Yesterday, a coworker was miserable. She had recently found out that she was pregnant, but then she had started spotting on Tuesday night. She went to the emergency room and, after an ultrasound, was told that she had a blighted ovum and would miscarry soon. She set up an appointment for this morning with her obgyn to have a d&c. I tried to comfort her, even while knowing that comfort is impossible after something like that. It brought back memories of what happened to me, and I felt like I was almost physically hurting for her.
Her appointment was for 8:45 this morning. At about 10:00 am, she called me. "It was a mistake!" she yelled. I didn't understand at first, but it appears that the emergency room doctor misread the ultrasound, and her obgyn this morning was able to see a healthy heartbeat. She isn't out of the woods yet, but she will probably have a healthy baby. What a beautiful, fairy-tale ending. I hurt for her yesterday, but today I am feeling her joy.
1.25.2007
Poetry Thursday
On a clothesline between two pines
Summer and the cool of early morning,
a faded version of the moon
still in the sky,
then just the driftwood-gray clothespins
and the white of the towel
forgotten on the line,
the night's damp still in it,
and not much else
except that somehow we'd crossed over,
opened our eyes
or splashed our faces at the sink,
that there are stones to touch
and thoughts we couldn't,
and now unfolding chairs:
canvas snapping into place,
wooden legs settling
into sand under us,
that all of this could happen,
that it could stop,
not just dreams, but sleep itself,
rain, mist, evaporation.
-Jane O. Wayne
Summer and the cool of early morning,
a faded version of the moon
still in the sky,
then just the driftwood-gray clothespins
and the white of the towel
forgotten on the line,
the night's damp still in it,
and not much else
except that somehow we'd crossed over,
opened our eyes
or splashed our faces at the sink,
that there are stones to touch
and thoughts we couldn't,
and now unfolding chairs:
canvas snapping into place,
wooden legs settling
into sand under us,
that all of this could happen,
that it could stop,
not just dreams, but sleep itself,
rain, mist, evaporation.
-Jane O. Wayne
1.24.2007
First picture
Inevitably, my first picture was of Monster. Or more specifically, of Monster's nose as he tries to snorgle the camera. In any case, compare it to a similar picture at the bottom taken with my old camera. Neato!
1.23.2007
New toy
I am so in love with my new camera, which the UPS man kindly brought to me last night. It does many tricks, while looking tiny and sexy and shiny. Soon, I will start posting New and Improved pictures here. With all six of my megapixels. And image stabilization! And Color Swaps! I don't even know what those last two mean, but they sounds important!
This was kind of an emergency buy. My old camera has been acting up for awhile, but during the ice storm, it kept getting a funny error message. A quick Google search promised nothing but death and destruction and lines on all my pictures. So I had to buy a new one. I really wanted a fancy SLR camera , but I just can't justify spending more on a camera than I spend for six months of groceries. So I compromised on a price that will have me cursing my credit card bills for months, but at least won't require us to switch to canned dog food.
This was kind of an emergency buy. My old camera has been acting up for awhile, but during the ice storm, it kept getting a funny error message. A quick Google search promised nothing but death and destruction and lines on all my pictures. So I had to buy a new one. I really wanted a fancy SLR camera , but I just can't justify spending more on a camera than I spend for six months of groceries. So I compromised on a price that will have me cursing my credit card bills for months, but at least won't require us to switch to canned dog food.
1.20.2007
eeew, gross
Update on Sebastian:
The thing on his nose continued to grow, and we discovered another on his back. A trip to the vet was made last Monday morning before the ice shut everything down. After cleaning and shaving the two spots, you could see tiny, oozing puncture wounds all over the sores. The vet wasn't really sure what happened, but thinks he might have been attacked by some kind of nasty poisonous insect or spider. She gave him two shots of antibiotics and sent me home with two more weeks worth of pills. Two weeks after discovering the first one, both sores are still there. However, they look like they are healing, and I'm glad for that.
The funny part is that he has to wear a radar dish to keep him from licking his back, and a t-shirt to keep Monster from licking his back. Part of me feels really bad because he feels so yucky, but he looks so funny!
The thing on his nose continued to grow, and we discovered another on his back. A trip to the vet was made last Monday morning before the ice shut everything down. After cleaning and shaving the two spots, you could see tiny, oozing puncture wounds all over the sores. The vet wasn't really sure what happened, but thinks he might have been attacked by some kind of nasty poisonous insect or spider. She gave him two shots of antibiotics and sent me home with two more weeks worth of pills. Two weeks after discovering the first one, both sores are still there. However, they look like they are healing, and I'm glad for that.
The funny part is that he has to wear a radar dish to keep him from licking his back, and a t-shirt to keep Monster from licking his back. Part of me feels really bad because he feels so yucky, but he looks so funny!
A delightful poem
Thanks, J!
Introduction to Poetry
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
-Billy Collins
Introduction to Poetry
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
-Billy Collins
1.19.2007
ack, ack, drowning
Quarter close and everything is behind because of the ice. No time for anything but work.
1.18.2007
Poetry Thursday
Winter Sunrise
It is early morning within this room: without,
Dark and damp: without and within, stillness
Waiting for day: not a sound but a listening air.
Yellow jasmine, delicate on stiff branches
Stands in a Tuscan pot to delight the eye
In spare December's patient nakedness.
Suddenly, softly, as if at a breath breathed
On the pale wall, a magical apparition,
The shadow of the jasmine, branch and blossom!
It was not there, it is there, in a perfect image;
And all is changed. It is like a memory lost
Returning without a reason into the mind;
And it seems to me that the beauty of the shadow
Is more beautiful than the flower; a strange beauty,
Pencilled and silently deepening to distinctness.
As a memory stealing out of the mind's slumber,
A memory floating up from a dark water,
Can be more beautiful than the thing remembered.
-Laurence Binyon
It is early morning within this room: without,
Dark and damp: without and within, stillness
Waiting for day: not a sound but a listening air.
Yellow jasmine, delicate on stiff branches
Stands in a Tuscan pot to delight the eye
In spare December's patient nakedness.
Suddenly, softly, as if at a breath breathed
On the pale wall, a magical apparition,
The shadow of the jasmine, branch and blossom!
It was not there, it is there, in a perfect image;
And all is changed. It is like a memory lost
Returning without a reason into the mind;
And it seems to me that the beauty of the shadow
Is more beautiful than the flower; a strange beauty,
Pencilled and silently deepening to distinctness.
As a memory stealing out of the mind's slumber,
A memory floating up from a dark water,
Can be more beautiful than the thing remembered.
-Laurence Binyon
1.17.2007
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
