As a parent of a child with Cerebral Palsy you discover you have a list. A list of people that you will one day realize you need to invent/build and use a time machine on to travel back in time and "thunk" then soundly on the head for the stuff they did.
While I am not the birth mother of KSS I was there for most all of her appointments and doc visits, so I got to witness a lot of crap. As her protector and advocate I feel I have the right to dole out some thunkins.
When KSS was 3 years old she went to an intake evaluation for Occupation Therapy. That day was the trifecta of crass people and will be my first stop on my retro-thunkin tour.
A well dressed man approached us and asked KSS's mother, "I'm doing a research project on CP, Did you use crank during your pregnancy?"
THUNK. Dude you get that thunk right between the eyes for your question. Research or not that was uncalled for.
Next the technician handed my 3 year old scissors and a sheet of paper and asked her to cut a line.
KSS picked up the scissors and looked at them.
The tech made a smurky comment that hinted that KSS must be mentally retarded because she didn't know what to do.
At this point I had had enough and stepped in and spoke up. "She's THREE! She has never seen scissors let alone cut anything with them!"
I took the scissors and snipped the paper and then helped KSS to do it. Then I laid both the paper and scissors back on the table and asked KSS to cut the paper again.
Which she tried to do.
The tech eyeballed her and made a clicking sound with her lips and marked her paper with a heavy stroke.
THUNK.
No wait, I just remembered one small detail of that event. Those weren't kid scissors they were big ones.
Lady, you get and extra THUNKIN for that!
The next boob that came in to eval her, was firing off a slew of questions then not waiting for her to answer. She kept looking to Mother, Grandma and me as if saying "OMG your kids a turnip." with her eyes.
THUNK.
As we left that appointment I said, "I can't wait to get home so I can shower, they left me feeling icky, bleah..."
Grandma nodded and said "I should go back in there and say something, that was rude."
But even with all that I feel there is one person in particular that is more deserving of a retro thinkin.
He was the orthopedic surgeon who straightened her left leg. Initially the surgeon planned to straighten both her legs. But at the last min they only did one.
After it was all over and they were doing a gait re-check he watched her walk down and back and he turned to us.
"That turned out beautiful. We should have done both legs."
Being at the mercy of the doctors and their decisions about KSS and her treatment plan. It never occurred to us to press further and ask to have the other one done. We just assumed they knew what there were doing.
Well, guess what. I got a call two months ago from KSS. Its now been ~20 years since that day. The leg they didn't operate on is now deteriorated to a point of needing surgery. A life time of walking on her crooked leg has stressed the ankle and deteriorated the joint.
The other one they straighten is fine. She is facing complex orthopedic surgery to try to salvage her foot and ability to walk.
We never looked this far into the future. We didn't have the knowledge or experience to see this coming. As young parents of a CP child, we were only concerned with the right here and now. It never occurred to us to say, "hey doc, how is this going to affect her ankle stability in 20 years?"
We fought so hard to help her to walk. That was the focus. Now she is facing that again.
So a mighty THUNK to her surgeon. "Yeah dude, why DIDN'T you do both legs?....and more to it lets DO IT, schedule the surgery so twenty years from now my child will not have to suffer from this wishy-washy-ness"
And why oh why was there not a course for parents on the future possible complications that can arise from the diagnosis of CP?
You know after learning all this info about childhood CP and the general working of Shiners hospital the hard way, I often thought if I had the time I would set up a program to help inexperienced parents navigate this stuff in the early days. To have a support person to go with them to the intake eval at the hospital who understand what it feels like to be wearing those shoes of uncertainty.
I remember when KSS was a teenager she happened to meet a woman with CP at a restaurant. The two started talking and it was fascinating to hear the questions KSS asked her. Questions we would never be able to answer about living with CP.
The one that surprised me was the first one out of her mouth. KSS asked her, "Does everything smell really intense to you?"
I thought, what an odd question.
Then the lady's eyes lit up and she said "YES! everyone tells me I am being oversensitive to small smells but to me they are very intense!"
Which answered a lot of questions about what I perceived as odd behaviors in KSS as a child. Which also means I too deserve a...
THUNK.
For the time she was smelling each and every rose at the park, and I told her. "KSS they all smell the same! lets go!"
I would have never guessed that while CP is by definition brain damage, that it might have also enhanced the brain in areas no one ever looked at.
Oh wait I just remembered another person deserving of a retro thunkin.
The boob who cut off her thigh high cast. The instant the cast saw touched the cast KSS freaked the hell out and started screaming in pain.
They stopped the saw and told her. "It doesn't' hurt. Now hold real still."
She continued to scream as they cut the cast down her leg.
The tech kept repeating loudly between her screams "It doesn't hurt!"
When they finished and cracked the cast back, fresh blood filled up the cast.
sigh.
The exposed pins in her ankle were casted into the cast. As in each time the saw jiggled the cast, it jiggled the pins that went though her ankle into her bones.
Um.
THUNK!!!! oh stop your whining that doesn't hurt! THUNK!!!! THUNK!!!! THUNK!!!! THUNK!!!! THUNK!!!! THUNK!!!!
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
The Neccos vampire
"How are you this morning?" He asks in a polite voice.
She shrugs her thin shoulders and fidgets with her watch band.
He knows she won't reply in words, but it has become a routine long established, and he is afraid to deviate from it.
A can of warm RC cola and a package of Necco wafer. Her usual purchases. They never vary. Some days he wonders why he bothers to scan them. "Ninety-eight cents" He smiles at her, trying to make eye contact.
Her dark blue eyes like deceiving pools of calm water hiding some lurking danger beneath the surface, stare vacantly towards the front of the store. With a curt flick of her wrist she tosses a crumpled up bill his direction.
There is blood on her faded grey sweat shirt again. Evidence supporting his vampire theory. He knows the white skirt and nursing shoes she wears are a disguise. Nurse are caring, compassionate and she is sullen and distant.
As he counts out her change into her outstretched palm his eyes naturally fall on the three jagged scars that run across her thin wrist. When he has first seen them he had been so taken back, that he had to count her change twice before he got it right. An exotic sultan perhaps had in slaved her and broke her spirit.
Sliding the can into a sack he noticed that she was paler than usual. He figured that she worked in some mad scientists laboratory, helping with diabolical experiences. Perhaps a caustic chemical injected into her larynx robbed her of her speech, and she had been instructed a Necco an hour would prevent her wind pipe from growing shut.
She left the counter leaving behind a still shadow of silence.
He watched her go, eternally intrigued by her.
Twelve hours later he shifted from sore foot to sore foot, grumbling silently under his plastic smile. His patience for the public worn thin. He stopped making eye contact and tiredly counted out change to bodiless hands.
"Four and five. Thank you for shopping with us." He forced himself to stay, the surliness coming though despite his efforts to sound cheery.
Glancing at his watch he saw that he only had six minutes remaining before he could peel off his phony Saran wrapping and become himself again.
Reaching for the next item to be scanned he found a can of warm RC in his hand. He watched as the Necco's rolled a few inches and stop.
Glancing up he is shocked to find himself staring into familiar blue eyes. These eyes are different somehow....almost alive.
Perhaps this is a twin to the morning one, grown in a petri dish.
He tests his theory.
"Strange to see you this time of night." he says scanning the soda.
A large smile warms her face. "Yeah, I suppose it is. Are you working a double or changing shifts?"
Well damn, there goes his mute theory. "A double" he sighs,
"Doubles are killers on the body" she sympathizes.
He nods in agreement and scans the Neccos. "Ninety-eight cents." He smiles for real.
She hands him a dollar bill.
"Ninety-nine and one." He counts while gazing at the scars, almost disappointed in discovering that a sultan hadn't broken her spirit. Why she seemed to be fairly normal, average.
'Briar-Oaks Convalescent Home' is printed in bold letters on her name badge. He stares at it as he hands over the sack. "Thank you for shopping with us." he says as his voice jelling back into the forced cheerful sound.
Again she smiles, "see ya!"
As he watched her walk out. The game was over. He could see no point in playing any longer. She was just ....a mortal who worked in a nursing home. Not a spy or mutant experiment or relocated government witness, not even a vampire. Disappointed, he shook his head.
Though tired eyes the next morning He saw the can of RC and Neccos on the counter. "Howjur night go?" he asked with a wistful ping in his heart for the spoiled game.
She shrugged her shoulders and fidgets with her watch band, Her eyes deep and shut off are gazing towards the parking lot. She flicks the crumpled bill his direction.
His heart skipped a beat, suddenly intrigued again. What could possibly occur night after night inside the wall of Brier-Oaks, to remove all traces of humanity from her. A smile snaked across his face.
Perhaps, Brier-Oaks was a nursing home for vampires, or aliens...or...
********************************************************************************
Back story:
This is actually a rough draft of a character sketch for my college writing class in 1991. The soda/Necco price really dates it.
The assignment was to describe yourself without just listing your physical features. I wrote this then a different one called DMV that I turned in as my finished project.
This story is based on a actual event. After a particularly stressful night at work me and two co-workers hit up the min-mart on the way home. I looked every bit the description in the story. We were all giddy and rummy from no sleep. I bought a warm can of RC and neccos. The cashier was eying me up and pointed to my name tag and asked me how to pronounce my name.
One co-worker, butted in and said "Oh, she can't talk, she's got no tongue."
The other piped right up and added, "She has to eat an Necco an hour to soak up all her saliva."
LOL!
She shrugs her thin shoulders and fidgets with her watch band.
He knows she won't reply in words, but it has become a routine long established, and he is afraid to deviate from it.
A can of warm RC cola and a package of Necco wafer. Her usual purchases. They never vary. Some days he wonders why he bothers to scan them. "Ninety-eight cents" He smiles at her, trying to make eye contact.
Her dark blue eyes like deceiving pools of calm water hiding some lurking danger beneath the surface, stare vacantly towards the front of the store. With a curt flick of her wrist she tosses a crumpled up bill his direction.
There is blood on her faded grey sweat shirt again. Evidence supporting his vampire theory. He knows the white skirt and nursing shoes she wears are a disguise. Nurse are caring, compassionate and she is sullen and distant.
As he counts out her change into her outstretched palm his eyes naturally fall on the three jagged scars that run across her thin wrist. When he has first seen them he had been so taken back, that he had to count her change twice before he got it right. An exotic sultan perhaps had in slaved her and broke her spirit.
Sliding the can into a sack he noticed that she was paler than usual. He figured that she worked in some mad scientists laboratory, helping with diabolical experiences. Perhaps a caustic chemical injected into her larynx robbed her of her speech, and she had been instructed a Necco an hour would prevent her wind pipe from growing shut.
She left the counter leaving behind a still shadow of silence.
He watched her go, eternally intrigued by her.
Twelve hours later he shifted from sore foot to sore foot, grumbling silently under his plastic smile. His patience for the public worn thin. He stopped making eye contact and tiredly counted out change to bodiless hands.
"Four and five. Thank you for shopping with us." He forced himself to stay, the surliness coming though despite his efforts to sound cheery.
Glancing at his watch he saw that he only had six minutes remaining before he could peel off his phony Saran wrapping and become himself again.
Reaching for the next item to be scanned he found a can of warm RC in his hand. He watched as the Necco's rolled a few inches and stop.
Glancing up he is shocked to find himself staring into familiar blue eyes. These eyes are different somehow....almost alive.
Perhaps this is a twin to the morning one, grown in a petri dish.
He tests his theory.
"Strange to see you this time of night." he says scanning the soda.
A large smile warms her face. "Yeah, I suppose it is. Are you working a double or changing shifts?"
Well damn, there goes his mute theory. "A double" he sighs,
"Doubles are killers on the body" she sympathizes.
He nods in agreement and scans the Neccos. "Ninety-eight cents." He smiles for real.
She hands him a dollar bill.
"Ninety-nine and one." He counts while gazing at the scars, almost disappointed in discovering that a sultan hadn't broken her spirit. Why she seemed to be fairly normal, average.
'Briar-Oaks Convalescent Home' is printed in bold letters on her name badge. He stares at it as he hands over the sack. "Thank you for shopping with us." he says as his voice jelling back into the forced cheerful sound.
Again she smiles, "see ya!"
As he watched her walk out. The game was over. He could see no point in playing any longer. She was just ....a mortal who worked in a nursing home. Not a spy or mutant experiment or relocated government witness, not even a vampire. Disappointed, he shook his head.
Though tired eyes the next morning He saw the can of RC and Neccos on the counter. "Howjur night go?" he asked with a wistful ping in his heart for the spoiled game.
She shrugged her shoulders and fidgets with her watch band, Her eyes deep and shut off are gazing towards the parking lot. She flicks the crumpled bill his direction.
His heart skipped a beat, suddenly intrigued again. What could possibly occur night after night inside the wall of Brier-Oaks, to remove all traces of humanity from her. A smile snaked across his face.
Perhaps, Brier-Oaks was a nursing home for vampires, or aliens...or...
********************************************************************************
Back story:
This is actually a rough draft of a character sketch for my college writing class in 1991. The soda/Necco price really dates it.
The assignment was to describe yourself without just listing your physical features. I wrote this then a different one called DMV that I turned in as my finished project.
This story is based on a actual event. After a particularly stressful night at work me and two co-workers hit up the min-mart on the way home. I looked every bit the description in the story. We were all giddy and rummy from no sleep. I bought a warm can of RC and neccos. The cashier was eying me up and pointed to my name tag and asked me how to pronounce my name.
One co-worker, butted in and said "Oh, she can't talk, she's got no tongue."
The other piped right up and added, "She has to eat an Necco an hour to soak up all her saliva."
LOL!
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Our new tree's birthday story
After the adventures we had with Christmas Tree I wasn't sure there was a tree out there with big enough roots to fill his roots.
I knew when the time was right the next tree would come into our lives. Much like cats, trees will find you when there ready to come live with you.
Wednesday I saw a small note in the paper: "Free seedlings at the grange on Friday."
Might as well have read "Young tree seedling waiting for the serial plant killer to come get it."
Cause that is all my heart heard.
So with the kids in tow I headed down on Friday to meet our new tree.
When they pulled him from the bucket and we got a look at him. My daughter exclaimed "There giving us a STICK?"
My soul bust up into hysterics. Yup. This is the right tree for us.
As we drove I talked to Stickrod. I filled him in as to who his new family was. My twelve year old son looked at me like I was insane.
"why are you talking to it? it doesn't have a brain or ears. That is just dumb."
We had a brief discussion about carbon dioxide and oxygen and how we help each other. While he could see the benefit to talking to trees he still mumbled "The words don't mean anything to them, they don't understand them."
I turned back to talking to Stickrod who was laying on the console between us.
"I should tell you I am a plant and tree killer..." I started.
JUR grabs Stickrod and moves him away from me and starts talking to him. "Don't listen to her, your safe with us."
"We killed out last tree." I continued.
My son then held his hands over the seedling like he was coving its ears. Bwahahahaaa!
Hansolo did the honors this time.
Just like her brother she spend some time playing in the dirt.
Not forgetting Stickrod is a baby she got some toys for him.
Big Bro approves.
Now we will wait and see what mischievous fun this little one legged has up its stick.
I knew when the time was right the next tree would come into our lives. Much like cats, trees will find you when there ready to come live with you.
Wednesday I saw a small note in the paper: "Free seedlings at the grange on Friday."
Might as well have read "Young tree seedling waiting for the serial plant killer to come get it."
Cause that is all my heart heard.
So with the kids in tow I headed down on Friday to meet our new tree.
When they pulled him from the bucket and we got a look at him. My daughter exclaimed "There giving us a STICK?"
My soul bust up into hysterics. Yup. This is the right tree for us.
I knew right away it was a boy. You have to have BALLS to be brave enough to come home with the likes of us.
As we walked back out to the truck we started naming him.
Hansolo: I want to name it Stickrod
Me: I think it wants to be named Stickie-wickie. It looks like a wand with roots.
JUR: lets call it Oregon Ash (its type of tree)
As we climbed in the truck the first thing it did was poke me in the face, and sealed its middle name.
Stickrod-Stickie-Wickie-Pokey-
The "suck it" a reference to the fact we have just watched multiple seasons of Psych, and have been running that phrase into the ground. Though now we have warped it "STICK IT!"
As we drove I talked to Stickrod. I filled him in as to who his new family was. My twelve year old son looked at me like I was insane.
"why are you talking to it? it doesn't have a brain or ears. That is just dumb."
We had a brief discussion about carbon dioxide and oxygen and how we help each other. While he could see the benefit to talking to trees he still mumbled "The words don't mean anything to them, they don't understand them."
I turned back to talking to Stickrod who was laying on the console between us.
"I should tell you I am a plant and tree killer..." I started.
JUR grabs Stickrod and moves him away from me and starts talking to him. "Don't listen to her, your safe with us."
"We killed out last tree." I continued.
My son then held his hands over the seedling like he was coving its ears. Bwahahahaaa!
Hansolo did the honors this time.
Just like her brother she spend some time playing in the dirt.
Not forgetting Stickrod is a baby she got some toys for him.
Big Bro approves.
Now we will wait and see what mischievous fun this little one legged has up its stick.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Treesie Weesie Mo-sam-beesi
Our little Christmas tree died this winter.
It broke my heart. He was an amazing one legged friend and part of our family.
His story began back in December of 2008.
JUR was 6 years old and Hansolo was 2. The DVD of Wall-e came with a certificate to mail off for a free tree. I thought it would be fun to go plant a tree with my son, so I mailed it off.
in a few weeks a cardboard tube showed up with a little soul that make Charlie Brown's Christmas tree look like a magnificent specimen. This little one legged had a malformed forked trunk and looked 1/2 dead.
Now, I am a serial plant killer, I just lack the ability to grown things. Even my cactus's used to die. I'm so bad I can kill silk plants and plastic plants.
I placed this little messed up tree in the dish drainer with the silverware and gave it a drink. I figured that weekend we would plant it if it was still alive.
The next day as I was doing dishes I heard a little voice.
"I want to live here." it said.
I looked at the tree out of the corner of my eye. "Are you crazy! I am a plant killer."
"I don't care, I am choosing to live here." It said.
"Okay, but I warned you."
I called my son into the kitchen. "JUR," I said, pointing to the tree, "This tree has told me where it wants to live. It is choosing to live here with us."
My son jumped up and down and high fived the tree's little branches.
Off to the store for a pot and soil we went. My son enjoyed playing in the dirt, as we planted the tree.
(Photo disclaimer: #1 this is the only baby picture of Christmas tree I could find. #2 that is a friends baby. #3 my floor are never that clean....they would be dirty except I was regularly baby sitting said baby and he would get the broom and sweep up every day LOL)
"Now we need to name it." I said, but already this little ones name was in my heart.
"Let call it Christmas Tree!" smiled my son.
"I think it wants to be named, Treesie Weesie Mo-sam-beesi." I said stroking its little needles.
And that is how our tree came to be called Christmas Tree Treesie Weesie Mo-sam-beesi Russell
Its name longer then it was.
JUR loved to water it. He used to play cars in its dirt while telling it stories. He fed it cheerios and also put cheerios on its needles, because "Mama, it has to get use to being decorated! Its a Christmas tree!"
Suprizingly it was still alive next Christmas and that was when we discovered what sex it was.
JUR came running up to me. "Christmas tree is a BOY!"
"How do you know that?" I asked following him back to the tree.
"Cause he's got balls!!"
.JPG)
So soft. Then without warning they would harden into super SUPER SHARP needles, and as you went to pet him, he would stab you and leave you bleeding. What a funny little tree, somewhere in his linage there must have been a branch with cactus's in it.
When Christmas tree was about two year's old we learned something else about him.
He was a killer.
We would find bugs skewered on his sharp needles. My favorite murder was a fly that was impaled right between the eyes. Just hanging there like it was flying. I slept better knowing our killer tree was on guard outside the front door.
The kids frequently put stuff in his branches. It was common place to find Christmas tree infested with army men or jewelry.
Then in the fall of 2013, I noticed some of his needles were turning brown. He fought hard but by November he had died.
Death didn't stop his murderous ways....
Like I said, he was a funny tree.
It broke my heart when my daughter noticed he was dead.
"Mama!!" she called as she stood over his bucket. "What's wrong with Christmas tree?"
I sat down next to him and her. "He died."
Her face turned upside down and her eyes filled up with tears. "Oh tree" she wailed and went to hug him.
He poked her arms.
What a stinker.
We left him on the front porch. I wasn't going to do anything with our little tree until spring came and he didn't bud out. I half expected to see those soft-soft needles appear like usual.
But as March came and went, and there was no signs. I finalized his death certificate and prepared the children for his funeral.
Sent my daughter off crying again. She wasn't ready to part with his corpse yet.
Finally it was time. We decorated him with tinsel and took our last pictures of him.
"Oh thank you little tree for hanging with us and being part of our lives." I said as the neighbors joined us.
Then we lite him on fire and howled like Klingons warriors screaming him into Stovokor.
The tinsel went WHOOSH, the kids went AROOOOOOO RRRAAAAHHHH EEEEEEEEE!!
And when the smoke cleared. There was Christmas tree.
Oh what a funny, funny nonflammable zombie tree we are blessed with.
Okay my little one legged friend, you can hang around for a few more days, I thought as I patted his head.
As we slide his bucket back on the porch he proceeded to scratch me and JUR on the arms. Guess he didn't want a Klingon/Viking funeral.
Next trash day I said my quiet goodbyes and pulled him up and put him in the can.
Daughter came home from school that day and came screaming into the house, "WHERE IS CHRISTMAS TREE!!"
I held her as she cried.
"He is probably poking the heck out of some poor garbage man as we speak."
Cause that is just the kind of tree he was.
(Next: the beginning story of our new tree.)
It broke my heart. He was an amazing one legged friend and part of our family.
His story began back in December of 2008.
JUR was 6 years old and Hansolo was 2. The DVD of Wall-e came with a certificate to mail off for a free tree. I thought it would be fun to go plant a tree with my son, so I mailed it off.
in a few weeks a cardboard tube showed up with a little soul that make Charlie Brown's Christmas tree look like a magnificent specimen. This little one legged had a malformed forked trunk and looked 1/2 dead.
Now, I am a serial plant killer, I just lack the ability to grown things. Even my cactus's used to die. I'm so bad I can kill silk plants and plastic plants.
I placed this little messed up tree in the dish drainer with the silverware and gave it a drink. I figured that weekend we would plant it if it was still alive.
The next day as I was doing dishes I heard a little voice.
"I want to live here." it said.
I looked at the tree out of the corner of my eye. "Are you crazy! I am a plant killer."
"I don't care, I am choosing to live here." It said.
"Okay, but I warned you."
I called my son into the kitchen. "JUR," I said, pointing to the tree, "This tree has told me where it wants to live. It is choosing to live here with us."
My son jumped up and down and high fived the tree's little branches.
Off to the store for a pot and soil we went. My son enjoyed playing in the dirt, as we planted the tree.
"Now we need to name it." I said, but already this little ones name was in my heart.
"Let call it Christmas Tree!" smiled my son.
"I think it wants to be named, Treesie Weesie Mo-sam-beesi." I said stroking its little needles.
And that is how our tree came to be called Christmas Tree Treesie Weesie Mo-sam-beesi Russell
Its name longer then it was.
JUR loved to water it. He used to play cars in its dirt while telling it stories. He fed it cheerios and also put cheerios on its needles, because "Mama, it has to get use to being decorated! Its a Christmas tree!"
Suprizingly it was still alive next Christmas and that was when we discovered what sex it was.
JUR came running up to me. "Christmas tree is a BOY!"
"How do you know that?" I asked following him back to the tree.
"Cause he's got balls!!"
That he does. That he does.
That sweet thing would grow out every spring about 2 inches. His needles would get super SUPER SOFT and we would all pet him. If felt like an animals fur it was so soft.
When Christmas tree was about two year's old we learned something else about him.
He was a killer.
We would find bugs skewered on his sharp needles. My favorite murder was a fly that was impaled right between the eyes. Just hanging there like it was flying. I slept better knowing our killer tree was on guard outside the front door.
The kids frequently put stuff in his branches. It was common place to find Christmas tree infested with army men or jewelry.
Then in the fall of 2013, I noticed some of his needles were turning brown. He fought hard but by November he had died.
Death didn't stop his murderous ways....
Like I said, he was a funny tree.
It broke my heart when my daughter noticed he was dead.
"Mama!!" she called as she stood over his bucket. "What's wrong with Christmas tree?"
I sat down next to him and her. "He died."
Her face turned upside down and her eyes filled up with tears. "Oh tree" she wailed and went to hug him.
He poked her arms.
What a stinker.
We left him on the front porch. I wasn't going to do anything with our little tree until spring came and he didn't bud out. I half expected to see those soft-soft needles appear like usual.
But as March came and went, and there was no signs. I finalized his death certificate and prepared the children for his funeral.
Sent my daughter off crying again. She wasn't ready to part with his corpse yet.
Finally it was time. We decorated him with tinsel and took our last pictures of him.
"Oh thank you little tree for hanging with us and being part of our lives." I said as the neighbors joined us.
Then we lite him on fire and howled like Klingons warriors screaming him into Stovokor.
The tinsel went WHOOSH, the kids went AROOOOOOO RRRAAAAHHHH EEEEEEEEE!!
And when the smoke cleared. There was Christmas tree.
Oh what a funny, funny nonflammable zombie tree we are blessed with.
Okay my little one legged friend, you can hang around for a few more days, I thought as I patted his head.
As we slide his bucket back on the porch he proceeded to scratch me and JUR on the arms. Guess he didn't want a Klingon/Viking funeral.
Next trash day I said my quiet goodbyes and pulled him up and put him in the can.
Daughter came home from school that day and came screaming into the house, "WHERE IS CHRISTMAS TREE!!"
I held her as she cried.
"He is probably poking the heck out of some poor garbage man as we speak."
Cause that is just the kind of tree he was.
(Next: the beginning story of our new tree.)
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Advice from a friend
Email from a reader after reading my "grief" blog. Grateful to ______ for sending me this.
************************
Hey,
Reaching out and gently putting my arms around you. I hear the loneliness in your words. The utter fear of stepping out into the unknown. The rabid anxiety of treading in quicksand. Life is sucking you under and you are going to "cut" yourself free of its grasp.
Its okay.
Its okay to be here in the moment and be experiencing all those thoughts feelings emotions life. I know it can feel like your skin is gone and your nothing but a bunch of raw nerve endings. It gets overwhelming to be bombarded 24/7 with life.
Breath.
just stop for a second and breath.
Your running 100 miles a minute trying to out run what ever is chasing you. Your exhausted and fatigued. There is no where to run so you feel backed into a corner and you are reaching for familiar comforting coping skills. You feel threatened so you want to lash out...fight life....since there is nothing before you the war is played out on your skin.
Turn the battle to another plain.
Focus outwards, not inwards.
try this.
Go stand in a hot shower. stand as long as you can then switch the water to ice cold. stand as long as you can.
The urge to self inflicted violence can be refocused. The energy you feeling tensing up your muscles, knotting up your soul CAN be released without injuring.
Your body is physically forced to refocus on the tactile assault of the water. It is forced to expend that energy to rewarm/try to keep you warm. Repeat as necessary till your body is free of the tension.
Then go wrap up in a blanket and rest. Self sooth your hurting soul by saying..."Its okay, its okay, I got you." (don't matter if you believe it or not, you have to start reprograming the internal tapes somewhere)
Then when you have calmed. Go throw out the broken pillspliter/blade.
Don't give me any lip about "I cant do that, it takes too much energy etc"...I've heard all the excuses, hell I've said all the excuses. What it boils down to is it takes less energy to take care of yourself and use healthy coping skills then it takes to live daily with SIV.
Breath again.
repeat after me:
"Its okay."
Wrap your arms around your shoulders...
repeat after me:
"I got you, its okay"
peace be the journey
P
*****************
WHAT THE!!! LOL Very funny _______!! - (she sent me back one of my own responses I sent to her eons ago.) That was hysterical! As I read it I kept thinking, this is good advice, but I was thinking _____ wrote it so I didn't hear "me" in it.
I am feeling better today. I guess blogging my pain and sobbing for the whole time was enough to qualify as "grieving". I found my strength to go on again. But if the universe could give me a week or two of no residents dying I would appreciate it. Really I would.
Thank you all for acknowledging my pain and hearing me, even when I buried it under a fluffy post.
************************
Hey,
Reaching out and gently putting my arms around you. I hear the loneliness in your words. The utter fear of stepping out into the unknown. The rabid anxiety of treading in quicksand. Life is sucking you under and you are going to "cut" yourself free of its grasp.
Its okay.
Its okay to be here in the moment and be experiencing all those thoughts feelings emotions life. I know it can feel like your skin is gone and your nothing but a bunch of raw nerve endings. It gets overwhelming to be bombarded 24/7 with life.
Breath.
just stop for a second and breath.
Your running 100 miles a minute trying to out run what ever is chasing you. Your exhausted and fatigued. There is no where to run so you feel backed into a corner and you are reaching for familiar comforting coping skills. You feel threatened so you want to lash out...fight life....since there is nothing before you the war is played out on your skin.
Turn the battle to another plain.
Focus outwards, not inwards.
try this.
Go stand in a hot shower. stand as long as you can then switch the water to ice cold. stand as long as you can.
The urge to self inflicted violence can be refocused. The energy you feeling tensing up your muscles, knotting up your soul CAN be released without injuring.
Your body is physically forced to refocus on the tactile assault of the water. It is forced to expend that energy to rewarm/try to keep you warm. Repeat as necessary till your body is free of the tension.
Then go wrap up in a blanket and rest. Self sooth your hurting soul by saying..."Its okay, its okay, I got you." (don't matter if you believe it or not, you have to start reprograming the internal tapes somewhere)
Then when you have calmed. Go throw out the broken pillspliter/blade.
Don't give me any lip about "I cant do that, it takes too much energy etc"...I've heard all the excuses, hell I've said all the excuses. What it boils down to is it takes less energy to take care of yourself and use healthy coping skills then it takes to live daily with SIV.
Breath again.
repeat after me:
"Its okay."
Wrap your arms around your shoulders...
repeat after me:
"I got you, its okay"
peace be the journey
P
*****************
WHAT THE!!! LOL Very funny _______!! - (she sent me back one of my own responses I sent to her eons ago.) That was hysterical! As I read it I kept thinking, this is good advice, but I was thinking _____ wrote it so I didn't hear "me" in it.
I am feeling better today. I guess blogging my pain and sobbing for the whole time was enough to qualify as "grieving". I found my strength to go on again. But if the universe could give me a week or two of no residents dying I would appreciate it. Really I would.
Thank you all for acknowledging my pain and hearing me, even when I buried it under a fluffy post.
cheater cheater pumpkin eater
Told myself I could not blog anything new until I do something with the numerous "drafts" I have in the blog queue. This was the easiest one to tackle.
This photo is from 4 years ago. I had someone come to the house to see me and we had gone upstairs so we could talk quietly.
When it was time to go we came down stairs to this.
My friend gasped and murmured under her breath 'ummmmsombuddysgunagetintroublllllle."
I laughed and showed her out. I let her leave thinking I was a horrible mother who had no control over my children, and that my kids were unruly heathens.
It was easier then explaining that...this was a game of "fire drill".
I played this as a kid and love this game. Taught it to my children as well.
My older brother invented this game, one boring afternoon as my mother took off to go shopping. Leaving the lot of us alone.
He just suddenly announced "FIREDRILL!!!" and stood up and tossed the couch cushions out the open window. Then climbed though and leapt onto the cushions.
While we were stunned and our brains tried to sort out what the heck just happened. He ran around to the front door and pounded on it.
We opened it and he came in shouting "FIRE DEPARTMENT!! EVERYONE OUT!!" and started stuffing us out the window.
Game on.
In short order we were all "rescued" and promoted to firemen.
Then we started evacuating the living room furniture. Out the window it went if it fit, or our the door if it didn't.
In short order the living room was bare.
Then we stopped for a split second and surveyed the impromptu yard sale we suddenly had going on.
Older Brother cocked his head and listened. "I hear the station wagon! Mama's coming!"
We all froze in terror.
He knew just what to do...
"REVERSE FIREDRILL!!! he shouted, and sprung into action.
In short order the house was returned to normal.
Our mother returned to find us laying in the living room watching Gilligan's Island. Blissfully unaware of the shenanigans we had pulled.
Not wanting my own children to miss out on this type of fun, I was sure to teach them the basics of the game.
They learned to play it indoors though. With the condensed version for those that don't have 5+ sibling on hand to carry stuff.
It was easy to get them to clean up that mess.
I closed the door after my friend left and took that picture. Then I put on the pirate hat that is under the muffin tin and got on the skate board by the couch.
I used the "reacher-grabber" to pick up a single playing card and place it on the floor face up, and said, "I win."
Game on.
In no time the cards were in a neat pile.
I used the reacher-grabber to then toss a farm animal into its bucket. A rain storm of flying animals followed it.
I grabbed a pumpkin and turned to them..."Trick or treat"
and they filled my pumpkin with small toys.
Cleaning up was painless and just part of the game.
A simple in the moment childhood game that is satisfying as well as fun as heck to play.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Grief
Before I go off on what ever tangent my heart is heading to tonight, just a quick update.
I have felt much better mentally on the levoxyl. Unfortunately my work has turned into a stew pot of emotions and chaos and stress. Which is spilling out of its confinements into my home life.
Which is making me want to run away. Permanently.
I've got that boxed in - holy freaking hell - feeling going on. Like I am on a train that is speeding hell bent towards a concrete wall. Feel like I have a bomb in my hands that reads 0 seconds left on the timer.
When life kicks me like this, I wonder why go on?
Its not the depression holding my head under the water and making me want to off myselves...its LIFE its self.
Sixteen years ago when I started at my current job, a resident came in shortly after me. He looked like my dead grandpa, and shared the same name as him too.
He and I became close over the past 16 years. He watched and worried over me as I was pregnant. Touched my belly felt my son and daughter kicking. He came to the office and held my son. It was a kick in the gut to see this grandpa look a like holding my son. All my grand parents died long before I got married.
He died last Friday.
And it makes me want to leave my job and walk away and never go back. It was bearable because he was there, now work hold nothing but heart wrenching chaos.
I want to work in a job where the raw pain of life isn't a daily thing. I have survived 31 years in long term care.
I don't know if I have it in me to make it much longer.
I don't grieve.
I run.
Or I silence the pain within by burning wounds without.
I need to grieve.
I just don't know how.
How messed up is that? It stirs up pain. Just raw heart shredding pain. That never heals. Just another thick layer of scar tissue laid down on my soul.
numbing.
I don't know how to fix this problem within me...
...except to keep running.
I have felt much better mentally on the levoxyl. Unfortunately my work has turned into a stew pot of emotions and chaos and stress. Which is spilling out of its confinements into my home life.
Which is making me want to run away. Permanently.
I've got that boxed in - holy freaking hell - feeling going on. Like I am on a train that is speeding hell bent towards a concrete wall. Feel like I have a bomb in my hands that reads 0 seconds left on the timer.
When life kicks me like this, I wonder why go on?
Its not the depression holding my head under the water and making me want to off myselves...its LIFE its self.
Sixteen years ago when I started at my current job, a resident came in shortly after me. He looked like my dead grandpa, and shared the same name as him too.
He and I became close over the past 16 years. He watched and worried over me as I was pregnant. Touched my belly felt my son and daughter kicking. He came to the office and held my son. It was a kick in the gut to see this grandpa look a like holding my son. All my grand parents died long before I got married.
He died last Friday.
And it makes me want to leave my job and walk away and never go back. It was bearable because he was there, now work hold nothing but heart wrenching chaos.
I want to work in a job where the raw pain of life isn't a daily thing. I have survived 31 years in long term care.
I don't know if I have it in me to make it much longer.
I don't grieve.
I run.
Or I silence the pain within by burning wounds without.
I need to grieve.
I just don't know how.
How messed up is that? It stirs up pain. Just raw heart shredding pain. That never heals. Just another thick layer of scar tissue laid down on my soul.
numbing.
I don't know how to fix this problem within me...
...except to keep running.
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