Love makes its own schedule
Today is Christmas.
Oh, okay; TECHNICALLY today isn’t Christmas, but today is OUR Christmas, because the kids are leaving tomorrow. Which means that there is currently a big mess of wrapping paper in my family room.
My biggest concern with the whole timing thing was not, in fact, today, but last night. See, the elves bring new pajamas on Christmas Eve. And the kids had already been informed that there was no way that Santa could come early—he is far too busy in these last days before the holiday, after all—but that we would do our family gifts, and after they return we’ll see if Santa came and what he brought. But then there was the matter of the elves. Might the elves make a special early trip?
I just wasn’t sure how to handle it. Fortunately, the weather made it easy. read more…
I’m calling it
We are now 14 days past when Monkey first fell to the flu, and a week past Otto’s fall (Chickadee fell inbetween the two of them). I’m officially calling this THE YEAR I AVOIDED GETTING THE FLU. Every day for the last two weeks I’ve woken up every morning and laid in bed, tensed with apprehension, doing a quick body inventory. Do I feel hot? Does my head hurt? Is that something weird? I’ve certainly not felt my very best the last couple of weeks, but other than feeling a little rundown (which, HEY, I’m sure that has nothing to do with recent events at all!), it appears my nefarious plan of dousing myself in hand sanitizer fifteen times a day actually worked.
Christmas—such as it will be, this year, anyway—can now commence.
Apparently that means I can continue trying to work while the kids wander into my office fifty times a day and I try to explain that I need to work, I’m sorry, please find something to do, please go pester Otto, hey I bet there’s something good on TV right now, etc. It doesn’t really feel like the most wonderful time of the year. I am only a little bit bitter that the kids were supposed to be gone THIS week (while I’m still working) but now instead we won’t have them NEXT week when I can relax a little. read more…
The flu that stole Christmas
Christmas has already been completely ruined, and we still have five days before the actual holiday, so I’m thinking this is some sort of truly awesome record for Maximum Suck.
The Plan was that the kids’ dad would pick them up on Saturday to fly north; Otto and the dog and I were to follow the next day, driving up to my folks in New York; the kids would spend a week with their dad, we would work our way Boston-ward for Christmas, and then on Christmas Day we’d get the kids back, they’d have time to see the New England relatives, and we’d head back through my folks’ place again on our way home for some quality maternal grandparental time.
In reality, the ENT said he thought it wasn’t a good idea for Monkey to fly with a head full of goo (gee, ya think?), and Chickadee outdid herself by running a fever of at least 102 for the entire last week, so it was unclear that she’d be healthy enough to fly in time. So no one flew. And Otto was so sick it wasn’t clear we could drive, either, so no one drove. We’re all still here.
Now everyone is just better enough get on everyone else’s last nerve. read more…
False advertising
So remember how I thought the pediatrician just thought I was angry and maybe a little crazy? And she was brushing me off? I take it back. The next day she called to say she’d personally gotten us in with the ENT. When? Oh, immediately! Could I just go over there NOW? (I was wearing my pajamas when she called. Also, Monkey was at school. But we made it, somehow.)
The ENT said many interesting things, making noises with his mouth-hole that sounded like “here are the things that are clearly wrong which I can see even before we start testing further” and also “chronic infection that has probably been making him miserable for a long time” and finally “I had another case just like this with a kid with Asperger’s and I’m telling you that you will not BELIEVE the change once we get him treated.” I am a little bit in love with the ENT now. Sorry, Otto.
(Oh, don’t feel bad for Otto that I said that! He doesn’t mind, on account of HE IS BUSY DYING. Both Otto and Chickadee are so beset by flu that I am starting to feel like Clara Barton, only way crankier. And neither of them care what I do right now as long as I periodically croon “poor little bunny.”)
So the ENT made up a list of tests we should do. read more…
Love’s commercial break
Feeling down? Stressed? Beset by flu and stupidity? Suffering from the heartbreak of psoriasis did-you-know-your-kid-is-autistic-itis?
It may be time to take two pictures of a long-suffering little dog and apply directly to the eyeballs! (Fluffy puppy… apply to your eyesockets for immediate relief!)
Happy Love Thursday, everyone—here’s to whatever cheers you up in the midst of stress. (Sorry, Licorice. Extra rawhide for you!)
How to melt down and wrap presents
I was honestly ready to turn over a new “stop whining so much, SHEESH” leaf, yesterday morning. I was. Monkey had been better the day before—I only kept him home another day to honor the “24 hours fever-free” rule—and was ready and excited to go to back to school. I was giving myself every pep talk in the book, in my head. It’s okay. It’s going to get better. Any progress is progress. Keep the faith. Etc.
And then Chickadee woke up with a fever of 102. So apparently that whole “Maybe he just has the flu on top of whatever else is going on” thing was true.
At the beep of the thermometer as it announced that yes, you’ve won YET ANOTHER SICK CHILD… it was the last straw, for me. Yesterday just plain sucked; I fell down the “we can’t catch a break, everyone is sick, nothing ever gets better, WOE IS ME AND MINE” rabbit hole and wallowed there all damn day. Quite thoroughly.
The various phone calls and emails didn’t help. read more…
No news is… uh… no news
I feel like I should have something useful to report. Like… Monkey is all better now! (He’s not.) All of the doctors called back, with definitive answers! (They didn’t.) The answer to life, the universe and everything is 42!! (It is, but I’m having difficult figuring out how to apply it.)
In the meantime, inbetween phone calls to various doctors I am making soup and doing things like buying a coat for my dog. Yes. I’ve become the kind of person who says “buying a coat for my dog” and it actually MEANS I spent money on canine apparel. The end times are nigh. In my defense, this here is a very southern pup and we’re supposed to be headed home to New England for Christmas and dogsicles are not my favorite. Of course, at this point, it’s unclear if we’re actually making that trip, but if we are, goshdarnitall, I have solved the problem of keeping Licorice warm.
That may be the only problem I’ve solved, but I needed a little victory today.
Cliff Notes of the last 48 hours
Thursday
6:00 am: I wake Monkey up for school.
6:20 am: He still hasn’t come downstairs, so I go looking for him. He is standing in the bathroom looking confused. He says, “I think my head hurts.” I take his temperature; 102! Back to bed!
The rest of the day: He sleeps on and off and generally lolls around.
6:00 pm: Monkey puts himself to bed.
Friday
6:00 am: Monkey wakes up and announces he is all done sleeping and feels much better now! I take his temperature; 101! Not quite, bucko!
8:00 am: I call the pediatrician for an appointment.
8:15 am: I call the pediatric neurologist to remind them I’m waiting for CAT scan results.
9:45 am: We see the ped. She tests him for both strep and flu. Both are negative, but she says flu is going around and the test is unreliable. Probably flu. Keep him hydrated! Call if he can’t breathe! Fabulous.
The rest of the day: He sleeps on and off and generally lolls around.
5:00 pm: I shake my fist at the sky and rant about how much I hate the neurologist’s office. read more…
Love does
Love doesn’t want him to know how scared I’ve been. Love doesn’t want him to feel like he’s wrong or bad or a burden, ever.
Love doesn’t want her to feel like she’s being lost in the shuffle, like the only way to get my attention is to act out. Love doesn’t want her to feel invisible or less than, ever.
So instead, love does. Love kisses his hot forehead, smooths back his hair, pours juice, brings medicine, turns on the television, assures him it’s okay to rest, snuggles up just like when he was small and helps him fall into a feverish sleep.
Love bakes cookies for her club meeting, spends an hour prepping materials for science experiment subject kits, and never once gives in to the urge to say “You should’ve…” or “This is your job.” Instead, love cheers her on, checks her work, smiles and hugs and looks her in the eye when her work is done and says, “Thank you for doing what you needed to do. I hope you’re feeling as proud of you as I am.”
Love does. Amen.
(Happy Love Thursday, everyone.)
Lost together
The God’s honest truth about Monkey’s bizarre probably-a-seizure is that it was really scary and knocked us for a loop, but it’s not the scariest part. If he had just had THAT, just that one incident which is already fading in our memories (“Do you remember exactly what he said?” Otto and I will ask each other, replaying the scene over and over again, grasping to remember exactly how it happened), which has not been repeated, we would be feeling better now because it hasn’t happened again. And also because everyone is content to point at the Incident Where He Clearly Wasn’t Himself and say “That was not Monkey. That was something weird going on.”
But the scary part is everything ELSE; the meltdowns, the paranoia, the grand declarations of the things he will need to do “to protect himself,” the weaving of stories about others which are so completely bizarre and implausible but feel like truth to him. That’s what scares the crap out of me, daily. Because what if that’s truly him? What if it’s not “something weird,” but instead the person he’s becoming, the person who is no longer merely “quirky” but has a big scarlet A for Autism on his forehead? I thought that when every day was hard it didn’t hurt so much, but we’re back to every damn day being so, so hard and yeah, the pain feels never-ending. I don’t look not to hurt, anymore. I just try not to hurt so much I can’t function.
After all, if he can get up and keep going every day, so can I. read more…