Author: Dre

Categories
Parenting Special Needs

Stages

Blythe has a raging double ear infection and a nasty, wet cough.  

I haven’t slept more than a few minutes at a time for 4 nights in a row, because she cries out, in pain, constantly throughout the night.  I lay next to her, and never fall completely asleep.

To say that I’m exhausted doesn’t begin to cover it.

Tonight, at bedtime, I lay there beside her and cried silently as she fidgeted for an hour before falling asleep.  The antibiotics contain traces of corn.  It’s the lesser of all the other corn-infused choices. 

For now, in the beginning, she’ll just be hyperactive.  Soon, though, the effects of corn exposure will start to manifest in a million different ways.  It’s hard to say how far this will knock her back, when all is said and done.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the parent I used to be, before Blythe was born.  The mother Alison had for her first 3 and a half years of life.  That woman was exactly the parent I always hoped I would become.

I love my daughters, both of them, with the kind of passion I never thought would be possible.  I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

But sometimes I wonder what our life would be like, if Blythe didn’t have special needs.  If I could only be the parent I used to be…

If I could run in to Rite Aid for cough drops like a normal person – without having to kick myself for letting my baby girl rest her cheek against the counter for a split second.

Her face started to swell immediately.  She was fine, after a speedy dose of Zyrtec.  But it rattled me.

What would life be like if I could relax?  How would things be different if I didn’t worry constantly?  What kind of mother would I be now, if I hadn’t had only a dozen restful nights of sleep in the past three years?

Would I let my kids have corn dogs?  I ran up to the store the other night, alone, and felt an unexpected pang of jealousy when I overheard a dad tell his two boys to pick something – anything, really – from the deli for dinner. 

I’ll never, ever be able to do that.

I mourn the loss of what could have been, sometimes.  On nights like these, when I’m exhausted and worried and tearful.  It makes no sense to pine for a life that won’t ever happen… especially when, for the most part, I am so incredibly happy with the life I already have.

Today, Alison lost her first tooth.  What a huge milestone it was.  I wish we could have celebrated, but instead we spent the afternoon at Urgent Care, with Blythe’s needs once again taking the front seat while Alison’s lesser needs are pushed to the back. 

Will she come to resent her sister, if I’m not careful?  Will she wish for a life that could have been?

I hope not.

Categories
Parenting Special Needs

Big Papa

Baby A is two days old.  Five pounds, five ounces, with the most adorable baby cheeks.



From the nursery window, he looks like any other baby.  But Baby A is different.

The woman who gave birth to him is a meth addict, and a smoker.  Child Protective Services took him from her as soon as he entered this world, and thank goodness. 

Without her, he has a fighting chance.



Our friend Jesse was informed just today that he gets to take Baby A home – parental rights have been signed over to him.

It was a scramble to put together everything a new, first time daddy might need.  In the baby section of Wal.Mart, I threw diapers, wipes, blankets, bottles, formula, baby soap and teeny-tiny nail clippers into his basket.  From my garage – a car seat, a crib mattress. 

That is enough to get them through the first few days.*

Jesse knows that taking care of Baby A will be difficult.  Meth babies face horrific challenges, ones that can last a lifetime.  But everything Baby A needs rests in Jesse’s hands, in his heart.  He will be the most amazing Big Papa – dedicated, careful, informed. 

Everything his birth mother was not.

After today, life for the two of them will never be the same.  And I, for one, can’t wait to see this beautiful family grow.

———

*Offers to help Jesse and Baby A have been pouring in.  Can I just say, again, how much I love this community?  The two of them could use just about anything you might think of, and donations of any kind are appreciated.  Email me at Jerdre53 (at) aol (dot) com or dm me @Sweet_Life on twitter if you are interested in helping.  Thank you!*

Categories
Life in general

Only in Time

We’re running on fumes around here. 

The Rental.  It’s almost done.  The last -my husband better not even think about buying another condemned crack house for at least a year- house is nearly finished.  I took some almost-finished photos today, and hope to post some before-and-after shots for your enjoyment, sometime soon.

Don’t hold your breath, though.

The Puppies.  Nine of ten have gone to their new homes, and I am relieved.  Taking care of puppies is a lot of work.  But I’m also inexplicably sad.  The house feels empty and quiet.  Their mom keeps digging under the fence to go looking for her puppies.  I look into her eyes, and I wonder whether I’m cut out for this business.

*

The Work.  Owning and running a small business, especially in a flailing economy, is a lot of flipping work.  There aren’t pee-ons to do the crap jobs, you can’t even think about quitting, and people tend to push and shove and demand a mile when you offer an inch.

So, what happens when you want to go on vacation, or you get sick, or you just want to have an uninterrupted dinner on occasion?  Well, you pretty much don’t take family vacations, you consult with clients between bouts of diarrhea, and you end up eating dinner three hours later than you intended.  Every. single. time.

The Blogs.  I love this space, and I have so many unwritten posts floating around in my head.  But there is no time to write, to cultivate, or to read the blogs I love.  I am creating a corn allergy blog with a friend, something I’m incredibly passionate about.  But I refuse to publish sub-par content on something so important, and so it sits, neglected but full of potential.

The Kids.  When life is going by at 100 miles per hour, I don’t give my kids the kind of attention I think they deserve.  Their needs get met.  They eat meals on tv trays.  Baths are every other day.  Bedtimes get later and later.  Time for creative play and cuddling go out the window, and we all feel the loss.

When finally I get them into their beds, they ask me to stay.  I lay, quietly, trying to calm my breathing so that they will relax and fall asleep.  They stall.  Ask for water; declare the need to potty; fidget.

Time passes.  I peek over to see if their eyes are truly closed, and am amazed to discover I can see their futures there in the dark, etched into their sleeping faces.

They are taller and stronger and more capable than they were yesterday.

Soon it will be tomorrow, which will become next week.  Before I can blink my eyes, they will celebrate birthdays; lose teeth; refuse to hold my hand.

The list of a million things I need to accomplish before the sun rises over the mountains sits on my desk; their eyelashes rest gently on their smooth cheeks.

I slip into the space between them, and quickly fall into a peaceful sleep.

Categories
Health and Nutrition Life in general

The One Where My Lady Bits Were Man-Handled by a Former Marine, Which Left Me Feeling Like I’d Given Birth to a Full-Grown Linebacker in Uniform, Including a Helmet Made of Porcupine Quills

So, last Thursday I saw the specialist about my messed up lady bits.

He did a pelvic exam, and prefaced it with a warning that it might be *slightly uncomfortable* because he wanted to thoroughly examine my ovaries and uterus.

Let me tell you something.

I gave birth, naturally, without so much as tylenol in my blood stream – twice.  My husband will tell you, I lost my wimp status for good because I never made a damn sound – I had it handled. 

I have a high tolerance for pain.  I have video to prove it.

But that exam?  That was painful.  Lift my hips up off the exam table, dig my nails into my palm, grit my teeth until they feel like they will snap in half, kind if painful.

I can’t wear under.wear.  I can barely wear pants, and even when I do, they are of the yoga or pajama variety.  I’m nauseous and uncomfortable.  My shit hurts, and it is an all-encompassing, overall ache of my lady bits punctuated by the stinging hot pain of a torn perineum.

Thank gah for my friend Kim, who introduced me to Hospital Strength Dermoplast Pain Relieving Spray, which, along with a steady stream of motrin, has kept me from being completely miserable for the next week, when my linebacker baby will hopefully be going off to college, and good riddance.

I know I’m complaining about it now, but I know that exam was necessary – and important.  I’m glad my doc was so thorough.  But it’s my blog and I’ll cry if I want to.

Despite putting me through freaking hell, this former-marine OB/GYN specialist really knows his stuff, and is handling my case in exactly the way I need.  In his professional opinion, the masses on my ovary and uterus (did I mention the ER overlooked a few?  Which is exactly why we need to be our own advocates, people – everyone makes mistakes, even doctors) do not look like cancer.

*Whew*

However, he is going to treat them as though they could be.

*Whew* again.

Currently?

We are awaiting lab results for some preliminary tests that can be an indicator of the presence cancerous tumors, but that aren’t entirely definitive.

We are waiting for a copy of the genetic screening report that was run by the fertility clinic back in 2002 when I was an ovum donor.

When it arrives, I will go see a geneticist who will take a look at the report and determine if any other, more recently discovered genetic tests can be run.  Hopefully, with all this genetics screening, we will know a lot more about whether or not these masses are cancerous – or may become so, in the future.

We are waiting for me to start a new cycle, joy of joys, and then I will go in for an ultrasound to see what, if anything, has changed.

And then… well, then we decide what happens next.  Biopsy?  Partial lady-bit removal?  Total?  Time will tell. 

I’ve pretty much decided that if any surgical procedures need to be done, I will go to the Mayo Clinic.  They really know what they’re doing, and have the latest technology and clinical trials – and they accept my insurance.

That, my friends, is what you might call a win-win situation. 

*Oh, and?  I can’t tell you how much everyone’s support means to me.  I can’t, really – because once you’ve seen an ugly cry like that you’ll never be the same, and I’m going to try and spare you.  For now, anyway.*

Categories
Health and Nutrition

Lady Bits

I’m having issues with some of my lady parts.

I have a large cyst on my left ovary, which, in and of itself is not really a big deal.  Cysts happen, sometimes they burst, it hurts like hell (currently still sore but manageable), and then you get on with your life.

The cyst is the reason I spent the majority of last Friday in a hospital gown, being poked and prodded by various medical instruments.  

        *As an aside, I’d like to thank MerlotMom for the TP warning, and the universe as a whole for somehow making sure I shaved my legs for the first time in 2 months, the day prior.  Seriously saved me much embarrassment.*

While they were getting a look at the cyst, they found something.  Two somethings, actually.

Thing number one: A mass.  Also answers to the name “nodule”.  Something dense, not fluid filled like the cyst.  It’s questionable in its own right, but even more so because lady-part cancers run in my family *and* because I have been an ovum donor – twice.

The emergency doctor and radiologist think I should wait 6 weeks to see if it grows.  If it does, we either biopsy it or remove the ovary all together.  It’s not like I need that ovary, anyway.  If it doesn’t grow, we wait another 6 weeks and check it again… lather, rinse, repeat.

Me?  I’m not a wait and see kind of person.  Taking shit by storm is more my style.  There is a reason they call ovarian cancer the silent killer, and I’m not about to let it slip through the cracks.  Especially when I have somehow been given the gift of early detection. 

So I’m shopping for a health practitioner with the same kind of attitude, one that can point me in the right direction.  I think I’ve found one.  I’ll know for sure on Thursday whether we’re in this together or I’m going to kick him to the curb and start over.

Thing number two: My bicornuate uterus has changed shape.  Back before I had any kids, it was fairly normal and cow-head-looking.  Normal enough, anyway, that it was missed by numerous radiologists and ultra sound technicians – even fertility experts who had a wand up my hoo-hah more times than I could count, during ovum donation. 

After I had Alison, the odd shape was very obvious.  They assumed the reason for the sudden change was because the endometrial lining was thicker.  Several ultra sounds and an extremely painful hysterosalpingogram (HSG) later, and we had a very clear picture of the heart-shape of my deformed uterus. 

Look Mom, let’s hang it on the fridge in honor of Valentine’s Day!

After I had Blythe, and hemorrhaged, my uterus was all kinds of messed up.  I can only imagine what the films from that ordeal look like, and until now, I haven’t had any desire to see them.

As of Friday, my uterus has, apparently, begun to collapse upon itself.  It is now square-ish and squashed looking, with the top of the “heart” – the septum – now touching the bottom like a power yoga move gone horribly awry. 

I can’t even find a diagram of that kind of uterus. 

The tech drew me a picture, one I wish I’d had the foresight to tuck into my pocket before she put it in my chart.  Oh, wait, it’s not like I had any pants on at the time… where exactly was I thinking I’d hide it?

Right now, the collapsing uterus isn’t causing me any problems.  It’s secondary to the other, more urgent issue of the mass on my ovary.  But it does need to be taken care of – probably when my ovary is being poked and/or removed. 

Because, really?  Nobody wants to be walking along one day and have their uterus fall out of their fagina.  It would probably ruin whatever shoes I was wearing at the time.

In the meantime, I’m looking into research hospitals – surely someone must want to document this kind of madness for the sake of medical science.  It seems a shame for such an oddity to wind up in the haz-mat dumpster behind the local small-town hospital.