Pandemic Babies

In the spirit of oversharing, here is the official story of Emery's birth. 

After over nine months of hyperemesis and avoiding anything with a semblance of flavor, I was ready to meet our little peanut. Unlike her sister, Emery and the placenta she made did not cause me any sort of problems with hypertension. My blood sugar was great. This was a textbook healthy pregnancy, excepting the trips to the ER for fluids and general aversion to most of the foods and smells in the world. The only complicating factor was the worldwide pandemic that descended on us in the last few weeks of what could have otherwise been a pretty stress-free delivery. It could have been much worse, and we were lucky- Jarom was able to be with me the whole time, and they hadn't had any patients with known COVID-19 come through L&D. It was still very hard though when I realized my mom wouldn't be there and that Riley wouldn't be able to meet her baby sister in the hospital. 

All in all though, many things went very smoothly. After my appointment right before my due date, the facility scheduled my induction for a few days later. Unfortunately, nothing was rocking and rolling yet, so I had to get a foley bulb placement 24 hours ahead of time, which... is not pleasant. 0/10, would not do again. Fortunately, it did its job pretty fast, so heading into the hospital was pretty calm and relaxed (as relaxed as a major life-changing event can be). 

"You're not going to be the baby anymore!"

Just hanging around waiting to have a baby

There's always that period of calm before the storm after getting Cytotec. You're looking at all the other anonymous spikes and dips of the contractions in other rooms while your TOCO is flat as a pancake, an actual one of which you're currently munching on. 

What Labor?

Then, you start to get them. At first, you think you might be able to ride it out for a lot longer. Then, it gets worse and worse. We moved onto the pitocin after things had moved along well enough. At first I thought I could handle it, and in-between contractions I could. But each wave was worse than the one before, and it got to be epidural time. 

"Ow."

I firmly believe most anesthesiologists have the same personality. A complete nonchalance as they're impaling your spinal cord with a giant needle. After everything was placed, and I forgot what contractions were, everyone started chatting. Everyone having masks on, I didn't recognize my nurse. Turns out that the nurse on my night shift was in my church stake growing up, went to my high school, was someone I recalled knowing fairly well (!???!). She recognized me by my name before even coming in. To be honest though, I remembered her strongest as a 13 year-old, and it was a bit of a shock seeing her as this awesome grown-up super impressive nurse. Then, the anesthesiologist mentions how he's a bishop in the church stake Jarom and I currently live in. I'm mostly glad this conversation is going down when I'm in zero pain and can actually enjoy the weirdness of it all. This was a gooood epidural. One could not have placed a better epidural. 

Unlike Riley though, I didn't slip off into a blissful sleep. I felt nothing at all painful or uncomfortable, but pretty soon after Jarom started snoozing late at night, I felt weird. I had uncontrollable shaking, and my body felt... funky. I told my awesome nurse (that I still kept picturing as a preteen) who got the CNM and I had transitioned to being over an 8. After that, things happened fast- soon I was a 9 and a half. The room filled with people, it was go time! I was disappointed that it took more pushes than Riley's four (it took about 8... maybe 10?), and suddenly at 3 in the morning, we were meeting baby!!

No matter how much the nurse midwife (Side note, I was unsure about using a CNM for delivery- Kaiser lets you choose when you're there if you want a physician or midwife delivering and I decided to give it a go. Great experience, seriously.) tried to slow things down, I ended up with the exact same outcome as last time. They were good about pumping me full of Tylenol and Ibuprofen though, so that by the time the epidural wore off I was good to roll down to recovery. Not having the hypertension meant that a lot of things were tons easier. No clown feet! No BP checks every hour. I only had the epidural in a couple hours too, so I was bopping off to the bathroom on my own in no time. Someone brought up going home. Going home!?!!! That sounded amazing. We were in recovery about as long as we were in L&D, but it draaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagged. I was tired, I was uncomfortable, I had an IV still in (it literally took all day to get someone to take that thing out), and I was running on fumes. All I could think of was my $8,000 remodeled en suite, high thread count sheets, and epidemic-free house.  

It was National Nurses Day though, and I know they were all busy and tired too, so I tried not to be cranky and ride it out. Everyone worked very hard to make it possible to get us home. Or they just wanted to specifically get rid of us. Either way, we were immensely grateful. 

Sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeepy

Naturally baby 2 tested high for bilirubin too, and we were scheduled a follow-up lab and dr appointment for the next day- which I was not at a good place to handle. The multiple hospitalizations and 100 mile ambulance ride in the snow storm with Riley kinda ruined jaundice for me. (Fortunately, as the pediatrician later said, Emery is a "good stooler", so her numbers looked much much better the next day.) 

Various nurses helped with the arduous task of discharge, and we were soon out the door that evening. It was pretty magical that despite the changes we were still able to have family meet the baby the same day she was born. Riley was... confused... but liked the baby's new hat. No amount of Daniel Tiger and explanation can truly help a 2-year-old make sense that the baby living in mama's tummy is now the baby in the car seat. 

"This is what mama was doing. I will too."

Cousin Evelyn very very very excited at the idea of a new sister/cousin

Some things of note: Emery's middle name was something we discussed at length. Jarom was hesitant because I had wanted to somehow have something from my family, but I felt very strongly about choosing this name. We found out we were pregnant when we were visiting his family in Utah, and were able to tell his grandma when we were there in person, the last time we saw her. I've always loved his grandma so much, and we mourned her passing a few months later. 

Additionally, my family has many ties to Hawaii- several generations beginning as plantation workers. My great-grandma was brought up in an orphanage on Oahu following an accident her father had, making them unable to afford raising her and her sister. Unknowingly, my parents were married in the same chapel that stood on the orphanage she was raised on, something which they didn't learn until years later. My grandma was born in Hawaii, it was her home, and somewhere she would often reflect on returning to. That grandma was my mom's mother, and she passed when my mom was only 30- just a few months after I'd been born. She passed on May 6th, the day after my grandpa's birthday and the day before my dad's birthday. The grief of her passing has always weighed heavy on my family, most especially on that day. The one day I did not want to have a baby was the 6th... There's moments though, in the stillness after birth when you feel like you and the new baby are the only ones in the world. For a second, I felt like it wasn't just the two of us. My grandma told my mom once before she knew she was sick that she wanted her sad memories to be replaced by happy ones. Specifically in the new generations of her family. It could have been coincidence that the joy from the birth of our new baby coincided with the tragedy of the much too early loss of my grandma, but my hope is that I didn't imagine how I felt. I felt strongly, very strongly that she wanted us to finally celebrate instead of grieve. 

Mauna Loa is a sacred name and a sacred place. We view this with a vast amount of respect. Mauna Loa is the name of someone we love and miss. It is from a very special and meaningful place and history to our family. 

We are so grateful to my parents and sister who've carried us through this pregnancy and birth. Even though we recently moved into our own house, Riley and her cousin Evelyn had been raised nearly as siblings. Catherine has gone above and beyond to help while I've been sick, and has filled a huge role for us caring for Riley the last couple of sleepless nights. Evelyn, Riley, and Emery are so lucky to have such amazing grandparents and to be raised with so much love from so many people.  

Where I am Already Way Too Nostalgic or Sudden Hypertension

One year ago, at this exact time we were rushing up highway 89 between Indianola and Thistle on our way to the Utah Valley hospital in the middle of the night. It was 8°. My head was pounding, and I hadn’t felt the baby in an hour. We counted 8 deer along the side of the highway. 

We got there, 5 hours later I was stable again and sent home. 

Earlier that day, everything had seemed normal- well, as normal as it can be that late into your 3rd trimester. My mom and I were trying to “walk the baby out” wandering around the Provo mall when I was suddenly very puffy, and very very tired. The headache started settling in on the long drive home from Provo to Fairview. This was the worst headache I’d ever had. When my mom found my old BP cuff and I saw the needle jumping around above 150, I knew we’d have to go to the hospital right away. 

Sanpete Valley hospital is little bigger than my doctor’s office, but the large maternity wing was quiet and inviting. Would I give birth to my baby in Mt. Pleasant? Would I have to have a c-section? Would they get a dr in time? Does anyone down here know how to do a c-section?

After round of IV medication, a BP under 125, and instructions to contact my primary and go back into a hospital if it went back up, we went home. Two hours later, a 1 am call to my dr, and a BP over 160/110, and we were throwing clothes into a duffle bag. I stood in the kitchen sobbing that I wasn’t ready (a perfect cocktail of anxiety, hormones, and lack of sleep). 

A day and a half later, after 6 manual and automatic checks and rechecks, I was sitting in a padded gray chair at the dr’s office with a choice. We knew it would be painful and at a high c-section risk, but risking a seizure and my baby was never an option. We strolled out of the building and drove across the parking lot to the hospital entrance. I was ready. I  was calm. I was prepared. 29 hours later, we were a family of 3. 

Why You Should Eat Your Frozen Yogurt While You Still Can

Disclaimer- non-gory, but including excessively large amounts of maternity, labor, delivery, and baby information.

Baby Wide Awake at 3 am

When you’re going to have a baby, you hear many times about your “birthing plan”. This mystical plan is something cooked up by labor and delivery specialists who want to laugh at you thinking there’s anything about birthing a human that can be planned. My magical plan involved things like “no epidural” and “use of a tub in active labor”, which are hilarious now that I look back at the weirdest, most stressful, painful, and beautiful week of my life.

On Monday, I suddenly developed a thunder-clap headache, and after Tylenol and 5 hours, it hadn't budged. Fortunately, my mom was already in town and took my blood pressure with an old cuff I've inherited, and found that it was way too high. We were unsure of how accurate that old thing was, so we went to the Sanpete hospital to double check ("hospital" is a generous description). My blood pressure readings throughout the pregnancy and young adult life have always been impeccable, so it's a particular a point of pride. We get there, they put us in a maternity suite, and grab my vitals. Not only were they as high as the reading at home- they're worse. After monitoring me for a while, the on-call OB thought it would be prudent to get my levels down through an IV medication. After a while, my numbers looked great again, and they sent me home

Two hours later, my headache came back, we checked my pressure and called my dr in Provo who said to come up to the hospital there to be checked out overnight. Once at the hospital, they monitor me and order a battery of tests that decide I don't have preeclampsia. I'm told to essentially go home on bed rest and follow up at my appointment in 2 days. We leave on Wednesday for my Dr appointment with Jarom who was going to work right after. My mom and I had to kill a few hours in Provo afterwards, so we had a show time of Coco picked out to see, frozen yogurt, and non-active sitting in the plans for our day. We go into the office, the MA starts my vitals, then runs to get the dr. They're even worse than they were on Monday. The Dr checks it manually several times and finds that it's still high. We have a talk- my body was not ready for labor yet, but if we didn't induce, there was a small chance for seizure and possibly fatal risk to me and the baby. He said the labor would be long and terrible, and that I would have about a 1 in 5 chance for a c-section, but that it was safest for the baby.

Back at the maternity ward in Provo, at 10 in the morning, I settle in for the long haul. After 3 failed attempts to get the IV in (and lovely bruised forearms), I’m hooked up and ready to party. Good news is that because I’m still at least 12 hours away from the Pitocin, they’ll let me eat whatever I want, whenever I want. That gets old surprisingly fast, as I’m tied down to the monitors and IV line. Every time I get up to go to the restroom (which is often, I’m still 9 months pregnant after all), someone comes in later and comments on how long I was in there. Because they’re watching it on their little monitors. As the evening progresses, the contractions become increasingly more painful. By 6 pm, I was curled in a ball with my trays and trays of food surrounding me crying about missing Coco, my frozen yogurt, and my birthing tub. I WANTED THE TUB. But, because I was induced, no tub, no Coco, and no yogurt. The night crawled on, with time moving more slowly as things were more painful. The most fun thing about those little monitors is watching the contraction building, and knowing things were going to get terrible within seconds. Even before the Pitocin, I’d go through stretches where I’d barely have 30 seconds before another contraction would begin. At this point, the nurse, my mom, and Jarom would all be yelling some nonsense about breathing. How in the heck am I supposed to breathe when my body has turned into hot lava?? My Dr stopped by and reminds me to hold off on an epidural as long as possible to which I chuckle. “Epidural? Has he read my birth plan? I’m not getting an epidural, please”.

6 hours later, we start the Pitocin. Holy heaven, the Pitocin. Within 30 minutes, most of the contents of my trays and trays of food have been regurgitated because of the pain, and I can hardly string two words together. I ask for some pain killers and they give me some fentanyl, which works for about 20 minutes. I hold out for another 90 minutes. I get another dose. Another hour later, and another. It does nothing. By 4 am, my mom and Jarom told me I was getting an epidural, and I was getting the mother effing epidural. The needle didn’t freak me out, but trying to stay still through the contractions did. Once it was in, I felt a gradual increase in relief until I felt nothing at all. Loopy from the pain killers, and blissfully out of pain, I floated away on a cloud waking only to try to help my lower body be flipped every hour. By noon, I was semi-awake, watching the hypnotic waves of my contractions on the screen and thinking about how awful that would have felt if I could feel anything at all. Someone told me I was in transition, and I yawned and said “ok” and took another nap. I was awoken by a… weird feeling. I told my mom that I felt… odd. She flags down the nurse who lets me know that it’s go time. They try to flag down my dr (who’s at a Christmas party, and not hearing his phone ringing). Everyone in the room is nearing panic, and I’m just trying not to go back to sleep. I doze off anyway… Suddenly, the dr and about 40 other people are in the room simultaneously yelling at me to push. The whole scene was so hilarious to me that I burst out laughing. I try my best to push, which is surprisingly hard when you have no idea where your abdomen even is, and feel nothing but absolute exhaustion. I’d been going at this for over 27 hours after all. I give it my biggest effort of my life, and within 3-4 contractions, the baby is out of me!

There is nothing like the incredible moment your baby is born. I can’t even put it in words. Just, trust me.

As amazing as the epidural is, coming off the epidural is… less amazing. I had horrific shaking and suddenly everything hurt. The shaking was so bad that I couldn’t even hold the baby. They then ship you off out of the delivery room and into recovery- on another floor- and sitting in a wheelchair is about the worst thing ever. Once in recovery, the nurses pump you full of pain killers, and keep you happy and pampered.

Upon discharge, I was terrified and excited to take our new bundle home, but was warned we’d need to take her in for testing her bilirubin (baby girl was jaundiced as all getup). We got her tested- she needed the bili blanket. We put her under some tanning lights at home, she’s still jaundiced. They test her again, and her numbers are even higher and we have to take her back up to the hospital in Provo- the day after being discharged. We spend the night in the hospital again, and are able to go home the next afternoon. Two days later, she got very very lethargic, and more jaundiced. We take her into the ER in Sanpete, who calls Primary Children’s Hospital and orders some tests. They come back as abnormal and suddenly I was in an ambulance for 3 hours taking my baby up to Primary Children’s Hospital in the middle of a snowstorm being told there may be some heart defects. Fortunately, after a long night, everything was ruled out, the tests were reinterpreted and determined to be normal, and baby girl begins to clear the bilirubin on her own. At that point, we’d spend 6 out of the last 8 nights in hospitals for me and the baby and Jarom and I were done with it.

Having a new human is hard. It’s terrifying. It’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever been able to do.

Baby Finally Asleep around 4:30 am

Return of the Gypsy Curse, Or Why Cuisinart is an Agent of Satan

Friends,

As some of you may remember, in the town of Alcala de Henares on a cold March morning in 2007, I was literally cursed by a gypsy when I muttered in Spanish that I didn't have any cash on me (I really didn't). Since that day, a number of bizarre, yet oddly fitting curse-like things have happened to me... there's an entire blog post for reference if you're in need of a good laugh. Recently, I had erroneously believed the curse had been lifted after I had a demon thorn surgically excised from my finger. Shortly thereafter I went on the second first date with my now husband (shoutout to my wonderful spouse!). Suddenly things seemed to be going my way again. I even won a raffle for a book in class!! I actually won something! There have been a few incidents including a 2nd degree burn across 3 fingers and a rapid succession of cars dying right after I bought new windshield wipers, but I was certain it had passed.

I know now I've never been more wrong. If you regularly check my snapchat stories, you'll know what is coming.

To fully explain this story, I need to take you to December 13th, 2016. On this day it was announced that Cuisinart was initiating a voluntary recall on faulty food processor blades that could fall apart (which is slightly worrisome). Ever the dutiful spouse, my husband jumped on the website and ordered replacements. In order to do so though, he had to take the covering off to read the serial number. Soon, our replacement blades arrived, and again he was quick to switch in the brand new, insanely sharp blades. Unfortunately, this was undertaken at the height of the Christmas/Birthday season, and he couldn't find the covering. Soon after, we took a week-long trip to California, and he was contacted about a new job. The food processor was forgotten. But it did not forget about us.

On the night of January 20th, we were beginning to pack our apartment to move to Fairview. We were filling a giant blue bin with various "baking implements" around the kitchen. I noticed a great spot I could squeeze in my Christmas china. I wanted to wrap it in one of my new Christmas hand towels I had acquired in order to keep it protected in the bin. Whilst my husband was rustling through our post-Christmas piles, I casually reached toward the china to pick it up. Suddenly I felt a sharp tug on the back of my hand. I look down, and saw a huge gash with blood quickly seeping out. A number of profanities left my mouth, as I was too busy making sure my tendons still worked to remember how to ask for help in English. This is all according to my husband at least, because I was running off pure adrenaline and my memory is fuzzy at best. At first, my husband just called out to ask if I need anything. I start repeating the profanities more urgently. He finally comes running into the kitchen with a hand-towel from the Christmas pile in hand. This is essentially how the ensuing conversation went down... Husband: "What's wrong?" Me: "Profanity!!" Husband: "Oh my gosh, what should I do??" Me: "Profanity... [frantic pointing toward towel!]".

(I will include a picture of the setting, but not a picture of the large gash)

This was taken after returning home for context for family and friends I retold the story to later. Uncovered blade in the foreground, china in the background. Miscellaneous other clutter around it. 

With the towel firmly in place around my hand, we rushed over to the urgent care (my husband was sweet enough to braid my hair for me, because it was more wild than medusa's and my bloody-gash hand couldn't do anything). I was chatty and pleasant with the nurse and the doctor, and they had it cleaned out and stitched up in a jiffy. I was too concerned about getting out of there to mention that I have an insy sensitivity to latex. The warm and fuzzy nurse let me pick out the color of the bandage, and they wrapped it up with firm instructions not to remove or change the bandage for at least 3 days.

Warning, picture of stitches ahead:

Contrary to popular belief, that's my hand.. not my arm. 

That night, I could tell that the numbing shot was beginning to wear off, but I figured I should tough it out. I woke up at 3:00 am to a burning sensation in my hand. It hurt SO. BAD. It felt like it was on fire. Now, I've walked 10 miles in the snow on a torn MCL. I'm not one to usually let pain get the better of me. I went out to the couch and just sat there cradling my hand for 45 minutes. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I ripped off the bandage and saw angry, red, inflamed skin all around where the bandage had been sitting. The gash had swollen and I had little welts everywhere. I woke up my husband, and we rummaged through our medicine drawer looking for latex free bandaging with no success. The snowstorm just hit as he went stumbling out the door towards our Walgreens at 4 in the morning for supplies. Needless to say, our packing got off to a rough start.

So, what are the morals of this story? First, if a scary gypsy lady asks you for money, find an ATM. Second, never move. Third, just throw away your food processors, there is no need for anything that sharp on anything that doesn't belong to a ninja. And, Fourth, always disclose a latex sensitivity.

On Assault and the Evil Orange Monster

I thought a lot about posting this. It’s a deeply personal thing not many people know about, but in light of recent events, I hope my experiences can at least give some depth to current rhetoric. I have never been raped, but I have been sexually assaulted*. To be honest, it feels weird to write that, and I don't ever label myself as being a victim of assault, but I was assaulted. It was never by anyone I was dating (for the record, all very respectful, wonderful men) or was particularly close to, but by men (boys) who thought they had the right to do so merely because I was there and they wanted to.

I wasn’t ever in a “compromising situation”; one occurrence was at work (at BYU) another was at a (BYU) school function (NOT that it matters). I was “modestly” dressed (NOT that it matters), and did nothing to invite their attention, having no idea that the assault was about to occur. When it happened I was so stunned, I didn’t even fight back like I always thought I would. In each of these circumstances, even when reported, I was made to think I had somehow overreacted or that I should feel guilty for “making them” do something that they'd have to talk to their bishop about. I felt ashamed, embarrassed, and weak. I blamed myself for letting it happen. I didn’t even realize until frighteningly recently that I was never the one at fault, and not only did I not overreact, I didn’t react nearly enough. This happens to women far too often, even at a place I loved so much like BYU. We deserve better, our daughters deserve better. We cannot continue to dismiss or turn a blind eye towards actions by a rare group of terrible men who can do so much to diminish a woman's self worth. 

There is nothing that disgusts me more than hearing people defend the low life scum of the earth that made such abhorrent comments about women. It is not excusable. It is not ok. And it causes real hurt and pain. It is comments like that- and their easy dismissal- that enable some men to see women as things and abuse them. Those men are the exception, not the rule, but they are emboldened by those words. I will not tolerate defense of that behavior. I hope that none of the women I know have experienced anything like it, but I know that if I have it is possible that there are others who similarly keep those traumas to themselves. I hope this empowers you to know you are not alone, and what happened to you was wrong. Please, in this election do not vote for someone truly deplorable who degrades women, Hispanics, Muslims, African Americans, the LGBTQI community, the disabled, or any one of God’s precious children. Do not vote for anyone who dismisses assault as “locker room talk”. 

Most of the men I have known would never say, think, or do those things. I am lucky to be married to the living embodiment of kindness, gentleness, and respect. Do not let that disgusting man or his attitudes into our lives anymore. I do not want anyone to feel sorry for me, or to view me as a victim. I don't. I had some great college experiences and met a lot of really good people. What happened to me could have happened to anyone. We need to change the narrative towards women now.



(*Both of these events occurred several years ago. Clearly they do not define who I am or how I see myself. They did not leave me with any physical damage or marks, but they were violations. At the time, I didn't see myself as spiritually or morally culpable for any sort of  'chastity' issue, and tried to forget about it happening.)

Bucket List 2015

Get Married.

Chalice of Destiny, Or My 2014 Bucket List.

Friends, when you get engaged, things get weird. I was driving to school the other morning, and that horrifically cheesy song Marry Me  came on the radio. Not only did I not change the station, but I found myself unwillingly enjoying Patrick Monahan's crooning. It was scary.

That being said, I am finding myself alternating from floating around in a love-bubble, to avoiding wedding planning of any kind, to sneaking onto Pinterest during my cognition class, to remembering that I'm a grad student taking over 17 credits in a professional program this semester. It's a crazy time.

To begin, it turns out that as school gets more difficult, the less I can write. I would like to follow-up on The Great 2014 bucket list.  Let's just day I got 3/5 done. Which is a 60 percent, and would still be passing if I were in an undergrad program.

As a general rule, I try to avoid any sort of direct reference to my dating relationships. I feel like those relationships were private and that it would be crazy/disrespectful to discuss them overtly in any public forum... But baby-girl is engaged now.

I mostly want to talk about the last item on my bucket list, #5. Which, to be completely fair did not come true. I didn't find Mr. Right. He was there all along. #IKnowICanBarelyStandMyselfRightNow

Ok kids, let me take you on a journey of love.

The year was 2011. I was limping around because of a knee injury and struggling to put in my contacts. The ward (congregation, if you will) of young single adults I was in was beginning this thing called "The Chalice of Destiny". This was a desperate attempt to get us to all start dating each other. This Harry Potter-like goblet of fire was intended to set up dates with people whose names have been entered in. I put in my name to go with one guy. My friends put in my name to be with the one guy. And I was actually starting to date the one guy. But, weirdly enough, I was instead setup with this other person, the Now-Fiance. At the time I was highly suspicious, because Now-Fiance's roommate was in charge of the setting up. I knew. We went on our Chalice of Destiny date and had a blast.

Unfortunately, because of various reasons (we can just say that because of other guy) the timing was... off.

Now-Fiance went his way, I went mine, but we stayed friendly. Especially when it came to wishing each other happy birthday on Facebook. Because of school and such, we were in different states for 2 years up until August of this last year.

Fast-forward to this last September. One day I receive a Facebook message (yes, a Facebook message) asking me out to a football game. The rest is history.

Except for the engagement story. I have to tell you the engagement story. To start it off, I've never wanted a proposal surprise-attack (meaning I've never wanted someone to ask me without discussing it first. It happens.). To ensure this, I made a list of very specific places I could be proposed to. Mostly these are places from Northern California, which is over 800 miles from my current location. This was about 78% a joke, and as Now-Fiance and I became more serious I amended that list to be more reasonable. But, Now-Fiance wanted to make sure my conditions were completely met. So, he bought a secret flight out to Northern California to make sure we hit every place on my list. Ending it all on a proposal on a misty beach where we were alone with the waves crashing in. It was unreal. To end the night, I got to celebrate my engagement with my parents. Pretty much anything and everything I'd always wanted.

I have been amazed at how things worked out better than I could have ever imagined. And I had no idea that such a perfect person was there all along.

Me with a seconds after being proposed to beach crying face

#ImSorryIStillCanBarelyStandMyselfRightNowButBeingEngagedBringsOutThisWeirdSideOfYou

Thorn-ado

When I was 22, I can still remember coming out of wrist surgery and looking over at a clock in the recovery room, realizing with a sense of dread how late it was. It had turned out to be the worst scenario that the doctor had warned me was a possibility. Still, in the haze that follows being under general anesthesia for hours and being on the strongest pain medications available, my first fully-formed thought accompanied by a burst of tears was "how can I ever take engagement pictures with this horrible scar on my left hand?". It was very rational.

I, like every person who has ever walked outdoors, have plenty of scars. There's my wrist surgery "stigmata" as my brother so lovingly calls it (It's a long line from the open surgery, then several ports from the scope, which make it look like a cross). Among others, there's the coral gash scar on my leg from when I was snorkeling in Hawaii at age 7. The scar on my elbow from rollerblading when I was 9. My knee surgery scar. The line on my forehead which looks like a weird part line that I got after falling off the table that I was dancing on when I was 2. And, the 2cm long fingernail-shaped scar on my right hand from a fight with my sister when I was 10. Typically, when we trip on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial, slide into 2nd base wrong, or kick a soccer ball into our face, the marks will only last a few weeks or months. But occasionally, they stay with you forever.

My newest acquisition came from an ethereal night in Virginia, where I found myself surrounded by dark mysterious woods, a thick rising mist, and more lightning bugs than I had ever seen in my in life. It was magic. I found a perfect hiding spot during a game in a large, seemingly flawless shrub. I could still tell you its exact location. After jumping into this bush for cover, I quickly discovered its hidden barbs. In total, I got 4 thorns in my hand that night. I half-heartedly tried to get them out, then abandoned my attempts, figuring I would take care of them later. An important part of this story is mentioning that it was Friday the 13th. Two months later, I have a large incision following the length of my knuckle and 6 sutures closing up the surgery required to remove one of the thorns which had taken residence on my tendon.

So seemingly beautiful.

To be honest, I haven't always been in the happiest of moods concerning this sequence of events. Sometimes, I find it hilarious and will laugh out loud thinking about it. Other times I feel frustrated and get overwhelmed with the injustice of it all. Yeah, I'll always have a mark now on my finger. Currently, with the sutures still in, and the discomfort of it being over a joint, it's hard not to notice. Over time, it won't hurt, but will become only a reminder of my thorny mistake. Some scars are worth it, and accompany amazing experiences and events. Sometimes, it can just seem arbitrary and unmerited. The key is to make peace with it. If I walked around the rest of my life angry at the thorn bush, it wouldn't get me anywhere. It's a thorn bush. It always has been, it always will be. I maybe didn't see that at first, but that doesn't change what it is. Hanging onto feelings of righteous indignation won't make the scar go away, it won't take away my discomfort, and it certainly won't stop the thorn bush from snagging other unsuspecting game participants. All I can do is wish that shrub the best of luck with its barbed existence and never play outside again. Or wear gloves at all times. 

On Arby's and Regret.

Friends, regret is one of the strongest emotions we can experience. I have been meaning to relate this experience for several weeks, but haven't gotten around to it. Before you judge me, understand my position. I was in the midst of studying for finals when suddenly my stomach started growling. With a ravenous fury, I knew I needed food, and I needed it now. I dashed downstairs and all I had in my cupboard were the remnants of the clearance Easter candy from Walgreens. Which I did eat. However, I still needed more. I suddenly craved curly fries with a vengeance and could only think of one place from whence to get some. Arby's.

So, I hopped in my car and sped off in search of that ridiculous Pharrell-hat restaurant. I pulled into the drive thru, and there was a picture of an Arby's roast melt staring tantalizingly at me. That temptress somehow put in me in a hunger-trance and I found myself ordering not one, but two. Once I pulled away from the pick-up window, I instantly wondered what I had done. I knew I had made a mistake, but it was too late. I had to follow through. That Bathsheba of a sandwich called to me from the bag, and I found myself eating it while still on the road home. Half a sandwich in, I knew this would only end in pain. But, I continued. Once it began, I couldn't pull away. I knew the sandwich was going to hurt me, but it was just too appealing.

Like being a fan of the Kings, you know beforehand that Arby's will end with disappointment and crushed dreams. Yet, somehow this restaurant is still in business, and the drive thru queue extended several cars. It is the line of shame, where we all know what we're getting ourselves into and no one can really look each other in the eye. Before you start defending it for its shakes or salads (really. you're going to Arby's for a salad?), think about your last horrible Arby's experience. We all have one.

Sometimes we do stupid things. We find ourselves in clearly a harmful situation. How did we get here? Haven't we learned from the past?? Stay away from Arby's. Or more specifically, Arby melts. Learn from my fallacies and choose wiser. Sometimes the most immediate or attractive option is not the best one. Would I have been much happier going somewhere with fresh food, or making something myself? Yes. Never trust an Arby's sandwich; its seemingly charming and humble exterior is custom-built to snag you and leave you in misery. You are better than that!

Never settle for a nasty Arby's sandwich again, no matter how strong its siren call may be. The same goes for Taco Time.You deserve quality and dependability.