Cosmetic

About 10 days ago I did something utterly selfish and vain: I got Botox and Radiesse injected into my face.

I’ve done the Botox before and this was probably about the sixth treatment for my brow. I remember my boss from Hospital Hell telling me that I always look like I’m angry because of the persistent frown lines. The first time I had it done was almost seven years ago and have a happy repeat customer.

It’s true what they say: while the effects do wear off, I can go longer between appointments before I really start to notice. Three treatments ago I had a not-so-good result and both my eyelids drooped. When I returned about six months after treatment and I explained this, the doctor said he would adjust for that in where he injected and since then there’s been no problem. The number 11 is no longer furrowed into my brow, but I can still give That Look to the kids or my husband when deserved.

Last winter when I had Botox I asked about skin peels. I think the skin on my face looks mottled from sun damage, hormones and scars. He suggested the Radiesse, which is a filler, as he really didn’t think I had that uneven of skin tone. I declined at the time, but it put a bug up my butt. Many times I would be at home looking in the mirror and pull the skin over my cheeks back to lift those “marionette” lines around my nose and mouth and think maybe it could be better. My mouth seemed to be permanently turned down and as I looked at pictures on the net and surfed for stories, I started talking myself into it.

Shortly before my appointment last week, I found a thread where a woman said she had it done and was VERY upset with the results, comparing herself to Marge Simpson’s upper lip area and I had second thoughts. If there was one celebrity I didn’t want to look like, that would be her. I went to my appointment anyway.

So what should you expect with either Botox or Radiesse injections? For me, the Botox treatments are a breeze. A half dozen or so pokes in my brow with a teeny-tiny needle while sitting on the exam table, a gauze to wipe out what oozes and away I go with instructions to occasionally exercise those muscles to help distribute the Botox and to not to lay down within the next few hours, which can cause it to gravitate into areas you don’t want it to gravitate. It takes about three days for me to notice it has taken affect.

As for the Radiesse…I had no idea what to expect. Well, except that it was injected. The nurse brought me a frozen pack to put over my mouth to numb up the area and that thing nearly frostbit my fingers trying to hold it. Eventually I reclined on the exam table to let gravity help while I was waiting, which was about 10 minutes. When we proceeded, he had me sit back up and before the first poke, he counted down, “3, 2, 1, here we go,” and the first injection took my breath away. It hurt like a mo-fo. So did the second, third, and fourth through the sixth injection, all into the lines that runs from the outside of my nose down past the lips on both sides.

“Before” (I look like hell on wheels!) March 2012

Not only was it more painful than the Botox, it feels incredible uncomfortable because it’s viscous, not at all like Botox which has the consistency of water. If you’ve ever done PIO, then yeah, it’s like that. In your face. (BOOyah!) I wondered what the hell I was doing and if I had to go a year before the stuff wore off feeling like lumps of ulcerated tissue under my skin. I thought I was screwed. He told me that in 24 hours, if it still felt lumpy, I could “massage” it out and work it into the areas I wanted. I left his office feeling like I looked like the aforementioned Marge Simpson. The lumping was bad enough; I was even worried I would accidently bite the inside of my cheeks because it physically invaded my oral cavity!

My doc said that it’s not uncommon to have bruising within a few hours and lasting for a few days. I was grateful I had the week off. By the time I got home (I did this in the city, a two hour drive, plus a little shopping), I was puffy around the mouth, but not bruised. I hadn’t told my husband I was doing this and he didn’t notice.

The next day felt much better. Not as lumpy, but sore. I noticed a very, very small bruise at the corner of my mouth. I thought it was some smutz on my face until I looked closely in the mirror. It never did hurt. The days after that, the filler evened out, the bruising and aching went completely away and now I think it looks pretty good.

The change in appearance is subtle but positive. Sparring Partner wouldn’t notice if I grew a horn out of my head, so this is definitely not something he’ll ever notice. No one has noticed in fact, or if they have, it hasn’t warranted a conversation. I have not told a soul, until now. *I* notice the difference and I like the results but I seriously disliked the actual procedure. The picture below is just from yesterday (LOVE the gray at the temples) (and I’m not wearing make-up). One of the reasons I wanted to document it is so I can remind myself of how much that part sucked.

“After” (Natural lighting is a godsend!) May 2012

As for the charge for the procedures, the Botox was $200 (up $25 from the last time I had had it done, but $100 cheaper then what it was 5 years ago). The Radiesse was $500. I did not have to pay that. I am lucky I work for a group of surgeons who have specialties in maxillofacial surgery, if you catch my drift. If I had to pay out of my pocket for it, I don’t know that I would have. The Botox, yes. The Radiesse? Meh. I don’t look 20 years younger, and not that I thought I would, but THAT would be worth $500!

Since I cannot recall any of you having had work done or finding a detailed description for Radiesse, I figured this might help someone else make a more informed decision.

 

High Five! But only after you wash your hands first.

With every blood test and every ultrasound and every home pregnancy test, I couldn’t wait to get back to my computer to write about it. It literally was the first thing I would do when I’d walk through the door (or washed my hands depending on the moment. You’re welcome.). I haven’t had that sense of urgency in ages.

As you may already know, I have a girl who is going to be four in July. Last July Aitch pooped in the potty and then that was it. It was a traumatic experience and she refused to do it again. It took ages just to get her to actually GO again, much less go in the toilet. We’ve had to make quick escapes from errands or family outings because she had to go, but would only go in a diaper or pull-up, and I’m sorry, but I refused to carry one with me in the hopes her desperation would take over the sheer stubbornness. It never worked. The girl can hold it for as long as it takes and I just can’t go through that whole enema thing. Talk about traumatic.

The ultimate bribe we’ve held over her was a Barbie that is part of a set that came with a horse. She earned one of the items when she finally stopped “holding it” and at the time, she chose the horse. Aitch would often ask to   just LOOK at the Barbie even though it was still in the package. She would hold it on her lap and look longingly through the plastic window at the pink encrusted Barbie. I thought it was ugly. To her, it was the most bee-YOO-ti-ful thing in the world. But not beautiful enough to sit on the damn potty and crap already.

Not even ignoring her had worked. She figured out how to put on her own diaper. If your kid is old enough to put on their own diaper, use it, take it off and roll it up, then Woman, I would say to myself, you’ve got a serious problem. I refused to stress (too much) about it. I never had to worry that she’d have an accident when out or that a road trip would mean stopping at every nasty gas station for a bathroom break.

Tonight I was in the bathroom, coincidentally, when I heard yelling coming from the other room and it was coming from Doodicus.I presumed the kids were getting into each other’s faces. Again. After lingering longer than necessary (Sometimes the only solitude I get is on the commode thanks to a child-proof doorknob.), I came out and asked what was the commotion. Doodicus looked up from his Nintendo and said Aitch pooped in the potty. I was dubious.

I looked over at the kids’ bathroom to see Aitch returning the receptacle to the training potty. I asked her what had happened. “I pooped in the potty,” she replied, matter-of-factly. Sure, kid, whatever. The toilet was running because it had just been flushed. I made a closer-than-I-would-have-liked inspection, and sure enough, out of the clear blue, she HAD pooped. In the potty.

I have no idea what switch was flipped. She told me how she had tried to get a pull-up on but couldn’t. She did have the pull-up on but she must have been in such a hurry she had forgotten to take off the underwear and realized the fact too late. So instead of pooping in her underwear (with the pull-up overtop), she had dropped trou…and then something else.

You wouldn’t believe the celebration we all did! High fives, kisses, hugs, congratulations. You name it, we did it. By the time I had finished washing up her hands, SP had the long-awaited Barbie free from the box and handed it over to Aitch who jumped up and down and exclaimed her undying love for the doll (which is now sitting haphazardly in the Fisher Price school bus, all but forgotten less than an hour later).

I know. Who cares, right? So my almost four year old FINALLY pooped in the potty. Big deal. Tomorrow she may decide “meh” and be back to square one. She could regress and start wetting her pants! But right now? The first thing I thought of after the high of event wore off was to announce it here. I am so fucking excited about this that I couldn’t wait to tell you. Just be happy I didn’t post a picture on FB and then end up on STFU, Parents. Let us hope for all of our sakes this is the last post I will ever have to write about toilet training.

 

Hospice

My FIL was admitted to Hospice care after several months of increasing health issues. He was initially diagnosed with breast cancer in 2010 and even though after his treatments were concluded, he was told the tumors were shrinking. Unfortunately after one of his follow-up appointments they found tumors scattered throughout his body. When they attempted to treat one area, it would negatively affect another organ. Then when they would treat that next organ, another would fail. The cyclical pattern was telling: there was nothing more they could do as far as treatments.

This news has sent the in-law’s family into turmoil, driving a wedge between those who think the doctors gave up too easily and those who think he should be allowed a chance to pain-free and comfortable days. When I first heard that he was going to go through chemo, I was stunned. I didn’t agree with his decision, nor the encouragement of his decision, to go through treatments that would make him feel like crap with the slim chance it would actually add time to his life. If he was 70 instead of 20 years older, I would feel differently. In other words, I thought his quality of life was severely diminished.

And then the chemo DID make him horribly sick and now instead of spending quality time at home, he’s too weak and requires continued care in a nursing home. Not so say he wouldn’t have possibly spent time there if he hadn’t gone through chemo, but being laid out for weeks in a hospital bed prior to making the hospice determination is where I think his health was negatively compromised.

Sparring Partner and I are not seeing eye to eye on this, but I am trying hard to keep my mouth shut. This is not happening to MY dad; I don’t know what he’s really feeling. I just know he leaves almost every evening to see his dad and returns well after the kids and I are in bed. During the day, he is prone to moments of brooding and even tears. After all these years of hearing stories of childhood, I wonder where the sudden change of heart is coming from, but as my sister explained, for my husband’s family, their dad acted as the true patriarch of the family and was actively involved and had final say on anything they did. Not like my dad who was this person who would only say, “Ask your mom…” when there were decisions to be made (if not just an outright “no”).

It’s a strained atmosphere around here. Waiting for the other boot to drop.

 

It’s a Lengthy One. You Can Trudge Through It!

The last time we met, I had my panties in a bunch over a note my son’s teacher had sent me about Doodicus and an upcoming field trip and how we could make it a more enjoyable trip for all. On my blog, I tried to present her in a neutral light, but I admit on Facebook I was an indignant and defensive attention whore and threw her under the school bus.

As instructed, all correspondence between me and the teachers when it comes to Dood’s behavior is to be copied to Dr. Rita. Of course, I forwarded the note from the teacher to him and by the next morning I had this response:

· Very clear, concise, specific expectations (for instance, [Dood] need to keep hands to himself, stay within arm’s length of the teacher, etc).

· Frequent feedback on those expectations (“[Dood], you are doing a great job staying with the group”, “Remember to keep hands to self”).

· Clear and specific consequences that can be applied on the field trip (“[Dood], if you touch things you are not supposed to touch, you will have to hold the teacher’s hand for 15 minutes”).

· On the bus, set [Dood] up for success. Assign him to sit next to a peer he will do well with, and have that assigned seat close to the teacher who can provide regular feedback when [Dood] is doing well meeting expectations.

· Give him incentives to look forward to on the trip. It sounds like this event lasts all day. When he does well on the bus on the way there, he gets to be the first one off the bus. When he does well staying with the group during the tour, he gets to be the first one to have lunch/decide where he or the group sits, that kind of thing. There are lots of small, cost-free ways to reinforce behavior. And the more the behavior is reinforced, the more likely it is you will see it.

Please let me know if these suggestions make sense. Also, if there is a specific concern they have, please let me know and I will do my best to provide additional suggestions.

It wasn’t until the note from the teacher did I actually have any concerns about how Doodicus was going to be on the trip. Since students were given the OK to bring something to occupy themselves on the bus (two-hour trip! One way!), I knew that his nose would be buried in a game and quite an easy traveler. But now I was stressing.

Between the scheduled field trip and exchange of notes above, we had an appointment with Dr. Rita, the psychologist as well as our first appointment with the psychiatrist to discuss possible med changes. I remembered to bring a notebook this time because when Sparring Partner asks me about the appointment, I find it difficult to summarize a 90 minute appointment in a five to ten minute discussion. Bullet points, it is! This has proven to be especially helpful when two weeks later, SP is doing something that the doctor has advised us not to do (or conversely, NOT doing something we should be), and SP defends himself with, “You never told me that!” “Oh, but I did, dear husband. Right here.” And hand over the notebook.

Our appointment with Dr. Hairy, the psychiatrist was enlightening, if not endlessly, …well…ENDLESS. Bedside manner is not his forte, but he asked dozens and dozens of questions. I would try to let Dood answer the questions and only interjected when necessary (how was the pregnancy? Birth? Baby diet, etc., etc.). In conclusion, the medication Dood had been taking (the Daytrana Patch at 20mg/day) was not doing its job effectively. It may have been sufficient at one time, but it’s possible to build up “immunity”. The new medication is Vyvanse and it’s been a nightmare getting it approved through my insurance company (Coventry). To complicate matters, our employer has switched back to BCBS on May 1st. To date (May 3rd), Coventry has not approved the prescription and I now have to get it approved with BCBS, too. As for out of pocket, the Vyvanse is less expensive than the Daytrana; however, when you are going from $275 to $230/month, it’s not significant.

On the first day of the Vyvanse, which was the day before the field trip, he complained of sharp stomach pains and nausea in the morning. In the days following (it’s now been one full week), he’s mentioned some nausea these past couple of evenings and that his arms hurt. The nausea thing could be one of his stalling tactics, since he usually feels just fine up until five minutes AFTER we’ve told him to get ready for bed. The aches might be growing pains? A valid suspicion if I was to factor in the recent appearance of pimples on his forehead. PIMPLES. ON MY TEN YEAR OLD. AAAARRRGGGGHH!!

Behavior-wise? He is a whole new child, according to his teacher. She actually described him as almost somber during the field trip, but that was before he confessed to discovering he had lost the $20 bill we had given him to spend (which was found by another teacher!). While I’m excited over the initial results, his behavior before the medication and at the end of the day are, simply worded, explosive and unpredictable. What’s most remarkable about these unfortunate events is that he feels remorse over them later. THAT has never happened in the past.

There’s less than two weeks to go in school. We will have to make a decision soon about where his education will continue next fall, but quite frankly, I have all but formally announced to Doodicus and to his parochial school that he will not return in the fifth grade, and that we will instead enroll him in the public school system.

I had been procrastinating the writing of this post because there just seemed like there was so much (TOO much) to write about, but I have to get this out there. The little details flit from my memory like moths out of a blanket getting snapped in the air. Which reminds me! I had requested Dood’s office notes from his visits with his therapist from 2008. The first time I had left a phone message with both the doctor and the therapist, I was ignored. My second voice mail messages I left were not so gentle, but were returned. I was informed that Dood’s mental health records could not be released to me, but only to a treating physician. I confirmed this information on-line (no thanks to Nebraska Health and Human Services (NHHS) endless links to more links and even MORE links) before actually reading that mental health providers and their patients’ notes cannot be released to the patient nor their guardian. Just an FYI.

As for the empathy displayed towards my teacher, I still feel a bit raw about it. As a parent, even to a child who I know can test the patience of a saint, I expect everyone else to think he’s perfect. Said with a certain level of wryness. Before you go too soft for the teacher, here are some excerpts from more recent emails (this first one is pre-new medication):

While [Dood]\’s day yesterday was \"better,\" this morning started out on the not-so-good side! The first full hour was a struggle for both of us. He was incredibly fidgety, inattentive, disruptive, noisy (actually humming nervous tunes and noises), uncooperative (didn\’t get Math book or practice book out when directed to do so…neither with the class nor when personally asked to do so), couldn\’t find Math homework (refused help to find it, saying it was \"at home\"), even a little argumentative. The afternoon is going a little better!

I have his assignments in order for being gone tomorrow and he has taken his Spelling test…got an 84%.

Perhaps you have an appointment set, but I\’d recommend a haircut soon. He\’s starting to play with his hair, dragging his fingers through it, and the bangs are in his eyes more often than not.

Here’s the response to our (mine and Dr. Rita’s) request to have a behavior-tracking-with-points form completed each day (emphasis is ALL mine):

I have given the charts to [Dood] and we’ll see how it goes! I think it might be tedious, but we’ll give it our best shot! I’m going to give him a certain folder (on MY desk) to hand his work in as it’s finished.

And then this:

Please clarify for me again…am I expected to chart this information? Would it not be as easy for him to do it? Also, I wanted to let you know his day seems to be going very smoothly! I’m anxious to see what a whole week looks like for him!

And finally:

Okay, Mrs. C. and I will do our best, but surely you understand that we have many other students and things to keep our minds occupied. This is a particularly challenging group of students, many issues, etc. However, as I said, we will make every effort to complete this task daily. I’ll keep the charts in a folder at my desk and there will be no need for concern by anyone else.

Aaaaaand, discuss (said with a waved flourish of my hand)!

 

Hackles

I got this note from my son’s teacher today. Please tell me this is nothing to get defensive about…

Good afternoon!
I intended to drop a note yesterday, but got otherwise involved after school…[Dood] had a pretty good day (yesterday), seemed more settled, more organized, more able to focus on tasks at hand.
Today started out in a much different way, back to flitting all over the room, neglecting simple morning responsibilities (even with several reminders to…i.e., fill in the lunch chart, pick up the book bag, take off the jacket, get your chair). He is my morning prayer helper this week and just couldn\’t stand still long enough to do even that job…his hands were up above his head, he was fidgeting and unable to stay in one spot.
I am more than a little concerned about our field trip to [the Capitol] next week (Thursday). I know mornings are often not good or at least unpredictable for [Dood]. Please give me some helpful information (re. meds, etc.) for that early morning departure and ride to [the Capitol] (remember, we leave @ 6:15 a.m. that day). I also am curious about the ride home and what we can do to make it the best possible trip for him and his companions.
I truly want the experience to be a positive and enjoyable one for [Dood] (and for those around him).

 

My Angel Does Not Poop Fluffy, White Clouds

We meet again with Dr. Rita this Friday. I like your ideas of the reward system, but I’ll admit to being an asshole of a mom and stating it’s just easier on many days to wish I could thump Doodicus for being a real butt. However, since this is about HIM and not about ME, I’ll get some more ideas from the doc on how to implement a system that doesn’t backfire by bringing more attention to Dood at school. Seven- and eight-year-olds don’t notice that a classmate is walking around with a keychain of privilege cards or that the teacher is keeping a sticker chart. Ten- and eleven-year-olds will, and being the blood-thirsty heartless, little vultures that they are, they’ll go straight for his soft underbelly.

Let’s talk about Aitch for a bit now, shall we? She’s got me wound so tight around her little finger, my head is up my ass…twice. "Mommy, will you lay down with me? Just for a little bit?" she wheedles sweetly. And I perch myself carefully on a sliver of the bed she gives up for me. "You’re the best mommy," she sighs. "I love you," at which time she strokes my face with her still babyishly soft hand and tucks her feet between my knees to warm them. I’ve been lulled by her angelic nature.

She wrote her name on a piece of paper the other day, without any assistance. Sure, the "E" was backwards and the "L" was upside down, but it was her first autograph. She drew a picture of a person that same week. Again, without any insistence from us, and then came running up to me with a coloring of a very large-headed, stick-figure with three legs, tree branches for arms (per Aitch), and purple hair. She said it was me.

She’s as subtle as a hammer. Days spent at daycare means her "indoor" voice would rival a howler monkey. And she isn’t just loud, it’s constant. She’s either carrying on a self-monologue, singing or humming. My favorite is her trying to sing the Lion King’s opening credit’s song. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear she was speaking in tongues.

What I’m really enjoying is her personal level of responsibility. When we ask her to get dressed for the day, she’ll happily skip to her room and come out just a few minutes later ready to go. Sure, she’s most likely wearing a yellow-striped tank-top under the purple polka-dot, long-sleeved t-shirt, zebra-striped leggings and a green tu-tu, but hallelujah! She. Is. Dressed. Most of the time, she’ll even remember to put the empty hangers in the hamper and shut off the lights to both her room and closet.

Doesn’t she sound positively PERFECT??

Yeah, well, before you hate me any further, I’m going to tell you Aitch’s dirty, little secret. She won’t poop in the potty. Oh, sure, she’s been potty-trained for nearly a year. She’s only had a couple of daytime accidents. But that ONE time she actually gave us a No. 2 in the potty was so traumatic, she utterly and adamantly has refused since then. Want to see a normally agreeable child figuratively lose their shit when they literally need to do so? If you don’t act quick enough for her liking, she’ll go put on her own diaper. Not a pull-up, mind you, but a diaper. She diapers herself.

After the first few months of her being potty-trained, we tried so hard to get her to try pooping (again) in the potty, but we only succeeded in causing such major constipation that we had to provide enemas and mira-lax. I have had a child before who refused to be potty-trained on both levels so I knew it just wasn’t worth the fight. It makes everyone unhappy and even unhealthy. In fact, knowing that it took us over eight years to finally feel confident that Dood wasn’t going to come home from school with "damp" underwear, I have given myself permission to wait out Aitch’s rebellion for at least another two years before I get my own panties in a twist. She’s never had an accident. She always waits until we’re home before the urge hits her. On our trip to Disney World? She regularly came to me in the morning to announce her intention, did her deed, and away we went to the parks and never had to give it a second thought.

I guess if there’s a potty-training issue to be had, she’s got the "easiest" kind. She asks for the diaper. She stays in her room (as required) until she’ done. She then gives us a shout. We get cleaned up and away we all go. There’s no impossible to reach awkward-tushy-spot on the toilet. There’s no embarrassing public call-out in the Target bathroom, "Mommy! Wipe my butt!" Of course, I would like to not have to buy diapers and would love to finally move the diaper pail into a recycle heap, because as wonderful and as sweet and as loving as she is, her shit STILL does stink.

In this case, I’m not calling out for help. It’s more of a hey, we may LOOK like we pretty much have it going on in the Big Kid department, but in reality we are letting a nearly four-year-old continue to dictate parts of our lives I would much rather have back for myself. Especially Sparring Partner who has brought her to the edge of Meltdown City before remembering there are much bigger battles to be waged and won coming our way, including prom-season. I don’t care if it is another 13 years away. She just better watch her step because if she even tries on a dress with cleavage cut to the naval, I will not be afraid to remind her how it wasn’t that long ago she was crapping in her pants.

 

504 Plans and Punishment

Doodicus had his second therapy session almost two weeks ago. During our appointment, Dr. Rita scribbled some notes on a sheet of paper and handed them to me when we were done. It was a list of accommodations we would send to the school. The beginning of our 504 Plan.

Now in my head, the 504 Plan was this formal outline that not only required a notary, but the signatures from no less than a dozen physicians, and the stamp of a unicorn’s ass to make it official. Apparently not. In our case, it just needs to be a neatly formed letter describing the disability (ADHD) and how it can affect the child’s learning and then basically a list of bulleted statements of accommodations the school (or even the family) will take from that point forward.

After years of "pleading" with teachers to just take a few extra moments, if you don’t mind, I know you’re busy and all, but would you double-check his assignment book to make sure he’s filled it out before coming home, it’s now just as simple as this example:

"The teacher will review and sign off on Dood’s assignment book every day, which is then to be double-checked by the parents."

As you can tell, it’s not really a request. Just like you don’t ask your kids, "Will you please eat all your peas?" I have to realize that this is not a favor I am asking, but that just like eating your peas, it’s simply an expectation of what is best is the given situation.

So I am figuring this out (slowly), but there is still so much gray area to cover. For example, we are also supposed to come up with punishments for repeated infractions. The punishment must be immediate and straight-forward. It’s simple to exact punishment at home: no TV, no video game, quiet time in room, etc., but what kind of punishment is acceptable by the teacher in front of 20 other kids in a classroom? The infractions that we are trying to eliminate may seem rather…petty…but they are part of helping Doodicus understand what responsibility means. Here are a few behaviors and if you have any suggestions on how to motivate Dood to not repeat them, please shout it out:

1) Not hanging up coat/throwing coat on the floor. It’s causing a tripping hazard to other kids and a distraction to Dood.

2) Late assignments. I have taken reduced recess out of the equation.

3) Carrying on with neighbor-student (talking, joking, horse-play) during the lesson. BTW, I believe it’s this type of activity that ends up getting Doodicus excluded from planned group activities. No one wants the trouble-maker on their team….

4) Using his pencil as a sword or light saber during study hall. He’s playing by himself, but he’s not only distracting everyone around him, he’s not getting his work done. Obviously, you can’t take away the pencil.

All thoughts and opinions are helpful. There’s no such thing as "assvice" around here.

P.S. I plan on posting more about the 504 Plan because it’s taken me almost three years to actually understand what I needed to do. I had a gist, but Dr. Rita has been invaluable in helping me appreciate how very simple it is.

 

I Remember the Stove

This stove sits in the dining room of the house I grew up in. When we would lose electricity, which of course only happened when the nastiest of blizzards would be blowing through, this was our only source of heat. We wtould hang quilts to separate this room from the others, to keep the heat concentrated during extended outages. I loved, and still do, leaning onto this stove, my backside quickly warming up so I would have to arch forward for a few seconds losing contact
and then returning my  cooled butt to its comforting and familiar heat. After chores, mittens of all sizes would cover the top to dry away the snow and cold. There was nothing like that moment slipping the gloves back on, hot and crustily dried, before going out for the evening chores when it was 20 degrees below windchill. Mom would also keep an old teapot filled with water to humidify the room. The kettle had so much mineral build-up from decades of evaporation, the spout was blocked shut. It burns oil, not wood, and if it wasn’t venting properly, the smell would choke me and sting my eyes. My dad, with his 100 lb frame and aging bones, keeps the stove running at least 300 days a year, easily. I’ve walked into the house on balmy summer days and have felt heat from its surface. I’m so accustomed to its warm presence that when it is off , the cold iron feels foreign and awkward. I imagine its like trying to hug a corpse of someone you loved dearly.

 

The Alzheimer’s Threat

Since Doodicus was a baby, his grandma, my mom, has spent one day of the week watching the kids. It’s been a wonderful opportunity for all of us. As you know, my mother’s declining mental health has made many day-to-day tasks challenging. Initially diagnosed with early dementia, she is now in the early, but moderate, stages of Alzheimer’s and on several different medications.

These were prescribed with the intent to slow the affects of the disease, but they only work when they are taken consistently. How do you get someone who cannot remember what day or time it is to take their Monday morning dose? My brother who lives within a couple minutes from the farm, stops in almost daily to see if she’s taken her medicines, but he’s reported there are times he hasn’t been over for two or three days to discover she’s not taken anything.

When I talk to her on the phone, I can tell when she’s been taking her medicine as prescribed. She happy, content, talkative and rarely repeats herself. Without, she’s brusque, bitchy and can’t remember what the topic was from the five minutes before, if she even stays on the phone that long without hanging up without so much as a "good-bye" or "Love you". A couple weeks ago, I had asked if she could come to watch Aitch on Tuesdays instead of Mondays because I have Tuesday afternoons off. I can keep a better eye on her and let her go home earlier as she’s so exhausted by noon. She remembered and I was relieved. Tuesday passed without a hitch except she left her glasses behind. Two days later, as we were eating breakfast, she rang the bell and I went to the door puzzled by her unexpected visit (mind you, it’s a 25 mile drive). I thought it was because she had forgotten her glasses and she had some kind of appointment in town and was stopping by to pick them up. I asked if she wanted to spend the day with Aitch since she was in town. She said, "Well, that’s why I’m here. Your dad said I was suppose to come up." I hadn’t talked to my dad in a couple of weeks and certainly had not told him that mom was to be at our house that day.

We discovered she wasn’t taking her medication again. Sunday I called her, and since I was in a shit mood, having sat at the table with Doodicus for four hours trying to get him through his homework, I told her simply that if she didn’t take her medicine as prescribed, she couldn’t watch the kids anymore. I feared for her safety and I feared for the welfare of my kids. She’s incapable of using the cell-phone we leave at the house for emergencies. Against my repeated requests, she lets Aitch play in her car, which seems to always result in the key getting turned over or the lights turned on leaving her a dead car battery at the end of the day. (Yes, grandma stays with her, but what if mom collapses in the car and my daughter has the key or can’t open the door on a hot day…I go into a panic just thinking about it.)

Sparring Partner has had enough, too. He will drive home over lunch to make sure they are eating and almost always finds Aitch sitting in the living room in front of the TV with a glass of soda (which we don’t allow her to have, much less have in the living room, much, MUCH less in an open glass!) eating marshmallows out of the bag or he’s picking up a dozen tootsie roll wrappers littered across the house. It’s like grandma just doesn’t give a shit.

My mom use to talk with so much scorn about the people who would end up in the nursing home "batshit crazy and not knowing what day it is" and claiming she would never want to end up that way, and yet here she is, one step away, and it’s pissing me off. My mom and dad despise each other (another long story) so they only live in the same house, refusing to help each other. Dad’s not going to remind her to take her medicine; mom won’t ask dad to remind her to take her medicine. I’ve offered to buy my mom a pill dispenser that has an audio alarm, but she doesn’t want it. Won’t use it. And sure, I can threaten that she can’t come up and spend the day alone with the kids, but what good does that do when she doesn’t even remember the threat?

The thoughts I have about the situation are selfish and ugly. I am already feeling the crushing weight from what is going on with Doodicus, and frankly I just want someone else to just make it all go away.

 

I Remember Dialing the Phone

There was a wall-mounted, black rotary phone in our "den" when I was growing up. The den was a tiny room at the front of the house that was eight square feet, at the most. It contained the shotgun cabinet, a drop-front secretary desk, a door to the outside, an arched entrance into the dining room and that rotary phone. In fact, it still has all of those items in it. The only change that’s been made is it’s been painted a couple of times and new carpet. To make a phone call, you simple picked up the phone, listed to the handset to make sure the family you didn’t share it with (a "party" line) wasn’t already using it, and then you stuck your finger – or a pencil, if you were feeling fancy – into the hole with the corresponding number and rotated it clockwise until it hit the stopper. Then you lifted your finger out and went to the next number. Repeat six more times.

If I got in a hurry and put my finger in the 4 instead of the 3 and moved it even slightly, I had just fucked up everything. I have to start over. Waiting for the rotary to return from the stop was eternal. Especially if was a zero, which required a nearly 170 degree rotation. 1 was the closest to the dial and therefore the shortest to wait for. Our prefix was 337. Every number we ever dialed started with 337. After that, each phone in the community was numerically assigned. Apparently our family’s was the 865th phone number assigned.

When I needed a phone number of a friend, I could simply dial -0- and ask the live operator. If you picked up the handset and your party line was in use, we had three options: 1) listen in on their conversation until they were done; 2) hang up loud enough so they knew someone else wanted the line; or 3) ask them if you could use the phone quickly and then they could have it back.

I frequently have nightmares about being unable to use my phone or repeatedly dialing the wrong number. It might be a throw back to all those years using a rotary and knowing precious seconds could tick away if there was a fire or someone cut off their finger if I mis-dialed 9-1-1. Why they ever assigned emergency services 9-1-1- back in the days of rotary phones, I will never understand considering 9 is just next to the zero.

 

I Remember the Liver

My dad was cutting up the trunk and branches of a tree that had fallen and found a nest with four fledgling kestrels, all still alive. Yet unable to fly and likely abandoned, they would never live on their own. My dad did some reading and discovered the easiest food we could give them were bits of raw liver from chickens, which we raised and slaughtered over the summers.

We kept the birds in the former rabbit hutch and every day we would crawl in there with those little birds and hand-feed them slivers of livers that they happily gobbled it down. They quickly outgrew the hutch as their flight feathers came in. The chickens had all been slaughtered, so we moved them to the brooder house. We rigged up branches and perches and then we would startle them so they’d practice flying. I know there’s a picture of me as an awkward ‘tween with really badly permed hair stooping over in the brooder house with one of the kestrels perched on my back. I’m wearing a short-sleeved, red sweater. If I find it, I’ll make sure to share it for the laughs.

Soon they seemed to be ready to be released so we opened the door and shooed them out. They flew out and then immediately landed on the ground. The barn cats circled. We’d chase the cats away and try to get the kestrels to land higher, whether on the barn’s roof, electric lines or nearby trees. Eventually we knew it was survival of the fittest. We couldn’t keep the cats away from them forever.

In the days and weeks that followed, it was impossible to know if the kestrels we saw flying around were the ones we raised. But even now, 30 years later, I like to believe that some of their descendants still live on the farm I was raised.

 

Therapy Session No. 2

I took Doodicus to his second therapy session this morning. Dr. Rita (that was his nickname the last time, right?) had called and spoken to Doodicus’ teacher before we arrived to ask for himself how Dood was doing in school. After he told us that the teacher confirmed the concerns from our first appointment, Dr told us quite bluntly that the medication – 20mg Daytrana patch – isn’t working, and that we would need to schedule an appointment with the psychologist, Dr Herring. In a way, I was glad to hear this because it meant that things can be better for Doodicus, but I’m very worried about the adjustments we’ll have to face.

We spent 90 minutes with Dr Rita discussing how the pervasive feelings of how Dood thinks he does nothing right. We talked about a 504 plan and an IEP, details of what’s involved forthcoming. I just can’t get into it now because honestly, I don’t have enough information. But it’s finally happening. Dr Rita also thinks his teachers are woefully-prepared to deal with his ADHD, and told us that Doodicus’ failure to thrive this year is directly AND indirectly related to the personnel at his school. Sure Dood is responsible for staying organized and completing work and paying attention, but he’s also responsible for making sure the teachers DO THEIR JOB AND HELP HIM stay organized, complete his work and pay attention! His teacher’s suggestion this past fall that included assigning a “buddy” to help him get his assignments written in his assignment book was just another confirmation that his teachers are clueless: it’s the teacher’s job to make sure his assignments are written down, not a classmates; and there’s the added concern of how negatively this could affect Doodicus by creating a situation for additional stigma.

As for the teacher’s repeated admonishment that fourth graders should no longer require everyday review of their assignment book by the teacher, Dr Rita said children with ADHD work at approximately 75% maturity and responsibility level of “normal” children. Another indication that his teachers don’t get it because they want to treat all the kids the same, and obviously they are not.

In case you weren’t sure before, we like Dr Rita very much. He seems genuinely concerned and also confident that we will make things much better for all considered. Let me share this last little tidbit that made me a believer in Dr Rita: The clinic’s policy only allows appointments to be scheduled two out at a time. This was a concern because it would mean it would be almost impossible to get the slots we needed, which were late evenings, if we wanted to eliminate our need to take a whole day off from both work and school since four hours alone are devoted to travel. He personally came up to the front desk with us and had the limitation lifted from our account and I was able to schedule appointments approximately every three weeks up through this summer.

The other extra step he took was even more remarkable. The psychiatrist’s FIRST available appointment happened to be in three weeks on a Friday, and only because someone had just cancelled. The initial problem with that was we wouldn’t be able to see Dr Rita the same day as he sees patients at a satellite clinic on Fridays. Trying to coordinate both appointments on the same day was proving to be a statistical nightmare as Dr Herring’s next available time wasn’t until June and we really need to get Doodicus switched to medication that actually HELPS. Dr Rita said it was important enough that he would make this one-time arrangement and come into his office that same Friday. We now wouldn’t have to make two trips in one week!

On a related note: The reason for the opening with Dr Herring was because the clinic had just brought in a N.P. (Nurse Practitioner). The scheduler said she couldn’t schedule us with the NP because our insurance wouldn’t cover it. When she said that, I replied, “I’m not going to limit our care to what my insurance will or will not cover. If we have to pay out-of-pocket, we will.”

I overheard a woman the other day talking about how her daughter’s insurance “kicked her out of the hospital.” I’m not going to get all preachy about this, but her insurance did NOT kick her out of the hospital. The discharge planning department didn’t have enough medical necessity from the doctor to report to her insurance the need for her continued stay unless she wish to stay and pay out of pocket for the bed. Just FYI.

OK, need to get this published before my internet crashes again. Plus I need to research 504 Plans and IEPs. Why do I always feel that the more information I have, the more time I feel I have wasted on being ignorant?

 

It’s Just One

With most of us experiencing early spring-almost-summer, it’s tempting to head back outside and soak in the sun without care. A coworker said she was outside this past weekend for about 20 minutes and sunburned her back. It was hazy that day, which is especially deceiving.

I had my third mole-check after I was diagnosed with malignant melanoma and while the last time I went scott free, today I am sporting a simple bandaid on my left forearm. I wait two weeks for the results of the biopsy.

I’ve had friends and family explain how they’re afraid to get their moles checked out. They have so many! They’d be covered with bandages from all the biopsies!

It doesn’t work that way. Sure, if you have lots of moles covering your body, then yes, you ARE at higher risk because your body is funkifying the pigment in your skin. But it’s not the one-hundred moles on your right shoulder you need to worry about. It’s the ONE that doesn’t look like the others that you need to have looked at by your dermatologist right now.

Me? I don’t have a lot of moles. I have ‘sun-spots" on my hands and I have a very faint pregnancy mask. My dermatologist loves me because it takes him just a couple minutes to examine my skin. That ONE he took yesterday stood apart. No bigger than a mark made by a Sharpie pen-tip and dark. He may have decided to take it just because I asked about it. Why wonder later, he said, so it’s gone.

After having had seven biopsies, I do have two major scars. However, they are both direct results of surgery, not biopsies. Scars are ugly, I’ll give you that. But radiation therapy and chemotherapy is uglier. Dressed up in your Sunday best lying on a bed of white satin and air-brushed to look semi-human even though you’re dead is Ugliest, even if you haven’t a scratch on you.

 

I Remember Fake IDs

When I was a freshman in college, I would forge documents for students so they could get a fake ID from the state that showed them to be legal drinking age. All I needed was a photocopy of a birth certificate. I would white-out the year and type over it and then photo-copy it again. Since the students weren’t attempting to get driver’s licenses, it was all the state required. I of course made one for myself. I walked by a bar and they were looking for part-time employment. I completed the application and then headed over to where they sold carry-out liquor. I headed up to the counter with my purchase and dug out my fake ID. As I was standing there, the guy who I had turned over my app to came up and put it down next to me on the counter in front of the clerk selling me booze. He tapped meaningfully on the birthdate of my application. The clerk, who had been examining my ID, looked at me with a smirk. I left utterly humiliated by my stupidity and without my fake ID. I didn’t make another.

 

I Remember Grape Flavoring

I entered my freshman year of college at the ripe old age of barely 18. A couple of my dorm-friends and I went to the local liquor store and illegally bought booze. My choice was grape Mad Dog 20/20. I don’t think I was mixing it with anything. We drove around town and drank and giggled and drank some more. Our driver had just parked the car on campus and I stumbled out and promptly threw up. My first buzz-ending-in-puking-adventure. It’s taken many years, but once in a while I’m able to take a couple of sips of grape soda. Remember the kool-aid flavored, wax bottles? The ones with grape tastes just like that Mad Dog.