The thing about moving is that when you get there, you’re busy for weeks. It isn’t like a vacation, where you come home on Sunday, and you spend Monday doing eight loads of laundry and a massive grocery shopping, and then you’re pretty much caught up and can get down to the serious business of forcing all your friends to ooh and ah over your photos.
With a household move, you have So Much Work to do when you get there. Who has time for photo-sharing and storytelling? And yet, there are all those stories from the big adventure of Getting There, all those landmarks you passed and wanted to write about so you’ll remember them forever.
We’ve been here three weeks now. That seems hardly the blink of an eye, and yet in the eyes of the DMV I’m already in penalty territory for not having registered the car. I did try, yesterday. After two hours of waiting in line and wrestling with papers, I left with no car registration and a temporary driver’s license which has my name spelled wrong. Sigh. I’ll try again next week. Dear DMV, Thank you for providing my five children with an important life lesson. I call it, “Red Tape is Like a Spider’s Web and We Are Hapless Flies.” Signed, Merlissa.
Three weeks. We’re mostly unpacked, the girls are already immersed in ballet and piano, and I refer to the freeways the California way (“the 8, the 52”) without having to think about it. But part of my mind is still reliving our trip. I think I’m a little in shock that it went so well. I was braced for more misadventure in our adventure. Apart from a couple of rough moments when Wonderboy objected (loudly, stridently) to my going out to the car to bring in our bags—because these spaghetti arms can’t handle luggage and babies at the same time—everything went quite smoothly. No getting lost in strange cities, no serious injury, no breakdowns (neither vehicular nor mental), no moments of panic.
Except when those dogs were charging toward us.
It was somewhere in New Mexico, or were we already in Arizona? Already, I’m forgetting the details. I was on the phone with Scott (handsfree, of course, THANK YOU BLUETOOTH) who had an airline ticket agent on his other phone. It was the day the movers unloaded our furniture here, and they finished surprisingly early, and Scott and I were regretting having scheduled a cushion day into our plans. He was booked to fly to Phoenix on the Wednesday, planning to meet us there and bring us into California himself. But I was making great time, and the movers were gone, and both of us were wishing we’d booked his flight for Tuesday instead. Hence the two-phone conference call with the ticket agent, who said she could indeed move his flight up a day and it wouldn’t even cost anything.
“She says she can get me to Phoenix at either two p.m. or five p.m.,” he said. “Which one works best for you?”
“Oh, definitely the—” I began, which is when Jane started shrieking. Then Beanie started shrieking. Then Rose started shrieking.
“WHY ARE YOU SHRIEKING?” I shrieked.
“OOOOOOHHHHH MOMMYYYYY GROSS HE’S THROWING UP!”
And then I could hear the retching noises over the shrieking. Poor little Wonderboy. After 2400 miles, his tummy had had enough. So he was vomiting and the girls were screaming and Scott was on the phone wondering if we’d had a car accident, and the ticket agent was on the OTHER phone wondering if we were all crazy people.
“Two o’clock! Arrive at two I gotta go BYE!” I shouted. There was an exit just ahead, so I took it. It turned out to be one of those nothing-there exits, just a frontage road in the middle of lonely fields scattered with rusting cars and old tires. I pulled over to the side of the frontage road and released the girls from the foul-smelling van. Wonderboy was sobbing. Or maybe I was. Hard to tell in all the confusion. I cleaned him up—experience has taught me to keep the minivan well stocked with cleanup supplies—and was bagging his icky icky clothes when I noticed something moving toward us. Dogs. Four of them, no, five. A pack. I think five dogs pretty much qualifies as a pack, especially when they’re a motley assortment of shapes and sizes and they are glaring at you and your small children from not very far away.
Oh, look, that’s a junkyard, said my brain, which has a habit of chiming in with helpful information about five minutes too late. Also, that’s a very low fence. Those dogs could jump that fence in a heartbeat. Look, they are coming this way.
Thanks, Brain. I’d picked up on that already. Eyes beat you to it. And actually Adrenal Gland was way ahead of you both.
Those dogs do not look friendly, said Brain. I couldn’t help but notice that Brain was sounding decidedly panicky. And Heart seemed to have chosen this moment to stop beating.
The girls the girls the girls!!! Are standing by that fence! shrieked Maternal Instinct. Heart executed a double backflip, landing in Throat.
Don’t just stand there you idiots! hollered Adrenaline. Get those kids in the car before those dogs—
Oh they are really close now, observed Eyes.
Myyyyyy baaaabieeeeeees! wailed Maternal Instinct.
Adrenal Gland delivered a firm kick in the pants to Nervous System. The impact jarred Vocal Cords loose from the stranglehold Heart had put on them.
“GIRLS!” I roared. “INTO THE CAR NOW! FAST!”
Bless their beautiful little hearts, they obeyed without questioning me. Or rather, they were asking lots of questions but they were obeying as the words came flying. All three of them piled into the car as I shoved poor Wonderboy back into his seat.
“Mommy, is it those dogs? Are they coming to get us?”
“I don’t know, sweetie. Probably not. I just don’t want to take any chances—”
Oh dear God they’re almost here!!!!! howled Brain.
Yup, really close now, Eyes agreed.
Hey! We hear growling! said Ears.
Brain and Muscles managed to coordinate efforts well enough to get me into my seat where Fingers, oh so eager to help, pushed the buttons that closed the van doors.
Did you see that, guys? We had the most important job. Little old us! Fingers! We saved you all!
Hush, scolded Ears. The children are saying something. Screaming it, actually. Hold on, I’ve almost got it…Ah. “The back door is open.” That’s it.
Wha-huh? asked Brain.
The—back—door—is—open.
Of the van, put in Eyes, returning from a trip to the rear-view mirror. You know, the trunk.
We don’t have a button for that, said Fingers.
Oh my Lord, whispered Maternal Instinct.
You know we’re going to have to get out and close that, said Common Sense, making a rare appearance. Everyone else stared at it blankly.
Who are you? asked Brain.
Don’t get distracted, scolded Common Sense. We must close that door. FAST.
AWESOME! shouted Adrenal Gland. WOO WOO WOO!
Um, guys? Small problem, stammered Legs. We seem to be having a malfunction here.
Don’t look at me! protested Nervous System. It’s Heart’s fault!
MOVE IT, MAGGOTS! bellowed Adrenal Gland. GET! THAT! DOOR! CLOSED!
The dogs are at the fence now, chirped Eyes.
My BABIES! sobbed Maternal Instinct. But even as she wailed, she was joining forces with Adrenal Glands to yank Heart up out of Stomach where it had slunk away to hide, the sniveling coward. That seemed to jostle Nervous System out of its stupor, and in a flash Legs leapt out of the car and hurtled to the back of the van. Arms knew what to do. Fingers screeched in triumph at having been saviors once again. By the time Legs returned the rest of the gang to the driver’s seat, Brain was just finally catching up.
I think we should go now, it offered timidly.
You don’t say, said Maternal Instinct in withering tones.
DRIVE DRIVE DRIVE shouted Adrenaline.
Wow those dogs sure bark loudly, said Ears.
They’ve reached the fence! reported Eyes. That was a close one.
Actually, remarked Common Sense, as Fingers turned the ignition key and steered the van back onto the road, I doubt they would have jumped the fence after all. We probably weren’t ever in any real danger at all.
OH SHUT UP, snarled everyone else.
Humph, sniffed Common Sense. I can see I’m not welcome here! Fine! It stalked off, sulking, and hasn’t been seen since. Which probably explains how I managed to show up at the DMV yesterday without having had the van smog-checked, which is why I was not permitted to register it. Stupid touchy Common Sense. Humph indeed.
So anyway, that’s what happened with the junkyard dogs. Heart and Stomach still go into convulsions whenever Brain hauls the memory out of storage. Fingers are happy, though, because they finally got to tell the story.
(We are the coolest, interject Fingers. We can interject that because WE CONTROL THE KEYBOARD bwah-ha-ha-ha! FINGERS ROCK!)
Please read Moreena’s post about organ donation today. She writes:
Remember Jackson? I mentioned him in this post. (And I was wrong about his parents not having a webpage. Here it is.)
Last month his mother donated a portion of her liver to him, but
unfortunately he contracted a serious fungal infection in the hospital
that is quickly destroying his new liver. As of his mom’s last update,
the doctors only give him a 10% chance of survival without a new liver,
and soon.
I’m not sure what’s going on right now, but I know that there have
been an awful lot of very sick children that are dying still waiting
for donated organs.
Moreena goes on to make a passionate plea for people to consider signing up to be organ donors. I strongly encourage you to read up on this matter and give it your serious consideration.
My Jane is alive today because people donated their blood. (She had fifteen blood transfusions, including two complete blood exchanges, as well as so many platelet transfusions that I lost count.) She did not need a bone marrow transplant, thank God, which is a very good thing because when our hospital ran a check in the national bone marrow registry, they only came up with a single preliminary match. A very small percentage of preliminary matches turns out to be an actual match. She had no siblings at the time and was not a good candidate for an autologous transplant (a procedure in which the patient’s own bone marrow is extracted and cleaned of cancerous cells, then used for the transplant).
Bone marrow, like blood, is donated by living people. Even so, the marrow registry suffers a continual shortage of donors. Is that because people are hesitant to get involved, or because most folks just don’t think about it? I’m guessing the latter. And I think that goes even more for organ donation, because in order to make a decision about that, you have to contemplate your own death. None of us wants to do that.
Life is busy, and so often issues like this just whisk past us like signposts outside a car window. You catch a glimpse as you zoom past, and you think about how someday you really intend to come back and read that sign, visit that landmark. Should I stop now? No, the baby’s asleep in the backseat, and anyway, we’ve got to get moving if we’re going to get to the next hotel before dark.
Today, Moreena is asking all of us to pull over to the side of the road and read that signpost. If you haven’t indicated to your loved ones that you want to be an organ donor after your death, please consider doing so.
You may be choosing life for a child like Jackson.
For more information, visit shareyourlife.org.
Postscript: This morning I learned from Moreena that Jackson passed away on Saturday. Our prayers are with his family. He was at the top of the transplant list when he died.
1) We are both ClubMom bloggers. Did you notice? In the sidebar? There’s a new name in the MomBlog lineup: the Duchess Diaries. Sarah Ferguson—that’s right: Fergie—has joined the club. She is going to blog her adventures as she tours several countries for World Children’s Day to raise funds for the Ronald McDonald House Charities. (See #3.)
2) We have both made public appearances at the Country Glen Shopping Center on Long Island. Mine was a booksigning at the Barnes & Noble, and Fergie’s was (I think) at the Weight Watcher’s there.
3) We are both big fans of the Ronald McDonald House. I’m one of those people whose burden was made lighter, more bearable, by the existence of the sanctuary that is the Ronald McDonald House. And not just once: many, many times. When Jane was first diagnosed with leukemia in 1997, the RMH next door to her children’s hospital was the only place I could go to grab a shower. For nine months—nine!—I slipped over to the House a couple of times a week for a hot shower and a snack. The folks who ran the house always had fresh-baked cookies waiting on the counter, and there were large refrigerators stocked with milk and juice and all sorts of other things.
Families who were staying there long-term would cook dinner in the communal kitchen, using the groceries provided by the House staff, and everyone shared the leftovers. The House was a place of refuge from the overpriced fast food available in the hospital lobby, a place to do laundry, a place to meet other moms and dads and children who were going through rocky times themselves.
Rose was born in the summer of 1998, months after Jane had finished the high-dose, in-patient part of her treatment and we were back at home in our Queens apartment. But just four days after Rose’s birth, Jane spiked a fever and had to be re-admitted. She developed a serious case of pneumonia and wound up spending two weeks in the hospital. Two weeks! I felt torn in two. I was nursing a newborn and couldn’t leave her, but how could I stay away from my little Jane?
Up to that point, I had slept beside her in her hospital bed for every night of every admission. This time, it was Scott who stayed with her at night. I couldn’t bear to be too far away, though. The nurses reserved me a room at the Ronald McDonald House. Tiny Rose and I spent our nights there, just across the parking lot from Scott and Jane. Every morning I hurried next door to the hospital and spent the day bouncing between Jane on the cancer ward and Rose in a small library room just down the hall, where the bighearted nurses had fixed me up a little nursery with a rocking chair and bassinet borrowed from Maternity. And every morning on my way out the door, the nice Ronald McDonald House manager stopped me at the threshold and insisted that I grab a bite of breakfast before I took up my post at the hospital.
You see, the House is more than just a place to sleep; it’s a place where the families of sick children are nurtured, just as they in turn are nurturing their little ones. Scott and I stayed at another Ronald McDonald House in December of 2003, when our Wonderboy was born and surprised us all by requiring surgery right away. My folks were at home with our girls, and Scott and I found ourselves back on familiar ground, even though now we were in a different state. The room itself was a comfort to me. It reminded me of ordeals we’d survived before, and helped me believe we’d get through this one all right too. Because the House was just down the road from the hospital, I was able to go back and forth to the NICU every few hours to nurse my baby boy, and still manage to squeeze in a little much-needed sleep.
Some families must travel great distances to reach a good hospital, and paying for long-term hotel stays could quickly put them into financial peril. The extenuating expenses of having a child with serious medical needs can be frightful. At the RMH, families pay a nominal fee if they can afford it. It’s far less than a hotel bill.
And the House is far more than a hotel. There is peace and cheer within its walls. There is rest, and hope, and help.
That’s why I’m so glad to know someone like Fergie is speaking out on its behalf, and I’m proud to be in her company here at ClubMom.
What it boils down to is that people are really, really nice wherever you go. First my Virginia friends Lisa and Sarah put their own lives on hold for a month to help me pack our house in Scott’s absence. Now here I am in So. Cal. with a whole new crop of friends opening their doors and arms in hospitality. It’s awesome. Way to make a girl feel welcome!
On Saturday, my pal Erica organized a little welcome-to-San-Diego party for our family. And by "little" I mean "very big." Eight or nine families and enough food to sink the Love Boat. See what I mean by AWESOME? Five hours of face-stuffing and good conversation at the home of our new friend Matthew Lickona, author of Swimming With Scapulars
—a book Elizabeth has been enthusiastically recommending to me for a year, and which I can’t wait to read. I’ll have to wrestle our copy away from Scott first.
Matthew and his wife generously opened their home to Scott during his first weeks in California. He had just arrived, and they were going on vacation and offered to let him stay at their place while they were away. "Our friend knows your wife from the internet? Come on over! Our house is your house!"
Amazing.
We loved the Lickona gang instantly, along with the rest of the party guests: smart, dynamic, joyful families with loads of sweet little kids. This is a great community. Now if I could just get certain Virginians and New Yorkers to relocate…hey girls, I have POPPIES on my patio right now! In November!
