Creeping Towards Normal

IFFY, at best...

2011-12-07T23:35:00.003-06:00

A lot of folks have been very kind to me so far this Holiday Season.

They know that it's my first Christmas without Mom, that we are all a bit sad. Twinks and I both have a marked propensity these days to burst into tears at the most random moments. A long-forgotten ornament at the bottom of the box... A favorite Christmas Carol... Mom's handwriting on the recipe card for the cookies we make every year...

To be honest, it doesn't take much these days.

So, the other day, when someone asked how I was doing, I told them the truth: Iffy, at best.

I cry, I laugh, and I try to remember that this is her first Christmas with Daddy in 21 years. I try, also, to be grateful for all of our blessings. We live in a lovely, snug and cozy house. The pantry is full, as is the fridge and freezer. We have three nice cars, less debt than the average American family, we are (mostly) healthy, and our amazing daughter will graduate from high school in just a few months. We are so very lucky, in so many, many ways.

And so we put up the tree, and decorated the house. Life *does* go on, after all, and I knew that if we let these traditions lapse, we might never get them back. So, out comes the old poinsettia-print tablecloth that has graced our family's holiday meals since 1968. There is the wreath on the door that Twinks decorated, and in the front hallway hangs the Advent calendar, counting the days until Christmas.

All of the presents have been ordered, and nearly every day, FedEx and UPS ring the bell. There are a few things here and there that I still need to take care of, but most of the shopping has been done.

And in an interesting turn of events, we will still be four at Christmas Dinner.

Twinks has a new Boyfriend. We like him, Dear Reader. He's whip-smart, with a dry, wry sense of humor. He is a hard worker, and goes to college full-time. TW & I both like him - he fits well into our family, and he also seems to adore our shiny little Twinkle.

Good grief, Charlie Brown. That little snapshot up there is just cuteness all over the place. Its my new favorite picture.

Boyfriend is now a frequent visitor, and welcomed guest at our home. I'm really happy that Twinks has someone special to share this Holiday Season with.

Things can be IFFY in other ways.

Our good and precious friend, Suldog (and his lovely wife) enjoy (as do we) the Holiday Cakes of Fruity Goodness. Our personal favorite cakes come from a lil' ol' place down in Corsicana, Texas. Although most folks call 'em "fruitcakes", those kids at Collin Street Bakery call *their* creations a "Pecan Cake", because it has so many yummy pecans right there on top.

I'm getting hungry just thinking about it.

Anyway, because Sully is also a Fan of the Cakes of Fruity Goodness, we decided that we needed to share this with him:

Yep. The Official Seal of the great and glorious IFFY. Behold it's awesome beauty and power.

I'm proud to be a lifetime member. You can be too! Our rules are remarkably relaxed; all you have to do is *taste* a fruited cake once a year, and proudly display the Official Seal, as pictured above.

And, should you decide to engage in Advanced Studies during your Fellowship in IFFY, you may indeed be promoted to the rank and title of:

STIFFY (which is, of course, an acronym for Seriously Thoughtful International Fellow & Fruitcake Yahoo. Geez. Get your mind out of the gutter!)

Pour yourself a nice cup of coffee, and have a little fruitcake. It's Christmas, after all, and you can be IFFY with me!

Merry Christmas, my friends. I hope you that wherever you are, you find some fruitcake, a warm & cozy chair, and a Christmas Angel to watch over you.

Travel safely.

Thanksgiving (still) Comes First!

2011-11-16T03:54:00.001-06:00

This is (largely) a repeat of the last two year's TCF post.

But here it is, because I believe this topic is just that important.

May your Thanksgiving be full of love, laughter, good food, and good company!

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Most of you who come here also read my dear friend Sully.

Which means you are already familiar with the topic of Today's Post.

The One Where Thanksgiving Comes First.

Sully wrote:

"If you believe, as I do, that Thanksgiving should play out before Christmas; that Christmas carols should not be heard on the radio before at least Thanksgiving evening; that advertisers who dare to encroach upon Thanksgiving with their hideous advertisements should be told in no uncertain terms that you will not shop at their establishments; that malls who put Santa Claus on display before Veterans Day should be made ashamed of themselves; then please consider doing what I'm going to ask of you.

Should you be as incensed as I am concerning Christmas schlock, please post a "Thanksgiving Comes First" entry on your blog. Write from the heart. Everybody who visits your blog will know how you feel. Perhaps they'll also write about it, and so will their friends, and so on. I hope that, if enough of us do this, we might make some small impact.

Please title your post "Thanksgiving Comes First". If we all do that, it will make a bigger impact. If you wish to reference this post, or other posts with a similar title, please do so. It isn't mandatory. I'm not looking to drive people to my blog; I'm just trying to make a difference concerning something that truly rankles me."

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The premise is - as with all brilliant ideas - wonderfully and delightfully simple. Thanksgiving comes first. Before Christmas. Before December. Before Santa, elves, and reindeer, packages, presents and holiday gear.

Thanksgiving comes first.

When I was a child, one of the things I looked forward to most was December 1st, when - as if by magic - all of the stores were suddenly bursting with Christmas goodies. Overnight the stores were transformed, and they went from being regular old department stores to Winter Wonderlands, decorated with shiny tinsel, and piles of white, fluffy soapflakes that doubled for snow. Christmas music would fill the air - even on the sidewalks, you could hear Steve & Edye singing "The Christmas Waltz", and Julie Andrews warbling "I'll Be Home For Christmas". There was new merchandise, too; exotic gift items that were only seen during the Holiday Season. It was all so exciting and glamorous to my little self.

But before all of that - before we donned our gay apparel to brave the stores, and buy our tree - before that?

Thanksgiving comes first.

Thanksgiving is more than just the unofficial start of the Holiday Season. Thanksgiving is, in and of itself, an important holiday event. But increasingly we are rushing through (and even past) Thanksgiving in the run up to Christmas. Not only are we losing the meaning, and the traditions of Thanksgiving in the rush to Christmas, but we have cheapened and diluted everything about Christmas as well.

Thanksgiving comes first.

Many years ago, I was a retail manager. Later, I was a retail buyer - a purchasing agent for a small, local chain of three stores. I understand, perhaps better than most, the mechanics by which merchandise will arrive in the stores at the appropriate time for the season.

Which is why I am uniquely qualified to tell you something:

The reason - the one and only reason that Christmas-related merchandise shows up in your local shopping venues in October (and increasingly September) is simply that "retail experts" have found that we (the buying public) buy more Christmas stuff the longer it is displayed. They create a false sense of urgency - putting out the merchandise early so that shoppers will believe they must buy NOW or risk never having that Christmas Widget (at a special "pre-season" sale price, of course). And, as stores have learned how to tighten inventory levels so that there is less and less chance of the big after-Christmas clearance sales that the American consumer has come to know and look forward to... shoppers feel even more pressure, believing that if they don't buy it when they see it... they will have lost the chance forever.

Thanksgiving comes first.

Originally, there was another reason for taking early delivery of seasonal merchandise. Some distributors used to offer heavy discounts to retailers willing to take early delivery (and thereby make early payment for) seasonal merchandise. This meant that a a retailer might well accept delivery as early as October for goods that would not be displayed until December. Until the rise of discount merchandisers (like Wal-Mart), most stores would simply hold those things until the APPROPRIATE time, and then display them. Once discount merchandisers began to put out whatever was in the warehouse - because "you can't sell it, if they can't see it" - then the inevitable creep of Christmas backwards into autumn began - and continues to this day.

Thanksgiving comes first.

Regardless of how, or why, we are a nation on the verge of losing something very precious. I don't want to see Christmas trees next to Halloween pumpkins at the store. I don't want to shop for Labor Day picnic supplies, and see paper plates and napkins embossed with Christmas designs. I want Christmas in December. And before that, I want Thanksgiving in November - with Pilgrims and pumpkins and turkeys, oh my. I want each season in it's turn, and along with it, all of the traditions and meaning attendant to that season.

Thanksgiving comes first.

Read Sully's post - and read the posts of his other faithful friends, too. Think about it, and then I encourage you to spread the word as well. The wonderful, amazing, remarkable thing about America is that if enough of us stand up and say that Thanksgiving comes first, something might actually happen.

Sully's previous posts:

2007: Thanksgiving Comes First2008: Thanksgiving Comes First
2008: A Gentle Reminder
2009: Thanksgiving Comes First
2010: TCF - The Last Roundup
2011: Thanksgiving Comes First - The Final Roundup

The One That You Don't Have To Read...

2011-11-03T18:24:00.011-05:00

...But I have to write.

I have to write it, because I have to get it out of me. I need to put this information, this "stuff", these memories out there - somewhere, anywhere, outside of me - so that it isn't inside of me all of the time.

But you don't have to read it.

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It started in mid-April, around the time of Mom's birthday. We could see her failing, and while I tried to steel myself against the inevitable, of course it happened anyway.

During April, while she was at the Geri-Psych unit, we got the "reprieve" that I had heard about from our Doctor. He had told us that for reasons that no one really understands, there is often a period of extreme lucidity not long before these people - these stroke victims, Dementia patients, Alzheimer's patients - pass away.

I asked him how I would know, given her condition. He smiled gently, and looking over the tops of his glasses said "You'll know. It will be obvious. If and when it happens, treasure every moment of it."

We did. I did. We had a brief, amazing window of about 72 hours, and during that time, I was able to hold her hand, and talk with her, and know that she *knew* me. She said my name - recognized my face. I told her how very much I loved her, and how I was doing my very best to care for her. She replied "I know, I know you are. It's OK, honey. I promise."

She got to see Twinks in her Prom dress, (the nurses let us sneak her in after visiting hours that night) looking so achingly beautiful.

We laughed about old times, and enjoyed her favorite snack of Diet Coke and Cheez-it Crackers together.

She was able to enjoy and read the first picture book I had recently published.

We brought her birthday cake, and she blew out the candles - and ate three pieces!

I told her that I wanted her to get well, so she could come home again.

She told me not to cry for her.

And then, as suddenly as she was "present", she was "gone" again. The blankness came back over her eyes, and we couldn't reach her.

The last three weeks of her life were spent in an Alzheimer's/Dementia unit at a local "Senior Living Center". It was a very beautiful place, with huge sunny windows, crown moldings everywhere, and a kitchen that would (literally) fix whatever the resident wished at any hour of the day or night.The entire staff was amazing. Her apartment was cozy, and cheerful, and the nurses station was just across the Common Area from her door.

Outside her door was a "Memory Box" that we filled with things that were important to her. I made the little quilt from scraps of her favorite fabrics that she used when she was quilting.

I tried, several times to show her the box; I pointed out her favorite music, her little glass bluebird, and the little quilt I made for her. It seemed as though she never really could "see" it, though.

As those three weeks passed, I knew she was getting ready to go. She quit eating, and although I could sometimes tempt her to take a bite of this or that, she simply was no longer interested in food.

The week before she died, I took her to get her hair cut at the Senior Living Center's Salon. The stylist did a great job, and Mom seemed to be pleased with her reflection in the mirror.

Five days before she died, she began to cry out whenever we tried to move her; Hospice brought in a special air mattress to keep her comfortable. Our Hospice nurses were so amazing with her - they made sure we had everything possible for Mom all the way through the end.

Three days before she died, I had already "moved in" with Mom, and was sleeping on a cot in her apartment, next to her bed. The Senior Living Center staff brought in a real twin-sized bed, and then moved the cot into the other room for Twinks or TW to rest on. They also brought in a comfortable upholstered chair for us, so that everyone had a place to sit.

We spent the last three days holding hands, and talking.

Well, I did most of the talking.

She was busy dying.

We did our best to love her away. Twinks and TW were heroic, making sure that everything outside that room was taken care of, so that I could focus on Mom. That last night, I sent them home, to sleep in their own beds. The private nurse that was staying with Mom and I every night agreed with me that they should go home. They would only be 10 minutes away, at the most, and if I needed them, or Mom started to slip away, I could call them, and they could be there in 10 minutes. 10 minutes.

As I had been for the last two days, I sat next to Mom, and held her hand. I kissed her, and told her that I loved her, and that I was going to be there with her. The nurse and I talked softly while Mom seemed to be sleeping. The TV was on Mom's favorite channel - Nickelodean - and the laugh track from the old sitcom's that run all night helped keep the room from feeling too dark and somber. The lamps were lit, but placed so that no bright light shone directly into Mom's eyes, and I had opened the window to let the cool, fresh, rain-washed night air in to the room.

Around 3 AM, I called the Charge Nurse in, because Mom's breathing was slowing. Her feet and hands were mottled, and I knew, from when my Dad died, that we were getting close to the end. She agreed, but Mom's heartbeat was still strong and regular, and her lungs were clear. We decided to let Twinks and TW sleep on.

Not long after 4 AM, the Charge Nurse came in again. We closed the window, because a thunderstorm was moving through, and it was starting to rain again. Mom's vital signs were the same, but the mottling was moving up her arms and legs. We debated calling Hospice and Twinks and TW, but again, her heartbeat remained strong, and her lungs weren't filling, so we agreed to let everyone else sleep. I joked with the Charge Nurse that she just didn't want a full house, with everyone coming in and disturbing her peace and quiet. She laughed, and promised to come back in an hour.

Right at 5 AM, I looked at Mom, and saw the mottling sweep up her neck and over her face in an instant. When the Charge Nurse came, she checked Mom over, and asked me to step out into the common area. She told me that I needed to go ahead and call everyone *now*, and she told me that she would get us an Aide to be there, in case the Private Duty nurse or I needed any help.

I called Hospice first, as instructed. I told the answering service who I was, who my Mom was, and that I needed her Nurse ASAP because Mom was actively dying. The answering service placed me on hold, and I went back into Mom's room, to sit with her. I picked up her hand, now so cool and pale, and I pressed it to my cheek. I listened to the music on hold, and told her that I loved her, but I knew she needed to go on, and that it was OK.

The Nurse came on the line, and told me that she had just talked to the Charge Nurse, was on the way, and asked if I was OK. I told her I was as good as could be expected, and that the Private Duty Nurse was there as well. I asked her to hurry.

I hung up, and sat for a moment with Mom. She was going so quickly now, there was no mistaking that. I told her that I would always love her, and that when she saw Daddy to tell her how much I love him and miss him. I told her to take care of my two babies, my tiniest angels, that we lost before Twinks was born. I kissed the palm of her hand, and I told her that I would never, ever forget how much she loved me.

I called home, to TW & Twinks. TW answered, and I said "You need to come, NOW". He replied "We're on the way" and the line went dead. I knew it would take him a few minutes to throw on clothes, and rouse Twinks.

Mom's breathing slowed even more. There were long pauses between breaths, and I would hold my own breath, waiting for her to gently take another sip of air. The Private Duty Nurse stood next to me, her hands steady on my shoulders. I laid my head next to Mom's on the pillow, I stroked her hair, and kissed her, and whispered in her ear: "It's OK to go. I promise I will be OK. TW and Twinks will be here soon, and they will take care of me. Daddy's waiting for you. If you need to go on, it's OK."

And she did.

Mom died at 5:25 AM that morning. TW and Twinks walked through the doors 3 minutes later, just 12 minutes after I had called, to find me crumpled on my knees in the Common Area, crying.

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The Hospice Nurse arrived shortly after they did. She went to Mom, and by this time it was 6 AM shift change. Our favorite Aides had arrived also, and everyone gathered around us. They asked if they could bathe Mom one last time, and dress her in her prettiest nightgown. I told them how much I would appreciate that. The Hospice Nurse came out of Mom's apartment, and led us off to another room. I sat down, and realized that I was shaking, and couldn't stop. People came and went, questions were whispered behind me. I remember someone handing me a bottle of cold water and some Tylenol.

I remember the Nurse calling the Funeral Home.

Finally, one of the girls came and hugged me, and told me that they had Mom all cleaned up. Twinks didn't want to see her, and I told her she didn't have to. The Hospice Nurse stayed with her while TW and I went back to the little apartment.

She looked so beautiful and sweet; her hair was freshly washed, and she looked like she had just fallen asleep. There was no more pain on her face. I could hardly bear to look at her, but I knew I had to. TW and I both were crying as we gathered up some of my things to take home. Just as we were getting ready to leave, another one of the Hospice Nurses showed up, and quietly pulled TW aside to tell him that the funeral home was on it's way. Knowing that, we decided to leave, and we went home. I couldn't bear the thought of even seeing the car they were sending.

At home, I felt like a stranger. I was beyond exhausted, but couldn't sleep. I needed to eat something, but I couldn't choke down the food. I took my cell phone into the bathroom, and closed the door. I called Mom's Hospice Nurse, and asked her: "Did it really happen?" The answer, of course, was yes.

I finally lay down on our bed, and it seemed that no sooner had I drifted off to a fitful sleep that the phone rang. It was the funeral home, and could we come this afternoon to talk about Mom's "arrangements"? We could, and we did. The same funeral home had taken care of Daddy when he passed away, and so it somehow was easier - they knew us, we knew them, and the decisions were made easily. I had, weeks before, picked out her outfit, knowing that this day was almost here, and so I took that along with us. The same vault that we used with Daddy, and a beautiful pecan casket lined with warm white velvet. The same Church, and we needed to have Mom's information engraved on the headstone that was already there with Daddy. Yes, a tent at the graveside service. Obituary in the local paper only, and the online tribute was fine. We were encouraged to bring the contents of her "Memory Box" and put it into a similar (freestanding) box. It would be displayed next to her casket for the viewing and at the funeral.

I asked the funeral director if she was here, and was she OK. He gently assured me that she was there, and they would take the best care of her. He asked me if I had a photo of her from when she was still healthy, and smiling. I told him I would email him one of my favorite pictures of her when we got home.

We went home, and after I emailed the photo to the funeral home,I tried to make the phone calls. I finally had to delegate some of them to other people; I could hardly breathe or speak when I had to say the words.

TW urged me to try and sleep again. I couldn't though, I knew I had to go back over to the little apartment, and see for myself that she was gone. I needed to know that she wasn't there, and I needed to begin - even if it was just to carry in the empty boxes and suitcases - the process of emptying that space.

I also needed to get the items from the "Memory Box" for the funeral home.

We waited until we knew that "bedtime" was over, and all of the residents would be asleep in their apartments. We moved quietly through the halls, and then found that Mom's apartment door was locked! One of the Aides quickly unlocked it for us, and suddenly we were surrounded by staff, hugging and crying, and telling us how sorry they were, how sweet she was, how much they would miss us - and how they would help any way they could. When we stepped into the room, we noticed that the bed that Hospice had provided was already gone, along with all of the medial equipment. I was so relieved; I didn't think that I could deal with seeing the bed, the oxygen concentrator, and all of the equipment just then.

Twinks began packing the remainder of my things, and I began to pack up the groceries & supplies in the tiny kitchen. As we went, there were things we knew we would not bring home with us - all of the bedding from the bed was left behind, as were the last pair of shoes that she wore. We left an opened package of adult diapers and wipes; shampoo and toothpaste. She didn't need them anymore.

Everything else, we packed, or made ready to go. Finally, it was time for me to open the "Memory Box" outside the door. I asked one of the Aides if she could open it for me. She got the key, and when the glass door swung open, there in the light, so very clearly was my Mom's handprint on the glass.

Right over the little quilt I had made for her.

She knew.

She saw it, and at some point, when I didn't see her, she saw it, and left her handprint there, so that I would know.

She knew.

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The visitation at the funeral home, and the funeral itself went well. Mom looked so peaceful, and beautiful; they did a wonderful job of making her look like herself again. It was hard for all of us, to walk in and see her like that, but it was also healing in it's own way.

The pecan casket we picked out had a "memory drawer" that can be used to send along mementos. There are exactly three things in there: Her eyeglasses, her glasses case, and a note from me. The note says this:

"Dear Mama -
I found my courage.
It was right where you left it for me.
I love you always.
Your Thim"

We had an Episcopal funeral, with the Pall over the casket, and Mom's favorite hymns and readings. I spoke briefly, and then it was over. The graveside service was lovely; the sky was crystal blue, and the wind was light and sweet, the day not as hot as it should have been, given the time of the year. We played her favorite jazz tune "Mountain Dance" by Dave Grusin, and then we released sky-blue balloons, sending them to her full of our love and hugs and kisses.

And then it was all over.

And now I have to go on. Have tried to go on. Will go on.

Because I did indeed find my courage, and my strength again. Thanks, Mom.

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Thank you - all of you who have stopped by here in the last five months, to check on me.

You didn't have to read this. I had to write it, because, as I said way up there, at the top... I had to get it out of me.

Thank you for sticking with me all the way through.

5:25 am, May 26 2011

2011-05-27T00:31:00.000-05:00

Mom is gone.

Bittersweet times, indeed

2011-04-15T23:09:00.000-05:00

Once again we are sitting in a clinic waiting room.

There have been many, many such waits in the last 17 years... Many, many times we have sat here with other families, chatting away the idle minutes while we listen for the children's names to be called.

We are at Outreach today. The annual Hospital City "roadshow" where the doctors, nurses and technicians from Hospital City set up camp in a local teaching hospital. Today, we will drive no further than The Greater Metro for Twinks annual springtime appointment.

This is, as much of the last 90 days have been, another bittersweet moment. Someday soon I will summon the strength to document everything here, but for now, this brief missive from the field will have to suffice.

In January - in fact, the day after my last post - my Mom had a large stroke, this one so serious that at one point we believed she had less than two weeks left. We spent a long, terrible night in the ER, only to make our way home through one of the worst blizzards in recent history, with Mom in an ambulance behind us. The EMT's helped us shovel out the front walk so we could get Mom back in the house. I was never so cold and tired at once in my life.

We tried - as hard as we could - to care for Mom at home, but it soon became apparent that we needed more help and equipment than could be brought in to our home. So, Hospice helped us transfer her from home to a local nursing facility, where she was until a week ago. During this time, she slowly regained the ability to first sit, then stand, and finally walk again. But she wasn't as before. She was clearly still suffering side effects from the stroke, the inability to feed herself being one of them.

She also became increasingly anxious and agitated. Nothing worked; no combination of drugs, no amount of time that I would spend with her could quell the rising tide of her anxiety.

Things escalated when a resident punched her, and then later the same day, another resident tried to throw a glass of ice water at an Aide that she was mad at... and most of it landed on Mom.

It was all just too much in one day. She became so upset that there was no calming her. She was moving non-stop, seemingly searching for who-knows-what. Always pedaling around the NH, ceaselessly going up and down the halls, day and night.

And so, last week I made a phone call that I had prayed never to make... I called the local Geri-psych unit to enquire about admitting Mom for treatment.

Today is also Mom's birthday. She is largely unaware now; whether she is at home, the nursing facility, or the Geri-psych unit, she seems to not notice. Her beautiful blue eyes are devoid of emotion. She does not know us, or realize that we have a connection to her.

But for right now, this moment is bittersweet because it likely the last such outreach Twinks will ever attend. There will probably be one more final trip to Hospital City, to say "goodbye" and "graduate" from the Shriners Hospital System.

And then this part of our lives will be done.

I have to go... The nurse has called Twinks name. It's time to begin this last visit, this final chapter.

Bittersweet times, indeed.

In those small dark hours of the morning...

2011-01-20T17:11:00.000-06:00

...is when I go a little crazy.

I am tired all the time now - Mom can no longer be left alone. At all. Ever.

The exhaustion is grinding. It eats at my sanity, it erodes my body.

TW & Twinks are showing the effects, too. We are all snapping at one another; we are all perpetually waiting for our turn to sleep.

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For the last two weeks, we have had what TW euphemistically calls "hired guns" every night; these are trained healthcare workers who sit with Mom every night, Monday through Friday. They are lovely ladies; sweet, caring, professional. But they are also here only overnight - at $22/hour, we really can't afford them, but we can no longer afford NOT to have them. Twinks has school... TW has work... and I have to get a little bit of rest, even if I have to *pay* for it.

Most nights, it crosses my mind at least once that I am *paying* someone $22/hour for the privilege of sleeping in my own home. I lie in the dark, doing the mental math.

The numbers are frightening.

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The weekends have been mine. Saturday and Sunday nights, I am up all night - sitting next to Mom's bed, making sure that she is OK. The job is relatively simple; make sure that she doesn't try to get up out of bed unassisted. Help her in the bathroom. Keep her safe, and comfortable. Let her know that she isn't alone; that someone is there with her in those small, dark hours of the morning...

Make sure that she isn't scared.

Because I am scared enough for both of us.

New Year, New Look

2011-01-02T04:57:00.000-06:00

Yep, I've changed things around.

Again.

Poor TW says that I like to move the furniture around just to drive him nuts.

I have always been this way... I like to move things around a bit, see what they look like when you put this over there, and that over here. Move the sofa to the other side of the room, and the link list to a whole new spot on the blog.

The new template, the changes are just my way of welcoming a new year, and looking forward to Spring.

I didn't realize how much I *needed* to look forward to Spring until tonight. I need the hope and joy that come with the soft, new grass, and the eager daffodils.

I need the renewal that arrives with the baby birds, and their Mama-birds, eager to feed them. I need to refresh my spirit and my soul with the rituals of Easter, and the delicate, shell-pink sunrises that creep up through frosty dawns.

I need these things now, because my Mom is continuing her descent through dementia. I need the feeling of new life, of hope and of joy to counterbalance the sadness and despair. I need a shot of fresh green leaves and tiny defiant blossoms to shore up my belief that life can, and will, go on.

So, here's to new years, new beginnings, and pushing the furniture around. Shake out the cobwebs, clear out the dustbunnies, and spruce up the ol' blog.

Spring *will* come again.

Around Midnight...

2010-12-24T13:36:00.000-06:00

Around midnight, tonight, I will quietly open the front door, and step out onto the porch.

Because it is Christmas Eve, the world will be quiet, and still. There is no traffic noise; everyone is snuggled in their beds, waiting for Santa.

The lights on the houses will sparkle up and down the block, winking and reminding us of our neighbors good cheer.

The warm, fragrant air from the house will spill out the open door, and circle around me, filled with the smells of Christmas: Turkey, pies, cookies, and coffee.

The breeze on my face will be cold, but the air will be fresh and sweet and pure.

The night sky will be dark; I won't quite be able to make out the stars. Maybe it is the light from the city below us in the valley... maybe it is the festive Christmas lights up and down the block. But I will look for the Christmas star anyway - the ancient light that shone over one little crib, over two thousand years ago.

As I look toward the heavens, I will think of Mary & Joseph. They were so tired and scared, and so far from home.

I will give a prayer of thanks for the sacrifice they made for all of us. For the child that was not just theirs, but ours as well.

And I will give a prayer of thanks for you, my friends. For those of you who walk beside me on this journey, and who know my own exhaustion, fear, and pain. You are among my greatest gifts, this year and every year.

Merry Christmas, my friends.

"H" is for Hospice

2010-12-14T02:34:00.000-06:00

Hospice.

I still can't believe that we are there; at that point where the Doctor looked at me, and said "I think it's time to call in Hospice".

In my heart of hearts, I knew it was time. Probably past time; we have been making heroic efforts to care for Mom on our own for a long time, and it was the catastrophic reaction that finally tipped the scales.

Imagine, if you can, trying to care for someone who is scared of her own poop. Who is now scared *to* poop. Because she just can't understand it anymore.

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I ran into a friend of ours, just the week before, when I was out shopping. She lost her husband nearly 5 years ago, and when she asked how my Mom was doing, I asked her who the Hospice group was that she had used. Just in case. I made a quick note in my iPhone with her answer, and after a few more minutes, we parted company.

I was glad that I had that information, because the Hospice group that she had used with her hubby had been fantastic. I remembered how, even in her grief, she had praised every one from that organization, telling us over and over how amazing they were.

So, when the Doctor asked me - do you have a Hospice organization in mind? I had a ready answer. And, so far, our Hospice team has been great. They are so sweet and gentle with Mom, and they have been so patient with me, and all of my questions.

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Our Hospice is a non-profit, church-affiliated group that takes anyone, regardless of insurance coverage or ability to pay.

There is a 24/7 phone number I can call, if I need to ask a question, and Mom's "team" is made up of two nurses, two aides, a social worker, and a chaplin. Oh, and there is the DME guy, who delivers all of the medical equipment, and also the pharmacy delivery guy, who brings out all of her prescriptions.

We have gone from struggling through every day, to suddenly having an almost mind-boggling amount of help and support.

I feel both relieved, and sad.

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We have no way of knowing how much longer Mom has with us. She was placed into Hospice on the basis of "failure to thrive", with a diagnosis of dementia.

The "rule" for Medicare is that a Hospice patient is expected to live 6 months or less in order to qualify for Hospice.

However, both our Doctor and the Hospice Director told me that they personally know of patients who have lived *years* under Hospice care, so I am NOT going to assume anything regarding Mom's time left.

We are just going to try and enjoy as much as we can with her, and love her every day that we have left.

In the end, that's what we should do with ALL of our loved one's, right?

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Catastrophic Reaction

2010-11-27T22:49:00.002-06:00

A catastrophic reaction is when a dementia or Alzheimer's patient has a oversized reaction to a small (or non-existent) problem or event.

And that is what landed us in the ER nearly a week ago.

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All day, Mom had been going back and forth to the bathroom, at an increasing rate. Since it was the weekend, TW was home from work to see this. He started timing her, and noticed that, by dinner time she was going approximately every 7 to 10 minutes.

And we could hear her self-talk "Oh my God! Dear Heavens!" over and over again. Always said in a voice that clearly indicated fear, stress and distress... We would try to ask her what was wrong, what could we do to help? She couldn't answer us with anything more than a frantically whispered "Oh my God! Dear Heavens!"

Finally, at bedtime, she was visibly panicked. She was trying to talk, and tell me something, but couldn't get the words out (which was causing more frustration). I followed her to her bathroom, and she frantically began a cycle of toileting, wiping, cleaning, washing, dressing... that went on for more than 30 minutes. I tried to help her, tried to calm her, but nothing worked.

Catastrophic reaction.

I knew that, left unchecked, this could go on for *hours*. So, I did the only thing I could, and we bundled her off to the ER.

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We were prepared. I had the "one sheet" that I carry in the car that details Mom's health, including meds/doseages and allergies. I had extra clothes for Mom, just in case. I had my cell phone (so I could text TW and keep him updated) and I had my iPad (the Hospital has Wi-Fi), and my best secret weapon: Twinks.

Twinks, The Wonder Kid went with us, and was a TREMENDOUS help and support. She really stepped up, and showed so much poise and maturity. She really was (and is) amazing.

We went to the nearest hospital, which is less than 5 minutes from our house, door-to-door.

The intake was as expected; the ER staff was gentle with her, and by the time we were in our little room, she was calm and ready to go home...

To rule out a silent UTI (which can cause all sorts of havoc in the elderly, especially dementia and Alzheimer's patients) the doctor had to have her cathertized, after it became apparent that she was unable to provide a "sample" on her own. They also drew blood, and rushed all of that off to the lab.

The results came back - and as I had expected, there was nothing there.

The doctor proclaimed Mom to be in excellent physical health... except for the vascular dementia.

We were given instructions on medication to help her sleep through the night, and went home having spent about 4 hours in the ER.

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What prompted all of this was one sad, simple little fact: My Mom was scared of her poop.

She went to the bathroom, and didn't understand what her poop was. She was totally freaked out by it, and couldn't deal with it.

This week, we have watched her deteriorate at a speed faster than ever. She is fading away faster than I can absorb it. I don't want to believe it. I want to stop it.

I think I am about to have a catastrophic reaction of my own...

My hero, my dad

2010-11-10T02:00:00.000-06:00

I don't talk a lot about my Dad here.

It's not that I don't think about my dad. I do - every day. But there are some days when I feel his loss a bit more keenly. Veteran's Day is always one of those days.

It didn't used to be. Until Twinks was in first grade, that is. That was the first year that we found ourselves sitting on the hard bleachers in the elementary school gym, video camera trained on the little Twinkster, watching her proudly salute the local veterans who were seated as the guests of honor for the program. Suddenly I realized that my dad should have been there. That if he were alive, he too would be sitting down there, beaming at Twinks for all he was worth.

Daddy was a Korean War Vet. He died before they began to raise money for the KWV memorial; he never made much of his service to his country, regardless. He felt it was his duty, and his honor to serve America whenever, wherever she needed him to go, but he would never discuss it much. He was wounded in battle, and then treated at a M.A.S.H. unit, and finally shipped home.

He continued to serve America through his work, right up until his untimely death in 1990. He was a aeronautical/aerospace engineer, and he worked for and with NASA and the USAF extensively as both a sub-contractor & consultant. His career spanned everything from the Redstone Rocket to the Shuttle, as well as the F-4 Phantoms to the B-1B. Any bird, anywhere was the family motto. Some of my friends were "military brats; I used to joke that I was like a military brat - just without the PX privileges.

After 9/11, as a country we seemed to rediscover Veteran's Day. Every year since she was in first grade, Twinks school has had a grander, and grander celebration. Huge, multimedia events that finally grew so large that the gym could no longer hold them, and the entire school would travel by bus to a local Mega-Church that could accommodate the children, the Veterans and the audience.

Every year, I find myself wishing that my dad could see this. That he could have lived long enough to see that American servicemen and women are being appreciated, as they should be. I wish that he could have lived long enough to hear some of the applause for himself, and to learn as so many other veterans have, that his service to our country really is appreciated, even if it was in "the war that wasn't" - the "police action" that sure as hell felt like a war to those who were there.

There are a great many reasons why my daddy was my hero. One of the reasons - just one - is because he was a Veteran.

Thanks Dad.

If you are, or have served our Country in any branch of the Armed Forces, please know that our family truly appreciates your service to our Country. Not just today, but every day. Thank you.

Let's jump into the Wayback Machine!

2010-11-01T23:59:00.103-05:00

Dear and Gentle Reader, once again I find myself apologizing for the appalling lack of correspondence on my part. I have no real excuses, other than my duties as a Caregiver, Wife and Mother have kept me from here on a regular basis.

And I *miss* here.

I find myself, at least a dozen times a day, mentally composing blog posts. Many, many things have happened in our little corner of the world that I wanted share with you, but I have (literally) not had the time.

And so, as promised - one hideously long and seriously boring post about what's been going on "behind the scenes" at our little cottage. (You have been warned!)

March 2010: We "celebrated" the anniversary of Mom moving back home with us. Because she continues to decline, it was less of a "celebration" and more of a "let's have a little bit of cake!"

Twinks had Spring Break, but spent most of it sick AND going to play practice. So, not much of a "break" really...

April 2010: Hospital City holds the annual Spring Outreach Clinic in the Greater Metro. Twinks goes in for what we thought would be a "routine checkup". Her feet are molded for new orthotics, but then the doctor in charge decides that she needs to be evaluated for surgery. In Hospital City. The appointment is scheduled for the Tuesday after Memorial Day Weekend. My only consolation is that Twinks will be out of school by then, and TW volunteers to take off work, and stay home with my Mom, so that Twinks and I can have some "girly time" on the trip, without worrying about the logistics of caring for my Mom as well. Did I ever tell you what a wonderful man TW is?

May 2010: iPad. One for Twinks, one for TW & I to share. Yes, it is magical. And a bit heavier than I would like, but find myself using it much more than I expected I would. My first Apple product! Surely, somewhere, a tiny bit of Microsoft Hell froze over...

Memorial Day Weekend: 3 day sojourn to Hospital City. A tale unto itself, it is a driving force (pun intended) in the events that transpire in June. TW insists that Twinks and I leave on the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend; it is the middle of the holiday weekend, and so traffic on that day should be lightest. This means we will overnight 2 nights in Hospital City. I have to leave the mini-van for TW to transport Mom around in, so we rent a Hyundai Sante Fe for the trip. Twinks is jazzed about the satellite radio. I am looking forward to spending Monday, Memorial Day going around Hospital City with Twinks and having a tiny bit of respite from taking care of Mom.

The drive down is non-eventful, and the weather was nice as well. When we get to Hospital City, our room is ready at the new Homewood Suites that we are staying at, but the rental car has a problem; the rear window falls down into the track, and can't be brought back up. We contact the rental company, and go to the airport to exchange the car. When we get to the airport, they don't have another Sante Fe; all they have is a Kia Soul.

Twinks nearly swoons with joy - this is the "Hamster car" - the one from the commercials with the Hamsters that drive the cute little car around. She has had a crush on that car since the first time she saw it! We drive it off the airport, and I am in love with it before we get to our hotel. Monday, we have fun; driving around in the little Hamster car, and shopping, and eating at favorite restaurants.

Tuesday, we get up early, and follow our customary routine on Hospital Day. Check out by 6:30 am, Hospital by 7:00 am, we are eating breakfast by 7:15, and waiting for Hospital Day to begin. At 8:00 am the Clinic opens, and Twinks goes back for "weighs and measures". We head over to x-ray, and then back to the waiting room to wait for an exam room. Once in the exam room, Twinks is asked to return to the x-ray department for additional views. This time, they take the x-rays in a sitting position. Twinks does "the walk", where she walks up and down the hallway in front of doctors and PA's and Interns and Residents. They evaluate her gait with shoes on, and shoes off. Back in the exam room, measurements are taken very carefully.

Finally, the verdict: no surgery - but she needs to wear the orthotics that are waiting over in the orthotics and prosthetics department. The orthotics are fitted, but the shoes we brought are wrong. Brand new shoes - and they won't work with the new orthotics. So, we go to the Mall that is just two blocks over from the Hospital, and find Twinks some amazing shoes. Shoes that (we hope!) will work. Back to the Hospital, and the wizards in Orthotics whisk away the shoes to be fitted with an exterior lift. When the shoes come back, they have cut off the original sole of the shoe, fitted the lift material (that matches the shoe) trimmed it, and glue the original sole back on. You can't tell that the shoe has been "lifted" unless you look very closely. Twinks is happy - the new orthotics fit just right, the lift helps almost instantly, and we are driving home in a Hamster Car.

We make the drive home from Hospital City just fine; I fully expected that the "magic" of the little Hamster Car would wear off by the end of the 400 mile drive. We arrive in the driveway, and TW is bemused by the little Hamster car - he drives it after we get home, and finds himself equally enchanted by it. When I take it back to the rental counter on Wednesday, I realize that I could happily get into that little Hamster Car, and drive another 400 miles.

June 2010: I get a call from TW while he is at work - he has been injured, and will need to see an orthopedic doctor. Because it is work-related, our list of doctors to pick from is fairly short, but luckily we know one of those on the list, and we pick him. In very short order, TW goes for an X-Ray, then an MRI, and then to Dr. Knee. Dr. Knee says "Hi, good to see you - and I'll see you again in three days for surgery". Surgery goes as well as can be expected - TW has torn up the meniscus. Dr. Knee cleans up the tear, bevels back the edges, and we go home with an ice chest contraption that has an aquarium pump in it that is supposed to keep the swelling down. And as a bonus, some nifty pictures of TW's meniscus, "before" and "after". I spend the next two weeks doing nothing but making and bagging ice; the little ice chest contraption works, but the heat from the pump melts the ice faster than we expect. Before the end of the month, TW is in physical therapy.

Up until now, Mom has always ridden in the front passenger seat of the mini-van since she came home nearly 3 and 1/2 years ago. She can't easily or safely get in and out of the back of the mini-van, where the doors are equipped with child-locks. Increasingly, Mom is grabbing the door handle of the mini-van when we are driving down the road. We are now faced with a dilemma: we can't continue to transport Mom in the mini-van safely. TW drives a little Ford Festiva to work every day; it's in excellent condition, (Oh, how he loves that funny little car!) but not practical for driving Mom in either, as we would again have the door handle issue. We need a vehicle that Mom can get in and out of easily, and that has back doors - with child-locks on them. We want it to be fuel efficient, and to be something that we would be happy to drive for at least the next 5 years or so.

This leads us back to:

HAMSTERS!!!

We bought a Kia Soul (yep, the little car from the commercial with the Hamsters, and our recent adventure to Hospital City) and I haven't had this much fun driving since I was a teenager! I find myself *inventing* reasons to drive now - I love hopping into my little red Hamster Car and zipping around town. SO much fun! We got the red color (called "Molten") and I still smile every time I see it in the garage. :)

July 2010: My birthday. I am now 49 years and 13 months.

And, yes, I have an iPhone4. Goodbye Windows Mobile; I am now "app savvy". For once, my tendency to plan ahead pays off: the bubblegum-pink ultra-girly Bumper I ordered along with my iPhone prevents me from experiencing the dreaded dropped-call syndrome. Got one for Twinks, too. TW decides to wait, and see if we like ours. He's not a total technophobe, but, like a lot of people, he doesn't like change, either. That crackling sound? More of Microsoft Hell freezing up solid...

TW's physical therapy sessions (three times weekly) continue. While he is "progressing", we have now learned that Dr. Knee believes he won't regain 100% function of his knee. TW is in a lot of pain, all the time; in part because there was so much damage. I wish that I could take his pain for him - I blew out my left knee when I was 14, and have lived with the resulting pain and limitations for nearly 36 years. I'm used to it!

Twinks takes her drivers exam - in the Kia Soul - and passes! She is a licensed driver! The first day she drove away from the house, alone, I was TERRIFIED. But she really is a good driver, and has proved to be an *enormous* help to me. I can send her on errands, and because she will be able to drive herself to school, TW & I won't have the pickup/dropoff routine for the first time in 12 years. I actually got teary-eyed at that thought; another milestone passed.

August 2010: Twinks goes back to school - she is a Junior in High School this year. A Junior. I can't believe it! Virtual School again this year - and her two on-campus electives are in the afternoon this time, instead of the morning. I can't decide if I like that, or not. It was nice when she went to the campus in the morning, because it gave us the rest of the day after lunch, if we needed to run errands, or take Mom to the doctor. But, since she is more active in her Drama class this year, it will work out well - she can just stay up at school for the after-school play practices. I think it will also be nice this winter, especially if we get a lot of snow and ice - the streets will be in much better shape by the time she has to leave for school. So that will be a big plus.

TW's physical therapy finally ends. The last session is spent measuring his progress, to see how much range of motion he got back, etc. He can walk fine now, but still can't do stairs. Dr. Knee tells him to stay off of ladders and no squatting. Memo to Dr. Knee: He is a mechanic - an aviation mechanic. He (literally) lives on ladders and scaffolding all day. :::sigh:::

September 2010: Labor Day comes and goes too quickly. I have my routine exam at the dermatologist, and mention that the sunblock she prescribed isn't working. And that it burns any time I am in the sun. Itches too. And I don't sunburn any more - I have these raised red bumps. She does a biopsy, and calls me three days later: I have PMLE - Polymorphous light eruption. Dermatologist gives me a prescription for a rather scary-sounding medicine that is supposed to help, but it will take up to six months to see results, and in the meantime, I need to avoid being in the sun if at all possible. It explains a LOT - why I feel so tired and cranky and icky after working out in the yard, or after an afternoon of driving or sitting in the front seat. I remember that one of my Dad's sisters had PMLE, although at the time, no one knew what it was; it was just called a "sun allergy" and she was pretty miserable as she got older. Sadly, she was killed in an accident before the scary medicine was available for PMLE sufferers.

TW gets his iPhone4. He is amazed (and delighted) at how fast he can burn through an iTunes gift card in the App Store. Just in the nick of time, I introduce him to the word "free", and show him how to find no-cost Apps. He is having way too much fun with his new ~~toy~~ phone.

My Mom takes a turn for the worse, and for the first time in over three years, we are adding a medication to help control some of her symptoms. She is progressing more rapidly now, and we see changes every month, sometimes every week.

Twinks finally gets her long-awaited for MacBook Pro. I have to confess, I am beginning to see why my Mac-afflicted/addicted friends have been so loyal to Apple all of these years. It is so easy to use, that I find myself over-thinking how to do things. Even TW is impressed when he sees how quick and easy it is to install our networked color laser printer.

October 2010: Mom continues to decline slowly. She no longer laughs or smiles at all, and has begun to retreat within herself. She no longer does any of her "puzzle books" (mostly find-a-word and large print crossword puzzle books) and she hasn't colored in her Dover art books for months now. She simply sits, and stares, all day long. Generally in the direction of the TV, but I feel very strongly that there is no comprehension now. None at all. She can, and does still dress herself, feed herself and toilet herself, but it is strictly by rote; there is no ability to learn or process new information at all.

The fall colors are out, and this year they are amazing. I try to get out with my camera - the Nikon that I got for Christmas last year, but events conspire against me.

TW got a MacBook Air 11. He falls in love with it instantly - the fit and finish, the light weight, the crisp, bright, even screen... And of course, how easy it is to use. Suddenly, Mr I-don't-want-to-change is All About The Apple Store, and he won't rest until I have an Apple, too.

I had planned on nursing my Dell through another year or so. However, events transpired, and just about a week later, I was at the Apple Store myself, walking out with a MacBook Pro. Somewhere, Bill Gates shivered, and didn't know why as the last of Microsoft Hell surely froze over solid. I cut my computer chops on DOS 2.3 - and have been using Windows since the beginning. And although I do like W7, what I have never liked about Windows (in general) is how *hard* you have to work to get everything to... work. But with the Apple products, you don't have to jump through all of the hoops - stuff just... works. Amazing.

Twinks has Fall Break. Again, she has play practice, and a sinus infection. We take Mom to the beauty shop to get her hair washed and cut, but otherwise, it's quiet.

Mom is now almost like a doll. A beautiful. sweet doll; we must lead her by the hand, and she has to be watched over 24/7. Her beautiful blue eyes are nearly completely vacant now; she has almost no expressions or emotions. I can recognize her physical form, but increasingly, I feel like her spirit is withdrawing from this world, and packing for the trip to the next.

Twinks and I sat on the porch, on Halloween evening, and handed out candy. We talked about everything - about how different Halloween is now, versus when I was a kid. About what it was like when she was born, and everyone who came to the hospital that day. About how teenage boys are stupid, and shouldn't be allowed out without direct supervision. And lots of other stuff. It was a nice evening - the weather was only just cool enough to make you shiver a bit, and a tiny breeze rustled the dry leaves just enough to give you goosebumps.

November 2010: Here we are... All caught up, at last! If you made it this far, I appreciate your loyalty, not to mention your sheer tenacity! You are to be commended. I would give you a cookie, but I ate them all while I was waiting for you to get down here.

Thanksgiving is next. Join the TCF movement!

Thank you, again, Dear Reader. For coming back to read that rather lengthy missive, and more importantly, for sticking around while I wasn't here. I'm glad you are here, my friend. :)

What YOU have been doing...

2010-10-27T01:52:00.002-05:00

OK, people. I have been out there, reading your blogs (commenting here and there) and generally catching up on your lives.

So, before I update you on *my* life... I'm going to update you on what I have learned!

My self-imposed assignment: "What I have learned from reading (in no particular order) your digital lives"

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My personal favorite blogger is my daughter. Twinks has (again) changed up her blog. New layout, new title... you know how kids these days are... Check out her new profile pic. Very grown up looking. :::sigh::: She's going to be in college before we know it.

Ericka had a toxic Admin... "had" being the operative word, because she is now busy being a fancy-pants Consultant at another company. Oh, and I still love all of her pots and cups and bowls. Amazing! She just bought a new car - Petunia is her name, and it looks like Ericka is very happy with her indeed! :)

The Caustic Bunny celebrated 5 years of disseminating his particular brand of joy and information via Blog. Bunny On, indeed!

Shane Nickerson and his lovely wife have welcomed Nickerbaby #3 into the world. And she is just gorgeous!

Dream Mom and Dear Son finally got to go on their long-awaited Make A Wish trip! From the pictures alone, you can tell they had a wonderful time! :) Although he battled pneumonia (again) recently, Dear Son is back at school! :)

Tamara, whom I originally met through MM, started off at The Straight Poop, and then she created Modern Gear TV. Now, she's at the helm of Delish Magazine. And I couldn't be happier for her! Issue #2 is out and ready for you to read. (just remember to come back here when you are done!)

Flip, aka Caleigh (because she's growing up right in front of us, and so she is using her Real Name now) continues to be an amazing artist. Someday, I'm going to be able to tell the world that I remember when she was a little kid with a big ol' art blog!

Alpharat, who is also a guide at About.Com (Punk Rock division) has been busy as a contributor in book - responsible for an entire chapter! "Punk Rock Saved My Ass". Worth buying for the title alone. Do him a favor, and click over to his About.Com site - if it's like it was when *I* was a Guide there (many moons ago... waaaay different topic!) he needs all the clicky-love we can send his way!

Stu is offering to Skype for money... Wait, that sounds like something it's not! Anyway... Stu is a writer/editor, and is setting up Skype audio/video sessions aimed at helping people who are struggling with their own writing. I wonder if I could just put him on retainer? Stu is also still busy over at GNMP, which is a great site where I can easily spend hours.

Fabgrandma is, as always, fabulous! Great recipes, GORGEOUS quilts, and always always always wonderful pictures from wherever they happen to be on the road. They are headed back to 'Bama for the winter now - travel safely! :)

AmyL and her amazing boys seem to be doing just fine over at Earnest Parenting. Except she mentions limping? What did I miss? Amy, are you OK?

Wil Wheaton went to PAX East, and not only gave an impassioned keynote, but changed lives. There's also a picture of him sitting in Sheldon's spot on the couch (from "The Big Bang Theory"). Evil Wil, you are so sly! More Cons, (GenCon & PAX Prime) including Phoenix. Oh, and a new doggie (Seamus) for the family! "Evil Wil Wheaton" will be back (again!) (YAY!) on our fave sitcom "The Big Bang Theory" on November 11th. (CBS, Thursday nights, don't miss it!)

Over at Whippy Curly Tails, the big news has been the addition of a DOG... Over the summer, there was much planting and gardening going on, although mostly supervised by the older kitties... And then of course, there was the arrival of the DOG. Did I mention that a DOG is living with the Whippy Curly Tails? Hey, that's big news, if you are a cat! ;)

Chuck from Beyond the Cheddar Curtain (I found out that if you say that: "Beyond the Cheddar Curtain" in a kind of spooky-Halloweeny voice, it sounds really cool! LOL!) has been busy, as usual. Chuck & TW both work in the same industry, so I'm always interested when he reports about his work. Chuck has also been beset with car troubles lately. Having gone down that road myself a few times, I can certainly sympathize! Where he lives, there are DANGEROUS CURBS that apparently actually jump out and EAT YOUR TIRES while you are driving down the street! Scary stuff, indeed! ;)

Daughter, from Taking Care of Mom and Dad is someone I hope you all get to know. I met her over at the Alz.org Caregiver forums, where I try to read (and sometimes post what I hope are allegedly "helpful" nuggets of wisdom) every day. That forum, and the people there - like Daughter - have helped me maintain my sanity through the many, many dark days and nights that we have had with my Mom lately. (Mom's diagnosis is VaD - Vascular Dementia, but since the symptom set, medications and research are all so closely related, the nice folks at Alz.org let us VaD caregivers hang out there)

Daughter has BOTH of her parents with her now, although it seems her Mom is struggling much more than her Dad with the move, and the loss of "freedom". Like so many Alzheimer's patients, Daughter's Mom does not realize that she is sick (a condition that is called Anosognosia) and so she resists the changes required for her safety and care. Daughter's Dad recently required heart surgery, and has now had a "mini-stroke". Her Mom is still struggling through some of the toughest parts of AD - that time when they simply refuse to believe that there is *anything* wrong with them - it must be you! I hope you'll join me, Dear Reader, in sending up prayers for Daughter, and both of her parents.

Rurality, she of the handmade soap, the game cam and the amazing photos... She got to go the Barber Motorsports Park in Birmingham for an Indy race! I am *so* jealous! She had Orange Goo day in April. Then she got sick :( I hope it wasn't related to the Orange Goo! Rurality hasn't posted since June, so I'm hoping she's OK!

Michelle, who is allegedly The Surly Writer, really isn't so surly. I know this for certain. She is actually very nice, and very funny, and very smart. Sorry, Michelle - your secret is out! ;) As usual, she has been posting some very interesting fiction. Alongside some rather tasty bits about her real life! Michelle is in cahoots with Sully (see below) on just about every topic, including one that is near and dear to my heart: "Thanksgiving Comes First".

MM (aka Magazine Man) has, as usual, been a busy kid. The Eclair, who reigns benevolently over us all as The Queen Baby has turned *3*, despite my efforts to stop time from advancing. And Art Lad (who is known to answer to the name "Thomas") has started the 6th Grade. This factoid alone was enough to make me feel very old indeed! Thomas is A Neat Kid, which is not surprising, given his parentage. The Brownie has had her *9th* birthday - less than a year to double digits! She grows to be more like her amazing Mom every day; capable, smart, and gorgeous. :) Watch out, Daddy MM - she's a PRE-TWEEN now! And Blazey Bellow Hoska Boo Boo Ba Doo is patrolling the new apartment, protecting the family, and generally being charming. The Magazine Mansion (West) has finally sold - good news! More good news - MM has left what sounded like a rather toxic environment at his last magazine, and found a new posting. At a different magazine. Where, one presumes that grown-up people do actual work, without tantrums. With any amount of luck at all, we will be seeing his name on the masthead for many, many more years to come.

Last, but never, ever least is Sully.

Sully always has a special place in my heart. He and his amazing WIFE are two of my favorite people in all of the Blog-O-Sphere. It is my wish (and in fact my entire families wish!) that someday we get to sit and enjoy a lovely evening (and maybe some fruitcake?) with The Sullivans.

Now, on to what young James and HIS WIFE have been up to. First of all, Dear Poochie made a return in April, after a wildly succesful run in March. We were all thrilled, especially since Poochie gives such excellent advice. Next, JIM'S WIFE had a birthday. And I missed it. :( I am SO sorry, and I hope that she will be gracious enough to accept my (tremendously belated) Happy Birthday wishes. Sully talked about quitting smoking; however it seemed that what quit first was the washer and the dryer!

There was a lovely Mother's Day tribute to Jim's Mom, a touching tribute to his Dad (who we lost in 1994) and (forgive me, Jim) a LOT of baseball and softball stuff. A LOT of softball stuff... ;) I do read it all - I'm nothing if not a loyal friend! The SWINGERS lost their shot at a playoff berth in August... And the BOMBERS almost went all the way. It was still a good season, right? There were a *few* re-runs of previous posts, but that's OK, because they were all good enough to read again! Then, somewhere along the way, Jim bonded with Phineas & Ferb.

Things get serious when Jim works on quitting smoking. I say "works on" because it *is* hard to quit. Tremendously. I used to smoke - from my college years, until I knew I was pregnant with Twinks - and I know how hard it was for me to quit. TW had smoked for almost 30 years when he finally was able to quit via a heroic effort. It's no small deal. There are still times when - I kid you not - if there was a cure for cancer, I would be down at the corner store, paying for a pack of Virginia Slim Ultra-Lights.

I watched my Dad die - 20 years ago this month - from lung cancer. That's the primary reason why I'm still "not-a-smoker".

But this is about Sully, not me. And Sully might bite me if I don't stay on topic! Lord knows, he has the chompers for it now! Yes, in my absence, Sully got the last of the dental work done, and he now has beautimous-looking teeth! He also put them to good use on his trip to Chicago with HIS WIFE earlier this month. Finally, Our Boy James has just posted his impassioned "Thanksgiving Comes First" campaign post for this year. It is a cause I am fully on board with (you'll see the link to my page year-round on the side bar, that's how much I believe) and I hope you will take a minute or two to find out how YOU can help spread the word!

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Wait.

That's it's.

I'm caught up!!!

Next post: What *I* have been doing! And get ready, kids... It's going to be a LONG one!!!

Too much. Way, way too much...

2010-10-12T01:51:00.000-05:00

I am here - long enough to tell you that... well, I am here!

Believe it or not, I had been creating an *epic* blog post - one that would carry you, Dear Reader, through all of the twists and turns that my life has taken these last 7 months or so. It was nearly complete too. I was going to post it.

But TW had bought me a new computer - 17" top of the line laptop, made for music and gaming. i7 quad-core processors, stuffed to the gills with memory. Gorgeous LED screen. Built-in subwoofer, slot-load Blu-Ray burner. In fact, I am typing on it now! It is so shiny, and pretty... and fast!

I was in the process of moving everything over to the new laptop. I knew I should have backed up the "old" laptop first, but I was excited, in a hurry. I decided to do the backup the next day, after everything had been moved over.

And then my hard drive crashed.

I lost *everything*. Literally In the blink of an eye. I had data, programs, even email that went back to 1988. Some of my first scanned images - made with a handheld Logitech B&W hand scanner... Email correspondence between my Mom and I... some of Twinks first attempts at writing... and photos. So many, many photos. Passwords for websites. Contacts, phone numbers, addresses, email addresses... And digital video and audio of Mom's last three years with us - mostly her playing the piano.

All gone. In an instant.

I grieved. I cried - it felt like such an enormous personal loss. Someone asked me why I was so sad over "just data". It can all be downloaded again, right? And you never went back through all of those emails... you were just being a digital packrat.

And on the surface, that made sense. But my heart could not forget the twenty+ hours of music - of my Mom playing the piano, the old standards she used to play for Daddy, the songs that she and I used to sing together... gone. The music of my childhood, the one thing that had proved to me for the last three years that she was still "here"... gone.

Because she can't play anymore. She will likely never play again. And I lost those files.

And so, I grieved for my lost data, and for all that my Mom has lost. All at once. It wasn't very pretty. In fact, I was so depressed and upset that TW and Twinks were truly on the verge of an intervention when I finally pulled myself together again, and started the work of rebuilding my digital world.

I sent the drive off to a very reputable company, with a heartfelt letter telling them that anything - anything at all that they could recover would be gratefully accepted.

They sent the drive back, with a note that said that they were very sorry, but the head had crashed repeatedly into the one area of the hard drive that rendered all the data on it useless. In other words... the data itself is still there, but there is no way (with current technology) that it can be recovered.

It now sits on my desk, a silent, daily reminder to BACK UP YOUR DATA.

I was fortunate, in that the owner of the company told me about a small program that I could run on any/every computer or hard drive in the house that I had ever used. And while it tied up each computer for nearly a day, I was able - in the end - to recover more of my old "deleted" data than I thought possible.

While I didn't get the email back, or some of my old client data from my (now defunct) web design company, I did recover about 90% of my photos, and probably about 95% of my music. I'm still missing most of my email addresses and snail mail addresses, and lots of phone numbers; none of that was recoverable. But, I was able to restore more than 500,000 individual files. Rescued my ebooks from the iPad (oh yeah - got one of those. Best. Toy. Ever.) and my most recently purchased music from my iPhone4 (oh yeah - got one of those, too. Buh-bye to Windows Mobile. Haven't looked back!) And I also recovered about half of the "Mom" files.

I now have a new 1.5TB external eSATA drive to back up to. Daily.

So, here I am. Still. That epic blog post? It's on the way - soon. I promise.

But before I post it, I am off to catch up with all of you at your Blogs.

I missed you, Gentle Readers. Each and every one!

More soon.

Thim :)

The One Where I Survived...

2010-03-25T22:52:00.000-05:00

I promised this story a while back. The events here are all real; they occurred more than three years ago.

It took me a long time - as you can see - to be able to write coherently about it. To be honest, I have had this post in my "edit" list since the day after the fire happened. I wanted to get it all down while it was fresh in my mind. But I could never finish editing it; I couldn't pull the trigger and post it. Not for a long time. Not until now.

I don't know why I can now. But I realized recently that it's OK now. That I can talk about this without shaking. Without the nightmares that used to follow.

And so, without any further ado, I now tell you the tale of The One Where I Survived...

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I did it.

I faced one of my greatest fears, and I survived.

I survived.

I ran into a burning building. On purpose. And I walked out of that burning building. You know; flames, toxic smoke, sprinklers going off, fire alarms shrieking...

I survived.

And I will never again be the same.

===

My elementary school caught on fire when I was in second grade; my classroom was in the wing of the building that was involved . The thick smoke quickly filled the halls and the rooms. The fire bells were ringing inside the school, and the children and teachers were yelling and screaming. In the stampede towards the door, I was run over by some of the bigger kids; I was pinned to the floor by their feet. I couldn't get up - every time I tried, someone stepped on me again. I put my cheek on the cool linoleum floor, sqeezed my eyes shut, and cried for my Mommy and Daddy to come and get me. Suddenly, big yellow boots with black buckles stopped in front of me, and a big fireman who had a shiny yellow coat, and a big yellow hat with the funny slope-y back scooped me up, and carried me out of the building. He set me down on the asphalt of the parking lot and ran back to the building. I stood there shivering and crying, watching the smoke billow out of our classroom windows. Not long after it seemed, my Mom came to get me, running to the school with all of the other moms from the neighborhood. We all got to go home early from school that day, and when we went back to school, our classroom was moved to another hall. I had some spectacular bruises for a couple of weeks, and some spectacular nightmares for a long time.

I had not thought of that day for years and years.

===

The meeting was dragging a bit, and I had begun to wish I had skipped it; I have plenty to do at home, and this was a volunteer group. I stretched my arms over my head, feeling cranky. C had stepped out of the room; G was paying rapt attention to the speaker. I was looking around, feeling a tiny bit guilty for not really paying close attention to what was being said, and mostly wondering what I was going to have for lunch.

The fire alarm jolted everyone in the room. The meeting instantly stopped. Everyone was very calm; almost preternaturally so. This time, there was no screaming, no hysteria; we quickly and quietly made our way to the only exit not obviously blocked by smoke and flames. Myself, C and G brought up the rear; we were urging the others towards the door, and closing doors as we went down the hallway, hoping to minimize the damage to the rest of the building. I remember thinking how odd it was that I couldn't hear the fire trucks, because the fire alarm inside the building was so deafening. The strobe lights perched on top of each alarm in the building were blinking incessantly; it was like the flash of a million cameras all firing at once. It was terrible - the noise and flashing lights made it nearly impossible to think clearly. Not to mention the adrenaline that was pumping through my veins furiously.

We were almost to the exit. I could see blue sky through the door, then I was OUT the door, and I knew everything was going to be OK. I sucked in a lungful of clean air. Then G turned, and ran back inside, towards the front, back towards the fire. I instinctively turned to shout after her, and she was gone, gone around the corner. C screamed, and ran after G.

Shit.

I ran back in. I ran back into a burning building. On purpose.

I tried to stuff the panic down; I could still see inside; the smoke was just beginning to creep along the ceiling down the long main hallway, sending deadly little grayish-white tendrils out like thick, smoky, tentative fingers. You could smell smoke, but the air looked clear. The lights were still on in the building; in fact the electricity never went out until later, when the Fire Department found the mains and shut it off manually. The sprinkler system in the area of the fire was working - water was beginning to run through the hallways - but the flames and smoke were still blocking the front doors. One part of my brain was wondering why the fire was still going when there were sprinklers.

The other part of my brain was trying to make sense of why G ran back. Why, when we were so close to safety, did she turn and...

...then I saw them. Two teenage visitors; they were there for the day, and they simply did not know what to do. The teenage girl screamed over the noise of the alarm that she couldn't find her cellphone; she was gesturing wildly with her hands and crying, trying to go back. The boy was trying to drag her by the arm, towards the emergency exit at the back, and away from the fire. C pointed them towards me and gave them a little shove; I waved them over, and then took them by the arm to the back door. I saw them safely out through the back door, told them to run around to the front parking lot, and turned to find C and G both conspicuously absent.

ShitShitShit.

So, I went back in. Again.

I walked - no ran - back into a burning building. Not once, but twice. I was going to find G, and C. To drag them out by the hair if I had to. Because I had *seen* the damned exit - not once, but twice, and I was by God going to see it again. Hell, I was going to go OUT of it, and escape, and take them with me. But first I had to find my friends.

I rounded the corner, started down the main hallway and stopped in the middle of the hall, between two doors. C and G had run back in - first to find the teens, and then C decided that she should try to "save" some of the papers from our meeting. I yelled at her that the paperwork could be replaced, but she couldn't. Finally, she nodded, and grabbing one last armload of files, started towards where I was standing in the hall. I turned to look for G; the incessant beat of the alarm and the rhythmic flashing of the strobes were really beginning to bother me. I needed to get out of there; I was shaking from the adrenaline, and I was dizzy and nauseated. The air was starting to feel thick, and the smoke had begun to drop from the ceiling, now black and menacing. I notice that one of the doors we had closed was open a crack, it was here that I found G; she was trying to drag furniture away from the walls in the room next door to the room that is on fire. C and I yelled at her that it was time to leave - NOW. She turned to look at the doorway, and at that moment, the flames broke through a glass window wall across the room. C and G were both instantly transfixed, staring at the scene. The fire roared just 20 or so feet away from us. The smoke swirled gray and black around the ceiling and floor like angry clouds, and the air was beginning to feel weird in my mouth and nose. You could smell plastic and carpet burning and the front windows had begun to shatter, one after another, from the heat of the fire. I looked from one to the other - it was as if they were hypnotized by the rolling smoke and the flames. They just stood there.

I couldn't wait any longer. I ran between them, grabbed their arms, and yelled "GO! NOW!" over the noise of the alarms, and whipped them both around. I pushed them back down the hallway, towards the back, towards safety. C was still clutching a stack of paperwork, trying to tell me that she didn't get everything she needed. G had her sunglasses in her hand, and was digging in her purse, yelling over the racket that she couldn't find her cellphone. I just kept pushing them towards the exit, urging them to hurry. I remember thinking I should find my sunglasses and cellphone, too. But not now. Later. I knew that the suspended ceiling above us had the potential to hide the fire; even now it could be above us, racing ahead of us, ready to stop us from getting out that door.

It seemed like it took forever to get them to the back door. It was probably less than 20 seconds.

Once we were out, G ran as fast as she could to the front of the building, to move her car away from the fire. C and I walked more slowly, still amazed at what we just experienced; we both knew there would be even more excitement at the front of the building, and we were in no hurry to meet it.

As we rounded the side, and came into the main parking lot, the Fire Department arrived. I grabbed my cell, and called The Wrench to tell him that I was OK. The local media was already there, shooting pictures and video. I grabbed a few frames with the camera from the cellphone, and then I moved off to the side. A little further away from the action, from the fire, the smoke, the broken glass, and the reporters. The owner of the building arrived, wringing his hands, worried about the water damage that the fire department was creating. G managed to slip into her car and get it moved away from fire, although she did get a "talking to" from the fire captain after she had it parked again.

I slid the back door of the mini-van open, and sat down gratefully. I could smell the smoke in my clothes and hair; I was shaking hard all over. The firemen had everything under control in just a few minutes; it took them longer to find the shut-offs for the utilities than it did for them to actually put the fire out.

C and G joined me. We watched as the fire department dumped stacks of melted office chairs out into the parking lot. We watched them carry C's desk out onto the sidewalk; we saw them turn on the big fans that helped get the smoke out.

After a while, they let three of us go back in the building to retrieve personal items, although we were not allowed to walk in the actual area of the fire. I looked at where we were standing when the fire broke through, and began to shiver. I looked up at the ceiling where the firefighters had pushed aside the suspended ceiling, and saw the path the fire had taken above the suspended tiles.

It had been headed for the back door. Just like we were.

I went straight home. I got in bed, pulled the covers up, and shook. For the next four hours.

===

What did I learn? Once I stopped shaking, I realized several things:

First, it is foolhardy to run into a burning building. Firefighters are trained to do that; everyone else should get out, and stay out. And also, we don't pay our firefighters NEARLY enough money. And that no matter how prepared you think you are, all those fire drills in elementary school don't prepare you for the real thing.

Next, I learned that you really should always know where the exits are. Always have a way out; always have a plan. Know how you'll get out if you have to.

Finally, I learned that I cannot just walk away. Not when I can help someone.

I feel stronger. I feel a greater appreciation for everything in my life. I feel as though there is (almost) nothing I can't do.

But most importantly, I learned that I can survive. I faced one of my biggest fears ever, and I survived.

Hearts and Flowers and Tears, oh my

2010-03-16T04:36:00.002-05:00

Or , "Happy Third Anniversary at Home, Mom".

Three years ago, my Mom came "home" to live with us. I can still remember that day so vividly. I remember the horror I felt when I saw how sick Mom was. How happy I was that she decided to stay with us, and how terrified I was that The Stepdad would succeed in his efforts to lure her home again.

Most of all, today I remember how much better she was then. Not just physically better - her body is actually healthier right now today than it has been in many years. But mentally, she was so much... sharper. She could make decisions. She could care for herself, and cook a meal. She was still able to write a check. She could sign her name - and she was at that point, still quite able to administer her own affairs. She was still an avid reader then. She still played the piano. She was still mostly... herself.

She was.

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I told Twinks and TW that this year I wanted NO flowers. In fact, we all agreed that our celebrations going forward will be a bit more... muted than in the past. Too much excitement and Mom gets flustered and upset. It's just easier. So, we all agreed; no flowers, no "big deal" about Valentine's Day. We would exchange cards (Mom still enjoys picking out greeting cards) and I bought four small identical heart-shaped boxes of candy.

It wasn't until I opened the Valentine's Day card this year from my Mom that it really hit me just how far she has deteriorated.

I had helped her pick out the card; for the first time ever, she had trouble picking out an "appropriate" card. For Twinks, she had picked a card that was for "Baby's first Valentine's Day" and for TW & I she picked up a card that said "To my husband...". So, we put those back, and I helped her pick out some other cards.

Inside of Twinks card, she wrote "A happy day for all!" and signed her name.

Inside of the card that was for TW & I, she had written the following, in a child-like fashion across the interior face of the greeting card:

TW
Twinks
Mom!
Happy Love

Then she signed her name at the bottom, and wrote

Love Love Love

I kissed her, and thanked her, and then went to our room where I cried. I stood at the window, and looked out at the back yard, and cried because at that moment I realized just how far she has deteriorated. My incredible, wonderful, brilliant mother, easily the smartest woman that I have ever known, has not used my name in written or spoken form for the more than 9 months. Last July, on my birthday card, she put "Happy Birthday Mom". At the time, I had hoped it was an anomaly; a glitch. Now I know differently.

I know that she knows *who* I am. Well, I think she knows who I am. More importantly, she knows that I am the person who cares for her. I call her "Mom" or "Mama", and I prepare her medicine and I prepare her food. I help her shower and wash her hair, and sometimes with other personal grooming needs. I take her to the doctor, and the store, and to the Sonic to get a cherry limeade. I buy her puzzle books, and coloring books, and I sharpen her coloring pencils. I do her laundry, and change her sheets. I suppose I am more "caregiver" than "daughter", more "mother" than "child" these days.

Every night, she kisses me, and tells me "Good Night!" and "I love you!". But she never says my name. Ironically enough, she says TW's name, and Twinks name. Just not mine.

And, G-d help me, it hurts.

I know it is the disease; the dementia has robbed her of the ability to remember and/or use my name. I get that. But it doesn't dull the pain. I fear now that I may never again hear her say my name. Stupid, I suppose, but when you are watching someone you love die by degrees, the little things often become absurdly magnified.

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I seem to find myself in tears more often now. It is so hard, this caregiving thing. There are times when I can begin to "see" Mom in a nursing home now. I know that we are heading that way; there is no possibility of a "recovery". Mom is terminal - her brain is dying. The question for me becomes "when", and not "if".

I have so many dilemmas now - we must try to "spend down" her money so that Medicaid can help pay for the nursing home. I need to talk to our attorney and see what I am supposed to do about the family farms; if I will be allowed to buy them from Mom, or if we will have to sell them because of the stupid 5-year lookback on Medicaid. I need to try and apply for Aid & Attendance for Mom to help offset some of the expenses; we are rapidly being drained dry, and I hate this feeling that at some point I may actually have to choose between her medication and food for the table. I worry that if I don't get some respite soon - a real break, not just a couple of hours - that I may crack under the strain. But I feel guilty about spending $180/day just for respite care for Mom. I look at that amount of money - for just 10 days off, $1800 - and I think about how that is one month's worth of medicine for her. And I feel selfish.

And so, we go on.

Twinks is still... Twinks. Only 16, and ready to conquer the world, and the Fibromyalgia be damned. At least until she gets home, and gives in to the pain. And I try to hold her, and comfort her, and agree that it *isn't* fair, and that she *should* be able to do the same things that her friends can...

And TW's parents are now both sick; his dad with prostate cancer (slow-growing, being treated, but still...) and his mom has been in the cardiac unit with heart failure...

And I am here, in the wee small hours, with my box of tissues.

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I will be fine. I have TW, the man who raised the bar so high for husbands everywhere. I have Twinks, the Amazing Wonder Kid. I have a lovely home, and a nice minivan to drive, and I have the honor and the privilege of loving my Mom away - while she slowly makes the transition out of this world, and into the next. And I have you - my friends. And that counts for a lot. :)

Thanks for your love and support. My tissues and I both appreciate it! ;)

It's in the marriage vows... Part 4

2010-01-19T22:01:00.009-06:00

Well, Gentle Reader, once again I must apologize; I truly intended to be back to finish this story long before now!

So, let's review, just in case anyone has joined us late in the story.

In Part One, we learned that TW's old injury had come back to haunt us.

In Part Two, we learned that TW IS NOT A GOOD PATIENT, that he should NOT be allowed to use Google unattended, and we meet Dr Specialist.

In Part Three, we have The Surgery, The Big Mac Attack, the bandages, and another reminder that TW IS NOT A GOOD PATIENT.

And now we can begin Part Four...

============================

TW and I are waiting for Dr Specialist in his offices. Today is Button Removal Day. I have already announced that I WILL NOT be watching this little procedure; I'm fine cowering in my chair in the corner, thank you very much.

It only takes a few seconds, and with an admiring "Wow!" from TW, the button is removed. Underneath, on the pad of his finger is a little hole - it looks like he was stabbed with an oversized needle. The surgical sites on the back of his finger, and also the one on his wrist are both healing beautifully, just thin pink lines.The finger is still quite swollen, and Dr. Specialist says it will be for a while. But in three days time, TW will be able to take a shower without a bag on his hand.

In six weeks time, TW will start PT for his hand and finger.

In the meantime, we had Christmas to get through.

============================

When we remodeled the house, we added a second pantry. We also added the generator. I'm not talking about one of those little guys on wheels that you can buy at Lowe's or Home Depot. We had TWO of those portable generators running during The Great Ice Storm in '07, and while we did make it through, TW and I knew well before the power came back on that we were going to get a whole-house "solution".

Our generator produces 45KW. You read that right - 45KW, which translates to about 375 AMPS of power, which TW assures me is A LOT. The salesman told me that three generators like the one we have can power an entire Wal-Mart Supercenter. We could turn on EVERYTHING in our house - including all of the appliances, and TW's welder AND his big air compressor in the garage and we could STILL have plenty of "capacity". We will by golly have electricity, no matter what!

So, when the weather man starting talking about a "Christmas storm", and the possibility of an actual blizzard, I went grocery shopping to fill both pantries, the fridge and the freezer. The generator was ready. My Christmas shopping had been done for a while - because Mom continues to decline, I did nearly all of my shopping on the Interwebs for Christmas this year. The gifts were wrapped, and under the tree. All the ingredients for our Christmas Dinner were at hand. TW had the week of Christmas off, and in fact was on vacation until the second week of January, which is another reason this is my favorite time of year because my hubby and my daughter are both home, and so I have all the people who are dearest to me here. We would be safe and warm, with plenty of food and no worry about electricity and our presents to enjoy.

The storm hit Christmas Eve. It was a real blizzard - the snow drifted and piled up all night and into Christmas morning. When it was done, it was beautiful.

Our front porch, during the Christmas Eve blizzard 2009

Christmas Eve, TW fretted and worried and stewed. As my cousin Dee says "He about wore his clothes out from the inside" he was so agitated. I finally had to tell him to go ahead and open his big present. The one I bought way back in November, just before his surgery. The one that had been sitting next to the tree since early December. Inside was this:

The Toro Power Shovel

It's not the biggest or the best, but the Toro Power Shovel did the trick. You see, TW was worried about being able to shovel us out. He knew that with his hand still healing, he couldn't shovel all that snow. He refused to allow Twinks or I to do it, for fear we would be injured or frozen or some other dreadful thing. So, he got a spiffy new toy, and he didn't have to worry about the snow.

Merry Christmas TW.

But the surprises didn't end there. TW and Twinks, you see, had decided that this was the year they would make one of my dreams come true. A lifelong dream, one that I thought I might never accomplish. They got me this:

Nikon D3000 DSLR

(That's the camera that took the picture of our porch, above. Blame the photographer, not the equipment.)

I have wanted to own a Nikon nearly my whole life. Not just because of "Kodachrome" (try getting that out of your head now... "I got a Nikon camera, I love to take a photograph...") but because Nikon has always produced wonderful cameras with amazing optics. They didn't just get me the camera with the standard lens, either. They also got me the long AF zoom lens, and a Nikon bag for all of it. That zoom lens lets me take pictures like this, without breaking a sweat:

neighbor's cat on our common fence, Jan 2010

So things all sort of came full-circle in a weird way. TW will be fine - and although we still have physical therapy to endure, we'll make it through. We always do.

While I was thinking of TW, and buying him the electric snowthrower, he was thinking of me, and making my dream come true by getting me the camera and the zoom lens.

And while the blizzard raged on Christmas Eve, we were all together, snug and safe and warm in our house. And we didn't even need the generator!

I hope your Christmas was every bit as special as ours was.

Happy New Year!

It's in the marriage vows... Part 3

2009-12-07T02:09:00.002-06:00

If you have just joined us, you can read Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

TW IS NOT A GOOD PATIENT.

Did you remember that? I'm just saying, is all.

We are still at the Specialist's office, working out the pre-op details for TW's hand surgery. Specialist's Nurse hands me a shopping list of supplies I am going to need for TW's "home care" after the surgery. I look at Specialist, Nurse, and TW. "What if I can't do this?" I asked. "What if I throw up when I see his hand? What if I pass out? What if I. Just. Can't. Do. This?" Nurse laughs, and rather airily remarks that it's never as bad as you think it will be.

Nurse is a fool. I am NOT one of those people who can cope with broken limbs, stitches, drains, or other medical trauma/paraphenalia. I spend the first three years of Twinks life in a perpetual state of nausea, just from the casts, the surgery (I still get queasy whenever I see her scars) and everything that happened. I am a sympathetic barfer - if you throw up, you won't be throwing up alone for long, because, well, that's what I do. In short, I am a wimp. A weenie. A chicken. I can handle a lot of stuff, but this kind of surgical stuff? No way. And I am afraid that I won't be able to cope with all of the post-surgical care required for TW's hand.

We walk in the door, and the phone is ringing. It's Dee - calling because she knew about the appointment at the Specialist's office. I blurt out my fears about the post-surgical care, and the shopping list, and everything. Dee promises to come and stay with my Mom and Twinks during the surgery so that I don't have to worry about them. She also promises to come back and help me through the first few bandage changes after the surgery. I relax a bit for the first time.

=============================

We arrive at the Hospital for TW's pre-op appointment. Everything goes smoothly, although it does take longer than we anticipated. Twinks is with my Mom at home, and I am grateful that they don't have to just sit around and wait with us; there is so much H1N1 around here now, and I don't want any of us exposed any more than we have to be. We meet the anesthesiologist, and he tells us that TW won't have to have the heavy, general anesthesia that we expected. They will "block" his arm, and give him a sedative that will induce a "twilight sleep" similar to what pregnant, laboring women used to get. TW will come out of that quicker, and (hopefully) have fewer side effects. He will also get to go home sooner - this will be an outpatient procedure, although that same silly, queasy part of me wishes he could stay in the hospital at least overnight, in case there is any problem afterward. I am woefully unprepared for even the tiniest problem, should one occur. I have but two comforting thoughts - first, that Dee will be there, should I need her, and second that the hospital is only 5 minutes away; we live nearly in it's shadow, and while it is small - only 50 beds - it is a first-class, state-of-the-art facility that has attracted some of the best doctors in a four-state area. It is also almost brand new - it is barely three years old.

TW is given his orders: No food after 6 am the day of surgery, and nothing but clear liquids after 10 am. His surgery is scheduled for 3 pm, and we are to arrive at the hospital no later than 2 pm.

==========================

Surgery day, and the pre-op nurse calls my cell phone at noon. Dr. Specialist is running late - he had an emergancy surgery, and the whole schedule has been shifted backwards at least 2 hours. Because we live so close by, pre-op nurse tells us to stay home until she calls and says it's time to come. We will be more comfortable at home, and we will help minimzie our exposure to any H1N1 that is lurking about. TW is beginning to regret not eating a hearty breakfast at 6 am; he goes back to bed, to try and sleep away the time.

It is almost 5 pm before the pre-op nurse calls. We zip up to the hospital, and things begin to happen quickly. As she works on getting TW ready, she tells us about the Specialist's day, and how glad the entire staff is that TW's case "such an easy one!" will be the last one of the day! TW is put into a special gown that has ports in it, and then the nurse hooks up a hose to one of the ports. She hands TW a cord that is attached to the hose; there is a temperature control, so that if he gets too cold or too hot, he can adjust the air blowing out of the hose, through the port, and around his body. He exchanges his socks for hospital booties that have little rubber treads on the bottom, and he reluctantly takes off his wedding ring, and slips it onto my index finger. It is far too big, and slips around, but I will wear it for him until his hand heals enough - and the swelling from the surgery is gone. The anesthesiologist comes in again, and administers the first of the sedatives through the IV that nurse has put in TW's left arm. The IV line in his right arm is established as well. The Specialist walks in briskly - you would never know that he has been operating nearly non-stop for more than 12 hours now. TW jokingly (maybe only half-jokingly) tells him that he would be glad to go home, and come back another day if Specialist is too tired. Specialist says "No way - not now that we have you trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey!" He goes through a detailed pre-op checklist, including asking TW three separate times during the course of this 10-minute "interview" to identify the finger they are supposed to operate on. The Specialist writes "OK" on the finger and he initials it, the nurse initials it, and TW. Then, he marks out where he will open the finger. I am glad I am sitting down; just the though of what those lines represent makes me feel sick. The pre-op nurse must have noticed my discomfort, she comes and stands by me, and places a comforting hand on my shoulder. TW is fine, however; he is talking with the doctors, and nurses, joking around, and asking detailed questions about the procedure. The Specialist tells him that if, for some reason, they can't use his existing tendon for the repair, they will "harvest" a very specific bit of tendon from his left wrist to utilize in the repair. He makes a few more swift marks on TW's wrist. Again, there is an "OK" written, and three sets of initials. I try to console myself with the thought that this won't be needed; the Specialist is just being extra-careful to tell us about the "worst-case" scenario. More sedatives are pushed through the IV, and TW continues to joke with the staff; since he is the last case of the day, it seems as though *everyone* has crowded into the room. There is lots of laughter, and everyone seems to be quite relaxed. Except for me.

Suddenly, it's time for TW to go. They disconnect his air hose that had been feeding warm air into the port in his surgical gown, and blankets are brought out from a warming cabinet, and tucked around him. The wheels of his gurney are moving, and I lean over to kiss him goodbye, and tell him that I'll be waiting. He whispers that he is *starving hungry*, and to please have a Big Mac and a Dr. Pepper waiting for him. And then he grins at me, squeezes my hand, and says "I love you too - I'll see you soon!". With that, they turn a corner into the surgical area, and I am left standing in the hallway. Suddenly, I am crying without even realizing it. Pre-op nurse hands me a tissue, puts an arm around my shoulder, and shows me to the waiting room. She hesitates for a moment, then she gently says "It will be a while, you know. Let me show you around here a bit". With that, we walk out into the central corridor, and she proceeds to show me where the vending machines are, the bathrooms, and the tiny little chapel is. She worries because I will be waiting alone. I assure her that I will be fine - and that I have spent too many hours in surgical waiting rooms to come without something to keep me busy and occupied. She walks with me back to the waiting room, and then leaves.

This is the hardest part for me. The part where I have no control over what happens to my loved one; where I must just sit and wait helplessly for the surgeon to reappear with news of how things went. My cell phone rang once during the surgery - the OR nurse called to tell me that things were going fine, and that Dr Specialist would be out once TW was safely into Recovery to talk with me. I started to ask her how much longer, but she hung up before I could get the words formed.

The hospital was quiet, it was dark outside the windows, and the lights were dimmed in the waiting room; there were only puddles of yellow-gold light from the lamps that sat on each side table scattered throughout the room. I remember thinking that under different circumstances, one could describe the lighting as "romantic". A TV at the far end of the room was on, but I paid no attention to it. I tried to focus on anything but what was happening beyond the double doors at the other end of the room. I finally gave up, and simply closed my eyes, hoping and praying that someone would come out soon. It was well after 8 pm when Specialist's nurse appeared, and told me that Specialist would be out soon to talk with me.

About 15 minutes later, Specialist came out, and apologized for the late hour. He sat next to me, and told me that things were "much worse" than he had hoped for, and he had indeed had to harvest that tendon - meaning that TW will have to have both hand rehab and PT for his wrist, to regain full function. He described the procedure in detail, and told me that the original tendon was completely "frayed out" and not at all usable, so he had no choice but to go get that tendon out of TW's wrist. He told me everything - right down to the number of stitches in TW's finger and wrist, what the "button" looked like that holds the tendon in place, where he drilled through the finger bone to lace the tendon through - and attach it to the button with a long bit of suture - and then he took my hand in his, and said "Don't worry - he's fine, you know. And this will all work out OK. And, boy, do I hope you have a Big Mac ready for this guy - he's HUNGRY!". With that, he stood, and laughing, told me how all the way through the operation, TW had talked of nothing but going to McDonald's for his Big Mac and fries! He stayed and talked for several more minutes, mostly about TW's post-operative care. He told me that he had found out that I was "sqeamish" about changing the bandages, and he told me exactly what it would look like the first time we took the bandages off, at home, on Sunday night. His nurse re-appeared, and told me that TW was almost ready to go home (already!) and went over several pages of post-op instructions, most of which I had just discussed with Specialist. We had just finished those pages, and I had just gotten my last question answered when the Recovery nurse appeared to take me to TW.

TW was sitting up, happily sipping on a 7-Up, and with a twinkle in his eye, listening to the gossip from the two nurses who were left. He was the last outpatient patient of the day, and they were talking freely in front of us about other patients and doctors. I knew he was still pretty heavily doped up, and so I simply kissed his forehead, and with my stomach clenched, admired his bandages. He asked me where his Big Mac was, and I had to tell him that I was waiting on him - I didn't want his hamburger to get cold, so now we could go get one together. It took a few more minutes for the two nurses to take out his IV lines, one working on each side. We got him dressed again, and he began to realize - about the time he tried to put on his socks with one hand - that things might be a bit more, um, *difficult* to do with only one hand. This, Gentle Reader, is the point at which I should have paid attention to the alarm bells going off in my head. But, I was so focused on just getting us *home* before 10 pm that I shrugged off any uneasyness that I felt. He confessed that he remembered nothing at all of the surgery, and was surprised when one of the surgical nurses appeared, and asked him if he had gotten that Big Mac yet. She told us that he had talked almost the whole way through about how much he looooooved his Big Macs, and that he would marry one right now if he had to just to get one! TW was fascinated with the idea of this whole conversation that he did not remember at all - but not so fascinated that he forgot he wanted the damn Big Mac!

Reluctantly, I drove him through McDonald's and we headed home. I knew that the full effects of the pain medication they had given him during surgery wouldn't wear off until somewhere around 2 am, and so I followed Dr.'s orders, and gave him his first Lortab. Thank G-d for Lortab. TW never really had much pain through the whole post-surgical time, and by the third day, he was completely weaned off of the pain meds. There was some discomfort, to be sure, but because the Specialist used such good pain management techniques (by getting ahead of the pain, and keeping ahead of it with the Lortab) TW never had any significant issues. I was (and still am) really impressed with the Specialist.

===========================

Sunday came, and with it, we had to take off the surgical dressings, and begin the process of cleaning the surgical sites, and then bandaging them. Despite my overwhelming fear of this, I did OK - and even found myself admiring the beautiful, tiny, perfect stitches that the Specialist had made. Dee (as promised) and Twinks were there, too - and they (along with TW) all seemed to have this clinical *detachment* about the whole thing that I truly envy. But, I cleaned, and swabbed, and swaddled his hand, and for the next two weeks, every day, twice a day, did the same thing.

TW had been told - not once, or twice, but MANY TIMES that he has RESTRICTIONS on this hand. Primarily, he can't lift anything heavier than 5 pounds for the next six weeks, and he is going to have to go to PT to regain the strength and flexiblity in both his hand and wrist. Despite that, he has continued to try and use that hand.

Remember, I told you that TW IS NOT A GOOD PATIENT. I love TW - I truly do, but those two weeks until he got his stitches out... nearly did me in. I thought that, on several occasions, he really would go ahead and take out his own stitches - not to mention that he was (trying to) lift things he shouldn't have and do things he wasn't supposed to. I really did believe that by the time we got to his first post-op appointment that he would have undone all the work that the Specialist had done.

Oh. My. Gosh.

But, finally, last Thursday arrived, and with it, the first of two appointments to take off all of the surgical stitches and hardware that the Specialist left behind. New instructions for care are required at this phase, and for me, at least, a new wave of nausea as the stitches come out, and new frustrations for TW as the admonitions are renewed regarding the care, feeding, and functionality of his left hand.

In just FOUR DAYS we go back to get that "button" removed.

I'm taking along smelling salts for that one...

Ready to finish this up? Read Part 4 here...

It's in the marriage vows... Part 2

2009-11-30T02:32:00.004-06:00

If you have just joined us, you can read Part 1 here

When last we met, I was headed out the door, more than a little afraid of what I was going to see. I can deal with a lot of stuff, but seeing people I love injured just about knocks me out, every time.

TW waved his "injured" hand at me. I gasped involuntarily... His finger - more accurately, the end of his finger - was bent over at an odd angle. What the hell? Dear God in heaven, I thought, He has somehow broken that finger...

Remember, Gentle Reader that TW is a *mechanic*. For a Really Big Airline. Without his hands - both of his hands - he almost cannot function at work. Prior to 9/11, there were "light duty" jobs - things that an employee who was recovering from an injury or surgery could do while recuperating, without fear that they might further injure themselves while trying to do their "regular" work. After 9/11, "light duty" mostly disappeared - another victim of the (many) cutbacks that the Really Big Airline has undergone in order to keep their planes in the air. If TW can't work... things are going to get really grim, really fast for us financially. My gut instinctively tightened as my mind raced through all of the possible consequences of what I was looking at.

I swallowed hard, and jumped into the drivers seat. "OK." I commanded, "Tell me what the hell is going on. You broke your finger? Are you in pain?" TW said no, no pain - and it was really strange, because he didn't even know when it happened. He was just working in the cockpit of the plane like always, brought his left hand up to do something, and... he couldn't help but notice that this finger was bent over all weird. He showed his supervisor and crew chief, and they sent him over to the Medical Department at work. Medical took one look, and told him to go to his doctor. By now, we were pulling up in front of the hospital. TW grumbled a bit about walking all the way across the parking lot to the medical offices, and I had to tell him that he was going to the ER. He protested that it didn't even hurt - he thought he was going to see our regular doctor. As we walked in to the lobby of the ER, I explained to him why we were there, instead of seeing our family doctor.

For "ground zero" of our local H1N1 epidemic, it was eerily quiet in the ER. We were the only people there except for an elderly lady who had just been transported in from a local nursing home. I asked the nurse why it was so empty, and she told us that we had come in at one of the two times that were guaranteed to be quiet. Friday late afternoon/evening, no one *wants* to be there; typically the only people they see are car wrecks. The other time, ironically enough, is *during* any major football game. She told us that once the game is over, they are flooded with every kind of problem imaginable, but during the game... nothing.

After the "intake" was done, TW was led to a cubicle that was clearly used for orthopedic cases. There was a rack with crutches, stacks of splints, and a whole shelving unit full of gauze rolls, casting materials and surgical tape. We didn't have long to wait - the young doctor who bounced in to the room didn't even introduce himself - he took one look at TW's hand, said "Yep, it's mallet finger", introduced himself as an afterthought, and then told us that we would have to go see a specialist on Monday. He put a temporary splint on TW's hand, and cautioned him to take it easy - no lifting, holding, or twisting with that hand.

We went home, a bit frustrated that we were going to have to wait all weekend to see the specialist. Needless to say, TW immediately got on the Internet to learn about Mallet Finger.

He promptly told me there was no point in worrying about it, because he was just going to have the end of that finger amputated. He showed me a web page that went into quite a bit of detail regarding the various methods of treating Mallet Finger, and showed me that the success rates were pretty dismal. I was kind of shocked - I couldn't believe that people might actually choose to amputate their finger, rather than at least *try* to fix it, but there it was...

...and there was the date. The research data that TW had found was more than 30 years old!!! Once we got past that, it became obvious that there would be some things to try before just jumping to amputation...

------------------------------------------

Monday morning arrived none too soon for me. I love TW - I truly do - but there are times when he can drive me insane. Primarily, when he is sick or injured. Let's just clear this up now:

TW IS NOT A GOOD PATIENT.

Just so we are all on the same page.

The specialist is very nice. He is calm, and explains everything that he is going to do/can do/might do/won't do. TW asks questions, Specialist answers them. In very short order, the decision to operate ASAP is made; Specialist does not want to wait any longer than we have to. Surgery is scheduled for four days hence - Friday. Thursday will be taken up with pre-op fun and games like x-rays, blood work, etc.

Specialist's Nurse hands me a shopping list of supplies I am going to need for TW's "home care" after the surgery. I look at Specialist, Nurse, and TW. "What if I can't do this?" I asked...

Continue on to Part 3!

It's in the marriage vows...

2009-11-30T02:30:00.001-06:00

No, not the "richer or poorer" part. We've already been both rich and poor. And while rich might be easier, I'm not afraid of poor.

Here, Gentle Reader, I am talking about "in sickness and in health".

Specifically, as it relates to TW. And his marked propensity for winding up in operating rooms, with surgeons saying things like "Wow, never seen *that* before"...

This time, thankfully, it wasn't life-threatening. But that hasn't made it any less stressful; and the fact that TW isn't the best patient in the world isn't helping.

This time, TW had to have surgery to replace a tendon in his hand. This might not seem like a big deal on the surface - after all, modern-day microsurgical techniques mean that healing times are much faster than they used to be, and they allow the surgeon to complete repairs that once-upon-a-time were nigh on impossible.

Several years ago, TW's left hand got caught in a piece of equipment. The doctor at the ER that day took an x-ray, and said "Nothing broken!", sent him home with an ice pack, some extra-strength Tylenol, and a note for work that said he could resume regular duties as soon as the swelling was gone.

No one in our household gave that incident another thought. Until about two and-a-half weeks ago.

My cell phone rang a bit more than an hour after TW started his shift at work. I glanced at the caller ID, and I knew instantly that something was wrong, because the call was coming from his supervisor's phone. I answered, and heard TW say "Honey, I've got to go to Medical, I'll call again..." I never got a word in before the line went dead.

I had about 5 minutes of near insanity. What had happened? Was he bleeding? Would I be allowed to talk to him again, or did I need to start driving towards the hospital I knew they would take him to in The Greater Metro? I did a quick mental inventory; I had no cash, the van was low on gas, and I had no one who could come and stay with Mom and Twinks if I needed to be at the hospital for very long. I had to change clothes; I was wearing raggedy old paint-stained sweats, and my hair had been pulled back into a rather untidy mess while I had been cleaning the house. I was just trying to figure out if I should call his supervisor's desk to see what was going on when my cell lit up again. This time, TW was calling from his own phone. He was out of breath - I had to ask him to slow down and repeat his words again. "I'm fine!" he shouted into the phone, "But they are sending me to the Doctor, so I'm coming straight home." In what was becoming a rather unsettling trend, the line clicked over to silence again.

I started to dial his cell, when he called back. "Tell the doc," he shouted "Tell him that my hand is all messed up." I tried to ask what happened, but he cut me off. "Medical said I have to be seen tonight." He was still breathing hard, huffing and puffing like he was running a marathon. "Call our doc, and tell him I'm coming in. I'm stopping by to get you." he said. I asked what happened. "That's just it!" he exclaimed, "I don't *know* what happened! I was just *working* and my hand is *messed up*! I have to go - I can't hold this phone and drive, so I gotta go. I will see you in a few minutes." TW hung up (again) and I was left to call the doctor's office.

It was 4:00 pm on a Friday afternoon.

I wasn't hopeful that we could get him in to see our primary care physician; H1N1 has kept all the local medical facilities busy. Sure enough, the nurse said: Don't come here. You will get the swine flu, and then you will be miserable *and* have a "messed up" hand. Go to the ER at the hospital next door. They have an orthopod on staff, and can call in a "hand guy" if TW's hand is really mangled.

At 4:10, TW was in the driveway. I headed out the door, more than a little afraid of what I was going to see. I can deal with a lot of stuff, but seeing people I love injured just about knocks me out, every time.

TW waved his "injured" hand at me. I gasped involuntarily...

continue reading Part 2 of "It's in the marriage vows..." here

The One Where We Face Our Fears

2009-10-28T02:25:00.000-05:00

Today, My Friend Jim wrote a post that begins with a confession: Since childhood, he has had an aversion to amputees.

I know exactly what he is talking about. I don't know how, or why, or when (although Jim has a very clear memory of how he arrived at his aversion) but I do know that since childhood, I have too have had this... fear... of amputees. For many years it was so strong that I would feel physically ill, just being in the presence of someone who was missing, well, any part. Arm, leg, hand, foot, finger... didn't matter. It *bothered* me in a way that I couldn't really articulate as a child.

When I was about 10 years old, my Dad had an accident that mauled his fingers. I saw it happen from a distance - I was across the alley in our neighbors backyard. Daddy tore off his jacket, and he wrapped it around the damaged hand, and ran for the house. I tore off across the lawn, running for the house. When I ran in the kitchen, what I saw stopped me in my tracks. I gasped, and Daddy ordered me to go straight back over to the neighbor's house, find my little brother, and stay there until he and Mama got home from the doctor's office. Mom shooed me out the back door, and before I got back across the alley, she had called the neighbors, and told them she had to take Daddy to the hospital.

Where we lived, at the time, was way, way out in the country. The nearest "emergancy room" was more than 20 miles away; it was a local joke. People went there to either be pronounced dead, or to be shipped off to the closest "real" ER, which was another 40 miles on further. Mama knew this, so she put all the back seats down in the station wagon, and made Daddy lie down, holding his mangled hand up in the air. She took off for the "real" ER, driving like a woman possessed, praying that there would be a surgeon on duty that evening.

Mama and Daddy didn't come home for *hours*. Our neighbor did the best she could to get me to eat - to get me to stop crying, even to get me to go play with the other kids. But I couldn't forget what I had seen; I just knew that Daddy was going to come home minus most of the fingers on his left hand. It was nearly midnight - almost 8 hours later - when I finally saw the headlights of our big station wagon sweep across our back yard as Mama pulled the car through the yard, and next to the back door. I knew that meant that she had brought Daddy home; otherwise she would have parked around at the front of the house like always.

I pelted out the neighbors back door, running straight to the car. Daddy got out of the car slowly, holding out his hand. It was wrapped in miles of gauze, and tape. I couldn't tell if Daddy's fingers were in there or not. I was suddenly awkward, and afraid. For the first time in my life, I had to come face-to-face with not just one, but two of my biggest fears: First, that something bad might happen to my Daddy (or my Mama). Second, that whole amputee thing. What if Daddy was one of *those* people now? How could I ever hold hands with him again? How would he able to work on the cars? How would he be able to do his job? Oh, my childish little mind was awash in fear and morbid curiosity.

Soon, Daddy was sitting in the living room, telling the neighbors how he had caught his hand in a piece of equipment. He proudly told them how Mama had made him stay awake all the way to the ER, and how she had been so brave. He told them that the angels must have been looking out for him, because there wasn't just any surgeon in that backwater, small-town ER that night, but a surgeon who had just gotten back from a seminar on "microsurgical repairs", and he tried out some of the new techniques on Daddy's hand. Daddy said that he had a real good chance of keeping all of his fingers, but he would need a couple of surgeries down the road. I nearly swooned with relief at that news; all of Daddy's fingers were in there.

Fast forward about 24 years. Baby Twinks is not quite a year old, and we are making our first trip to Hospital City, courtesy of The Shriners. My lifelong aversion to amputees is still firmly in place, but not for much longer.

When we arrive at Hospital City, I see kids everywhere. Kids in wheelchairs, kids on crutches. Kids with braces on their legs. And kids with their prosthetic limbs. Everywhere I looked, it seemed as though another one would pop into my line of sight. A helpful Shriner takes us on a tour of the Hospital and Clinic. "And here is Orthotics & Prosthetics! Look right there - they are fitting that little guy with his new leg!". I nearly swooned again. And then, something amazing happened.

The little guy stood up on his new leg. He wobbled briefly, then took off across the big open space between O&P and Physical Therapy. He walked straight to the practice stairs in the PT area, and carefully and deliberately walked up those three steps, turned around, and crowed "Look at me!".

I couldn't stop looking. I couldn't stop watching. Suddenly, I wasn't afraid anymore. I don't know if it was just seeing that little miracle - that little guy walking for the first time on his new leg that day, or if it was because I had to be brave now - after all, I was a Mommy now, and I had to put on a good example for Baby Twinks. Maybe it was because suddenly I saw that amputees really could function - quite well - with correctly fitted prostethics. Maybe it was my own little tiny miracle that day. But my fear vanished.

Good thing too, because the next time we went back to the Hospital, the other family on the Shriner's van with us was a young mother with an adorable little girl who was a quadruple amputee.

==================

These last few years, I have had to face many of my worst fears: That my Mom's health would take a turn for the worse (it has, but we deal with it one day at a time). Being trapped in a burning building (I made it out; I survived. Guess I need to tell you about that one, hmm?). Going to the Dentist for the first time in almost 35 years (I did - with TW holding my hand the entire time). I'm a bit tired of being brave, but as long as I can keep facing my fears, and keep getting them out into the sunlight where I can deal with them, I think I'll be OK.

==================

Donate to Project Valour-IT here

Contact the Shriner's to find out how to help here

I know that both groups will appreciate any help you can offer. Thanks.

Thanksgiving (still) Comes First!

2009-09-28T22:13:00.002-05:00

I believe this is a first for me. For it is (largely) a repeat of last year's post.

But here it is, because I believe this topic is just that important.

*¨¨*¨¨*:·.·:*¨¨*¨¨*:·.·:*¨¨*¨¨*:·.·:*¨¨*:·.·:*¨¨*¨¨*:·.·:*¨¨*¨¨*:·.·:*¨¨*¨¨*:·.·:*¨¨*

Most of you who come here also read my dear friend Sully.

Which means you are already familiar with the topic of Today's Post.

The One Where Thanksgiving Comes First.

Last year, Sully wrote:

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Waiting is the hardest thing to do

2009-09-24T22:14:00.002-05:00

It was not until recently that I realized how impatient I have become. I'm not alone; as a society, a country, a world, we are all impatient now. When my Mom was still herself, she told me that she didn't really care for the Internet. She thought it was making the world impatient because with the click of a mouse, you could access anything you wanted on the computer.

I think she was right.

I spent two weeks fretting, stewing, and wondering about my test results. The doctor - a lovely young woman to be sure - had promised to call as soon as the results were in, even though she told TW & I she doesn't like to deliver "that kind of news" over the phone.

I told her that I don't like waiting to hear "that kind of news" any longer than necessary. And then I pointed out to her that until you have had to wait for "that kind of news" - good or bad - you don't really understand that particular circle of Hell that you occupy while in limbo. While waiting.

=======================

As I said above, my gynecologist is a lovely young woman. She is young enough that I could - had I parented a child directly out of high school - been her mother. I find it a bit disconcerting. It makes me feel a bit like an old codger who croaks out "When I was your age, missy..." No, I haven't said that to her yet, but I did have to explain to her (and her 20-something nurse) about how sanitary napkins used to be very thick, bulky, and leaky and there was no handy-dandy adhesive (safety pins were the rule of the day) and "wings" were but a dream.

She is very nice, and sweet, and her baby is adorable. She is fascinated by the fact that I went through menopause so early - just *months* after having Twinks - and she readily admits that although she had been out of med school for a while, she is still learning about, and from her patients. I like that, because she is honest about what she knows and what she doesn't. She will readily tell you how many of any procedure she has performed, how many babies she has delivered, and where she goes shopping.

=======================

Finally, the call. She blurted out "I think it's OK - it looks like we got it all!" and then laughed, and said "I guess I should have said "Hello!" first, hmm?"

I told her that her greeting was fine with me. We talked a bit about further logistics; I still have to get "papped" every six months or so, and I have to go back for a check-up to make sure that the site is healing OK. It is something I will have to watch for the rest of my life, but I don't care.

I wanted to get those bad cells OUT OF ME. I needed to get ahead of this - before it became cancer, because the memories of my Dad's death, even 19 years later, haunt me. I know that cervical cancer is all different from the form of cancer that Daddy had, but word cancer still sends a chill through me that I can't begin to describe.

But for now, the waiting is over. The news is good, for now. And that is what matters, for now.

Diagnosis, Dementia, and Dee

2009-09-03T01:14:00.002-05:00

Today's post is brought to you by the letter D

As in Diagnosis: Mine, post-biopsy

As in Dementia: Mom's dementia.

As in Dee: My cousin, who is a Nurse-person.

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Dementia is a cruel disease; one of the things it steals from its victims is the capacity to understand and process routine life events. Things that are outside that norm - and that require "learning" (like taking in new information, storing it, and being able to recall it) are now essentially gone to my Mom. To try and explain everything that is going on with my health to her... would be an exercise in futility. It would only scare her, and leave her feeling vulnerable and worried.

So, at a time when I need my Mom so much - her support, and love - I can't even discuss my current medical predicament with my Mom. Once upon a time, she would have loved me right on through this crisis. The dementia has taken her from me, and I will never truly get her back again.

Dee is older than me by about 8 years or so. I have always adored Dee; when I was little, she was just old enough that she got to do all of the cool stuff us little cousins didn't get to do. Like shoot off bottle rockets in the alley on July 4th. Rig booby-traps in the hallway to snare unsuspecting Aunts and Uncles on the way to the bathroom at Granny's house. Sit on the porch after dark with the grown-ups and laugh at Uncle Roger's never-ending supply of jokes, while sipping a cold Coke-Cola in frosty green glass bottle.

Luckily, Dee loved me back as much as I loved her. I didn't know it at the time, but things were not good at her house. Dee's Mom was one of my Dad's younger sisters. Things finally got so bad that one summer, Dee's mom and dad farmed out all of the kids to different family members. We got Dee.

It was an incredible summer. I finally had the big sister I had always dreamed of. Dee had a bedroom of her own for a whole summer, and my Mom and Dad enjoyed doting on her. She was the best babysitter ever, and she and I (and even my pesky little brother) spent many, many happy afternoons that summer, playing, walking to town to get cherry limeades, and swimming. When the sun would sink past the western hills, and the sweet, cooler darkness would creep in from the east, Dee would grab some jelly jars, and we would chase fireflies around the yard. Sometimes we would sit on the swings and watch the moon rise, and talk about the astronauts who had just been there. Dee always made me feel special, just by the way she treated me. I loved her so much that when Mom and Dad gave her that extra attention that summer, I didn't even care. I was just so happy that she was there, with us.

Over the years, Dee and I have remained very close. When TW and I got married, almost 23 years ago, she stood up with me as my Matron of Honor. When my Dad died, she held me, and cried with me as if she were his daughter, too. When Twinks was born with so many problems, she called me, and told me that everything was going to be OK. And when Mom came home to live with us, Dee came by to tell me that she was never further away than "a blink and a wiggle".

Dee has been so wonderful through everything with Mom. Her medical background is helpful, to be sure, but I think that more than anything, it is the shared history. She has known Mom her whole life, and has always been close to her; Mom still recognizes, and trusts Dee. I have known her my whole life, and I trust her completely; she is so much a part of the fabric of my life that I cannot imagine my world without her. Just when I needed someone to help fill the gap that my Mom no longer can, there was Dee.

Diagnosis... The diagnosis not good. All of the biopsy sites have come back "positive" for pre-cancerous changes. There are three "levels"; I have some of all three. The "worst" or "highest" level is justthisside of cancer. While it is NOT cancer, it's too close for comfort for me. I'm not waiting around for it to decide it wants to be cancer, after all.

Friday afternoon, I will have a cone biopsy - a further, more invasive procedure, designed to (hopefully) eliminate the pre-cancerous areas, and hopefully eliminate the threat of cancer. As always, TW will be there with me, so I won't be alone. Those results will take another week or so to come back; until then I have these final "d" words for you:

Desire: For a good outcome.

Desperate: For a good night's sleep.

Disease-free: What I hope to be.

I need your prayers

2009-08-25T20:39:00.000-05:00

My doctor called.

There were "abnormalities" in my pap.

I need to come in ASAP for a "little procedure" - just to take a look, and maybe take a few more "samples".

===========================

Yesterday was the "little procedure". For the record, it's called a colposcopy.

It hurts.

The doctor was honest. She saw two areas that looked "suspicious". She biopsied both of them.

Now we wait for the results.

===========================

In the past, I have asked for prayers for my nephews, my daughter, and my Mom.

I don't often ask for myself. I don't know why... I just have a tendency to ask for prayers for others, and not myself. It feels kind of... selfish somehow.

But I have no time to worry about that now. I have to be OK. There are too many people who depend on me here. I can't be sick.

I can't have cancer. I just can't.

So, I'm asking for your prayers. For my health. For healing. For strength.

Thanks.

So, Twinks has a boyfriend...

2009-08-15T23:52:00.006-05:00

A Boyfriend.

Boyfriend?!?

Boyfriend...

The word rings hollow in my ears - surely my daughter, my baby, does not have a boyfriend.

There is a part of my mind that detaches and spins off into the past, back to a time when Little Twinks
was still my baby... sweet, and innocent, and so far away from dating, first kisses, girly wiles, and boyfriends that both TW and I could sleep the sleep of the innocent, sure and certain that our little sweetheart would always be Mommy and Daddy's little girl

Oh, how I long for those days...

Tonight, Twinks had a date.

By the end of the evening, the young man, who was charmingly nervous, had decided that he wanted Twinks to be his girlfriend. He asked, she agreed.

My baby is growing up. She's 15 and a half - just six months from driving, and a mere two-and-a-half years from voting. She has a boyfriend.

When did this happen?

Who let this happen?

Seriously?

I would like to speak to someone in Customer Service, please. Thanks. I'll hold.

Hello? Customer Service? I would like to talk to someone about our daughter...

She's a 1994 model. Yes, I know there has been some trouble with that model year lately, but we have been pretty lucky with her. What? No - not calling about a return or a refund; it's just that well, she's growing up too fast. Yes, too fast.

I know, I know that she is progressing right on your schedule. It's my schedule that is the problem. She's our only kid. I wanted her to *be* a kid for just a while longer, you know? I miss my sweet little girl. No, she's not *missing*, I mean that I just wanted her to be... I know that the schedule is not negotiable, I was just wondering...

Oh. OK. Sure, I can hold.

Yes, I'm still here. Your'e a supervisor? Great! Maybe you can help me... I want my baby back. No, she's not missing - I just miss my little girl. No, no, she's right here... it's just that she's a teenager now. Yes, 1994. I know, I know that she's on schedule, but... I just... The "Grandma Bonus"? What? Oh, yes, I remember something about that... that sometimes you get to see your child again later in your grandchildren. But I don't want to wait that long... I just thought maybe I could have her back for one weekend, before school starts again. Before she becomes absorbed in her new boyfriend, and school, and friends, and a half-a-million things all vie for her attention.

:::sigh::: Ok, thanks for your time. No, no, I don't have any other questions.

Thanks...

Goodbye.

You know it's been too damn long when...

2009-08-08T22:50:00.004-05:00

... you can't remember your Blogger password.

... people in your blogroll have had babies and/or made actual humans - since you last had a chance to read them.

... you don't remember the last time you logged in to Blogger. Oh wait, Blogger does. March. As in, nearly 6 months ago.

... you missed your own damn Blogoversary. Oh well.

Enough of that crap. I'm here. At least for now. I'll try to do better, but if you are reading this, then I presume you have at least a passing acquaintance with my life, and so you already know that my attendance here will likely be spotty at best.

You will have to forgive me if I seem woefully, hopelessly out of date with your lives. I have not had time to read anyone lately - and so if I have missed an event in your life that required either commiseration or congratulations, please know that while absent your Blog, I have most assuredly been present in spirit.

And now, for a very abbreviated version of the last 6 months.

When last we met, I was sitting, watching Twinks in the MRI. The next day we learned that she had sprained her knee very badly, and shortly thereafter we began the requisite physical therapy. Luckily, she responded well, and was (mostly) back on her feet by the end of the school year. She still hasn't had the foot surgeries that have been recommended; a summer 'flu caught her, then my Mom, and finally me, resulting in a miserable summer for our family. (Luckily TW was spared; I truly don't know how we would have coped if he and I had both been that sick at the same time.)

Mom continues to slide into the slowly gathering darkness of dementia. I feel as though I live my life on the verge of tears all the time. Silly things that might have triggered a wave of nostalgia in days past now have the power to crush me under the terrible weight of my grief. It is horrible to watch this, close up. Helpless to stop the erosion of her mind, and still somewhat aware that she is losing the battle, my Mom still bravely faces each day with her sweet smile. Just as she has taught me my entire life - to walk, to talk, to cook, clean, and mend, to love, and to live... now she is teaching me how to die with great dignity, even as her brain slowly and inexorably betrays her.

Other things have happened, to be sure. Everyday, ordinary things fill our days, like going to the grocery store, and taking my Mom to the beauty shop every Friday (just as she always went every Friday for as long as I can remember) to get her hair done. Going for ice cream on hot summer evenings, and pulling weeds in the flower beds, and watching summer thunderstorms pelt the windows with tiny hail.

Along the way, we "accidentally" bought a new(er) minivan. We really didn't intend to purchase it, but every time I stood up to walk out of the dealership, they either lowered the price of the van, or upped the value of the trade in. When we got done, our car payment only went up $3 per month, and our vehicle is significantly newer, with significantly fewer miles, more features, and most importantly, no repairs needed. Our trade in was at that point where we were either going to have to ditch it, or invest a substantial amount of money in repairs.

I had a birthday this summer, too. I turned 49, and I must confess that I have not yet had sufficient time to absorb how dangerously close to 50 I am. I still don't feel that old...

TW continues to be my rock, my hero during the roller coaster ride that our lives have become. There isn't a day that passes that I have not thanked G-d for him; I only wish that I could somehow reward him for all of the sacrifices that he has made for our family. I would be lost without him. I would be insane without him. He gets up every morning - lets me sleep in for as long as possible - and makes breakfast for my Mom. Every day for the last two and a half years. Not just a bowl of cereal, but every day he makes waffles and bacon, slices a banana, makes her a cup of applesauce, pours fresh OJ, and hot coffee. Every day. Without complaint. Heros don't always wear capes, and leap over tall buildings in a single bound... sometimes they just tie on an apron every morning, and sit with an old lady while she eats breakfast in the kitchen.

So that's it. That's where we are. You might see me snooping around your blog in the days to come - trying to catch up with you. Just leave the light over the kitchen sink on, I'll sneak in the back door and pour myself a cup of coffee.

See you soon.

The One Where Too Much Has Happened...

2009-03-15T22:53:00.000-05:00

I am sitting in a room; it is large, and painted a soothing, buttery color. There is a huge window that fills one wall. I am seated opposite the window, facing the machine that is the reason we are here. All I can see of Twinks is the top of her head.

Twinks lies quietly, feet first in the MRI. The light from the window flows through the machine; it is a brand-new, state-of-the-art "open" MRI. This machine is not just "open", but also the quietest MRI I have ever been around. I can clearly hear music playing; it is a local radio station playing on the stereo across the room.

As I watch Twinks, my mind reels back through the events of the last six weeks or so. Of everything that happened that led to us being here, in this room - Twinks trying so hard to lay still that tears are leaking from her eyes, and me, not even trying to hide my own tears of grief, frustration, and exhaustion.

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Six or so weeks ago, there was a winter storm. The storm blew up so quickly, and was so dangerous that they turned school out early. I wasn't too worried, because I knew that my pantry was stocked, and the fridge was full, the generator was ready, and there was plenty of ice melt in the garage. Twinks was home, safe. The Wrench was at work, and I texted him twice, trying to convince him to come on home; the TV news was full of stories of people sliding off of roads and into ditches; I hoped he could leave work early, before midnight, and beat the next wave of ice.

I went out to throw down some ice melt. Down at the end of the porch, it looked like the concrete was still wet. It wasn't wet - it was black ice, and I went down fast, and with my right leg at an unhappy angle. Twinks called 911 for me, and when they arrived, they had a bag of ice melt with them... exactly like the one lying by my side on the frozen concrete.

The paramedics checked me over, but I was far more worried about Twinks and my Mom. They couldn't come along in the ambulance, because it was way too slippery for them to try and walk out to the ambulance. One of the medics went inside, and reassured Twinks and my Mom that I was OK, but had to go to the ER to have my knee x-rayed. Twinks was scared, but I called her on my cell, and kept the line open, so that she felt better. The ambulance crew loaded me up, and we literally slid down the driveway to the ambulance. They had to use some kind of device that drops down between the back tires to get enough traction to get going.

We live less than 1/2 mile from the hospital - exactly 10 blocks - and it took 20 minutes to get to the ER doors. TW had to leave work early to come and get me, but I was ready to go home before he got there; it took him 3 hours to make what was usually a 15 minute drive. The ER doc told me it was a "really, really bad sprain", and that I had to stay off of it. He said that it would take six to eight weeks to recover completely.

What he didn't know was that I don't have that kind of time to "recover" from anything. A week later, I put the crutches away, and two weeks later, I appeared (to others) to be back to "normal".

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Two weeks after my adventure on the ice, Twinks had to go to the doctor; a local podiatrist. Hospital City is so backed up that unless it is an "emergency", there is a six to eight week wait. We like this guy - he is fairly young, and embraces all of the technology available. He examines her feet, and tells us that she needs surgery on both feet. He proposes doing her left foot first, then the right one. All told, she will be in a wheelchair for at least 90 days; probably six to eight weeks per foot. Twinks is clearly freaked out about it, but she knows it has to be done; she is in pain, and her feet are getting worse by the day. We talk about doing the first surgery in mid-March, during Spring Break. Twinks friends rally around, promising that they will help get her through the pain, discomfort, and inconvenience.

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Two more weeks have passed. It was the weekend, and TW had just turned on the local news. The very first story stopped us; a teenager had died in an accident. In our town. Just down the road from our house. The victim's name wasn't being released, but he was 15 years old, and a student at Twinks school. TW & I looked at each other. He turned off the TV, and asked me what the chances were that it was one of "our" kids, meaning one of the group of Twinks friends who regularly come and go here.

I felt numb as I made the walk to Twinks room, where she was happily listening to music, and asked her to bring her cell phone, and come to the living room.

We sat her down on the couch, and asked here where all of her friends were. She looked at both of us, our faces strained and worried. She began listing where everyone was. This one was grounded, that one was sleeping over at so-and-so's house. A group of four was hanging out at another one's house, and they had just texted her a while ago - they were supposed to be coming over in a little while to hang out at our house, and relieve us of some pizza. Oh, and Twin1 was with the four... which really makes five, and Twin2 was with George (not his real name). Why? What's going on?

We told her about the news story. She began texting frantically, trying to reach any, all of her friends. One by one, they responded - some had heard the news as well, and information began to flow between the teens. But the group of kids that were supposed to come over for pizza had gone silent. All of them. None were responding. Twinks finally dialed one of them, abandoning all attempts to get a response via text. He answered. Rapidfire, Twinks nervously asked "What's going on? Why didn't you answer? Do you know who was in the accident?" He choked out George's name. Twinks screamed, and dropped the phone.

I never want to hear that noise come out of my child again. I don't even know what to call it. She just went wild with grief. We held her, and tried to console her. Just like her, we didn't want to believe it was true; my first instinct was to jump in the car, and go over to his family's house and prove that it was all a terrible mistake.

Over the course of the next several days, grieving teenagers streamed through our house. TW & I could do little but pass out hugs, tissues and food. Twinks was shattered; she and George were best friends, and spent every morning before school sitting in the school cafeteria, heads close together, talking about everything. They were not "boyfriend and girlfriend", but more like "brother and sister". They shared so many common interests, and now there is, as Twinks says, "a huge George-shaped hole in my world".

George's family asked Twinks if she could speak at his funeral. She was determined that he not be remembered as the victim of a horrible accident, but as the bright, funny, friendly, loving person she had known for years. She spoke eloquently, and from the heart. I was so proud of her; even deep in her own grief, as she reached out to try and comfort his family and friends.

Twin2 survived the accident, but witnessed George's death. George's (now former) girlfriend, has been put on suicide watch, and she and Twin2 are both going to counseling. Some of the kids have responded with self-mutilation; one girl stood at the bathroom mirror, took a large safety pin and pierced her own lip. Another girl is so angry that she is almost non-functional. One of the boys is nearly mute, and almost won't speak; another can't stand to be alone, even for a few minutes.

"We are falling apart." Twinks observed.

After the funeral, there was a candlelight walk to honor George. Just at sundown, Twinks walked with a large group of George's friends. They walked about a mile, the candles flickering and bobbing in the darkness as they walked through the park, and across the footbridge. George's family met them on the other side of the bridge. It was beautiful and sad at the same time.

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The candlelight walk was over, and Twinks and her friends were ready to come back to our house. As Twinks was walking back over to where I had parked the van, she heard a huge POP in her knee, the knee collapsed, and she hit the ground. Two of her friends swooped in from either side, and helped her up. As they near the van, I can hear her telling them "Don't tell my Mom, don't tell my Mom!". She was clearly in pain, and the knee was already swelling. She refused to go to the ER, because of a planned sleepover for that night. We took her home, propped her up, and the girls consume massive quantities of popcorn and Dr Pepper.

The next morning, the girls head out to the school gym, to decorate for the school dance that night. Twinks friends swear that they will find her a "sit down" job, that won't hurt her knee. We picked them up at noon, and took them home to get ready for the dance. Twinks is still limping badly, but pleads to go to the dance - her dress is a confection of pink satin, spangles, sequins, and tulle. She looks incredible - beautiful and grown up, and heartbreakingly adorable - and because the gown is floor-length, nobody has to know that she is wearing her tennies, instead of the dyed-to-match pink pumps she had planned on. She dances one dance, and then holds court at a table for the rest of the evening with her friends. Most of them don't feel much like dancing, anyway - they are here only because George's family has insisted that they need to go on, and go to the dance.

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The next morning, we are at Urgent Care. Twinks can't walk at all on the knee. They Ace-wrap it, and send us home. The next day, Monday, we see Twinks pediatrician. She puts Twinks on crutches - a bold move, considering how clumsy Twinks is - and orders an X-ray. Nothing is broken, so the pediatrician thinks it's probably just a really bad sprain.

Friday we are back at the pediatricians, because Twinks is running a fever, coughing, and achy all over. They swab her nose, and it comes back positive - she has the 'flu. Never mind that she got the 'flu shot last fall. Because we caught it early enough, a round of Relenza is prescribed, and we go home to nurse her through another uncomfortable weekend. I disinfect everything, and pray that my Mom won't catch it from her.

The following Wednesday, we are back at the pediatricians - Twinks still can't put any weight on the knee, and it is hurting worse than when she injured it. The doctor orders Twinks into a wheelchair, and starts working with our insurance company on getting an MRI approved.

Twinks barely gets through the day, Thursday, at school, in the wheelchair.

Thursday night, Twinks is in so much pain that she doesn't sleep at all. First thing Friday morning, I call the pediatrician's office. She calls back right away, and has already organized an emergency orthopedic consult, and has the insurance company on the other line to approve the MRI on an emergency basis. Her nurse already has the MRI time slot reserved, and as soon as we get done at the orthopedic consult, we have to go straight to the MRI.

The new Orthopedist is one of the best in the Greater Metro. Ordinarily, we would have had to wait three to six months just to get an initial appointment with him; our pediatrician went to med school with him, and calls in a favor. I make a mental note that I owe our pediatrician at least one...

He examines Twinks as gently as he can. His nurse, and his assistant buzz in and out of the room, but he remains focused on Twinks. He listens carefully to what she says, and where it hurts. He asks to hear the story again - of how it happened, what the POP sounded like, how it felt. He is genuinely surprised when she tells him that she was just walking along - not running, not playing any sport - just walking.

He braces her knee for stability, and to hopefully help with the pain. He tells us that he will see us on Monday, with the results of the MRI.

We leave his office, and drive hell-bent-for-leather to make it in time for the MRI appointment.

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During the last two weeks, I have also watched my Mom continue to deteriorate at an increasing pace. She is steadily losing the fight with reality, and every day now, it seems as though there is another little part of her that we have lost. There are fewer and fewer flashes of my "real" Mom. I'm already grieving for her, for what she and I will never again share - even though she is right here with me.

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And here we are...

The MRI continues to hum, and Twinks lies still as stone. So much has happened in such a relatively short amount of time. I realize, with a sudden shock, that it has been six or so weeks since I have had the time to even read most of my friends blogs, let alone update this one.

Finally, the machine beeps, and the technician enters the room. She praises Twinks for holding still so well, and helps her off of the table, and back in to the wheelchair.

Monday we will have the results of the MRI - another doctor's appointment, another meeting with the new Orthopedist.

I'll let you know what we find out...

The One Where Twinks is "DNR"

2009-01-24T23:47:00.004-06:00

If you know anything about hospitals and medical matters, you may be familiar with the term "DNR"

Do
Not
Resuscitate

It means that if the worst, the unthinkable happens, and the heart stops, and there is no brain activity... that the medical staff is specifically ordered to NOT take any life-saving measures.

It is a designation often given to the terminally ill, when the decision has been made by the patient and/or the family to not utilize certain measures to maintain or restore life.

It is a term that you might expect to hear in ICU, or on a hospice ward. Certainly not during a routine checkup with one of your child's doctors. And yet, here was the pediatric cardiologist, cheerfully, happily telling me that Twinks was a DNR, and congratulating her.

>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<

The pediatric cardiologists offices are situated adjacent the finest hospital in The Greater Metro. This hospital dominates the top of one of many hills that the city is draped over, and looking out of the windows, the entire metropolis lies at your feet.

The offices are state-of-the-art, and relentlessly cheerful, as most pediatric specialty offices are. The enormous fishtank, the play area, the tv's that run Nick Jr and Disney channel shows non-stop, the nurses and support personnel who are decked out in cheerful Dora The Explorer or Hannah Montana scrubs... it's all there, and then some. Each exam room is perfectly outfitted with comfortable benches and chairs, and a well-padded examing table. The technicians and equipment come to the childs exam room, rather than moving children from room to room, and every procedure - no matter how routine, or how often the child has it performed - is always explained before and during. The children are considered to be "active care partners", not just patients.

It is the best pediatric cardiological care in the entire region.

>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<

And now her cardiologist is telling me that my daughter - who at nearly 15 years of age has fought (and won) more medical battles than most people will in an entire lifetime - is now DNR?

I don't think that Twinks actually knew - up until then - what DNR usually stands for. Blissfully unaware, she was tying her shoe, and chatting with the Resident about what songs she has loaded on her Zune.

I gasped. I looked up at the doctor, and I know that all of the color must have drained from my face. Why was he saying this? It seemed as though the visit - a routine checkup - had been fine. In fact, he had been nothing but positive.

Why, why would he say that?

For one terrible, awful moment, I mentally flipped through everything Twinks has gone through medically, trying to figure out how or why he thought she should be classified as DNR. Did he have the wrong chart? But he had been *smiling*. Was this some sort of a sick joke? No, it couldn't be. Maybe I misunderstood - did I miss some horrible diagnosis somewhere?

I shook my head, trying to get all the pieces to fit together.

Twinks turned toward me, her smile fading. The doctor was reaching out his hand, attempting to steady me. The resident was suddenly on my other side, easing me on to the bench that was just behind me.

"DNR? What? Why?!" was all I could manage to put into words. I could hear this huge buzzing building inside my head, and a distant part of my brain said "So, this is what it feels like just before you faint".

The doctor frowned, and I thought, "This is it - pay attention", and I braced myself for what he was going to say. I thought how I wished that TW was here with me. I wondered how I was going to cope with whatever this was. I began to pray...

And he began to laugh. And then he apologized. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I forgot!". I felt the blackness creep a bit closer, and I realized that my hands were clenched in fists, and I was rigid with fear. "Don't worry!" he exclaimed, "Twinks is NOT a DNR like you think! Oh wow! What I meant was, she's a Do Not Reschedule!". And he laughed again. "It's OK! Really!", he reassured me.

I felt like the gears in my brain were jammed. I couldn't process this fast enough. Reschedule. Reschedule. Do Not Reschedule.

I get it. We don't have to come back.

"You mean?" I asked hopefully... Twinks, now fully up to speed, whooped with joy.

"I graduated!" she crowed. "I made it! Woo-hoo! I'm. Done. With. You!" And she danced a little bit, pointing at the doctor, and grinning ear-to-ear.

I looked at the doctor, who grinned back, and nodded. "That's right!" he said. "As long as you don't have any symptoms, I don't ever want to see your mug around here again!"

And with that, he hugged Twinks, and told her that he wished her a wonderful life, and told her to go home, and have fun. And don't worry about your heart anymore. Because you will be fine.

>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<>:<

It's just one of many doctors. One tiny victory, in an endless sea of pain, and medications, and tests, and procedures and uncertainty.

But it's one.

And that's one more than we have ever had.

Twinks graduated from cardiology.

Do Not Reschedule.

Still standing...

2008-12-17T00:45:00.000-06:00

...The Christmas Tree, that is...

Little Miss Kitten Scribbles has become quite fascinated with the tree. This comes as no surprise to us - we are veteran kitten-owners, after all. She truly believes that we put that tree in the living room solely for her. And then we added all sorts of toys, and lights too!

She has a favorite spot IN the tree. Yes, in the tree. She climbs up into the bottom row of branches, and then stretches her little furry self out in a semi-circle. She will sleep there, quite happily, for hours if left alone.

Of course, the two older cats are not going to leave her alone. They know better - that if The Mama finds you INSIDE the Christmas Tree, there will be Trouble. So, they sit under her, and jab at her with their old paws, and then - I swear - they laugh when she tumbles out of the tree, half asleep.

They are better entertainment than cable TV.
._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-.

Twinks is still standing. Barely.

Over the last several months, she has had increasing pain below the waist that runs down her legs.

We worked via long-distance (Telemedicine) with Hospital City because our first assumption was that it was orthopedic. We were wrong. It is apparently neurological in nature - so stay tuned, Gentle Reader; we will have another diagnosis to share in January. In the meantime, we have been going to local hospitals for MRIs and "evoked potential" testing and EMGs and EEGs (?) and a whole alphabet soup of other tests.

Despite her Pain Management doctor's best efforts, Twinks is still having a hard time coping with this new type of pain. She had brought it under control, and was doing... OK... until the testing began. All of the procedures that stimulate/test the nerves or central nervous system have left her in extraordinary pain. She tells us that she can feel the pathway of each nerve that is tested - that it burns like fire for days and days after each test. One nurse said in a rather off-handed fashion "Oh, that just means that there is nerve damage".

She has one more round of testing during the week between Christmas and New Year's. If you have a spare moment during that week, please send a little prayer up for her.

._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-.

My Mom is still standing... and sitting... and then standing again. Agitation is common in dementia patients, and some days she can't sit still for more than 5 minutes at a time. Other days, she is quite calm, and quite happy to watch the cats play, or to color in her coloring books.

As the days pass, she is less and less my mother. There are times when I cannot even catch a glimpse of the person I know and love so well. This other person who has replaced my Mom is quite nice - fairly easy going, she has trouble making decisions - even the simplest ones - and this other person has no desire to do anything but sit on the couch and stare vacantly at the TV.

I find it hugely ironic that I still miss my Mom... even though she is right here with me.

._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-.

So there we are. Still standing.

How are you?

And we shall call it...

2008-12-06T22:25:00.000-06:00

Scribbles.

Scribbles with Thim (camera phone)

:::sigh:::

Yes, we have a new family member.

Scribbles with The Twinkie

And yes, it is adorable. My Mom just loves her...

Scribbles with Thim (camera phone)

And I think she loves us too...

We will be accepting condolences on behalf of the Christmas Tree from now until 12th Night. Scribbles apparently believes that it is a huge toy we "planted" just for her. Both it and the ornaments that adorn it (all non-breakable, of course) are in for a rough time this year.

But a kitten that had been abandoned has a warm, loving home for Christmas, and her new family falls more in love with her every day. So the tree, and it's adornments will just have to take one for the team. Because Scribbles is here to stay...

The One Where I Try Something New!

2008-12-02T14:03:00.001-06:00

Well. I thought it would be at least a few days before it showed up, but there it was this morning...

My first post over at GNMParents!

And I have to tell you, it gave me a little tickle! So, if you haven't by now (and if you read my good friend Stu, you probably have already) please take a moment to bookmark GNMParents, and then browse around a bit. Make yourself comfortable - find a comfy chair, settle in, and get ready to meet some REALLY great folks.

Because I'm going to be hanging out over there, too. Not leaving here - just *adding* GNMParents.

Now, here's the thing. I know that some of you - some of my most favorite, dear and gentle readers - may believe that you are not classified as a "parent", and therefore have no need to visit. That doesn't matter! I think you will find many articles there that are quite compelling, regardless. I also quite firmly believe that you don't have to be a "parent" to be interested in parenting, or child welfare issues. And finally, I truly believe that if you have ever loved a child - truly taken that child into your heart - then you are a parent. Maybe not by birth, but certainly by my definition. So, you will feel right at home at GNMParents!

Oh - and many thanks to Stu! :) It is largely because of him that I have this great new opportunity. I'm really looking forward to working with him, and I really am honored to have been recruited to be a part of GNMParents.

Hope to see you over there! :)

Top Ten Ways to Survive The Holidays at Our House...

2008-11-16T21:12:00.002-06:00

10. Remember the Cardinal Rule: MAMA HAS DECLARED THAT NO GOODIES, TREATIES, OR SURPRISES WILL BE PURCHASED FOR ANY FAMILY MEMBER FROM OCTOBER 31 UNTIL DECEMBER 31. PERIOD. Food, underwear, socks, and school supplies are not included in the purchasing embargo. You can (and will!) survive until Christmas without that CD, DVD, video game, etc., etc., etc.

9. DO NOT ASK THE MAMA FOR SPECIAL DISPENSATION TO ITEM #10. Just don't. You'll be sorry - really sorry if you do...

8. The closer we get to Christmas, the crazier things will get "out there". Therefore, when shopping, it is All Hands On Deck. Everyone takes a hunk of the list, and we will blaze through that store like Marines storming an enemy front, and we will get out of there as fast as we can.

7. Anything and everything that can be ordered from the Internet or catalogs, shall be. UPS and FedEx are our friends, and we shall remember this in all interactions with their personnel.

6. Just because we are knee-deep in getting ready for Christmas does not mean that we abandon our usual rules regarding housework. You still have to pick up after yourself, you still have to make your bed, and hang up your coat. THE MAMA IS NOT YOUR MAID, and it will behoove you to remember this!

5. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO FIND THE PRESENTS. The Mama has hidden them well. Those caught "snooping" will find out that their presents have been returned in favor of "fun" items like three-hole-punched notebook paper, bars of Ivory soap, or a lovely new carton of Tidy Cat cat litter...

4. Check to see if you need an "altitude adjustment". Remember that all of the madness, the joy, the sights, sounds, smells and surprises are external to what we are celebrating. CHRISTMAS IS NOT ABOUT THE STUFF. It is about faith, and thanksgiving, and the celebration of a new life given for all humanity. The "stuff" is just capitalism at it's finest.

3. Remember to be thoughtful of those less fortunate than we are. When the call goes out (and it will) for donations for the community food pantry - or for warm gloves and hats and socks for the homeless - or for Toys for Tots - or any other need... we must respond. We are so richly blessed; we have a wonderful house to live in that is warm and safe and dry. We have plenty of food to eat, and warm, clean, dry clothes to wear. We have heat, and water and electricity. We have reliable transportation, and a garage to park it in. So when our neighbors need some help, we should, we must, we will. So when you see The Mama shopping for socks, gloves, hats or other things that don't seem to make sense - remember that Christmas isn't always about just you...

2. Our house - our home - is our refuge against the holiday madness. DO NOT ANGER THE MAMA BY BRINGING STRESS, DRAMA, OR CRAP INTO THIS HOUSE DURING THE HOLIDAY SEASON. You will NOT be happy with the result, I can guarantee you...

1. Remember always, that THANKSGIVING COMES FIRST. In every way. Not just on the calendar (althought it most certainly does come first on the calendar, as well) but we must always remember to practice Thanksgiving for our blessings. Our lives may not be as "perfect" as we would like, but it is important to always remember the good and positive things that we have. Start by thinking of all the people in this world who love you, and go from there. You'll be amazed at how "rich" you really are.

Thanksgiving Comes First

2008-10-04T15:02:00.001-05:00

Most of you who come here also read my dear friend Sully.

Which means you are already familiar with the topic of Today's Post.

The One Where Thanksgiving Comes First.

Sully writes, in part:

*¨¨*:·.·:*¨¨*¨¨*:·.·:*¨¨*¨¨*:·.·:*¨¨*¨¨*:·.·:*¨¨*
The premise is - as with all brilliant ideas - wonderfully and delightfully simple. Thanksgiving comes first. Before Christmas. Before December. Before Santa, elves, and reindeer, packages, presents and holiday gear.

Thanksgiving comes first.

When I was a child, one of the things I looked forward to most was December 1st, when - as if by magic - all of the stores were suddenly bursting with Christmas goodies. Overnight the stores were transformed, and they went from being regular old department stores to Winter Wonderlands, decorated with shiny tinsel, and piles of white, fluffy soapflakes that doubled for snow. Christmas music would fill the air - even on the sidewalks, you could hear Steve & Edye singing "The Christmas Waltz", and Julie Andrews warbling "I'll Be Home For Christmas". There was new merchandise, too; exotic gift items that were only seen during the Holiday Season. It was all so exciting and glamorous to my little self.

But before all of that - before we donned our gay apparel to brave the stores, and buy our tree - before that?

Thanksgiving comes first.

Thanksgiving is more than just the unofficial start of the Holiday Season. Thanksgiving is, in and of itself, an important holiday event. But increasingly we are rushing through (and even past) Thanksgiving in the run up to Christmas. Not only are we losing the meaning, and the traditions of Thanksgiving in the rush to Christmas, but we have cheapened and diluted everything about Christmas as well.

Thanksgiving comes first.

Many years ago, I was a retail manager. Later, I was a retail buyer - a purchasing agent for a small, local chain of three stores. I understand, perhaps better than most, the mechanics by which merchandise will arrive in the stores at the appropriate time for the season.

Which is why I am uniquely qualified to tell you something:

The reason - the one and only reason that Christmas-related merchandise shows up in your local shopping venues in October (and increasingly September) is simply that "retail experts" have found that we (the buying public) buy more Christmas stuff the longer it is displayed. They create a false sense of urgency - putting out the merchandise early so that shoppers will believe they must buy NOW or risk never having that Christmas Widget (at a special "pre-season" sale price, of course). And, as stores have learned how to tighten inventory levels so that there is less and less chance of the big after-Christmas clearance sales that the American consumer has come to know and look forward to... shoppers feel even more pressure, believing that if they don't buy it when they see it... they will have lost the chance forever.

Thanksgiving comes first.

Originally, there was another reason for taking early delivery of seasonal merchandise. Some distributors used to offer heavy discounts to retailers willing to take early delivery (and thereby make early payment for) seasonal merchandise. This meant that a a retailer might well accept delivery as early as October for goods that would not be displayed until December. Until the rise of discount merchandisers (like Wal-Mart), most stores would simply hold those things until the APPROPRIATE time, and then display them. Once discount merchandisers began to put out whatever was in the warehouse - because "you can't sell it, if they can't see it" - then the inevitable creep of Christmas backwards into autumn began - and continues to this day.

Thanksgiving comes first.

Regardless of how, or why, we are a nation on the verge of losing something very precious. I don't want to see Christmas trees next to Halloween pumpkins at the store. I don't want to shop for Labor Day picnic supplies, and see paper plates and napkins embossed with Christmas designs. I want Christmas in December. And before that, I want Thanksgiving in November - with Pilgrims and pumpkins and turkeys, oh my. I want each season in it's turn, and along with it, all of the traditions and meaning attendant to that season.

Thanksgiving comes first.

Read Sully's post - and read the posts of his other faithful friends, too. Think about it, and then I encourage you to spread the word as well. The wonderful, amazing, remarkable thing about America is that if enough of us stand up and say that Thanksgiving comes first, something might actually happen.

Happy Birthday to my hubby!

2008-09-19T00:01:00.000-05:00

So, here we are my darling. Another year has passed, and you are now another year older.

Wiser? Maybe yes, maybe no. Depends on who you ask, and how well they know you.

This year you are 49. Not quite fifty - the BIG FIVE-OH MY GOD THERE'S AN ENVELOPE FROM AARP IN THE MAILBOX 50 is still one more year away. But it's getting damn close, and because I am your wife, and I love you so very, very much, I am compelled to (again) this year remind you of the most important fact of the day:

You will, my darling, my love, my sweetheart, always ALWAYS ALWAYS be older than me. If you should precede me in death, I shall happily - nay, gleefully - celebrate your birthday every year, as a reminder that, were you still by my side - you would still be OLDER THAN ME.

I might even petition President Suldog to make your birthday a National Holiday. Statues would be erected in town squares across the land in tribute of your efforts as my noble husband. And every September 19th, schoolchildren will perform Pageants celebrating the day of your birth. And everyone would eat fajitas and drink Dr. Pepper in your honor.

Happy Birthday to my husband.

I love you best and most.

Thim :)

The One With All the Sevens...

2008-08-21T11:33:00.004-05:00

Well, I was tagged. By my daughter, of all people.

She says these are the rules (just so you know I didn't make them up!)

YOU'VE BEEN TAGGED!!

1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.

2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog; some random, some weird.

3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.

4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Here we go:

FACT #1. In my younger days, about 30 years ago, I was the Governess (fancy name for babysitter) for the children of a Big Hollywood Celebrity. I stuck it out for 18 months, and to this day, hold the record as the longest-employed -and- the only one who wasn't fired. Ever watched "Super Nanny" on ABC? The Children of Big Hollywood Celebrity were the molds from which all demon spawn ever created were cast. Of all the jobs I have ever had - ever - this is the one I would never do again. :::shudder:::

FACT #2. I can't resist chocolate-covered malted milk balls. (think Whoppers or Brachs, only the real thing) They are my secret shame. I don't even keep them in the house, because I can't stay out of them. If I buy them from the candy counter, I buy a handful at a time.

FACT #3. I don't have a "favorite color" - I truly do like them all. Well, almost all. Puce is an exception. Puce should not be allowed. Puce looks like someone said "Oh! Here! We have all these other colors left over! Dump 'em over here, and we'll call it ~~puke~~ Puce!"

FACT #4. I named my cell phone. It's an HP 6925 IPaq, and I call it the Paq Rat, because it carries all my stuff around for me! I can't live without it. Totally hooked. Worse than a crackberry, because it runs Windows Mobile, and between the touch screen and the QWERTY keyboard, I can pretty much do everything (including create blog posts) with the damn thing.

FACT #5. I am The Queen of the Geeks. I first played around on a Heathkit H8 waaaaaay back in 1978, and have been hooked ever since. I learned Fortran and Cobol when I was in college, and started cutting my teeth on DOS when 8" floppy disks were the norm. I remember how cool it was to have a 16 color monitor, and a 300 bps external modem to dial into the local BBS. To this day I prefer the command line over Windows anything, and I could happily spend an afternoon taking apart computers & laptops to repair them.

FACT #6. One of my greatest pet peeves is people who are rude, in the name of honesty. You can be (and should be) honest, without inflicting unnecessary emotional damage on others. Let's say your friend shows up for an event in a shirt that is just... weird. I'm talking about a shirt so strange and hideous that people are pointing and staring. But your friend seems to be *proud* of the shirt, and somehow immune to the giggles and whispers of others. Then, the moment you dread - the question you know is coming: "Do you like it? Do you like my new shirt?" This moment, Gentle Reader, is what separates the wheat from the chaff, this is where the cream will rise to the top. DO NOT reply "What the *&^% where you thinking?" DO NOT reply "Sure, if you like looking like a circus freak!" DO NOT reply "Uh, No!" with your finger and thumb in the shape of an "L" on your forehead. WHAT YOU CAN SAY is "Wow! It's a really interesting choice for tonight!" or "I can't imagine where you found that shirt!" or even "I wouldn't have dared to wear something like that". But you don't have to be rude to be honest. Ever.

FACT #7. I am terribly, horribly, claustrophobic. But I haven't always been; it wasn't until I had to have an MRI in the old tube-style (in head first, nose to the ceiling) that I got that way. Now it hits me at the strangest times. Elevators are usually OK, but the little "capsules" that you ride in on the Gateway Arch in St. Louis? Thought I was going to DIE. Right there, going up. I was fine until the little door slammed shut. Coming down, by the way - I was fine. Walk-in closets are fine, but storage units with roll-down metal doors (even with the door up) I can't cope with. Seems to be an "escape" thing - as long as I can SEE a way out, and KNOW that I can get out no matter what - I'm fine.

There you have it. Seven weird/strange/random things about me. You get to decide which is which.

It turns out that (almost) everyone I know (personally) has already been tagged by someone. I won't tell you how many blogs I back-tracked through, trying to make sure I didn't re-tag someone accidentally... But, I found three ~~suckers~~ ~~victims~~ friends that I think haven't been hit by this meme yet - so I'm tagging them, and then leaving it open. If you read this, haven't been tagged, wanna play... consider yourself "tagged". Come back and let me know in the comments, and I'll come and read your entry. Promise.

PS: If I didn't tag you , and you are in my blogroll, it's because I believed that either [a] you had already been hit by this one, or [b] you don't do memes. Here's your chance to prove me wrong!

1. Fab Grandma

2. Stu

3. Ericka

4. (your name here)

5. (your name here)

6. (your name here)

7. (your name here)

What are *your* seven facts?

I am falling in love...

2008-08-08T17:25:00.002-05:00

...with my house.

Oh, Gentle Reader, it is true. As the rooms really begin to emerge from all of the boxes and the packing paper, I am slowly but surely falling in love with this house.

This afternoon I was entranced by the way the sunlight fell through the living room windows. It lit up the wood floors, skipped up the warm, yellow walls and bounced off the ceiling. It shone through the creamy drapes, and sparkled off and through the glass of the windows. It slid down the shiny white & ebony keys of the piano, and landed on the rug.

I sat for an hour, just watching the sun move across the windows. Just enjoying being in this room that we have created as a family.

I am falling in love.

And that is just the living room...

The One Where We Are Done...

2008-08-07T15:12:00.001-05:00

And it feels *so* good.

Things had arrived at a standstill; we reached an impasse where each of three different subcontractors were waiting on something from the other.

These people are (alleged) ADULTS, and they couldn't seem to get it together. It was like dealing with a group of three-year-olds. Actually, that might be unfair to three-year-olds. Because these guys were just acting like *jerks*.

So, I finally got fed up, and called each one in turn, found out what each sub needed from the other. I figured out who had to go first out of the three, scheduled him to do what he could before the other two arrived, and repeated the process with the other two.

Within three days, everything was done.

As in, doneDONEdone.

Yes, Gentle Reader, it is true. All of the contractors, subcontractors, gardeners, landscapers, drywall guys, painters, plumbers, electricians, flooring guys, roofers, gutter-ers, installers, security/alarm company guys, lumber delivery guys, window installers, door installers, concrete finishers, appliance delivery/service/repair guys, and even the "general helpers" (who I always thought should wear some sort of military insignia, and who don't BTW answer to the title of "lieutenant") are gone.

Gone. All gone. The house is (finally) Ours To Do With As We Please.

And the very first thing we did was bring home all of our "stuff" from storage. It's all home again - I have finally started organizing rooms, hanging pictures, rolling out rugs, arranging furniture. It took two days, and two truckloads, but everything is finally here. After nearly a year in storage, it's been fun to see things we forgot we even had; it's a cliche', but every box we unpack has been like Christmas - you don't know what's inside, because the movers had helpfully NOT labeled the boxes.

So now we unpack - every day, a little bit more gets done, and with any amount of luck, by this time next week all of the boxes and packing paper will be gone to the local recycling center, and for the first time in almost exactly a *year*, everything will be put away, in it's place.

:::insert HappyHappy JoyJoy Dance here:::

To be certain, The Wrench and I have a punch list of our own - either little things that we simply couldn't justify *paying* someone to do, or things that we want done in a very certain, specific fashion. There are tiny little projects (like installing the new doorbell button) and medium kind of projects (like installing the new house numbers over the garage door) and then there are things like actually painting that garage door. (because our painter had a death in his family) TW & I try to get something done on the list every day; we don't always succeed, but we try.

It is lovely being Done. Until now, every day there were strangers in our house; every day brought noise, dust, and confusion. There would be scaffolding and tools to navigate around; and while we would try to stay out of their way we wouldn't always be successful. It has been stressful for all of us, but especially so for My Mom; the confusion and stress were compounded by her dementia. Twinks has been a champ through all of this - it hasn't been easy for her, but she has been a real champ, taking the delays, the craziness all in stride. All while getting straight A's in school, AND being perfectly accessorized as well! Best. Kid. Ever.

For the last year, we "camped out" in our own home; we rattled around in rooms with little or no furniture, and even then, each room was in turn emptied completely during the remodel. We learned what we really needed, really wanted in our lives. And we also learned what we didn't need, what really isn't necessary. We will live more simply now - the Salvation Army brought an empty truck, and it left packed half full of furniture, and stuff that we really didn't want or need - but didn't know it until now.

So, this, the biggest project we have ever had in our personal lives is Done. Of course, no house is every really "Done", because there is always something that needs to be maintained. But for this project, we are calling it Done.

And it feels *so* good.

The One Where It's Three Years Old...

2008-07-19T01:55:00.000-05:00

My blog, that is...

Amazing.

Happy Blogiversary to me! :)

The One Where I Make A Call...

2008-07-17T22:01:00.001-05:00

Not just today, but this whole week has been crazy. In the last seven days, Twinks has been to four different specialists; annual checkups mostly, but it drove home the point for all of us that Normal is still farther away than we want it to be.

Ordinarily, during the course of my day I am busy - moving, doing, working on *something* all the time. There is no shortage of "things to be done" at our house, and I try every day to get something done - something checked off the never-ending list. I feel keenly the weight of family responsibility on my shoulders; Because my Dad installed this damnable work ethic into me at an early age, I am almost unable to take time out of my day-to-day routine for anything that might be described as "fun".

But today, I did.

I spent maybe 10 - 15 minutes at the most doing one of the most selfish things I have done for myself in quite a while.

I called a friend. Mostly just for fun.

I suprised him, and we had a nice little chat. It didn't last as long as either of us would like, there was some information to be exchanged, but aside from that, I just enjoyed talking to my friend.

I found myself smiling all afternoon - mostly because I was able to surprise him so thorougly (and I wish you could have heard the first 60 seconds or so of *that* conversation!) but also because, well, it was just fun. It was wonderful to stop worrying and thinking about everything else - just for that quarter of an hour - and just enjoy myself. Like a little bitty vacation.

So, thanks to you, my friend. You really made my day today! :)

Thim :)

The One Where I am Just a Little Bit Older...

2008-07-14T02:26:00.000-05:00

A little bit wiser...

And, yes, even a little bit grayer...

I've had another birthday.

This one (number 48) was probably one of the most low-key birthdays I have ever had. That's OK; I've never been one for big, noisy parties or "events".

Twinks and The Wrench made me a pan of homemade brownies topped with my favorite mocha frosting. I got some great gifts, and we had a lovely evening as a family, all four of us.

Needless to say, with everything that happens on a daily basis around here, I often find myself surprised when faced with something like my own birthday. Once upon a time, my birthday was only rivaled by Christmas - after all, both days meant there would be presents to open, and cake. What more could a kid want?

Then, I grew up and got married. To a wonderful guy. And I found myself looking forward to *his* birthday too, because I enjoyed seeing him having so much fun.

And then, I had a baby. And, suddenly, my favorite birthday was *hers* - and something else happened...

... A whole new world opened for me. No, I did not find The Magical Land of Narnia in the back of my closet, but I suddenly understood so many things I had never considered before.

Like why my Mom and Dad never seemed to mind the many sacrifices I knew they had made for my brother and I.

Like how my Mom could cheerfully wear the same brown coat for nearly 20 winters with nary a complaint, while always insuring that my brother and I had warm coats and galoshes and scarves, hats and mittens.

Like how my Dad would work all day, and come home to work on one of his many home-improvement projects, all the while content to know that he was improving things for his family.

Like why my childhood was as happy and wonderful as it was - because my parents had made it so.

And I realized that somewhere in the future my baby - my Twinks - would have this same epiphany when she held her own children.

Full circle.

._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-._.-.

So now, on my birthday every year, I remember to tell my Mom "Happy Birthday to us". I send her flowers, and tell her "Thank You" for everything she has done for me over the years. And I celebrate the day that changed both our lives.

Happy Birthday to Us, Mom.

Thanks.

Oui, Oui, Baby... but not like old Pa-reeeeee

2008-06-18T17:21:00.000-05:00

As some of you noted in the comments of the previous post, you were not sure exactly what a "french drain" is.

Don't feel bad, Gentle Reader. I had no idea what a "french drain" was before recent events prompted the (very expensive) installation of one...

It's been raining here. And raining. And raining some more. Local meteorologists have been all agog at the "record rainfall" and the fact that in the last three months, we have more than fulfilled our annual average amount of liquid precipitation.

Now, as sick and tired as you are of *hearing* about this remodel, just ponder for a moment how sick and tired we are of *living in it*. We have had more weather-related delays on this project than we could have or would have ever imagined. What should have taken six months at the most will now probably take a full year to completion.

One of the side effects of remodeling is that our back yard is, for all intents and purposes, a barren muddy landscape. Our contractor did his best to keep the damage to a minimum, but so much heavy equipment has been required that literally the grass was just pounded into the mud. With warmer weather, some of it is trying to grow again, struggling valiantly to work back through the heavy clay soil. Ordinarily, we would have leveled the dirt once, broadcast some grass seed, watered it, and watched it fill in during the course of the summer. The runoff from the rain wouldn't have been a problem because the soil/mud/clay would have been covered with grass, and the rain would have just run on down the hill towards the south, and everyone would have lived happily ever after.

Ordinarily.

The rain - so persistent and frequent - has eliminated any hope of doing things the "ordinary" way. Because the sweeping curve of our street is higher at the north end, and lower at the south end, our yard drains from the higher north side down to the lower south side as well. It isn't a dramatic slope; it *seems* very gentle, and barely noticeable. Until it rains, of course.

When it rains, the water wants to naturally flow southward. The house sits nearly squarely in the center of the lot. The water was pooling on the north side, due in part to the trenches created by the heavy equipment that has traversed our yard several times.

When I say "pooling", what I really mean is "ponding". And when I say "ponding", what I should have said was "creating a small, inland ocean".

We thought about building a marina, and selling tickets for a cruise through the back yard. In retrospect, it might have been easier. And certainly it would have been cheaper than installing the "french drain".

But, our contractor was adamant that installing the "french drain" would be just the solution we needed. Not only would it [a] eliminate the need for a marina just inside our back gate, but it would also (2) allow the rainwater from the gutters installed on the house to be whisked away underground, which would also {C} use the rainwater from the gutters on the house to keep the drain washed out and lemony-fresh.

Well, color me happy if it all works as advertised.

The drain goes aaaaaallllllll the way from the way farthest part of the back yard clear out to the street, where it ducks under the sidewalk, and empties into the gutter along the street. At first, I was worried about this last little feature - as happy as I was to drain the inland ocean, and reclaim a bit of the yard... I didn't want to flood the street, or overwhelm the storm drain that the street gutter dumps in to.

Happily, my worrying was all for naught. Everything works just as it is supposed to.

Imagine that...

The One Where We are Finally Dried Out...

2008-06-17T01:58:00.000-05:00

Dear and Gentle Reader, I apologize for leaving you standing in a puddle.

As I recall, it was 9:00 am on Saturday, and I had just made noises that sounded very much like "squish squish squish" in one of the places that no homeowner ever wants to. Like anywhere inside your home.

Our "floating" wood floor... was literally floating.

I couldn't believe my eyes - there was water literally bubbling up around my feet.

I was standing in the hall. The Wrench was was standing there, staring at the water, too. For a heartbeat, everything was really, really quiet.

Then, TW sprinted into action, and ran to shut off the water to the house. As a result of the remodel, we now have two water mains, so to be safe, he shut off both. We grabbed towels first, and then began unloading closet floors, and trying to find where the water had been coming from. I grabbed my cell, and called our Contractor. It went straight to voicemail. ShitShitShit. I shouldn't have been surprised - it was a Saturday, after all, so none of the trades would be easily available today.

During all of the cleaning and the closet-unloading, I told TW about the outside faucet, and I apologized for not going out in the middle of the night to shut it off. I assumed that somehow it had flooded the house from the outside, or that perhaps the faucet had somehow broken inside the wall; if I had only gotten up at 3:00 am and turned it off!

Well, it turned out that the outside faucet had nothing to do with it, Gentle Reader.

Nor was it the record rainfall seeping into our home.

It was, in fact, a leak under our new bathroom sink.

I called and left a voicemail for the plumber. Breathe. Breathe. Stop - Don't panic. It could be worse, right? Shit. How could it be worse? The floor is already curling up. What if there is mold and mildew growing inside the walls now? Breathe. Breathe. Then, I called our insurance agent. He picked up on the second ring, but with him, we have the advantage of not only having his cell number, but also his home number, and his sister's number, and his mom's number as well. He and TW have been best friends since elementary school, so Like A Good Neighbor, he really is always there for us. Literally & figuratively, he's got our back. Panic begins to subside a little as he and TW laugh and chat like there is nothing wrong via the speakerphone.

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The Wrench and I occupy about one-half of the new addition to the house; My Mom's suite takes about the other half. When I designed the addition, I split the space for the two suites exactly in half, but designed each suite specifically for it's occupants. Mom's suite focuses more space in the bathroom; her bathroom is ADA compliant, as is her bedroom. Four-foot wide french doors to the bedroom and bath make for easy access if she should ever need to be in a chair. A roll-in Roman shower with full glass doors and bi-level controls for bathing; the toilet is "handicapped height". Closets that are designed to be easily accessed by anyone. It is bright, and sunny, and cheerful; custom-painted her favorite shade of "shell" (the pinky-coral color found inside a seashell).

By comparison, our suite is quite different. Three-foot wide french doors open into our bedroom and bath, and while there are "grab bars" in the walk-in shower and next to the toilet, our bathroom would be uncomfortable at best for anyone in a chair. There is a roll-in Roman shower with glass doors, but with standard controls. Although it might be considered "small" by some, the layout allows both TW & I to easily occupy the bathroom at the same time with no problems. Because there are two of us, and we didn't need the ADA accommodations in the bath, I put the extra space into our bedroom. We have a 12-foot long closet wall; for the first time in our marriage we have enough closet space in our bedroom! Crisp white curtains cover all of our windows, and our king-size bed fits easily in the space.

The rest of the addition holds an enormous 6 'x 6' walk-in linen, a secondary kitchen pantry, and a niche built at the end of the hallway just to hold My Mom's massive china cabinet. At the opposite end of the new "back hall" that connects into the pre-existing house, is the new back door (that leads to the new patio and sidewalks)

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That back hall was now full of soggy wood flooring.

TW isolated the problem pretty quickly, but because the all of the new plumbing in the addition is "PEX" instead of PVC or copper piping, he wanted to talk to the plumber and/or the contractor before he did anything.

Our insurance agent told us to leave the water off in the addition, and to move everything off of any portion of the floor we thought might have water under it. He told us not to worry - if the plumber wouldn't take care of the repairs through his insurance, then we could file a claim on our homeowners, and our insurance company would go to the plumber and/or his insurance company. No problem!

He also told us that his daughter had just gotten engaged, and that his '65 Mustang needs a tune-up. Oh, and one rather naughty limerick.

Now we are left for the weekend with only one bathroom. You see, during the whole remodel, we have left only one room "undone". Only one room had not been touched until the week before, and that was the guest bath. Now it was "off-limits" because the new tile flooring was going in, and the old toilet had been removed and thrown in the dumpster. The new toilet would arrive sometime next week. So, with the water off in the addition... we had only one bathroom.

Twinks bathroom.

The smallest bathroom in the house.

Luckily, it's right outside of My Mom's room, but it was still a struggle to help her remember to use that bathroom, and not hers. I don't know how many times during that weekend she came to find me, and tell me that her sink wasn't working...

The plumber returned the call . He assured us that everything would be made right again, and that even though he was out of town, he would get someone over to our house ASAP to get the leak isolated, and the water back on. He had already talked to the contractor, and made arrangements for everything to be taken care of.

The contractor, BTW, never called till Monday morning. But that's OK, because we have a great plumber, a great insurance agent, and a new limerick.

It took a couple of weeks - the flooring had to be ordered, and the plumbing issue turned out to be a bit more complicated than first thought, but all in all, it was finally fixed. No mold, no mildew - everything was cleaned and dried out, replaced or repaired.

Just in time to discover - the hard way - that we need french drains.

:::sigh:::

The One Where We Are Just A Little Bit Soggy...

2008-05-30T01:13:00.000-05:00

So, we foolishly believed that we were near the end of The Great Remodel.

Have you ever heard the old saying "Two steps forward, one step back"?

It sums things up fairly nicely at the moment.

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We have had a rather rainy spring this year; one recent week our little corner of The Greater Metro received more than 7 inches of rain in less than 7 days.

The weather is slowing our forward progress on the exterior of the house. There is still a great deal of painting to be done, and the forms for the final concrete work have not even been set. Our driveway will have to be torn out and replaced; it has finally failed under the weight of the 30 yard dumpsters that have occupied half of it since last fall, and the private patio, and the sidewalk that will completely encircle the house are all on hold, due to the rain.

But finally, the crew finally got to begin caulking and priming the exterior. I noticed that they were using the new faucet on the back of the house to clean brushes and equipment, but didn't think too much of it until the wee hours of the morning when I awoke to hear water running... somewhere.

I sat quietly on the edge of the bed, loathe to wake The Wrench. Between everything going on here with My Mom, the remodel, and the fact that things have been less than rosy at work, I knew he was well past exhausted; he needed the sleep badly.

I listened carefully, and then sighed with relief, remembering seeing the crew cleaning brushes using the new faucet. That plumbing runs through the walls in the addition to the house where our bedroom is; in my half-awake state it made perfect sense that one of the guys didn't shut off the faucet completely, and what I was hearing had to be the faucet running outside.

It was 3:00 am. The yard as we knew it is gone; it is a victim of the remodel in every sense of the word. What little grass remains is around the edges; the back yard is a sea of mud, and the front yard has been torn and chewed up by heavy equipment. My "mud shoes" had gotten so caked from the previous evenings tour of the yard that they were still outside the front door. It's too dangerous to walk out there in bare feet; there are still too many nails, staples, and bits of construction trash to even consider a quick sprint to the spigot.

So, I decided to go back to sleep, and first thing in the morning I would dig out another pair of shoes to sacrifice to the muck and mud... and I would go turn the spigot off after the sun came up.

After all, I could tell that it was just trickling through the pipes. There was nothing *really* to worry about.

Fast forward to 9:00 am. The Wrench, bless his heart, decided to let me sleep in, since it was a Saturday. I padded through the house, looking for another pair of shoes I could sacrifice to the yard. TW was at the far end of the new hallway, and as I started walking toward him, I was telling him about the faucet, and how I needed to find a pair of shoes to...

:::squish:::
:::squish:::
:::squish:::

I looked down, and water was literally bubbling up between the floorboards. Of the new floating wood floor.

Shit.

It wasn't the faucet, after all...

The One Where We Are Overwhelmed...

2008-04-28T00:54:00.000-05:00

Still, the remodeling continues. Most of the remaining work, however, is now outdoors, and so I have begun the task of trying to get everything sorted out and put away. It is a daunting adventure, because we still have a truckload of "stuff" in storage. I keep trying to remember what is in storage, so that I can allow for it. I think I am probably failing miserably; I'm sure when the truck pulls up, and the boxes are unloaded, there won't be enough room for everything.

Oh well. I can't worry about it right now.

I have greater challenges to face.

Like what is happening to my Mom.

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We knew that my Mom was quite ill when we brought her home just over a year ago; all of the medications that she was taking, combined with the stress, and the fear, and... she wasn't herself. Not all the time, anyway. Reluctantly, I had to begin to admit that there was something wrong, something missing. I knew there was some significant stroke damage, but I also knew that we had been lucky; her motor skills and mobility seems to be completely unaffected, but she was increasingly unable to access short-term memories. She also had begun to exhibit a rather lengthy list of disturbing symptoms; the list (and the severity of the symptoms) nearly doubled just in the past 90 days.

Last Monday, I took my Mom to the doctor, and before I left his office, I scheduled a "caretaker conference" with the doctor. I returned for the meeting on Wednesday.

The news was, as I had feared, not good. At all.

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When my Dad was dying from cancer in 1990, it happened (relatively) quickly. He was diagnosed in July, and exactly 90 days later we had his funeral. His body was ravaged by the disease, but his mind, which was spared until very near the end, continued to function. He became a sentient being trapped in a dying body, and it was terrible to stand by helplessly.

Until the end, he was sharp - brave, loving, witty in the face of the cancer that was consuming him. He and I talked for hours, conversations that I never wanted to have, but knew were unavoidable. Practical things like where to find the water shut-off for the house, and where he kept the key to the safety-deposit box. Funny stories about when he and Mom met, and things I never knew, like how he came to be in the delivery room when I was born - in 1960 it was unheard of, but he was there to see his first child born.

We laughed, and cried, and talked, and planned and cried some more. The Wrench and I had only been married for four years, but he and Dad were so close by then that TW would sit by his bed during the last days, refusing to leave because he wanted to care for his "Pops". With the few words he had left, he told TW to help me care for Mom, because she was so fragile, so precious to him.

We were all there with him when he died. TW and I were on his right side, Mom was on his left. We loved him away - TW cradled Dad's broken body, holding him gently, while we all told him it was OK to go on before us.

After the funeral, after everyone had gone home, and it was just my Mom, TW and I sitting around the old kitchen table, Mom said "It was like watching a slow motion train wreck, wasn't it? You knew it was coming, you knew it would be terrible, and yet you were totally unable to stop it. At all".

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Now I am facing another "slow motion train wreck", but this time it is my Mom who is going down the tracks.

The official diagnosis is "multi-infarct dementia". Probably caused in no small part by the little strokes that have been ravaging my Mom's brain for the last 3 or so years. Brain scans show the damage clearly.

The last three months have been difficult; TW, Twinks and I have watched as Mom is losing her mind. All of the classic symptoms are there; unlike Alzheimer's, it is not a gradual decline, but it happens in huge "steps". Not much can be done but to try and keep her safe and comfortable now. To be sure, there are times - precious and rare - when we see flashes of what we have come to think of as our "real" Mom. But she has mostly been replaced by someone who is nearly a stranger to me.

And it is breaking my heart.

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The doctor tells us that there is no way of knowing how long we have with her, but that we must begin to prepare if we have not already. Luckily, one of the first things we did when she moved in with us was to set up the medical power-of-attorney and the general and durable power-of-attorney, so I can take care of all of her affairs now with little trouble.

I am nearly paralyzed with grief and sadness. I want to find someone who will tell me that this is reversible, or at least stoppable somehow. I want to find a drug, a treatment, a protocol that will take away the symptoms, and give me back my "real" Mom.

I want Twinks to be OK - because she continues to face medical challenges of her own. I want her doctors to - just once - fix everything, and tell us to go home, and you never have to come back. I want to never again have to make that trip to Hospital City, but know that we will likely be going again - sooner than any of us want.

I want - I need - this house to be done. Not just to remove the additional stress it is placing on us, but because I need the time it is sucking away from me to care for my Mom and my daughter. I need the time for my marriage and my husband.

I need to find another vehicle - my minivan is falling apart, and there is no time to place it in the shop. But the "laundry list" for the new car is long - something easy for Mom to get in and out of, something that can accommodate a walker or a wheelchair if need be. Something that can hold at least four adults, and with space for luggage, too.

I need so many things right now. The list is long, the days are too short. My Mom now requires a great deal of attention; on Monday she walked out into traffic and just stood there, waiting for me to come and get her, blissfully unaware of the cars that were stopped - cars that could have so easily run over her. She can't be left alone, and because she is so afraid of everyone who is not Twinks, TW, or me - we have virtually no options for a "sitter" right now. She clings to me, my Mother, like a three-year-old.

It's official: I am overwhelmed.

The One Where We Are NOT Fooling Around...

2008-03-31T07:01:00.000-05:00

When last we met, Gentle Reader, the occupants of our humble abode were still recovering from near death, and locked in the throes of our "whole house remodel".

Last month, we "celebrated" the six-month anniversary of the start of the remodel with the crew. Every day, for seven months now, Monday through Friday, sometimes Saturday, and even the odd and occasional Sunday... they have been here. In our house. Every day. Except for major holidays.

I now know the names of their wives and children. What kind of truck they drive (hint: it's black. The make and model might change, but they all drive black trucks. Go figure.) What kind of pets they own, what their leisure-time activities are, and where they prefer to eat lunch. (If it's Monday, it's pizza down at the end of our street. If it's Friday, it's Chick-Fil-A.) In case of emergancy, I have all of their cell phone numbers programmed into mine, and I can tell at a glance which tools belong to whom.

Luckily, fortunately, blessedly, we have been privileged to work with people who have remembered that their "workspace" is our home. Overall, they are great guys.

And, with the notable exception of the 10 day alleged "vacation" that we spent at a nearby hotel, (during the rather smelly phase when all the new woodwork was stained, then sealed, then lacquered) we have lived through, and with, and in this remodel and these people every day for seven months.

I am not kidding when I tell you that this cannot be done soon enough for me. For while we have enjoyed getting to know our Contractor, his crew, and all the associated sub-contractors (and their crews as well)... the endless dust, noise, and discomfort have been overwhelming for all of us. Some days there is no water - the plumbers are hooking something up. Some days, the electricity is off; other days the natural gas is off (so no hot water or heat). I've lost track of the number of times we have moved furniture from room to room just ahead of a crew, and during the three weeks that we had no kitchen appliances to speak of I developed a solid friendship with every drive-through fast food establishment in our little corner of the Greater Metro.

I'm sick of the 30-yard dumpster in the driveway, I am tired of piles of construction materials everywhere - on the porch, out in the yard, down the hallways, even in my new closets.

I am so ready for this to be over.

As I look back through my construction calendar, however, I can see how far we have come. Every day, I chronicle the days work in the calendar; it has been invaluable. We started with a tired-looking, early 80's heap of native stone and rough cedar, and it is beginning to take on the charm of an Arts & Crafts/Prairie-style/Craftsman cottage. We have added nearly 1000 sq feet of space, and have gone from 4 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms to six bedrooms and four bathrooms. We have knocked down walls to expand our new "open-plan" living room/kitchen, and we closed off the "old" living room with lovely new french doors (lovingly stained by a master craftsman to match the existing woodwork) to create a library that will have bookcases that line the walls.

New vinyl windows, new paint and paint colors, and 2700 square feet of floating wood flooring later, and it's starting to look like the vision we had when we first met our Contractor last year. Custom doors, a porch railing that I designed myself, and new lighting have all been installed; in the two new Master suites, custom showers and bright, sunny bathrooms are finally ready. I lost more than a few night's sleep worrying about the new floorplan; when I became the architect of my own home, I never thought it would be so nerve-racking to realize that the floorplan you drew damn well better work... because if it doesn't, you've just wasted a helluva a lot of money. The Wrench and I both have been adamant the whole way through that this has to "match" - that the changes to the house need to not only be consistent with the original structure, but also the neighborhood. When it is done, the first-time visitor hopefully won't be able to tell what is the original house, and what was added and/or changed.

A few more weeks (I'm hoping and praying for three at the most, and figuring on four to six realistically) and the workers will all be gone, and we will be left to sort out the boxes and put things away. During this time, I have realized that much of what we put into storage will be either sold or donated to charity; after twenty years, this has been the ultimate spring cleaning; every room, every closet, every drawer has had to be emptied and packed or moved.

This has been (and continues to be) A Big Deal. We have all been changed by this, and I think that will become more evident in the the weeks and months to come. Just like the house itself, we have grown and changed.

It is to be hoped that it will all be for the better...

The One Where We All Nearly Died...

2008-01-28T22:07:00.000-06:00

It was cold. Record-setting low temperatures rolled across our region, and the local meteorologists warned of the impending storm.

The storm was beautiful, at first. Glittery and sparkling, the ice grew thicker and thicker on everything. But then it became too thick, too heavy. It became deadly.

It was very nearly deadly for our entire family.

And we are still recovering.

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Back in early December, the ice storm swept across our state, bringing everything to a halt. Trees of all kinds splintered and fell, coated in ice. Power lines were snapped, power poles toppled, leaving literally a million households alone in our state in the cold and the dark. Streets and roads were impassable - some from the ice itself, but most were blocked by fallen trees and poles. School was out for more than a week, and many employers told their workers to stay home - there was no electricity to run the businesses.

Our electricity went out on the first day of the storm, around 5:00 am. The Wrench sighed, and pulled on warm clothes to go out and fire up the generators; it was too cold to wait too long, and from listening to the radio, we knew already that power outages were already massive.

If you had a natural-gas water heater (we do) you at least had hot water. If you had a generator, you could also have heat.

Generators were at a premium. If you happened to be fortunate, as we were, to have not one, but two generators, you could be warm, with lights, a microwave to cook with, TVs, and even the height of luxury - indoor refrigeration (it was so cold that any food placed outside froze solid) - but it meant that you were in an eternal search for gas stations that still had pumps that were running. By the time the power was restored, we had a total of 14 gas cans; when we would find an open gas station, we filled up to insure that we always had enough gas to continue to run the generators. It became our daily "treat" - we would put the empties into the minivan, and go out looking for an open station. We would fill the cans, and get everyone a snack to have at home. We did what we had to do to live.

But by the time the power came back on, we were all almost dead. Literally.

I know what you are thinking. You think that it was the generators. Ironically enough, it wasn't.

It was carbon monoxide.

But it wasn't the generators.

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It started innocently enough. At first, Twinks had a headache, but we all attributed it to the never-ending noise of the two generators. They were well away from the doors and windows of the house, but sheltered at the far end of the front porch. They ran constantly, only stopping when The Wrench would shut down first one, then the other for either maintenance (oil changes) or to fill them. He worked tirelessly, around the clock in the freezing cold to keep the rest of us warm. Typically, about every 4 to 5 hours he would go outside to maintain the generators. I cooked on a single electric burner, with a crock pot and an electric frying pan. By the second day, My Mom had a headache, too. We learned that if we turned off the big TV in the living room, and one of the electric space heaters, I could run a load of laundry in the washing machine. We hung it inside the house on makeshift lines, but we had clean clothes.

By the third day, I had a headache. Never-ending, throbbing, pounding. I assumed it was stress. Twinks was sleeping all the time, complaining that there was nothing to do but watch TV. The land line telephone was out, and cell service was so overloaded that if you could get through, typically it was just to voicemail, which would arrive at the recipients phone between 2 and 24 hours later. Cable TV service was erratic; we played videos and DVD's whenever the cable was out.

For all of our hardships, however, we thought we were in pretty good shape - after all, we had the two generators.

The Wrench didn't have a headache until day 5. We all felt lethargic, and My Mom and Twinks were coughing. Their heads hurt, and they had lost their appetites.

We even briefly considered that it could be carbon monoxide poisoning, but dismissed that possibility because we had moved the generators as far away from the house as we could (without risking them being stolen) and we had double-sealed all the windows and doors as best we could. Remember, though - we are still remodeling, and it seemed as though there were a million little places where cold air could seep through. Slowly and methodically, we plugged them up.

Slowly but surely, we all seemed to get sicker and sicker.

On day six, our electricity flickered back to life. We celebrated by running the dishwasher (I was so eternally tired of washing dishes by hand, it was a celebration for me) and The Wrench celebrated by turning off the generators, and changing the oil in both of them. We ran the central heat, everyone took a hot shower, and I got the laundry caught up quickly; the dryer was another rediscovered joy for me. My headache seemed to ease a little - I thought it was because the never-ending thrumming of the generators had been blessedly silenced. I was in the middle of cooking dinner when it happened. Eight hours after it came on, the electricity went out again.

The Wrench sighed, and fired up the generators.

Two days later, I would have sworn that I was on the verge of insanity. My head hurt so badly that I couldn't think straight at all. Twinks had huge dark circles under her eyes, and had nearly quit eating. My Mom was terribly disoriented and quiet. I sent them out regularly with The Wrench to find gasoline and groceries, figuring that the fresh air would be good for them, even going so far as waking them in the middle of the night to go out. Day and night were meaningless, anyway; the generators were so loud that sleep was nearly impossible.

In the end, those trips outside the house may have saved their lives. Those little "fresh air" excursions probably saved all of us.

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The power finally came back on for good, and after a few more days, we unplugged the generators and put them away, and began to clean up the storm damage to the house and the yard. We all gradually began to feel better, and at first we thought it was because the generators had been silenced. The noise had been so loud, so pervasive that even the cats had seemed relieved when it was quiet again.

Work resumed on the remodel as well. The plumbers came just before Christmas to install the new hot water heater for our house. The lead plumber came down the hall, frowning. His carbon monoxide monitor kept going off while he was working in the utility closet. He told us that the closet was improperly vented; he wanted permission to correct the issues by placing a fresh air vent through the attic, out to the eaves. He explained that because of the way the closet was built, it would be very easy for carbon monoxide levels to build up inside the closet, and he showed us how the lack of any door seal at the bottom of the closet would allow the carbon monoxide to flow easily into the house. He told us that the 25 year old hot water heater was likely the primary source of the carbon monoxide - but that during the ice storm, when the furnace wasn't running, the pilot light of the furnace may have contributed to the problem also. Because the furnace didn't run during that week (and thereby stir the air inside the utility closet) the carbon monoxide levels continued to build and spill into the hallway that serves the bedrooms of our home.

I didn't even ask him how much it would cost. Just fix it so it can't ever happen again.

We were lucky.

Very, very lucky.

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The utility closet has been completely revamped, and the new hot water heater is properly installed and vented. We are working with the electrician on installing a single whole-house generator that will run off of natural gas; it will be seamless, and there will be no need for The Wrench to ever schlep gas cans for a generator again. We also had the HVAC contractor double check all of the ductwork, old and new, to insure that carbon monoxide cannot leak into the ductwork.

We have learned our lesson.

Our headaches are nearly all gone, as are all the other side effects. What lingers for me is the sense of how very close we came - and how very easy it was to convince ourselves that we were safe, and that the problem was not carbon monoxide. We thought that the generators might be a problem, and we took the steps we thought would prevent the problem. So it wasn't the generators. It was the house itself that nearly betrayed us.

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I'll be back soon, with more stories from the last two months. I appreciate those of you who took the time to write and check up on me; although we were all very, very ill before it was over, we will all be fine. And hopefully, I'll be back here regularly again!

The One Where The Violets Bloom Again...

2007-11-19T09:53:00.000-06:00

When I was just a tiny girl, my Dad took me everywhere. Even though it was the early 1960's, Daddy didn't care. He took me to the auto parts store, the lumber yard, the hardware store. We went to the grocery store while Mommy got her hair done - to surprise her with a trunk full of groceries!

I was Daddy's little shadow, and everywhere we went, he taught me something. At the lumber yard I learned about plywood, veneers, hardwoods, fruitwoods, and the bright yellow of freshly sawn pine. At the auto parts store I saw shiny pistons, rolls of cork to make gaskets, bright round headlights and soft, fuzzy seat covers. At the grocery store I watched Daddy pick out the best fruits and vegetables, and check over the eggs just like the housewives that swarmed the Kroger on Saturday afternoons. When we were at the hardware store Daddy showed me bright silvery nails, and funny little wing nuts. There were tools, too: hammers, saws, screwdrivers, and levels.

In Daddy's world, little girls could (and did) learn anything they wanted to. He also believed that girls (and women) should have a basic knowledge of "how the world worked". This meant not just being able to tell the difference between a crescent wrench and a pipe wrench, but also being able to apply that knowledge when necessary. Of course, when my little brother came along, he became another student in Daddy's impromtu school - and Daddy loved nothing more than to spend an entire Saturday showing us anything and everything out and about in the world. Daddy was endlessly fascinated with all things mechanical, and he could repair or rebuild most anything, it seemed.

The one thing that Daddy had trouble with was finding a "suitable" present for my Mom. He loved her so much, and he wanted every present he bought for her to be as perfect as it could be. Early in my childhood, he discovered that I had a gift for finding just the right gift for Mommy. Once I learned how to keep a secret (there were a couple of birthdays, and one rather memorable Christmas where I spilled the beans) I was Daddy's Little Helper whenever he wanted to give Mommy a present.

I knew which perfume she would like. Which scarf she had admired the week before. Which bracelet would make her eyes light up. I knew instinctively which flowers, which chocolates, which greeting card would make her happiest. Whether it was denim or diamonds, Daddy knew I could pick out just the thing to make Mommy happy.

When I went away to college, Daddy had a dilemna; suddenly he was without his Helper. Over the years, I had equipped him with a laundry list of sorts for emergancies, and he had learned Mom's favorite perfume, he knew what box of chocolates to buy, and what her favorite flowers were.

And my Mom loves flowers. Flowers of all kinds, but she has always had a soft spot for African Violets. I grew up surrounded by little cheerful pots of them; their funny, fuzzy leaves, and the tiny colorful blossoms were as much a part of my childhood landscape as the backyard swingset. Our home and gardens were filled was plants and flowers; Mama had the greenest thumb of anyone I knew.

Until Daddy died.

For a while, Mom just lost interest in living. The Wrench and I were terrified that we were going to lose her, too. The house grew dusty and disorganized, and her plants began to die. Including her violets.

The Wrench and I did what we could, and we kept the front yard up, and I managed to keep a couple of the sturdier houseplants from failing completely, but it was too late for the violets.

When Mom met That Guy Formerly Known as The Stepdad, she began to act like her old self again; the house was clean and tidy, the yard neat and watered. The handful of houseplants that had survived the depression began to thrive again under her care.

But she never got any more violets, never seemed to have any interest in them.

Until she came home.

Hope springs eternal.
.
.
.

The One Where I Am Just So Tired...

2007-10-28T22:52:00.000-05:00

I. am. so. tired.

Mom continues living in her slightly altered world; I don't just parent my mother, I am also her full fledged "care giver", making sure that she doesn't slip and fall in the bathroom, she gets all of her meds on time and in the proper dosage, and that she has something (crosswords, books, sewing) to keep her occupied and engaged.

Twinks continues living in pain. Our trip this past week to visit the doctors and nurses of Hospital City resulted in a fitting for new orthotics, but they won't be ready for four more weeks, and in the meantime, she's outgrown the old set, and so can't wear them. Luckily, we have another pain management appointment tomorrow afternoon.

The trip we just returned from nearly did me in. Despite careful planning, advance reservations, and daily conversations with my Mom about the trip, it was difficult at best. We have to bring my Mom along on these trips now; otherwise someone will have to stay with her all the time while I am gone. And she still clings to me; she can handle my absence for two or three - four hours at the max, and then she begins to become frantic and agitated. So, I decided it would be better (and easier) for everyone to bring her along.

It wasn't any one thing that made the trip more difficult, it was just that everything had to move slower. Mom can't process things quickly; even simple things like deciding what she wants to order from the menu in a cafe' can become a huge ordeal. TV stations that were numbered differently from home were a problem at the hotel; she couldn't find her usual TV shows and became upset. And yet Mom is so sweet and so loving that I feel guilty even complaining.

I arrived home even more tired than when we left, and depressed.

The Wrench is frazzled, too. He worries about Mom, about Twinks, and especially about me. Non-stop he worries; the frown lines etched into his forehead make me feel sad. He worries about his job; Since 9/11, there is no real job security in the aviation industry, and The Really Large Airline that he works for constantly holds the vague threat of layoffs and closures over their employees. Does not make going to work a pleasant, stress-free experience for him or his co-workers.

And then there is the remodel. The remodel is taking a toll on everyone, and TW is no exception. He worries constantly; ContractorMan fortunately has the patience of a saint, and rarely flinches when TW approaches with another concern or question. Mom can't understand why everything is taking so long. Twinks longs for her new and improved room, and I just want it all to be over, and the house clean and tidy again.

TW sleeps fitfully at best; lying next to him I sleep in fits and starts, staring into the darkness, making lists in my mind, and my PDA.

I want to sleep.

I. am. so. tired.

The One Where We Loved Him to Death...

2007-10-04T20:51:00.001-05:00

We knew that he was failing, fading away.

We knew that he didn't have long - certainly less than a year left, but our whole family had hoped and prayed he would be with us at least until after Christmastime.

It all happened too fast. It has been 10 days, but I can just now bring myself to write about it.

I know - compared to the losses that some of our blogging family (like MM and Sharfa) have suffered this year, it may seem small and petty to some to cry over the loss of my cat.

But for me, he was never "just a cat". He has been my little buddy, my office partner, and Twinks guardian kitty since the day we brought her home from the hospital. He was truly the sweetest, most loving cat I have ever known. He slept next to me every night, purring me to sleep. Wherever I was in the house, there he was too.

During these last six months, he became increasingly important to my Mom; his gentle ways and sweet demeanor calmed her, and made her so happy.

He was Twinks companion as she did her homework every afternoon after school. He would sit on her bed and supervise until she was done, then he would come and find me, as if to tell me about it.

He was getting older and arthritic. He had high blood pressure, and his thyroid had recently gone nuts, which meant he could (and did) eat non-stop, and still not gain an ounce. He couldn't jump as high or as well as he once had, but he could still get to all of his favorite spots. We administered his medication every day; he tolerated it with a resigned air, and just enough resistance to let us know he was still the one in charge.

Then, suddenly 10 days ago, something was terribly wrong with him.

He had a stroke. Believe me, I get the irony.

When he was just a kitten, we found him - abandoned and terrified. He was clearly afraid of humans, but I sat down near him, and talked quietly to him. He crept closer and closer, until he finally crawled into my lap, and into my heart. He burrowed into my arms, and stayed there all the way home. The next morning, we took him to our vet, where she checked him over, ran a few tests and declared him "adorable". Our other two (older) cats accepted him easily; everyone who met him, loved him instantly. He followed me everywhere in our little house; visitors found it charming and sweet that he trotted after his "Mama" like a little puppy. Indeed, his dedication, and his fierce loyalty to me were just two of his many fine traits.

As the years passed, he became the "Mommy" cat, welcoming the new kittens that we would bring home. He would place one huge, shaggy paw on them to keep them from wriggling away, and then give them a bath. Once they were all cleaned up, he would let them go, but kept a watchful eye on them. As a result, all of the kittens would sleep with him, even once they were grown. I'm not the only one here who can't sleep without him.

Whenever we would bring someone home from visiting the vet's office, he would immediately clean them up, licking off the offending odor of antiseptic and foreign animals. He was infinitely gentle and kind to cats and humans alike; never hissing or fighting. He never once bit or scratched me in all of our years together, but he was always just *there* with me, somehow knowing when I needed his furry comfort. He would give me head-butts and kisses, and he would purr so loudly when on my lap that I would have to turn up the volume on the TV.

If I tried to ignore him, or if I was too busy, he would simply sit right down and settle himself on top of my shoes - stopping me from going anywhere else until he got the attention he wanted. He was endlessly patient with us silly humans, regarding us with obvious affection, and treating us like oversized, wayward kittens that needed to be reminded of who was really in charge around here.

The one place he hated to go - would scream and holler and fight all the way there: The vet's office. Every time. He would nearly tear up the carrier, trying to find a way OUT before we reached that loathsome place. And every time, without fail, on the trip home he was docile again - laying quietly and happily in the carrier, waiting to get out when we were home.

When I picked him up that day, and he lay so limp and nearly lifeless in my arms, I knew that I had no choice but to take him right to the vet's office.

Unlike past trips to the dreaded vet's office, this time there was no fight to get him into the carrier. He did not even make a peep; he just watched me sadly as I wrapped The Wrench's t-shirt around him. I sped off to the vet's grimly praying that there was something that could be done.

There wasn't.

He had suffered a massive stroke, and with our vets - who also count as dear family friends - I arrived at that terrible decision that every pet owner dreads. I've had to make that decision too many times in the last few years - with B the Boy, and Tanner, too.

I knew there was no other choice; there was nothing that could be done.

I signed the forms, and the first injection was administered. As he drifted off into unconsciousness, I held him, still wrapped in The Wrench's t-shirt, and told him how much we loved him, and how much we would miss him. Our vets, a husband and wife team, were there, along with all of the vet techs, some of whom have cared for him for years. We were all gathered around him, talking to him, and telling him how very much he was loved, how very much he would be missed. When we knew that he was fully unconscious, the second, final injection was given.

As he slipped away, I continued to hold him, and love him. I talked to him, and kissed him, and told him to wait with my Dad, and we would all be there, together again.

I just loved him to death.

My little Buddy
1992 - 2007

The One Where I Indulge in a Little...

2007-09-12T00:04:00.000-05:00

...shameless self-promotion...

Someone has nominated me for an actual award! Go figure!

So, if you have a minute or two, please head over to GNMParents (where Our Much Beloved Stu hangs out while the kids are at school) and vote - hopefully for my post!

Thanks! :)

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UPDATE: I won!

I can't believe it! I'm a Hottie! er, I mean, someone thinks I'm Hot!

:::sigh:::

Never mind... Just wanted to say a very sincere Thanks! to all who voted for me! :)

The One Where We Stroke Along...

2007-09-11T01:05:00.000-05:00

Well, we were *supposed* to be well into the demolition/reconstruction/renovation process by now.

There should be concrete trucks, and dumpsters, and hunky carpenters, oh my.

Instead, there is... just the same old house.

ContractorMan had an accident the day before he was supposed to start our house, and now things are delayed indefinitely.

My hopes for the house being done before Christmas are dashed. I feel guilty for being so selfish - after all ContractorMan had an accident, for crying out loud. It's not like he decided he was going to loll about on some sunny beach somewhere for a few weeks before starting on our project.

But I still wish we could have started on schedule.

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ContractorMan should make a full and complete recovery - the only question now is how long it will be before his doctor clears him to work again. What is more troubling for me is how agitated my Mom has become.

Both The Wrench and I have been a little shocked by just how upset Mom is. I guess it's one of the side-effects of the strokes.

Did I mention the strokes?

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It all started years and years ago, well before I came along.

My Mom had her first stroke while she was in high school. No one knew it at the time; her family and her doctor all assumed that she had some weird kind of flu that wiped her out, and left her feeling weak. She recovered from the "mystery flu" slowly, and eventually, after nearly a year, seemed to be mostly her old self again. The final reminder of the "mystery flu"was that she tired a little more quickly than she had before.

Growing up, I knew that Daddy was always really protective of Mom, always concerned that she never overdo things, and he was always really worried whenever she got the flu. I had heard about the "mystery flu" my whole life, but had always just assumed that it was just that - an odd strain of influenza that nearly took my Mom out before she could graduate from high school.

Fast forward to last year. Mom and That Guy have just moved to Florida; the furniture has not even arrived, but Mom is sick. It reminds her of the "mystery flu" she had so many years ago, but worse. Mom knows that something isn't right, and she is scared it is Alzheimer's or maybe even dementia. She goes to her doctor, who orders all kinds of tests, including an MRI of her brain.

The MRI clearly shows that there have been at least two major strokes - but one of them happened "a long, long time ago." The other major stroke occurred apparently during the move that Mom and That Guy made to Florida. There have also been "lots and lots" of "mini strokes" or "minor events". The "mystery flu" is finally solved.

The Florida doctor cautioned Mom to take her medication, and be sure to attend all of her follow-up appointments.

The first we learned of all this was during just the last few weeks while going through some of her paperwork, post-divorce. I am stunned, and at the same time a little relieved. It explains a lot.

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Being a Mom, she didn't want to "scare" me, worry us, bother us. She knew that The Wrench and I (and even Twinks) were always concerned about her - she was so far away from us, and one of our greatest fears was always that something would happen, and we wouldn't be able to get there fast enough.

She also became afraid of being "put away" against her will. After she got the diagnosis in Florida, That Guy actually threatened her, and told her that he would have her "put away" if she had another stroke, because he "couldn't deal with it". He went so far as to take her on a little "surprise" tour of the place where she would go.

Don't. Even. Get. Me. Started.

She became terrified to go to the doctor then - a fear that we are still dealing with now.

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One of the biggest side-effects of the strokes seems to be confusion. Mom is easily disoriented now, and sometimes seems almost child-like in her reactions to some things. At times, she lacks the "proper" or expected emotional response to certain types of situations. However, most worrying is that during a recent emergency - when we needed her to move NOW, she balked like a reluctant two-year-old, demanding to know what was the rush, and why do we have to go now? And can't I stop to get my book and a drink of water?

Changes are difficult for Mom to process, hence her frustration and irritation that ContractorMan has not yet shown up, even though she clearly marked on her calendar the day he said he would start. She remembers that he had an accident - but she also remembers that he was supposed to start on this day (jabbing at the calendar). Those two conflicting bits of information about the same person and the same day are just almost more than she can cope with.

Weirdly enough, Mom's memories are still fully intact. She can remember nearly everything - with the small exception of a week or two right after they arrived in Florida, which is presumably about the time that the second big stroke occurred. Most days, she is just fine here at home, but if we have to go somewhere she can quickly become overwhelmed by the stress of trying to process all of the sights and sounds. She cannot multi-task at all now - one thing at a time, and in a prescribed order, or else she will get "lost" in a task. She also cannot cope with overlapping conversations; for example, if there are five people in the room, and there are two conversations going at once within the five people, she cannot keep up with either one of them, let alone both. Whenever she becomes overstimulated, in either a visual or auditory sense, she simply shuts down and refuses to do anything until she can regain a focus.

Mom clings to me now. She is very dependent upon me, and at times seems almost unable to make any kind of decision at all without my "approval". At first I thought this behavior was a reaction to her "freedom" after her divorce, but I now believe it is related to the strokes. Hardest are decisions that have more than two possible outcomes, or have no clear choices; given enough time we can work our way to an answer for "Which color do you like better: Green or Yellow?" but if the question allows for too many possible answers, like "What is your favorite color in all the world?" then she often simply gives up.

She's still in there - we see flashes of what TW calls "the old Mom" - but the strokes seem to hide part of her. We're very fortunate that right now, she can still care for herself, and that the biggest struggle that she has is always getting the right word(s) at the right time, in the right order to come out when she is speaking. But there is still something missing, or disconnected, and whatever that is... is what made her fully and completely... Mom.

One thing that worries me is that I would like to get another "baseline" MRI before she has any more of these little "mini strokes". Currently, she is patently refusing to undergo another MRI; I can't even get her to go and *look* at the brand-new open MRI at the brand-new hospital mere blocks from here.

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Through all of this, the rest of our life has to go on. Twinks has started school - the 8th Grade! - and with that comes a whole set of concerns and problems as well. Twinks 504 had to be re-submitted and implemented for her "accommodations" at school, and with this year comes an added problem of attendance. Because she has two high-school level courses, attendance requirements become mandatory, so additional documentation is going to be required to excuse the many absences due to doctor's appointments and, well... pain.

Both Twinks, and The Wrench naturally want some "private time" with me. They both want, and need, to be the sole focus of my attention for just a little while each week. I know how much they have sacrificed - both of them with very, very little or no complaint - and so I try to find a way to make that special time for each of them every few days. Because right now the only people that my Mom is comfortable with - besides me - are TW and Twinks, that means that one of us is always with her. And I'm always with someone... Mom, TW, and/or Twinks. "Alone time" is a mere memory for me now, and for the foreseeable future.

Add to all of the above that my cat - my furry little buddy, my deskmate, the sweetest little cat I have ever known - is dying. I don't know how long he has left, but I presume we will be lucky if he can go even another month. The vet says there is nothing more we can do but keep him as comfortable as possible, for as long as possible. I just want to cry every time I look at him, because I know how sad I'm going to be when he's gone.

My greatest fear at the moment is that something will happen to me. I worry about how my family would cope, if something catastrophic were to befall me. I feel so *responsible* for everyone, and everything.

I imagine you wouldn't be surprised to learn that I don't sleep too well these days.

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I feel oddly disconnected these days. It may be sheer exhaustion, some form of shock, or it may just be that I am putting off my emotions until later, when I can process them more safely. I don't know. I can't allow myself to think too far ahead now, because I simply can't cope with what the future may hold.

For now, I can only stroke along, hoping and praying that it all works out somehow.

The One With Endings and Beginnings...

2007-08-27T00:24:00.000-05:00

My Goodness.

I certainly never intended to be "quiet" for this long. It took seeing my name on Sully's "absent blogger list" to realize just how long it had been since I had posted here.

We've been busy.

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First, we had to wrap up The Divorce.

The quick-n-dirty final on this is that we finally, actually recovered everything of Mom's before it was over - all of her possessions and money - and That Guy is no longer a part of our lives. All I will say here (Forgive me, Kelly, I know how you love the details!) is that I now fully believe that if we had not brought Mom home when we did, she might not be alive today. That Guy was thisclose to facing charges for several "actionable" things we caught him in; it was only his fervent desire to avoid going to court, and his complete willingness to do anything that we wanted to get the divorce done that saved his skinny old ass from landing squarely in jail. Attorney D was actually a bit upset - she had been looking forward to (as she so delicately put it) "tearing him a new one" in court. I'm sure the big, fat check we wrote her helped soothe her disappointment.

To those who say that we should have put him in jail, please remember that my Mom is still recovering - both physically and emotionally - from her tenure as his "wife". Her life for the last decade or so has been more like that of a prisoner of war - or a hostage. To drag her through the anguish and humiliation of a court trial was never really a consideration for us if it could be avoided. Yes, we might have gotten a bit more money out of the old goat, but the toll it would have taken on my Mom would have been too great to justify it. Sadly, I am no longer certain that she will ever fully recover from the damage that he inflicted.

Once the divorce was done, and properly celebrated, we began our next, and current project.

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A new house.

You might think that to find a new house, and sell this one would be a simple enough task, but the reality of the situation is that for the last 14 or so years, The Wrench and I have been so focused on Twinks (and her medical problems) that we have pretty much completely neglected the house. We wanted to make the repairs, but the reality of our financial situation was that we were holding the old homestead together with bits of baling wire and duct tape. If you think that is an exaggeration, then let me assure you it is not; like many families faced with catastrophic ongoing medical bills, we have often had to make choices. Choices like "Do we paint the house this year, or get Twinks meds refilled?"

This house has great meaning and memories for us; suffice it to say that when we began seriously discussing the notion of selling it, rather than staying put and fixing everything, I became extremely depressed. In fact, for several days, I couldn't stop crying; every time I opened that squeaky old cupboard door, or looked out in to the back yard at the trees my Dad planted, the tears would start again. But I knew that we had to explore every option, so I dutifully set up appointments to visit model homes, and meet with builders, and we learned about neighborhoods, floor plan options, and spec houses.

And we couldn't find one house that was "right". We found a lot of houses that were OK, a few that we thought we could "make work" for our new-and-improved family, but none that were really right. None of us really wanted to move, but we all felt overwhelmed by the amount of work that we thought this house we loved so much was going to need.

Finally, one night when I couldn't sleep, I sat and drew our existing home's floor plan, then began doodling around with an extension, or an addition. Suddenly, I realized that the reason we couldn't find the perfect house was because we were almost already living in it.

I stayed up all night, drawing and re-drawing, until I had a (very rough but) preliminary floor plan to show to Mom and The Wrench the next morning. Skeptical at first, as they looked closer, they began to see how it could work. The big problem seemed to be the condition of the house - we didn't want to invest a substantial amount of money in this house, or any house that wasn't structurally sound. We realized that we needed a home inspection to find out exactly what needed to be fixed, and exactly how serious our problems with this house were before we proceeded any further.

I was elated; there was a chance - however small - that we might be staying put. I called Attorney A, who is an excellent source for referrals for any kind of service, as he seems to know everyone in the known universe, and he happily provided the name of a "highly reputable" inspector. InspectorMan came early on the day of the appointment, and went straight to work. It took him nearly three hours, but he checked *everything*, and then the next morning delivered two copies of a printed color report that ran about 50 pages.

The house is fine. Everything that The Wrench and I (and Mom ) had been worried about is essentially cosmetic. Structurally speaking, the house and all of it's "systems" are in excellent condition; the worst thing that InspectorMan could say about the house was that it certainly did need some new trim boards and paint, and oh-by-the-way, fix the fence on the west side, too.

Well. Now what are we going to do?

Much discussion ensued - I won't bore you with the details, but after three very intense days of talking through all of the options that we now had at our disposal, we decided to...

Remodel this house.

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That sounds simple enough, right?

Wrong. Now we had to call Attorney A again - this time for a referral to a contractor who specializes in remodels. A came through again - this time with a short list of potential remodelers, and an uncharacteristically stern lecture about checking references, and Generally Being Careful. We began by interviewing the three "candidates" on the phone, and quickly began to see that the Number 3 Guy on the list just flat was not interested in our "little" project. It wasn't until much later in the process (when he heard what our budget was going to be through one of the other contractors) that he was suddenly "interested", and suddenly available to talk to us. We had already eliminated him from the list by then.

Number 2 Guy was very nice and knowledgeable, but it was all too obvious to us that what he *really* wanted to do was sell us a shiny new house over by the golf course. After all, he pointed out, we could have whirlpool tubs in every bathroom! And tumbled marble floors! And granite countertops! And who wouldn't want those things? Certainly not you! And, hurry quick! Because all of the choice lots are nearly gone! Don't you want to live in a shiny new house?

Wrong. What we want is our funny, funky little quasi-cottage, with the native stone and clapboard siding. What we want is the rich, warm woodwork that we have in this house - not the cold, shiny white painted trim in the new houses. We didn't care about golf course views - we want to look out in the yard, and see trees that we planted ourselves, and watch the forsythia bloom every spring that Mom started from just a sprig. So, Number 2 Guy - even though he is very nice, and knowledgeable, and we like him just fine - is out.

Number 1 Guy on the little list was the only one left. I couldn't help buy worry - what if we don't like him? What if we have to go crawling back to Numbers 2 or 3? What if - God forbid - he is too busy, or what if -even worse - our project somehow just isn't the kind of thing he does?

No need to worry; Number 1 Guy was able to grasp instantly *why* we wanted to stay here. He looked at my funny little drawings, and saw right away what we were trying to do - and with a few swift strokes of his pen, took my ideas from good to great. He took the time to go through the InspectorMan's report, and then he took the time to walk the house himself - checking to make sure that there would be no surprises down the road. Finally, he sat at our kitchen table with us, and began to lay out how he works, why he does things the way he does. He was friendly, and funny - and most importantly, he "got it"; he understood why this house was so important to us, and he pledged to insure that the addition would be seamless, and would match in fit and finish as exactly as possible, so that no one would ever have to know that it *was* an addition. He left a long sheet of references for us to call - several of them are prominent citizens in our little corner of The Greater Metro. He returns our calls promptly, arrives for meetings on time or early, and has worked out a construction schedule that will allow us to live in the house, even while everything is going on. His references all check out - and the examples of his work that we have seen are excellent as well. In fact, checking around town with people NOT on his list, we still have not been able to find anyone with anything bad to say about him.

He brought the estimate in at exactly the figure that we had been hoping for. And no, we had not disclosed that figure to any of the contractors. And yes, we have set aside an additional 7% above the stated budget for "just in case".

We signed papers with our new ContractorMan (the remodeler formerly known as "Number 1 Guy") last week. Construction will begin in just a few days.

Life is about to get even more interesting around here...

The One Where Twinks Stands for Harry Potter... Again

2007-07-22T00:02:00.000-05:00

It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing; the end of the road for the wildly popular Harry Potter franchise.

Book Seven was being released at 12:01 am.

Twinks wanted to be there - just *had to* be there, Mom.

After all, it *was* the end of an era, and all that.

So, we went. Just Twinks and I. And several thousand of our newest friends.

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We were still reeling from attending Our Special Premiere of the latest HP movie on the 11th. Just as we do for every Harry Potter movie premiere, we rented the private VIP viewing room of our local movie theatre so that we could enjoy the movie in privacy, giving the movie the rapt attention required by Twinks of all who attend with her.

Buoyed by the excitement of seeing Book Five come to life on the big screen (although we were all disappointed by how much of the book had to be discarded) Twinks began plotting to make it to one the big Midnight Madness parties that were planned for the release of the last book - Book Seven.

I was concerned; Twinks does not have a positive history of withstanding the... well... the standing that this kind of event requires. She was determined to not have a repeat of last time. So was I.

Reluctantly, I agreed to take her, but I warned her - if she needed to sit down, if she started to hurt too much, if we had to stand too long, she had to promise me that she would sit down.

Sure, Mom. OK! Let's GO!

Did she sit down?

No.

She wouldn't sit down.

At all.

Not in a chair, on a bench, or on the floor. Everyone else was standing, so Twinks stood too. For nearly two hours straight.

When it was over, she was shaking from the simple effort of walking out to the parking lot.

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By timing our arrival, we got a spot that by Midnight was approximately in the center of the line, but would hopefully minimize the total amount of time that Twinks might have to stand and/or wait. Store personnel passed out brightly colored wrist bands, each color corresponding to a Hogwarts "house". If you had a wristband at Midnight, you were guaranteed a book; without one, you had to hope and pray that there were enough.

During the long minutes leading up to Midnight-Oh-One, clerks circulated up and down the ever-growing line, passing out Harry Potter tattoos, bookmarks, and posters. The crowd was very well-behaved; readers of all ages waited (relatively) patiently for that magical moment when the books would appear.

We saw a few friends, some familiar faces in the crowd, but where we were (sandwiched between a three-generation family each eager for their own copy, and a high-school teacher who bemoaned the end of "the only series of books that my students will willingly read".) everyone was polite and friendly, but focused on one thing: The Book.

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As time passed, Twinks became increasingly pale; her face pinched with pain. She shifted uncomfortably, but refused to sit on the floor as I suggested.

She didn't want to be different.

She wanted to be like all the other teenagers she saw. And none of them, not one, was sitting on the floor.

Despite repeated begging and pleading on my part, she kept grimly waving me off, and insisting that she was "fine".

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The countdown started at 12:00:50 am. Ten seconds later, the crowd pressed forward as one, and we all waited breathlessly to see The Lucky First One walk back down the line, book held triumphantly aloft to applause. Others walked back much more slowly, some already engrossed in the first pages, reading and walking towards the parking lot. A few clutched multiple copies, and one lone teenager stood anxiously at the registers, carefully counting out his money, praying aloud that he had enough to buy the book. (For the record, he did - with a few pennies left over. Also for the record - if he hadn't had enough, I was ready to make up the difference. Anyone who wants a book as much as he obviously did, should have one.)

We watched all these little mini-dramas play out while inching ever closer to the registers where the stacks of books dwindled, and were replenished by harried-looking clerks, all dressed in magical garb.

The register area had been draped in yards and yards of black fabric, with the lights dimmed, and Potter-appropriate decorations hung from ceilings. The counters were covered with black and silver magic-themed fabrics, and the employees working the registers were all dressed in black witches hats and flowing black capes. There were black frosted cupcakes for those who were hungry from waiting, and some additional miscellaneous Potter merchandise to browse through. Twinks finally became visibly excited, standing on her tiptoes and bouncing impatiently.

A bit less than $20 later, we had one book, two cupcakes, a poster, a wristband, a tattoo, and a bookmark.

And one exhausted girl, who was now in tremendous pain. But she had stood for Harry Potter. She made it this time.

And today, she has paid the price. All day.

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Twinks slept - literally - all day today. She finally woke late in the day, ate a little, and staggered into the living room, where she cocooned herself on the couch with her book. Her pain level is high, just as high as her sense of self-purpose and determination was last night.

Friday afternoon, hours before we left to buy The Last Book, I called and scheduled a pain management session for next week in advance of our late-night adventure. My hope was that I could cancel it on Monday morning.

The reality was that we needed that appointment now, today.

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In the end, I'm glad that we went, although I wish that Twinks would have just. sat. down.

This may be the last time we will do something like this together - stand on line for a book. I didn't want Twinks to miss this - and selfishly, I wanted to share it with her. But we all realize now that the price she pays is just too high.

Sometimes, like tonight, Normal seems futher away than ever.

The One Where We Find Just A Little More Magic...

2007-07-07T09:00:00.000-05:00

We've talked before about "Magic Days"; those days that are special for reasons that - on the surface - might seem silly or trite.

Our family has a long tradition of "trying to find the magic"; One might even say that it is part of our "family culture"Today, 07/07/07 is quite naturally a "Magic Day" at our house.

It also just happens to be MY BIRTHDAY!

I hope you find your own "Magic" today! :)

The One Where I Give Up THE RECIPE...

2007-07-03T20:28:00.000-05:00

First of all, thanks to all who wrote (in the comments, and via email) to say you wished me a speedy recovery. Fab Grandma - I hope you are OK too!

Thanks to my loving spouse, who jumped in and took over for a few days (OK, more than a few days) my hand is finally healing nicely. I still have a HUGE pink and red burned spot on the back of my hand, and my pinkie and ring finger are still kind of stiff and sore, but I'm hopeful that I'll eventually sneak away from this episode with just a bit of scarring. Not bad for a third-degree burn.

And so, let's get on to the recipe, shall we?

Cornbread waffles are TOTALLY delicious, a big favorite at our house. Not to mention really good with grape jelly! And, if you are careful with the waffle iron - they are also quite easy to make.

First of all - you need a waffle iron. Hopefully, yours isn't a thirty-year old monster like ours is; It's going to be replaced, and SOON. Anyway, preheat your waffle iron, and then whip up a batch of your favorite cornbread.

I like the Jiffy brand mix - it's just a bit sweet, and has a good, corny taste. However you like to make your regular cornbread batter, that's what you'll use to make your cornbread waffles.

It's just that simple!

Pour it into the waffle iron, and cook 'em up. Watch out for the steam - these waffles will make a lot of steam. If your iron is older (like mine), or has a tendency for the waffles to stick, spray a bit of non-stick spray right before you pour the batter.

They will be golden brown, a teeny bit crispy and golden-brown on the outside, and completely mouthwatering on the whole. Don't forget to try your favorite jelly instead of syrup - yum! :)

Let me know if you like 'em! :)

The One Where I... OUCH!

2007-06-22T00:36:00.000-05:00

Typing one-handed sucks.

Reader's Digest Condensed Version: burned left hand on Father's Day making cornbread waffles for The Wrench, then knocked scab off burn and now bandaged.

Ouch.

More in a few days. :(

The One Where We Are Dreadfully Close...

2007-06-10T18:57:00.001-05:00

...to having our living room again.

For the last eight or so weeks, our living room has served as a combination warehouse/sorting facility. As each box was opened, it was sorted through right there - in the living room. Every items was then put away in it's place, or put into one of three piles: donate, discard, or sell.

Sounds simple enough, right?

Imagine a room that is 18 x 14. Imagine that 1/3 of the room is full of furniture; and approximately 1/2 of the room held boxes, stacked (literally) 12 feet high. The remaining space by the doorway was decorated with a makeshift table of three large empty cartons upended in front of the fireplace where I worked, sorting and putting away.

Meanwhile, at the back of the house was another room that was also turned into an impromptu storage area. Our former gameroom, complete with the pinball machine, the air hockey table, and shelves and shelves of Legos, puzzles, and board games has become a repository for the furniture & excerise equipment that we want to keep, but currently don't have a space for.

Finally, my office is gone. In it's place is, quite simply, storage. The room that once housed my little sanctuary, where I could work and blog, and play The Sims2, and escape... now has plastic storage tubs from floor to ceiling. The only vestiges of my previous occupancy are the DSL modem and the wireless router, along with the networked laser printer. They all perch nervously just inside the door, like they are contemplating their escape at any moment.

The whole thing has been just like one of those sliding puzzles. You have to keep moving things around, until you can get them where you want them - and to see if there is enough room for everything you wanted to put in that room. It's exciting, nerve-wracking, and tiring to no end.

Every day, I got up, and I did a little bit more. This weekend, for example, I finally completed unboxing all of my Mom's sewing and art supplies. This might not sound like A Big Deal on the surface, but to her - just to be able to access her quilting and art supplies again WAS a big deal; she missed being able to use her things, to create freely. The sewing room is done, and now Mom can sit among her beloved things again, and happily spend the day... creating. To see her so happy - her eyes sparkling, and her joy at working with the jewel-toned fabrics she loves to much - totally worth all the hard work. Totally.

This weekend was also A Big Deal because in the living room - we now have those three distinct piles, and NO MORE BOXES TO OPEN. :::insert Happy Dance of your choice here:::

We are SO close to having our living room back. We have been camped out in the dining room for weeks now - the sofa, love seat and chairs being upended and stacked in the corner of the living room - and I am so fully sick and tired of sitting on these dining room chairs, watching that little 13" TV that I could CHEERFULLY SCREAM. I can't wait to sit on our raggedy old sofa, and watch the big TV, with my feet propped up. Twinks can't wait to get to her Wii again. The Wrench wants his favorite chair - in fact, for Fathers Day that's what he wants this year - the living room to be "functional" again.

A few more days, I believe - really, I do - that it will all be done. The charity will come and pick up the "donate" pile. The "discard" pile is already gone - what can be recycled is, and the rest is going to the trash. The "sell" pile will be a bit tougher - some of it will go on Craigslist, some on eBay, and the rest will either be a yardsale, or if I'm just sick and tired of the whole thing... it may go to the charity as well. I need to put up new shelves in the game room, there are a few bits and pieces of furniture to be moved here and there, and one more bookcase to be built in the library, and then... And then, the house will be... the house again. And not a warehouse.

We are SO close...

The One With All of The Lawyers

2007-06-03T01:01:00.000-05:00

We now officially have three different attorneys on retainer; each has a distinct purpose and specialty.

If I think about it too much, my head might explode.

We have gone from zero to three lawyers in less than 60 days. My job is to make sure that they are all doing what we are paying them (exorbitant amounts of money per hour) to do... And also to make sure that their retainers don't run out before we get done with the Stepdad.

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First, there is Attorney A - an advisor attorney that I have retained; he is simply there as a neutral third party/second opinion/advisor. Ordinarily I would not have placed him on retainer, but would have simply paid him for consult on an as-needed basis. With everything that is going on, however, I felt better knowing that I would have him "on call" 24/7.

A is an experienced trial lawyer, former prosecutor, and former legislator. He is also a long-time family acquaintance, and I wanted - and needed someone who I could trust to guide me through everything that is going on.

A is tall, dark and handsome, and dashes about in custom-tailored suits that probably cost more than The Wrench makes in a month. He is charming, affable, and has a razor-sharp wit. I love A the best because he blatantly and cheerfully flatters me to no end, and he always has my favorite chocolates in a little crystal dish on his desk.

I'm glad that A is on *our* team... For all his charm, wit, and chocolate, I would NOT wish to come up against him in a court of law.

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Attorney F is our brand-new Family Lawyer. She has been mostly taking care of things like The Will, and setting up durable power of attorney thingys, and revoking some other shady paperwork that The Stepdad had convinced Mom to sign - some of it under false pretenses.

We found F through a referral from A.

F is sweet and wise, and very low-key. She dresses like she couldn't decide if she was going to be a hippy or a preppy when she grew up; a bit eclectic, with layers and accessories and instead of a briefcase, she carries a big, canvas tote bag.

F is also sharp as a tack, and has managed to undo most of the damage done with the bogus paperwork. She has also created a Trust, and put all of Mom's assets into that to keep them safe. F has helped me figure out which banks and financial institutions needed to be sent a copy of the legal revocations that stop The Stepdads shady little paperwork.

F might appear to the casual observer to be a meek, mousy little eccentric, but she's sharp as a tack, and has managed rather quickly to out-maneuver The Stepdad's attorney.

We like F.

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Attorney D is our Divorce Lawyer.

We needed one of these because The Stepdad has filed for divorce. He thought it would be uncontested. He thought he was going to slither out of the marriage quietly. Boy, was he ever wrong.

We had to find an attorney Two Hours East - because it is in another state. And once we talked to A, we realized fairly quickly that it will benefit Mom in the long run to keep the case over there Two Hours East.

This meant, of course, that we had to GO to Two Hours East to find and hire an attorney there. Think about that one for a moment - how do you hire an attorney in essentially a strange city?

With a bit of research, I made a list of four potential attorneys, and I called each one for a brief phone consult before driving all the way Two Hours East for a meeting. I knew we were in trouble when we started talking to them, and they all told us that the case was "too complicated" or "outside the scope of their practice" or (my personal favorite) "not the type of case that we would typically pursue". Because The Stepdad had been engaging in some serious monkeyshines with Mom's money, and it has taken me every bit of the last 60 days to sort this out, and make sense of it. As I finally pulled the pieces of the puzzle together, I was alarmed at what The Stepdad had been doing. In a nutshell, he had been systematically, methodically screwing Mom out of her money. Draining her accounts, carefully and slowly. If we had not brought Mom (and her checkbooks) home when we did, I have little doubt that by the end of the year, she would have had very little money left.

Yes, they had a pre-nup. Yes, he broke the pre-nup; not once but multiple times. I have the notarized paperwork to prove it. (he might be clever, but he wasn't smart enough to clean up his paper trail.)

So, now I know - we need someone special for this case. An attorney who could not only quickly and fully grasp the salient points, but who could see the entire scope of this case at once, and was comfortable throwing around words like "embezzlement" and "misappropriation of funds". I dialed up Attorney A, and after briefly telling him about the results of the telephone interviews, he promised to call back within 15 minutes. When A called back, he had the name and number of a "lovely young woman" who he was certain would be just fine. He would phone ahead and "introduce" us to this attorney; he felt sure she could handle the case.

I waited until the next morning, as instructed by A, and phoned D at the prescribed time. After a short conversation, we made an appointment to visit her at her offices Two Hours East, and gathered copies of the documents she said she would need.

I'll be the first one to tell you - I felt like it was going to be a waste of time to make that round trip to Two Hours East just to see this little girl. But I trusted A, and so away Mom and I went.

D is a surprise, to be sure. Sounds like she's all of twelve years old on the phone, looks like a 5-foot tall version of Barbie in person, and scary as all Hell when you start talking to her, and realize what she's going to be like in court.

I knew she was the one for us when she laughed and said "This is going to be *fun*..."

I'm really glad *we* hired her, and not The Stepdad. I would hate to face her in any negotiations or courtroom. :::shiver:::

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So, there they are; My Legal Team. D, F, & A. Expensive, talented, charming and wicked-smart. Did I mention expensive?

Don't mess with me. I'll call my attorneys...

The One Where Summer Begins...

2007-05-30T12:13:00.000-05:00

...and my sanity nearly ended.

We are done.

With school, that is. For this year.

Whitney Hoffman has a post over at GNMParents called "Child Advocacy or School Adversary?".

I agree with Whitney - I fully agree - and since Twinks began school eight years ago, we have been involved and active at her schools. As a result, we have typically had good, solid relationships with her teachers every year.

Until this year.

This past school year, we have had a teacher who was, quite simply, prejudiced against our daughter. Everyone could see it - the school counselor, the principal, the other teachers.

Why?

Because our daughter is disabled. Because she is NOT a blonde-haired, blue-eyed cheerleader, or an athlete. Because we allow Twinks to dress in her own individual style, rather than encouraging her to be a cookie-cutter kid who dresses like all the other kids. Because this teacher thinks that if she just "tried harder" our daughter could "be normal".

You read it right.

According to this teacher, Twinks just doesn't try hard enough.

Gee. I'm so glad that she has this all figured out. It's not the multiple orthopedic birth defects, or the fibromyalgia, or the asthma, the arrymthia, or anything like that.

No. Twinks just doesn't try hard enough. Why didn't *I* think of that?

Maybe because I've known this child since before she was born.

Maybe because I have reams and reams of medical opinions, diagnosis and lab tests.

When it comes to this teacher, I have tried to be an advocate, and not an adversary, but this year has been terrible. Things came to a head recently when Twinks broke a classroom rule because of one of her disabilities. (and wasn't the first kid this year to do so, either) Twinks couldn't hold a piece of equipment, and asked another student for help. The teacher used this as an excuse to not only punish Twinks, but hold her up in ridicule to others in the class. This in reaction to a child who not only is typically quite well-behaved and well-mannered, but had NEVER broken any of the teacher's rules before, has NEVER been to the principals office in her school career, and has carried all A's for eight years. Is she perfect? No. Is she a good kid? Yes, I believe that she is. Remember - I've been volunteering at her schools on a regular basis since Kindergarten. I see her at school, in the classroom. I see how she interacts with her friends, her teachers, the staff.

So, I talked to the Principal, and the School Counselor. They agreed that the teacher behaved in a fashion that was unprofessional, and that the teacher was out of line. They offered us an alternative, so that Twinks would not have to face that teacher every day for the rest of the school year. They assured us that Twinks grade (a high A) would not be affected by this incident.

I spent the better part of a week dealing with this. At the end, I was still furious, frustrated and amazed that this teacher could believe that Twinks would deliberately disobey her rule. That she believed that if Twinks would only try harder, she would be "normal".

Ever wonder why we consider Homeschooling? It's things like this incident. It's the subtle little digs, the outright discrimination. It's the exhaustion brought on by trying to make one child who is "different" fit into a world that is designed to exclude her.

Thank God that summer is here. And not a moment too soon.

The One Where We Remember...

2007-05-26T11:46:00.000-05:00

In the United States of America, it is Memorial Day Weekend.

Officially, it is when we remember and salute our war dead.

Unofficially, it is the beginning of summer and the end of regular. We go to the cemetery, and decorate the graves of our ancestors, and place American flags by the headstones of those who died serving our country. We grill hamburgers and hot dogs, and drink lemonade, and watch the kids try to catch lightening bugs in a jar. We watch the parade down on Main Street, and salute when the flags pass by.

And summer begins.

Depending on where you are this morning, school is either out for the year, or will be soon. The kids will have no greater agenda than running through the sprinklers and seeing how far they can coast on their bikes from the top of the hill. Sleeping late, and grilling out become routine. Shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops are the uniform for the next three months, with your bathing suit underneath - just in case you decide to go swimming. The air conditioning is cold inside the house, and the weather is warm and muggy outside, and the shock of moving from one to the other gives you goosebumps.

Our family has no war dead (at least none that I know of) to memorialize. My Dad was a Korean War vet, but he survived his battlefield injuries (thanks to a MASH unit) and returned home to go to college, marry Mom, and father me. Nevertheless, Mom and I went to the cemetery this last week, and placed cheerful bouquets of white and yellow daisies in the vases on either side of their headstone. We tied wire-edged ribbon around the vases in cheerful yellow-plaid bows, and we cleaned off the bird poop and the bits of mown grass from the monument.

As we worked, we talked. Mom hasn't been here, home, to do this particular chore for the last thirteen years, and she seemed surprised and happy that I did things the way she always had. We completed our work, and as we walked back to the minivan, she started to talk about Daddy. Much of it I had heard before, but there were new tidbits of information here and there; some surprising, others bittersweet.

We shed no tears; time has given us the gift of distance. The pain that was so acute, so fresh and raw has dulled to a heartfelt longing. The first year was tough - it was terrible. There were so many "firsts"; the first Christmas without Daddy, the first birthdays without Daddy, their first anniversary apart. Every holiday there was a Dad-shaped hole where he should have been. Every day at 5:20 pm, there was a sadness when we didn't hear his distinctive tread on the sidewalk and the porch. We felt our way blindly through that first year, just trying to survive with out Daddy.

The second year was still hard, but easier by the knowledge that we knew that we could survive - after all, we had made it through that horrible first year and all the horrible "first time withouts", but now we had to begin the process of creating new traditions, and finding new ways of doing things without Daddy in them. And we have. We have gone on with our lives, have learned to laugh and love and rejoice without him here. It doesn't mean that we don't miss him, because we do. I would give every earthly possession I have, or might ever have, just for one more hour with my Dad. Just to be able to see him hold Twinks one time. Just to hear his voice once more. Just to feel his arms around me, and to feel safe and loved as only my Daddy could make me feel.

He's never far from us - we know that. The monument that stands out at the cemetery is simply a way to make sure that the rest of the world does not forget him.

We will always remember.

The One Where We Start Over...

2007-05-16T01:23:00.000-05:00

Lately, I find that I have become obsessed with starting over.

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It started (of course) with The Unpacking. One at a time, each box is completely unpacked, and everything in it is Put Away. As in, put where it will live from now on. And if there isn't room to Put It Away Correctly, then all efforts grind to a halt while we sort through everything, to determine What Must Go Away.

It has been slow, dreadfully slow, and only three rooms are fully complete at this point: Twink's room, the kitchen, and one of the two bathrooms. Everywhere else, there are boxes, and the living room is still a depository for All That Which Will Be Sold (in the inevitable yard sale) and the game room contains All That Which We Want To Keep But Have No Room For.

On top of it all, we need to remodel at least one bathroom, widen the hallways, and somehow fix the front porch/front door all to be more accessible. It's only a matter of time before someone around here is in a wheelchair, and it needs to be done. How it will happen, I have no idea.

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I suppose it is only natural to dream of running away to a new house. To leave behind this one, that is falling apart around us even as I type this. The Wrench and I have fought a losing battle for the last 10 years with trying to keep the house from tumbling down around us; Twinks health has been our first priority, always since she was born. Now there are holes in the porch ceiling, and the fences are falling apart. The paint is fading, and on the north side of the house, the wood siding is all messed up.

The worst part is that we got caught in a predatory loan several years ago, and now actually owe more than the house is worth; the interest rate is so high that it resembles credit card terms. We literally can't afford the house, but we can't afford to sell it either.

And now you know why I dream of running away...

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Even as I watch the house crumble around us, I push forward with this new-old beginning that we are trying to create for Mom, and indeed for all of us. There is no other choice. It must be done, and so as always, we will try to comport ourselves with as much dignity and grace as is possible. The experience has certainly been cathartic. As the afore-described unpacking has been taking place, I have taken this opportunity to clean up, and clean out. Since this all began, I have learned that all of the "stuff" that I thought I *had* to have to survive really is optional. The reality is that we have allowed our "stuff" to expand to fill the available space.

You know me. I love a good spring cleaning. This is just a bit more, um... extreme, that's all.

Probably the most interesting side-effect of all of this has been how we (the four of us) have adapated to living like this - squeezed into a handful of rooms, working together daily to make what progress we can, all while trying to live as "normally" as possible. Meals still need to be cooked and served, laundry still needs to be done, Twinks must be chauffeured to and from school every day, and The Wrench still has to go to work everyday. We really are far more adaptable and flexible than I thought we would be.

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Starting over is never easy, and that is - at it's very essence - what we are doing here. We have created a whole new family; we are creating a whole new way of living. Rooms are being repurposed, furniture is being shuffled around. Everything old is new again; the rules have been thrown out the window, and we are flying by the seat of our pants now.

Change can be refreshing, or scary. It can be sad, or joyful. It can bring heartache, or help erase it. As we are learning daily now, it is all in how you decide to handle it.

Hopefully time will prove that we have handled this well.

The De-Boxer Rebellion

2007-04-22T00:05:00.000-05:00

So, the movers came, and Mom's "stuff" is here.

And there are boxes *everywhere*.

Chaos reigns supreme.

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Poor Twinks.

It is hard enough to be her, without all of the crap we have had going on around here. The never-ending pain, the crushing load of homework she has this year (all Advanced Placement/Honors classes; now you know why she hasn't blogged in months) and the usual stuff that 13 year-old girls go through alone is enough to bear.

Nowadays, the living room, the library, the game room, and my office are full to bursting with moving cartons and her Grandma's furniture. This means that if -by some miracle - she can get all of her homework done before bedtime, she can't get to her video games, she can't get to the air hockey table, the pinball machine, or even her favorite books. So, it's either The Sims2 or repeats on The Disney Channel or Nickelodeon, or one of her library books from school.

Twinks is truly a creature of habit - she likes for things to be predictable, and organized. This has been tough for her; every day boxes, furniture and sometimes, entire rooms are being shuffled around. My "office" is now a corner of the dining room table, and an extra briefcase that I can drag from room to room along with my laptop. Gone are our quiet afternoons together as she does her homework; now I am typically unloading boxes and trying to figure out what I can cook for dinner that will please the majority of those dining at my table that evening.

She has been a wonderfully, remarkably, patient kid through all of this. I wish I had a way to really reward her for being so good. Don't misunderstand - it hasn't all been bad for her - with Grandma living here, she suddenly has another ally. She gets to spend as much time with Mom as she wants - and she wants to spend all of it that she can with Mom. Even if it is to just sit on the floor near Grandma and do homework, she is content to know that her beloved Grandma is going to be here with us now, and for the rest of her life.

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Every day, I try to make a tiny dent in this huge pile of boxes. Every day I open a few more; so far it is clear that the movers did an excellent job; nothing has been broken. In many ways it has been like Christmas for me, seeing things that I had forgotten about. It has touched my heart to learn what Mom had saved, what she had treasured for so many years. Often, we never get to see what our parents kept of our childhoods until they are gone, but I have been given a rare gift. Mom shares it with me freely, and happily.

Last night, hidden in the bottom of a suitcase, I found some of the letters I had sent to Mom over the years. There were also pictures of Daddy, and some other small mementos of her life previous to The Stepdad. Before I could ask the obvious question, she just shook her head, and patted my shoulder gently, and said "He (meaning the Stepdad) would have thrown those things away if he had found them, honey. I can't tell you how many of my things I have fished out of the trash cans over the years." It makes me sad and angry to think that my Mom has had to hide entire portions of her life like it was something bad or wrong; to know that someone discarded her personal belongings in an attempt to "erase" the parts of her past that he didn't like, or want her to remember.

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So, this is how I spend my days.

Unpacking, sorting, stacking, folding, and putting things away.

As the piles of boxes grow smaller, my determination to help my Mom live the life she should have been living grows. Every day she makes a bit more progress, buy she is still really damaged and fragile. It scares me sometimes to think about how close we were to losing her just six weeks ago.

With every box that is emptied, a new part of her life begins again - a little more of her freedom is restored.

A quiet little rebellion, right here in the middle of all of these boxes.

Resurrection

2007-04-11T23:25:00.000-05:00

I suppose in some ways it is fitting that all of this has played out over Easter weekend.

Events have unfolded very quickly, and dramatically.

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While things are not "done" by a long shot, on Easter Sunday my Mom experienced her own personal resurrection. She stepped forward, and in a shaky voice confronted the man who was at once her husband and her captor. She told him that she couldn't live there with him any more. That she was going to live with us, and that she was happy there. That she didn't love him the way he wanted her to.

Seemingly oblivious to the fact that the woman standing before him was clearly healthier and happier than she had been in many years, his response was...

"What about me?"

Followed shortly by "What am I supposed to do?" and "How can you hurt ME like this?"

Breaking away from his selfish introspection for a moment, he rounded on me; "It's all YOUR fault! You are taking her away from me! This is what you have wanted all along, and now YOU are killing ME!".

As predicted, he cried. He begged. He pleaded. And then he made a really huge mistake.

He threatened suicide. Not once, but several times.

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In a desperate, last ditch attempt to stop her from leaving, he promised that if she would just stay, he would bring her over to see us any time she wanted. Then, as we moved closer to the door, he cried out that he had never been "invited" to live with us, and that if we would only ask him one more time, he would love to be a part of our family!

It was at this point that I finally spoke, for the first time since Mom had begun the confrontation.

"One more time?" I asked him, incredulous. "One more time? Are you KIDDING me? How many times over the years have you and I discussed this? I tried - and tried - and TRIED to tell you that this day was coming - that Mom wanted to live with us - and you refused to hear it. She begged you to move back to our home town, to be nearer to her family, and you told both of us that you would NEVER step foot into my home state again, let alone in my home town, and now you want me to ask you ONE MORE TIME?

Forget it. I'm done, she's done, we're all done with you. It's over."

Mom quietly agreed. "It's over."

And with that, it was.

Over.

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As soon as we were underway, I started dialing. The first call was to the Head Daughter (of The Daughters of Doom & Gloom). I greeted her, and told her briefly what had happened. She agreed to notify the other Daughters, and asked me to keep her posted as events continued to unfold.

This exchange might seem a bit strange to you - after all, in the past I have been less than kind regarding The Daughters. What you don't know is that the Head Daughter had called me several days before. To tell me some things. Chief among them was how The Stepdad's previous wife had committed suicide, and that she was really, really worried about my Mom going back into that situation. Because even The Daughters could see just how bad the situation was.

That previous wife she mentioned - we hadn't ever heard of. He hadn't been married twice before, as he had told Mom. He had been married THREE times. He conveniently "forgot" to mention that his last wife before Mom had killed herself.

I also learned during the course of that call that The Daughters haven't been waiting for The Stepdad to die so that they could get his money - they knew that he had written them out of the will several years ago when he was in a snit over some perceived slight. The Daughters had, however, been trying to keep an eye on my Mom, all of them afraid that she would not be strong enough to get out from under The Stepdad's watchful eye before she was too weak and too beaten down. Ironically, The Daughters are all scared of The Stepdad, too. It turns out that I've been the only one for years and years who has ever stood up to him. Answers the whole "Gee, I wonder why he doesn't like me" question rather neatly.

In an interesting little quirk, it turns out that The Daughters were all scared of *me* too. They thought that I didn't like them - and had been told that I wished to have nothing to do with them. Mom's health crisis finally forced them to call me, even though they were afraid to.

The Daughters aren't perfect, but I learned enough during that call to realize that The Stepdad was using an old, and very common trick to try and keep everyone dancing on the strings as he wished them to: Divide and conquer.

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The next call was to the retirement community that they have been living in since last summer. I spoke to a member of the management team, and indicated that The Stepdad had not only just received this bad news - that his wife was moving away to live with her family - but that he had threatened to do harm to himself. I indicated how concerned I was about his welfare, and asked her to please check on him every day. She promised that she would, and took my cell number so that she could call me with "updates".

I thanked her, and ended the call. I already knew what was going to happen.

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Less than two hours later, just as we were getting home again, my cell rang. It is the lady from the retirement community.

The Stepdad has been admitted to a local psych ward. He would be there for at least seven days, possibly up to fourteen days.

Let this be a lesson to you: Do not ever threaten suicide. Ever. No matter how dramatic you think it might be.

You'll get an opportunity to wear one of those oh-so-fashionable suits that buckle down the back... at least until the sedatives kick in.

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I rarely call in favors. And I have never done so on a holiday before.

One more phone call, 15 minutes later, and I have a moving truck, boxes, packing materials and a crew of four for the next day starting at dawn, and for as long as it takes to get Mom's things packed and out of there, and over here.

Sometimes, it isn't *who* you know, it's what you know about them...

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I am swimming in an ocean of lists now - change of address forms, medical paperwork, bank accounts, and more - all must be dealt with. There is the (not so small) matter of integrating all of Mom's things into our home; we were cramped for space to begin with, and with two households crammed into one space, we will have to give over two rooms simply to store things until we can assimilate everything as best we can.

I sense an enormous garage sale in my future.

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There is still the matter of the divorce itself; her portion of the retirement community fees to be refunded, her will must be updated.

We have already begun talking about expanding the house, or perhaps seeking another house better suited to our newly expanded family.

It's going to be an interesting summer.

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Mom is here, and safe, and getting happier, healthier, and stronger every day. She's been resurrected - literally and figuratively.

Best. Easter. Ever.

Amen.