my brother’s wedding, but not so prepared for facing all those family and friends without Brett by my side. I had taken off my wedding ring the day I found out about Tiffani, and I figured there was no way to hide the mess that was formerly my perfect little family.
“So what?” my mother said. “It’s not like anyone will miss him. He didn’t even get out of his chair at your sister’s wedding.” True. But what would people think of me? Pity? Scorn? Would someone say something in front of the kids?
The hardest thing, I knew, was that my Grandma Golda didn’t know about the break up. Grandpa knew, but he wanted to protect her from worrying. Worrying is what she did best, with amazing tenacity. As she grew more confused in her older years, he preferred having her worry about the coffee machine being left on than about her great-grandchildren being raised in a broken home. And I couldn’t blame him.
Grandma Golda greeted me with, “Let me look at you. You’re too skinny!” These words had never passed her lips before. No one was EVER too skinny. Everyone was too fat. Universally. Oh boy.
“Where’s Brett? He didn’t come?”
“No, he had an important conference he couldn’t get out of.” Lying to my Grandma. Great.
A day passed. We all talked about how Grandma seemed. Did she seem better or worse than last time we saw her? Was she driving Grandpa crazy? Would she be able to handle the wedding festivities?
I wasn’t there when it happened, but apparently while beachside with my mom, dad, and aunt, Grandma had The Epiphany. “Becca’s got trouble with Brett.” She stated. “She’s too skinny, he’s not here, and she’s not wearing a wedding ring. And she seems very sad.” Dad, of course, couldn’t wait to spill the whole story. So, now Grandma knew all the details of my tawdry love triangle.
But, what can you do? Apparently, you couldn’t hide anything from Grandma–she had powerful intuition; her constant worry meant she could detect trouble a mile away, whether it was there or not. And while I’m sure she worried, mostly she reassured me. “Whatever you need,” she would say to me again and again. “You just tell your grandfather.” And “you are so capable and strong. You will be just fine.”
When they got home to New York, Grandpa told me that she was employing the power of my ancient tribe. “She’s turned over every glass in the house. It’s some kind of curse on Brett. I can’t even have a drink!”
After Grandma died this spring, Grandpa pulled me into their bedroom. “Becca,” he said, “please try on some of these clothes. They were barely worn and you’re the only one small enough to fit.”
I put on a pair of her newly-hemmed pants, and they fit me perfectly. Perfectly! (I noted that some time in the past, people my size were an actual NUMBER (2 or even 4) instead of a 0 or 00.) Grandpa shipped me boxes of her sweaters, slacks, skirts, and belts. Now, almost every day, I wear something of hers—she was exactly the size of me. I guess I wasn’t too skinny for her, after all. And she’s still got me covered.
