Harry | The Runaway Mama by Jen Gregory

Category Archives: Harry

October 4, 2013 · 12:53 pm

The Night My Mom Cried

There was this one night when I was a little girl when I threw up spaghetti. Have you ever thrown up spaghetti? It’s repulsive. It’s like it was never chewed. It comes up your throat and out your mouth like yarn (sorry for the image). Anyway, the reason I remember this night so clearly – besides the puking of long strands of pasta – is because it was the night my mom cried.

My mom was at the hospital when I barfed. Her mother, my Grandma Dorothy, had lung cancer, and she went to visit her after the soon to be up-chucked spaghetti dinner. When my mom finally came home, I expected her to check on my rumbling tummy, but she didn’t. She never even came in my room. Instead, she and my dad talked in hushed (and some not so hushed) voices. She was upset because some of the hospital staff had mistreated Grandma. That’s when she cried.

I didn’t get it that night. I was only about ten years old. But eventually, at some point in my adult life, this memory (along with a few others), helped me figure out that my mom wasn’t just my mom, but also a human being in a difficult situation.

A few days ago, Riley said to me, “Mommy, remember when you were on the toilet and you were crying because Dylan was in the kitchen with those guys and he wouldn’t eat new food?”

Whaaa?

I don’t remember the toilet, although Riley’s generally within six to eight three to five inches of me when I’m on the john (unless I lock the door, which only makes a bad situation worse because it causes loud banging and panic, but I digress), so he’s probably right about that part. But I do remember the “guys” in the kitchen and that Dylan wouldn’t try new food, and I definitely remember crying.

“You were sad,” Riley said.

I was sad. It was sad. This memory is from when we had behavioral therapists at the house three nights a week working with Dylan to overcome his sensory issues with food. It was a good idea in theory, but an epic failure in execution, and I cried a lot during those weeks and months.

Isn’t it funny what we remember? The snapshots we hold on to? Like the night I threw up spaghetti and my mom cried about her mother. Like the time Riley saw me cry on the toilet. He was only three and a half at the time, and it’s hard to believe he remembers it so clearly, especially when I don’t, but I bet when my mom reads this post, she’ll have to try hard to remember the night I’ve memorized from so long ago.

Harry’s been in the hospital since last Wednesday. What we thought was a herniated disc turned out to be insulinoma, which is a cancer in the pancreas that screws with insulin production. His back spasms were actually seizures due to plummeting blood sugar. Surgeons removed the malignant mass on Tuesday, and as of today, he’s doing well, but we’re still waiting for his blood sugar to stabilize. (By the way, he does have herniated discs in his neck and back, but they’re the least of his problems!)

For 10 days, we’ve been on a roller coaster ride of good news, bad news, and everything in between, and as you can imagine, I’ve been emotional. I’ve tried to fall apart in private and be brave in front of the boys, but when Dylan asks every morning if Harry will be home after school, and when Riley snuggles with Little Harry (a stuffed animal) and takes Little Harry to school for show & share, I can’t help but fall a part just a little bit right smack in front of them, because I want so badly for Harry to be home (on my lap), too. My kids’ wellbeing and emotional health are my top priorities, but I’m also human, which means sometimes I get caught crying.

I’m not sure what sparked Riley’s memory of the time when I cried on the toilet over a year ago. Maybe he saw me crying in the car this week despite my attempt to do it discreetly. Or, maybe he heard me sob into Harry’s blanket through the wall one night. (His bedroom is next to mine.) Or, maybe it was the single tear that escaped the afternoon he made “get well” pictures for Harry at the kitchen table. Whatever it was, I hope, in the long run, my crying exposes both of my boys to my humanness in a difficult situation in the same manner that I first discovered my own mother’s on the night she cried (and I threw up spaghetti).

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Filed under boys, Harry, health, motherhood

September 27, 2013 · 10:40 am

Girl can’t have baby. Girl gets dog.

You’ve probably heard some variation of this story: “Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love. Boy asks girl to marry him.”

How about this one: “Girl can’t have baby. Girl gets dog.”

That’s pretty much how Harry came into our lives. When the intense schedule of my molar pregnancy slowed down – when the surgery was done, the chemotherapy was over, and all that was left was weekly blood work to check my liver function and hCG levels – I had all the time in the world to ruminate about whether or not I would have children. On top of that, I had to wait at least a year from my last chemo injection before I could try.

I lost it. The story, “Girl wants a baby. Girl gets cancer instead,” was one I never imagined and, frankly, never knew existed. I fell into a deep depression. I took a leave of absence from work, and pretty much took a break from life. I spent most of the spring of 2005 taking long bike rides and walks through my neighborhood, watching the “Oprah Winfrey Show,” looking at houses (I wanted to move far away from the place where it all happened), and researching puppies.

I don’t remember all the details of how we settled on a Boston Terrier besides that we liked their cute smushed faces and tall, pointy ears. I read that they were good with children and liked to be around people. Thankfully, that turned out to be true. The bits I paid less attention to that also turned out to be true were that they are stubborn as hell, difficult to train (we were kicked out of puppy training school), and extremely energetic (i.e. crazy).

On a sunny Saturday morning in May, Mike and I drove about five hours north near Ocala, FL to bring our first baby home. That summer, Harry (and some yoga and lots and lots of therapy) slowly brought me back to life.

I’ve written before about how Harry taught me unconditional love, responsibility, and forgiveness and how he prepared me for motherhood. He also taught me the simple and beautiful (and often inconvenient) act of sitting. When Harry wasn’t running around our yard and house like a lunatic, he spent most of that first summer sitting – sleeping, actually – in my lap. He was either “on” or “off,” and when he was “off,” he was in a lap, and it was usually mine. He was a five-pound adorable ball of deliciousness, and as much as I wanted to move him sometimes (okay, a lot of the time), I also cherished the quiet time we spent sitting together.

Eventually, I went back to work.

Eventually, I had a baby. (And eventually, I had another one.)

Eventually, I stopped sitting down (because Mamas don’t sit much).

Eventually, Harry stopped sleeping in my lap.

Eight years later…

On Wednesday morning in the examination room of a veterinary neurologist’s office, Harry curled up in my lap just like when he was a puppy. I turned to Mike and said, “I can’t remember the last time he sat in my lap.” It was a gift.

About an hour later, he was admitted to the animal hospital for a battery of tests to figure out what’s causing lethargy and vomiting, spasms, seizures, a dramatic drop in glucose levels, and motor skill problems. What began as a bad back has morphed into a medical mystery of epic proportions (he is so my dog).

It’s Friday morning, and he’s still in the hospital.

Last December, my Dad helped us remove all of the childproof locks in the kitchen drawers and cabinets (the boys could open them anyway). For weeks afterwards, every time I opened a draw or cabinet, I yanked it open with a force that nearly knocked me off my feet because my muscle memory still anticipated the locks. Now, when I walk in the laundry room, my hand reaches for the dog treats because normally Harry follows me there. When I walk by his water bowl, I want to reach down to refill it. When my keys jingle outside the front door, I expect to hear him scratching at the door. When I go to sleep at night, I cuddle with one of his blankets…instead of him.

Harry saved me once when I desperately needed to be saved, and now I’m desperate to do the same for him. Here’s another story: “Dog gets sick. Dog goes to the doctor. Dog gets better. Dog comes home where he belongs. Dog sleeps on Mama’s lap.” I like that story the best.