Fourth Grade & Forty (A long and overdue post)

When I was in 4th grade, my teacher Ms. Plank wrote that I was a "beautiful writer" on my first report card. Her kindness didn't make sense to me at the time because she was famously the meanest teacher in the school. 

Ms. Plank must've embraced her notoriety because she had a photo of a cartoon pirate in her class. I can't remember the exact verbiage on the sign, but there was reference to 'walking the plank' if you screwed around in her class. Everyone knew that if she told you to 'walk the plank' it meant that you fucked up and you had to come up and talk to her. I felt intimidated when she whispered to those kids, though none of them ever left her desk crying. Her command presence was so confident.

Her face was stern, but people went back to their seats and acted right. 

A lot of us kids secretly made fun of her at the time because of her fashion choices. Ms. Plank was clearly stuck in the 70's. She kept her hair long,  always rocked bell bottoms & long puff coats, and had these blue-tinted, bug eye shades that she wore during recess duty. You could never see her eyes and her face was stone cold. Her aesthetic suited her personality. The joke was on us though. Now that I'm likely her age at that time, I get it. She was going to work feeling like a boss and marched to beat of her own drum. Fuck what decade it was, Ms. Plank liked what she liked and she went with it.

She was a nonconformist and you gotta admire that. 

A few decades later, I saw some old classmates reminiscing about Colma on a Facebook post.  One of the people referred to her as a 'fucking bitch' and it got a lot of cosigns to say the least. Maybe she was, but being that I'm close to the age she was back then, I get it. Being responsible for hella kids is stressful. 

I'm a fucking bitch, too.

I like to think that despite her tightly pursed lips and expressionless stare, she loved each and every one of her students. She taught us music and square dancing. She encouraged us all to play instruments, but I eventually dropped out of clarinet because I didn't want extra work. 

Like I said, some things never change. 

If my memory serves me correctly, she didn't have children of her own, but she dedicated her life to teaching hordes of kids. We couldn't expect her to be nice all the time. She did her best to put goodness in the world. So, in case you're using her impact on me as a gauge, she really did do some goodness. I think we all start our own careers being bright-eyed & hopeful until time, responsibility, and sometimes people, wear you down. After nineteen years of doing the same thing, I'm there now. 

I get it, Ms. Plank. Fuck work. Lol.

Ms. Plank sticks out to me the most out of all my elementary school teachers because she was one of the first people in my life that saw me...even before I saw myself. Surely, I wasn't writing novels back then, but man, she had to have known what she was doing by saying that to me. That report card comment was pivotal in changing my mind about her. Here I am, 30 years later, still writing. Still mad that I never went on to Harvard. I never lost that part of me. 9 year old Tiff is still the same as 39 year old Tiff.

Ms. Plank changed me.

I still think about her often. Because I'm a total stalker, I went down the rabbit hole a few times trying to find her over the years. In fact, I took a quick pause from writing this to try and find her again. What I do know is she's still local and she was teaching as of 2020. She is still unlisted and still not on social media. And... I'm still awkward and would never reach out to her even if I did find her. At the very least, I hope she can feel all the gratitude I'm sending her way. 

By the end of 4th grade, I adored Ms. Plank despite the fact that she never outwardly showed any affection, tenderness, or preference over any one student. I appreciate her equality in that sense. She had no pets. In 5th grade she signed my yearbook and simply put, "Remember the music." I thought about what that meant for many years. Why would I ever want to remember the clarinet? Or square dancing? Or 4th grade math?!

I get it now. 

Just for shits and giggles I went back and read the post I wrote to commemorate turning thirty. It was a cringey read, but I'm glad it exists. What I've come to realize is that I spent much of the last decade doing a lot of what I was doing in my 20s...

Just trying to figure shit out.  

I went on to have three more cubbies so that was big. Finally got married at thirty-five and updated my last name. But, I still didn't win the lotto, still don't contribute to my 401k, still feel fifteen inside, still take my time to perfect the beat, and I still got love for the streets! (We can't be friends if you don't know where that last part is from.) All jokes aside, I spent much of the last decade not seeing myself. I was too damn busy. So, I've spent the last three years trying to see myself again the way Ms. Plank saw me.  

Reflecting on that woman has been transformative for me. 

For starters, I increased in volume in the white hair department, but I honestly don't care. It's odd to me that so many people do. I'm talking randoms, too. The post office guy. The dude checking my temperature at a doctor's visit. Well-meaning family & friends. It's amazing how comfortable people feel telling me what they think I should change about myself. I'm just nice like that, I guess.

So... let the record formally state that I embrace my white hairs so much that it's almost to the point of resistance. 

It's just hair, but it holds deep sentimental value to me. This is pregnancy hair going as far back as Ethan. Those dry, brittle ends people tell me to chop off because they think it's ugly are the last reminders of when he was here. I'm marching to the beat of my own drum and I'll cut my hair or dye my hair when I'm good and ready. Just like Ms. Plank and her 70's clothes, I like what I like. So leave me be. Please. 

I'm a nonconformist and you gotta admire that. 

I've come to love a lot about myself. Even the parts that people think I shouldn't. It took a lot of work for me to get to this point in my life. I was under-spoken for many, many years and I swallowed my feelings to please others. I felt yucky inside because of it. Not anymore.

I'm the nicest, stone cold bitch you'll ever meet.

The last decade has taught me that people are going to think, act and feel how they want. And, if they're going to have something to say about you, no amount of kindness you do will stop them. I hold firm  boundaries now. When I feel weak, I give myself space to retreat and recover. I know it makes people feel uncomfy because they're still getting used to this part of me. I hold people accountable now and I feel liberated because of it. What Ms. Plank taught me was that I should take pride in that. 

People should 'walk the plank' if they're fuckin up, but still show them kindness.

I left the kids and husband out of this post with intention because I'm practicing being me outside of  mother and wife. As I wipe my feet at forty's front door, at the very least I know for a fact that I still like to write. And, that I need to stop being so damn busy all the time. If you'd made it this far, I thank you for your dedication! We can all learn a lesson or two from my romanticized memory of Ms. Plank. 

Take no bullshit. Let mfers know.

Keep your spirit light.

And no matter how fucked life gets, remember the wonderful things. 

Remember the music!

God willing, I'm looking forward to continuing this story at fifty. 

Square dancing in my sister's kinder grad dress. lol

1991. I cannot make this shit up.

(If you're still alive and ever read this, I'm sorry if I was wrong about your age, Ms. Plank. In my defense, all adults looked forty to me in 1991. P.S. Blogs are different. I remember that you're not supposed to start sentences with 'And' and 'Because')

COVID x Cubs

These were the guidelines emailed to me after the cubbies tested positive. Full Disclaimer: What I’m about to say here may not be a popular opinion, but I’m going to say it anyway. 

As far as I’m concerned, what the first sentence said is all I needed to know (and already knew) once my cubbies tested positive: Isolate for 10 days. 

Boom. Done. 

It is my humble opinion that the 5-day guidance was created because of pushback. I’m not invalidating any one person’s reason to pushback. It is what it is. However, for me, the operative word in this guidance is “must.”

MUST we end isolation after 5 days or is it more of a WANT/NEED? 

I understand antigen tests can be taken 5 days after diagnosis to safely dictate returning to work or school, but I also know from my own experience that the kits aren’t consistent. We all already know this though...don’t we? Once I got the first positive, I did improv confirmatory testing for all the cubbies. Just as I suspected, there was an inconsistent mix of positives and negatives on THREE different brands that I used back to back on the same kid. Hence my scheduling PCRs for the whole den the next morning.

I’m not trying to bash brands here, but let’s just say I was surprised at the outcomes. 

If you’ve been keeping up with my stories these last few days, there is a reason why you see me using different brands every day. I have zero symptoms, but I test daily to keep my last “men” standing, safe. 

So as we enter day 5, will a single negative antigen test dictate whether or not I send my kids back to school on Friday?  HELL TO THE NAH.

I’m thankful that 6 of the 6 infected in our household have gone without fever for well over 48 hours now, but that ain’t enough for me. I’ll spare you the report out, but there are varying degrees of symptom improvement ‘round here. They’re doing 10 days on the inside whether they like it or not

I think that interpretation of whether or not “symptoms are improving” can be subjective. And for some, decision-making time could be influenced by needs or wants. I legitimately had someone tell me that they were asymptomatic, but also that they “had a little sore throat but that was it.” This person ended up returning to work and spreading it to their colleagues because they didn’t isolate for long enough. The antigen test was negative so they thought they were good.

 There is a difference between SYMPTOM-FREE and HAVING SYMPTOMS — no matter how mild. (Link to CDC isolation guidelines below.)

Back to the unpopular opinion part: If you’ve had symptoms of any kind — just do the 10 day isolation period. Or at a minimum, test on different kits back to back if you must you return to work/school/gen pop whatever you want to call it after the 5-day mark. 

I know my kids caught COVID from school, but since we get contact notifications several times a week between all of them, it’s hard to say who Patient Zero is in our household. They all tested at the same time. Like I said, I don’t rely solely on antigen tests because of the inconsistency so I scheduled a PCR for them the next morning.

The den had a good run dodging COVID all this time. And while I’m overwhelmed that we’re here, I’m also relieved that I now know the unknown.

I also can’t help but think that we’re finally here because we live in a society where “must/need” is bringing people back too early with “improved symptoms” furthering the spread.  Or, perhaps families are relying on antigen tests alone when they should still schedule a PCR at the onset of any symptoms. Like I said — no judgement — I’m just reflecting on this now that I have the capacity to do so. I know it will reek of privilege for me to say this, but our school community has convenient and abundant access to pooled testing, antigen kits, and walk-in PCR testing. 

I don’t understand why these resources aren’t being utilized to effect that I’m still getting COVID notifications so often that it has become normal. 

For my family, I don’t care if it’s a tickle in their throat or a runny nose, I don’t send them to school unless they are tested. Some of the cubs were blessed with my trifecta (asthma/allergies/eczema) so we test like crazy around here. At its peak when access to antigen tests and PCR appointments were slim, I’ve waited in cold lines on January mornings, holiday weekends — you name it — just to make sure we kept others around us (and each other) safe.  I’ve had a lung collapse — been on ventilators in the ICU three times in my life —  in addition to having two kids with rare hemophilia.

We do not play around here. 

Now that COVID is in my home, I wear N95s 23/7 — even in my sleep! I only take breaks from masking when the sickies are isolated in their rooms and everything has been sanitized. 

Whether or not my efforts to stay negative will be futile, remains to be seen. 

It has been my social observation in my work and in my personal life, that for some, there is an unspoken shame or embarrassment that comes with COVID diagnosis. I saw it with my own family the minute their rapid tests came back positive. I witnessed two simultaneous, fear-based reactions: What will this do to me and what will people say about me?

I had those feelings, too. 

Now that my family is here, I think it’s important that we normalize this conversation because this is everyone’s new normal. 

Once I shared my experience, I had all sorts of private messages from people who willingly shared their own experiences, tips & tricks, and recommendations with me. In its own way, it was wonderful and normalizing. 

(Yes, even the well meaning, but slightly annoying messages from a small faction of folks coming out the woodwork with messages that had me thinking they didn’t know the f*ck I izzz and how I do do, mayne! P.S. Yes, I am making sure to sanitize my hands. Lol.)

Ever since I stopped blogging, IG has become my community of sorts, and while I know I can share the rigamarole of all the home remedies and treatments I already know because of what I do for a living, I’m sharing my opinion on this one piece, in case it helps someone else.

To reiterate: Got COVID? 10 day isolation OR simultaneous testing on different brands — if you have access — if you must return after the 5-days. 

I’m rooting for you either way, friends. May the odds be ever in your favor and may the force be with you. 💚

https://www.cdc.gov/coronavirus/2019-ncov/hcp/duration-isolation.html

On Being Strong...

On our way to the ER the night of the missed bleed, with her still head pounding from the pain, Niki told me that she wasn’t afraid to die. She just blurted it out and my heart broke.

We continued to talk about it and I internalized what I really wanted to do: cry.

It hurt when Noah said it me on the way to the ER a few years back. He was only 5 and as pale and lethargic as he was, he looked at me through half-closed eyes and said, “Mommy, I’m not dying.” I looked at him and said, “No, you’re not.” 

And I fought to regain my composure by thinking positive.

It’s so unfair they have to even think of death, isn’t it? But this is their reality. And it is my reality as their mom. 

These are the moments I don’t always share because I wanted so badly to be positive. To me, negative thoughts weren’t productive or healthy. While it’s good to be positive, forced optimism doesn’t exactly allow the emotional bandwidth to process pain either.

But... pain is normal. It’s just taboo to talk about it.

I realized these last few days that trying to spin my pain into something positive, isn’t healthy. I realized that it’s OK to just be in this “negative space” sometimes. It’s normal to be afraid. It’s normal to be anxious. It’s my normal. It’s OUR normal. 

I can’t always be strong. Can you?

Even though it hurt me to hear it, and even though it’s traditionally perceived as negative to talk about death, given their circumstances, it’s very valid and normal for my kids to think about their own mortality.

To be transparent means I should share all facets of my reality, right? Even the uncomfortable parts that may make people feel uneasy. The parts that parents like us — parents whose children live with chronic or terminal illness, parents of kids with special needs, parents whose entire lives grind to a screeching halt when their kids are sick or need advocacy, parents who lost children — may not necessarily feel safe to share. 

Parents like us understand what this “negative space” feels like and why some of us go to great lengths to hide it.

The sleepless nights filled with worry or research...The grief we repeatedly experience from loss of normalcy and control... The fear of the future...The tears that we fight to hide when we are “weak” and shed them while our kids are around...The discussions where you dance around your partner’s feelings so as to not worry them...The hard discussions where you may not always see eye-to-eye on the best plan for your child...at first. 

I want to validate the normalcy all of these feelings and raw & ugly moments because hiding them isn’t healthy. I used to pride myself on how well I could hold pressure inside. I got so good at it that I thought I was invincible. I thought it made me stronger, but I realized these past few days that I’ve been unintentionally showing my kids that they should strive to be superhuman and emotionally invincible, too. 

I was wrong.

There is a word in Tagalog called “mahinhin.” Loosely translated it means to “be modest or gentle or humbled by authority.” It’s a requisite for Filipina femininity. The opposite of being mahinhin is being a pain-the-ass. The frantic mom. The woman who yells when she doesn’t need to. Even when I’m seething with anger or frustration, it rarely comes out when I really need it to.

I’m always careful to not piss people off, especially people who take care of my HemoKids. 

I don’t want the my Hemokids to be mahinhin. I dont want them to be afraid to be human and say what they need or express how they’re feeling. It’s OK to cry and be upset just like it’s OK to laugh and feel happy. It’s part of the human condition to have range in our expressive emotion.

There is no better time than the present to address whatever it is that weighs heavy in our hearts and minds. To say what we want and need. 

We should normalize sharing not only our joy but our pain,too.

I realized these last few days that I can’t possibly be effectively teaching Niki & Noah to fully advocate for themselves while still trying to be the optimistic, mahinhin mom. The mom who doesn’t want to bother the staff when they’re already so busy. The mom that gently asks when I should be yelling and insisting. The mom who tries to be the positive spokesperson. The mom that tried so hard internalize fear, anger, trauma, and grief that when it comes out now...it’s uncontrollable. 

It made me weaker in the end. 

So let me normalize it and say that I hate being in this space sometimes. I hate that I thought I had to be positive all the time. I hate that my kids have to live with FVIId. I hate that Ethan died. I hate that I could lose them the same way we lost Ethan. I hate seeing them in pain. I hate that they even have to think about their own mortality! I hate that I’ve had people openly question me about whether decisions we’ve made for our kids were the right ones. I cringe when people with “normal kids” tell me I’m strong and they couldn’t do it if they were me. 

Forget decorum. You’d hate here it too if you were me. That’s a lot of pressure. 

Life isn’t butterflies and rainbows all the time and it damn is hard being in the shoes we wear every day. There is nothing admirable about it. If you had these cards, I guarantee you’d be able to do it, too. It’s not a spiritual calling or cosmic selection. The strength special needs parents have comes from the same strength you use when your kid has the flu. 

You just double down and do it. Your kid needs you. So does ours.

Parents like us are fighters, but placing all of us on a pedestal because we have kids with special needs only increases the pressure to be positive. To internalize what would make other people feel uncomfortable. I hate that my pride (our pride) makes accepting help feel very uncomfortable...even if we may need it. So we don’t. We rarely ask for help unless we absolutely can’t do it. We. Got. This...so we think.

This is the ugly side effect of being placed on that parent pedestal: It has made us hesitant to accept kindness because now it feels like pity. 

For a very long time I felt like I wasn’t allowed to break, you know? I was repeatedly told that people couldn’t handle it if they were me so why would I allow myself to break? It made me feel like I also needed to be mahinhin with what I shared or risk breaking that decorum. It was a high, albeit unintentional, expectation to meet.

I essentially invalidated my own normalcy. People meant well, but I hardened myself because I thought I had to. 

Like, you’re trippin Tiff. You got this. Thug it out. Everyone says you can do it so why are you having such a hard time? Wtf is wrong with you? Man up. Stop crying. Handle it.

I saw the results of all my years of false positivity and optimism during this hospital stay. It translated to Niki being too shy to ask for ice chips unless I asked for her. Or playing down her pain until she couldn’t bear it anymore. It translated to her looking at me for encouragement before she answered a question. It seems insignificant, but if you read between the lines, it is. That is definitely NOT what I wanted for her. And I definitely don’t want that for Noah. 

We’re working on it. 

But as I sit here and type this, I also realize something beautiful happened when she wasn’t afraid to share that she was thinking about death. There was something special about Noah doing it, too. It means they intuitively know that they have a safe space to share the range of their emotions. And as negative and scary as it may sound to people who don’t understand, somehow despite me and all my mahinhin-ness, they have enough confidence to speak out loud, instead of holding it in. (Most of the time.)

I think they get that trait from their father.

Worry

Niki just finished a particularly painful infusion and cried herself to sleep. This is not the first time and it won't be the last. She has been dealing with unexplained vascular pain during her infusions for the last few years now. Some days she can deal and other days she can't. Today just so happened to be a day that she couldn't. 

During the infusion, I reminded her to breathe through the pain. We've had this talk many times before and it's always in the same tone of voice that I use when my patients complain of pain during their blood pressure checks. I can best describe it as a monotoned, but soft and encouraging voice. I'm have no outward reaction to her shrieks and crying. I prefer to panic internally for fear that any other external reaction will weaken her. Sometimes I let out just a hint of irritation and frustration when she forgets to do her breathing. She knows breathing helps and I'm usually exasperated when she doesn't do it. I know this all sounds cold and harsh, but when my parenting journey isn't as perfect as I'd like it to be, I go with what comes naturally.  I treat her like one of my patients because I hope it will empower her. I feel like babying her will make her feel the pain even more. I'm not her mom in this very  moment, I am her caregiver.

Nevertheless, no matter how many times I've coached myself to emotionally detach during times like this, the negative comments I've heard in the past (and present!) start to echo in my mind. Self-doubt rears its ugly head and I worry if I'm doing this "Mommy/Caregiver thing" right. Am harming her by not coddling her when she's in pain? Should I be gentler and more maternal? Can a "mind over matter" approach really teach a 7yo girl how to cope with physical pain for the long haul?! 

So many questions, but no answers. All I'm left to work with is an amalgam of my own beliefs and people's opinions -- both the good and the bad.  I'm in a constant state of trying to figure things out. The fear of the worst case scenario is always there. These fears quietly whisper  to come out if I'm not strong enough to to shush them away.  So what happens? I allow my moment of weakness to consume me and and let all my worries  flood my brain. Terrible, horrible thoughts take over...

The negative people are right. She truly is suffering because of her condition. What if I have another child die? What will that do to my family? My other kids are suffering because of their sick siblings. It was irresponsible for me to have children knowing I could pass along this condition. Why don't I just tie my tubes and stop trying to be so  optimistic all the same time? Get out of the cloud of happiness and face reality like a real woman! You're going about this mom thing all wrong. People are right to judge, Tiff.

I'm too hard on myself sometimes. I know it. I own it. That's just how I am.

As I stared at the tears drying on my sleeping babe's face, worrying about how much I'm screwing up as her mother, my mind drifted to a conversation that I had with my coworker earlier today.  My coworker is much older than I am and a hell of a lot more devout in her practice of the faith. She is probably one of the most content and kindest people I know. Unfortunately, she has been plagued with medical issues lately and she shared her distress and worries with me. She also expressed guilt for having those feelings. 

We talked about how hard it is to "let go and let God" sometimes. It takes a lot of strength to be able to completely cast your burdens upon Him 100% of the time. If our faith is supposed to be strong, then why do we still worry? It all feels so hypocritical. Shouldn't His presence be enough? How can one claim to have complete faith in God's plan, but still experience worry, fear, and anxiety during trials and tribulations?

During that conversation, we revisited how we believe that man has been created in His likeness. I went a little further and shared my belief that our flaws are an intentional part His creation. All of me -- the good and the bad -- was created by Him. This means that during our creation, the addition of an emotion like worry was just as intentional as the addition of contentment. I've always believed that it is a blessing to have things fear. It is a blessing to have the ability to worry and feel anxiety. It serves a purpose in our soul. Worrying helps renew our faith and reminds us to trust in God's plan. 

How many of us have bargained with the Lord during times of self-doubt or emotional distress? How many of us have ferociously prayed for guidance when something tough comes along and we don't know what to do next? Worry is there so we can reconnect with the Lord during our most vulnerable moments. Just like a child looks to her parents for comfort when she falls, we look to God for very same purpose. There is beauty to be found in the anxiety and stress of worrying. 

So here I am, several hours after that conversation, thinking about the beauty of His wonderful intentions. The downfall of being transparent and wearing my heart of my sleeve is it leaves me vulnerable. I've experienced unsolicited hurt and judgement from others along with the positive support, too. It is human for me to fear and worry about what other people think. It is human for me to have these visceral reactions to things that have potential to hurt my soul.

My heart was filled with anxiety and inadequacy earlier, but it is full of peace again. It's full because I've reconnected with God through the gift of worrying and self-doubt. I still don't have all the answers, but I find comfort in knowing that I'm not alone. Although I don't know what lies ahead for Niki, Noah, or any of my other Cubbies, I find solace in knowing that God is there for them in His perfection even when I'm flawed. Whatever it is, whatever may come, it is well with my soul. I won't worry for very long. 

Saved Seconds

Remembering to take a picture of a happy moment comes naturally to people. If you know me well, then you know that I take pictures of both the good and the bad.

Why do I do this?

Because my biggest regret about Ethan's passing was not taking pictures. At the time, I thought I wouldn't want to ever re-live that moment. Now, almost seven years later, I regret not documenting how beautiful his funeral was and how blessed we were (are!) to have so many people love and support us.

I learned long ago that there is always something to be grateful for even in the worst times. You just have to look real hard and have faith that the epiphany will come to you. Life is beautiful even at its darkest hour...believe me when I say this! While I may not always see the beauty right away, I have hope that I can look back on a specific photo of a "bad time" and learn something new about myself.

My faith plays a huge part in how I'm able to survive (and how we are able to survive as a family!) despite so many hurdles thrown our way. Being able to look retrospectively at yourself is essential to maintaining endurance...and sanity, of course. Every experience we have is a learning opportunity and there is always room for personal growth. I'm a firm believer that anyone in our shoes would be able to do the same. All parents  have the ability to channel amazing strength when it comes to their children.

So, what's the deal with this picture?

This photo was taken in the recovery room after Noah's surgery. It was a long, worry-filled day to say the least. Now that I've had the time to look back on the photos from that day, this particular photo stood out to me. It may seem insignificant, but the revelation I got while staring at it hit me like a ton of bricks.

This guy right here is my soulmate.

Our love is far from perfect, but he is one of the biggest blessings in my life. I really don't think I could endure any of this without him by my side. I often take him for granted. And... I forget to appreciate him in all the chaos that comes with raising six little lions. He brings me dinner in bed when I'm feeling sick (which is often.) He will wake up at 3am to get me drink because I'm still afraid of ghosts and the dark at 32 years old. He doesn't give me a hard time about it either...most of the time. And that's just naming a few of my oddities...

I guess what I'm trying to say is that he can be brave when I am weak. He is my match. Looking at this photo 3 days later made me remember how lucky I am to have this man by my side.