Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head

Merriam Webster defines "cliche" as a "trite phrase or expression".  While I can use a cliche to describe my recent days, weirdly enough the events themselves are anything but cliche.

When it rains, it pours.

We all know the expression, some of us more intimately than others.  Most certainly, there are plenty of folks that have hit tougher times than me.  I am not going to lie though.  The hits just keep on comin'.  (And yet there is another cliche).  I cringe when friends continue to say "Well, it can't get worse, can it?"  Don't even put this cliche question out in the universe.  Yes, it can get worse.  Don't even tempt the wrath of the Gods of Luck.

My car is finally repaired from the infamous birthday car accident (See blog "The Lottery") and to get my car back means a little piece of my life resumes to normalcy.  And to get this back, it requires picking up my car on the coldest day of the year.  More accurately, below zero temperatures.  Awesome, perfect conditions to switch two bulky, awkward car seats from the rental car back into my car.  No problem.  It is an engineering project that requires strategy and patience, so that both boys are safe and buckled in so that at any given point they can't dart into dangerous traffic on the busy road only yards from the body shop.  During the 20 minute arduous task, the kids are screaming and crying with a stream of clear liquid running from their little noses from the icy air.  Their sweet breaths are visible hanging in the frigid air with every emotional exhale.  Michael is yelling that Dylan is stinky.  I am just asking for the strength to get through this.  Then, I detect a messy diaper too.  So, I check in my diaper bag.  No diapers. Great, this is sooo not ideal.  I have to ditch the next stop to the grocery store, a trip for groceries and items that we need badly.  I head home with the kids sniffling and complaining the whole way home.

I throw the door open to the house, and I rush Dylan upstairs to deal with an impending diaper disaster.   I turn the corner into the kitchen, where my eyes adjust to an unexpected mess.  There are multicolored cake crumbs scattered all over my floor and stove top.  It takes a second to digest what has transpired.  The dog has snacked on a baking tin of 12 cupcakes that was sitting on my stove top.  Five cupcakes are missing in action and evidently, she ate them right out of the baking sheet.  How is this not surprising at this point?  I am laughing and crying all the while muttering naughty words under my breath while cleaning up the mess.  The kicker is that Dylan does not in fact need a diaper change.

The metaphorical thunder clouds begin to gather ominously around me.

Two mornings later, I feel a chill.  I am buried under my covers in bed Sunday morning and a coolness washes over me as I wake.  Strange, I think, since the last time I had this same sensation, a few weeks back at Christmas our heat went out.  Vividly, the memory hits me.  No heat with a house full of guests.  Hmm.  What a minute.

Wait.  Just.  A.  Minute.

I bolt out of bed before anyone else is up in the house and I say to my husband who is starting to stir, "I bet the heat is out again."  I hurry down to check the thermostat and it reads 64 degrees.  I am reeling from this thought since we just had a tech out again to replace and fix a couple things in the furnace this week.  He had advised that there is a chance we might need a new furnace altogether.  Pretty insightful.  Thanks, guy.

Late January in Chicago with no heat.  It is immediately evident that we have to leave the house for a warmer Sunday with our family.  We pack a few bags for the kids.  But it's not so simple.  Clothes.  Pajamas.  Diapers.  Socks.  Pull-ups.  Check check check.  But also Enzyme pills, vitamins, probiotic, Miralax, reflux medication...  check check check.  I tally through everything hoping that I have left nothing behind.  All this, though we are only planning to stay 24 hours away from home.  Just packing an 'overnight' bag is an absurd undertaking.

At least the rest of my day should get better.  A prospective afternoon including a gourmet bread making class and then an appointment to sample bridesmaids dresses with family.  I am looking forward to my few hours out for the sheer mental break.  Instead, Sunday shapes up to be a barrage of juggling and running against the clock.  Some enjoyable, relaxing Sunday afternoon.

After breakfast at Papa and Nonna's house (the affectionate names my boys have for my husband's parents), I head off to my culinary class.  I am exasperated and my head is spinning with stress.  Artisan breads.  Humph.  It sounds lovely.  Somehow I am trying to fit this "Aristan Breads" puzzle piece into my day's "No Furnace" puzzle.  It's not quite fitting.

A warm, gold hue fills the culinary classroom as I land in my chair.  Clean tables with neat, little glass bowls with various ingredients portioned out.  The massive viking appliances emit a gentle, calming lull throughout the kitchen.  My heartrate slows.  I focus on the bread and try to relax with friends.  The chef takes us through the 'easy' and approachable process of making bread.

"Making bread shouldn't intimidate you," the chef starts...  We have no heat in our house.

Chef jabbers on about proofing yeast...  We have no heat at the house.  It is January.  Freaking January.

"This dough doesn't own you" Chef continues as she shakes a blob of dough at us...  I glance at the ticking clock.  I have to get to the bridal shop to try on dresses.

"A sponge is a living thing.  Some bakeries have sponges that are hundreds of years old."...  I realize this class was supposed to wrap up at 3.

As the chef continues on, something about putting ice cubes in the oven to give bread a crispy crust, it is full-blown obvious now.  I am going to be late to try on dresses.  Or I am not going to get to finish the class or eat all the gourmet delights.  Wow, shocking, that I don't get to enjoy the best part of something.

The class breaks off into groups to start to make our breads.  Another mom and I are making Ciabatta with an olive tapenade.  We dive into the thoughtful process donning our aprons and flour on our hands.  Once the dough is done rising and just as it is going into the oven, I have to leave.  May I suggest for those wishing to learn the fine art of breads, don't plan on doing it in 2 hours or less.  Even if that's what the class schedule says.  I have to bolt and leave the trail of comforting, delicious smells behind.  I bid my friends good-bye and head for the door to try to make the bridesmaid dress appointment.

I am scattered, but make it on-time and we power through trying on different dresses, trading the styles back and forth.  We debate and analyze every stitch of the two favorite gowns.  After some time, we are in agreement on a couple options and head on our way.  I wish I could relax and take in all the special moments.

Some bridesmaid I'll be.  I am certain months from now, I will be chasing two screaming kids around the church during the ceremony.  I can just see it now.  Not unlike another family in recent memory wedding where Michael was the ring bearer.  My best friend had to rush him out of the church since he freaked out and started screaming "Daddy!" when my husband, the best man, left Michael's side to walk down the aisle.  My friend damaged both of her knees in the scramble.  Looking back, I feel terrible about her injuries.  She is amazing and laughs it off.  But maybe in the three decades she has been my closest friend, she has learned to expect this insanity.  As I leave the bridal salon, I would love to go crawl in bed, but clearly I have to head back to Papa and Nonna's home to our nomadic situation and troubleshoot other things.

As the week continues, we are still not in our home for any length of time since all the various remedies for the sputtering furnace are short lived. We are in between our home and my husband's parents' home with this ongoing situation.  Finally by Tuesday one of the techs explains to me as he points his flashlight on the furnace that it is done.  There is condensation dripping all throughout the electrical work of the furnace.  Shut 'er down.  We now have a full-on safety hazard on our hands.  We have no hope but to spend a cool few thousand bucks for a new furnace.

The second wave of sheeting rain starts pelting my heart, my endurance, and my spirit.

Here comes the heaviest gusts of rain...

One night Michael is sick.  Not himself at all.  He has been complaining about a stomach for a day or so and we are still staying at Papa and Nonna's house.  I lay with him on the sofa.  He is definitely not himself.  Clutching his stomach and groaning in pain.  He whimpers softly and cries out periodically for me.  I can't eat the take-out that Papa has picked up for us.  I am too upset and concerned.  We are displaced from home and now with a little boy who is clearly under the weather.  His eyes have dark circles under them, almost with a red hue.  I rub his back slowly and gently.  Back and forth.

Dylan is wandering around playing with various toys that Nonna and Papa have for the kids.  He walks over and says right in Michael's face, "Mike?  Mike?...  Mike!", showing Michael the brightly colored balls he tossing around the room.  Dylan scurries away.  Grrrrroan.  Michael is so uncomfortable.  He whispers, "You are a good Mommy.  I love you."  He gives me the sign language sign of "I love you."  Then he blows me a kiss even though I am laying right next to him.  I can barely contain my sadness.  I smile weakly at him adverting my eyes so he can't see the tears welling up.  I continue rubbing his back.

When I realize he is running a 102 fever, I leave Michael in Papa's comfort and Dylan still waddling around playing.  I slam my car door with a hurried bang and start the frigid car to go to the store for Ibuprofen.  I troll the shelves with my index finger searching for the right box.  Bingo!  I yank it off the shelf.  As I head to the check out, a Snoopy doll that plays the Peanuts song catches my eye (see Previous Blogs with Charlie Brown).  I swiftly lift if off the display.

When I arrive, Michael has fallen asleep on the couch.  He whimpers and talks in his sleep.  He is not restful.  It is getting late, but I don't want to disturb him if he is quiet and comfortable.  After I tuck Dylan into bed, I join Michael on the sofa.  He is now awake and I give him a dose of Ibuprophen to handle the fever.  Within minutes he is really upset crying to use the bathroom.  We hurry him to the bathroom just in time for him to get sick.  Only minutes later, he is playing cars and chipper like he is a new child.  Virus?  CF stomach stuff?  Who knows.  I am just thankful that for now, whatever it was has passed.  That night he falls asleep with Snoopy in his arms.

The storm re-surges.  The waves of icy rain are slamming against me.

Two mornings later, Michael feeling better, we still have no heat.  I find myself rushing out the door coffee-less with two kiddos along for the trip back to our chilly house.  Since we have nothing to do but kill time waiting for the crew to arrive to install the new furnace, I decide to run Michael on his respiratory vest.  He has started a nasty cough, clearly hasn't been feeling well, and with all the commotion between staying with family and trying to keep my head above water, the kids treatments are suffering.  This special respiratory vest is a medical device where he puts on an inflatable vest that hooks up and plugs into a machine that alters speeds, frequencies and pressures through the vest against his chest.  It is a form of airway clearance to help him break up the dangerous mucus that forms in his lungs.  A typical session takes over 30 minutes where he intermittently coughs and tries to clear his lungs.  He usually watches a favorite show or movie during his time.

I press the buttons on the machine to start his therapy and I press the final button to start the treatment.  The vest starts going and then abruptly stops.  ERROR 6.  CALL FOR SERVICE.  That's weird.  I unplug the large device sitting on our coffee table and replug it in.  Same drill, boot him up, he's ready to roll.  Press the button and the vest begins only to shut off again.  ERROR 6.  CALL FOR SERVICE.  Can't I catch a break?  And a third time I go through the drill only to be greeted by the same annoying message on the screen.  ERROR 6.  CALL FOR SERVICE.

Ok.  No heat.  No sanity.  No vest for CF treatments, too?!  I am close to cracking.

As Nonna arrives to help watch Michael and wait for the furnace crew, I leave to take Dylan to his allergist's office for testing for allergies on some specific foods.  Surprisingly, he is an angel.  He sits nicely for the uncomfortable scratch tests on his back.  Thankfully everything comes back negative and the retest for his nut and peanut allergies we decide to do with a panel of bloodwork at the boys' CF clinic tomorrow.  The appointment is relatively uneventful.  There is a word you don't hear often around here.  Uneventful.

The rain continues its torrential downpour.  I can't see through the unrelenting precipitation.

Then my phone rings.  It is Nonna informing me that there is a big problem that the furnace installers found.  The coil that sits in the furnace and connects into the air conditioning condenser is melted, completely destroyed.  It means that the new air conditioner installed two years ago is defunct and destroyed our furnace.  This news alone is defeating.  We are now replacing the furnace as a result of a problem with our new air conditioner, which is possibly a problem too.

I now realize that the melting coil has probably been burning through our house and air ducts.  Great.  Just what I need with two boys with Cystic Fibrosis.  And now I have to digest this too.  I am exhausted, juggling a thousand balls in the air, but this is almost too much.  The installer can replace the furnace and momentarily, that's all I care about.  At least, we will have heat.  And we need to resolve the bigger issues later.

As the tech wraps up the installation, we realize that the new furnace is going to emit a smoke and funky smell.  Clearly, two boys with CF shouldn't be exposed to this.  But one more thing life flings at my already-complicated life.  Nonna takes the boys back to her house as a precaution.  After the furnace installers leave and the house is starting to warm up, I leave for Nonna and Papa's where I find Nonna is making some food for the boys.  I am so thankful for their help, hospitality, and endurance.

I am certain our entire family, near and far, has truly been holding the umbrellas for us through this storm.  My mother, "Gigi" is her sweet nickname to the boys, listens to my sobbing phone calls and calming my frayed nerves.  My closest friends listen to me rant or get heated text messages from me and responding with unconditional support.  My brother texts me to check on me, "Are you alive?"  Everyone is weathering this storm with us.  In this way, we are lucky.  And we are not alone.

I sit down and start scarfing the tasty food that Nonna has made.  When I am stressed I don't eat, so I have to make sure that I do in stressful times.  As the night proceeds, we have to strategize picking up my husband's new tuxedo (which is getting alterations), packing up our belongings, medications, and all, and getting the already exhausted boys home and in bed.

The week has been taxing only to stumble into our home, where it is FINALLY warm.  I have become all too thoughtful in the recent days of those who are homeless or in conditions where they have no heat.  In the bitter Midwest cold, heat is not a luxury, but a necessity.  I am thankful as we bound through the door to our home and the blast of warmth hits us.  My husband and I hurry the boys to bed and completely fatigued, I too collapse into the comfort of my bed that I have missed so much this week.

The clouds begin to dissipate.  And in some form, the rain passes.

At least until tomorrow when the coming clouds reappear.

Because the rain clouds always roll back in.

Until the next storm, I hope for a ray of sunshine.