Eden M. Kennedy

you've come to the right place

Eden M. Kennedy is the co-author (with Alice Bradley) of the book Let's Panic About Babies! (St. Martin's Press, 2011).

A former college-radio DJ, Mrs. Kennedy has driven cross-country six times in a Volkswagen Bug and enjoys standing on her head.

Currently she works at a public library and is finishing writing her first novel.

Filtering by Tag: Attention: I have an important announcement

March march maaaaarch

March was an exciting month. For starters, Peewee almost died. Peewee

It started with Peewee barfing four times in a row one morning, and having this weird little palsy to his head. I started Googling things like "dog+barf+palsy" which led to "dog+symptoms+poison" which led to me freaking out and calling the vet. But an hour later he seemed to have shaken off whatever it was. I cancelled the vet and we decided to keep an eye on him. You know, they rally sometimes, these little beasts.

So we did keep an eye on him and what we saw was that over the course of the next couple of days he started eating less and less. He was still drinking water but his stomach looked swollen, and by last Thursday morning he'd become super lethargic and I knew I had to take him in.

A couple of hours later the vet called and said that they'd done a few tests and that Peewee had an enlarged heart and fluid in his abdomen and his liver and kidneys weren't doing so hot and they were going to do a few more tests. An hour later the vet called and said that he didn't want to alarm me but Peewee's heart rate had leaped up to something like 330 bpm -- a heart rate, he said, that was "not consistent with life" -- and could we please come get him and take him over to the emergency vet, where they had a doctor on staff who had the skills to deal with a crisis like this.

Because I guess there's no such thing as a pet ambulance, Jack and I hopped into his truck and hauled ass to the vet's office, where Jack picked up the Wee and carried him out to his truck while I received a bag full of Peewee's fluids and test results and then cried in the front seat while we drove three blocks to the 24-hour emergency vet's office.

We sat in the waiting room for what felt like forever, drinking little cups of water and not talking, but it was strangely comforting to watch SpongeBob's butt cheeks catch on fire on the TV mounted over the front desk. (When I tried to describe the episode later to Jackson he shook his head and said, "Mom, think about it. Butt cheeks can't catch on fire under water.") After a while a vet tech came out and told us Peewee's heart rate was down to 120. Jack went to get Jackson from school, I cried some more, the vet techs shaved some fun new patterns in Peewee's fur, the doctor gave him a sonogram. We hugged him and then we went home. They kept him overnight so they could take his blood pressure every hour, charge us lots and lots of money*, and save his chunky little life.

*I was fine with the money part because after what we went through with Katie we made sure Peewee had pet health insurance.

When we picked him up the next day the vet was all, "His heart is weak and that's the way it's going to be from now on, so no salt, no walks, no excitement," and I was all, "Yeah, well, it's not like he was on the agility circuit anyway." He was tired and moving pretty slow that first day back home but now it's Monday and he's back to barking at the mail and begging for car rides and jalapeno cheese puffs and he seems pretty much fine with this new regime of us hiding his pills in a hot dog twice a day. I'm a tear-stained wretch, but he's fine.

Having been through similar health scares with human beings, I can tell you that being in that space where you don't know if someone you love is going to live or die is pretty much the most stressful thing that's ever happened to me, and now it's happened to me twice and I'm done, please. No more of this, Universe, thank you.

In other news, I got nominated for an inaugural Iris Award, which was quite a thrill. It's a parent-blogging award, and since I'm down to posting once a month about almost anything except my kid, I don't imagine I have much of a chance of winning. But I'm honored to be in such good company.

And now I'm going to go drink a gallon of vodka and pass out do another round of meditation and watch the Gravity DVD I got from the library. Please hug your dogs, cats, iguanas, and guinea pigs a little extra just for me. Thank you. That actually helps.

Thus be it resolved

My birthday is later this week and I'm having fun imaging that I am still just half-way through my life, that I have a whole other 49 years of mature adulthood in which I do not have to waste time waiting to grow boobs, get a driver's license, or learn to drink without getting a hangover, but am a ready-to-go human being and can do mostly whatever the hell I want. Not included on my mental vision board is the assumption that the years 50-100 may include at least one life-threatening illness, correctable by surgery, during which my heart may be stopped -- which happened to my mother-in-law on the day before Christmas, ho ho ho. Though surviving a one-stop heart or cancer-related dip in the post-menopausal years has happened to so many people I know that I've almost come to expect it as a rite of passage. Program your iPod, pack your bag, and don't forget to ask for a vitamin C drip. Of course, anything can happen, and it frequently does. Like on the day after Christmas, when I was driving home from work on the 101 and all of a sudden it's BANG! SMASH! and I am spinning sideways toward the guard rail. My only question, as I was trundling toward the shoulder of the road, was what to do with my steering wheel, since unexpected forces were clearly in charge of my car now. So I just let go and watched the wheel spin around, and then I got the mildest whiplash ever when my car hit the rail. I'm not sure when my glasses flew off, but I couldn't find them for the life of me, even with a borrowed highway patrol officer's flashlight. I stopped looking under the passenger side front seat when he said, You know, those airbags sometimes go off by themselves after an accident. So, with nothing to do but wait for a tow truck, I squinted at my phone and mashed apps until I found one that would take a photo:

smashed

It doesn't look too bad there, but the car was undriveable and had to be towed. The most fun thing about all of this is the fact that five cars were involved and it wasn't immediately clear who was at fault. I finally got the accident report this morning (12 days later), and called the responsible party's insurance company so we can get this resolved, but I have a sad suspicion that the cost of repairing my car will amount to more than the car is worth, and they'll declare it totaled. :-(

On the upside, I've been borrowing a friend's Volkswagen with heated front seats and I can yell, "Toast your buns!" at Jackson as we drive to school in the morning.

And thus ends three weeks of winter vacation, Jesus Christ. I love my man, I love my child, I love my dog, but three weeks of togetherness meant I didn't get a thing done, writing- or drawing-wise, and you know what? That's okay. We baked cookies, we drank wine, we played Gin Rummy, we lost entire days to Netflix.

2013

  1. Draw every day, intuitively and without agenda
  2. Write every day, even if it's just 15 minutes, to keep the neural helipad open and clear for the Muse to touch down
  3. Yoga every day, even if it's just 15 minutes, or you will become dry and crisp and withered as the husk of Indian corn nailed to your mother's front door, which nobody ever rescued until Spring because we all went into the house through the garage
  4. Never, ever beat myself up if 1, 2, or 3 doesn't happen every day