I forgot where I was going with this….

Sorry I didn’t write anything yesterday, it was the worst day yet. I felt so bad I couldn’t stand up. Literally I felt like I was going to die. Steve left work to take me back to the doctor. By the time I got to the doctor’s office I was having violent twitches. I don’t know what I pay the doctors for, because it was Steve who figured out in the doctor’s office that I was badly dehydrated. Fluids perked me right up and the twitching stopped. They drew more blood, I saw a pulmonologist and guess what? Still no answers.

I’m back to feeling the way I’ve been feeling since Sunday, which is infinitely better than how I felt yesterday. Not suprisingly, I’ve lost a few pounds. Not a diet I would ever recommend. The internal medicine doctor, trying to cover all bases, prescribed a broad spectrum antibiotic yesterday. I figure the potential benefits outweigh my philosophy on not taking drugs when they don’t know what’s wrong. Maybe the new round of blood work will tell them something new. Although, I doubt it. I’m getting bounced around from specialist to specialist. I think I’m going to end up in the lap of the rheumatologist. I’ve thought from the beginning that this might be the sympathetic nerve condition I have in my knee that might have moved to my chest/heart area. It feels like that. My skin feels hot like I’ve been burned. It feels like how my knee started. The other doctors asked the rheumatologist if RSD can move to your chest and he said no. Except last night I went online and found information indicating that it CAN move to the chest wall and cause an angina-like syndrome. I’m going to be very upset if the solution is to just increase my knee meds after all this. I’ve been asking since day one if that could be the problem because it’s just so unlikely that someone with my lifestyle/weight/diet would be having cardiac or pulmonary issues.

Thank God for the internet, eh? There was a time when one would just have to flounder. Steve wants me to fax the paper I found online last night written by an MD on RSD to the doctors and let them explain to me why they are saying it can not move to the chest when it can. All the doctors clearly said that RSD is a little understood disease. Duh. I’m seeing so little understanding. lol. I’m assuming if the blood work they did yesterday all comes back ok, they’re going to finally relent and say “Yeah, it could be RSD.” Doctors absolutely HATE IT when you already know what’s wrong. They just HATE that. Sigh.

Thank you AGAIN for all your well wishes and comments, I’ve read them all, I’m just having trouble finding the energy to sit here long enough to answer them. I hope to be up to my usual smart ass retorts and rants soon. And just so you know, I have no material to make fun of Steve throughout this whole thing because he’s been very sweet and loving and attentive. And no, you can’t have him, he’s mine. Weird coffee notes and all….

I just wanted to quickly update those of you who have been waiting. I’ll get to the comments later. I’m not feeling very good. I went for my echo cardio stress test this morning. The echo was normal but my blood pressure is extremely low right now- it was 90/58. Which could explain why I’ve been feeling so dizzy. It turns out that I was not scheduled to meet with a cardiologist, my appointment was with a nurse practitioner. I apologize to all the nurse practioners out there in advance, but I hate nurse practitioners more than doctors. I have yet to meet one I like. They all seem to have the same personality types. I always want to scream at them “YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE A NURTURER, YOU BITCH!” This morning’s nurse wasn’t so much bitchy, but arrogant. Until my lower and lower blood pressure made her nervous and sent her to go get the cardiologist. She was very overweight and had the nerve to tell me that I should eat more for breakfast. First of all the instructions said LIGHT breakfast, but second of all, I don’t LIKE breakfast. Eating early in the day is very hard for me.

My time in the waiting room this morning was comedic. Just comedic. There were a bunch of overweight people waiting to go in for their tests, talking about the entire pizza they had eaten by themselves last night, the 1/2 pound hamburgers and so on. I wanted to scream “ARE YA KIDDING ME?” They were honestly wondering how this was happening to them!!!!

Anyway, I did like the cardiologist. He was the first doctor who really made eye contact and actually listened. And noticed that I didn’t look so hot. He gave me some nitroglycerin. I didn’t like that. It gave me a bad headache. Which I still have. When that didn’t work, yep, he called another ambulance. Sigh. Apparently they did not examine my heart with the CT scan they did in the ER. (Yeah I couldn’t believe that either. Especially when they said they had ruled out any life threatening conditions.) At least this time, I got TWO, count ‘em, TWO Fireman McHotties. Who called two female paramedics. LOVED the fireman and paramedics. There’s something to be said for women paramedics, let me tell you. So back I went to the ER. Now I know I said I wouldn’t go again unless I was unconcious, but the cardiologist gave me two choices: be admitted to the hospital for a couple of days or back to ER. Nice choices. ER sounded somewhat less evil. This ER was better than the last one. A LOT better.

The nurse tried to put an IV in through the vein the urgent care clinic had already blown, while I tried to keep from screaming. He had to give up and try another one. I had seen the paramedic eyeing my “track marks” and I said “They did that to me on Sunday! Four tries to get in the IV!” He grinned and said, “I didn’t say anything. I was looking and wondering, but I didn’t say anything.” So now I have six puncture wounds.

I had another CT scan, this one checking the heart for a tear or aneurysm and they checked my lungs again. Both normal. So I was diagnosed with chest pain again. The ER doctor spoke with the cardiologist who wants me to take a drug that he thinks will help because he suspects I am having cardiac spasms (a spasm of the heart muscle). The only problem is that this drug he prescribed is used to lower blood pressure. Which, as I mentioned, is already too low. So I didn’t fill that prescription either. I will call the cardiologist tomorrow and mention my low blood pressure and see what he says.

In the meantime, I feel no better. I feel worse actually because the running on the treadmill made my chest hurt worse. I’m tired and frustrated and the stupid taxi driver said he didn’t know where the cardiologist’s building was that he was supposed to take me back to so he was “lost”- and I use that term loosely- for like a half hour. Smelly, filthy cab ride from some driver trying to run up that fare while he shouted curse words with a heavy accent to top it all off. It would have been funny if I hadn’t been so upset. It was straight out of a Seinfeld episode. For future reference, you’re gonna want to skip the ORANGE cab company.

I’ve had to fight back tears most of the day. I just wish someone could fix this without guessing. I haven’t met one doctor yet who seemed sure of himself. And I’m tired of feeling so lousy. Let’s hope I wake up tomorrow and am miraculously healed. I can hope, right?

I went for an appointment with an internal medicine doctor this morning. If you recall, I was told all the testing that was done on me was normal. The internal medicine doctor said that even so, he’d like to see all the paperwork and would I go drive over to the hospital and urgent care clinic and bring it back to him? I almost cried. I feel like I’ve been hit by a train. Talking makes me winded, much less walking or anything else. I am still very dizzy. Feeling bad motivated me to go pick up my records though. I brought them back to the doctor and within five minutes he came out with my paperwork and said that one of the tests they had done showed there was inflammation of my heart. Great. I felt my stomach flip over when he said that. And then I got mad about the ER doctor missing that. He was incompetant. Grrrr. I do suppose this is better than being diagnosed constipated though. I was waiting for someone to suggest I was having a panic attack at which time I would have punched them out. Paramedic McAsshole asked me if I was “prone to panic attacks” and I turned a withering gaze on him as I contemplated telling him I was prone to attacks, but not the panic kind. I REALLY wish I had been feeling well enough to talk back. It seems my sassiness has been zapped along with my strength.

So bright and early tomorrow morning I am scheduled to go have an echo-cardio stress test then see a cardiologist afterwards. I’m trying not to freak out. For the past day and a half I have been telling myself that it’s not really my heart. That it CAN’T be my heart. Did I mention that jackass ER doctor told me that if I was having cardiac problems there was no point in being a vegetarian? Did I mention that gem? No? I didn’t have the energy for a snappy comeback for that one either. Sigh.

Thank you for all your kind words. I appreciate them. Let’s hope they can figure out what’s wrong with me tomorrow. Or that I don’t drop dead on the treadmill. I really don’t know how I’m going to run tomorrow. Sitting up is hard right now. Here’s hoping someone can figure out what’s wrong tomorrow.

Many years ago I ended up in the ER for a gynecological-related problem. After six grueling hours in the ER with an arrogant male attending, he came in to announce that there was nothing wrong with me, I was just constipated. (He was wrong. I received the correct diagnosis the next day by my FEMALE OBGYN.) I was furious. I was so angry, I yanked out my IV by myself, threw it on the floor where it began to form a large pool, and stomped out of the ER without waiting to be discharged. I vowed to never return to the ER unless it was by ambulance. Tonight, I returned to the ER. By ambulance. And I’ve made a new vow. The next time they take me, not only will it have to be by ambulance, but I will have to be unconcious.

When I was pregnant with my children, I had some cardiac issues that I was told were benign, hormonally induced and would probably return with menopause. As some of you already know, I am in peri-menopause. Consequently I’ve been ignoring the racing and irregular heart beat and lately I’ve been having some chest pain. This morning I woke up and was having chest pain again but this time it was radiating to my back, down my arm and up to my jaw. I was very uncomfortable all day with nausea and dizziness. I tried to call the Microsoft mobile medic to come by for a visit, but as soon as the nurse heard my symptoms, she insisted I go to the ER. I argued with her- “But the chest pain is on my right side. I’m 37 years old. I work out 4 or 5 times a week. I’m a vegetarian. I don’t drink or smoke. I’m the poster child for healthy living. How could this be a heart attack?” She insisted I go immediately. I was feeling too rotten to put up much of an argument, but there was no way I was going to the ER. Instead I opted for the urgent care clinic. After being at the clinic for over an hour, they got nervous, scared the hell out of me and called the paramedics. The doctor AND the nurse seemed to freak a little when I got dizzy standing up for a chest x-ray. They tried to put in an IV, blew three veins and then I asked them to stop. I can barely bend either arm and it hurts to close my hand.

The room was swarmed with paramedics in less than five minutes- I think there were 6 of them. Of course, there’s one really cute one and one total ass. Guess which one left and which one stayed? Yep. Paramedic McCutie took off and Paramedic McAsshole stayed. Advice to paramedics: Don’t get up in someone’s grill who has just been freaked out by the doctor and nurse panicking. I went mute. Literally couldn’t focus on questions. Trying to process a scared doctor who thinks I’m having a heart attack. I repeated the same thing to everyone I encountered: I’m 37 years old. I work out 4 or 5 times a week. I’m a vegetarian. I don’t drink or smoke. I’m the poster child for healthy living. How could this be a heart attack? And each person said- Oh it could happen. Right. To someone who weighs 400 pounds and eats nothing but Twinkies. Honestly, not me!

So I was taken by ambulance to the ER. The paramedics did manage to get the IV in on the first try, but still did something wrong because it hurt the whole time and blood and IV fluid were running down my arm the whole time. After more tests, I finally got a fantastic diagnosis- chest pain. Yes, it took six hours for that gem. The ER doctor tried to push some narcotics on me. I refused. He sent me home with a prescription, which I won’t fill. I don’t take medication to treat a symptom when you don’t know what’s wrong with me. Sorry, Doc. I asked the hospital to call a cab to take me back to my truck. The hospital said they’d give me a voucher for the trip. I had trouble communicating with the driver whom I suspect spoke African clicking language because I couldn’t understand a damned word he said and when he started talking on his cell phone while driving (!) I was sure that wasn’t a language I’d ever heard before. As it turns out, he refused to take me back to my truck and instead took me home. If I had felt better I might have beat the hell out of him with my purse. Lord knows I need to take some frustration out on SOMEONE.

So here I sit. One ambulance ride, one filthy taxi ride, one doctor visit, one ER visit, three blown veins later. And I am no better off than I was earlier. In fact, I think I might be in worse condition than before I left. And my truck is still sitting in the urgent care parking lot. Mark my words. I will have to be unconcious or missing a limb before I go back. I am so sick of doctors. If you don’t know, just say so. Say: “I spent 8 years in medical school so I could say, I have no effing clue what is wrong with you. I don’t even know why you bothered to come in. You’re still breathing right? Come back when you’ve stopped breathing.” At least I wasn’t diagnosed constipated again…..FOR SURE someone would have paid for that. No matter HOW bad I felt.

Number of cardio minutes: 55
Number of weight training minutes: 60
Number of days of post-workout soreness: 2.7
Endorphin high: Priceless

For everyone else, there’s dessert.

Yesterday while at the sporting goods store, I bought a hackie sack so that son #2 could practice catching for baseball in the house. What started out as a simple game of soft toss, quickly degenerated. Steve and I are still very much the oldest children. Unfortunately, we sometimes forget that we’re parents and degenerate into oldest siblings with practical jokes, running around the house, screaming and all-out battles. The game of soft toss turned into hiding behind corners and nailing whoever walked by. Hard. Until we’re all chasing each other all over the house screaming and jumping out at each other.

Steve laid in wait for me upstairs and when I came upstairs to give the kids a bath, he charged out of one of the bedrooms and nailed me so hard with the hackie sack that it left a huge red welt on my stomach. Being oldest children, this is still funny. I took cover in the playroom with son #2 and frantically ran around looking for ammunition. We found bean bags, soft balls, rubber balls, squishy balls and I hid one whiffle ball under my shirt, just in case I got cornered. We came out the playroom armed to the teeth but I didn’t know where Steve was hiding. I threw a ball into each bedroom hoping to draw fire so that he would give away his location. He was too wily for that. Then I made a move towards my bedroom and son #1 starting screaming “RED ALERT! RED ALERT! RUN DADDY RUN!” assuring me of his location. I nailed him with my arsenal but he started picking them up and throwing the back. Finally I was down to just the whiffle ball. He was in the hall with no breakable objects nearby. I threw it hard. SCORE! It nailed him right between the eyes, knocking his glasses askew. When he turned to me in surprise I saw the perfect imprint of the lines of the whiffle ball on his forehead, right between the eyes. I laughed so hard I couldn’t stand up. I was quite literally rolling on the floor gasping for breath. Which left me open to a pummeling with more balls. But so totally worth it. When I could finally catch my breath, I taunted that he would have to go to work today with the imprint of a whiffle ball on his forehead. At least my welt was on my stomach where no one would know. But his was there in all it’s glory.

These are the things that oldest children find so freakin funny. I must say that his siblings bear far more battle scars than my siblings though. He’s SHOT his siblings with bb guns. My siblings are so ungrateful.

You are NOT going to believe this! And if you laugh at me, I will reach through this screen and grab you round the neck until I choke that laugh right out of you. Ok, maybe that was a bit violent. But I know you’re going to laugh at me. You’re mean like that. So here it is: MY FREAKING BROTHER IS GETTING MARRIED. That’s right ANOTHER GDMFSOB WEDDING. In October. I get 8 months. That’s all. My siblings are cruel. So cruel.

On the bright side, being the youngest child, he can’t pick our family out of a line-up. My sister sarcastically introduced him to our grandmother at her wedding. He was escorting people to their seats and I stood next to him telling him who was coming in the door. To be fair, he was a baby when we moved from Louisiana. More than likely, the relatives couldn’t pick him out of a line-up either. This means two things. 1. There will not be another Louisiana wedding. 2. He’ll probably invite my grandmother and that’s it. No fighting with the relatives this time about who’s not invited. I can just say: No one’s invited. And the wedding will be in Lake Tahoe. We can be in and out in a weekend. Woo hoo!

I’m sure you’re all looking forward to the coming trauma. Don’t you people think I’ve had enough lately? Stop smiling. This is NOT funny. I think my siblings planned this to torment me.

My trainer was telling me about the client that he works with before me who was complaining about working out 5 days a week and not losing weight. The conversation went like this:

Client: I’m sick of this! I work out so much and never lose weight!
Trainer: (who always calls them as he sees them) Well, if you want to lose weight, you’re going to have to give up second dinner.
Client: Second dinner?!?! But I LOVE second dinner! I can’t give up second dinner! It’s SOOOOO good!

My response? “I’ve never even heard of second dinner.” Apparently I’ve been missing something?

I was in the hardware store last weekend buying some seeds to plant. This guy stops and looks at me and said” You’re buying seeds? I didn’t know anyone did that anymore. I never have time to plant seeds.” If he only knew. I LOVE planting seeds. And bulbs. And flowers of every kind. And then I run outside every morning like a kid at Christmas to see if the seeds germinated. I stand over them and chant “Grow! Grow! Grow!” I know, it’s weird, but there’s something primatively soul satisfying about planting seeds and watching them grow.

Since we moved here, I’ve had this gardener who must truly hate me. For 2 years now, every single time I plant seeds, she pulls them up. And it almost makes me cry. I go from furious (who can’t tell the difference between weeds and plants?) to almost tears (she pulled up my sweet peas last year when they were about 6 inches tall!!!!) I finally figured out it’s mostly because she just rakes everything up and all the seedlings come with it. We had a little disagreement about it last week. She saw I bought seeds and asked where I was planting. I said I was only planting in my pots because I’ve given up planting seeds in the ground. She of course took offense at that, but honestly, TWO YEARS! In two years I have not been able to grow a single plant from seed. NOT ONE! So anyway, I planted a bunch of seeds in my pots and hanging baskets and then had the brilliant idea to get the flats and plant the seeds in the flats! I spent the morning outside planting seeds in the flats. I am just giddy with anticipation. Plants I’ve been trying to grow for two years, that I can only find in seed form, now have a chance at survival!!!

I know I am unique in that I still take time to garden. I cook from scratch, and I make jam in the summer. I enjoy cooking a meal from fresh ingredients we picked at the farm. I love picking flowers from the backyard and putting them in vases all over the house. These things are becoming obsolete in our busy, harried world. The art of sewing, cooking and gardening have fallen by the wayside. It’s more of a west coast problem then say, the south, but still, I find it disturbing. I only have two friends that sew. I’m the only one I know of around here that can sew. People have lost essential survival skills. They have lost the ability to be self sufficient and “make their own.”

I, for one, will continue to make jam. I will continue to grow plants from seed. I will continue to sew and cook things from scratch. It’s a lost art. But these are things I learned to do from my grandmother and mother. And I will pass them down to my children. If the time ever comes again where humankind is forced to be self sufficient, my children and my children’s children will know how to cook. They will know how to make their own clothes. They will know how to grow their own garden. So plant your own garden instead of waiting for someone to bring to you flowers.

I am having problems. Deep, deep problems. The kind that make me want to sob deeply. You know, computer problems? My humor is not appreciated either. Last night, I taped a tombstone to my computer reading:

R.I.P

Here lies

Albert J. Computer

who died of MS updates,

frequent patches and poor network connectivity.

He will be sorely missed.

March 14, 2007

Of course, my tombstone went completely unappreciated by the resident geek who vociferously denied any wrongdoing on Microsoft’s part. He’s blaming a warm room and the router. And his standard stalling for time: “Well *I* wasn’t having any problems with it.” The kids want to know why the computer is named Albert. You see what I’m dealing with here?

I’m also having severe problems with WordPress and Bloglines. WordPress keep logging me out without warning. I don’t even know I’m logged out because it happens randomly and without warning. Thus, some of my comments are answered with Helen Teixeira (logged out) and some with imhelendt. Annoying, isn’t it? I’ve been having to log back in, like, 20 times a day. I suspect an IE7 problem.

Bloglines has decided to leak and then hog memory. It’s using up most of CPU’s memory and slowing the computer to a crawl. I have to keep rebooting. I am completely annoyed. If Albert wasn’t already on rudimentary life support, I’d just kill him anyway. Sigh. That’s probably an IE7 problem too. And Steve denies any MS wrongdoing…….

I was promised coffee this morning. Not blaming anyone, not naming names, just saying…didn’t get any coffee, that’s all. And I am TIRED. No, really tired. I tried licking the espresso machine but nothing happened. I inhaled deeply from the coffee bean bag. Nothing happened. I cried a little and then went and found some No-Doz. Does No-Doz expire? Because an hour later I found myself teaching art and using the word “Catagapor”- don’t ask. Suffice it to say kindergartners think that word is hilarious.

I came home and tried a short nap. I woke up and found thinking hard. Walking was hard too. I ran into the wall. I picked up son #1 from school and decided this couldn’t go on. I drove through Starbucks and am one nonfat dry cappuccino heavier. With change I scraped out of the ash tray. Because I forgot my purse. I have baseball to coach in a hour. I don’t feel awaker. Or smarter. Or more coordinated. I’m afraid I may be using catagapor again and running into things. Sigh.

In celebration of FINALLY getting up the masthead on my blog, I’m leaving for your perusal my absolute favorite scene from Will and Grace, from the episode Coffee and Commitment where Jack forgets where he is going with this…

I keep finding myself shivering, with hands like ice, nose as cold as the dog’s and I meander by the thermostat to find you have turned it down to arctic levels again. You. Will. Pay. With the icy tendrils of freezing digits while you sleep. Count on it, Dear. Game on.

     -Wife Frost

Iced Mocha always finds the coolest little things to do….

If I were an M&M, this who I’d be:

To make your own go to BecomeAnMM.com

<lifting son #1 into the car>

Son: MOM! You have to lift me HIGHER!
Me: Son, you are REALLY heavy.
Son: DADDY lifts me higher.
Me: Yeah well, you’re a little over 1/4 of Daddy’s body weight so it’s easy for him. You weigh 70 pounds. You’re more than HALF my body weight.
Son: YOU WEIGH LESS THAN 140 POUNDS?!
Me: Sigh. Yes, Son. Good math.
Son: Wow Mom, you’re strong. I must be pretty heavy for you.
Me: Sigh. Yes, Son. Yes you are.

I finally got to the gym Friday. After not being able to workout for 3 weeks I thought I would have lost a ton of strength. As it turns out, constantly lifting more than half your body weight keeps you in shape. I only noticed a slight lapse in core and leg strength, but I’ve lost more than that not working out for a week and a half. I did notice my cardio endurance had dipped when I ran on Wednesday. (Yes, I was sucking wind and sore after. I’m never sore after running! I noticed no cardio difference on the eliptical and bike.) But I suppose losing a little when running is to be expected. Anyway, it was a relief that I didn’t have a big set back. I didn’t even have to lower the weight on anything. I did reduce the number of reps on a couple of sets, but other than that, I was good. WHEW.

You know the sensation where you want to start screaming and not stop? Where you’re pretty sure if you just let yourself cry or scream, you’ll come to again rocking back and forth in the fetal position in the corner? I’d almost say I’m having an anxiety attack, except I know I’m not. I know that I am merely visiting my limitations. Well, I’m not only visiting them, I’ve overstayed my welcome and my limitations are threatening to throw me off the nearest cliff. Ever felt like that? No? Ok maybe it’s just me….

I remember so clearly when my oldest son started crawling. The thing about a baby crawling when they’re only 6 months old is that they don’t have the sense yet to know that most things around them can be dangerous. They do not know if they pull themselves up onto a table and crawl across it, they will fall off when they get to the end. Edges/ gravity/ falling are all meaningless to them. They don’t know that pulling up on shaky things will result in shaky things falling on them. They do not know that eating absolutely everything they find will cause choking. It’s like they’re on a suicide mission. The only way to keep them safe is to be vigilant EVERY second of EVERY day. It was even worse when he started walking at 9 months old because then he could move even faster. And reach more things. And try to kill himself every second of every day. I remember so clearly the feeling of NEVER being able to relax. I always felt on edge because he was always trying to get into something. Always trying to climb on something. Always trying his best to not make it through the day in one piece. As a baby I thought it was because he just hadn’t learned that actions have consequences. That the world must obey the laws of gravity. That he is not invincible. That he can fall. That it was no accident I caught him before he almost killed himself. Again. And yet, he’s almost 10 years old and he’s learned none of these things.

I just locked myself in the bathroom and had a good cry. In the ensuing years since he learned to crawl and walk, he did learn the hard way that occasionally gravity stepped in. That occasionally if you teeter on the edge, you will fall in. That sometimes he could get hurt. But not usually. He’s a complete amnesiac. So he’d need to test again, just to make sure Newton wasn’t lying and gravity was still paying attention. To be fair, his sensory integration problems translate to a child that can not feel the effects of gravity, or rather his brain can’t process it properly. His sensory issues mean that he is not able to feel where his body is in space. That he does not have good balance because his nervous system can’t read signals that he’s tilting or leaning like yours and mine. In short, it means that he’s still very much like that 6 month old baby because his brain doesn’t process that he might fall. Or that he’s leaning. Or that the wheelchair has come up off the ground and he’s in danger of tipping over. He brain doesn’t tell him that he’s rolling himself so fast on the slick floor that if anything is on the floor or the wheelchair moves right or left just the slightest bit, that the wheelchair will flip over or tip. He’s totally unaware of moving up too close behind people or doors. Or that suddenly spinning himself right or left will have consequences such as objects in the way or people walking behind him. It’s not just because he’s in a wheelchair. He’s ALWAYS like this. It’s just the consequences as he’s grown older aren’t usually dire.

I’m pretty sure my head is going to explode or I’m going to throw up at any second. I’m having nightmares about him laying there bleeding. Hideous nightmares that wake me up in a sweat and then I can’t go back to sleep. I do not know how I’m going to keep this child safe. How am I going to get through the next few months without him severly injuring himself and me losing my mind? It’s exactly like when he was a baby. I tell him to stop, but he just charges away from me as fast as he can, hell bent on killing himself. His impulsivity is going to be the death of both us.

The only time I am able to relax is when he’s finally in bed for the night. Although even then, he keeps scooting to the edge of the bed and then wakes up surprised yelling “WHOA!” when he almost falls out. Sigh. So every night I drag him all the way to the wall and hope he doesn’t keep trying to test out the laws of gravity. And every day I hope that this child will make it through yet one more day with maiming or killing himself.

I believe that God is up there in heaven deciding who the parents will be of each and every child. I do not believe they are randomly assigned. I see other parents, such as my friend Shari, who has a son permanently in a wheelchair and I know in my heart that I would not have been nearly as good of a parent as she and her husband are to that child. They are the perfect parents for him. Like they were chosen. And I know in my heart, that God thought that *I* would be the perfect parent for this child. I know that most people could not handle a child like this. I see parents with other children sometimes and think I could do ten of those kids with both hands tied behind my back. But there are days, like today, where I turn my face to heaven and go “Seriously God, me?”

That got your attention didn’t it? Ya buncha looky loos! ;D This week is son #1’s first week back at school since the accident. I’ve been staying at school with him, helping him readjust, helping the school learn how to handle the wheelchair and wheelchair issues that arise. Today the school nurse wanted me to be at school in case they needed me, but not in the classroom. Which gave me like, an hour and a half of semi-freedom. So I went outside and ran a couple of miles around the school and did push-ups on the playground. And it was heaven. Pure heaven. No screaming kids, no one making demands of me, just exhaustion and my favorite drug, endorphins. Endorphins beat any chemical enhancement you can take. EVER. I am still high on endorphins and now I feel kinda sleepy. I’ve left son at school BY HIMSELF since the morning went fine, for an entire hour and a half. I can see some freedom coming my way in the coming weeks and I am GIDDY. I’m going to top this off with a little piece of chocolate. And some more endorphins this afternoon. I’ve got baseball practice later today. I am one with my chi.

Because this word and it’s definition makes me laugh until I cry. I know. There’s something totally wrong with me.

That Mr. Fabulous, he’s a little….well….he’s a little nuts. However, he brings up an interesting topic today- murder. Go ahead, scroll back to other entries (not one is suitable for children) and he’s always…well…..nuts, but let’s talk about this killing thing for a second. I was about to make a comment under this entry on his blog and realized I had more to say than a just a few sentence comment. Most of you know, I’m a vegetarian. But I’m not a vegetarian because I’m being an animal rights activist or because I’m trying to make a statement. Although the longer I’m a vegetarian, the more squeamish I seem to be becoming about dead animals and such. Last night I was cutting some fake fur for a project for son #1’s class and handling the fur kinda grossed me out. Then, when I was done cutting, the floor looked like I’d killed a beaver. That really grossed me out. It was an interesting sensation. Even though I knew it was fake fur, it still grossed me out.

I feel bad if animals die. When we go fishing, if the fish swallows the hook, I feel sick to my stomach. I won’t kill a worm or insect to put it on a hook (dead squid doesn’t bother me though- well the smell does, but not the dead animal aspect.) When I was a kid, I begged my dad nearly every day to take me duck hunting with him. Finally one weekend there were a bunch of doves in our backyard. He handed me an air rifle and told me if I could shoot the doves, he’d take me duck hunting with him the following weekend. I’m a good shot, so I picked them off one by one. The fourth or fifth one I hit in the wing and it didn’t die instantly. It started flopping around the backyard. My dad went and grabbed it and handed it to me. I looked at him in horror and screamed “What am I supposed to do with it?” He calmly said “You have to put it out of it’s misery and break it’s neck.” I refused and he did it. I burst into tears and ran into the house. I never asked to go hunting again. Dad knows me pretty well. lol.

Although I learned at an early age that I was not cut out for killing,  I have since learned that I could kill any animal, even a dog if it attacked me or my family. My aunt’s dog attacked my oldest son a few years ago. He knocked him over, jumped on top of him and was biting him in the back. I was holding my youngest, who was a baby, and a large, full tote bag.  I was running at the dog yelling, and I saw him go for my son’s head/face and my thought was that when I reached this dog I would kill him. My voice must have changed when he went for my son’s head, because he looked up and saw me charging at him and like he read my mind, he yelped and tucked his tail between his legs and ran. I really did want to kill that dog. My son had scratches, bruises and bite marks on his back. Only in Louisiana would a dog not be put down for that. Sigh. But I digress, I knew that I would kill that animal to protect my children without a moment’s hesitation or feeling bad about it.

Some people repeatedly dream things. I repeatedly dream about bad guys attacking me or my family. In my dreams, I never even hesitate to fire a gun. (There’s always one conveniently located, much to my surprise. Or one conviently left by a bad guy. These dream bad guys aren’t too smart.) The really annoying part is that the gun NEVER works. It never stops them. I always have to think of something else. The action jams or the bullets just bounce off the bad guy, or some variation of that. I’m not sure whether that means my mind can’t process actually shooting someone, or whether it’s my fear that a bad guy couldn’t be stopped. Statistics show that women killers do not like to get their hands dirty. Even in crimes of passion. I could see that. I don’t even like cutting up steak for my kids. So the question becomes could I really do it? If I were being attacked or my family, I think I could. I’m absolutely certain though that I couldn’t do it for any other reason. I feel very bad when I kill my plants. I feel bad when I smash a spider. I know I would protect my family though. Could you do it? Under what circumstances could you do it? What if you knew you wouldn’t be caught? Can you live with yourself for even killing animals? Is your problem with killing, or with jail? That’s a very thought provoking post, Fab. It beats the hell out of your dancing videos. ;D

For Scott and Beth: Captain’s Log Stardate 3/5/07 10:07 pm

 I’d heard of this new all-natural cleaning product line called Method recently and was thinking of trying it, but I hadn’t seen it in any stores. Tonight I saw it in the drugstore when I went to pick up son #2’s prescription. I purchased several products, including a plug-in air freshner called the aroma pill. The best part about the yummy smelling aroma pill is the directions:

Rotate plug of aroma pill to accomodate your vertical or horizontal wall outlet. Insert aroma pill into wall outlet with glass bottle pointing down. Do not turn sideways or else fragrance oil will spill. Gravity is mean like that.

During the winter we keep our dogs in our bonus room off the garage at night or when it’s snowing because they’re too old to stay out in the cold anymore. Consequently that room smells BAD until I can air it out in the spring. I immediately came home and plugged in the aroma pill. Without turning it sideways. Because gravity is always mean to me. Within a few minutes it started to smell better in there. I came back in the house and announced to Steve that it already smelled better back there. Without looking up, he replied “Well that’s not hard. You could take a dump on the floor and it’d smell better in there.” If gravity’s not being mean like that, Steve is.

OMG. That’s really all I can say. OMG. Why is it that I am so exhausted after taking son #1 to school today for an hour and a half? Ok, I kinda know. All the lifting of children and wheelchairs and the worry. I’m very worried he’s going to get hurt. Accidentally of course, but hurt nonetheless. And he’s running me ragged today. And just when I was starting to feel sorry for myself, my mom called and put things in perspective. My parents are in Hawaii for an annual conference and one of my dad’s colleagues, who is also an old friend, was found dead in his hotel room this morning. He was close to my brother as well, who is also in Hawaii for the conference. My brother and parents are beside themselves. Sigh. As I was talking to my mother, my dad was looking for Bob’s cell phone to call his family. I’m glad I don’t have to be the one to make that phone call. So anyway, I’m emotionally drained. Too drained to be funny today. Sorry. And before you say it, I’m relatively sure this cloud of bad luck hanging over my head is not contagious. But I can’t guarantee it. Read at your own risk.

Oh and if you’ll notice I think I fixed the timestamp. I say I think.

After cleaning spit balls from the walls, the wheelchair, the carpet and furniture, I’m feeling much calmer today. That PMS edge will sure get to you. Although you should realize that I still might come unglued at any moment, I am currently basking in some sort of….I don’t know, post-workout coma? I told my trainer he’s going to have made me so damn sore I’m going to end up throwing like a girl at tomorrow’s first baseball practice. I’ve already received an email from a dad on the team who seemed less than happy that a woman is managing his son’s baseball team. I replied to his email with my coaching and baseball resume and hopefully we’ve set the record straight. If we haven’t, I’m hoping he doesn’t think to wear a cup to practice and we’ll settle all that woman baggage with a fast ball to the nuts. > Ok, you got me. I’m still on the edge. But I have a right to be. Did you get peed on today while helping someone use a urinal? No, I didn’t think so. And I’m pretty sure God heard me taking the Lord’s name in vain when I did. Cut me some slack, dude, I was peed on. In my white down coat.

But being peed on isn’t the worst of my day. The worst of my day happened when I took son #1 for his post op check today. And they discovered more injuries. The doctor thinks his PCL (posterior cruciate ligament) and his meniscus are torn (in the knee.) Except there’s nothing they can do about it right now because this knee is on the broken hip side. And he can’t rehab it or have it operated on at this point. So we’ll be addressing this in four weeks or more.

Did I mention my hair hurts today? I showered at bedtime last night and my hair wants to lay one way and I’m trying to put it into a ponytail the other way. And it hurts. Like a cat being rubbed the wrong way.

I’m spent. And there’s some irritating water dripping. It’s interfering with my ability to concentrate and interrupting my chi. I need to go break something. Be back later.

SPIT. BALLS. IN. THE. HOUSE.

ARRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have rage today. Sometimes it doesn’t matter how freakin’ far away you move, family can still get to you. It’s the in-laws these days.

And I’m tired of being a prisoner. I want to go to the gym. I can’t even take son #1 outside for a walk and some fresh air because it snowed again. It’s too dangerous to go out.

I need groceries. Desperately. My fridge isn’t even this empty when we go on vacation. I need some random stuff from different stores like slippers for son and one of those pillows that are triangular shaped so that he can sit up in bed more comfortably. He’s read all the books I have here, and wants more. I need to pick up the forms for the handicap placard from the pediatrician’s. The bimbo at the pediatrician’s said she couldn’t mail it to me because she doesn’t have a stamp. I almost snapped. Of course this was after she tried to tell me she didn’t have the doctor’s license number. I told her I’m sure he could locate his number. Idiot. She wants me to take my wheelchair-bound child in the snow and ice and try to load him in the car, drive over there, try to find a parking space where I can get him out, unload him, go inside and get the forms, reload him into the car, drive home and unload him again all because she can’t figure out how TO MAIL SOME DAMN FORMS?!? ARGGG!!!!!!!!! I also need son’s new contacts and glasses picked up from the eye doctor. We have no back-ups right now.

I have come to find out from the school that son #1 can not actually get tutoring. They’ll help him with writing. That’s it. No actual tutoring for the work he’s missed. Just help him with writing. Nice. Son #1 is trying his damned hardest today to be difficult and make unnecessary, irritating noises. He’s throwing tantrums. He’s refusing to do any of the work sent home from school. I’m also not cut out for teaching math. He says I don’t explain like his teacher does. Sigh. Of course not. When it comes ot numbers, I just memorize them. I’m a walking phone book. A walking numerical encyclopedia. I don’t calcute. I memorize. Therefore, do not ask me to teach you math. If we want to memorize the phone book, I’m your guy. Or girl. Whatever. Otherwise, someone else needs to teach the math.

Son #2 thinks the house is haunted and is currently glued to my lap because there are ghosts upstairs. Do you think the ghosts might be able to run some errands for me? I’ll even let them drive my truck if they would. Any why haven’t they been picking up around the house? Leaches. I just went upstairs. Damned ghosts left shit all over the place.

It’s not that people haven’t offered to do stuff, they have, but I just don’t feel comfortable asking for the stuff that means they have to go out of their way. People have already gone out of their way grabbing a few items from the grocery or dropping off homework. How do you call someone up and go” Uh I need a BIG grocery run. Lots of food. I need one of those sitting up in bed pillows from Bed Bath and Beyond or somewhere. I need slippers and books. I need someone to pick up forms, pick up glasses, bring son’s homework back to school, get his jackets from school. Oh and can you cook some meals for us? I’m a vegetarian- no I don’t eat seafood and son #1 is extremly picky.”

Sigh. I’m sick of cooking three to five meals a day. Son #1 is so picky, he won’t eat the things son #2 and I usually eat for lunch. So either I have to cook a separate meal or son #2 and I have to eat stuff we don’t really want. I’m too tired to keep cooking separate meals for everyone.

The stress is getting to me. The kids are fighting. I’m not sleeping. The one thing I am looking forward to is that my trainer IS coming to the house tomorrow. My first workout in two weeks. I even feel bad about that. About asking him to come here.

So here I write to you from my prison cell. I took some PMS meds so I feel a little calmer. Make no mistake, I still might kill at the drop of a hat. But don’t provoke me and we’ll all be fine. Except the crazy dog. With him, I make no promises. He just could be the thing that sends me over the edge….Pardon me. I hear him barking….

When you have your first child, you’re so eager for that baby to start growing up; to start crawling, to start walking, to start talking, and so on. After that first baby reaches those milestones you realize: Sweet Jesus, it was so much easier BEFORE they could crawl and fall down the steps, before they could walk because as fast as they learn to walk, they learn to run away while you’re yelling COME BACK HERE NOW! And almost as soon as they utter that first glorious “Mama” they also learn to say “NO!” Yep, by the time that second kid comes along, you’re happy to just let nature take it’s course and can WAIT for the crawling and the walking and the talking. In fact some small part of you hopes it takes AS LONG AS POSSIBLE for those things to happen, because it only means life is going to get more difficult.

Yesterday we sat son #1 in the wheelchair and let him move around the house. Our first floor is arranged so that a pediatric wheelchair can get all around it because we have friends with a child who is in a wheelchair permanently and have left the furniture arranged for wheelchair accessability. Son #1 was delighted to be able to move around of his own free will. Except….much like the first time he crawled across the room, I went “Oh S$(*%&$!” It means he’s banging up my furniture and walls. It means he can get into things (you’d think at nine that he wouldn’t do that, but alas, you’re wrong.) It means he gets stuck and I have to go help him out. It means he can follow me to the bathroom. It means he can be underfoot. It means he can be even more demanding. It means he can get at my computer again and read my email and blog entries. It means that MY life just got a whole lot harder. So today’s math lesson for you is this: son+mobile=hell. That is all, class.