A New Normal

It was weird coming home today to the normalcy of home life — a dog-haired rug, a pile of shoes at the front door, an overflowing recycling bin. All of it stood in stark contrast to the sterile environment of the hospital. There were also signs of a quick exit, unfinished business, remains of early labor — dirty dishes still soaking in the sink, pad wrappers and bloody tissue paper in the bathroom garbage, a printed handout describing the different stages of labor, the crumpled up sheets of contractions in bed. We had left the house five days earlier, a couple nervous, excited and me, mostly in pain. And we came back today a whole different couple, still nervous, excited and me mostly in pain. But we carried with us a brand new life — a daughter — and nothing has been the same. 

Already signs of a baby are scattered throughout the house — vases of flowers brought to the hospital, baby blankets and cloths and Boppys laying around, a changing table in use, a tube of lanolin cream on the couch, a co-sleeper in the bedroom. And the coos, cries and sighs of Acacia. 

My nipples are sore, it’s almost 11 p.m. and Scott and I are hoping to get in some sleep before the next feeding. But instead, I write. There are too many moments and events that’ve occurred since Tuesday to possibly write then all down, as much as I want to remember it all. 

Some of it was nice — soaking in the hospital labor room bath tub, sipping on iced apple juice and concentrating on electric candle lights when a contraction kicked in. Or, after feeling so much pain, floating in epidural heaven, joking with Scott and feeling so confident in a vaginal delivery.

Then so much of it was bloody and traumatic — trying to vacuum the baby out during the final attempts of vaginal labor and, of course, the cesarian section. My first surgery. It was all so chaotic, lying on the table, arms spread out as if on a cross, a light blue curtain in front of me hiding the terror that was happening to my body on the other side. Though, was it terror if what came from it was a 7-pound, 4-ounce bundle of life, who had been waiting in the birth canal for hours and then retreated to more familiar territory, so wisely, prior to surgery? There were far too many people in the cold operating room for my mind to quiet down, too many noises and bright lights, so instead I allowed myself to fade away. Scott was by my side although I don’t know when he got there. What I recall is, before even realizing the possibility was even there, hearing the cries of a baby, and wondering, ‘Is that mine?’ It seemed so soon. And then I started to shiver and shake, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. There was no mind over body. The anesthesiologist got me more covers but nothing could stop me from shaking. People tried talking to me, asking me questions, as if I wasn’t under drugs or getting my uterus sewn up, and I’m pretty sure I ignored them, not worrying about coming off rude. 

After a brief sighting when I was shivering far too much in the operating room, I finally really met Acacia at 4 a.m., two hours after she was born, when I was in the hospital room I would remain in for four days. She was too beautiful for me to fully believe. To be cliche, it was love at first sight. 

Scott, Acacia and I fell asleep around 5 a.m. and when I heard the nurse in the room around 7 a.m. and a stirring Acacia, I woke up knowing, ‘That’s my baby. My baby,’ and feeling a pride and joy I’ve never known before. 

What followed was several days spent primarily in a hospital bed, most of it a blur — the revolving door of nurses and doctors, blood takers, house keeping, visitors, meal tray delivery, meal tray pick up. Acacia and I were poked and prodded over and over. She was weighed, naked. I was hooked up to a narcotic drip. I needed coaching the first time I stood up after the surgery, still hooked up to a catheter. I needed help going to the bathroom, putting on gauzy hospital underwear. I needed help for a lot of things. Acacia spent the final day wrapped in a glow of artificial blue light, fighting jaundice. 

Grogginess is winning right now. I must go to bed.

New York Baby

The last time I was in New York, it was so brief. 

In January, Scott and I went to Chile for three weeks mostly trekking and exploring the Patagonia region. We crossed the border into Argentina’s Tierra del Fuego for a few days and spent another few days in Santiago and Valparaiso. On our flight back to Juneau, we took a long way home, stopping in New York for three nights to see my mom.

She had downsized from a town house to an apartment since the last time we were in New York and I was tasked with moving my stuff, which had accumulated over years and years, out of her space for good. In every imaginable storage space she could find in her home were mementos of practically every stage of my life - report cards from grade school; binders and folders of stories and assignments I’d written in elementary school through college; old programs from Steffi Nossen dance performances; shoeboxes of letters I received at sleep away camp, then letters from friends I met at camp, letters I received in college, in Hong Kong; Leonardo DiCaprio collages; mixed tapes; Absolut Vodka ads; posters that lined my college dorms of Dave Matthews Band, U2, Klimt’s The Kiss; souvenirs from faraway countries. Most I threw away, some went into boxes that Scott took to Goodwill and some I took back with me to Alaska, too precious to part with.

What also went with me to Alaska were items that my mom wanted to give me - scarves she never wore, clothes she had bought me, a nice cooking pan, and a baby.

It’s a stuffed toy baby doll with a plastic head, hands and feet. It was wrapped delicately in a dish towel (that my mom also gave me). As she unwrapped it, she said, “I also want you to take this back with you.”

I had a miscarriage April of last year. It was terrible. I wrote about it only once - a poem that I wrote the night I found out. I knew I had to write something to mark it somehow. Earlier that day, I had gone to the doctor’s office in Juneau to get an ultrasound and the tech had told me at the end - after being silent for most of the process - that the pregnancy wasn’t viable; there was no heartbeat. I had to get on a plane an hour and a half later to attend the Alaska Press Club in Anchorage, which I had been looking forward to. Scott stopped by the airport so I could tell him what happened, and then I boarded the plane with other public radio colleagues who had no idea with had just happened to me. 

For three days I threw myself into workshops and press club events, accepted awards for my work, eased myself back into drinking and didn’t tell anyone about my miscarriage. I was among colleagues, but not good friends; it wouldn’t have been appropriate to have said something. In hindsight, that Press Club was the best thing I could’ve done after what had happened. I was surrounded by people and endless distraction. On the Saturday night of the award ceremony, everyone went out and I danced like I’d never danced before.

I was sad for a few weeks and didn’t start to feel better until I told a friend who I knew had gone through a miscarriage as well. Hearing her story again, years after it happened when I could finally understand it, made mine more bearable.

I had to have a procedure to finish the miscarriage - it wasn't happening on its own. It was my first time missing work for a “medical” reason. It was my first time on prescription painkillers. When the procedure was done and the nurse asked if I wanted to see it - the dead thing that was just inside me - I did, and cried. I was in a haze for the rest of that sunny May day, sitting outside, pulling a few weeds, but mostly useless.

It amazes me that a year has passed since then. I didn't tell my mom at the time that it happened, but several months later.

My mother wanted to give me the baby because she was sure it would bring me good luck. When a cousin had multiple miscarriages, she hung a poster of a baby on her wall, and then had a healthy pregnancy.

When I finally said, “Okay, I’ll take it with me,” my mother beamed, looked at the baby and said, “Isn’t she cute? She kind of looks like Scott.” And she laughed, and I had to laugh as well.

What I didn't tell my mom during that baby exchange was that I was likely pregnant. I had felt feverish for a couple days while trekking in Chile and nauseous on bus rides. When Scott brought up the possibility of being pregnant, I angrily brushed off the idea. But when we got to New York, a month had passed since I last got my period. Pregnancy tests that Scott picked up on his morning walk around my mom’s new neighborhood showed positive results. I was pregnant. But I didn't tell my mom. Instead, I turned away offers of wine at dinner, saying I was feeling sick, which I was.

The baby made the journey from New York to Juneau in a tote and remained packed. Some days after we returned home, I started bleeding. Just like the last time. Scott was away on a work trip. Just like the last time. I was positive I was miscarrying. I went to the doctor the next day and I was shocked when the ultrasound screen revealed a flashing heartbeat, something I have never seen during my first pregnancy. A heart beat.

That night, I unpacked the baby. I needed all the luck I could get.

On Wednesday, I’ll be 20 weeks. 

Changes



It’s been hard to answer the question, “How’s the new job?” or more specifically, “How’s the Empire?” Two weeks ago, I left my job at KTOO and, three days later, started a new one at the Juneau Empire.

I am still a general assignment news reporter, except my news will only be available in print and no longer in spoken form. In other words, you can only read my stories, not hear them. I am no longer part of the hip public media world (something that’ll be hard to get over, if I ever do completely), but a part of the corporate machine. Instead of walking down the hall and asking a coworker for help when I have an IT issue, I now call a 1-800 number and talk to someone in India. 



But, I must add, instead of coming home and complaining about this or that or so-and-so, I haven’t really complained yet (not seriously at least). And most importantly, instead of working 60 hours a week, I work 40. 40. Plain and simple. 



Resigning from KTOO was one of the most spontaneous things I’ve ever done, except for the fact that I’d been wanting out for close to a year on and off. Scott and I had gone to Chile for three weeks. When I got back to work that first morning, I learned of a big change in the newsroom, an unwelcome change, and I snapped. I resigned within an hour of returning to work after being on holiday for three weeks. I gave two weeks notice, took two days off, and started a new job.



This past Friday, I was six days into the new job and had written seven stories.

Over the past couple of weeks or so, I’ve probably cried, or come close to crying, three times about the whole thing. There was a sense of being let down, because, yeah, I resigned, but they also didn't put up much of a fight to keep me. I cried when I first started at the Empire because it proved that it was all so true — that I had really left radio. 



So many people have said congratulations to me about my new job, or how it’s KTOO’s loss, how they’ll be sad to no longer hear me on the radio. One person said, “I’m mad at (name of KTOO’s general manager)” because KTOO had managed to lose me. I told her not to be, that it was my decision, but really, that’s the reaction I want from everybody. 



So, how is the new job? It’s a job. 



At some point — in Chile, resigning, transitioning — I lost a little passion. I stopped caring as much. When I worked at KTOO, that was almost all I did. I worked. I dreamt about work, I woke up thinking about work, I came home and complained about work. I gave so much to KTOO and it did give back — I loved being on a dog walk and hearing from a stranger how much they appreciate my work — but I didn't ultimately feel appreciated by my work place. I felt betrayed over and over. And I don’t want to feel that way again. 



I’m at this point where I need to keep my distance from what I do for money. I’ll work my ass off for 40 hours a week, but when I’m not there, I’m not there. It’s not like I’ve stopped stressing, because I still stress out about work, but I’m trying to less and less. Other things have taken priority.



I don’t know if this is a good thing, though. A reporter should be passionate. Maybe I’ll get it back. 

Rain in the New Year

Before the rain.

The rain began Thursday. Just your typical Southeast rain — not the flooding that’s taking place in other parts of the country — we’re lucky for that. This is the rain I’m usually used to, that’s second nature, except for most of December we actually had winter temperatures and precipitation came in snow - bright snow, not grey rain. But it seems fitting for one year to end and another to begin in Juneau with rain. Why not?

On Britta’s first day, the ground was still frozen and we walked on Basin Road with ice grippers. For her next two full days here, it rained, reminding her simultaneously of her love for the region and why it’s okay she left.

Whenever I have visitors — whoever they are — I always wake up lonely on the day of their departure. It doesn't take long to get used to just the three of us again - Scott, Lota and I - but there is a period of sadness that follows the airport drop-off, and I’m feeling it right now. With Scott at Eaglecrest and the rain pattering on the roof, loneliness feels all encompassing.

Having this moment of peace and stillness — the washing machine going in the background — will be short-lived. Scott and I leave for Chile on Friday night and our home will be transformed this week into piles of things we intend to pack, lists of things we still need to do, and the general hustle and bustle of leaving for a multi-week trip — inevitably not getting everything done, but managing all the same. Lota will go to caring friends; the plants will fend for themselves.

I take it back about the typical Southeast rain. It’s heavier than that now. It’s the type of rain that will permeate my non-rubber rain gear in minutes.

I transitioned from 2015 to 2016 with a cloud of sadness that I can’t seem to shake. I imagine it’ll dissipate with the traveling - how could it not? You imagine having a good friend over would’ve taken it away, but it only reminded me that I wish she was closer, like I do of other dear friends who I miss.

It was also the silliness of the holidays, the sentimentality of Christmas and New Year’s, the lows after the highs. There’s something about not being with family on the holidays that make them not right. I’d take the hassle of holiday travel over this pit in my stomach now. Scott said the other night, “Maybe it’s just too long to not see your mom.” I think he’s right. We’ll see her after Chile.

Maybe I have SAD - the seasonal-something-disorder of not having enough sun. I never believed in it before.

“Sometimes you just need change,” Amber said that to me on Wednesday. It was good timing that when I went to pick Britta up from the airport, Amber and Stephen had a short stopover on their way from Wrangell to Hawaii. They had walked to The Amazing Bookstore and I went to see them for a few minutes before driving them back to the airport. They appreciated it since they were already wearing clothes for Hawaii temps. Amber was referring to my job woes. I’ve had too many for too long to accept any longer. Throughout them all, I’ve always felt the same way about reporting, that I’ve always loved it.

I got this text a few days before the end of the year and it’s a good way to end this post:

“Hello Lisa. Believe it or not, today is the six month anniversary of your interview with me and Liz for my mother Mildred. I will always be eternally grateful to you for that experience. You did a tremendous tribute to her, and people all around the state are grateful for your work. It was a gift to us all — our family, and me, in particular.
I hope you hare having a good holiday season. I know Mildred’s energy is smiling on us both, now and always.
Sara”

Alaska-versary, Kind Of

Ten year ago this month I moved to Alaska. I overnighted in a hotel in Seattle (paid for by my new employer) and experienced my first milk run on Alaska Air - stopping in Ketchikan and Wrangell before landing in Petersburg (I was moving to Wrangell, but the paper’s owner/publisher lived in Petersburg and I guess he wanted to give me a proper welcome, which is actually very kind when I think about it in hindsight). I’ll never forget being so excited on that plane ride and telling a flight attendant that it was my first time in Alaska, that I was moving to the state. Another passenger heard me. He got up to shake my hand and said, “Let me the first one to officially welcome you to Wrangell.” That was Ottie Florschutz, one of the many open-hearted, kind people I would meet in that town. 

In Petersburg, I ate my first Alaska halibut (smothered in mayonnaise and baked - I was shocked by the mayonnaise!), met my first Alaska friend (who’s still a friend today), and had my first Alaska hangover. And when my brief time in Petersburg (was it only 24 hours?) ended, I boarded my first Alaska ferry. All these “firsts” would continue for a few years. Everything awed me. Even the rain. 

What I don’t recall from those early days is any kind of fear or hesitation.

When I arrived in Wrangell, I stayed with a coworker at the paper, Kris Reed, and her family for a few days before I rented my first apartment on the pseudo basement level of a triplex (okay, I guess it was the basement level). 

Kris and her husband Dan are on the ferry right now on their way to Juneau to sell art at the public market this weekend. I’m excited to see them. During my whole time in Wrangell, even when I left the paper, they remained dear, supportive friends. 

A Juneau friend suggested this morning that it was my 10-year Alaska-versary. I don’t know if I quite deserve that yet since Scott and I left the state for three years. She said it could still count because my heart was undoubtedly still in Alaska. And it’s true. It was. When we left Wrangell by ferry in December 2009 with all of our stuff, we didn't know if we’d ever return. But when the time came to return, no other place was even considered. 

We moved to Juneau in January 2013, which means we’re nearing the completion of our third year in Juneau. Almost since day one here, I’ve lamented having no real friends, missing our good ones in Wrangell. In fact, for this Thanksgiving, that’s where I wanted to be, in the comforts of a small community. But, because of a series of events, we’re not going to be there. We’re staying in Juneau and hosting the holiday in our home. When I sent out the email invite a few weeks ago to four other couples, I was so afraid of rejection. Instead, all I got was acceptance. 

Happy Thanksgiving.