There are just some days that should be stopped before they start. Unfortunately, I am not prescient enough to identify them until they have covered me in their slop and mess. Yesterday was such a day.
I had a morning where I just could not get out of my own way. Everything took longer than it should have: making breakfast, cleaning myself up, making the bed - everything. The reward for the frustration? A bad hair day. Even if I had the time to pay attention to it, my hair in the middle of a Tropical Depression is unqualified for redemption.
So, with water still dripping from my freshly washed scalp, dressed in an outfit I did not feel confident in, I ask for my husband's help getting the laundry basket, the dog, my work bag and me into the car. I was teetering on the precipice of on time/late when my sweet husband pointed out the flat tire on the rear passenger side - that tipped the scale to "LATE." I frantically called the school, where no one was picking up, to tell them I would be late for the PreK Spanish hour as I rolled at 15 miles an hour down the hill to the service station.
The men at the service station were very sweet. However, a woman with no make up, dripping hair, a dog about to be taken to the vet in her first trimester should not be promised "10 minutes" for a tire patching which would require at least 25, complete with "can you roll your car back?" "Now, can you put the emergency brake on?" "Now can you take it off?" All the while, Tropical depression Nicole reminding me that my hair would NOT be ok at any point in the day.
Once on the road with a tire patched with $15 worth of interventions, I continued to attempt to contact my school. My school continued to ignore the ringing phone.
I met my mother in Wakefield, transferred the dog she was going to take to the vet for me and my smelly laundry to her, for which I received a delicious turkey sandwich from her: one of the small flickers of grace in the day...
I proceeded on to the gates of Hades... I mean, the school where I teach.
I am going to have to reimburse several parents for the copays they spent to have their children's minds cleansed on the image of my bulging eyes as I was threatening them with notes home and times out if their bottoms did not stay in the place I assigned them to be. The administrator wanted additional lesson plans out of me; the kids were not able to remember the difference between "here" and "there" in Spanish; the pianos were electronic (not anything new to this day, but always annoying to me).
While battling the inane insanity of PreK through 2nd grade, my full time job needed me to fax signatures to agencies in Durham so they could have the privilege of paying $100 for the release of a personnel chart dating back to 2007. Of course, the fax machine did not work, forcing me to pay $1.25 to Staples to take care of this silly matter.
While wrestling with fax machines and unnecessary fees, my mother called: Hector is NOT neurotic. His incessant scratching was from fleas. FLEAS... while on K9 Advantix... and sleeping in our bed... FLEAS! That meant, I got to give him a flea bath when I was done with the other errands of the day!
Then, as I was on my way to open a health savings account in accordance with the terms of my new health benefits (I use the term "benefit" lightly... health burden would be as accurate), the doctor's office contacted me. Knowing that I have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, which is caused by insulin resistance, and knowing that THEY took me off of my insulin-sensitizing medicine more than 2 weeks ago, they contact me to schedule a longer, more intense blood glucose test. Apparently, the upper limit of the test range was 139. I came in at 143. At first, I accepted my fate of the 3 hour test. Then, I thought critically about the situation.
I have polycystic ovarian syndrome. I have no medicine, per the doctor's request. I am KNOWN to have insulin resistance. The upper threshold was lowered for pregnant women due to increased vigilance. And, I was only 4 points above the NEWLY LOWERED threshold.
Do you know what that means?
It means I'm actually a rock star. It means WITHOUT ANY CHEMICAL REGULATION WITH INSULIN THAT DOES NOT WORK, I manage, through diet and exercise, to come within 4 points of a normal range! I AM A ROCK STAR. Additionally, it means, No, you may not ask me to spend my $2700 deductible to see a 27 year old, 99 pound yoga addict for a nutritional consultation - I already abstain from what I shouldn't eat. And, if God forbid I have the scoop of ice cream after dinner, I GET MY BUTT TO THE GYM... I do NOT have diabetes and WILL NOT be spending my time, energy, and money (all of which are at a premium) on chasing down paper men. This pregnancy is already dramatic enough - no need to add more drama!
After the bank, I headed to my mother and father's house. Again, the only moments of grace in the day occurred there. My mother made DELICIOUS white bean soup. My laundry was done. There were 2 new bras and 2 new maternity shirts waiting for me.
As the contracted muscles which forced my shoulders up around my ears all day long started to relax and the last of the laundry tumbled in the dryer, we got a phone call. My Uncle Junior died of a sudden heart attack while in Grand Central Station with his son.
Uncle Junior was not sick (that anyone knew of) and was a member of the dwindling numbers of my grandfather's siblings. He was one of the large Italian voices and guts which make my First Holy Communion video a family classic. He always "knew a guy" who could get us food for family reunions or my grandmother's funeral - whatever you needed, whenever you needed. In April, he tried to rouse his brothers and their wives to make a trip to NC for my wedding. Uncle Junior was a stalwart, calling for annual family reunions - and this year's will be bittersweet without him.
Yesterday just should NOT have happened... so thankful it is today.
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