Sparks and Butterflies

I’m sitting here clipping my coupons in preparation to marathon grocery shop tomorrow.  On one sheet there are three different coupons:  Prilosec (which I use due to my GERD and ulcers), diapers, and toilet paper.

It is perfect.

A ton of diapers, a whole lot of shit, and ulcers.

Welcome to parenthood.

I’ve learned in my decade as a mother that each and every stage has it’s own challenges.  It never gets easier.  Certain aspects get easier, but the job of parenting doesn’t.  Each stage is a tradeoff.

Poe and I will not be having any more children.  He was – er – snipped.  We decided that two kids with special needs was enough, and maxed out our emotional and financial reserves.  For one child, it’s a toss up if he’ll be a self-sustaining adult.  For him, we still have years of therapy and medication and doctors appointments and IEP meetings to get through.  For the other child, survival is of paramount importance.  For him we have years left of surgery medications anesthesia and doctors appointments.  So, we made the decision to just stop.

So for each “ending” stage, we realize it’s the last.  Although every once in a while someone passes me a baby.  You know…  The kind that doesn’t quite have their own personality yet, and smells of baby powder.  The kind who’s so young, woofling into your neck and a steady hand holding up the bum is simple paradise to them.  That’s one stage that I do miss.  The stage where you make everything right for this tiny person by simply holding on.

There are a few stages, though, that I’ve said goodbye to with joy.

Diapers.  The changing, the tossing, the necessity to be constantly prepared.

Toilet training.  The accidents, extra clothes, negotiation and head scratching.

Toddler danger where they don’t quite yet get what’s bad and dangerous and are constantly giving you heart attacks as they decide to investigate the stove.  Or street.  Or beehive.  Or howthehelldidyougetupthere place.

I do miss kindergarten though.  It was school but not school.  They didn’t have all the pressures of grades and homework, but you see their mind just expand.  That was fun.

We’re currently in a stage that I detest.  The elementary school years, where their not quite on their own with schoolwork yet, like high school.  I hate being pressured to do homework.  I detest it.  I have no patience for it.  And for crying out loud did you not listen to the instructions in class? What the heck am I to do with three triangles, a square, and no instructions?

Thank God no one has to make a volcano erupt yet, or I might just lose it.

In years to come, maybe I’ll look back with longing at these years.

Right now, we still have it simple.  Mom and dad know it all.  No is no.  We’re still in control.  Sort of.  I have to admit I’m not looking forward to girls.  Puberty.  Body hair.  Talking back.  Attitude.  Expose to language, sex, and drugs.  My oldest just turned 10 and I see these things hovering on the horizon.  I’m scared.  I’m scared to go from sleepless nights to talks about drugs.  Diapers to condoms.  Tantrums to groundings.  Kindergarten to college.

This parenting gig is kind of hard.  The totally cliche and sappy quote “Parenting is your heart forever walking around outside your body” is true.  I’m not a sappy mushy person.  But Oh, how it’s true.

Dear Teacher,

From the end of March to the beginning of May we are dealing with:

A kid on medication
Forms that MUST be done in person, because God knows a doctor’s office can’t deal with email, .pdf’s, or even a fax
3 birthdays, and one anniversary
all with no money considering my husband hasn’t worked in almost 14 months
a cold sweeping through the family
maintaining current clients, while gaining new ones
because that’s what’s keeping us in groceries while the unemployment keeps rent and electricity paid
while keeping sane during two separate spring breaks in two separate school districts who of COURSE can’t happen at the same time
while my dad just wanders through my house at odd times asking my husband to play online poker, planting tomatoes that he wants ME to take care of
while the plumbing implodes every other week
while making the decision whether my mother needs to go to the hospital
while helping my mother maintain through a failing memory and what I suspect are mini strokes
while volunteering for hours for your school
while my husband takes tests
that I have to quiz him on which SUSPECT is the right one to SHOOT
All while I maintain control in the household by paying bills, doing laundry, doing dishes, cleaning the house, keeping the children clean, fed, and alive.

So pardon me if the mother-effing report on the great white shark was effing late. He’s 7. Get over it.

Dear Joseph,

A couple days ago you turned ten. 10. A decade. Double digits. Your teenage years are just on the horizon.

This year you have gone through more than any child should. Bullying that wasn’t stopped. Adults that wouldn’t listen. Police. Hospitals. A school change. All on top of the challenges you already face.

You’ve come through it all intact, with integrity, doing the work, and I am so very proud of you.

May the next decade bring you more growth and lessons you learn from, ease in yourself, knowledge of love, and a kernel of wisdom.

I love you.

Mom

P.S.  Clean your room.

Poe was handling the morning carline this fine Friday (thank God) morning.  His conversation with a mother (in the actual carline):

Mother:  Hey!  Aren’t you Mr. X*?

Poe:  Um, no?

Mother:  Really?  At Club Midnight*?

Poe:  Um. No.  Nononono.

Mother:  Well…  You’re a really great dancer.

Poe:  Thank you?

What he wanted to say was “And were you a good tipper?”  But he didn’t.  Although he should have.

Of course this comes on the heels of Girl Scout Cookies, hugs, lots of “Thank you Mr. Wilcox,” “Mmmmm those are great tattoos!” And my favorite, “It’s so nice to have a big strong man on the carline.”  (And really?  WTF?)

I’m going to have to start going to carline myself to protect him from the wimmins.

*Dancer and Club name completely made up because Poe couldn’t remember the names.  DOESN’T HE KNOW HE NEEDS TO REMEMBER THIS STUFF SO CAN BLOG ABOUT IT?

I have been editing the school newspaper for years.  This is my 5th year, actually.  It’s hours of my time, involving PTA Presidents, Communications VP’s, printers, and deadlines.  I get thanks from the President, usually, which is really great – it’s sincere.

Poe has been doing the Carline for two weeks.  Poe gets hugs and free Girl Scout Cookies.

Something’s not right here.

And yes, I want a cookie.

At our local elementary school, where Logan attends, we’ve been having serious carline issues.  Since being out of work, Poe has taken over the dropoff and pickup for me.  He was coming home increasingly angry at the other parents doing stupid stuff, against the “rules” stuff, illegal stuff, and flat out dangerous stuff.  Examples:  Parking across the street, and then having their kids come to them, between the cars in the carline AND jaywalking alone (6 years old) to boot.  Pulling u-turns straight out of the line.  Parking in local residents’ driveways.  Parking in the red.  Blocking fire hydrants.  Double parking in the middle of the street.  It got to the point that he starting documenting on his cel phone.

Because of our frequent meetings with the principal for Joseph’s IEP’s (this was prior to his switching schools,) Poe was able to bring up his issues with the whole thing.  The school is a little at a loss as to how to really fix it.  They are already participants of the Calico program – a Sheriff’s program that trains parent volunteers to help the line move faster and safer.  Finally they decided to publish a rather harsh letter in the school newsletter (I’m the editor,) and bring in the Sheriffs.  And up the parental volunteer muscle.  So they brought in Poe, a former marine, who’s mad at what the other parents are doing.  So each day, at least while he’s out of work (still?!) Poe will hang out at the school, help kids get out and in the cars, holler at stupid parents, and if they don’t listen take their license numbers and pictures for the Sheriff.  He got trained by the Sheriffs this morning (yes, it’s that serious.)

These parents are impatient, and think that they have more important things to do than the rest of the parents do.  As a result they put all our kids in danger.  If it were just a matter of being rude, that’d be different.  But a little girl was killed near here not all that long ago for the same reasons.  Time to put a stop to it – Poe stepped up to the plate.  This should get interesting.

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.

I’ve been extremely delinquent in my blogging.  Basically because things are at such a level of suckage that I can’t stand to write about it.  So here’s a little update on everything.  First, the good.

Joseph is doing great at his new school.  He seems to like it.  He’s very tired as it’s only the 2nd week in, and he’d been out so long, but he’s starting to get in his groove.  I’m cautiously optomistic.

I’m matron of honor in a friend’s wedding coming up in February.  Trying to scrounge together money for the kids’ tux rentals (they’re in the wedding.)  Not to mention the bachelorette party.  I’m pretty sure it’s going to be BYOB and I cook.  Dude.  I can’t afford anything else. dammit.

Logan continues to be… Logan.  There are no words for that little bug.

As for the rest.  Student loans are coming after us, and we’re trying to settle.  They really don’t care that Poe’s been out of work for a year – and no they won’t take payments.  $28k now please.  Actually no -  please isn’t a word they know.  I’ve heard stories of the tactics that debt collectors use, but got to experience it first hand, myself yesterday.  We were personally insulted, our family was personally insulted (although I’m still not sure why) and the man yelled at us.  Not argued – yelled.  As if we had personally taken out a loan against his property.  Dude – you’ve had the account for a week.  He called us liars.  Started questioning each of our expenses.  It was awful and surreal.  I’m not usually on the receiving end of such vitriol – and I’ve taken some shit in  my life.  I don’t remember what I said, but Poe said at some point I said, “Excuse me sir, but how dare you speak this way to a human being?”  It was bad.  At which point my father witnessed my falling to pieces, which prompted my mother to come over, which prompted a potential settlement.  Which I am not handling.  Poe is.  I can’t get back on the phone with them.  I already have ulcers.

We’ve managed to stay current on everything else, by the skin of our teeth.  Poe has tried everything from his actual career line of work to grocery store, to pizza joints.  Now he’s trying to find manual labor.

So when I see Washington saying that things are getting better, I wonder if they’ve actually talked to any of their constituency.  Because it’s not for us.  And I know it’s not for others.

We’ve become Dave Ramsey fans.  Although to use his words, “we have an income problem.”  But using his money tactics for talking to each other, and planning together – Poe and I are both closer, and have a better monetary hand on things.  That’s actually been a good thing.  I don’t feel abandoned to make all the hard decisions myself, and he actually knows blisteringly clear how bleak it is.  But, knowledge is power.  We have a plan to initiate, and while for now that’s mostly treading water, we’re together in it.

So – if you know of a CAD Design/Drafting job – or anything else – open in Southern California, I’d appreciate being able to pass it on to him.

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.