I went to CostCo earlier this week. It might have been Monday. The trip went remarkably well; I wore Iris in my baby carrier and put the oxygen tank in the cart. We have a small, portable tank that is appropriate for travel. Having a baby with you makes everything go much slower and I have found that I am able to enjoy being forced to slow down [so long as I am not holding anyone else up].
I wound my way through the warehouse and, as always, some people noticed the oxygen and others commented on Iris's nifty sunglasses. It is awfully bright in a lot of stores so I try to leave her sunglasses in such situations. It doesn't bother me at all that people notice Iris's particular accoutrements. I don't even mind it when they ask, "Is she a preemie?" or "What happened to her?" But this time around I imagined having to tell a three-year old or four-year old Iris that she shouldn't feel self-conscious when out in public. "You just let people look and you keep walking," I imagined I'd say. And remind her of the valuable lesson my dad taught me, "People are far less interested in you than you are in you." Or alternatively, "People are more interested in themselves than in anyone else."
As we stood in line at the cashier my eyes settled up on a few pre-teen girls who were out with their mom. For some reason, seeing them sparked in my mind memories of my sixth-grade self playing volleyball and all the fun I had through the years. Then I had the unfortunate thought that perhaps Iris would never be able to play volleyball and I got a little choked up. I've generally done a good job of keeping such thoughts out of my head -- Iris is going to show us who she is and what she is capable of and we have no reason to mourn the loss of any imagined future. And so far we've been told to be fairly hopeful about her eyes. She does, after all, have some iris. It's not totally absent:
In any case, I was still a bit shaken by these thoughts rolling around in my head as I headed out to the car. I started unloading the cart but it was very slow going. I heard some voices behind me; a mother with her three children. The rolling of their cart got a bit louder as did their chatter. And then I heard, "Do you need help?" The mother was talking to me. I turned to her and said yes, I'd really appreciate it. And that is what brought on tears. In about five seconds she had my car loaded up and her son had taken my cart away with him. "Don't worry about it, I've been there," she said, continuing on her way.
I'm sure she must have noticed my emotionality during the whole thing and that's fine. I'm not particularly ashamed of my own tears even in public. It makes me wonder, though, if others have stories of crying in public. I cried for basically three weeks straight while we were in the hospital trying to figure out what was going on with Iris, but hospitals don't count. I've also cried in restaurants several times, movie theatres [for reasons other than the plot], I'm sure the list goes on. Oh, and one of my favorites - on the 4th floor of Rackley in the Center for the Study of Higher Education at Penn State in front of a couple students and Dr. Geiger. Actually I've cried in Rackley more times than I'd care to admit.
I wound my way through the warehouse and, as always, some people noticed the oxygen and others commented on Iris's nifty sunglasses. It is awfully bright in a lot of stores so I try to leave her sunglasses in such situations. It doesn't bother me at all that people notice Iris's particular accoutrements. I don't even mind it when they ask, "Is she a preemie?" or "What happened to her?" But this time around I imagined having to tell a three-year old or four-year old Iris that she shouldn't feel self-conscious when out in public. "You just let people look and you keep walking," I imagined I'd say. And remind her of the valuable lesson my dad taught me, "People are far less interested in you than you are in you." Or alternatively, "People are more interested in themselves than in anyone else."
As we stood in line at the cashier my eyes settled up on a few pre-teen girls who were out with their mom. For some reason, seeing them sparked in my mind memories of my sixth-grade self playing volleyball and all the fun I had through the years. Then I had the unfortunate thought that perhaps Iris would never be able to play volleyball and I got a little choked up. I've generally done a good job of keeping such thoughts out of my head -- Iris is going to show us who she is and what she is capable of and we have no reason to mourn the loss of any imagined future. And so far we've been told to be fairly hopeful about her eyes. She does, after all, have some iris. It's not totally absent:
 |
| The iris in both eyes is fixed -- the pupils never constrict. |
In any case, I was still a bit shaken by these thoughts rolling around in my head as I headed out to the car. I started unloading the cart but it was very slow going. I heard some voices behind me; a mother with her three children. The rolling of their cart got a bit louder as did their chatter. And then I heard, "Do you need help?" The mother was talking to me. I turned to her and said yes, I'd really appreciate it. And that is what brought on tears. In about five seconds she had my car loaded up and her son had taken my cart away with him. "Don't worry about it, I've been there," she said, continuing on her way.
I'm sure she must have noticed my emotionality during the whole thing and that's fine. I'm not particularly ashamed of my own tears even in public. It makes me wonder, though, if others have stories of crying in public. I cried for basically three weeks straight while we were in the hospital trying to figure out what was going on with Iris, but hospitals don't count. I've also cried in restaurants several times, movie theatres [for reasons other than the plot], I'm sure the list goes on. Oh, and one of my favorites - on the 4th floor of Rackley in the Center for the Study of Higher Education at Penn State in front of a couple students and Dr. Geiger. Actually I've cried in Rackley more times than I'd care to admit.
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