Gotta have a plan, man

While I’ve been sick (and, if you’re wondering, I’m still not completely over this stupid virus) I haven’t been totally wasting my time. No sirree. Not me. I am nothing if not a multitasker. I can cough and knit at the same time. I can surf the web and lay on the couch simultaneously. I can feel sorry for myself and watch all the Tivo’d episodes of Gray’s Anatomy in one 6-hour marathon. I am a renaissance woman.

I need a plan. I am just waiting around, waiting to hear from the woman in Portland, the one I believe to be my birth mother, the one I wrote to TWO WEEKS AGO asking for information. I can’t stand it. I need to be doing something. I am not the sit-around-waiting kind of gal.

So, I evaluated my options. I could:

1)Send the letter again. Maybe she didn’t get it?

2)Send a new letter. Maybe the new words will spark something in her that my old words did not.

3)Drive down there and knock on her door. Soooo tempting, but a bad idea. I am not trying to traumatize, frighten or antagonize her. I am trying to tempt her, to entice her to want to respond. I’m trying to awaken something in her that she has probably ignored or denied for almost 50 years. I don’t think showing up on her doorstep is my best next step. Plus, what if she calls the police? I do not want to show up on an episode of Cops.

4)Call her again. This may be the right choice, but for some reason, every time I think of picking up the phone, my stomach cramps and my intestines liquefy. I’m terrified of calling her, probably because the last phone call nearly destroyed me. I may not be ready to put myself through that emotion again just yet.

5)Do something else.

I’ve decided to choose number five. I’m doing something else – something I feel comfortable with, something that I feel confident will make me feel better. When all else fails, RESEARCH.

Yes, research is my plan. Information is my friend. Throughout my life, information about my origins has been my imaginary friend. It’s been like an elusive little butterfly, flitting away from me every time I reached out for it. Now that I finally have some information about where I came from, I’m hungry – no starving – for more. It’s like I had one Utz chip, one pistachio, one sip of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. I can’t stop now.

I’m making plans to spend a day (or more if need be) at the Maine State Archives. This is where information lives. Every time I think of this building, I can hear movie theme music in the background – Rocky or Star Wars. That’s how I know it’s the right plan. If epic movie soundtracks play in your head, you’re on the right track, aren’t you?

At the archives, I may be able to find more evidence to prove that the woman I’m currently stalking is indeed my birth mother. I will try to follow the timeline, starting from my birth. I’ll get a copy of her first marriage license and her second. I’ll try to find a record of the birth of any other children, including the woman I think is my sister. I’ll find birth and death records for other people in her family – MY family – and see what that tells me.

Spending the day poring over ancient records sounds like just the thing I need, but I had better bring my inhaler. Unlike information, dust is not my friend.

Quick Post

Just a quick post - busy racing weekend (again!) and not much time, what with the whole 'trying not to die' thing still going on. My younger son, Alex, was the subject of a newspaper article yesterday, and the reporter also filmed him for a YouTube video. He's thrilled to get his 15 minutes of fame, so I thought I'd post the video here.




Isn't he cool?

Blast from the past

I'm back. I know I haven't posted since Monday, but I have a good excuse. Actually, I have a great excuse. I had a little relapse. Okay, a big relapse. My cough got so bad that I had to go for an emergency breathing treatment - so as to continue breathing in and out the way that I have come to enjoy so much. I will tell you that asthma and bad colds do NOT go together. I now have some drugs and a new inhaler that are helping immensely, and I feel like I'm finally on the mend. The good news is that I did not get pneumonia this time, and that is a huge improvement on the last cold.

I've also been feeling a bit down, as the days pass without word from the woman I believe to be my birth mother. She's had the letter for well over a week now, and still no contact from her. I know she may need more time, but each day seems so long as I wait for her to have a change of heart. As time passes, I am more and more sure that she is indeed the right woman. If she wasn't my birth mother, I think she would have already called. I keep hoping that she will - at the very least - provide the medical history I need, and tell me the name of my birth father, although I think this one is less likely. There have to be some painful memories there, and who knows if she can get past them?

While I've been resting/coughing/choking, I have been looking through my collection of photos, picking some out to scan. Hallie over at Wonderful World of Wieners has offered to help me scan a bunch of old pictures with her snazzy new scanner. Isn't she nice? I took the first batch over there on Monday night, coincidentally just before the big relapse. Hmm. I'm sure one thing had nothing to do with the other. Anyway, I thought I'd share a few with you - mostly the ones that Hallie laughed at the most. I'm not even going to pretend that I didn't think they were funny, too.
My brother and I in our snazzy clothes on a snazzy couch with that mod triangle pillow and those groovy drapes. Honestly, what the heck am I wearing? 1960 was a good year for fashion, I guess.

My birthday photo. Don't you love the juxtaposition of the big round collectible plate and my big round head? I especially like the outlet placement. This was taken in my grandmother's kitchen. Some of you may remember that my grandparents lived in an apartment that was part of the big farmhouse I grew up in, so I spent a lot of time on these gray vinyl chairs with the chrome knobby accents. Good times.

There were about a hundred of these photos. Different poses, different outfits. All the same. Those are real roses in my hair, by the way. I remember my mother picking them and being worried about thorns.

Just a bunch of cool teenagers on an exciting double date. I'm the one in that beautiful, hand-sewn red-checked blouse and the high-waisted denim wraparound skirt (also hand-sewn). You can't see it, but that blouse had SNAPS instead of buttons. Say it with me, "WHAT A LOSER!" Also in this shot are my boyfriend, who would go on to become my husband, my friend Vicki and her date Mark. We're making homemade pizza at my house. Notice the high-tech Dixie cup dispenser in my kitchen. I only wish you could see the avocado and orange carpet tiles on the floor. Really. I'm not kidding.

My dorm mates sometime during my freshman year at college. Can you find me in my big perm and my signature Stevie Nicks shirt? You can't tell here, but I was rocking the sleeves-like-wings outfit. I was nothing if not fashion forward. My beloved roommate is in the back row in a tan sweater. She's still one of my favorite people in the world and the closest thing to a sister I ever had.

Okay, now before you pass out from laughing, I want you to know I had a good reason to look like this. Honestly, I did. I was working for a newspaper, and they had a float in the local parade. We were dressed up to look like old-fashioned newsboys, and we carried those canvas sacks and heaved newspapers at the crowd. I know I look ridiculous, but I still think Brandon was the cutest thing ever in his little hat.

This is the one Hallie mocked the most. Me as a giant pink blob. She accused me of wearing a big housedress or my nightgown. First of all, I was at a wedding when I was nine months pregnant. In AUGUST. It was hot and humid and I was lucky to find anything that fit me. I had been allowed up from my ordered bed rest to attend the wedding of a dear friend of mine. I think I looked pretty good, considering the circumstances. Second of all, the dress wasn't that bad. It was actually a pretty pink cotton fabric which had everything one needs in a maternity dress: it breathed, and it fit over my giantness. Here's another view of it:

See? Not that bad, right? Okay, the big wide collar was kinda hideous, but that was the style back then. I don't care, anyway. It was the last photo taken of me with my one little boy before I had two little boys, and it makes my heart contract just looking at it. That's what is so good about looking at old pictures - it helps you remember those special moments. And it gives you the opportunity to have a good laugh, even if it is at your own expense!

More racing, still sick, but proud

Well, it was another weekend of racing, and it was even more fun with me hacking up a lung the whole time. The kids had a terrific time, though, and I managed to enjoy them enjoying themselves and tried to ignore the fact that I was still sick.

The boys (Brandon hates it when I call them that - at 16 and 21, they're men!) entered three races, and ended up with a second place, a fourth and another first, but this time it was Brandon who took first place in the Open Class (also known as the Unlimited Division.) Alex had the fourth fastest time with his eight-dog team, and second with his six-dog team. Brandon was racing 12 dogs on a 10 mile course. Both of them got some pretty nice prize money and they were both very happy. I thought, with Brandon's first place, that it might be fun to take a look at some pictures from his dog sledding career.

First, here's Alex with his 6-dog team, screaming out of the starting chute.

When Brandon was small, he used to take naps in one of the spare sleds at the race site with one of his trusty stuffed dog companions.

Sometimes he had a snuggle buddy - a little girl whose dad was also racing.

Here they are playing in the snow. There was never a lack of fun stuff to do when the snowbanks were 10 feet high!

Brandon with one of our favorite dogs, Cinder. I think one of the biggest perks of growing up in a racing kennel was loving the dogs and shouldering the responsibilities of taking care of them. There's a lot of work - heavy, hard labor - taking care of a kennel of dogs and training them, and he's always had to do a fair share of the work.

Brandon started out racing with Cinder in one-dog junior class races. These races were really short, sometimes only a couple of hundred yards, up to maybe a mile at the most, but always on a closed course, in sight of the nervous moms and dads the whole time.

Here he is with that same little girl, a few years later, discussing their upcoming race. This was a one-dog junior class race in Marmora, Ontario. Brandon ended up seventh and won his very first prize money - seven dollars Canadian and little bags of candy and dog treats. Kathleen beat him, but he didn't seem to mind. He made me give him $7 American in exchange, and refused to believe me that he was only supposed to get about $5.50 for it.

When he was a little older, he moved up to 3-dog junior class, which competed on the longer trails - usually about 4-5 miles. It was hard to see him head out into the woods, but he was a pro from the very beginning and handled whatever happened out there all on his own.

Now he's racing twelve dogs, going much faster than I am comfortable with, but he still handles it fine. He tells me it's a rush like no other, speeding through twists and turns, up and down hills and around sharp corners with just the swishing sound of the sled runners and the wind in his face. Being out there with his beloved dogs, doing what they - and he - love best, he's about as happy as I could ever wish for. Whatever he does in the future in his life, I think he got a great start, learning that it was good to work hard for something you really loved.

Next weekend he's not racing, but Alex has a huge race, so we have a few days to get ready. Mostly that means I'm doing laundry like crazy, getting all the gear ready for another trip. I wish the Merry Maids would stop by and take care of all this stuff so I can find a minute to get over this damn cold.

Take Two Blogs and Call Me in the Morning

Well, I survived another day. And, you'll be happy to learn that I did take a shower. I even went to the store for supplies. Of course, when I got home, I collapsed, but still, it's progress, right?

I really appreciate all the good advice about what remedies work best for you. I really am feeling just a little bit better, even though Hallie told me I sounded like crap (thanks, sweetie, I love you, too!). She also told me that I needed some tough love and that you all were being WAY TOO NICE TO ME.

I beg to differ. The people in my house do not care if I am sick. They probably don't even notice that I am sick until there are no clean clothes or dishes or food. Now, before you get all mad at them, I have to say that this is my own fault. I have conditioned them to expect that I will forge ahead, taking care of everyone and everything, regardless of my own mood, health or attitude. If I point out that I am sick and need their help, they'll provide it. They just won't think to OFFER it. And my Catholic upbringing causes me to suffer in SILENCE. Pathetic? Maybe, but I can't help myself.

So, your well wishes and good advice and kind comments are COMPLETELY APPROPRIATE not to mention really appreciated!

I finally am almost caught up on my bloggy friends. Reading about what's going on in your world has made mine brighter. Some of you are also sick, and I send you my warmest wishes for speedy recoveries, and this advice: Drink lots of fluids, rest, and read blogs. It'll make you feel better.

Aim low

I think I've just figured out that if your ambitions are especially low, you have a much better chance at making them happen.

Yesterday, my only goals were:

1. Not to die (Totally nailed this one, although my loved ones tell me I look like death. They're nothing if not supportive.)

2. Try every single remedy suggested to me by my really smart, medically experienced blog commenters. (I almost nailed this one. I think I tried all but one, and it was only because when I found out how much this one medicine cost, I almost had a stroke.)

3. Read some of the blogs that I'm getting so far behind in reading. (I got through about half of my favorite blogs, and it made me feel better, even though I was getting dizzy toward the end.)

4. Think of something to blog about, and type it. (SCORE! I know this isn't exactly Shakespeare, but in my condition, I think it's pretty impressive.)

5. Figure out how to prop myself up just right so that I can sleep and not cough. (Almost mastered this one, and actually slept for an hour and a half. At one time. Why is it that if you ever finally get to sleep, when you haven't slept for a long, long time, and you really need to sleep, that the cats suddenly decide to chase each other around you in a circle like a herd of wild freaking elephants? They are so lucky I don't own a gun.)

Today my plan is to do all of the above, and add: Take a shower.

Baby steps. It's all baby steps.

I quit...you win

Dear Mr. Virus:

Okay, I get it. You win. You are the MAN. You are all-powerful.

I am but a weak and pathetic loser. I am completely incapable of fighting you off.

You are impervious to any combination of drugs available over the counter.

I will not attempt to battle with you any more. I will just lie here (or, actually, sit here, since lying down makes me cough and choke) and wait for you to go away. I will keep trying to breathe, since you make my asthma really bad, and pray that you do not turn into pneumonia, like you did last time.

If you could please think about starting to move out soon, I would really appreciate it. Pack your bag, call a cab - something - because you depress me. And I really don't need that right now.

In the meantime, I salute you. You kicked my ass.