Back to the Stomping Grounds
The University of Pittsburgh is not what it used to be. It has changed so very much since I was there and it made me wish I could hit "rewind" and go back in time a bit. Gone is the old Pitt stadium. Now the Panthers play at Heinz field.
Gone are the tiny band and pathetic sports teams. Now Pitt's football team is currently undefeated; their basketball team was #1 last year and the band is massive.
The student section at the game is no longer a clique-like divided up mish-mash of students. The students seem to be as one, throwing people up in the air, singing songs, painting their stomachs with "PITT" and making enough noise to seriously disrupt the plays on the field.
This is me with my awesome friend. We've been friends since 7th grade.
Thanks to my friend's company being a major sponsor of Pitt football this year, we were given a pass to the VIP tent before the game and we also got escorted onto the field for warm-ups.
That was amazing. Not only are you standing down there where the Panthers play, but the Steelers play there too. Mr. BBM was beside himself with joy. Then we were escorted to our awesome seats in the end zone.
We got to watch an awesome game where Pitt beat Navy, and the fireworks after the game too.
After the game we caught a crazy cab ride to the South Side, complete with cab commentary that made us almost die with laughter. "Can you see that with your brights?" was just one of the cabby-isms. You can do the rest with your imagination. We hung out in various places and had a blast people watching and catching up with one of our good friends from our college days and his lovely wife.
Later, we went back to our free hotel room suites and caught some much needed z's. On Sunday morning as we were heading out, Jamie Dixon appeared. He was in our hotel recruiting a basketball player for next year. I noticed him standing outside as Mr. BBM sat in the car nearby waiting for me and my friend. I told Coach Dixon that Mr. BBM was probably freaking out that he was standing right there and told him what a huge fan of Pitt football Mr. BBM happens to be. He immediately walked over to the car, shook Mr. BBM's hand and happily posed for a picture.
I don't think this weekend could have been any better!
The Anti-Sympathy Gene
Maybe it's because my Mom, a registered nurse, always required "proof" in order for me to stay home from school. Maybe it has nothing to do with nurture and everything to do with nature and it's just not part of mine. But for whatever reason, I sort of lack that sympathy gene when it comes to my husband.
When we were in college, I was sick for my birthday. We had been dating only about three months at the time. I had a nasty sinus infection and bronchitis. He brought me all kinds of vitamins and I'm pretty sure he also brought me soup. Had the roles been reversed, I probably would have thought his sickness was overkill and that he was just trying to avoid seeing me or something.
Fast forward to Mr. BBM's 30th birthday. For the weeks leading up to his birthday, I went into mad planning mode. I booked a limo large enough to fit us and many of our friends who were coming in from out of town. Since we had an apartment that couldn't fit everyone, I reserved the apartment's guest suite for the out of towners. I made a reservation at a restaurant, had a cake made and even arranged for my parents to come in from out of town to babysit Big I who was only about to turn two. The plan was to have dinner with everyone, and then go out on the town in the limo. It was going to be a blast.
On the Tuesday before the big night, Mr. BBM came home from work early. He looked green and thought that he either had food poisoning or the flu. Instead of getting him soup or a drink, I scolded him and told him he had only a few days to get better. The whole weekend was a surprise, but he had no idea how much I had planned for it.
Wednesday rolled around and he was worse. I was getting really frustrated, but was still determined to have the birthday bash go forward. Thursday came and he was even worse. The party was just two days away and honestly, I was getting really upset. I mean, sure he was sick, but all the planning, the reservations, the money, the birthday bash people! I thought that clearly, he was overreacting and was just afraid of what I had planned for him. I'll admit, I was giving him a hard time.
As Thursday evening rolled around, he said he thought that maybe I should take him to the hospital. I threw my arms up in frustration! What were they going to do at the ER for the flu? He called a doctor and since they were closing, they said he should just go to the ER. Fabulous.
He had been pretty much stationary for two and a half days at this point and mentioned that he didn't know if he could get his socks on. Please. I mean, seriously, a stomach flu and he couldn't get his socks on. Come on already!
So, I retrieved a pair of socks for him and tossed them in his general direction, ok, pelted them is more like it. I was frustrated. I had had no help with the almost 2-year old for several days now. Did I think he was milking it? Absolutely.
As we were getting ready to leave our third floor apartment, he said he didn't think he could walk down the stairs. Oh for God's sake-is he serious? What did he want me to do, call an ambulance? He eventually made it down the stairs and we arrived at the hospital.
When we arrived at the ER, he was put at the back of the queue. It was a flu-like illness after all. There were people with cuts going in front of us. There were people with coughs going in front of us. We arrived at around 4 p.m. and it was absolutely no fun with an almost 2-year old.
As the hours wore on, Mr. BBM was not looking good at all. The color was completely gone from his face. He said he was in agony. He was in and out of sleep, propped up in an uncomfortable chair and I was starting to get a little concerned. I kept asking when we were going to be seen, and they kept blowing us off.
Finally, around midnight, they called us back. The ER was packed. They didn't even have a room for him. We were camped out in a narrow hallway in the ER and it was miserable. Big I had fallen asleep in my arms and I was exhausted from holding her for so long. There was nowhere to even sit down with her.
Mr. BBM was hooked up to an IV. They wanted to do a CT scan as a precaution. The doctors and Mr. BBM told me to go home and get Big I in bed. The hospital was right down the street from our apartment. If anything major was wrong, they said they would call.
By the time I got home, it was around 2 a.m. and I was exhausted. I went to bed expecting to pick Mr. BBM up in the morning after he was rehydrated.
Instead I got a phone call.
I think it was around 6 in the morning and the call was from my mother-in-law. She sounded upset, but like she was trying to keep it together. She said something to the effect of, "Honey, we're on our way. I'm stopping to pick up Grandma too and we'll be there for you. And if you're not happy with this hospital, we'll find a specialist and have him transferred."
I interrupted her. "Wait, you're coming all the way out here for a stomach flu."
"Honey, when did you last talk to Mr. BBM?"
"Last night, when I left the hospital," I said, still groggy from sleep and completely confused.
"Oh honey," she said, "they found a mass in his abdomen."
The next few minutes were a complete blur. I was simultaneously getting dressed, grabbing Big I, and calling the hospital. The hospital couldn't "find" Mr. BBM so I was really freaking out. Finally, after about three calls, I got through to his room.
There was a mass, a complete bowel obstruction and he needed emergency surgery.
Mr. BBM's dad was calling on the other line to tell me he was coming as well; and I was calling my parents to ask them to come earlier than we had planned so they could watch Big I.
As I was running out the door, I called the limo company and while sobbing, told them I had to cancel our reservation. I gave them the short version of all that was happening in between sobs. "You're not going to charge me, are you?" I cried. They said they wouldn't. I quickly set up a phone tree and told everyone not to bother coming and I was gone.
I arrived at the hospital and was in utter disbelief. What the hell had they done to him? Mr. BBM was hooked up to tubes coming out of his nose. He was barely conscious. ER nurses were buzzing around him and I told them I wanted to speak to a doctor, stat.
His surgeon came in, dressed in scrubs, with a team of ER people. They didn't even see me. They started wheeling him out and I started having a fit. "Wait, I need to know what you're doing and what's going on before you take him!" I screamed.
The surgeon stopped for a brief second, just long enough to say, "Look, I can either talk to you about what's wrong with him, or I can go save his life." He didn't wait for my answer, although I said a very quiet, "just go" as they were rushing him down the hall.
I remember sitting in the OR waiting room, sobbing. Big I sat on the floor playing with something I bought her in the gift shop. The ER people told me it was going to take hours to get him in there, explore what was wrong and fix the blockage.
Only 45 minutes passed and I saw the surgeon slowly walking down the hall towards the waiting room. He had his surgical cap in his hand. He didn't look encouraging and I started imagining the conversation we were about to have. It wasn't much of a stretch to assume I was now a widow.
Instead, he told me that the mass was benign. Mr. BBM had what is called a meckels diverticulum. Only 2% of the population has this condition and usually it makes itself known during the first few years of life. Mr. BBM's waited until his 30th birthday so it could wreck his party and scare the crap out of his family.
Mr. BBM's had been sucked back into his intestine which caused the blockage and the "mass" on the CT scan. They were able to remove it, resect the affected area, and he was going to be fine. I couldn't believe I had thrown socks at the man.
I spent the next week while he was in the hospital (for his 30th birthday) being as nice as I possibly could until the day that Big I drooled on his bed sheets. Mr. BBM was on some heavy pain meds. After all, he had staples for probably six inches of his abdomen. He was in a lot of pain. While visiting him one day, Big I fell asleep and I asked him if I could just lay her down on the foot of his bed for a bit. He said I could, but he wasn't happy about it. After days of visiting with her, I was ready for him to come home. It's no fun being in a hospital with an almost two-year old.
While sleeping, Big I drooled on his sheets a little and Mr. BBM got annoyed. He wanted this sheets changed. He acted like she had just pooped in his bed. I took her and went home. Other than that ridiculous afternoon, I tried. I really tried to be more sympathetic towards him. I spent weeks while he was on disability, catering to his every need. I really did my best; and thankfully, he made a full recovery.
Does this mean that today, I have sympathy for him and treat him accordingly when he has a pulled muscle or a cold, or even the flu?
Sadly, no. Despite the fact that the man would literally carry me around if I asked him to, I still lack the sympathy gene. Thankfully he tolerates me as I am.
What's the moral of this story?
I made a good effort, but it didn't stick for long. I think it's just a part of my DNA.
This is the back story from my post from the other day and it's especially for my good friend Dee. 😉
I Knew Him When. . .
I played the saxophone when I was in elementary, junior high, and most of high school. I even won a solo award as part of our school jazz band one year. I was one of those "One summer, at band camp" kids, although I balanced it out with large doses of sports participation and dance committee type things. There was this one particular band guy. . .
You know the one. He’s the one that every girl drools over. The guys the band girls drool over are always different from the ones the mainstream girls drool over. This guy was a drummer, a really fabulous drummer. During jazz band competitions, if he had a solo (which was always), no drummer ever had a chance over this particular guy. If you were born within a three year span of Shane Rozum and were an aspiring drummer, well then, you were out of luck. He always took the trophies home. I think it was a combination of his mad drumming skills and that perfectly wavy hair that made the girls go crazy over him.
He was a year older, and it was a sad day when he moved up to the high school and left us lowly 9th grade girls pining behind in the junior high school.
Because we were silly girls, we made up songs about him, wrote poems about him, and were all comfortable sharing our stories and fantasies of dancing with him at a school dance because he was, what we concerned to be, unattainable. He was completely inaccessible to us in the way that Brad Pitt is to the general population of non-big-lipped women. At least that’s what we all thought.
If you know me (either personally or through my writing), you know that I’m the one out of the group who gets up to karaoke when no one else will and without needing 14 margaritas to do so. I’m the girl who goes to the interactive wax museum and thinks we are not getting our money’s worth unless we do each and every interactive (and possibly embarrassing) activity. Yes, I’ll volunteer.
I’ve never been accused of being shy.
So, when our all-important 9th grade dance was approaching and I didn’t have a boyfriend or any worthy prospects in my own grade, I had an idea. I called Shane Rozum.
The phone call lasted all of two minutes. I think he was as shocked at me calling him as I was at myself for choosing to call him. When the two minutes were up, I had a date to the 9th grade dance and some extremely jealous friends.
Don’t knock the scrunchie. It totally matched my dress.
The dance was fun. He brought me the obligatory corsage and I wore the dress my Mom made me buy, which made me look like a 7-year old instead of a blossoming soon-to-be-high-school-woman (whose body was a little confused about when it was supposed to start the whole blossoming thing anyway). You can’t tell from the pictures, but I’m pretty sure he wore sneakers with his outfit. Truth be told, we didn’t do a whole lot of talking (Get your mind out of the gutter!). For once I felt shy. We hadn’t really talked before. Gawking at someone and going on a real live date are two entirely different things.
We arrived like rock stars (Man, I should have seen it coming. . . ): me with my 80’s rock like ‘do, and Shane with his killer shades.
We did dance, and if looks could have killed. . . well, there were so many band girls who wanted me dead that I would have probably been six feet under half a million times which I think would put me safely through the Earth and out the other side. They could glare all they wanted because even in my pale pink lacy dress, I felt like a rock star being at the dance with the drummer extraordinaire.
Which leads me to today. I haven’t seen Shane since he was a senior in high school and I was a junior. Just this week, I reconnected with another old friend from high school on myspace who told me about the band that Shane is in, a band about to go on tour called "Jealousy Curve." And you know what? They totally rock! I spent some time on their myspace page and listened to their tunes and truly wished that my knee brace wasn’t holding me back from getting my groove on. They have toured with The All American Rejects and are now going on their own tour.
I also stared at Shane’s picture for a while because seriously, is that THE Shane Rozum, the one and the same that I went to the all important 9th grade dance with??? (You’ll only be able to see this with a myspace account. If you don’t have one, take one part typical rock-n-roll drummer, combined with one part wavy shoulder length hair which can be thrown all over the place while wilding drumming, add what I think are some piercings, and you pretty much have the idea.)
Just another one to add to the "I knew him when" list. . .
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