JulieLeung.com: a life told in tidepools

It’s not every morning that you have to tell your children that their pet has died.
I am grateful.

Our tiny tree frog tadpole liked to hide between the rocks at the bottom of the aquarium. It didn’t swim around often. For fear that it would die without us noticing, I would check twice a day, whenever we turned the light on and off, to see whether our tadpole was still alive.

Saturday morning, April 9, when I turned on the light, I noticed that the tadpole wasn’t moving. I found it motionless at the bottom of the tank, beneath rocks. Scooping it out with a spoon, I put it in a cup and tried to figure out how I would tell the girls when they woke up.

The kids took the news okay. We had to go out that morning so I didn’t have a lot of time. I sat them down on the sofa before breakfast. The news wasn’t a large surprise since we were always wondering whether Tadpole Jo, as the girls had named it for gender neutrality, was happy. It hadn’t eaten anything. It lived within the rocks. We worried about it. There were a few tears. I felt upset, that I had failed both my children and the tadpole.

I don’t know if we will get another one. The kids seem to want a fish. I think they are afraid another tadpole would die. I too fear that the tadpole would not survive although I have a list of ideas I would do differently the second time around.

A few days before Jo died, I challenged Ted to try to take a picture of the tadpole. Between the small size of the creature, its movement and the glass and water depth, tadpole became a challenge for photography.

Here’s the best picture Ted took:

Here’s a picture of Tadpole on a slide:

Since we had somewhere to go that Saturday morning, I put Tadpole in a plastic cup on a shelf in the refrigerator so we could look at it later under the microscope. I suppose this is a strange way to live, when one puts pets in the fridge after they are dead, the sure sign of a microbiologist mom (although I have heard a few stories about dead pet rabbits put in the freezer).

However, by the afternoon though the eyes had already started to decompose and no longer looked froglike. Tadpole Jo is missed. The tank sits empty and cleaned on the countertop. I’m not sure we how we will fill it.

Thanks everyone for your care. I’m still catching up, getting over a cold, and hoping to return to writing soon. In the meantime I thought I’d post one of my favorite photos from the garden. Last fall I planted bulbs for orange tulips and I have enjoyed these new blooms, vibrant vermilion in the spring sunshine. This flower grew in Elisabeth’s section of the garden. Minutes after I took this picture, my two-year-old turned it into sushi, rolling the petals into pretend cuisine (salmon sashimi?). Tulip sushi also seems to be a favorite with her sisters. It’s a fun idea and a great way to use petals: I only wish the kids would wait until the flowers fall apart on their own…

Recently I heard someone speak on the topic of disruption and I realized what a negative connotation the word often has for me. For example whenever my Internet service or newspaper subscription is disrupted, I complain. I like to pretend life is predictable and reliable. In our nonstop culture that emphasizes efficiency, disruptions can be curses.

But a disruption can be a blessing. It depends on who, what and why: who is doing the disrupting, what is being disrupted and why it is happening. Sometimes a break in the schedule or a bit of added chaos can bring with it what I need. Sometimes what I’m doing deserves a disruption. What I think is important isn’t always crucial and I need a whack to remind me of what – and who – matters most to me.

Battles disrupt our lives and so do babies.

This week has been a bit of both birth and battle.

More later…I hope.

Since I like to try what I read on blogs (it’s documented!), I took some suggestions and cooked up a few experiments in the kitchen with the kids. I figured a 99 cent package of purple Easter Peeps Bunnies was a small price to pay for science…

Floating Peeps:
Both Michaela and Elisabeth wanted to see whether Peeps would float or sink.
And float they did.

Losing color and eyeball

Zapped Peeps

Abigail wanted to try the microwave, but didn’t want to zap any longer after the marshmellow inside started appearing…

Baked Peeps

Nice and crunchy after a few minutes at 350 degrees F.

Boiled Peeps

I was amazed to see the entire Peep disappear as it was boiled, transparent in a pot of water.

Fried Peeps

The Acid Test

Vinegar seemed to have little effect on a Peep.

The Taste Test

The girls each wanted to eat one so I let them have one purple Peep a piece.
I tried to try one myself but couldn’t get beyond the first bite…

I’ve been thinking of Robert Scoble this week as he’s been living in a hospital waiting room while a loved one is undergoing care.

Lots of waiting in hospitals like the one I’m writing to you from. Waiting. Waiting. Then some terrifying moments shatter the silence. Mostly of doctors telling you more surgery is needed. Or worse. Thankfully I’m not hearing those bad words like cancer or, worse, “don’t know.” I hear Peter Jennings just found out that he has lung cancer. A friend of mine died of that in the 1980s. But others are hearing those horrible words all around me. In my room it’s not cakewalk. There’s constant intrusions. Blood pressure checks. Blood workups. Flowers! Bathroom walks. New IV’s. Phone calls. Beeping machines. Even some running Windows! (Can’t they make nicer sounding beeps?) Room-mates making weird noises. No privacy for some things that otherwise are very private.

the first waiting room I remember

My earliest memory comes from a hospital waiting room somewhere in Kansas City. More than three decades later I can still see the walls, white, the heater built against the windows and the long fall down to the parking lot floors below. I was scared of heights and too timid to sit near the windows or even get near the glass.

not the happiest birthday

I celebrated my fourth birthday in that hospital waiting room. My younger brother had had surgery for his brain tumor. I don’t know if I understood then how close he came to dying during the treatments. Once in a while I would be able to get a glimpse of him. Nurses would wheel him out in the hall, close to the waiting room. I’d see my baby brother lying like a doll in the crib, white bandages wrapped around his head, his toy lion watching with paper eyes from the corner. When I think of the waiting room, I think of the color white. Sterile. Uncertain.

For my birthday someone gave me a box with an purple elephant on it and a red toothbrush inside it. Funny the things a little girl remembers. The kindness of strangers. Thank you, whoevever you are, wherever you are.

reading = coping

I survived the weeks with Highlight magazines and books others gave me to read. I could read at the time. I don’t know how well I could read. But it was enough to help me survive. Books would become my coping, as Wifi is helping Robert get through the days. Little did I know how my ability to devour books would affect my life. It would be a handy survival skill through the years when I had to amuse myself while my mom cared for my brother and younger siblings. Books brought me into new worlds and saved me, literally (ha!). But books also broke me, bringing an ache and longing for relationships I couldn’t have or find.

no intrusions please

For most of my life I’ve never been excited about hospitals. I spent too much of my childhood in them. Giving birth to my children revealed these feelings raw. My first labor was hard because I didn’t get along well with my nurses. I didn’t like being in the hospital. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want all the intrusions and interruptions (as Robert described so well). Once we arrived, my labor slowed: it was psychological.

waiting for the blogpost

Waiting in the waiting room is difficult. I haven’t spent many hours recently hanging out in a hospital. But I have waited for phone calls, emails and blogposts. I’ve waited to hear the news that it would be all right. I’ve wanted to hear that ring or see that the baby arrived and is healthy. I keep checking the clock, refreshing the browser window, examining the email, making sure the phone is on. Time feels like torture when we are waiting.

I was happy to share

Michaela’s surgery earlier this year was probably one of my best experiences in a waiting room. Although I don’t like sharing a hospital room, I was happy to share the waiting room with other parents and families. Somehow seeing other kids who also needed surgery gave me comfort. We learned we weren’t alone. We families had different concerns but many of the same concerns too. I remember watching the couple ahead of us as they waited for their child to come out of the operating room. We would be next. I took notes.

Then Michaela left with the crew. I tried to relax and trust God, knowing it was all out of my control at that point. We went and ate lunch, then returned to the room, waiting for news, hoping to hear Michaela was okay.

joy or sorrow

Waiting rooms can be terrifying and lonely places to be. As Robert points out, surgeons can bring news that crushes hearts and changes lives. It can be a time of joy or a time of sorrow.

With Michaela’s surgery there was the possibility of complications. We had to wait a few weeks to know the final result. The doctor said that he would call if the results weren’t good. Otherwise we could assume the best. In the quiet, I still wondered, hoping all was well. When someone called me a week or two later, I was surprised and scared. But this staff member of our doctor’s office was simply calling to tell us everything was fine.

waiting to finish waiting

Waiting continues in life. It is most intense during times of crisis, such as when those we love need medical care. I believe though that in some sense we are always waiting as we live. We are waiting to find out what is next. We are waiting to discover what comes around the corner. We wait to see when we are finished waiting.

waiting as wading

Waiting can be wading. As I’ve waited to get married or have a baby or put my daughter under anesthesia, I’ve waded through the insides of myself, examining the mix of emotions within me. At times I can feel overwhelmed by the flood of feelings that pours into the pauses. It’s frightening to think of what might happen. Possibilities loom large. Anxiety is easy. I’ve had to remind myself and grasp for what is solid in the midst of the sea of waiting.

good things can happen in waiting rooms

My first waiting room experience and my last one have a common element despite the thirty years between them. In both situations, strangers gave me gifts. During the first one, I was a four year old receiving birthday presents from strangers who became familiar faces. In January I was the mother of a four year old, talking with strangers, connecting through our children, encouraging each other as we marked the minutes until surgery.

Not all of us hang out in a hospital during the day, but many of us have our own inner waiting rooms, our own private hells and torture chambers we carry inside us. Even if we’re not physically forced to be together within a room of white walls, I hope we can still learn how to help each other. Sharing what’s inside us and listening to others, whether in person, on the phone, on paper or in blogs can begin to build the bridges.

Horrible words hurt. But I believe we can help each other find hope. May the waiting become wading into a new way to live. May we find what matters most to us and hold onto it. May we become kids again, splashing and playing in the waves instead of being overwhelmed by them.