The phone rang around 3:00 pm today. I was tempted to skip it and let the answering machine get it; I had been fighting a losing battle all day trying to get things done. I glanced at the Caller ID, and decided to answer.
Becca's mom was on the phone. Becca is also a patient at The Hospital; we have been friends with Becca and her family since the girls were (literally) in diapers. Becca lives across The Greater Metro Area, in a quiet suburb opposite ours. Her mom is a nurse at one of the big specialty hospitals in The Metro, her dad is completely out of the picture; her parents are divorced. Becca also has a brother who has largely escaped the problems that have plagued his sister.
Becca has to go back to The Hospital on Friday for more surgery. Becca has a whole different array of problems - she has brittle bones, scoliosis, and several other conditions, all of which contribute to her being a bit smaller, and a lot more fragile than her classmates. Becca and Twinks go to the same Pediatric Cardiologist, and they have the same Doctor at The Hospital. They are friends in a way that surpasses most girly-friendships at this age; they share the common bonds of a lifetime of pain, and an overarching, burning desire to be Normal.
Becca's mom tells me that the surgery is going to be a "big one", laying open her back (literally from the base of her skull to the top of her buttocks) while The Doctor goes in and completely rebuilds her back. She has to be at The Hospital on Friday, surgery will be Monday. She will be kept in isolation at The Hospital all weekend before the surgery to insure that she is healthy, and that she doesn't bring in any viru/colds/infections that might compromise either her recovery, or that of another patient.
This is a familiar routine for us; fundamentally unchanged since Twinks had her first surgery years ago. Becca's mom will live with her, in her hospital room. She will sleep on a fold-out chair/bed next to Becca's bed, and she will stay with Becca the entire time. There are laundry facilities just for the parents living at The Hospital so that they can keep their clothes clean, and there are showers just for the parents to use. Becca won't have to bring along anything except her school books, and an outfit to travel home in - The Hospital will supply *everything* that she needs during her stay. I remember as if it were yesterday, nervously arriving at The Hospital when Twinks was a baby, dragging along a suitcase full of diapers, wipes and formula. The nurses told me to send it home - and then showed me the "pantry", where I could go anytime I needed supplies for Baby Twinks. The shelves were stocked with every brand, and kind of formula, diapers, wipes, jars of baby food, bottles of baby shampoo, lotion, and powder. They also showed me the closet, where I would get the clothing that Baby Twinks would wear while she was at The Hospital. It was full of clothing for children of all ages, and all sizes. There are special bathtubs - one a special "slant" tub, so that kids who have one leg, or one arm in a cast can take a bath. Each huge corner room of the In-Patient Hospital wing is a playroom that is dedicated to children of a certain age range. When Baby Twinks had her first surgery, we were in a room on the hallway that led to the babies playroom. It is a colorful, cheerful room, lined with windows and full of toys for infants, toddlers, preschoolers and kindergarteners. There is the school-age playroom in the next corner - it too is lined with windows, but here you will find the classic toys that you expect; Legos, Hot Wheels cars, Barbie dolls, dress-up costumes, board games, and The Library. The In-Patient unit has a library full of books, magazines, DVD's, Videotapes, and CD's for the kids to check out. The opposite corner is "Teens only", and you must be at least 12 years old to enter, but not older than 18! Even the nurses knock before entering - this is a sanctuary for the older kids who are staying at The Hospital. There are pinball machines, arcade video games, a foosball table, an air hockey table, a jukebox, and of course, Playstations, XBoxes, and GameCubes. The only time an adult is allowed in (besides for routine maintenance, or during scheduled cleaning times) is "by invitation". I have seen only brief glimpses when the doors opened to admit one of the teens, but the nurses tell us that it is a great room to hang out in! The last corner of the In-Patient Hospital is dedicated to the parents. It is called "The Lounge", and here you will find huge, overstuffed rocker-recliners lined up in front of rows of televisions. There are areas for reading, desks for writing, couches for napping, and a row of pay phones for those who can't afford the luxury of a cell phone. This is where the parents go when they need to cry; this is where the lost souls who suffer from insomnia congregate to watch the night creep past.
There are doors to the In-Patient wing that separate it from the rest of The Hospital building. After a few days, those doors become either a barrier, or a shield, depending upon your viewpoint. They represent what makes you different from the families that are over on The Clinic side of the building. They close out the noise from PT/Rehab; they keep at bay the chatter and laughter from the central atrium. They lead out to a world that quickly becomes surreal; you are sheltered and insulated and cared for In-Patient: reality can easily become distasteful. The nurses are so incredible - they quickly immerse themselves in each child's care, and soon they know each child so well that you would swear they were part of the family. The nurses also gently but firmly teach the parents how to care for these kids when they are at home again; they keep the doors to reality, and ultimately home, propped open just a bit, just enough.
So, we are already there, mentally, with Becca and her mom. I agonize that Becca's mom will have to sit alone in the surgical waiting rooms; although she is a nurse, on Monday she will be a mother, first and foremost. As so many of us have before her, she will stand at those windows, and gaze out over Hospital City while she waits for The Doctor to come and tell her that everything will be OK. She will listen to the big clock tickticktick past the seconds; she will try (and fail) to distract herself by reading one of the dog-eared magazines left piled on the tables. I have been fortunate to have The Wrench by my side; to say that he has been my "rock" is miserably inadequate. Becca's mom has no one that she can fall back on; she is a single parent in the worst possible scenario; alone at The Hospital. I know that of all the places in the world that *could* do this surgery, Becca is going to be at the best one. Her doctor (the same one that Twinks sees) is hands-down, the best doctor available for this operation. They are in good hands, but I can't help but worry about them anyway.
So, tonight we'll begin praying for Becca. Praying that her surgery will be a success, that it will straighten her back as it should be, and that she too will soon be able to walk without pain, just like her best friend Twinks does now. We will pray that Becca's mom will not feel so alone; that she will feel our love and concern all the way from here. We will pray that on Monday, The Doctor's hands are swift, sure, and accurate.
We will pray for Becca.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Everything has consequences
We have had a lesson this weekend in consequences.
As in, you-do-this-and-that-will-happen, consequences. More accurately, you-don't-do-this-and-that-will-happen consequences.
Twinks was warned - and we nagged her twice daily. We have become the parental equivalent of a broken record (for you youngsters, that's like an audio CD that skips) telling her over and over again that she must do her physical therapy.
When we started talking about the braces earlier this summer, Twinks knew she was going to have to do PT - twice daily. She was told, in graphic detail, what would happen if she didn't.
To give her credit, she did really good for a while. Then, she started to slack off. Her dad and I would gently remind her, nag her, YELL AT HER, and she would do the PT. Not happily, but she would do it.
However, in just the past 10 days or so, she just pretty much quit. We warned her, reminded her, YELLED AT HER, etc., etc. Ad nauseum. Finally, I realized that she was going to have to learn this lesson "the hard way".
My younger brother was one of those kids who *always* had to learn "the hard way". He was the kid who put his hand on the still-glowing burner on the stove to see what would happen. Fell out of the tree and broke his leg, because he thought he could use a bedsheet for a parachute. Jumped off of the roof of the barn, and knocked himself out cold because he thought that the big old pile of leaves he raked up would cushion his fall. You know the type of kid - the one that everyone says "It will be a wonder if that kid survives his childhood". He was stitched up, bandaged up, patched up more than any other kid at our school. He always had to learn things the hard way.
Apparently, at least this time, so does Twinks. It's really a first for her. She's an incredibly intelligent, thoughtful person. She typically realizes that when Mom and Dad tell her something, it is for her own good. We have rarely had to discipline her - I used to worry, because she was almost freakishly *good* and obedient.
God, I love this kid. I love her more than I ever thought I could love another person. If something were to happen to her - I would just quit breathing. I wouldn't want to go on.
But right now, I could cheerfully feed her right to the pigs.
Because Twinks hasn't been doing her PT, in just ten days time she has begun to atrophy. Her feet have begun to stiffen up - they aren't as flexible as they should be. It's a direct result of wearing the braces (no pain = Good!) and not doing PT (no pain = Bad!)
Tonight, The Twinkie learned the hard way that she was going to have to start working again; she realized the consequences of her decision to skip PT were not just creeping up on her, but had overtaken her.
I hate to see this; I know she will now have to endure far more pain than she would have if she had only done the damn PT. (Yes, I know you are reading this, Twinks. I'll put a quarter in the jar later.)
Twinkle, Twinkle, my little star
Do your PT, and you'll go far
Skip your PT, and you will cry
Your feet will hurt; you'll want to sigh
Twinkle, Twinkle, my little star
Do that PT, and you'll go far...
Everything has consequences. Even when you are eleven and two-thirds years old.
As in, you-do-this-and-that-will-happen, consequences. More accurately, you-don't-do-this-and-that-will-happen consequences.
Twinks was warned - and we nagged her twice daily. We have become the parental equivalent of a broken record (for you youngsters, that's like an audio CD that skips) telling her over and over again that she must do her physical therapy.
When we started talking about the braces earlier this summer, Twinks knew she was going to have to do PT - twice daily. She was told, in graphic detail, what would happen if she didn't.
To give her credit, she did really good for a while. Then, she started to slack off. Her dad and I would gently remind her, nag her, YELL AT HER, and she would do the PT. Not happily, but she would do it.
However, in just the past 10 days or so, she just pretty much quit. We warned her, reminded her, YELLED AT HER, etc., etc. Ad nauseum. Finally, I realized that she was going to have to learn this lesson "the hard way".
My younger brother was one of those kids who *always* had to learn "the hard way". He was the kid who put his hand on the still-glowing burner on the stove to see what would happen. Fell out of the tree and broke his leg, because he thought he could use a bedsheet for a parachute. Jumped off of the roof of the barn, and knocked himself out cold because he thought that the big old pile of leaves he raked up would cushion his fall. You know the type of kid - the one that everyone says "It will be a wonder if that kid survives his childhood". He was stitched up, bandaged up, patched up more than any other kid at our school. He always had to learn things the hard way.
Apparently, at least this time, so does Twinks. It's really a first for her. She's an incredibly intelligent, thoughtful person. She typically realizes that when Mom and Dad tell her something, it is for her own good. We have rarely had to discipline her - I used to worry, because she was almost freakishly *good* and obedient.
God, I love this kid. I love her more than I ever thought I could love another person. If something were to happen to her - I would just quit breathing. I wouldn't want to go on.
But right now, I could cheerfully feed her right to the pigs.
Because Twinks hasn't been doing her PT, in just ten days time she has begun to atrophy. Her feet have begun to stiffen up - they aren't as flexible as they should be. It's a direct result of wearing the braces (no pain = Good!) and not doing PT (no pain = Bad!)
Tonight, The Twinkie learned the hard way that she was going to have to start working again; she realized the consequences of her decision to skip PT were not just creeping up on her, but had overtaken her.
I hate to see this; I know she will now have to endure far more pain than she would have if she had only done the damn PT. (Yes, I know you are reading this, Twinks. I'll put a quarter in the jar later.)
Twinkle, Twinkle, my little star
Do your PT, and you'll go far
Skip your PT, and you will cry
Your feet will hurt; you'll want to sigh
Twinkle, Twinkle, my little star
Do that PT, and you'll go far...
Everything has consequences. Even when you are eleven and two-thirds years old.
Monday, September 19, 2005
But you'll always be older than me...
Happy Birthday to The Wrench!
That's right. Today, September 19, is your birthday.
It is time for me to tell the world, my darling, how very much I love you.
How happy I am (still, after nearly 19 years of marriage) to be your bride.
It is also, sadly for you, time for me to once again remind the world that you will now be Officially Older Than Me.
I love this time of year. I'm sorry, because I know that you harbor a wish, deep within your soul, that I would just :::forget::: about it every year.
But, I'm not going to. Nope, it is with great glee that I tell everyone - and you know that I must - that you are Old. Older than me! Not the same age anymore! And, with the wonder and magic that is The Calendar, it shall remain so until next July, when I will (for just a few tiny little weeks) catch up with you again. Although, even then, you will still *technically* be older than me; we will just briefly share the same age "number", that is all. But until then - you are Old.
Old is, by my definition, anyone who is older than me. That's all that counts. You are, by my reckoning, somewhere around 270 days older than me. That's right, old man - I did the math. In fact, I was even *generous*, and rounded down. You're Old.
Ancient. Antique. Hoary. Elderly. Aged. Geriatric. Senior Citizen. Doddering Old Fart.
No mistaking it, darling husband of mine. As of today, you are Old.
But just remember, you lucky old coot... I've always had a thing for older men.
Happy Birthday, baby.
I love you.
That's right. Today, September 19, is your birthday.
It is time for me to tell the world, my darling, how very much I love you.
How happy I am (still, after nearly 19 years of marriage) to be your bride.
It is also, sadly for you, time for me to once again remind the world that you will now be Officially Older Than Me.
I love this time of year. I'm sorry, because I know that you harbor a wish, deep within your soul, that I would just :::forget::: about it every year.
But, I'm not going to. Nope, it is with great glee that I tell everyone - and you know that I must - that you are Old. Older than me! Not the same age anymore! And, with the wonder and magic that is The Calendar, it shall remain so until next July, when I will (for just a few tiny little weeks) catch up with you again. Although, even then, you will still *technically* be older than me; we will just briefly share the same age "number", that is all. But until then - you are Old.
Old is, by my definition, anyone who is older than me. That's all that counts. You are, by my reckoning, somewhere around 270 days older than me. That's right, old man - I did the math. In fact, I was even *generous*, and rounded down. You're Old.
Ancient. Antique. Hoary. Elderly. Aged. Geriatric. Senior Citizen. Doddering Old Fart.
No mistaking it, darling husband of mine. As of today, you are Old.
But just remember, you lucky old coot... I've always had a thing for older men.
Happy Birthday, baby.
I love you.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Quiet Saturday Night
I vowed all week that today would be my "day off". No laundry, no cleaning, no schoolwork, and most of all - NO CLIENTS.
So far, so good.
The Wrench and I dispatched Our Little Miss Twinkleness to her grandparents for the day, and have spent a rare, quiet Saturday together.
We went to a late lunch at our favorite little cantina. It was wonderful; we had the entire place to ourselves. Afterward, we took a long drive out in the country, probably around 150 miles or so, circling back home in time to watch a sunset that was simply breathtaking.
Now the house is too quiet. The Wrench is napping, but I am unable to rest, as I am listening for sounds of life in the driveway.
I miss The Twinkster when she isn't here. I feel like it has been days, instead of mere hours, since I have seen her.
I want to hear her singing along to her favorite songs in her room, or listen to her humming while she putters around in the kitchen. I miss the sound of her walking down the hallway, the noise from the TV in her room.
I even miss the incessant questions. "Mom, did you do the laundry yet?" "Mom, can I have a snack?" "Mom, when are we going to the store again?" "Mom, will you come here please?"
I think I just had a little twinge of Pre-Empty Nest Syndrome...
Come home, Little Twinks. It's too quiet here without you.
So far, so good.
The Wrench and I dispatched Our Little Miss Twinkleness to her grandparents for the day, and have spent a rare, quiet Saturday together.
We went to a late lunch at our favorite little cantina. It was wonderful; we had the entire place to ourselves. Afterward, we took a long drive out in the country, probably around 150 miles or so, circling back home in time to watch a sunset that was simply breathtaking.
Now the house is too quiet. The Wrench is napping, but I am unable to rest, as I am listening for sounds of life in the driveway.
I miss The Twinkster when she isn't here. I feel like it has been days, instead of mere hours, since I have seen her.
I want to hear her singing along to her favorite songs in her room, or listen to her humming while she putters around in the kitchen. I miss the sound of her walking down the hallway, the noise from the TV in her room.
I even miss the incessant questions. "Mom, did you do the laundry yet?" "Mom, can I have a snack?" "Mom, when are we going to the store again?" "Mom, will you come here please?"
I think I just had a little twinge of Pre-Empty Nest Syndrome...
Come home, Little Twinks. It's too quiet here without you.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Had to do it...
I was surprised.
I made the "Tagged" post, and went off to add some of my new fave reads to my blogroll.
I look around, and suddenly there are SIX, no - wait - SEVEN, then there are EIGHT comments on the "Tagged" post, in less than 15 minutes! Wanna guess how many were from actual readers, and how many were from scummy spammers?
:::grrrrr:::
Had to go turn on Word Verification for comments.
Sorry if it bugs you, but I can't tolerate SPAM in any form. Yes, I deleted them. I don't know if that is "politically correct" in the Blog-o-sphere, but I don't care.
It's my blog and I'll delete if I want to.
So, YOU can post. Post away! I love to know who is reading here - who is *really* reading here. But no scummy spammers allowed.
I've already got enough of their trash landing in my Inbox to last me a lifetime.
I made the "Tagged" post, and went off to add some of my new fave reads to my blogroll.
I look around, and suddenly there are SIX, no - wait - SEVEN, then there are EIGHT comments on the "Tagged" post, in less than 15 minutes! Wanna guess how many were from actual readers, and how many were from scummy spammers?
:::grrrrr:::
Had to go turn on Word Verification for comments.
Sorry if it bugs you, but I can't tolerate SPAM in any form. Yes, I deleted them. I don't know if that is "politically correct" in the Blog-o-sphere, but I don't care.
It's my blog and I'll delete if I want to.
So, YOU can post. Post away! I love to know who is reading here - who is *really* reading here. But no scummy spammers allowed.
I've already got enough of their trash landing in my Inbox to last me a lifetime.
Tagged? OK, I'll play!
Our Favorite Man of Mystery, Magazine Man "tagged" me, so here we go!
¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸.¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸.¤º°`°º¤ø,¸
10 years ago: Cleaned up cat barf. Sat on floor to do PT with an eighteen-month-old baby Twinks. Around seven months prior, we had gone to The Hospital for The Big Surgery that would ultimately allow Twinkle to walk at all. She would be just days shy of her second birthday before she was ambulatory; that is still four months in the future. Put braces back onto baby Twinks legs after PT is done. Client roster = 2; life is exciting on the edge of the wild electronic frontier that is The Information SuperHighway. Sent email to my mom, explaining *why* the computer can't work exactly like her beloved IBM Selectric typewriter...
5 years ago: Dropped Twinks off at school for another day of First Grade; worked on finalizing notes and paperwork from the three-year project we had wrapped just two months earlier. Overhauled web site for my number one client. Was jealous that friends in The City had high-speed internet while we were stuck with dial-up in our bucolic little neighborhood. Client roster = a nice solid, reliable 10. Cleaned up cat barf...
1 year ago: Attended a PTO meeting at Twinks' school :::yawn:::. Finished the last of the refurbs for the Church's computer ministry. Client roster = 7; three are flaky part-timers, 2 are worthless bums that owe me money. Downloaded a 17 meg file via wireless high speed connection in minutes that would have taken *days* on my old 1200 baud modem. Cleaned up cat barf. Took The Wrench to lunch...
Yesterday: Cleaned up cat barf. Did PT with Twinkle, made sure she put braces on legs afterward. Read a bit, did laundry. Made cookies with Twinkle. Created/posted a website for The OFG; never want to see the color purple on anything again. Client roster = 7 (but it's a *different* 7 than a year ago; all non-profits and indys) Desperately trying to catch up on my blog-reading, I found out that I had gotten "tagged" on Friday...
5 songs I know all the words to: "Stay Awake" from Walt Disney's Mary Poppins. "Brand New Day" by Sting. "Lullabye (Good Night, My Angel)" by Billy Joel. "Ten Tiny Turtles" from Sesame Street. The Doxology.
5 snacks: Funnel cakes at The State Fair. Chips & Salsa from my favorite Tex-Mex cantina. TCBY White Chocolate Mousse frozen yogurt. Popsicles, but only if it's hot and sunny, and you are sitting on the curb with your best friend. Three Muskateers "Popables".
5 things I'd do with $100 million: Give The Shriners enough money to run all of their hospitals for a month (1.6 million per day to run 22 Hospitals x 31 days = 49.6 million, so let's just round up to 50 mil) Divide up another 30 million between our Church, the Red Cross, and the United Way. That would leave 20 million to take care of our extended families; pay off everyone's mortgages, buy everyone a new car, pre-pay college for all the kids and babies, and then leave The Twinkie a nice little trust fund.
5 places I would run away to: My mom's house. The big porch swing on my Grandma's front porch. The Library. St. Louis. A beach to be named later.
5 things I would never wear: Anything that has to be dry-cleaned. Any free t-shirt with a vendor/sponsor logo on it. Birkenstocks. Anything that was originally hip/trendy from 1967 to 1999. Anything that fits too tightly.
5 favorite TV shows: The news; any flavor, any time. Any of the "Looney Tunes" or "Merri Melodies" cartoons. "Two-and-a-Half Men" on CBS. "Rolie Polie Olie" on The Disney Channel. Any show where they go behind-the-scenes and show how things are made or manufactured.
5 greatest joys: The Twinkie. Unplanned naps on quiet Sunday afternoons. The excitement of opening a new book from a favorite author. Sleeping late on rainy Saturday mornings. Just hanging out with my Mom, who is my best friend.
5 favorite toys: My laptop. My camera. Legos. My MP3 player. A new big box (96 colors, with a sharpener, thank you very much!) of Crayola Crayons, and an empty coloring book.
5 people I'm tagging: DISCLAIMER: You don't have to play unless you want to, and forgive me in advance if you have been tagged recently, and I missed it! Flip, Tenn, and of course, The Twinkie (all girls, all cute, all smart, all the time!) Johnny C. (*always* interesting) and a new friend, Alpharat!
¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸.¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸.¤º°`°º¤ø,¸
¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸.¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸.¤º°`°º¤ø,¸
10 years ago: Cleaned up cat barf. Sat on floor to do PT with an eighteen-month-old baby Twinks. Around seven months prior, we had gone to The Hospital for The Big Surgery that would ultimately allow Twinkle to walk at all. She would be just days shy of her second birthday before she was ambulatory; that is still four months in the future. Put braces back onto baby Twinks legs after PT is done. Client roster = 2; life is exciting on the edge of the wild electronic frontier that is The Information SuperHighway. Sent email to my mom, explaining *why* the computer can't work exactly like her beloved IBM Selectric typewriter...
5 years ago: Dropped Twinks off at school for another day of First Grade; worked on finalizing notes and paperwork from the three-year project we had wrapped just two months earlier. Overhauled web site for my number one client. Was jealous that friends in The City had high-speed internet while we were stuck with dial-up in our bucolic little neighborhood. Client roster = a nice solid, reliable 10. Cleaned up cat barf...
1 year ago: Attended a PTO meeting at Twinks' school :::yawn:::. Finished the last of the refurbs for the Church's computer ministry. Client roster = 7; three are flaky part-timers, 2 are worthless bums that owe me money. Downloaded a 17 meg file via wireless high speed connection in minutes that would have taken *days* on my old 1200 baud modem. Cleaned up cat barf. Took The Wrench to lunch...
Yesterday: Cleaned up cat barf. Did PT with Twinkle, made sure she put braces on legs afterward. Read a bit, did laundry. Made cookies with Twinkle. Created/posted a website for The OFG; never want to see the color purple on anything again. Client roster = 7 (but it's a *different* 7 than a year ago; all non-profits and indys) Desperately trying to catch up on my blog-reading, I found out that I had gotten "tagged" on Friday...
5 songs I know all the words to: "Stay Awake" from Walt Disney's Mary Poppins. "Brand New Day" by Sting. "Lullabye (Good Night, My Angel)" by Billy Joel. "Ten Tiny Turtles" from Sesame Street. The Doxology.
5 snacks: Funnel cakes at The State Fair. Chips & Salsa from my favorite Tex-Mex cantina. TCBY White Chocolate Mousse frozen yogurt. Popsicles, but only if it's hot and sunny, and you are sitting on the curb with your best friend. Three Muskateers "Popables".
5 things I'd do with $100 million: Give The Shriners enough money to run all of their hospitals for a month (1.6 million per day to run 22 Hospitals x 31 days = 49.6 million, so let's just round up to 50 mil) Divide up another 30 million between our Church, the Red Cross, and the United Way. That would leave 20 million to take care of our extended families; pay off everyone's mortgages, buy everyone a new car, pre-pay college for all the kids and babies, and then leave The Twinkie a nice little trust fund.
5 places I would run away to: My mom's house. The big porch swing on my Grandma's front porch. The Library. St. Louis. A beach to be named later.
5 things I would never wear: Anything that has to be dry-cleaned. Any free t-shirt with a vendor/sponsor logo on it. Birkenstocks. Anything that was originally hip/trendy from 1967 to 1999. Anything that fits too tightly.
5 favorite TV shows: The news; any flavor, any time. Any of the "Looney Tunes" or "Merri Melodies" cartoons. "Two-and-a-Half Men" on CBS. "Rolie Polie Olie" on The Disney Channel. Any show where they go behind-the-scenes and show how things are made or manufactured.
5 greatest joys: The Twinkie. Unplanned naps on quiet Sunday afternoons. The excitement of opening a new book from a favorite author. Sleeping late on rainy Saturday mornings. Just hanging out with my Mom, who is my best friend.
5 favorite toys: My laptop. My camera. Legos. My MP3 player. A new big box (96 colors, with a sharpener, thank you very much!) of Crayola Crayons, and an empty coloring book.
5 people I'm tagging: DISCLAIMER: You don't have to play unless you want to, and forgive me in advance if you have been tagged recently, and I missed it! Flip, Tenn, and of course, The Twinkie (all girls, all cute, all smart, all the time!) Johnny C. (*always* interesting) and a new friend, Alpharat!
¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸.¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸.¤º°`°º¤ø,¸
Monday, September 12, 2005
Emotionally Overloaded, part DONE
I am hesitant to post this.
Because, I feel like as soon as I write this, I'm going to jinx it.
But here it is anyway: We left Hospital City on Friday afternoon. We left behind the offending brace, the pen I usually carry in my purse (still not sure where that went to...) and the pain.
Rewind to Friday morning. Get up at 5:30 am; get dressed, get packed, and get gone from the hotel. Arrive at The Hospital before 7:00 am; once again we are the first family to sign in. Breakfast consumes only 30 minutes; back to waiting for O & P open for the day. We chat with employees surprised to see us back so soon while we watch a thin trickle of patients arrive.
Finally, O & P is open; Big J calls The Twinkie over the paging system. She runs down the hallway, skids around the corner, and nearly wipes out half of the staff in O & P in her rush to get to Big J. It doesn't take long; Big J. takes one look at the situation, and decides that it will be faster, easier and better to just create a whole new brace. While we wait, he adds, seeing the desperation on my face. I relax a little; Twinkle, on the other hand is chatting non-stop with Big J about everything and anything. Before I can get any foothold in the conversation, Big J has the cast made, and is off to the back of the shop to create the form that will be the mold for the brace. Twinks races around to the observation windows that are in the back hallway; from there she can see Big J as he begins the process of building the new brace.
Once the form is filled with the quick-setting plaster, we have two hours to wait before Big J can begin draping the plastic over the mold to create the brace. We sit in the waiting rooms, and watch a Disney movie on the TV while the smaller kids play nearby. I skim yesterdays paper, and try not to watch the clock. At 10:30, we peek into the observation windows; the workshop is empty, so we go back to The Cafeteria to have a little snack. At 11:00, we have stretched the snack break as far as we can, and The Twinkster runs ahead of me, back to the observation windows. Big J is there, popping the brace off of the mold. He holds it aloft, triumphant, and motions us to come around to the opposite side of O & P, where the exam and fitting rooms are.
From 11:00 am, until 1:15, Big J works non-stop with The Twinkie. He shapes and reshapes the plastic; inserts foam shapes to support and hold the foot and/or leg in just a certain position. He moves and adjusts the Velcro straps. He jokes, and laughs with us the entire time; never does he once lose patience as he makes yet another adjustment. Finally, Twinkle is down off of the
table, and walking the hallway yet again to test the most recent adjustment that Big J has made. He turns to me, and says "You know, I'm not used to seeing this. We know that most of these kids just flat won't wear the braces if it hurts too much." The smile fades from my face. "You don't understand her" I tell him. "She will wear it anyway - because The Doctor told her to wear the braces, she will". He asked "But not if she's in pain, right?" "No" I replied "Even if she is in pain so bad that she can barely stand up, she will wear the braces. If The Doctor says to wear the braces, she wears them. If he says to do Physical Therapy/Rehab, she does it. If he told her to stand on her head and make monkey noises..." Big J. interrupts with a grin: "I get it, I get it!".
One of the staff members in O & P has taken to calling The Twinkie "Princess", after the story of The Princess and The Pea. He swears that she can feel stuff in her braces that no other kid in the whole history of the universe can. He doesn't understand how or why it is that she can feel so much pain from something that may not even bother another child at all. I know why. When you have always had pain, have never known a day without it, I believe that you become sensitized to it in a way that most people can't understand. It's like living in darkness all the time - an open door to the sunshine is sensory overload; even a pinhole is A Big Deal.
Finally, at 1:30, Big J has to throw in the towel. He quietly confesses to me that he has been trying to fabricate something that is easily available at retail; typically sold under the Dr. Scholl's brand name. He recommends a specific type of cushion to help relieve the pain of one particularly stubborn spot. Big J simply doesn't have a way of making what we need: a little foam donut. We finally head for the parking lot after assuring Big J that we would stop at The Big W-M on the way out of town to get some of the good doctor's best "round callus cushions".
As usual, we fill up with gas across the street from The Hospital. We merge onto the interstate highway to head out of town, but take the exit for the shopping center where we hope to find that last little bit of relief from the last little bit of pain.
Park, grab a cart, go inside. We are familiar with this store; we have shopped here many times in the past. Twinks limps ahead of me, straight to the aisle we need. She waits respectfully for another customer who is taking his time browsing for medicated corn remover disks. After what seems like an eternity, he makes his selection and moves out of the way. We are amazed at the wide variety of items that could potentially be stuck to a persons foot. We are delighted to find exactly what Big J had described, and head straight to the registers.
When you want to hurry, need to hurry, is when time inevitably seems to move the slowest. We are in the checkout lane with the shortest line; yet every movement of the cashier, every action of the other customers, seems to be happening in slow motion. I am intensely aware of the scratching of the pen as the woman ahead of us writes out her check in long-hand; I nearly scream when the cashier drops it, and it flutters away from him. Finally we are through the line, and we drop onto the bench nearest the registers. Ignoring the curious stares of employees and customers, Twinks starts ripping back the Velcro straps that hold on the new left brace, as I am tearing open the package that contains the little soft, foamy donut cushions that had eluded Big J at The Hospital.
We bend our heads over the brace, check twice to insure that we are placing the little donut in just.the.right.spot.
Twinkle grins at me, straps up the brace, puts on her shoe. She takes a deep breath, stands up and...
...What? If you were halfway paying attention at the beginning of this post, you already know.
It didn't hurt.
At all.
And it still doesn't.
Best trip ever.
Because, I feel like as soon as I write this, I'm going to jinx it.
But here it is anyway: We left Hospital City on Friday afternoon. We left behind the offending brace, the pen I usually carry in my purse (still not sure where that went to...) and the pain.
Rewind to Friday morning. Get up at 5:30 am; get dressed, get packed, and get gone from the hotel. Arrive at The Hospital before 7:00 am; once again we are the first family to sign in. Breakfast consumes only 30 minutes; back to waiting for O & P open for the day. We chat with employees surprised to see us back so soon while we watch a thin trickle of patients arrive.
Finally, O & P is open; Big J calls The Twinkie over the paging system. She runs down the hallway, skids around the corner, and nearly wipes out half of the staff in O & P in her rush to get to Big J. It doesn't take long; Big J. takes one look at the situation, and decides that it will be faster, easier and better to just create a whole new brace. While we wait, he adds, seeing the desperation on my face. I relax a little; Twinkle, on the other hand is chatting non-stop with Big J about everything and anything. Before I can get any foothold in the conversation, Big J has the cast made, and is off to the back of the shop to create the form that will be the mold for the brace. Twinks races around to the observation windows that are in the back hallway; from there she can see Big J as he begins the process of building the new brace.
Once the form is filled with the quick-setting plaster, we have two hours to wait before Big J can begin draping the plastic over the mold to create the brace. We sit in the waiting rooms, and watch a Disney movie on the TV while the smaller kids play nearby. I skim yesterdays paper, and try not to watch the clock. At 10:30, we peek into the observation windows; the workshop is empty, so we go back to The Cafeteria to have a little snack. At 11:00, we have stretched the snack break as far as we can, and The Twinkster runs ahead of me, back to the observation windows. Big J is there, popping the brace off of the mold. He holds it aloft, triumphant, and motions us to come around to the opposite side of O & P, where the exam and fitting rooms are.
From 11:00 am, until 1:15, Big J works non-stop with The Twinkie. He shapes and reshapes the plastic; inserts foam shapes to support and hold the foot and/or leg in just a certain position. He moves and adjusts the Velcro straps. He jokes, and laughs with us the entire time; never does he once lose patience as he makes yet another adjustment. Finally, Twinkle is down off of the
table, and walking the hallway yet again to test the most recent adjustment that Big J has made. He turns to me, and says "You know, I'm not used to seeing this. We know that most of these kids just flat won't wear the braces if it hurts too much." The smile fades from my face. "You don't understand her" I tell him. "She will wear it anyway - because The Doctor told her to wear the braces, she will". He asked "But not if she's in pain, right?" "No" I replied "Even if she is in pain so bad that she can barely stand up, she will wear the braces. If The Doctor says to wear the braces, she wears them. If he says to do Physical Therapy/Rehab, she does it. If he told her to stand on her head and make monkey noises..." Big J. interrupts with a grin: "I get it, I get it!".One of the staff members in O & P has taken to calling The Twinkie "Princess", after the story of The Princess and The Pea. He swears that she can feel stuff in her braces that no other kid in the whole history of the universe can. He doesn't understand how or why it is that she can feel so much pain from something that may not even bother another child at all. I know why. When you have always had pain, have never known a day without it, I believe that you become sensitized to it in a way that most people can't understand. It's like living in darkness all the time - an open door to the sunshine is sensory overload; even a pinhole is A Big Deal.
Finally, at 1:30, Big J has to throw in the towel. He quietly confesses to me that he has been trying to fabricate something that is easily available at retail; typically sold under the Dr. Scholl's brand name. He recommends a specific type of cushion to help relieve the pain of one particularly stubborn spot. Big J simply doesn't have a way of making what we need: a little foam donut. We finally head for the parking lot after assuring Big J that we would stop at The Big W-M on the way out of town to get some of the good doctor's best "round callus cushions".
As usual, we fill up with gas across the street from The Hospital. We merge onto the interstate highway to head out of town, but take the exit for the shopping center where we hope to find that last little bit of relief from the last little bit of pain.
Park, grab a cart, go inside. We are familiar with this store; we have shopped here many times in the past. Twinks limps ahead of me, straight to the aisle we need. She waits respectfully for another customer who is taking his time browsing for medicated corn remover disks. After what seems like an eternity, he makes his selection and moves out of the way. We are amazed at the wide variety of items that could potentially be stuck to a persons foot. We are delighted to find exactly what Big J had described, and head straight to the registers.
When you want to hurry, need to hurry, is when time inevitably seems to move the slowest. We are in the checkout lane with the shortest line; yet every movement of the cashier, every action of the other customers, seems to be happening in slow motion. I am intensely aware of the scratching of the pen as the woman ahead of us writes out her check in long-hand; I nearly scream when the cashier drops it, and it flutters away from him. Finally we are through the line, and we drop onto the bench nearest the registers. Ignoring the curious stares of employees and customers, Twinks starts ripping back the Velcro straps that hold on the new left brace, as I am tearing open the package that contains the little soft, foamy donut cushions that had eluded Big J at The Hospital.
We bend our heads over the brace, check twice to insure that we are placing the little donut in just.the.right.spot.
Twinkle grins at me, straps up the brace, puts on her shoe. She takes a deep breath, stands up and...
...What? If you were halfway paying attention at the beginning of this post, you already know.
It didn't hurt.
At all.
And it still doesn't.
Best trip ever.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Emotionally Overloaded, part III
Wrong.
Wrong Wrong Wrong Wrong Wrong.
I was SO wrong.
I thought that Happy Days Were Here Again.
I thought that The Skies Above Would Be Clear Again.
Wrong.
Noonish on Labor Day Monday, Twinks mentions in passing that her new brace is hurting "just a little bit". We decide that it must be the oft-mentioned but never-before-experienced-by-Twinkle New Brace Adjustment Pain.
Monday night before bed, I check the spot that The Twinkie says is hurting. It is bright red, but no blisters.
Tuesday afternoon Twinkle says that it is hurting more than it was yesterday. By Wednesday morning (yesterday) we knew we were going to have to call The Hospital.
I don't want to call, because I already know what they will say. I don't want to call, because I am so tired... tired of the drive back and forth to Hospital City. Tired of the same hotel room.
I don't want to call because I am afraid it will be the end of The Dream; it is that same fear, that same nightmare where I am standing in The Hospital and someone is telling me that Twinks will always have pain. That there is no relief for her.
I dial the phone, and Miss V gets Big J on the phone. We chat for a moment about how the weekend went for everyone, and then we get down to business. Big J tells me that he has to see Twinkle in the brace in order to adjust it properly; the day for these open appointments is Friday - every Friday, any Friday. It is Wednesday - can we be down there day after tomorrow?
I'll spare you the frenzied phone calls; the begging for a hotel room on short notice, the worst packing job ever in the history of travel as we know it...
...suffice it to say that we are once again in Hospital City tonight.
I'm back to numb. I have been praying all day as we drove back down here that this time is it. That this time, when we leave Hospital City that we really and truly won't have to come back for six months.
I don't know what it wrong with the brace; I don't know if it can be fixed, or if Big J will have to create a whole new brace. I don't know if the brace will even completely fix all of Twinks pain.
I just know that once again our little girl is hurting, and that the answer to her pain lies in someone else's hands.
Wrong Wrong Wrong Wrong Wrong.
I was SO wrong.
I thought that Happy Days Were Here Again.
I thought that The Skies Above Would Be Clear Again.
Wrong.
Noonish on Labor Day Monday, Twinks mentions in passing that her new brace is hurting "just a little bit". We decide that it must be the oft-mentioned but never-before-experienced-by-Twinkle New Brace Adjustment Pain.
Monday night before bed, I check the spot that The Twinkie says is hurting. It is bright red, but no blisters.
Tuesday afternoon Twinkle says that it is hurting more than it was yesterday. By Wednesday morning (yesterday) we knew we were going to have to call The Hospital.
I don't want to call, because I already know what they will say. I don't want to call, because I am so tired... tired of the drive back and forth to Hospital City. Tired of the same hotel room.
I don't want to call because I am afraid it will be the end of The Dream; it is that same fear, that same nightmare where I am standing in The Hospital and someone is telling me that Twinks will always have pain. That there is no relief for her.
I dial the phone, and Miss V gets Big J on the phone. We chat for a moment about how the weekend went for everyone, and then we get down to business. Big J tells me that he has to see Twinkle in the brace in order to adjust it properly; the day for these open appointments is Friday - every Friday, any Friday. It is Wednesday - can we be down there day after tomorrow?
I'll spare you the frenzied phone calls; the begging for a hotel room on short notice, the worst packing job ever in the history of travel as we know it...
...suffice it to say that we are once again in Hospital City tonight.
I'm back to numb. I have been praying all day as we drove back down here that this time is it. That this time, when we leave Hospital City that we really and truly won't have to come back for six months.
I don't know what it wrong with the brace; I don't know if it can be fixed, or if Big J will have to create a whole new brace. I don't know if the brace will even completely fix all of Twinks pain.
I just know that once again our little girl is hurting, and that the answer to her pain lies in someone else's hands.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Emotionally Overloaded, part II
Where were we? Friday morning, at The Hospital. Oh. Yes. Thank you.
................................................................................
We arrived just before 7:00 am, as is our custom, to find the patient lot empty. No Hospital Vans from any Temples; ours was the first car in the lot.
I had a moment of panic: What if they had closed The Hospital? We approached the apparently lifeless building, wondering if we could even get in. The doors, however, slid open with hiss in the warm, damp morning air, and with a rush of relief we stepped into the lobby to sign in at the security desk.
The staff at The Hospital knows that it's a long drive home for some of the patients, and so they try to get those of us with the longest commute out the door as early in the day as is possible. The sign-in sheet is put out at 7:00 am; the Clinic begins at 8:00 am.
The Clinic is as familiar as home to us. The Waiting Rooms are spacious, and as comfortable as they can be. Twinkle has grown up playing on these floors, napping on these couches, running through these rooms.
We don't linger long here, however. Not yet. It is 7:01 am, and so we are off to see The Breakfast Ladies in The Cafeteria. It's Friday morning, so that means homemade cinnamon rolls the size of a softball, along with crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, fresh biscuits. The coffee is a serious reminder of how close we really are to New Orleans; scalding hot with a not-too subtle kick of chicory.
The Cafeteria is empty, except for us. It is startling to see the building like this; we are not used to the preternaturally quiet hallways, the empty chairs. Staff members have begun to arrive to eat breakfast before the days work begins, but we are still the only family in the clinic.
Shortly after 8:00 am, the call comes over the intercom; Twinks runs through the still-deserted corridors to Orthotics & Prosthetics. Big J and Miss V are there waiting; we have brought along the homemade cookies we promised last time. Hugs all around, and then Big J starts the process of fitting the "raw" brace onto Twinks.
The raw brace was made on a mold of Twinks leg that was created on our last visit. The mold is wrapped in the soft, heated plastic, and shaped to create the position that The Doctor wants her foot and leg held in. Then, the mold is actually broken so that it can be removed from the raw brace without damaging it. Using an arsenal of tools that includes everything from a Dremel to a chop saw, Big J can shape the cooled plastic however he needs to. There are also special foam inserts and pads, to provide support and prevent the brace from rubbing. There is miles and miles of Velcro, in every color imaginable. And there are "transfers"; colorful patterns that let the kids customize their braces. The Twinkie picked butterflies and flowers.
Big J works swiftly and surely to fit the brace, however we soon realize that the shoes that Twinks has worn, as well as the "backup pair" that we brought with us... are too small. This is a problem; the backup pair was that very special pair of Tinkerbell shoes that we had bought just a few weeks ago.
Oh, what a terrible mother I was! I had failed to remember:
We see The Doctor, briefly. He is happy with both braces. We check out of The Clinic temporarily to drive over to The Mall.
Shoe shopping is remarkably fast, given the circumstances. We are blessed with a salesman who grasped the situation in an instant, and guided us to shoes that would slip on and off easily. We quickly discovered that we had to go up an extra two sizes to accommodate the bulk of the new brace; Twinks quickly discovered the rack with the sparkly pink shoelaces...
20 minutes later, we are walking out of The Mall, having stopped across from the shoe store to get a frozen yogurt to go. Ten minutes later, we are pulling back into The Hospital parking lot. Now there are cars; there are people in the waiting rooms, there are families arriving and checking in. They are all local.
There are no Hospital Vans, remember? There are no hotel rooms for them to stay in.
We go back to O & P for a final "tweaking", one last adjustment. The moment arrives - what we have prayed for, and hoped for, and driven 10,000 miles for since January.
Twinks stands, and walks with no pain.
No pain.
I want to cry; I want to lay down on the floor and just weep with relief and joy. Twinks does cry; we are standing in the middle of O & P with Big J and Miss V hugging us.
Finally we are leaving The Hospital for home. We stop for gas before we leave the city; prices are frozen in time here for all "commodities" by Executive Order of the Governor , so we pay an amazingly low $2.69 per gallon.
Back across the blue highways, over the rivers and through the swamps we go. It is the Friday before the Labor Day weekend, yet traffic is light. Twinks is sleeping in the back seat, I have time to reflect upon... everything. I am so overwhelmed that I can't even feel - I have had to shut down emotionally just to be able to drive home safely. I am afraid that if I start to cry, I won't stop.
We motor on, stopping about halfway to have a light dinner at Subway. We are still about 30 miles from our state line, but from here the drive is much easier; perhaps it is the psychological boost of being back in our home state. Suddenly, I see them coming down the road, going in the opposite direction.
The cavalry is on the move - the state National Guard is headed for New Orleans.
It is too much. I know, we all know what they are headed into. There are more than 100 vehicles in the caravan; they are full of these incredible brave men and women, going to help the victims, the survivors of Katrina. I know that there must be familiar faces within those trucks; friends and neighbors that are Guard members.
As I watch them roll in the other direction, streaming past us with headlights on, eyes forward toward their assigned job, I finally begin to cry.
I am crying for all of us; those of us lost, those of us found. I cry for the families pulled apart by the storm, I cry for those who did not survive. I cry for the babies and children who will be forever impacted by this one event. I cry for the bravery of our soldiers, our firefighters, our policemen and our EMT's as they continue to fight for the living along the shattered Gulf Coast.
I cry for my little girl, who has been so patient, so sweet, so good, even when her pain was nearly unbearable.
...............................................................
What happened? Did you ever stop crying? Well, I sobbed and sniffled and kept on going. We got home before 10:00 pm, and I slept until 2:00 pm the next day.
Labor Day weekend was great; for the first time in years, I just did... nothing. Nothing. I slept, I read, I enjoyed several fine meals with my family. And I took the weekend off.
After all - things were going to get back on track, right?
Wrong...
................................................................................
We arrived just before 7:00 am, as is our custom, to find the patient lot empty. No Hospital Vans from any Temples; ours was the first car in the lot.
I had a moment of panic: What if they had closed The Hospital? We approached the apparently lifeless building, wondering if we could even get in. The doors, however, slid open with hiss in the warm, damp morning air, and with a rush of relief we stepped into the lobby to sign in at the security desk.
The staff at The Hospital knows that it's a long drive home for some of the patients, and so they try to get those of us with the longest commute out the door as early in the day as is possible. The sign-in sheet is put out at 7:00 am; the Clinic begins at 8:00 am.
The Clinic is as familiar as home to us. The Waiting Rooms are spacious, and as comfortable as they can be. Twinkle has grown up playing on these floors, napping on these couches, running through these rooms.
We don't linger long here, however. Not yet. It is 7:01 am, and so we are off to see The Breakfast Ladies in The Cafeteria. It's Friday morning, so that means homemade cinnamon rolls the size of a softball, along with crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, fresh biscuits. The coffee is a serious reminder of how close we really are to New Orleans; scalding hot with a not-too subtle kick of chicory.
The Cafeteria is empty, except for us. It is startling to see the building like this; we are not used to the preternaturally quiet hallways, the empty chairs. Staff members have begun to arrive to eat breakfast before the days work begins, but we are still the only family in the clinic.
Shortly after 8:00 am, the call comes over the intercom; Twinks runs through the still-deserted corridors to Orthotics & Prosthetics. Big J and Miss V are there waiting; we have brought along the homemade cookies we promised last time. Hugs all around, and then Big J starts the process of fitting the "raw" brace onto Twinks.
The raw brace was made on a mold of Twinks leg that was created on our last visit. The mold is wrapped in the soft, heated plastic, and shaped to create the position that The Doctor wants her foot and leg held in. Then, the mold is actually broken so that it can be removed from the raw brace without damaging it. Using an arsenal of tools that includes everything from a Dremel to a chop saw, Big J can shape the cooled plastic however he needs to. There are also special foam inserts and pads, to provide support and prevent the brace from rubbing. There is miles and miles of Velcro, in every color imaginable. And there are "transfers"; colorful patterns that let the kids customize their braces. The Twinkie picked butterflies and flowers.
Big J works swiftly and surely to fit the brace, however we soon realize that the shoes that Twinks has worn, as well as the "backup pair" that we brought with us... are too small. This is a problem; the backup pair was that very special pair of Tinkerbell shoes that we had bought just a few weeks ago.
Oh, what a terrible mother I was! I had failed to remember:
Mommy's Observations on the Availability of Shoes
- If we don't have the shoes with us, then O&P will surely want the shoes right then and there.
- If we don't have the shoes with us, then the shoes will have to be sent back to the Hospital ASAP, and we will have to wait even longer for the corrected shoe(s) and/or orthotics and/or appliances.
- We never do a good job of shopping for shoes when we are under a deadline, tired, or stressed.
We see The Doctor, briefly. He is happy with both braces. We check out of The Clinic temporarily to drive over to The Mall.
Shoe shopping is remarkably fast, given the circumstances. We are blessed with a salesman who grasped the situation in an instant, and guided us to shoes that would slip on and off easily. We quickly discovered that we had to go up an extra two sizes to accommodate the bulk of the new brace; Twinks quickly discovered the rack with the sparkly pink shoelaces...
20 minutes later, we are walking out of The Mall, having stopped across from the shoe store to get a frozen yogurt to go. Ten minutes later, we are pulling back into The Hospital parking lot. Now there are cars; there are people in the waiting rooms, there are families arriving and checking in. They are all local.
There are no Hospital Vans, remember? There are no hotel rooms for them to stay in.
We go back to O & P for a final "tweaking", one last adjustment. The moment arrives - what we have prayed for, and hoped for, and driven 10,000 miles for since January.
Twinks stands, and walks with no pain.
No pain.
I want to cry; I want to lay down on the floor and just weep with relief and joy. Twinks does cry; we are standing in the middle of O & P with Big J and Miss V hugging us.
Finally we are leaving The Hospital for home. We stop for gas before we leave the city; prices are frozen in time here for all "commodities" by Executive Order of the Governor , so we pay an amazingly low $2.69 per gallon.
Back across the blue highways, over the rivers and through the swamps we go. It is the Friday before the Labor Day weekend, yet traffic is light. Twinks is sleeping in the back seat, I have time to reflect upon... everything. I am so overwhelmed that I can't even feel - I have had to shut down emotionally just to be able to drive home safely. I am afraid that if I start to cry, I won't stop.
We motor on, stopping about halfway to have a light dinner at Subway. We are still about 30 miles from our state line, but from here the drive is much easier; perhaps it is the psychological boost of being back in our home state. Suddenly, I see them coming down the road, going in the opposite direction.
The cavalry is on the move - the state National Guard is headed for New Orleans.
It is too much. I know, we all know what they are headed into. There are more than 100 vehicles in the caravan; they are full of these incredible brave men and women, going to help the victims, the survivors of Katrina. I know that there must be familiar faces within those trucks; friends and neighbors that are Guard members.
As I watch them roll in the other direction, streaming past us with headlights on, eyes forward toward their assigned job, I finally begin to cry.
I am crying for all of us; those of us lost, those of us found. I cry for the families pulled apart by the storm, I cry for those who did not survive. I cry for the babies and children who will be forever impacted by this one event. I cry for the bravery of our soldiers, our firefighters, our policemen and our EMT's as they continue to fight for the living along the shattered Gulf Coast.
I cry for my little girl, who has been so patient, so sweet, so good, even when her pain was nearly unbearable.
...............................................................
What happened? Did you ever stop crying? Well, I sobbed and sniffled and kept on going. We got home before 10:00 pm, and I slept until 2:00 pm the next day.
Labor Day weekend was great; for the first time in years, I just did... nothing. Nothing. I slept, I read, I enjoyed several fine meals with my family. And I took the weekend off.
After all - things were going to get back on track, right?
Wrong...
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Emotionally Overloaded, part I
We drove home from Hospital City on Friday evening, and I am still emotionally wiped out. It has taken me this long just to sort it all out. I guess I should start... at the beginning, hmmm?
Hospital City...
Hospital City was one of the early destinations for those brought out of New Orleans. Before Katrina had even struck, it was full of families fleeing before the storm. Now it has doubled in size in less than a week, strained to the breaking point to provide basic services for all of the survivors relocated here.
Hospital City is overwhelmed. The hotels are full of families, some of whom had evacuated ahead of the storm with their pets. They are shaken, to be sure, but they are safe and dry; they have their own vehicles, they have suitcases full of personal belongings.
Then there are those who arrived on the buses. They are sheltered all over the city - in churches, private homes, motels, civic buildings. They arrived with nothing more than the clothes on their back, and what few meager possessions they could carry. They left behind homes, pets, cars, clothing, everything. Their sadness and desperation is palpable in city - we felt guilty laughing, decadent in our happiness.
In the meantime, there are no available hotel rooms in the city; those who normally do business and visit Hospital City are finding that available hotel rooms are very scarce. We were lucky; because we have stayed so often at the small hotel across the river from The Hospital, the staff held a room for us that had been vacated just that morning by a family that was going to try and go home to south central Louisiana. Because there are simply not enough hotel or motel rooms available, more than half of the Shrine Temples that bring children to Hospital City have had to cancel the children's appointments for the foreseeable future.
Katrina: the storm that just keeps on "giving"...
So, we had another reason to be grateful; not only did we have our home waiting for us - safe, dry, clean, the pantry and fridge full - but we had a hotel room in a quiet little corner of the city, so that Twinkle could go to The Hospital. I felt like we were truly among the luckiest people in Hospital City that night.
We met many of the families that were staying at the hotel. Some were still clearly in shock; others were trying desperately to create a sense of normalcy for their children. One mother had gone to the local dollar store, and had bought a blank journal. She showed me her "book"; she said it was now one of her most precious possessions. Every page had something at the top - the name of the mortgage company, the insurance company on the next page. Employer information, vehicle insurance information, utility companies, each had it's own page. She was reconstructing her whole life in this little journal. She told me that it gave her a sense of purpose; it made her feel like she was doing something.
The last half of the book was left blank. The page just before had one word written at the top:
FEMA
We knew that the hotel was full of families, and had brought games and puzzles and videos and glowsticks for the kids. The Red Cross, The Salvation Army, and local churches had beat us there - the hotels breakfast room, ordinarily used only in the mornings for the "complimentary continental breakfast" was full of toys, clothes, and food - food for the families to eat after the free breakfast service every morning was gone. Bread, peanut butter, jelly, soup, chips, microwave popcorn, snack cakes, candy bars, juice boxes, soda pop and bottled water - enough bottled water to create a stack of cases the size of a dumpster. But the most touching sight for me was the pet food. Big, huge, enormous bags of dog food, cat food, and cat litter for the pets that were now living in the hotel. The hotel had tried to place all of the families with pets on the ground floor, so that they could walk the dogs easily, day or night. A small thing in the middle of a big crisis, but just another example of thoughtfulness that was clearly appreciated by those families.
Thursday evening, one of the families pulled out a treasured item that had been grabbed on the way out of the door - a digital video projector, along with a portable DVD player. The children made colorful posters from the crayons and construction paper that a local church had left, and posted them all over the hotel:
"Movie at 8:00 pm! Come and see The Movie called National Treasure! In the breakfast room at 8:00 oclock pm!
At 8:00 pm, the movie began, projected onto a bed sheet that was borrowed from the hotel laundry. The breakfast room was crowded with people that were creating a new community in this little hotel; the children sat on the floor, and for a while they forgot about going home, about friends lost and not yet found, about where they were going to live and go to school.
We watched from the doorway for a while, reluctant to intrude on the families temporary escape from a reality that is too horrific to contemplate.
We retreated to our hotel room, amazed at the people we had met, the outpouring of love and help and comfort from the residents of Hospital City for these people who have been displaced.
Friday morning, we arose early; 5:30 am. We quietly packed our suitcases into the van, and made our way back across the river before 7:00 am to The Hospital, where we hoped all would finally seem "normal".
The Hospital was right where we had left it.
But it wasn't "normal" at all, either...
Hospital City...
Hospital City was one of the early destinations for those brought out of New Orleans. Before Katrina had even struck, it was full of families fleeing before the storm. Now it has doubled in size in less than a week, strained to the breaking point to provide basic services for all of the survivors relocated here.
Hospital City is overwhelmed. The hotels are full of families, some of whom had evacuated ahead of the storm with their pets. They are shaken, to be sure, but they are safe and dry; they have their own vehicles, they have suitcases full of personal belongings.
Then there are those who arrived on the buses. They are sheltered all over the city - in churches, private homes, motels, civic buildings. They arrived with nothing more than the clothes on their back, and what few meager possessions they could carry. They left behind homes, pets, cars, clothing, everything. Their sadness and desperation is palpable in city - we felt guilty laughing, decadent in our happiness.
In the meantime, there are no available hotel rooms in the city; those who normally do business and visit Hospital City are finding that available hotel rooms are very scarce. We were lucky; because we have stayed so often at the small hotel across the river from The Hospital, the staff held a room for us that had been vacated just that morning by a family that was going to try and go home to south central Louisiana. Because there are simply not enough hotel or motel rooms available, more than half of the Shrine Temples that bring children to Hospital City have had to cancel the children's appointments for the foreseeable future.
Katrina: the storm that just keeps on "giving"...
So, we had another reason to be grateful; not only did we have our home waiting for us - safe, dry, clean, the pantry and fridge full - but we had a hotel room in a quiet little corner of the city, so that Twinkle could go to The Hospital. I felt like we were truly among the luckiest people in Hospital City that night.
We met many of the families that were staying at the hotel. Some were still clearly in shock; others were trying desperately to create a sense of normalcy for their children. One mother had gone to the local dollar store, and had bought a blank journal. She showed me her "book"; she said it was now one of her most precious possessions. Every page had something at the top - the name of the mortgage company, the insurance company on the next page. Employer information, vehicle insurance information, utility companies, each had it's own page. She was reconstructing her whole life in this little journal. She told me that it gave her a sense of purpose; it made her feel like she was doing something.
The last half of the book was left blank. The page just before had one word written at the top:
FEMA
We knew that the hotel was full of families, and had brought games and puzzles and videos and glowsticks for the kids. The Red Cross, The Salvation Army, and local churches had beat us there - the hotels breakfast room, ordinarily used only in the mornings for the "complimentary continental breakfast" was full of toys, clothes, and food - food for the families to eat after the free breakfast service every morning was gone. Bread, peanut butter, jelly, soup, chips, microwave popcorn, snack cakes, candy bars, juice boxes, soda pop and bottled water - enough bottled water to create a stack of cases the size of a dumpster. But the most touching sight for me was the pet food. Big, huge, enormous bags of dog food, cat food, and cat litter for the pets that were now living in the hotel. The hotel had tried to place all of the families with pets on the ground floor, so that they could walk the dogs easily, day or night. A small thing in the middle of a big crisis, but just another example of thoughtfulness that was clearly appreciated by those families.
Thursday evening, one of the families pulled out a treasured item that had been grabbed on the way out of the door - a digital video projector, along with a portable DVD player. The children made colorful posters from the crayons and construction paper that a local church had left, and posted them all over the hotel:
"Movie at 8:00 pm! Come and see The Movie called National Treasure! In the breakfast room at 8:00 oclock pm!
At 8:00 pm, the movie began, projected onto a bed sheet that was borrowed from the hotel laundry. The breakfast room was crowded with people that were creating a new community in this little hotel; the children sat on the floor, and for a while they forgot about going home, about friends lost and not yet found, about where they were going to live and go to school.
We watched from the doorway for a while, reluctant to intrude on the families temporary escape from a reality that is too horrific to contemplate.
We retreated to our hotel room, amazed at the people we had met, the outpouring of love and help and comfort from the residents of Hospital City for these people who have been displaced.
Friday morning, we arose early; 5:30 am. We quietly packed our suitcases into the van, and made our way back across the river before 7:00 am to The Hospital, where we hoped all would finally seem "normal".
The Hospital was right where we had left it.
But it wasn't "normal" at all, either...
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Hospital City Redux
Well, here we are again.
Tonight, for the first time in the nearly 12 years that we have been coming here, I feel jittery. Nervous. Restless. Unable to sleep.
I'm tired; exhausted, actually. The drive was no different than usual, but emotionally I am wasted.
The very first time we came here, my mother came along. Twinks was just a baby; she wasn't even a year old. She had spent the first six months of her life in bilateral casts - both legs in plaster and fiberglass from hips to toes. She had exactly three tub baths in her first eight months; during "layovers" between the serial casting. The local doctors had been unable to do anything; they finally told us that we should "give up".
But I couldn't just give up on her. So, I called the Shriners. And after paperwork, and pictures and x-rays were sent to The Hospital, we got The Letter. It came at Christmastime; the appointment was for the first week of the new year.
I cried all the way to Hospital City on that trip. I was terrified that we would get to The Hospital, and they would say "Sorry, nothing we can do". That night, in the local motel we were staying at, my mom held me while I held Twinkle, and we both prayed that the doctors would be able to help her.
I cried the next morning at The Hospital. Then, when The Doctor said he could help Twinkle, I cried some more - only that time, tears of joy, happiness, hope.
The next time we went back to The Hospital after that was for her first surgery. The nurses were so amazed at how calm I was, but I knew I just knew that we were doing the right thing. That Twinkle was in the right place.
All day, I have been searching for that calmness, that tranquility. All evening I have been hoping that the familiarity of this Hotel, this neighborhood, that restaurant, our routine would lull me into that zen-like state.
So far, no good.
I need to sleep. I need to rest, so that I can drive home safely tomorrow. I need to be rested and refreshed at 5:00 am when the alarm goes off.
But I feel like a kid on the night before Christmas.
Look out, Hospital, here we come...
Tonight, for the first time in the nearly 12 years that we have been coming here, I feel jittery. Nervous. Restless. Unable to sleep.
I'm tired; exhausted, actually. The drive was no different than usual, but emotionally I am wasted.
The very first time we came here, my mother came along. Twinks was just a baby; she wasn't even a year old. She had spent the first six months of her life in bilateral casts - both legs in plaster and fiberglass from hips to toes. She had exactly three tub baths in her first eight months; during "layovers" between the serial casting. The local doctors had been unable to do anything; they finally told us that we should "give up".
But I couldn't just give up on her. So, I called the Shriners. And after paperwork, and pictures and x-rays were sent to The Hospital, we got The Letter. It came at Christmastime; the appointment was for the first week of the new year.
I cried all the way to Hospital City on that trip. I was terrified that we would get to The Hospital, and they would say "Sorry, nothing we can do". That night, in the local motel we were staying at, my mom held me while I held Twinkle, and we both prayed that the doctors would be able to help her.
I cried the next morning at The Hospital. Then, when The Doctor said he could help Twinkle, I cried some more - only that time, tears of joy, happiness, hope.
The next time we went back to The Hospital after that was for her first surgery. The nurses were so amazed at how calm I was, but I knew I just knew that we were doing the right thing. That Twinkle was in the right place.
All day, I have been searching for that calmness, that tranquility. All evening I have been hoping that the familiarity of this Hotel, this neighborhood, that restaurant, our routine would lull me into that zen-like state.
So far, no good.
I need to sleep. I need to rest, so that I can drive home safely tomorrow. I need to be rested and refreshed at 5:00 am when the alarm goes off.
But I feel like a kid on the night before Christmas.
Look out, Hospital, here we come...
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