Eight years ago today, my father, Michael William "Brother Mike" Gural, died. I wasn't by his side. I was here, sleeping after an overnight shift at the AP, because I had a horrible boss at the time. Of course I could have insisted on taking more FMLA leave, but I didn't. I will always regret that.
I think it gets harder every year. That pit in my stomach feels as deep as it did on that train ride home to Massachusetts. I weep as mournfully today as I did when I first saw him in a casket in the funeral home, and when the monks lowered it into the ground.
The loss is daunting and profound. Euripides said, "To a father growing old nothing is dearer than a daughter." My father never got to grow old. He worked and worked and then he was diagnosed with cancer. He suffered and then he died. What stings worse is that he never met his precious grandson.
The pain is incomparable. And that's compounded by my ongoing struggle with faith. I was raised in the Russian Orthodox faith, by a devout mother and her parents, who often hosted the hierarchs and other clergy at the homes where I grew up. We made frequent pilgrimages to churches and monaserteries across the Northeast, including the monastery where my father is buried alongside my maternal grandparents.
As Aldous Huxley said, "My father considered a walk among the mountains as the equivalent of churchgoing." We spent many hours on Wilbraham Mountain, a short hike from the cul-de-sac where I grew up and my mother still lives. In the early years, it was often Tex (our purebred German Shepard who had been trained as a state police dog), dad and me, and later my sister, too. As much as I love and seem to need the city to keep me sane, I do miss escaping in the mountain. Names are very important to Russian writers, and to me. (I will take any comparison I can fairly make!) My father's mother was Jadwiga Urbanski (city dweller), and his father was Wolodya Gural (mountaineer). I never met them, but in my heart I will always be a combination of the city woman and the mountain man.
In the end, my father chose to be buried by the Russian Orthodox Church. My mother asked him many times (I heard several) if he was sure, as she didn't want him to compromise his principles or make a mockery of her faith. My father went to church on major holy days and was respectful to my mother's cleric friends. He was a spiritual man, but he believed faith was practiced within oneself, not necessarily within a house of worship. Like Henry David Thoreau said, "Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads." But in the end, my father insisted he wanted to be buried alongside my mother (they will share a towering grave marker in the shape of an Orthodox cross), and that he would make the required preparations through prayer and confession. Homer said, "All men have need of the gods." I question how those needs change as we get sick and grow old, and what that means to the next generation.
Like Khalil Gibran, my father respected men of all faiths. "I love you when you bow in your mosque, kneel in your temple, pray in your church. For you and I are sons of one religion, and it is the spirit," said Gibran. It's still hard for me to reconcile that, in the end, my father chose to "pray in your church."
It's easy to use science to dismiss religion. It's much harder to use philosophy. In his last days, my father returned to many of his "life texts," re-reading them in what I think was preparation for what lied ahead. I'm struggling to figure out where my faith fits into his final decisions.
"I would rather live my life as if there is a God and die to find out there isn't, than live my life as if there isn't and die to find out there is."
_ Albert Camus
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Blinded by Science? The Odds Narrow
Michael Alexander is suffering from his fourth ear infection in as many months. Mike and I have become pros at diagnosing these, and I knew the pediatrician would prescribe yet another round of tummy-torturing antibiotics this morning. Our normally happy son was inconsolable last night and cried nonstop from midnight until shortly after 4 a.m. His temperature spiked above 104 yesterday, the first sign that the evil infection had returned with a vengeance.
About one in five children with a cold or other respiratory viral infection develops a middle ear infection (acute otitis media) that may range from mild to severe, according to a study published in the February issue of The Pediatric Infectious Disease Journal. Michael Alexander was hit with the first one following a viral infection. When he returned to her office a month later with another ear infection, his pediatrician warned that this could likely become a chronic problem.
According to the study by Dr. Stella U. Kalu and her University of Texas Medical Branch at Galveston colleagues, just 7 percent of the 294 children children ages 6 months to 3 years had inflammation of the eardrum without fluid in the middle ear. In Michael Alexander's case, that fluid is causing hearing loss in both ears. Neither of his eardrums is vibrating at all due to the amount of fluid, said the otolaryngologist, or ear, nose, and throat (ENT) doctor, he saw last week. Among the children studied by Kalu's team, eardrum inflammation was rated mild in 8 percent, moderate in 59 percent and severe in 35 percent. Michael Alexander's infection has been severe in both ears all four times. And now he's got a sinus infection.
The Galveston study said that children with the infection were treated without antibiotics whenever possible. Michael Alexander's case has been so severe, that he's been treated with antibiotics every time. During his last bout we learned he's allergic to Cefdinir, an antibiotic used to treat ear infections, when he broke out in hives on a Sunday afternoon. Now Michael Alexander is a candidate for a tympanostomy, a surgical procedure which involves the insertion of tubes to allow fluid to drain from the middle ear. Mike, who suffered from chronic ear infections as a child, had "the tubes." (Mike also had his adenoids removed, and jokes that's how I could tell him apart from an alien replicant. I explain in the next paragraph why this is no longer a course of action.) A tympanostomy requires a general anesthetic and children typically recover completely within a few hours. The surgeon makes a small incision in the eardrum -- a myringotomy or removal of fluid -- and then inserts a tube to allow continuous drainage of the fluid from the middle ear.
A tympanostomy isn't recommended until a child suffers from four ear infections in six months, but the ongoing treatment with antibiotics in the meantime may not be the best route. I haven't resisted the antibiotics for Michael Alexander because I know it works quickly (save for the allergy) and eases his excruciating pain. A paper in the April Journal of Clinical Microbiology found that in most children with chronic otitis media, biofilms laden with Haemophilus influenzae cling to the adenoids, while among a similar population suffering from obstructive sleep apnea, that pathogen is usually absent. Biofilms are resistant to antibiotics. Earlier clinical studies had suggested that adenoids might be reservoirs for middle ear pathogens, and a 1987 study had suggested that adenoidectomy was effective in treating children prone to middle ear infections. But in 2006, Luanne Hall-Stoodley of the Wellcome Trust Clinical Research Facility in Southhampton, England, found that in children undergoing installation of tympanostomy tubes for treatment of chronic otitis media, the culprit bacteria inhabited biofilms attached to the middle ear mucosa, along with other bacteria that cause ear infections. "We therefore wondered if these pathogens might also form biofilms on the adenoid surface," said Hall-Stoodley.
I'll spare you the nitty gritty science behind the Southhampton team's study, but it's important to note that new treatments are likely to be more effective. "I think that scientists have begun to think about chronic otitis media in a new way, and investigation of the pathogenesis of this complex disease will help in the design of novel therapies that do not depend on antibiotic treatment alone," said Hall-Stoodley. "Chronic middle ear infection can cause hearing impairment, which can affect verbal ability and education in children."
In March, the Centers for Disease Control announced that ear infection diagnoses had plunged by nearly 30 percent over the past 15 years. I wish my son wasn't bucking that trend. As the odds narrow, Mike and I are likely to consent to a tympanostomy when Michael Alexander returns to the ENT in three weeks. For now, I just hope this last dose of antibiotics dulls his pain. I can't bear his cries and my inability to console him. My ears are hurting, too, along with my throat. But it's the pain in my heart that's worse. I'm trying to be well-informed without reading too many articles on the risks and arguments against a tympanostomy. Odds are I'll be blinded by science.
"A science is any discipline in which the fool of this generation can go beyond the point reached by the genius of the last generation." _ Max Gluckman, South African-born British social anthropologist
About one in five children with a cold or other respiratory viral infection develops a middle ear infection (acute otitis media) that may range from mild to severe, according to a study published in the February issue of The Pediatric Infectious Disease Journal. Michael Alexander was hit with the first one following a viral infection. When he returned to her office a month later with another ear infection, his pediatrician warned that this could likely become a chronic problem.
According to the study by Dr. Stella U. Kalu and her University of Texas Medical Branch at Galveston colleagues, just 7 percent of the 294 children children ages 6 months to 3 years had inflammation of the eardrum without fluid in the middle ear. In Michael Alexander's case, that fluid is causing hearing loss in both ears. Neither of his eardrums is vibrating at all due to the amount of fluid, said the otolaryngologist, or ear, nose, and throat (ENT) doctor, he saw last week. Among the children studied by Kalu's team, eardrum inflammation was rated mild in 8 percent, moderate in 59 percent and severe in 35 percent. Michael Alexander's infection has been severe in both ears all four times. And now he's got a sinus infection.
The Galveston study said that children with the infection were treated without antibiotics whenever possible. Michael Alexander's case has been so severe, that he's been treated with antibiotics every time. During his last bout we learned he's allergic to Cefdinir, an antibiotic used to treat ear infections, when he broke out in hives on a Sunday afternoon. Now Michael Alexander is a candidate for a tympanostomy, a surgical procedure which involves the insertion of tubes to allow fluid to drain from the middle ear. Mike, who suffered from chronic ear infections as a child, had "the tubes." (Mike also had his adenoids removed, and jokes that's how I could tell him apart from an alien replicant. I explain in the next paragraph why this is no longer a course of action.) A tympanostomy requires a general anesthetic and children typically recover completely within a few hours. The surgeon makes a small incision in the eardrum -- a myringotomy or removal of fluid -- and then inserts a tube to allow continuous drainage of the fluid from the middle ear.
A tympanostomy isn't recommended until a child suffers from four ear infections in six months, but the ongoing treatment with antibiotics in the meantime may not be the best route. I haven't resisted the antibiotics for Michael Alexander because I know it works quickly (save for the allergy) and eases his excruciating pain. A paper in the April Journal of Clinical Microbiology found that in most children with chronic otitis media, biofilms laden with Haemophilus influenzae cling to the adenoids, while among a similar population suffering from obstructive sleep apnea, that pathogen is usually absent. Biofilms are resistant to antibiotics. Earlier clinical studies had suggested that adenoids might be reservoirs for middle ear pathogens, and a 1987 study had suggested that adenoidectomy was effective in treating children prone to middle ear infections. But in 2006, Luanne Hall-Stoodley of the Wellcome Trust Clinical Research Facility in Southhampton, England, found that in children undergoing installation of tympanostomy tubes for treatment of chronic otitis media, the culprit bacteria inhabited biofilms attached to the middle ear mucosa, along with other bacteria that cause ear infections. "We therefore wondered if these pathogens might also form biofilms on the adenoid surface," said Hall-Stoodley.
I'll spare you the nitty gritty science behind the Southhampton team's study, but it's important to note that new treatments are likely to be more effective. "I think that scientists have begun to think about chronic otitis media in a new way, and investigation of the pathogenesis of this complex disease will help in the design of novel therapies that do not depend on antibiotic treatment alone," said Hall-Stoodley. "Chronic middle ear infection can cause hearing impairment, which can affect verbal ability and education in children."
In March, the Centers for Disease Control announced that ear infection diagnoses had plunged by nearly 30 percent over the past 15 years. I wish my son wasn't bucking that trend. As the odds narrow, Mike and I are likely to consent to a tympanostomy when Michael Alexander returns to the ENT in three weeks. For now, I just hope this last dose of antibiotics dulls his pain. I can't bear his cries and my inability to console him. My ears are hurting, too, along with my throat. But it's the pain in my heart that's worse. I'm trying to be well-informed without reading too many articles on the risks and arguments against a tympanostomy. Odds are I'll be blinded by science.
"A science is any discipline in which the fool of this generation can go beyond the point reached by the genius of the last generation." _ Max Gluckman, South African-born British social anthropologist
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Weeping for Delight?
It's around this time of year that I am paralyzed by a profound sadness. It's been the same for nearly a decade now, yet each year it's somehow a shock and surprise when it strikes. I suddenly think I'm sinking into a deep depression, charting my failures and dismissing any successes. If I rambled on about my daily dilemmas, any mental health professional would be quick to diagnose me with generalized anxiety. But then, just as I'm reading through articles in The American Journal of Psychiatry and comparing myself to test subjects, I realize why the simplest chore seems like a herculean task, why I can't bear my own reflection, why I loathe my very existence.
Just this morning -- when Michael Alexander and I were stuck for some 10 eternal minutes in an elevator that was being repaired -- it was easy to believe the world was conspiring against me. Then it happens again like it does every year. Just as suddenly as I'm hit with sorrow, I'm struck by the sobering reality: I miss my father. He died June 21, 2002. (He was hospitalized for the first time in his life on Memorial Day weekend two years earlier.) It's not as if I forget that date. Or him. He permeates my every thought and feeling, especially when I think of the grandson her never met. Any bullshit about how it gets better as the years go by just makes me hurt more. I don't want it to "get better." I want my dad.
That month or so leading up to Father's Day is staggering. The cards come out the day after Mother's Day and every ad is urging you to buy for dad or a grad. It's inescapable. At least now I have two fathers-in-law and my son is blessed with two living, loving grandfathers. I start trolling for cards that day after Mother's Day, looking for my father's-in-law while inevitably finding the perfect one for my dad. I remember the last one I gave him on June 16, 2002. I sealed it with tears.
It's a punch in the gut -- twice. First when I enter this stage of intense self-loathing and self-inflicted suffering, and again when I realize it's just a phase of mourning. Perhaps I create pain to mask the real emotions, the immeasurable loss, the regret that I wasn't there the day my father died. The lost days, hours, minutes I could have spent with him. It crushes me to think that I chose work over his death bed. When that regret hits, it's like an avalanche. I regret everything I didn't do for people I love and worry that I continue to make too few sacrifices.
I'm cutting this short for fear I will wallow to deeply in my mourning. My father wouldn't want me to cry. "Be strong, Tash," is what he'd say, even as he fought back his own tears. He was a tough guy and he taught me to be one, too. That makes this even tougher. Brother Mike gave me many books to read for many different reasons. Some he called "life texts." Khalil Gibran's The Prophet was one of those. Maybe it's time I re-read it.
"When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." _ Khalil Gibran
Just this morning -- when Michael Alexander and I were stuck for some 10 eternal minutes in an elevator that was being repaired -- it was easy to believe the world was conspiring against me. Then it happens again like it does every year. Just as suddenly as I'm hit with sorrow, I'm struck by the sobering reality: I miss my father. He died June 21, 2002. (He was hospitalized for the first time in his life on Memorial Day weekend two years earlier.) It's not as if I forget that date. Or him. He permeates my every thought and feeling, especially when I think of the grandson her never met. Any bullshit about how it gets better as the years go by just makes me hurt more. I don't want it to "get better." I want my dad.
That month or so leading up to Father's Day is staggering. The cards come out the day after Mother's Day and every ad is urging you to buy for dad or a grad. It's inescapable. At least now I have two fathers-in-law and my son is blessed with two living, loving grandfathers. I start trolling for cards that day after Mother's Day, looking for my father's-in-law while inevitably finding the perfect one for my dad. I remember the last one I gave him on June 16, 2002. I sealed it with tears.
It's a punch in the gut -- twice. First when I enter this stage of intense self-loathing and self-inflicted suffering, and again when I realize it's just a phase of mourning. Perhaps I create pain to mask the real emotions, the immeasurable loss, the regret that I wasn't there the day my father died. The lost days, hours, minutes I could have spent with him. It crushes me to think that I chose work over his death bed. When that regret hits, it's like an avalanche. I regret everything I didn't do for people I love and worry that I continue to make too few sacrifices.
I'm cutting this short for fear I will wallow to deeply in my mourning. My father wouldn't want me to cry. "Be strong, Tash," is what he'd say, even as he fought back his own tears. He was a tough guy and he taught me to be one, too. That makes this even tougher. Brother Mike gave me many books to read for many different reasons. Some he called "life texts." Khalil Gibran's The Prophet was one of those. Maybe it's time I re-read it.
"When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." _ Khalil Gibran
Monday, May 2, 2011
Sleeping through History
We put Michael Alexander to sleep at 9 last night. He fell asleep about a half hour later and slept until about 6 this morning, just after Mike left for the gym.
Mike and I went to bed about two hours after our son and slept through the news alerts and press conference.
Ingrained superstition (my mother and her parents were born in Russia) makes it tough to write this, but I think we've solved the sleep problem. (Gasp.) Most nights, Michael Alexander had been waking at 11 or midnight, then again around 3 and again around 5 and 6. It might have been our fault. He had been sleeping in our room and we comforted, even fed (a practice his doctor condemns) him each time he woke, bringing him in our bed to snuggle. Often we'd just stare at him, admiring the way he pushes each of us closer to each edge of our queen size bed. Other times, we'd wake him with the slightest movement. As much as Mike and I love to cuddle with our son in the middle of the night, I knew we needed to make a big, grown-up step. Last night we moved his bed into the "living area" of our one-bedroom apartment.
So far, it's been a perfect morning. I slept (or at least rested, uninterrupted aside from the few trips I made to the living area to check on my slumbering son) a solid 7 hours! Michael Alexander rejected the cereal I tried to feed him, but shared my eggs and salsa, eating a real breakfast without protest. Now he's been playing on his own, allowing me a few precious morning minutes to write.
If things go well, it could be a William Blake day: "Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night."
Most days I can't write because I am so tired and all my daytime energy is focused on getting Michael Alexander to eat something besides crackers and keeping him away from household hazards like the stove and toilet. Today I am finding it hard to write because my mind is so clear I can't focus on any single idea. A good problem to have, but one that makes me worry I am just babbling in a state of unexpected energy.
I am forced to focus, though, as Michael Alexander is eager for me to join in his solo play session.
It's fascinating to read today's Facebook posts, some so stupid or self-absorbed I'm inclined to de-friend those posters. Others are funny, pithy or thoughtful, and many reflect on the poster's 9/11 moment.
The decade that's passed since Sept. 11, 2001, has been one of tremendous personal change. It's included the worst of times (the death of my father) and the best of times (my marriage and the birth of my son.)
Only one thing unites these two moments in history -- I slept through both.
On 9/11, I was single and living on the top floor of a walkup on Thompson Street in the Village. My father was in my native Massachusetts, dying of cancer. I was an editor on national desk at AP, working the overnight shift and it was my scheduled night off. I heard the first plane, but ignored it since you hear a lot from the top floor of a walkup. My landline (remember those?) rang and my best friend, Erica, blurted out, "Oh my God, sweetheart! You're OK!" Seconds after I turned on my tiny console TV, the power went out and I quickly threw on the jeans and tank top I was wearing before I went to bed. I was headed east on Houston as the horror became apparent. Survivors covered in soot were running past me, some screaming, some stunned silent, and all looking like statues. I joined the queue for a payphone (remember those?) and waited anxiously for my chance to reach an operator. Most people ahead of me failed, but using a toll-free number I recalled from an ad, I was able to make a collect call to my mother.
I recall the anger, the fear, the rage, the myriad emotions of that moment. My father was dying and now somebody was threatening my right as a (first-generation, on my mother's side) American to live in a country where I was safe from the type of unspeakable violence that wiped out most of my mother's family.
It's strange to revisit those emotions on a day like this, while reveling in the wake of my son's 9-hour rest.
Michael Alexander is calling for "mom-mom." I'm going to try to keep my brain working as I entertain him. My work is play. I don't have to go sit in a cubicle and shut it off.
"The brain is a wonderful organ; it starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office." Robert Frost
Mike and I went to bed about two hours after our son and slept through the news alerts and press conference.
Ingrained superstition (my mother and her parents were born in Russia) makes it tough to write this, but I think we've solved the sleep problem. (Gasp.) Most nights, Michael Alexander had been waking at 11 or midnight, then again around 3 and again around 5 and 6. It might have been our fault. He had been sleeping in our room and we comforted, even fed (a practice his doctor condemns) him each time he woke, bringing him in our bed to snuggle. Often we'd just stare at him, admiring the way he pushes each of us closer to each edge of our queen size bed. Other times, we'd wake him with the slightest movement. As much as Mike and I love to cuddle with our son in the middle of the night, I knew we needed to make a big, grown-up step. Last night we moved his bed into the "living area" of our one-bedroom apartment.
So far, it's been a perfect morning. I slept (or at least rested, uninterrupted aside from the few trips I made to the living area to check on my slumbering son) a solid 7 hours! Michael Alexander rejected the cereal I tried to feed him, but shared my eggs and salsa, eating a real breakfast without protest. Now he's been playing on his own, allowing me a few precious morning minutes to write.
If things go well, it could be a William Blake day: "Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night."
Most days I can't write because I am so tired and all my daytime energy is focused on getting Michael Alexander to eat something besides crackers and keeping him away from household hazards like the stove and toilet. Today I am finding it hard to write because my mind is so clear I can't focus on any single idea. A good problem to have, but one that makes me worry I am just babbling in a state of unexpected energy.
I am forced to focus, though, as Michael Alexander is eager for me to join in his solo play session.
It's fascinating to read today's Facebook posts, some so stupid or self-absorbed I'm inclined to de-friend those posters. Others are funny, pithy or thoughtful, and many reflect on the poster's 9/11 moment.
The decade that's passed since Sept. 11, 2001, has been one of tremendous personal change. It's included the worst of times (the death of my father) and the best of times (my marriage and the birth of my son.)
Only one thing unites these two moments in history -- I slept through both.
On 9/11, I was single and living on the top floor of a walkup on Thompson Street in the Village. My father was in my native Massachusetts, dying of cancer. I was an editor on national desk at AP, working the overnight shift and it was my scheduled night off. I heard the first plane, but ignored it since you hear a lot from the top floor of a walkup. My landline (remember those?) rang and my best friend, Erica, blurted out, "Oh my God, sweetheart! You're OK!" Seconds after I turned on my tiny console TV, the power went out and I quickly threw on the jeans and tank top I was wearing before I went to bed. I was headed east on Houston as the horror became apparent. Survivors covered in soot were running past me, some screaming, some stunned silent, and all looking like statues. I joined the queue for a payphone (remember those?) and waited anxiously for my chance to reach an operator. Most people ahead of me failed, but using a toll-free number I recalled from an ad, I was able to make a collect call to my mother.
I recall the anger, the fear, the rage, the myriad emotions of that moment. My father was dying and now somebody was threatening my right as a (first-generation, on my mother's side) American to live in a country where I was safe from the type of unspeakable violence that wiped out most of my mother's family.
It's strange to revisit those emotions on a day like this, while reveling in the wake of my son's 9-hour rest.
Michael Alexander is calling for "mom-mom." I'm going to try to keep my brain working as I entertain him. My work is play. I don't have to go sit in a cubicle and shut it off.
"The brain is a wonderful organ; it starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office." Robert Frost
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
My Invisible Paycheck
Michael Alexander was up from 11 p.m. until 4 a.m., teeming with boundless energy. I was fighting back the tears, struggling to smile while trying to soothe him into a sleeplike state. He finally fell asleep around 4:30, after a crying fit as passionate as his five-hour overnight playfest. He was back up as soon as Mike left for work after returning from his uber-early gym shift. Mike works out and goes to work even earlier on Wednesdays so I can get to the gym on time to secure my spot in favorite abs class that starts at 6:15 p.m.
Michael Alexander appears well-rested, smiling and playing without any apparent interest in a nap. I have devoured a pot of very strong coffee just to keep up with him. I put him in the Jumperoo so I could scribble my barely coherent thoughts. He's learning as he bounces, smiling at me for approval as he meticulously places plastic fruits into the corresponding spots in exchange for a light. That smile is the only thing that's keeping me from crumbling.
My dear friend Kate suggested that maybe he's not sleeping because of a developmental milestone. That's quite possible, as he learned to clap properly during storytime Monday, and was up in the middle of the night flaunting his newly perfected skill. He's also taking more solo steps without wobbling. It is so exciting to witness his rapid progress as he quickly approaches his first birthday. I just wish I could get enough rest to match his exuberance.
Mindy Greenstein, a psycho-oncologist and consultant at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, last week blogged about motherhood. She calls it "the most invisible, undervalued job that I have ever had." No doubt Greenstein commands a fat salary for her work at Memorial. It is probably even more than the estimated (and of course, hypothetical) *salary* for a stay-at-home mom in Manhattan. According to salary.com, the local median for a SAHM in my zip code is $139,888, in a range of $117,583 to $169,794. Even at the low end, that's more than most executive editor jobs I'm qualified for pay. And those figures are for last year, in a report that posts increases every year.
I don't expect a paycheck for my labor of love, but even the most grueling day at the office ends. Here I am, brought to you exclusively by the power of caffeine, focusing purely on my sweet son's smile. I have so much to do around the house, which quickly transforms into a disaster zone after two mostly sleepless nights, but I am expending every ounce of energy to keep Michael Alexander entertained.
I am actively applying for full-time jobs. I've had a few interviews, all positive, until the topic of salary arises. None match the low end of my "typical" SAHM compensation. The most interesting job I interviewed for this week pays a pittance which is less than half of my average salary of the last five years. I just received an email follow up to an interview last week. I wasn't expecting to hear back, as I thought I was out of the game once I'd mentioned at the end of a lengthy interview that I have a nearly year-old son. The job requires the editor to be on call 24/7. I'm already on call 24/7.
I'm grappling with how to reply to this email. Of course I am flattered to emerge as the top contender in a hyper-competitive market. This job doesn't pay the "typical" SAHM rate, but it's enough to offset the cost of childcare. I am tempted, as I struggle with a job title that makes me "invisible," but I shudder to think that reclaiming visibility requires me to be on call when my son needs me most. I am crafting my response now, negotiating for a slightly higher salary and some flexibility over being on call 24/7.
I'm not sure what it will take for me to trade my invisible paycheck for a living wage.
Michael Alexander appears well-rested, smiling and playing without any apparent interest in a nap. I have devoured a pot of very strong coffee just to keep up with him. I put him in the Jumperoo so I could scribble my barely coherent thoughts. He's learning as he bounces, smiling at me for approval as he meticulously places plastic fruits into the corresponding spots in exchange for a light. That smile is the only thing that's keeping me from crumbling.
My dear friend Kate suggested that maybe he's not sleeping because of a developmental milestone. That's quite possible, as he learned to clap properly during storytime Monday, and was up in the middle of the night flaunting his newly perfected skill. He's also taking more solo steps without wobbling. It is so exciting to witness his rapid progress as he quickly approaches his first birthday. I just wish I could get enough rest to match his exuberance.
Mindy Greenstein, a psycho-oncologist and consultant at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, last week blogged about motherhood. She calls it "the most invisible, undervalued job that I have ever had." No doubt Greenstein commands a fat salary for her work at Memorial. It is probably even more than the estimated (and of course, hypothetical) *salary* for a stay-at-home mom in Manhattan. According to salary.com, the local median for a SAHM in my zip code is $139,888, in a range of $117,583 to $169,794. Even at the low end, that's more than most executive editor jobs I'm qualified for pay. And those figures are for last year, in a report that posts increases every year.
I don't expect a paycheck for my labor of love, but even the most grueling day at the office ends. Here I am, brought to you exclusively by the power of caffeine, focusing purely on my sweet son's smile. I have so much to do around the house, which quickly transforms into a disaster zone after two mostly sleepless nights, but I am expending every ounce of energy to keep Michael Alexander entertained.
I am actively applying for full-time jobs. I've had a few interviews, all positive, until the topic of salary arises. None match the low end of my "typical" SAHM compensation. The most interesting job I interviewed for this week pays a pittance which is less than half of my average salary of the last five years. I just received an email follow up to an interview last week. I wasn't expecting to hear back, as I thought I was out of the game once I'd mentioned at the end of a lengthy interview that I have a nearly year-old son. The job requires the editor to be on call 24/7. I'm already on call 24/7.
I'm grappling with how to reply to this email. Of course I am flattered to emerge as the top contender in a hyper-competitive market. This job doesn't pay the "typical" SAHM rate, but it's enough to offset the cost of childcare. I am tempted, as I struggle with a job title that makes me "invisible," but I shudder to think that reclaiming visibility requires me to be on call when my son needs me most. I am crafting my response now, negotiating for a slightly higher salary and some flexibility over being on call 24/7.
I'm not sure what it will take for me to trade my invisible paycheck for a living wage.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
I didn't wake up with gum in my hair, but it turned out to be a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day for (Michael) Alexander('s Mom).
Michael Alexander has been battling a cold for a couple days. Mike and I also have been stricken with a stomach flu of some sort, but I will spare you the details. Suffice it to say, it's been a tough few days, the last two with practically no sleep. Our normally happy son couldn't be consoled the last two nights, crying from pain that was clearly beyond the obvious sniffles and cough. I suspected an ear infection and called his doctor's office yesterday. It was booked solid all day, but the nurse offered me the last appointment for today.
I muster enough ambition to drag myself downstairs, lugging laundry, ahead of the appointment. It will be quick, I think, since we have a real appointment and aren't just walking in during the daily sick hour. We'll be back just in time to transfer the loads to dryers. Running through the torrential rain, we arrive at the doctor's office a few minutes early. Michael Alexander is dry thanks to his stroller rain cover. I am drenched, my trench coat rendered useless other than soaking up about five pounds from the deluge. My eyes irritated from the congestion and sinus pressure, I wear my glasses out -- a very rare, and very bad choice. I lock up the stroller and attempt to carry Michael Alexander inside without getting him soggy from my coat.
The office is busy, as expected, and the waiting room is especially cramped as I am the only solo parent to accompany a child. How do these people always get time off? My frustration is compounded when two families arrive with a nanny to assist the couple. What I wouldn't have given to have someone help me haul the car seat and take a taxi, or at least run in for the stroller lock while I watch Michael Alexander. My wet hair plastered to my face, my jeans and sneakers slick, I sit downstairs, feeling inferior among the cabbing couples. We wait nearly two hours. So much for getting back in time for the laundry. My success keeping Michael Alexander dry as I carried him into the office and back to the stroller is squashed when I find someone had removed the rain cover. It was a little windy, but not windy enough to topple the cover. Someone clearly unfastened the Velcro. I cry as I compose my rage.
Michael Alexander is diagnosed with a double ear infection and a slight bronchial infection. We use a nebulizer at the office, and the doctor prescribes one for home, along with Albuterol (a stimulant) and Amoxicillin. The doctor calls the trinity of treatment into Bigelow and I expect to pick up and pay upon arrival. "We got the call, yes," the pharmacist says. "We will fill it now." OK. I'm not sure why it hadn't already been filled, but I am assured it was now being filled "now." A half hour later, I am still soaked, my sore throat raw, my nose running and my head about to implode from the sinus pressure. I am struggling to soothe my son, who now needs a change and more milk. I ask about the order. "Oh, it will be a half hour." Another half hour? I was told it would be filled "now!" Bigelow, by the way, doesn't accept our insurance card, so it's an out-of-pocket payment for a wait that makes the chain stores seem charming. (Well, not really.) At this point, the only thing that keeps me from committing myself to Bellevue is my suffering son. I nearly storm out of the tony landmark chemist, but compose myself enough to raise my voice just enough to speed the process.
Michael Alexander smiles as soon I give him his first dose of antibiotics while I am instructed on how to assemble the nebulizer's tubes and dispense the medication. My son is easily comforted, as the fast-acting antibiotics take nearly immediate effect. It takes me a little longer to regain any semblance of sanity. I'm not quite there yet. More than three hours later, we hustle home, again pounded by rain. The rain, of course, started just before we left in the morning and stopped shortly after we returned home. The trip home seems to take twice as long, as the water-fearing masses huddled under obnoxious oversized umbrellas seem completely oblivious to my need to get home quickly. The slow-walkers, who have no business in a city like New York, are especially loathsome in inclement weather. Those who lurk under awnings and construction canopies are the worst. How pathetic is one's existence if s/he has time to wait for the rain to taper? I am disgusted by this always, and annoyed on a day like today.
I barrel into our building and try to distract Michael Alexander as we head to the basement. I adamantly abhor the practice of leaving loads in the washers and dryers, and I often fantasize about dumping the dissenters' duds onto the floor, but I have only ever carefully placed an abuser's clothes into a cart. (Of course, I curse them under my breath, but I have never taken it out on their washables.) I am more upset than outraged to find one of my wet loads dumped onto the filthy floor. The machine from which they were ejected was not in use, so at least I am able to *quickly* rewash our sheets and towels.
Michael Alexander went down for a nap about 15 minuets ago, but already is tossing and turning. I feel guilty for stealing this time to write, but it might be my only respite in the next few days. Did I mention that Albuterol is a stimulant? I need to administer it three times a day, sanitizing the mouthpiece ahead of every use. He's waking. My 15 minutes are up. The way today's been going, putting away laundry will be my break. At least it's dry.
Michael Alexander's on the mend, albeit slowly, thanks to modern medicine. I just hope this Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day ends with a relaxing evening. And maybe even some sleep! And maybe I'll order Judith Viorst's children's classic. Even the worst days can spur the best literary memories.
Michael Alexander has been battling a cold for a couple days. Mike and I also have been stricken with a stomach flu of some sort, but I will spare you the details. Suffice it to say, it's been a tough few days, the last two with practically no sleep. Our normally happy son couldn't be consoled the last two nights, crying from pain that was clearly beyond the obvious sniffles and cough. I suspected an ear infection and called his doctor's office yesterday. It was booked solid all day, but the nurse offered me the last appointment for today.
I muster enough ambition to drag myself downstairs, lugging laundry, ahead of the appointment. It will be quick, I think, since we have a real appointment and aren't just walking in during the daily sick hour. We'll be back just in time to transfer the loads to dryers. Running through the torrential rain, we arrive at the doctor's office a few minutes early. Michael Alexander is dry thanks to his stroller rain cover. I am drenched, my trench coat rendered useless other than soaking up about five pounds from the deluge. My eyes irritated from the congestion and sinus pressure, I wear my glasses out -- a very rare, and very bad choice. I lock up the stroller and attempt to carry Michael Alexander inside without getting him soggy from my coat.
The office is busy, as expected, and the waiting room is especially cramped as I am the only solo parent to accompany a child. How do these people always get time off? My frustration is compounded when two families arrive with a nanny to assist the couple. What I wouldn't have given to have someone help me haul the car seat and take a taxi, or at least run in for the stroller lock while I watch Michael Alexander. My wet hair plastered to my face, my jeans and sneakers slick, I sit downstairs, feeling inferior among the cabbing couples. We wait nearly two hours. So much for getting back in time for the laundry. My success keeping Michael Alexander dry as I carried him into the office and back to the stroller is squashed when I find someone had removed the rain cover. It was a little windy, but not windy enough to topple the cover. Someone clearly unfastened the Velcro. I cry as I compose my rage.
Michael Alexander is diagnosed with a double ear infection and a slight bronchial infection. We use a nebulizer at the office, and the doctor prescribes one for home, along with Albuterol (a stimulant) and Amoxicillin. The doctor calls the trinity of treatment into Bigelow and I expect to pick up and pay upon arrival. "We got the call, yes," the pharmacist says. "We will fill it now." OK. I'm not sure why it hadn't already been filled, but I am assured it was now being filled "now." A half hour later, I am still soaked, my sore throat raw, my nose running and my head about to implode from the sinus pressure. I am struggling to soothe my son, who now needs a change and more milk. I ask about the order. "Oh, it will be a half hour." Another half hour? I was told it would be filled "now!" Bigelow, by the way, doesn't accept our insurance card, so it's an out-of-pocket payment for a wait that makes the chain stores seem charming. (Well, not really.) At this point, the only thing that keeps me from committing myself to Bellevue is my suffering son. I nearly storm out of the tony landmark chemist, but compose myself enough to raise my voice just enough to speed the process.
Michael Alexander smiles as soon I give him his first dose of antibiotics while I am instructed on how to assemble the nebulizer's tubes and dispense the medication. My son is easily comforted, as the fast-acting antibiotics take nearly immediate effect. It takes me a little longer to regain any semblance of sanity. I'm not quite there yet. More than three hours later, we hustle home, again pounded by rain. The rain, of course, started just before we left in the morning and stopped shortly after we returned home. The trip home seems to take twice as long, as the water-fearing masses huddled under obnoxious oversized umbrellas seem completely oblivious to my need to get home quickly. The slow-walkers, who have no business in a city like New York, are especially loathsome in inclement weather. Those who lurk under awnings and construction canopies are the worst. How pathetic is one's existence if s/he has time to wait for the rain to taper? I am disgusted by this always, and annoyed on a day like today.
I barrel into our building and try to distract Michael Alexander as we head to the basement. I adamantly abhor the practice of leaving loads in the washers and dryers, and I often fantasize about dumping the dissenters' duds onto the floor, but I have only ever carefully placed an abuser's clothes into a cart. (Of course, I curse them under my breath, but I have never taken it out on their washables.) I am more upset than outraged to find one of my wet loads dumped onto the filthy floor. The machine from which they were ejected was not in use, so at least I am able to *quickly* rewash our sheets and towels.
Michael Alexander went down for a nap about 15 minuets ago, but already is tossing and turning. I feel guilty for stealing this time to write, but it might be my only respite in the next few days. Did I mention that Albuterol is a stimulant? I need to administer it three times a day, sanitizing the mouthpiece ahead of every use. He's waking. My 15 minutes are up. The way today's been going, putting away laundry will be my break. At least it's dry.
Michael Alexander's on the mend, albeit slowly, thanks to modern medicine. I just hope this Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day ends with a relaxing evening. And maybe even some sleep! And maybe I'll order Judith Viorst's children's classic. Even the worst days can spur the best literary memories.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The Business of a SAHP
I was excited to read the headline of Sarah E. Needleman's blog yesterday on The Wall Street Journal Online: "Can Home-Based Entrepreneurs Be Stay-at-Home Parents, Too?" Like all creative types, I have myriad business ideas percolating on a daily basis and wonder how ambitious one can be as a SAHP (stay-at-home parent.) I know people, mostly moms, who work from home in varying degrees, but have at least part-time childcare. I have nobody to help me during the day and I do some freelance work from home. Right now I am stealing the time I should be spending writing a column on stock splits and cobbling a pitch about green energy. Michael Alexander has gone down for a nap and could wake in 20 minutes so I need to act fast on the keyboard. Yesterday he didn't nap at all and woke several times throughout the night, so I am taking this precious time to write while I can, sleep deprived and all. I haven't posted to Nommersland in so long I nearly abandoned it over guilt. But reading this WSJ post irked me enough to overcome any self-reproach.
Needless to say, I was needled by Needleman's post. "Christine Perkett, a mother of two, is usually home before and after her kids go to school. But she’s not your typical stay-at-home mom," writes Needleman. OK, I'm intrigued, even if I can't yet relate to a mom with school-aged kids. I'm also confused, wondering how a SAHP can sometimes not be home and still actively parenting. "Ms. Perkett, 40 years old, runs PerkettPR, a public-relations firm, out of her family’s Marshfield, Mass., home. When she started the company, she hired a nanny to take care of the kids while she’s on the clock. 'I needed a solution to dig into my work without feeling guilty,' she says, adding that she also requires her 20 employees, who also work from their homes, to make comparable arrangements if they have young kids." OK, I am pissed off! Perkett is NOT a a SAHP! She is using her likely sprawling South Shore home (judging from the photo of her kitchen) as an office. Perkett doesn't want to feel guilty? Hope she is paying her 20 employees enough to really offset the cost of providing all those nannies with a living wage.
Needleman reveals that "Ms. Perkett says parenting and working from home don’t mix. 'People think they’ll stick (their kids) in front of the TV,' she says, but adds that the move isn’t practical or fair. 'It’s nearly impossible to work productively and watch your children at the same time. And it’s not good for the child because they’re vying for your attention and they can’t get it.'" Now I'm fuming. Perkett assumes all SAHPs who do "outside" work are sticking their kids in front of a TV? I am typing on the MacBook Pro we bought to replace the one Michael Alexander knocked off my leg while I was writing a personal finance column when he was just a few weeks old. Sure, that "move" wasn't "practical or fair," especially in terms of the cost of replacing a laptop, but I wasn't neglecting my son while working.
As someone who contemplates the possibility of really becoming a SAHP entrepreneur (sans full-time childcare like Perkett), I'd like a breakdown of the startup costs and where she got the capital to pay 20 people's salaries. Launching a business like Perkett's isn't a reality for most people.
I am not out to vilify Perkett or any other entrepreneur or business owner. But I am calling out Needleman for classifying Perkett as a SAHP. Perkett gets props for her
savvy by saving on overhead and office costs by running her business from home. The blog post, which features a photo of the PR maven with her elementary school aged son and nanny, is raising kid(s) who spend most of the day in school, according to the lede. I know Needleman is banging out a couple of grafs on the quick just to fill a page, but by serving us just this little slice of Perkett's life, she dis-serving SAHPs like me who grapple with the guilt of "not working" by identifying Perkett as a SAHP.
Needleman also mentions "Jason King, also a home-based entrepreneur, (who) says his wife is a stay-at-home mom and takes care of their two kids during the workday. Still, he says he wouldn’t get much work done if he didn’t have a solid door blocking his basement office from the rest of his Odenton, Md., home." A solid door? I guess that means a hollow one wouldn't work. The founder and CEO of Accella LLC, a website and mobile-application developer, tells Needleman that “Being able to create some type of separation and a way for the kids to know their boundaries is important," and that without the door, his kids “would feel the freedom to come and go as they please,” adding that they’d also be a distraction if the door was made of clear glass. "They’d always be sitting outside looking in.” I guess you need to have a basement and live in suburbia where you can create a fortress from your offspring in order to build a business from home.
Needleman who signs off by asking "Readers, if you run your business from a home office and have kids, is a nanny or daycare necessary?" raises an important question with her lede, but falls short by giving us two examples of people who work from home but are anything but SAHPs. Instead of asking her readers if this is possible, perhaps she could have sought out someone who has actually tried to be a SAHP with a career or business venture. Instead, Needleman has simply produced another self-promoting link for Perkett's "In The News" section of her website. I'm not begrudging Perkett for her headline-hoarding, but I do knock Needleman for false advertising.
Needless to say, I was needled by Needleman's post. "Christine Perkett, a mother of two, is usually home before and after her kids go to school. But she’s not your typical stay-at-home mom," writes Needleman. OK, I'm intrigued, even if I can't yet relate to a mom with school-aged kids. I'm also confused, wondering how a SAHP can sometimes not be home and still actively parenting. "Ms. Perkett, 40 years old, runs PerkettPR, a public-relations firm, out of her family’s Marshfield, Mass., home. When she started the company, she hired a nanny to take care of the kids while she’s on the clock. 'I needed a solution to dig into my work without feeling guilty,' she says, adding that she also requires her 20 employees, who also work from their homes, to make comparable arrangements if they have young kids." OK, I am pissed off! Perkett is NOT a a SAHP! She is using her likely sprawling South Shore home (judging from the photo of her kitchen) as an office. Perkett doesn't want to feel guilty? Hope she is paying her 20 employees enough to really offset the cost of providing all those nannies with a living wage.
Needleman reveals that "Ms. Perkett says parenting and working from home don’t mix. 'People think they’ll stick (their kids) in front of the TV,' she says, but adds that the move isn’t practical or fair. 'It’s nearly impossible to work productively and watch your children at the same time. And it’s not good for the child because they’re vying for your attention and they can’t get it.'" Now I'm fuming. Perkett assumes all SAHPs who do "outside" work are sticking their kids in front of a TV? I am typing on the MacBook Pro we bought to replace the one Michael Alexander knocked off my leg while I was writing a personal finance column when he was just a few weeks old. Sure, that "move" wasn't "practical or fair," especially in terms of the cost of replacing a laptop, but I wasn't neglecting my son while working.
As someone who contemplates the possibility of really becoming a SAHP entrepreneur (sans full-time childcare like Perkett), I'd like a breakdown of the startup costs and where she got the capital to pay 20 people's salaries. Launching a business like Perkett's isn't a reality for most people.
I am not out to vilify Perkett or any other entrepreneur or business owner. But I am calling out Needleman for classifying Perkett as a SAHP. Perkett gets props for her
savvy by saving on overhead and office costs by running her business from home. The blog post, which features a photo of the PR maven with her elementary school aged son and nanny, is raising kid(s) who spend most of the day in school, according to the lede. I know Needleman is banging out a couple of grafs on the quick just to fill a page, but by serving us just this little slice of Perkett's life, she dis-serving SAHPs like me who grapple with the guilt of "not working" by identifying Perkett as a SAHP.
Needleman also mentions "Jason King, also a home-based entrepreneur, (who) says his wife is a stay-at-home mom and takes care of their two kids during the workday. Still, he says he wouldn’t get much work done if he didn’t have a solid door blocking his basement office from the rest of his Odenton, Md., home." A solid door? I guess that means a hollow one wouldn't work. The founder and CEO of Accella LLC, a website and mobile-application developer, tells Needleman that “Being able to create some type of separation and a way for the kids to know their boundaries is important," and that without the door, his kids “would feel the freedom to come and go as they please,” adding that they’d also be a distraction if the door was made of clear glass. "They’d always be sitting outside looking in.” I guess you need to have a basement and live in suburbia where you can create a fortress from your offspring in order to build a business from home.
Needleman who signs off by asking "Readers, if you run your business from a home office and have kids, is a nanny or daycare necessary?" raises an important question with her lede, but falls short by giving us two examples of people who work from home but are anything but SAHPs. Instead of asking her readers if this is possible, perhaps she could have sought out someone who has actually tried to be a SAHP with a career or business venture. Instead, Needleman has simply produced another self-promoting link for Perkett's "In The News" section of her website. I'm not begrudging Perkett for her headline-hoarding, but I do knock Needleman for false advertising.
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