Post Blueberry

Life does go on. Here is a glimpse of our life post-blueberry...er...post-surgery. And post-fire. Or just...oh...here is our life. Good geez.

I had surgery Tuesday morning. I left the hospital Wednesday morning. And I spent most of the week like this:

Soft blanket, not-so-comfy couch, good meds.  

Notice I kept the phone nearby so I could have phone conversations I would not remember. If I spoke to you this week, please don't assume I remember our conversation. 

This is pretty much what I do remember of Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday: I wake up. I take a shower. I take a nap. I brush my teeth and put on something of my face. I take a nap. I change my band-aids. I dry my hair. I take a nap. I eat. I take a nap. Then it's time to head up the stairs for bed again. I have no idea why I'm so tired!    

I've also moaned, groaned, and whined 5 million and three times. Precisely. At first I was sure my rib cage was tearing away from my skin every time I had to get out of bed. Or move. Or just take a breath. Now the pain comes mainly when I take a big step. Or laugh. Or burp. Or hiccup. Oh my stars! The hiccups! Of the devil, I tell you.

I have 4 small incisions and 1 giant hole in my belly button. Maybe they thought I wouldn't notice if they put a hole in my belly button but I do. And quite honestly, I'm offended. They ruined a perfectly good belly button. It was the only remaining area of my belly without stretch marks. And now it is scarred! I'm also seriously disappointed in my surgeon. He poked five holes in my belly, stuck all sorts of ports and equipment in there, and did not even have the common courtesy to suck out some extra fat while he was in there doing his thang. So flippin' rude. I intend to take this up with him at my follow-up appointment. 

I decided it was best to keep band-aids on over the tape strips holding me together because heaven forbid my shirts would brush against my wounds. I'm a big wimp like that. But now the band-aids seem to be rebelling and are doing more damage to my skin than my t-shirt possibly could so I'm ending our relationship. Goodbye, band-aids.  

Notice I said t-shirt? Yeah. Because I haven't actually figured out how to wear pants yet. Someone should make post-gallbladder surgery pants for big girls. (I think they are actually called yoga pants, but I don't own any yoga pants. Sigh.)

Well...I couldn't whine around all week. My dear Fish had turned another year older while I was off at the hospital losing an organ and it was time to celebrate. I managed a skirt, folded down at the waist and a nice lose t-shirt and I slowly waddled my way into Michaels for a tie-dye party between my naps. 

Really, Tuna...the outfit cannot be that bad with flip-flops.

Clearly, Tuna was mortified for me. Actually, she was just embarrassed that I paired this outfit with flip-flops instead of black Converse Chuck Taylors. She'll get over it. 

My Fish is the most amazing girl, and so obviously the middle child. She was incredibly understanding that my surgery took precedence over her birthday dinner. She has said nothing of not getting to pick a cake or dessert for her actual birthday. She was completely okay with buying a chocolate cake at the store instead of me making her the tie-dye cake I promised. She just goes with the flow. 

Happy 12th birthday, Fish! Sorry life got in the way, girl. 

Happy birthday, Fish. 

 

I Am A Bruised Blueberry

Just call me Violet Beauregarde. You know...the girl who turns blue and swells up into a blueberry in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. (Or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory if you're of the younger set...in which case I don't like you because you probably don't have stretch marks or poor abdominal muscle tone.)

It was 2:00 am when I sat straight up in bed and propelled myself quickly toward the bathroom. I grabbed a hair clip on the way because I was pretty sure I knew what was coming. I clipped my hair up as I broke into a sweat and began to shiver. Then the pain hit. It was like a never ending labor pain. There was no 'breathe through it until it stops' because there was no stopping.

I grabbed a bucket and headed back to bed because lying back down might make it magically go away. It didn't. I laid on my left side. I laid on my right side. I got on my hands and knees. I stood on my head. Okay, I can't stand on my head but I did seriously consider it. I told my husband I had to go to the hospital.

This. Cannot. Be. Happening. (I am being brave sharing this really wretched pic because I want to share
the true essence of the experience with you. I'm generous that way. I'm also still on good drugs. )  

Hospitals are fabulous. They have morphine. That stuff is awful going in, but after a few minutes...wow. Just...w o w. I had an ultrasound during which I'm pretty sure the tech actually perforated my gallbladder and broke a rib. Then I had a CAT scan. Then I had a sadistic shot from hell lovely shot of something that stopped the abdominal pain and some antibiotics and I was on my way to room 401 to be scheduled for emergency removal of my gallbladder.

They scrubbed my body with blue surgical scrub. Blue! It is much more attractive than that putrid yellow I have seen before, but blue? Hence, I look like a blueberry. But wait! There's more!

I have only 5 small incisions or puncture wounds. The wounds are not really the bear of this surgery. The bear is that they use one of those little openings to fill your abdomen with carbon dioxide so they have more room to work and greater visualization. In other words, they inflated me like a balloon. And holy hell, that hurts! So, I look like a big, plump blueberry. With band-aids.   


I am a true believer that everything happens for a reason. I cannot for the life of me figure out what the reason could possibly be for my needing emergency surgery in the final weeks of our fire recovery. I suppose maybe I complained one too many times about shopping and packing and sleeping in the rented bed and this was just meant to be a distraction. Who knows? 


At any rate, I have no insurance. I am in some serious pain. And they scarred up my perfectly beautiful, stretch-marked, saggy belly. How dare they! I even have a new stretch mark, I presume from all of that carbon dioxide inflation. 


Because...WHY NOT?!

Apparently, I have a new allergy to add to the list.

Update: My arms are on fire. As if I have a serious sunburn. I'm itchy. Yup. I'm having an allergic reaction. The doc has called in a different pain medication which I needed two hours ago. I feel like having a tantrum and saying ugly things but that would require actually moving my belly so instead I will sit, very very still, and pout. 

Half Baked

"My head is stuck in the clouds

She begs me to come down

Says "Boy quit foolin' around"

I told her "I love the view from up here

Warm sun and wind in my ear

We'll watch the world from above

As it turns to the rhythm of love"

Recognize that? It's the lyrics from the Plain White T's Rhythm of Love. It reminds me of the Big Guy and myself. He is the eternal dreamer, and I, the realist. He dreams our dreams and makes them come true. I keep his feet on the ground.  We've been dancing that dance for 21 years.

And so goes the rebuilding of our house. He sees an almost rebuilt house. A place that will be move-in ready very, very soon. I, see a construction zone...a disaster area...a place we can't possibly live in by the end of July. So, he dreams the dream and works to make it come true and I say "boy, quit foolin' around." I keep his feet on the ground and plan for the what-ifs. Like, what if we don't have walls by the end of next month?

Quite a pair we are. 

He is still meeting with subcontractors and battling with the insurance company and picking up and delivering supplies to the work site that is our home. I am planning and organizing, packing and labeling, making lists and checking them off as we purchase the makings of a home. 

Part of the problem is that his brain thinks in building mode so he sees progress. My brain thinks in living mode so I see a disaster. He sees a house being built really well and fairly efficiently. I see a house we can't live in yet. 

For example...

Kitchen 

He sees windows and a door and a deck. I see plywood.

Back yard...sort of.  

He sees a patio, a deck attached to that pier in the bottom left corner, and a fire pit. I see plywood, other wood, and nails. Lots and lots of nails. That point UP.

Let me just take a second here to talk about the flippin' nails. Nails are sharp. If you leave wood laying around with nails sticking UP, you could put a nail through your foot. The moral of this little story...watch where you walk around wood with nails sticking up everywhere. Yes? 

No. No, apparently not. It seems at least once a week someone steps on a nail. I'm going to take a dishpan and some Epsom salt over there and label it Nail Remedy. I have threatened to leave a first aid kit there but the guys assure me they are just fine with duct tape and rags. We've had one nail in the scalp incident and they handled that adequately (and by adequately, I do not mean to imply it was in any way sanitary) with their rags and duct tape. The nail through the foot thing bothers me though. I firmly believe that when one has a nail through their foot they should be required to soak said foot in salted water and see a doctor. And one should not argue with the big lady that owns the house. And that's all I'm going to say about that. For today. 

Anyway...as I was saying...

Under the back room. Gosh, we need a better name for that area. 

He sees fascia boards, soffits, and new doors. I see more wood.

I really don't mean to be pessimistic. It's just...well, it's just, we're coming up on 9 months now, and I still see bare wood everywhere I look. True, there are shiny, blingy things there now too like ventilation ducts and plumbing, but mostly there is a lot of wood. A whole lot of wood. 

Master bedroom, and one of our fabulous framers.  

This wall is the exterior wall of the master bedroom. It was the wall farthest from the actual fire. Nothing in this room burned. Nothing anywhere near this room burned. But it baked. The heat was so intense that the 2X4 studs splintered. The sap ran out and baked into a powder. Each stud had to be sistered. (There is something very funny about that phrase by the way.) Each stud is now supported by a new stud to add integrity to the structure. Translation: there is now more new wood in this house than old wood.

My lack of photography skills combined with  the lack of lighting in the house create a very poor illustration, but the new wood is easily discernible from the old wood because all of the old wood was sealed with shellac, or secretions of the female lac bug. (Also very funny.) (Or maybe it's just me.) (Maybe I'm just slap-happy from not sleeping in a decent bed for NINE months.) The wood treated with shellac is white. There is very little of it in comparison to the amount of new wood. 

I find it very odd to say "our house caught on fire." The phrase 'caught on fire' just doesn't explain it. 'Burned down' would seem more appropriate, but it didn't. It was technically still standing. We've discovered there is an in-between type of  fire description- 'baked'. Our house baked. The kitchen essentially burned down. The family room and dining room caught fire. The rest of the house baked. And melted. 

And so...to summarize this all-over-the-map where-was-she-going-with-this blog post...he is a dreamer and a builder, I am struggling with a harsh reality on a practical level, our crew doesn't know where not to place their feet, our house is nothing but a sea of wood right now, and I'm slap-happy. 

Yup...that pretty much sums it up for now. 

      

So Not Ok

H A V E    M E R C Y !

See-through house. (Sorry, P...you were just in the shot)

It has been 8 months since we've been home. Yes, 8. It's been 8 months since I got the phone call that would send me speeding home, all adrenaline and nerves. It's been 8 months since we stood huddled together in our driveway, firetruck lights illuminating our yard in eerie red and blue. It's been 8 months since our friends, neighbors, and family members gathered around us and held us tight and prayed for us and offered words of comfort.

They told us that we were ok. Heck, we told ourselves we were ok. As I settled down into a  hotel bed at 8:00 am the next morning, a separate bed from my husband, my children split up into various rooms far down the hall and my dogs, still sick from smoke inhalation and heat exhaustion, with extended family, I understood something deep in my soul. I was not, ok. True, I had not admitted it to myself yet. But I knew it. I kept up a mantra to my children- "we are ok, we are all ok, we are going to get through this." But, deep in my soul, I knew. We were not ok. 

I promised to keep it real here, and this is the real. I'm not ok. I am traumatized. The terror in my daughter's voice when she called to say "come home now Mom! The house is burning!" will be forever etched into my memory. Forever. The fear I felt trying to drive home to my family, not knowing what I would find when I arrived, is forever embedded in my soul. The complete emptiness and helplessness I felt laying down in a hotel with nothing but what I had with me when I had left home to go to work that evening...it has taken a toll on me. I am exhausted still. I have realized that I have little memory of things going on in my life in early September. I cannot remember what classes I was attending at college. I can hardly remember some of the details of my own home. 

I am not ok. I am alive. I am grateful. I am putting one foot in front of the other. I smile. I laugh. We all do. But we are not ok. 

I have hope. I hope, sincerely, that when we move home...when we can no longer see through the walls of our home...that we will feel ok. But, I don't know. Perhaps we are forever changed. We'll see. 

I do know that today,  I personally, Limitless Lisa, have just about reached my limit. I want to go home. 

But, this...is not a home.

Not a welcoming entry. 

And this...is not a window.

Not a good view. 

And this...is not a bay window.

Also not a good view.

And this...is not my bedroom.

Not how I pictured my bedroom. 

Not yet. I know it will be soon. Hopefully before the end of July, because that is when the insurance company will stop paying our rent for our temporary home.

Excuse me now while I try to find my 'ok'. I know I've got it here somewhere. Maybe the fire restoration company took it and tried to clean it.  

  

Some Folks Will Do Anything to Get Out of Work

When I started writing this blog, I had two goals in mind.

One, was to offer a window seat to those who were interested in following our 3 month 6 month 8 month really long journey.  The other was to create a photo journal for our family of our journey to help document the process. The blog has taken a life of its own and it seems to be different things to different people – a comedic monologue, the basis for a book, a voyeuristic peek, a vehicle for lending support- and that’s okay.  I’m glad people can laugh with us.  It is no fun to laugh all by yourself. ‘Cause then folks think you’re crazy. 

So, some weeks you get a window to our progress. Some weeks you get a photo journal.  Progress halted this week because the insurance company is harboring our building funds. Argh! And one of the few subcontractors we had still on the job this week took a short vacation in the county jail. Aye yi yi. Some people will do anything to get out of work.

So, with no serious progress to document…you get a photo journal this week.

Enjoy! Here’s a peek at our last 7 days:

Little Bean took a swing at Rough Stuff and landed her palm on a pair of scissors instead. She left quarter-sized drops of blood through the house like a macabre Hansel and Gretel scene. She screeched (and I mean that in the most sincere use of the word) and hyperventilated. Rough Stuff screamed out in uncontrollable fear. The Middle Child hid in another room, hands over her eyes, bawling. It was all quite dramatic. We escaped the urgent care with only an 'irrigation' and some band-aids. No stitches due to the location of the wound. Yay!

Little Bean and her Red Cross bear.

The Boy got hit in the face while sparring with pool noodles at a graduation party and took a good cut under his eye.  Sparring. That means they were intentionally beating the snot out of each other. With foam noodles. Wrapped in duct tape. He spent a few hours with an ice pack, has a minor black eye, and will have a nice little scar.

The Boy.

Rough Stuff, I kid you not, decided to see what it would be like if we got in a car wreck while she had her feet up in the seat, so she slammed her own knee into her nose. (I tell them not to ride with their feet up in case we have a wreck.) Honest. For reals. I could not make this crap up.

Rough Stuff. Enough said. 

Are you seeing a theme here?

Sheesh.

   

Fear, Fire, and a Failed Camping Trip

Isn't it ironic, don't you think? I started a blog about my house catching on fire and now I'm going to write about firestarters. 

Well, why not?

I love these little firestarters. I never start a fire without one. Ah, ah, ah...I didn't start the house fire- the crock did. When I start a fire, I use a firestarter and it is a one-match fire. Well, it would be...if I could light a match. But I can't. Because I'm terrified of fire. 

Pow!

There is the irony. I know. Me, Camp Fire kid, volunteer, club leader, staff member...Basic Outdoor Leadership trainer...foil pack cooker extraordinaire, perfect marshmallow roaster...scared of fire. Terrified. Always have been. 

One year my family surprised me at a restaurant for my birthday by having people come out and sing to me. The exuberant wait-staff snuck in behind me and surrounded me placing a giant dessert in front of me with a SPARKLER in it. I was trapped. I couldn't escape. I nearly tumbled backward out of my chair. There were sparks flying at my face. I was mortified. Worst. Birthday. Ever. Ever. 

I can't bring myself to actually make the match explode into flame in my fingers. Can't do it. I can't use a regular lighter either. Can not. Can't put the flame that close to my fingers. I cannot physically make myself turn the little wheel. I've tried. I don't cook on an open flame. Except when we're camping- I'm fixin' to get to that. 

In our house, the house that succumbed to fire, we had a smoke alarm on every floor in almost every room. And they were all going off when the Big Guy arrived home to find the fire. We had a fire extinguisher on every floor. We even had an extinguishing log for the fireplace which we rarely used, because... you know...intentionally starting a fire in my home just seemed...INSANE. I was scared to death of a house fire. Go figure. 

Anyhow...camping. When we go camping, I feel compelled to actually cook over an open fire. I am an excellent firestarter. I am excellent at starting the fire because, let's be honest here, once the fire is actually lit, I am terrified of it. It is imperative that I get that sucker to light correctly the first time!

The key to a successful fire is a bucket of water (that's right, the first thing you need to start a safe fire, campers, is water) and a firestarter. You can buy such things, but that is silliness. 

Scented firestarter clump.

You can make your own for nothing and they work great. If you use scented wax and actually start a fire in your home intentionally, in that thing called a fireplace, the scent is a pleasant bonus. 


This is how you do it:


Step one-
Scrounge up a paper egg carton. You'll want to put it on foil or a paper plate or something so you don't get wax on your counter. 

Step two- 
Salvage your old wax. I use the wax from my candle warmers after the scent is gone, but I have been known to use the bottoms of candles, and even old crayons. Any old wax will do and these do not need to be pretty. (As evidenced by my example.) 

Step three- 
Figure out how to get the melted wax into the paper egg carton without pouring it all over the counter. When you figure that out, drop me a note would ya?

That's it. Tear those little sections apart and use them to start your fires with. The most effective method I've found is to place one under the tinder and kindling and pack some dryer lint around it. There is truly nothing more flammable in your home than the stinkin' dryer lint. Light the edge of the egg carton and then go sit far, far from the fire while other people add logs. Oh, wait that's me. Light the edge and then tend your fire!

The perfect one-match firestarter. 

You'll only need one match (or if you're like me and have an irrational fear of fire, a really long lighter) to get your fire going because the paper will burn long enough to ignite the wax. The wax will burn long enough to ignite your tinder, and so on. The dryer lint is your power boost. Guaranteed one match fire. If it doesn't work, then you're doing it wrong. 

I made firestarters today because we planned to camp over the long weekend. We needed a getaway and I had big dreams of sitting in a lawn chair, roasting marshmallows, sleeping in our little trailer beside the lake, just listening to the breeze. Then I remembered...we had a house fire. We don't own lawn chairs. Or roasting sticks. Or lanterns. Or any of the camping gear we used to pack. 

Suddenly camping became a new challenge. We began making a list of the bare minimum things we would have to purchase before heading for the lake. Lawn chairs are kind of essential. And sunscreen. That is a definite requirement. We were working on our minimalist plan for escape when the Big Guy realized that perhaps that coleslaw he had for dinner that didn't taste quite right...really wasn't quite right. 

Sigh. Maybe I'll just pitch a tent in the backyard and roast marshmallows in the fire pit and pretend I'm not in the final stages of fire recovery hell.      

Someday, We'll Look Back and Laugh

Someday, I know we’ll look back on this year of our life and laugh. The pain will fade and the trauma will become a distant memory. We’ll tell stories about the fire and the rebuilding of our home and we’ll laugh. “Remember when” we’ll say. "Remember when Dad was yelling at the crew because they moved the electrical conduit and buried it in several feet of dirt right before the concrete mixer arrived.” Oh, the stories we’ll tell. “Remember that one time when Dad cut through the cables with the trench digger and cut off phone and cable service to 25 of our neighbors.”

What?!

Yeah. That happened.

Trench for electric lines.

It wasn’t his fault, really. He did call 1-800-DIG-RITE and several utility companies did mark the utility lines. But, somewhere along the line (puns totally intended) the lines got crossed and well…

Repairman in the hole.

This guy wasn’t too happy about it. So…I took a photo of the side he really wanted to show me. ‘Cause that’s how I roll when you’re grumpity with me. Hmph. They had to dig a MUCH larger hole (pit) in our yard and spend 2 (yes, 2) days repairing the lines. Sorry, Neighbors.

At any rate, the new electrical lines were installed, passed inspection, were buried, and…

Fresh cement.

The cement was poured!

Before the wet cement went down, we buried a time capsule. We thought it might be fun for the next poor souls who have to dig up that yard to find something interesting. We included new coins, a 2011 Christmas Coca-Cola bottle, an old iTunes card, some local restaurant menus, a copy of the high school newsletter, a music magazine (courtesy of the 15 year old), a page from the blog (of course), and a letter to the future time capsule finders among other things.  We placed it all in a PVC pipe and sealed the ends so whoever digs it up will know it is something really cool, or they'll think it's an old pipe bomb. Either way, it should make for an interesting discovery. 

The Big Guy marked our name and the date in the wet cement and that was that. The framing and plumbing continue and now they are tearing off bits of sheeting on the outside of the house. They are still finding blackened, smoke-filled pieces of insulation as they go. If you've never smelled burnt insulation, let me assure you it is atrocious. If you have smelled it, you know it is a smell you will never forget. We are trying to make sure that every last trace of that stench leaves our home. 

I guess that is excitement enough for one week. We'll see what this week brings. 

The little girls checking out the new pavement. 

Look at Rough Stuff holding one of our little blog cards. "Will this be on the blog, Mom?" Yes, kiddo. I think it will. (I should tell them that with every photo I take! They were actually cooperative!)