Remembering

It is coming up on one year since the accident. It has been on my mind and I have been having bad dreams. I kept getting the call to go to the hospital. I kept seeing Delores laying so neatly and peacefully on the stretcher with the mess beneath her. I kept waking up thinking that I had to go back to the hospital. I thought it was weird because I did everything I could about the accident and then I let it go. I helped Bonnie as much as I could. I arranged, bossed, threatened chased off, and generally railroaded as best I could. So why did I have unfinished business? I did the work. Why did it still bother me?

Then it occurred to me that in the dream it was always Delores I saw. I had stood over her and in the dreams I was right there again. I wondered why. I wondered how come after everything I ended up next to that stretcher night after night, looking down at Delores. In the actual accident, I had spent moments with Delores before being and staying completely overwhelmed with Bonnie's injuries and needs. Delores didn't need me. But Bonnie was in big trouble and my attention, energy and focus (rightly) were all on her. So night after night, I was looking at the thing I hadn't yet done. I went to Delores' funeral. But I just stayed a little while. I had to get back to the hospital. Bonnie need a lot of supervision then.

So I had two chances to say thank and goodbye to Delores, once in the hospital and once at the funeral but I just hadn't. Everything that I had was focused in one direction.

What people did not know as that the first time I was in the Rexburg ward, Delores had been very very kind to me in a difficult time. She was the RS pres then. I had appreciated and looked up to her.

I wanted the dreams to stop. But I want to understand why I was having them. One day it came to me. For years, Delores had tried to teach me to knit. I have always wanted to learn and I would take after it in fits and starts. I would mess up and head back to Delores and she would laugh and fix it. I was a terrible knitter. I could do it when she was right there. But I would go home and lose it all. I couldn't remember. I seemed at once to have too many and not enough hands.

So I sat down to learn. I typed "learn to knit video" into google. I wandered through several sites. But none of them struck a chord. I thought maybe I was destined to never knit. Then I clicked one more and I saw a woman casting on just the way Delores had tried to teach me. I sat and cried and watched videos for hours. I watched until I got brave enough to try. I cast on. I knit. I kept running the video again and again as my huge fat fingers got in my way. I struggled, tongue out face twisted to pull the thread here and there. I ripped it out and started again. I cast on. Loops fell off and I started again. And suddenly, my fingers found their own way. I found a rythmn. I was knitting. In not too many hours, I had produced the worlds saddest dishcloth. It is 3 inches wider on one end then the other. It is full of holes. I loved it and I promptly cast on again.

I haven't had any more dreams. I have made more dishcloths. Each one has fewer holes. They are lovely and soothing and useful and sensible and homey and dreamy. Like the woman I learned them from.

Things your mother lied about #1

You cannot become anything you want to be.

There, I said it.  Somewhere, a fairy died or a wishing well dried up or a shooting star quit it's job in disgust but I'll say it again- You cannot be anything you want to be.

I know this because I have wanted to be so many things.  Audrey Hepburn.  A great soccer coach.  Alive in the 40's.  Nina Simone.  Smarter.  Prettier.  Tidier.  Quieter.  Less likely to commit assualt and battery.  Good with animals and small children.  Tender hearted.  Spiritual.  Calm.  Brave.  A neurologist.  A Rockerfeller.

But I am not.

Nor could I have ever been the Pope (I am not Catholic and I look awful in pointy hats), a star in the NBA, Angelina Jolie,  a dictator (all the good countries are taken), an astronaut, a super model, or that Beautiful Mind guy that got see cool things that weren't real and win the Nobel prize.

Wishing on stars and dreaming impossible dreams work out great if you are drawn with a crayon and your fairy Godmother is coming in the next frame.  But if you are made out of flesh and blood and cursed with genetic practical jokes like my nose or backside and you do not a string of ancestral estates- dreaming of magic wands and wishes are a symptom of a disorder rather than the tale of a plucky young girl who had faith in her dream.

So what is there left to be?  Yourself.  We get so busy telling kids all the things they can be that we forget to tell them about the one thing they must be- themselves.  That is what we are doing here- learning to be ourselves and learning to do it well.

I hope I can remember to teach my kids that.  I hope they will learn to take their strengths and weaknesses and make a life they are proud of.  Maybe I will too.

Fistfights all around

When I was a kid, I loved The Dukes of Hazzard. Sure, the plots were more repitive than a childs finger play and the characters were as shallow and poorly developed as an 11 year old girl. No matter, I was devoted.

I wasn't the hot car, or the Duke boys, or the awful twangy music, or even the excellent narration that drew me in so. It was the fistfights. Bo and Luke would start swinging punches (always after being provoked, mind you). Even Catherine Bach in her tourniquet short shorts, cast iron pantyhose, and high heels would get in on the action smacking a customer with her tray or pushing someone over with her high heels.

It was awesome and it formed a good bit of my perspective on human relations. Nowadays, violence gets a bad rap. Everyone is so against it. I think this is mostly a viewpoint propogated by losers who fall into the fetal position weeping at the first good smack but nevertheless, the winers have taken over the worldview on violence and now we all have to be against it because they suck in a fight.

But let's just for a minute consider the application of the precious principle taught in The Dukes of Hazard- punch someone in the mouth and get over it. They didn't have bottled up feelings, ulcers, therapists, and call in talk shows. They punched the person they were mad at while they were mad at them and then in the next scene- the punchee and puncher were fine. They had acted and then they got over it.

Now we tell kids to "use their words". Great. More talking. The problem with words is there is an unlimited supply. Eventually, punching and getting punched back get old and it is time to stop. We'll call this "closure". But words can go on forever. Words focus attention and keep the drama going as long as the user has them. So now we have a culture that is all about verbal combat and confrontation. It is infinitely more damaging than a fat lip.

Let's return to the good old days. Deal with who you are mad at, when you are mad at them. Then get over it. A fat lip is a small price to pay for the de-whinification of our culture.

How to get beaten with a stick during YW

My nephew is cute. He is funny and confident and charming. He lives in the right neighborhood. His mother is adored and his dad is "somebody". This makes him a hottie in the eyes of all the girls his age. Unfortunately his age is 13. And 13 year old girls with crushes are vicious.

Last night, Coray and her cousin were at the YM/YW combined activity doing roadside clean-up. After the cleanup they made cocoa and roasted marshmallows. Good wholesome fun. Except that very special girl was there. Very special girl is special largely because at some point someone decided she should be. She was born with health problems and apparently, in some circles, this means that you get a free pass for life. Please don't tell Jimmy, I do not need him getting any ideas. So very special girl is just plain odd. She, of course, likes my cute nephew.

It would seem that on Very Special Girl's home planet, mating and courtship begin by poking people with sticks. So she kept poking cute nephew with a stick. Now cute nephew is not the worlds most chivalrous boy ( he's 13!) but he knows that he is not allowed to smack a girl. He asked her to stop. But apparently, her deep love for him compelled her to continue. He moved away. She pursued.

At this point Coray told Very Special Girl to cut it out and got between the poker and the pokee. She was already annoyed because Very Special Girl had been slapping her in the back of the head for the whole bus ride. Very Special Girl decided that her poking plan was a real winner and stuck with her original course of action. She poked Coray. Coray picked up a stick and poked her back. Coray turned to walk away. Very Special Girl poked Coray in the back. By this time cute nephew had been drafted by adults to help make the hot chocolate. He was calling very special girl and trying to lure her away. She would not be dissuaded even by the feigned interest of the boy of her dreams.

Adults milled around while Coray put her arms over her face to block a poking frenzy and Very Special Girl laughed. That was enough. Coray grabbed the stick and whacked Miss Special good and hard. It was not a poke. It was a full swinging blow to the offending arm with the offending stick. Very Special Girl quit laughing and began shreiking hysterically. Suddenly the adults in the area became very interested in sticks and people wielding them and Coray was taken aside and given a talking to. Turns out, we do not hit Very Special Girl with sticks because that would be unkind.

Coray came home and shared her tale of woe. You may be surprised to learn that as a rule, I actually oppose smacking people with sticks. I was conflicted. Her Daddy was not. His points in her defense were:
1. She was defending family
2. She asked that the poking stop and attempted to walk away
3. The poking did not stop.

And that is how it came to be that Coray beat a girl with a stick at YW and her aunt said she was so proud and her daddy said "good girl" and her momma said "of course you're not in trouble".

I expect I will be hearing from a very special mother today. She is a great woman and I adore her. But she has a different expectation of other peoples adjustment to her girls quirks than I do. I may need to find a stick.

Child Protective Services should be by shortly

A little more than three years ago, I gave birth to a tiny fragile baby boy. It was a struggle to keep him alive. After a month in the hospital, I brought him home and spent a year measuring food, adjusting oxygen and timing medicine. I ordered his diaper rash ointment from two states away. I read medical abstracts comparing supplemental infant formulas. I prayed a lot. I whole heartedly committed myself to doing whatever it took to keep this precious boy alive and well.

This morning, I let that same kid eat two hot dogs and some popcorn for breakfast. Sadly, I do not have ignorance as an excuse. I know that hot dogs are not food. They were only in the house because my husband had taken my big boy camping and they had leftovers. And yes, I am fully aware of the assorted components in hot dogs. I have no defense. He looked at me and said "Momma, I can have hot doggy" and I said yes. Twice. I threw in the popcorn in hopes of creating sufficient digestive urgency to flush out the hot dogs. What? That's gross? I just fed my kid two hot dogs for the love of pete. This is no time to get squeamish.

Now, my little guy is happily dancing through the living room, flushed with triumph at his nutritional coup. Or having a seizure brought on by an allergy to lips and tails. It's one of those. Quick question, do dances of joy cause foaming at the mouth?

Also, in the interest of full disclosure this kid is wearing a diaper (Do you want to use the potty? No thank you) and a shirt that hasn't fit for a year. He looks like an orphan. We have a tub and clothes that will fit and fresh fruits and nice nutritious oatmeal. I have access to all the tools to be a less sucky mom right this minute.

But he really likes that shirt. Maybe I will just train him and his four year old sister to yell "Mommy is sleeping" through the door when CPS comes to discuss my children's nutrition. The last thing I need is them judging me.

The view from Mt. Hypocrite

A construction company knocked out the power. I'm no electrician but the problem in a nutshell was, don't drive a crane through a power line. Make a note of that. With the amount of construction that goes on around here, summer is always chock full of random power outages started by some guy whose English teacher was right. He never did amount to much. And always, it was totally avoidable. They just don't mind risking the incovenience of others.

So there I am enjoying the 98 degree day in the shelter of my breezeless house listen to my children melt and screaming for everyone to stop opening the fridge. Fun for me. Angry doesn't even begin to cover it. Every summer we go through this. And every summer those stupid selfish bastards take shortcuts and incovience an entire neighborhood. I hope they all burn in hell. This is what someone elses self absorbtion and a lack of accountability get you, a silent A/C and a lot of muttering.

Of course the problem is that I am them too. It's just harder to see when I am doing it. That's because self absorbtion makes it hard to see things other than me. But in the cold light of day- I am a scuzz ball.

Two weeks ago, I flew home from National Jewish Hospital the recipeint of such blessings and grace that it was literally astounding. I went hopelessly sick and returned firmly on the path of wellness. I had just been given my life back. How, you ask, did I celebrate this miracle? By using my previous staus as a sick person to screw over my fellow air travelers.

Yep, I did that.

See, SW airlines doesn't have assigned seats. Or a firm grasp of the concept of personal space. My 100$ round trip ticket was reflected in the cattle car accomodations. When I checked in the first time, I told them that I was a special needs passenger. It was valid. I needed space to give myself shots and access to oxygen. So they gave me the cattle car equivalent of a golden ticket- a little blue pass that meant I got on the plane first. Even before the mom's with babies. And they marked my registration in the computer.

Nine days, a new future, and a much healthier body later, I was checking in to fly home. The ticket agent saw the notation on my registration and handed me that magic blue pass. I didn't need it. I knew I didn't. But I took it. I didn't want to stand in line. I didn't want to jostle for a seat. I didn't want to be wandering up and down the aisle looking for a bin to stick by bag in. Too hard. I couldn't be bothered.

And that is how I decided to be a liar and a jackass for a piece of blue vinyl. Several years ago a brilliant politican and severely morally retarded human being remarked that he did something particularly loathsome because he could. I could get out of standing in line and competing to get a seat. And so, I did. I deserve to be a little too warm, maybe it will remind me of something.

Update

Guess why horrific amounts of asthma meds might not work... Go on. Why might medications specifically targeted to a disfunction of the lungs not give someone relief? Because the patient doesnt have asthma.
I do not have acute, uncontrollable asthma. I may have mild to moderate asthma but right now, we are guessing if I do have asthma it's pretty mild. I will do a methycholine challenge tomorrow to find out. But all this pain and breathlessness is not today nor has it been in the last year, asthma.
We have identified 3 factors so far that have caused my problems. I have Swiyers James syndrome which basically means that the branches in my lungs that are supposed to be smooth and tapered actually look like cheetoes. This causes the congestion and makes me prone to those endless chest colds. I also have vocal chord dysfunction and some damage and problems with my esphagus. Apparently, you vocal chords second function is to produce voice. Their first function is to shut and protect the from things getting into my lungs. Mine are very very good at this. In fact those little traitors shut all the time for no reason at all. But sometimes they have a reason. Because my esophagus is damaged, it is letting reflux go back up. This further provokes my vocal chords and they slam shut cutting of my air.
The almost-funny-if-it-werent-so-horrible thing is that the asthma meds that I inhaled (and kept saying didn't help me) were actually agravating my vocal chords. Oh and, the reason that epi was the only thing that worked was because it made the chords release. Hey, you know what else besides painful shots of heart damaging medication works to stop a vocal chord spasm- taking in a puff of air and blowing out hard through pursed lips. It creates pressure that forces the chords to open. I learned it in about 7 minutes. It works like a charm. I walked home from the hospital yesterday afternoon. I walked back today. Unbelievable. So all those times I said I felt like I was choking, I was right. I was.
I don't have all the tests back and still have many to do. SO more stuff could turn up. There is a discussion about surgery for the espohagus but we have decided not to scope my lungs. We know I have Swiyer James and I just need to find a doctor in Idaho that can treat it. I also have a mass in one lung. That could be normal and fine. It will have to be CT'd on a regular basis to see if it is growing. If it grows, then we shall all freak out cheerfully for hours. But we'll wait on that. I also found out that I have severe osteoperosis. That kind of sucks and that will take some managing.
Today, I have some fairly un-fun tests. They are putting a tube in my esophagus with a little ball on it. They leave it in for 20 hours to asses the condition of my esophagus. Plus I have a sputum induction (these people LOVE their sputum) again and a barium swallow. I am looking forward to my sleep test.
I had to laugh this morning as I reset the motion alarms I put on the door and window of my hotel room. I am so weird. Who does that? I have (mostly) mastered the bus system with the exception of a little 2 hour detour to and around hell the first night I tried to get home. But apparently peole who can breathe can walk so I have been doing that. My Doctor isn't happy about that because she feels like we need a better plan for avoiding fractures before I take up exercise. I feel like I have held still too long. I will have a scan for Osteonecrosis which means the cell wall between the cartilage and the bone has died and they slip apart. If that is ok, I am going to ask for physical therapy.
And I got out of all the psych appointments. Every single physician that I have seen (8 thus far) crossed it off my schedule. The way it works is, you go to your appointments and then each doctor sends down orders for what other tests you should do or classes to attend. They took off all my psycho-social classes too. I am glad but I was rather looking forward to "Sex and Chronic Illness". I'm sure that class is a laugh riot. When I did the questionaire for psych at the beginning of the week, I scored very high in terms of my sense of being supported . I also scored really well (this shocked me) on optimism (seriously) and having a balanced life. So to the extent that I am not insane, thanks - your support helps. To the extent that I have cleverly concealed my lunacy, thanks for keeping my secrets.Amy- I was supposed to call Annet but I missed her. Would you email this to her and Bonnie? And you might have to call Annet and tell her you emailed her something. :)
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