Help Me: Alexis and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Weekend

What I can't lose

It started on Friday. Christian woke up with hives and swelling everywhere. His hands were swollen. His ankles were swollen. His eyes were practically shut. I called urgent care. They wanted to know about his breathing.

"It's fine."
"Okay, well then come in here."

We went, and through the course of check in, I find out our insurance has lapsed through one thing or another (auto-debit never went through...they never contacted us...whatever the case). Then it becomes clear, despite Christian's job (or because of it?), we can't actually afford our insurance premiums. This, thanks to our collected loans, and other responsibilities (which are small compared to most households, but that's all we can manage).

I have a melt down in the waiting room.

It ends up being okay. Only just. Christian takes meds. The swelling goes down more and more. The hives abate, for the most part.

I feel like something needs to change, but I can't seem to get any interviews for jobs I do apply for, that would make childcare possible. I can't sleep well, ransacking my mind for ways that I might actually be able to support us - paths that we could pursue that would actually make a difference for our family.

Fast forward to Sunday.

My son sticks a piece of a toy in his mouth and it gets stuck. It's awkward. It's hard to remove. He's freaking out. He's coughing. His face is turning purple. My mommy sense kicks in and I reach into his mouth and yank it out myself. He is shocked. He is horrified. He cries. He wants to nurse. There is no good place. My shirt is not really the best kind for this sort of thing. We're in the middle of the restaurant, completely exposed. Christian takes him for a walk. He comes back. He wants to stay cradled in my lap. He eats half a sweet potato fry.

He cries. He grabs at me, clearly wanting to nurse. I don't finish my lunch. Christian gets everything except our child, who I am carrying in my arms, across a huge parking lot. He's over 25 pounds, wriggling, kicking, crying, and all the while grabbing at my chest to nurse. I am just trying to keep him in the middle of my body so I don't throw my alignment off worse than it is.

We get to the car. It is hot. It is small. We cram into the back seat and miraculously he's able to latch. He gets distracted and starts playing with things. We relatch. He gets distracted. We relatch. I'm  sweaty and cranky and still in shock from lunch. He gets distracted again, and I make an executive decision and put him into his car seat.

Christian declares he can't drive because of his meds. Fine. I get in the driver's seat. I'm not totally aware of how I'm still upset, but I do what I have to do. This is what I do everyday. I make it work. I check everything, I back up. The car directly behind me is backing up too. I stop. She keeps backing up, but there is no way she can move her car enough. I honk my horn. She bumps me.

I put the car in neutral and the brake on. I get out of the car and look at our bumper. Our car is over 10 years old. Hers is too. There are no dents. There are no scrapes. I see no marks on her car whatsoever, though ours has some old ones from something I can't recall.

"It was just one of those things. I looked left and you looked right," the woman says. I look at the cars again and nod. I'm upset, but no harm no foul.

There's a loud honk from behind me. I look over and there is a car. i stare the driver down. She motions as though she wants to get through - between the two cars who just had an accident. She doesn't smile at me. She doesn't wave or anything. I get into my car and this driver has the gall to drive right between our cars, before either one of us has time to move out of the way. I had visions of chasing her down, of beating her window, of taking my teenage carkeys along her freshly washed California Prius and giving her a nice cursive message to immortalize the occasion.

"Thanks you fucking bitch!" These are the words I thought because she didn't know everything I'd been through this weekend. She didn't realize I had visions of losing not only my husband and best friend, but also the fragile financial security I have. She didn't realize that I had visions of losing my son to a piece of irregularly shaped plastic just moments before. She didn't realize that I had just carried this upset, frightened little boy, wriggling, and crying, at over 25 pounds, the distance of several city blocks. She didn't realize that I had just crammed into my back seat, so that same frightened little boy, could feel an ounce of comfort before being strapped down so he could be transported safely away. She didn't realize all those things, but she did see my car bumper get tapped.

I don't know what that Prius driver had going on in her own life, but I think she could have managed a few seconds wait time to allow a young mother a little less stress to an already stressful event.

So when I did finally get my car going, and make my way out of the parking lot and on to surface street, it was amidst utterly raw weeping. Christian offered to take the wheel, but I refused. I refused in part because I did not want to move from that spot. I did not want to get out of the car. I could not take my hands from the wheel, so instead, I wept. I sobbed until my throat hurt - until the sound was impossible, until it refused to claw from my throat. The tears continued to flow from my swollen eyes. I would sniff. I would take a few gasping breaths, and this was enough to allow that wracking sound from my throat again.

I cried so hard, so long, I started to cough. I started to choke. I calmed enough to breathe. I wept some more. I wept the entire drive to my in-laws' house.

"If anyone makes any kind of comment to me, I cannot be held responsible for what I will say back. I cannot!" I said as I turned down their street. Christian nodded.

"Okay. I understand. Just go straight to the guest room. It's fine."

I parked the car. I wiped salt from my cheeks - just salt tracks because of the drought. I got out, not looking back, not thinking. I went straight to the guest room where our son takes his nap. Christian laid him down beside me, whimpering and half asleep from the car ride.

As I lay there, nursing my sleepy toddler, I breathed deeply, my limbs trembling.

I can't handle anything else. I can't. I need a break - I need to catch a break. I don't have anything left. No patience. No resources. No stamina. I am running on empty. I am bare. I am raw. I don't know what I will do if something else happens. I don't know what else I can do besides what I am doing.

So I write this, raising my hands up, empty and asking...help me.

Accidents - When Impalas and Proteges Collide

Poor Protege!

I had never been in a real car accident until today. Before today, I had been bumped so that my then Volvo tank didn't get a scratch. I had even been in a situation where my friend was driving and his tire was popped. We stood in the rain while he put on the spare. But today I was in a real accident, one that did damage.

And thankfully, this time, it was the other guy's fault.

I have always been a big proponent of being careful on the road. I always double check my blind spot. I use my blinkers. I anticipate where other drivers will be on the road at least several seconds in front of me. I scan my mirrors. In many ways, I'm a textbook driver (Well, I did say in many ways!). So I watched with horror as I completed my U-turn, or attempted to this morning, as the other driver failed to look where he was going. In fact, his head was turned a completely different direction.

It seems strange to me that I should go through life in many places with horrible traffic, and yet the first time I am in a real accident, it's in a place like Bakersfield. I mean, I survived 9 months in the Bay Area, where driving is a contact sport and frankly death defying! I even lived in Phoenix, escaping the oblivious Toyota driving snow-birds and the gun-toting alcoholic Ford drivers. I even survived living in Santa Barbara and driving through Montecito where drivers assume they are entitled to go whenever and wherever they want. 

The saddest thing is the damage may be enough to total the car. This is in part because the car is a 2003 model and damage this extensive will likely total the vehicle. So I guess I'm going to have to go car shopping? *sigh*

Cure My Need for Speed?

There is nothing like the rush you feel when you let your engine roll up.  The thrill as you wait to shift into higher gear giving you added power, as you rush by traffic, the joy as you trace your line along the road, is unique.  It was a rainy day to and from the city that made me once again speed.

I don't know why I do it.  It doesn't matter what kind of car I drive, what I have to do, or where I'm going. If I'm on the freeway with all that open road in front of me, I hear its call. I can't stop myself.  I still have the need for speed.  My foot is magnetically drawn to the floor.  I can't stop myself from pressing the pedal just a little further.  I'll catch myself going too fast and try to slow down.  Short of cruise control, I can't.  It's impossible.  I can slow down for a few minutes, but then it's back to the races for me.

It's for this reason I think I might just have to take a track day down at Laguna Seca. Having a Mazdaspeed means a Mazda Track Day can be lots of fun. On any given Sunday more people race Mazdas than other brands - Miatas, Mazdaspeed versions, and of course open wheel models.  If there is any place and time where I could get out some of my incessant speeding, it would be on the track.  Apparently a day on the track causes you to calm down on the average roadway.  The problem is the price tag on the day, think upwards of 250$.  You're not only looking at the cost to be on the track, but also the gas and food associated with getting there. Someday I'm sure I'll get the chance to burn some rubber at Laguna.  In the mean time, I guess I'll just have to suffer my need for speed on the 580 and the 13.

Motorcycles: Facing Fear and Feeling Free

The sky was gray and it drizzled, still, we braved it.  I put on my Bombshell boots, matching gloves, and my Scorpion helmet.  Never having found a motorcycle jacket I liked (in matching white of course) I suffer in my H&M black leather bomber from years ago.  At first I was nervous.  It had been a long time since I had been on the back of a bike.  Yes, I was just on the back, not driving, but still.  I used to be young and fancy free.  I used to swing as high as I could and then jump off at the height of the arc.  Not any more.  Now I have gene survival on the brain and I find it makes me a little more paranoid than I used to be.  Riding outside the box doesn't exactly lead one to believe you'll be on the planet for any length of time.  Riders call it "the fear."

Everyone has to master it at some point, deal with their own particular brand of road demons.  As we drove along Redwood, curving through the misty day, winding our way along the lake, through moss covered trees, and gurgling streams, it came to me.  Why was I afraid? What was I afraid of? I had ridden side saddle on the back of an old purple Kawi in India and had thought nothing of it, and there, God forbid, I wasn't always wearing a helmet.  Of course, speeds were different.  The whole thing was different.  It was more like a tame version of bumper cars, whereas this, this could be life and death.  I knew people who had been hurt, a friend who was killed. 

Yet, for that winding hour, I wasn't worried about the right-hand turns which used to jangle my nerves. Instead I felt free.  I was free to be in the world.  It was okay to know that I could die at any moment, that I would die eventually, and it would be at the time meant for me to go.  We cannot know what happens in the world, and where we are in the balance.  We just have to trust that we live our lives to the fullest every day, in whatever way we can, however we can.  So what was there to be afraid of?

After burgers and wandering through Berkeley, Emeryville, and then finally Oakland, we wandered our way through previously unexplored realms of East Bay.  I will freely admit there is something that happens when you are on a motorcycle that cannot when you are trapped in a car.  You smell and hear everything.  You look down into the other cars on the road.  You feel the heat coming off the school bus engine idling behind you at a stop light.  The changes in temperature and humidity from one location to another are tangible to you in moments.  The world bares itself to a biker in a way it can never for someone driving a car.  I even caught a whiff of a man's cheap cologne as he crossed the street.  It's not always pleasant, but at least its honest.  There is a relief in the truth.

Even after hours of riding, the fear only caught me once, when the freeway home turned into ten plus lanes, with hardly any cars present.  It's times like then I feel exposed.  Even though I was holding on to Christian, I felt like I would fly off at any second.  Nothing was there to break my fall.  When there was a car that happened to pass on either side, I wondered what would happen if I became unbalanced and fell, what would happen to my shell of a body? Would it be over in an instant? All around me was the possibility of death.  I don't know why it happens on those wide open freeways, but every time, like clockwork, the rising tide of fear grabs me.  This time it was short, and we were in Hayward in minutes, so hyperventilating or sobbing on the back wasn't an option like the last time I was on a major highway in Phoenix.

Even though I did have a moment of panic on the freeway, overall, I felt good being back on the bike.  It had been months.  I have the saddle sores to prove it.  Plus, I missed my boots and gloves.  There is something about awesome gear that makes you feel about ten feet taller and puts a swagger in your step.  I might still have some way to go in my relationship with motorcycles, but at least I freed myself enough to ride on one and take in everything the world has to offer on an overcast Friday afternoon.

Automatic v. Stick - Truck v. Motorcycle

So we're at a point where we have to make a choice.  The big one. What do we do with the Protege? Do we sell it? Do we suck it up and keep the damn thing? If we sell it, do we buy something or Zip it? If we buy something, what do we buy? We're already selling Christian's bike, a Kawasaki Ninja 650R, and talking about getting one of the most practical and best selling little trucks ever. 

The truck is an easy sell for me, because of it's practicality, safety, and all around usefulness (think: any potential moving, our own, or others'). Christian has access to bikes all the time from his work.  He rides regularly.  Buying another bike would be an easy thing to do even if we bought a truck.  They require a lot less capital than cars and the insurance is a hell of a lot cheaper. But when it comes to buying a car I choke up.  I don't know if I can handle having less than a turbo.  I like driving fast.  I like feeling the road beneath me, having a responsive car where I know the wheel is connected to my thoughts and as soon as I turn it, I am off like a rocket.  There is nothing better than that feeling.  Nothing compares.  As frightening as the engine roll up may be (mostly because I don't want the cops to get curious), it is also exhilarating and liberating.  I will go, that is, as soon as the car is out of the shop.

Since our catalytic converters are being installed and were a special order part, we had to take my mother-in-law's car back to the Bay area, a RAV 4. In addition to the larger body, the innumerable buttons for climate control, and steering column controls for blue tooth and the stereo, it is an automatic, and a Toyota.  There is a reason for automatic cars, and I can say at least one of the biggest reasons is San Francisco itself.  With the crazy intersections (often with about 7 different potential directions in just as many angles) and the hills that feel like Mount Everest with a stick shift, an automatic is an attractive thing.  So when I drove the RAV 4 to Potrero Hill this morning, I really appreciated the automatic while I was waiting for someone to pull out of their 90 degree parking space on the steep Potrero grade. Even during the drive on the 580 back to Hayward, I didn't want for power.  The little SUV has some pick up.  But I still found myself wanting to have more control over how the car handled. I wanted to slip into spaces that the SUV just couldn't, where my Protege could.  Plus, there was no chance I was going to play driving games in the RAV 4.  Let me tell you, there were a few jerks on the road that I really wanted to show up, but of course, it's my mother-in-law's car, and it's definitely not a Mazdaspeed. 

It got me thinking, if I was going to sell the car, what could I possibly get that would make me as happy driving? Everything that looks remotely interesting would require a lot more capital than I have on hand and car payments are definitely not an option at this point.  No, I think I'm committed.  It's a marriage to my car.  My awesome little Mazdaspeed Protege.  I love thee.  And at least for the mean time, we are totally together.  That is, until I have some excess cash for a more reliable sports car.  Maybe an Audi S... or an M series... I could do a Mini S too... maybe.  Oh wait, no... none of them have the ratings of Mazda's.  Yes, thank you GOD for one car company that makes good reasonably priced and powerful vehicles.  They make my shifting hand itch.  I can't wait for my car back!

T Day, aka D Day

Holidays are always an adventure for some reason or another.  Maybe it's the regular family brawl.  Maybe you have drinking contests with your cousins.  It could be that someone regularly has a meltdown.  For us, it changes yearly, and is just as often unrelated to family as it is directly connected to them.

This year it was our car.  We drove down to Buellton last night, which ended up being about four hours.  Normally our Mazda has some power.  Last night it didn't.  The turbo went out for some reason and the car decided uphill was not a direction it wanted to go.  Instead, the fastest we could go was about 60, when normally 80 mph is our average speed.  I know, it's probably not the best idea, but if you were driving my car, you would go that fast too. 

So, today before dinner, Christian and his dad played around with the thing, trying to discover what the helicopter sound was every time the turbo normally would have kicked in.  Also, the check engine light has been on, and short of having OBD II  code reader to tell why it's on, it's unclear what needs to be replaced or cleaned.  Needless to say, the car needs some serious love.  Let's just hope that my latest attempt to get a job works out so that we can actually afford to fix the car and make it safe.  Cross your fingers for us!  Otherwise this could get really scary really fast... EEK!