Sparks and Butterflies

My mom went into the hospital again last night.  She hadn’t eaten in two days and kept vomiting old blood.  The pain was finally bad enough that she willingly went.

They drained a ton of blood out.  She had an endoscopy today, and they found food.  Food that was two days old, and just wasn’t digesting.  She’s feeling much better, now that she’s been on a lot of pain medication and they took the stuff out.  She’s having an upper GI series tomorrow to see if they can pinpoint whether there’s a blockage, or she’s just not digesting for some reason.

I kept fighting myself to go to the hospital.  I REALLY did not want to go, but I should. I didn’t have a clue as to why I was so reluctant.  And right about the time I was ready to go, the school called.  Joseph was sick, and I had to pick him up.  Mother’s intuition?  I don’t know.

Let’s go with good first.  Joseph and his diagnosis.  I’ve been pretty forthright here about his issues.  I haven’t said what meds he’s on, or our specific therapeutic choices.  Suffice it to say – we’re on it.  However, after our foray into the psychiatric hospital system, the discharge diagnosis was bipolar disorder.  Well – one therapist agreed, and one psychiatrist disagreed.  On the one hand, something that’s treatable!  On the other hand, lifelong medications, and an increased risk list the size of my arm.  We had the opportunity, however, to participate in a children’s bipolar study at UCLA.  After 5 hours of testing and talking, talking and testing (there was a break in there so the doctor could do an awake brain surgery oh my jesus ::shiver::) Here’s something fascinating.  He couldn’t have participated in the study (regardless of diagnosis.)  He’s left handed.  Lefty’s have a different brain mapping than righty’s and so they wouldn’t have been able to compare brain maps of apples to apples.  I find that fascinating.  Anyway – They came to the conclusion that he is NOT bipolar.  However, they were able to diagnose social phobia, mood disorder NOS (actually clinical depression, but can’t call it that as the time involved doesn’t meet the clinical requirements) and ADHD Inattentive Type (in otherwords, no hyperactivity.)  All of this?  Feels MUCH more like him than other diagnoses we’ve had.  And so we move on from here with that.

Now the bad.  My mom’s in the hospital again.  Vomiting blood, transfusions, heart rate going down to 33.  They got her heart rate up  again, however, she’s vomiting blood again.  Things were looking up, but now not so much.  Prayers appreciated.  I’m sticking close to home in case I get “called” to the hospital.  Those are not good calls.

And the yuck, but not life and death yuck – we have no toilets.  We have to be roto-rootered, but that has to be done from the roof, as their equipment won’t fit under the house.  But they won’t come to our roof.  Something about not wanting to be struck by lightening we’re having right now.  Sheesh!  And, on top of everything else, I’m planning a bachelorette party, and am a Matron of Honor in a wedding in three weeks.

I’ve always had broad shoulders.  I guess I’m just having to use them.

As time has gone by, and Thanksgiving prepared and served and celebrated…  I don’t have the patience to update on the rest of the blow by blow.  So here’s the general gist…

On Sunday, I called and wanted an update on Joseph.  He was doing great behaviorally, ate and slept, and was in general good spirits.  That’s good.  I asked if we were still on track for release that day at 2:25pm.  The 72 hour hold time.  No.  Apparently he was on a tentative release date of Monday.  Unacceptable.  I asked for more information, but it wasn’t noted in the chart.  She said that she’d get the doctor to call me.  I waited on tinterhooks, but never got a call.  I called again to see if I could pick him up.  No, they would not release him.  So I called again at 4pm, and went through the whole thing again.  This time I talked to the charge nurse.  He told me that no, he was not going to be released on Sunday, or Monday.  He had been put on an involuntary 2 week hold.  Trying to hold on to my composure, I asked why that might be?  Considering that he had been no trouble at all, had managed his upped dosage of meds, and was reacting fine both physically and mentally?  He had no idea, and suggested I bring it up to the doctor.  I mentioned that I would if one would deign to speak to me.  Mind you the 72 hours were up earlier, and I had only spoken to a doctor once.  On Friday, for his history.  So, they had decided to keep him – again – without my consent, and apparently my knowledge.  I told the nurse I would speak with him when I got there in person.  For our hour with our son.  After we got there, Poe took Joseph to start the visit, and I spoke with the nurse.  I went through the entire series of events with him in chronological order.  After listening to me, and my being rather nicely forceful in person, he took a look at the chart.  He said that it did seem odd to him, and he would definitely look into it.  He said that I probably could take Joseph on Monday, but that he wanted to look into it, as the hold was continued without my knowledge or consent.

We visited with Joseph.  He was noticeably worn about the edges, and was really ready to come home.  I told him I was doing my best to move things along, but that it was out of my hands.  I told him I would keep him apprised with as much as I knew.  We left him there… That night, again.

Poe and I went to dinner again at the Denny’s down the street.  As we finished, and were just waiting for the check, my cell phone rang.  The hospital.  I took the call outside, while Poe paid the bill.  That was the nurse.  He said that he didn’t know if I would be able to take Joseph on Monday or not.  You see, the doctors don’t work on the weekend.  So – while Joseph was there for his 72 hour hold, the doctors, who can’t be bothered to observe the holds on the weekends, were not observing him.  Therefore, it would have to wait until the doctor (the mythical person I had never spoken to – I spoke to a different doctor on Friday) observed him an made a decision.  He couldn’t possibly be expected to approve a release without observing the patient!

No.  He couldn’t possibly be forced to work on a weekend.

Seriously, people.  I usually have a great respect for those who work in the mental health field, and those who work with children.  But I think you forget sometimes.  It’s your job.  I know that.  But guess what?  It’s our lives you’re playing with.  So pardon me if I don’t give a rat’s ass about your getting your weekend time in, if it means you can just keep my son, whom I have custody of, and who has NO social services complaints or files on.  Again.  Our LIFE.

I gave the nurse what for on the phone.  I was pacing up and down the Denny’s parking lot.  I noticed Poe – listening with half an ear, just keeping an eye out to make sure I didn’t walk in front of a car or something.  I then told the nurse I expected a call the next morning.  I also warned him that if I didn’t – they were sure to hear from me.

We went home, dejectedly.  Eventually, we got ready for bed, and relaxed.  Around 10pm, the phone rang.  The hosptital number.  This could not be good.  I answered the phone.  It was Joseph himself.  God forgive me, but all I could think of was please don’t be having a meltdown – they won’t let you come home if you do!  But I just asked him what was wrong.  It was hard to piece together.  He couldn’t talk very well, and the phone isn’t that great.  Apparently, another boy was in Joseph’s room, and wouldn’t leave.  The patients aren’t allowed in each other’s personal rooms.  Joseph was trying to hedge him out of the room, when the other child attacked him, and put him in a choke hold.  I calmed him down as best I could.  I asked about how he was physically, and he said he couldn’t talk very well, and his neck hurt – but he was ok.  I told him to go straight to bed, and if anyone bothered him again, not to take care of it himself, but yell for an adult immediately.  I told him I was working on getting him out.  I hung up with him, and immediately called the nurses station again, where he called from.  When they answered I asked how Joseph was.  They said he was shaken, but ok.  They said that the other child was put in the “quiet room.”  Considering my son is in a locked down mental institution, I’ll just let you imagine what the quiet room is.

The patients are not allowe to use the phone.  There is a public phone that they can use after 3:30pm.  He was scare enough that they let him call his mommy from the nurses station.  I then had to hang up, an leave my son there.

The next day, the doctor who originally did the history called back.  They said that they wanted to keep him another night for observation, after the altercation.  I questioned their own sanity.  That was not appreciated.  Apparently they wanted him to react to the situation so they could observe it.  Horsehit – my guess is they were covering their own legal asses.  I made it clear that the kid had mental healthcare out the wazzoo on the outside.  I made it clear that the child was being held 100% against my wishes.  I made it clear that my husband and I were looking into our legal rights and the legal ramifications of what had transpired.  I made it clear that I didn’t appreciate being left in the dark.  “Well, I spoke with you on Friday.”  Yes.  That one time was enough to keep me feeling informed about my involuntarilly hospitalized son, sure.

I think that she couldn’t possibly be a mother.

She informed me that he was tentatively scheduled for release, the next day, Tuesday.  I asked when?  She couldn’t tell me.  Who can?  The social worker.  OK, when will I hear from them?  She couldn’t tell me.  Which was so helpful.

Around 2pm, I got a call from a new person at the hospital, who I hoped was the social worker to arrange release.  No such luck.  It was the administrative office.  Our medical insurance will only cover 80% of the bill, and I would owe $1000 for the remaining 20% when I picked him up.  And how did I want to pay for that?

I must say, I reacted totally inappropriately.  I started laughing.  Hard.  With a little tinge of hysteria.  I then informed him that my husband has been out of work for the last 8 months.  This was the first actual mention of money.  And lovely timing, while I’m trying to get the kid out and all.  While he didn’t say so, I definitely got the impression that feeling was you get your kid when you give up the dough.  I don’t think so.  The words “kidnapping,” “blackmail,” and “extortion” come to mind.  I consulted with my mother, and she said no to the money.  Not no to me…  She was pissed at them.  She said that if they didn’t give him up the next morning,  to call the police.  Let them come after me for the money if they wanted to – but she wasn’t paying them a dime to get my kid out and they can’t force me to.  Further, she spoke to an attorney, and apparently we have more rights than they let us know.

Finally at 4pm I called them back.  I still hadn’t heard from a social worker…  After playing phone line bingo, I was told that he had left for the day.  He leaves at 3pm.  He gets in early, don’t you know?  I said fine – give me someone who can help me.  I got the charge nurse (a different one.)  I explained about the release.  She said she could arrange it with me, as she would be the charge nurse the next morning as well.  Finally.  I arranged to pick him up at 8am.

I did, too.  I was there early.  No one bugged me about money.  They weren’t in yet.  They explained about how I was to get aftercare and an appointment at his therapy center.  I explained – again – that he has been going there for 2 years, we have standing appointments, not to worry.  She was surprised by this.  Why yes, I do take care of my son!  Imagine that!

I took him home, and we had a long talk on the way home.  And then got him in a hot shower, and into clean pajamas.

His therapist came to the house the next day and had a session with him – and a session with us after.  She knew how hard it had been on us, and couldn’t do a thing about it.

And now?  We’ve taken him out of the school.  I was going to homeschool, but that’s going to mess with his mental health care through the state, and I cannot put that in jeopardy.  We’re currently looking at another school in another town that only has 4 kids at a time, and they all have issues like Joseph.  The idea is matriculation back into the main school in a year or two again.  Our district would be in on the whole thing.  But they have a psychiatrist on duty there.

I should probably mention his discharge diagnosis.  Bipolar disorder.  Actually makes sense to Poe and I, who live with him every day.  But couldn’t you have told that to me?  And not left me to read it on my son’s paperwork?

So.  School changes coming.  We’re waiting for a tour with his therapist before making our final decision.  Possible medication changes coming.  But he’ll be removed from the situation that was causing breakdowns and such mental angst.

This was an awful, awful experience.  I’m glad it’s behind us.  We have a long road to hoe…

But I’d like to leave you with two thoughts.  One, to parents, fight.  Don’t let it happen to you.  Ask questions.  Question them.  They may have lots of deserved degrees, but they are also human.  You live with the child, you know  them better.  Fight.  Don’t let them walk all over you.  Go with your gut.  Two, to teachers, doctors, and all those that work with children.  This is our lives.  Don’t play with it.  Don’t make it seem less than.  Don’t make our concerns seem less than.  Our lives exist constantly, fluidly, forever.  We don’t get standard breaks, and leave at the end of the day, and close up shop on Friday.

As I work and try to prep for Thanksgiving at the same time…  the events of those 5 days are getting farther from concrete memories to impressions.

On Friday, Poe took care of Logan’s getting to school, and let me sleep in.  I was up so late the night before, and the emotional toll was great.  When I got up and had some coffee, I had my parents come over to the house so we could tell them the whole story of what had happened the day and night before.  They had been out of town and started the trek back when we called them.  They had gotten home about 6:30am.

While we were talking to them, the hospital called.  It was a doctor, but not the one on Joseph’s chart/identification bracelet.  We went through Joseph’s mental history, medical history, school history, as well as familial medical and mental histories.  I can do all that in my sleep.  I made it clear, again, that we did not agree with his hold.  She confirmed for me that his hold, should nothing else happen, would be up Sunday at 2:45pm.  I confirmed visiting hours for the night.  After that she asked me to put him on drugs.  Like 3.  He’d been there part of one night.  I said no.  I did allow, since he did break down, the next step up dose of the medication that he was already on.  That’s it.  I know the effect on his body, and that’s all I was comfortable with at that moment in time.  She was not pleased with me.  She then said that she would remove the 72 hour hold if I was willing to commit him for several days of observation.  I said no.  I didn’t think he should be there in the first place, and I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to commit him based on that – and for even longer than the hold to boot.  Although, in retrospect, I wonder if I should have – and if I had, would I have been able to sign him out right away?  I don’t know.  She was not pleased with me.  I was turning out to be a bit of a stubborn parent.  Obviously, part of the problem and not the solution.

5:30pm – 7pm per day.  That’s it.  To see my son (who was not in prison – although you wouldn’t know it.)

We numbly went through our day.  I couldn’t work, and let my clients know.  I was also in contact with Joseph’s therapist to keep her in the loop, since it quickly became obvious that the hospital would not.

And finally, it was time to get ready for our first visit to the mental institution.  I had been there the night before, but it was for an admission, so this would be new to me.  My father stayed with Logan.

Poe hadn’t been particularly involved in any of this.  Not due to not caring, but because he was making sure Logan was ok, and all his bases, meals, homework, etc. were covered.  This visit was the first he would see of the hospital.

We made the trek out there in Friday commuter traffic.  30 miles round trip.  We signed in.  We then made our way back to the pediatric unit – going through locked gates and doors that held signs, “Caution, AWOL risk.”  We passed the resident cat.  I don’t know who feeds him, but he’s HUGE.  We’re finally let into the pediatric unit, and Joseph came out to meet us.  He was still in the clothes from the night before, but I had brought him clean clothes.  I could also immediately tell that he had not brushed his teeth.  He lied and said he did, but I can tell.  Eventually I flat out asked him if he had a toothbrush?  No,  he did not.  I marched him up to the nurses station, and they gave us one.  “All he had to do was ask.”  “He’s 9.  He’s not going to ask.”

When we came in, we were immediately surrounded by Joseph and his three roommates.  His three roommates held us in awe, as if visiting parents were a rare and delicate species.  This saddened me so much, that I had to stop thinking about it.  I couldn’t take on their pain too.  It’s hard enough giving enough of myself to the kids I already have.  I eventually told the other kids that they needed to find something to do, as we wanted to visit with Joseph alone.  They could all hang out again in an hour, I promised.

Finally, alone with Joseph, we took stock.  He was exhausted.  Even though he came in and finally got to bed around 2am, he was awoken with everyone else that morning at 6am.  He was loopy, glassy-eyed, and a little stupid.  A combo, I think, of the upped medication dosage, and 4 hours sleep compared to his usual 10.  He was having fun though.  The usual come down of having released all his anger, combined with being around kids his same age, with similar issues.  He’s the only one in his school, so this is a new and intriguing turn of events.  No school, just groups and stuff.  So, we basically told him what we knew was happening, and promised to return the next night.  He understood that he couldn’t come with us, and accepted that.  What he wasn’t happy with was the fact that we couldn’t stay.

We gave him hugs and kisses, and promised to return the next day.  And then watched as medical equipment was taken in to his room.  His roommate had ingested something, and needed medical attention.

We left him there, and went to Denny’s for dinner.  We weren’t ready to return to a too-quiet home.  A cloud of concern hung around us like a fog – but we didn’t talk about it.  It was obvious but unspoken.  What can we say?  It’s out of our hands.

Saturday passed much the same way.  He was more alert in the visit, having gotten more sleep.  He didn’t want us to stay the whole time, though.  He wanted to go to gym-time to play games.  Of course the only time it’s available is during visiting hours.  We let him.  Who are we to say he (a nine year old boy couped in group therapy all day) can’t let off steam and run around.  We understood that.  He has to survive this.

We left, alone again.  Sunday, however, is when the shit hit the fan.  Mama bear had to come out and play.

I’m going to try to explain what happened in small doses, because I am short on time, and because I’m short on spirit.

For those who might not read regularly, Joseph has mental and emotional/behavioral issues, as well as specific learning disabilities.  As a result, he is on medication to help regulate his emotional control (a very mild form, as we recognized the need, but needed to balance it with our genuine concern for long term effect data shortage.)  He is on an IEP at school which includes special education, regular class, and counseling.  He has outside mental health care as well.  He’s been having serious trouble with another child at the school who has known him for years, and know all his buttons and triggers, and has no compunction in using this knowledge.

The school is aware of everything – including this other child.

On Thursday, we got a call around 1pm.  The school was asking us to come down, as they couldn’t find Joseph, and felt that he might have possibly gone off campus.  I stayed home, and Poe went to handle it.  He has before.  Joseph has run before.  One of his issues was using violence against those he was angry or upset with.  After years, he now understands that’s wrong.  Instead, he runs.  It’s his natural fight or flight response on overdrive.  In the past, he’s stayed close to the school.  Poe got there and called me to say that the school didn’t know where he was.  They asked us whether we wanted them to call the police.

You’ve lost our son, and you ask us if we want you to call the police?  Yes.  He’s 9 and needs to be found.  They locked down the school until he was found.  One mom was in the office, complaining to the secretary about how it was really inconvenient, and she took time off work for her meeting, and blah blah blah.  My husband was standing right there, and told her, “I’m so very sorry that my son’s disappearance has inconvenienced you ma’am.”  She just gave him a dirty look.

What led to this?  I found out later that this other child has been “stealing” Joseph’s friends (again) and sending glares Joseph’s way.  Well, it got to be one glare too many and he ran.  What the school failed to tell us at the time – he had an aide with him, who failed to attempt to follow him.

Thus started an hour’s nightmare of the police crawling over our town trying to find him, them coming to the house (I stayed home in case Joseph called us,) giving them his most recent photos, etc.  I explained that he has issues, briefly, but serious, and that no one at the school seemed to be aware of any particular incident that day.  Then came that interminable wait.  Waiting is awful.

Eventually we got the call that Joseph had been found.  And here’s the kicker that starts it all.  He was found on the effing freeway.  He had walked all the way from school – PAST our house – and onto the freeway on ramp a block away.  He was trying to get to the mountains to run away, and that was the route he knows.  When he’s in his heightened state, he has no way of thinking through actions/reactions/consequences.  He put himself and other drivers in danger, true.  However, even though I was available, and police knew this, the police sergeant on the case decided without speaking to me about his history to put him under an involuntary 72 hour hold, because he was obviously (in his mind) trying to kill himself.

If he had talked to me first, he may have realized that putting a 9 year old in a mental institution could possibly be detrimental to him, and that he has therapists on call willing to come to him to help him through this mental crisis.  He didn’t.  Once he signed the order, too, it was out of everyone’s hands.  They wouldn’t let me see him at the freeway, just told me to leave and go to the hospital.  I ran home, got his medical information, my ID, etc, and headed to the hospital.  On the way I called his psychiatrist and his therapist and put them on the alert.

When I got there I found my 9 year old son handcuffed to a hospital bed, purple with fury, and stiff as a board.  As soon as he saw me, he started to cry, his joints loosened, his color started coming back down to normal.  After a few minutes, they saw my effect on him and removed the handcuffs.  They threatened him with restraints, but he didn’t understand – although I did.  I briefly saw his shoulder.  The fire department personnel physically removed him from the side of the freeway, and he was all banged up.  Apparently he socked one of the firefighters who was hauling him.  The police wanted him charged with assault.

The doctor spoke briefly too us, but really, he didn’t do anything.  They took his vitals, but that’s it.  He never got psych care there.  Their role was to take custody of us, and for the hospital’s social worker to find a mental institution that takes pediatric patients.  It took a couple of hours, but they found one.  I was informed that I would be arrested if I tried to leave with him.  At some point, Poe came and relieved me, and I went home to Logan to eat something and just take a break.  You see, the judgment and stares you get when there’s mental issues involved feels heavy.  I had to handle the bulk as my parents were on vacation (but were on their way back as soon as they heard) and Logan needed to be cared for.  Joseph’s behavior was completely calm in ER for the many hours we were there.  At the mental institution it would be several more hours until a bed was available.  At 10pm an ambulance was sent for him.  I wasn’t allowed to take him myself.  I followed the ambulance to the mental institution 15 miles away.  (We would continue to drive 30 miles a day every day for this.)  It took them 3 more hours to get him checked in, due to a  shift change.  I got home around 1:30am.  He didn’t get to bed until about 2:30am (and then awoken at the normal wake up time at 6am Friday.)  He was exhausted.  Just exhausted.  His normal bedtime is 9pm.  It was all just so disjointed.  I kept wanting to say, “but he’s a kid.”  “It’s past his bedtime.”  “He hasn’t had his bath.”  I mean underneath all of the crap – he was thrilled to ride in a real ambulance.  He’s a child.  It was such a grown up situation, and he looked so very small.  So very tired.  Trying to keep brave, as he couldn’t remember everything, but knew he caused this.

When I got home, because I wasn’t allowed to stay, my husband tried to hug me, but I wouldn’t let him.  I had held it together for 12 hours, but I needed to tell him the important stuff first.  I had to tell him that the 72 hours would be up at 2:25pm on Sunday afternoon.  That we would be called tomorrow about his care, and for them to get his history.  That we could visit 5:30-7pm nightly, but that’s all we could see him.

Then we went to bed.  And I lost it.  Totally, completely, thoroughly.  It wasn’t pretty.

I asked Poe what kind of mother leaves her child at a mental institution (as if I had a choice?)  He said, “The kind who’s kid plays on freeways.”  Gallows humor.  Gallows humor certainly got us through this week.

That afternoon and night was surreal.  Strange.  Sort of seen like it wasn’t really us – like I was watching a play or something.

To be contined.

I’m working on the entry about our son’s saga.  Because it entails 5 days worth of hell, it’s going to take me a bit.  But I need to get it out, and I also want it to refer to – before I forget certain details.  I hesitated in posting anything at all.  But Joseph’s issues are no stranger here.  And frankly, this is my story.  Our stories are completely intertwined at his age, and this is my place to journal what’s going on.

To further the nightmare, I started creeping back into my online world to discover that a person I consider to be a friend had a stroke and is in the ICU.  I’m not linking because this is about me, and not her – and I’d hate for her family to check her links and find this here whining.  If I write a post about her in more specifics (family needs etc.) it will be all about her – THAT I’ll link her to.

And finally, today is my first day back to client work.  And a client rather abruptly canceled their contract with me.  I don’t know the reasons, although I suspect some, and really it’s better.  I don’t think the person and I would have worked well together in the long term – but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a blow to a rather fragile ego at the moment.

You know, I learned a long time ago never to say, “It could be worse.”  While usually true – there are many many others worse off and I know it, it felt ominous to say.  I’ve also learned never to say, “It cannot get any worse.”  You’d think, by my life lately, that I go around saying it all the time while having nightly beers with everyone’s pal Murphy L.

I’m stuck in a living nightmare with one of my children.  I’m not able to process it completely yet here.  One – it’s not over yet, and I’m hoping to have a conclusion to the story tomorrow.  Two – I’m in a limbo of thought and action…  I can’t seem to accomplish anything.  It’s sort of like all my thoughts are reserved for this situation.

I’m not trying to be mysterious.  It’s just a really long story, and I’ll need to tell it in a manner that goes down the timetable of what has happened.  Here’s the really short version – while in the school’s care, my son made a really bad decision in which he could have been killed.  Because of that, my son is in a mental institution against our will.  Further to that, we were unable to get him out on time because the doctor can’t be bothered to work on the weekends.  And due to that fact, my son was almost killed tonight by another mental patient.

He’s supposed to come home tomorrow.  But I say that with really fat air quotes because I’ve also been told, “All due respect, ma’am, we don’t need your consent.”

If  he doesn’t come home tomorrow, we’re taking legal action.

Twice in less than a week my son has almost died when in the hands of a state entity that supposedly knows better than me how to take care of him.

I’m hanging on by a thread.  Mainly, all my energy is being put into being nice and mad, so I don’t become complacent and let them bulldoze their way through our lives.

I may go through the whole process of what has happened, but I simply don’t have the energy right now.  Please be patient with my not being particularly communicative at this time.

I could talk about how my school district wants to bus my kid out to another district ’cause they can’t handle him. Too frustrating, raw, and in flux.

Could talk about Poe’s continued unemployment. But really? Haven’t you heard that one before?

Could talk about certain theories about 2012, Israel peace treaties, 7 horses, and survival… But you’d think I was a true nutcase.

Could tell you about how my father drunkdialed me last night.

Instead, I’ll tell you this. I’m 34 years old and I’m going to be adopted.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to be legitimate.

Back when I was 4, and Jeannette abandoned me, my parents couldn’t adopt me because of a combo of Jeannette saying no, and my mother’s health. All this time, I’ve been legally their great-niece. They (and I) treat me as, and consider me as their daughter. All the good and bad that entails. My children are their grandkids. They are, “mom,” “dad,” “papa,” and, “grandma.” Period.

This has not gone well with the rest of the family. Even though it’s been 30 years. Lots of, “well it’s not like she’s your REAL daughter.” “It’s not like she’s blood.” (Actually, I am blood – so I never understood that one.) Or from my deceased “brother” (mom’s son who died about 4 years ago.) “Hi, this is Michele. My mom raised her.” That was his way of introducing me. I mean, OK – even if he didn’t want to introduce me as his sister, fine! He could have said cousin – that was indeed what we were legally!

My other “brothers” – dad’s kids – can’t stand that they treat me like a daughter – and not only a daughter, the favorite baby. Really, they only have themselves to blame for that, but they would never believe that in a million years. It’s all my fault. For existing.

Anyway. For a bunch of reasons, from inheritance legalities, to end of life medical decisions, to probably future legal fights with other relatives, we have decided to adopt me.

Nothing will change except the wording on their legal documents, and I’ll be issued another birth certificate. But it will greatly ease some of my fears about their late life. I do not wish to fight with my “brothers” about my parents being on or off life support when I fully know their wishes, and they haven’t bothered to speak to them, just because they’re the “legal” next of kin. I have no wish to fight over the money in their estate, when I know darn well who to call (I can bet you a large sum of money that they haven’t a clue who my parents’ legal representation is. I however send the woman a Christmas card every year.) I don’t wish to fight with them over the charitable contributions that my parents wish made upon their death. I have no wish to fight with them over the property my parents own, which I know what they want done with. I’m am positive that they don’t know my parents wishes. I do. And I don’t want legal hurdles put in my way when that time comes. Everything will be difficult enough to process while grieving without their pettiness coming into play.

Bottom line? My getting adopted will protect my parents wishes, and make me legally capable of pursuing those wishes on their behalf.

All morbidity and callous practicalities aside, we’ll be correcting an error that should have been corrected when I was 18. We just didn’t realize it could be.

I really don’t have a lot of time to write in my OWN blog, as I have other commitments, school starting, my business, my father, and home renovations going on. I am hear though. I’m reading your blogs, I’m reading your tweets… I’m just not talking back right now.

As for dad… They tried to take out his cancer locally, and they couldn’t. It’s too deep. They are going to put him under general and take out a portion of his arm. They’re trying to work out the OR schedule. I still don’t know what kind of cancer it is… And I think my parents are confused. So, I asked them to have the doctor PRINT it out for me. They don’t seem to care what kind – but I CARE. RESEARCH people! It’s good for you and keeps you from being taken, keeps you informed and involved in your own care rather than the therapy happening TO you. Luckilly they have a pushy daughter, and I will get to the bottom of it. They can’t complain. They raised me.

Home renovations continue. The hallway is done (painted and pictures hung, and some narrow furniture.) The bedroom is half done. I still have to clean out under the bed, and then we wait, because I have to buy some things. And well – purchases need to wait. We’ve run out of the small house fund I had set up prior to Poe’s losing his job, but other stuff, paid for by my parents as the owners are happening. As I type, I’m playing guard duty while a window is being ripped out behind me. I have to guard against our indoor cats escaping. But with all the sawing and banging, I just don’t think that’s going to happen.

My kids start school in a week and a half, and so that’ll be a month learning a new routine. They’ll both be on new schedules, and this will be the first year of going to school medicated for Joseph, plus a longer day. Logan will be on the big playground and PE and stuff, plus a longer schedule. And of course, harder homework all around. I can’t believe the summer is almost gone.

So, I know I’m not especially prolific. I’m barely holding it together, truth-be-told. I have some physical stuff going on, practical stuff going on, emotional stuff going on… Really? I’m a basket case, but it’s all internal, and I just can’t afford to externalize it right now. I think I’m the glue holding everything together at the moment, and so I simply can’t lose it. Yet.

A while ago, my father had a bad fall in his garage. He went to pick something up from the ground, and lost his balance and toppled. My father is a big man. 6′ and a good 250. And yes, he was a linebacker in high school. In trying to break his fall he dislocated his shoulder, cut his arm, and bashed his head. Cat scans and x-rays later, his shoulder was set, his head cleaned up, and his arm bandaged. It was more of a terrible scrap, so it couldn’t be stitched. He healed for the most part. Had to have some physical therapy for his shoulder. His arm healed for the most part.

When his arm healed over, it had a bit of a bump. It looked like scar tissue. But then the bump grew. It was almost like the cut underneath was infected, so he played with it, but there was nothing in it. So he left it alone. The bump became larger and larger, and eventually, a middle sort of pitted and scabbed over. It was the size of a half dollar. A circle of scar tissue with a scab in the middle. He finally came over and had me take a good look at it. I told him to make a dermatology appointment immediately. My thought was a condition I heard of in which the body’s skin cells sort of just keep going and keep making scar tissue, even when it’s healed. Like I said, it was about a half dollar in diameter and a good half inch high.

Unlike any time before, my dad actually took my advice. He went to the doctor yesterday.

Yesterday afternoon we were in our kid pool, and my dad came ambling over from his backyard. He sat down and explained that he probably had cancer.

Skin cancer. Probably carcinoma but the doctor isn’t sure if it’s carcinoma or melanoma. It has invaded all layers of skin. They took a biopsy, (they also removed another portion on his arm) and sent it for testing. We’ll know more after the tests come back in two weeks. That portion of his arm will have to be removed surgically, but before they do it, they want to know the kind of cancer they’re looking at. Then they’ll find out the stage, and do tests to see if it’s metastasized.

My mom has dealt with skin cancer for years. But with her, it has a particular look to it, so she knows immediately what it is, and it is promptly removed. That’s it. It doesn’t permeate her skin, and there are no other symptoms or treatments. With my dad, though? It might be bad. There are cancers that attack sores and injuries that aren’t healing properly, and that’s what they think we’re dealing with here.

And so, we wait.

My mother is throwing me for a loop though. She actually said to my dad that he was in denial. His reply was, how can he be in denial when they’re not even sure what exactly he has yet? And then she said, “it’s a good thing you didn’t get into that pool with that cancer.” Like what? He’s going to spread it like the plague or something? I think she’s just reacting, because my mother is much more intelligent than that and has dealt with cancer in many forms with many relatives including her parents – not to mention her own. So, I haven’t talked to her about it yet. I’m waiting for her to calm down a bit, so I don’t have to deal with her saying something stupid. Because she’ll blame him in some way. She always does. It’s how they operate.

And so we wait for the tests. We wait to see what we’re dealing with. And then we’ll wait to see how much of his arm they take (because Poe will probably have to take over physical work on both houses for him.) We’ll see what he’s left with. We’ll see how far it has spread. We’ll figure out what’s next.

We’ve come a long way, my dad and me. We haven’t really gotten along for a lot of reasons I’ve never and will never mention on my blog. But over the years that we’ve lived next door we’ve gotten closer. He’s not close to his sons, or his other grandchildren, so he’s incredibly close with the boys. He’s not a very friendly man, in that he doesn’t do anything to expand the relationships he’s got – mom’s the social director of the family. Which means, when he wants/needs to talk to someone he comes to me. The very fact that he searched us out to tell me to my face and not hiding behind my mother, and then just talking to us about it… We’ve come a long long way.

So, we wait. And again, our decision to stay here and help them until they’re gone is validated. I’m needed here. And I thank God that my husband gets that – not only gets that but participates.