Defining Moments

There are certain moments in life, after them things are changed. Defining moments, I suppose. The thing that makes these moments unique is the way you feel after them, stunned and stupefied. I can only describe it is an out of body experience where you are in utter disbelief, for one moment you forget what has happened and then like an anvil it comes crashing down on you with a weight like no other, never to be forgotten again.

I think back to high school, I remember this feeling vividly the day I got caught with alcohol at my grandparents house having a pseudo party. Try as hard as I might, I could never go back to the day before. Things had changed permanently because of one little moment in time. And in that moment I was stressed and frazzled, clueless as to how to proceed with the recent discovery.

There's one specific second, literally a second, that changed everything concerning my mom and her illness. In that defining moment I could never go back to the other side. I had learned too much, and in my head my brain was stuck repeating "Oh my God." A day spent in shock.

And again the day I found out I was pregnant with Alice. Not all life changing moments are bad, there are just as many good ones. They still have the same affect on a person. Alice was planned, we tried for months to conceive. Yet, the moment the test showed a positive, I lost all breath. It could not be undone. And that is earth shattering. The idea that the world would never again be the same sent me into a frenzy of thought that stayed with me until my head hit the pillow that night.

The thing about these moments is you go on. You can not live in a state of shock forever. The next day you wake up. And the recent change infiltrates itself into your life. The mind blowingness of it all gradually lessens. Day after day you shower and eat lunch and feed the dog, all the while it becomes just another part of life again.

A few days ago, I woke with much hope for Ellie girl. She was scheduled for a simple surgery that should have made life better for quite awhile. I spent the day thinking of Ellie, eager to hear good news from the doctor, instead I was told the previous days diagnosis was in fact wrong. Instead of a simple, removable polyp in her ear, I was told it was a very large inoperable cancerous tumor. She had weeks left at best. Words were said about quality of life and having to make a decision in the near future. I was in disbelief. How could it be possible? I dropped her off at the vets that morning happy. And now my poor Ellie cat is home no better than before. The tumor, in the side of her head, is making eating extremely difficult. At this point, her breathing is barely affected, but we've been told that will change. So, for as many days as she wants I will syringe feed her five times a day. Every day I will watch her a little different than before. Every day I will watch to see if it's time.

Ellie Belly

I don't talk much about my pets. Which, in and of itself, is horrible. Before Alice, they were my children. Now they are the reason I vacuum. I have two cats and a dog. The cats I've had since I was 18 and the dog I acquired jointly with Hatta. I suppose it would be proper to say they are our pets, but in reality the dog goes where I go and the cats listen best when I call them.

Today I would like to talk about Ellie Belly. Some of you may remember a story I told back on the darkside of blogging. In said story, Ellie was stuck walking in circles, forced to walk to the left (or was it the right?) regardless of what was in her path, never able to rest. It turned out to be an ear infection, something that has plagued Ellie since as long as I can remember. If she was a toddler for sure the pediatrician would be mentioning tubes. But in Ellie's case it runs a little deeper.

Early on in Ellie's life, after many rounds of antibiotics and inacurate diagnoses, it was determined she had polyps deep in her ear. Two surgeries and thousands of dollars later, she was a happy cat. Finally for the first time in her life she wasn't on antibiotics. She was living the good life, until 2001 when she had her first seizure, followed by a few more in the weeks to come. We had her checked out by our vet and carried on. Not much thought was given to those seizures. They were merely another roadblock for Ellie to overcome, another bullet point in the list of reasons Ellie was my special needs cat.

Until last Sunday.

In one twenty four hour period Ellie had six seizures, four of them in two hours. The months leading up to Sunday Ellie had two serious ear infections and it seemed she never fully recovered from them. And, then the seizures started. One followed by four days seizure free, and then another with a few days without seizures, and then another. We knew it wasn't as simple as it was in 2001. Her appearance had changed and so had her demeanor. We knew it was finally time to visit the vet.

You may be thinking to yourself, "Seriously? Your cat had several seizures and you didn't take her to the vet?" Don't judge. We'd been there, done that...vet bills and seizure pamphlets to prove it. They discovered nothing in 2001. Speculated as likely to be a brain tumor. We've already invested hundreds and thousands of dollars attempting to give Ellie a good life. In all honesty, we knew we weren't going to pay this time to run the gauntlet of tests the vet would suggest to determine why Ellie was seizing. We just wanted Ellie to enjoy life or not have to suffer another moment. Putting a price tag on your pets well being is a difficult situation to be in, and frankly we weren't looking forward to it.

And then, there was Sunday.

I don't know if you've ever been unfortunate enough to witness an animal having a seizure, but it has to be the most helpless feeling. There is literally nothing you can do and it breaks your heart every agonizing second of it. You just want to pick up the flailing body and try to comfort the seizure away, knowing you can't you just watch...helpless and sad. And when the poor body is done twitching and shaking and spinning, it's still not over. There are after affects that last and linger for many minutes, where you sit trying to comfort an animal that's still not in this realm, still gone to this world. Try experiencing that four times in two hours. And during the last three seizures Ellie urinated, spinning and shaking her body throughout her urine. Poor Alice was there to witness a few of the seizures, her feelings of fear neglected in the moment when the safety of Ellie was more pressing. It has been a very difficult time.

Sweet Ellie was taken Sunday night to the animal ER where they allowed her to rest comfortably on Valium. She spent several nights at the vets, they ran extensive blood tests and determined she's blind (hopefully temporary) but healthy. Again, most likely a brain tumor. She's now permanently on daily anti seizure medication and hasn't had a seizure since. It seems, after a few rocky days at home adjusting to the narcotics, she's resembling her old happy self again. In fact, just today I found her on the dining table attempting to wreak havoc on my Valentine's flowers.

The Dreaded Man Cold

I'll be the first to admit, I'm bitter. I don't get sick days. If I'm feeling yucky, I grin and bear it with less emphasis on the grinning. I don't get to call my boss, fake cough, and take to the bed for the rest of the day. Oh how I would love to take to the bed! The last time that happened was when I had my wisdom teeth sliced and ripped from my gums. Drugged and vomiting, I was given two days to recuperate before I was expected to be back to work. Work being a stay at home mom, of course.

That's quite possibly the biggest downside to my job, limited time off. For me to take a sick day, someone else (namely Hatta) has to take the day off from work to cover my shift. And even then I'm not really off. Alice, the helpful sweetie she is, likes to make me better when I'm not feeling well. She climbs in bed with me, armed with books and lovey friends, where she entertains me lest I be bored.

So you can imagine my displeasure this morning when Hatta announced he wasn't feeling well and probably wasn't going to work. Something about a cough, chest pain, blah, blah, blah. Before you get the wrong idea, I'm not mean. I can be very sympathetic for real illnesses, which this isn't. This is a cold.

"How can you be so certain?" you ask. It's simple. Alice and I had the same infliction a few weeks ago. I still wake up every morning with a sore throat, cough up green stuff, and fall asleep at the end of the day with the same sore throat.

"What's it matter to you if he stays home?" you question. Let me tell you. See, I work from home. Hence, when he stays home from work he's really coming to my office, laying around my work space, pretending to be sick. If he was really sick he would get out of my way and take to the bed!

When I picked up Alice from school, she was excited knowing Hatta stayed home from work.

"When I get home, I wanna play with Papa."

"Well, he may not be able to play with you. Remember? He's sick."

"He's not sick," she said. "He just has a cold."

Even at the ripe old age of four, she gets it.

Antibiotic Update

In case you were wondering what's going on at my house with Alice.

Now you know. It hasn't been pretty.

Think Again Before You Offer Judgment

I couldn't decide what I wanted to write about today. Two topics are in the forefront of my mind. One where I ask the Judgey McJudgerson's to kindly back away and come back another day, so I can tell my tale. Or the other one where I talk to them personally.

I'm opting for the latter. This post is for those who judge. Nay, since judging is human, this is for those who feel compelled to voice their judgment.

As my loyal readers know, Alice has recently challenged me as a parent concerning her pink medicine. We (Hatta and I) have received various forms of criticism from friends and family on our parenting skills, or lack there of, because we couldn't make our daughter take her medicine. I have a few things that I would like to get off my chest.

How dare you criticize my parenting! I'm a damn good mom and I know my daughter and what is best for her. I know her temperament. I have learned her strengths. I was the one that learned her needy cues when she was a newborn. I was the one that learned the exact floor board to stand and bounce on that gave just the right amount of give and squeak to calm her insistent crying. I learned to read her face to know just how much stranger anxiety she could handle before I had to intervene. It's been my job for over four years to keep my daughter happy and safe and now you're going to tell me how to do my job. I DON'T THINK SO!!

I don't care one iota how your father used to parent you. I don't give a flying fuck what you used to do when your kids were little! All I care about is my daughter and her physical and mental well being.

Do you think we didn't try to force Alice to take her medicine? What do you think we said, "Hey Alice, if it wouldn't be too much trouble do you think you could possibly, maybe take your medicine honey baby?" Of course when our attempts at reason didn't do the trick we tried what worked in the past when she was little. I'm not sure what amount of power and force you are okay using on a 35lb child, but my goal as a mom is not to teach Alice that I am bigger and stronger than her. I do not enjoy using my body against hers. So when after several attempts at forcing medicine down her throat didn't work, I stopped trying.

Funny thing, when I called the pediatrician, who by the way has been in countless medical publications and has won numerous awards, he never once suggested I hold Alice down and use force to get her to take her medicine. No. That wasn't what he said at all. Instead, he, the medical expert on children, suggested something else entirely. Something more civil.

So the next time you feel like offering your opinions on how I should raise my daughter, I suggest you just don't. Find something else to do with your time that you actually know something about. Cause, trust me, you don't have a clue about how best to parent my daughter.

You Can Lead a Horse to Water

You know the old saying, "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink the got damn pink medicine." So that's not exactly how it goes, close enough. That's been my life since Friday. Words do not do justice to what my sick life with sick Alice and sick Hatta has been. Let me share the ailments as they pertain to the individual, starting with Hatta: strep, bronchitis, and conjunctivitis, myself: strep, mild swimmer's ear (wtf?) severe inner ear infection, and sinus infection, and lastly, Alice: strep, stubborn, strong willed, defiant, bullheaded, relentless, persistent...shall I continue?

The list of ailments required medication: eye drops, ear drops, antibiotics, and perscription strength cough syrup. I shudder at the thought of how much, as a family, we've dropped at CVS in the past week. Alice was prescribed one simple antibiotic, Cephalexin, the pink medicine. In her previous years, my daughter worried me with her strong love for drugs, pink medicine included. She always wanted more. She'd fake an illness just to take more purple medicine. I thought surely we had a drug addict in the making. Suffice it to say, I'm not longer concerned.

I've struggled to get Alice to take her antibiotic, wait...I think that's a bit of an understatement. It's vastly greater than an understatement. Over the course of the weekend, I learned even though she is small I can no longer control what she does or does not do. To my novice, childless readers who are questioning my words right now, who think surely you can be the parent and make her...to you I say, if only it was that simple. Yes, I can force her to lie still. Yes, I can force her mouth open. Yes, I can force the medicine into her mouth. That's the point in which I no longer have control. What happens once the pink gooeyness hits her tongue is up to her. No matter how much I attempt to close her mouth, she still has the power to spit it out. All over my hands, all down her hair, all over the floor.

Plan B, hide that shit! First attempt, smoothie. Success. But, I can't make her drink two smoothies every day for ten days. Maybe I can reason with her. That was where I went wrong. Hatta warned me; I chose not to listen. I ruined the secret. I told her she had taken the pink stuff when she drank her smoothie. Alice was ecstatic! She was overcome with joy and wanted her morning medicine in a smoothie for sure. Seriously. I'm not being sarcastic. There was high-fiving all around. The next morning the warm and fuzzy feeling of the previous night was replaced with an air of gloominess as Alice began what would become a three day fast. No food. Little water. She was boycotting life. The mention of medicine would send her running to bed. From her mouth I heard, "No. I don't want to. I don't like it. I wanna go to bed." That's it, on repeat for three days. I offered her a chocolate milkshake. Wouldn't take a sip. Vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup and Reese's Pieces. Spoon didn't touch it. I found myself attempting to bribe her with the new Princess Tianna doll complete with carriage or a new Barbie is she just took the medicine. Nope. She was standing her ground, her coughy, achey, fevery, sick ground.

Plan C, finally the pediatrician has given the okay to switch antibiotic, since to date she has consumed merely one full dose and a couple partials. A new prescription has been called in, more money added to the shudder inducing total. The new drug is a capsule that when opened the tasteless powder can be sprinkled on anything. Thrilled to find out how tonight goes! Thrilled I tell ya!

Interlude

Ever have the kind of experience that makes your head spin in so many ways you can't distinguish which direction is up?

That's the best description I can give for the past few days. We attempted a nice four day beach vacation to my hometown. It was absolutely, hands down, without a doubt anything but nice. So much not niceness happened I can not delve into it in this post. My head is still swimming, literally...from what the doctor described as a rip-roaring inner ear infection. I need to take a day or two, try to process the illnesses that proved insurmountable, the doctor and pharmacy visits, the insistent refusal to consume medicines, the power struggle between grandparent and parent, the hurt feelings, and mostly, the disappointment. If I were to write now, I would blubber on in a whiney, sobbing fashion surely telling the wrong story in entirely the wrong way.

I will take a deep breath, sleep on it and...in the word's of my husband, "revisit it when cooler heads prevail." Trust me, with all the fever up in here we could certainly use cooler heads.

June 9th

June 9th, 2006, the day I got the call. That phone call changed my life forever.

My story begins the Saturday before, in my mother's hospice room. I was 26 years old. Alone, just me and my mom, I laid with her and cried, my cheek to her's. She was unconscious and had been for several days. Her body had done this before, enter a comatose state for a day or two until her levels stabilized. She would awaken and life would begin again. This time, this coma, was different than all the others. This was the end. We all knew it. It was only a matter of time, without food and water, before her heart would finally cease to beat and her lungs would take their last breath. It was the sad, heart wrenching reality of science. I think talking with God at this point was no longer a prayer of life, but rather swiftness in death.

That day would be the last time I saw my mother ever again. Lying with her, I knew this as fact. For what seemed like an eternity, my life had become my mother's life. My world revolved around her. I took a leave of absence from my job to devote my days to my mother. I canceled a trip to Sanibel Island when it looked like my mother was taking a turn for the worst. I backed out of plans and stopped making them all together. Cell phone always with me, even while I slept. I lived my life for her, to be there for every moment she had left. To spend as much time as I possibly could with her. To have no regrets.

And yet, that Saturday I finally started living again. My husband (at the time my boyfriend) and I had our annual trip to the Outerbanks of North Carolina planned for the next day. I needed this trip. He needed this trip. He had been a rock for me and my two older sisters during this horrible time in our life. He picked up the slack when we couldn't. And I'm sure, given the mental state I was in, he was my emotional punching bag. Though, as much as I needed this trip, I didn't know how I was ever going to go. To cancel would have been easier. Continue sitting by her side, waiting for her to die. It was all I knew at that point. The grief couselors advised me not to cancel. They wanted me to go, to live. They reminded me, sometimes sick people wait for loved ones to leave them before they pass. They assured me it was okay to go. I wasn't a bad daughter. I knew everything they said to be true. I knew, for me, I had to go. However, I had no idea how to go.

How do I walk out of the room knowing it would be the last? I couldn't. I talked with my mom, not knowing if she could hear me. I let her know I would keep us all together just as she had done. I told her I was happy in my relationship, that we were going to get married and have kids one day. I reassured her I would never stop loving her and she would never be forgotten, a worry of hers. And I told her it was okay to go. I begged her. As I cried the words, they sounded foolish. How does one go? How do you stop living? My mother had so much to live for, asking her to let go was a rediculous request. She didn't want to go, she wanted to be here with her daughters. She lived for us.

Sadly, the hours past. The sun had set, the room had grown dark. The wicked, scary end was coming. I felt the dread creeping into my lungs. I still hadn't figured out, in my heart, how do I physically walk out of the room knowing I will never see my mother again? How was I supposed to say goodbye? I was dying inside. I was too young to have to be so brave. She was too young. It hurt. It played on all my feelings of guilt. Was I wrong, should I have canceled the trip and been by my mother's side, letting her decide how it should end? I cried until it seemed I could cry no more. I kissed her, held her and couldn't let go. My heart wouldn't let my arms release her. On my time, I grew strong, knowing I had to. I whispered in her ear, "I love you, Mom," kissed her cheek, stood and walked out the door. I couldn't look back. It hurt me that I couldn't, but I knew it would make leaving so much harder if I did. As I shut the door to her room, the click of the latch triggered the release, tears fell silently from my swollen eyelids down my cheeks.

From that moment forward, I knew my life would never be the same. June 9th was merely a formality.

In our beach rental house, as I was prepping myself for a day lounging in the sun and watching the guys fish, my phone rang. Before I answered, I knew. It was the call I had been dreading. To hear the words from the grief counselors, "I'm so sorry. Your mom has passed away." The rest of the phone call, a blur of insignificant details. I hung up and went to them, my sister, her boyfriend, and my own. I don't remember a thing, but I'm certain I told them the life altering news. All I remember is holding my one sister, pained for my eldest sister who was not with us. And in that moment, I felt the most bizarre feeling. I wanted to be as far from my family as possible. Remove myself from the nightmare that had consumed us for so long. I had lived and breathed them for what seemed like a lifetime. I needed to get away, to escape everyone that reminded me of my mom. They no longer provided comfort.

I found myself, not at the beach where you would normally find me, but rather at the pool. I stood leaning against a railing, overlooking the pool, away from the hustle and bustle of the kids playing, and called my dearest friend from my childhood. A friend who wasn't involved with the situation that had consumed my life for months, a friend who knew me sometimes better than I knew myself. And I told my story. I found comfort in that phone call. Comfort that my sisters and my boyfriend could not provide. In that phone call, I felt peace. Not exactly peace with my mother dying, but instead, that I would have peace in my life again.

Baking Bread

Alice has an ouchie vagina, yeast infection to be proper.

Side Note: I'm afraid to say, I think today's post is one that will come back to bite me in the ass when Alice is old enough to peruse the Internet. I'm quite confident she will not like me talking openly with everyone about her nether region, but then again, I didn't exactly like how she treated mine 4 years ago. Maybe now we'll be even. Come to think of it, 21 hours of later, 4 hours of pushing...not even close to even yet.

It started over the weekend, the complaint of an ouchie vagina. I love that my daughter uses the word vagina. I know some parents elect to name genitals silly nicknames or just refer to them as privates, not me. Years ago I taughter her, her leg was called a leg, her elbow was called an elbow, and her vagina was called a vagina. It was a simple parenting decision for me.

Back to the ouchie va-jay-jay...I had her lie down so I could inspect the situation, see what was really going on. You know what I determined as a card carrying member of the vagina club myself? I had no clue what the inside of a 4 year old vagina was supposed to look like. It was a weird predicament to be in. I'd diapered her for 2 years and bathed her every other day, ahem, every fourth day, and yet I had no clue what her healthy, um, inside was supposed to look like. I knew that hers, on Sunday, didn't look exactly like I thought it probably should. I know the anatomy. There are 3 holes down there, and one of hers looked a little out of sorts. And it was oozing a bit, I think discharge is the appropriate term. Still though, I wasn't sure. Maybe that's just what it looked like? I called in back up, my eldest sister. Alice was completely comfortable. Freely holding her own legs up in the air for all to inspect what's supposed to be the most private of parts. No modesty what so ever. After further inspection, it was confirmed...her vag didn't look right.

Upon further complaints Monday, I spent the better part of the evening researching all the possible causes of my poor girls pain and hoping to find research to convince me I did not need to spend Tuesday morning sitting in the germ infested pediatric office.

Tuesday morning I found myself in said office, holding my breath hoping my daugher for once would not be the kid screaming as soon as she set foot on the premises. Until Tuesday, June 12, Alice had screamed and cried every single mothafokking time she had visited the doctor. I don't just mean a little whimper. I mean, regardless of shots or no shots, she cried from the moment we walked back towards the office until we walked down the hall to leave the building. Until Tuesday, my pediatrician had never heard Alice speak a word except "Mama! Mama!" And she's been talking since 9 months old. I think they hate us there.

Anyway, the good doctor confirmed, yeast. Apparently, little kids are unhygienic filthy beings. And their dirtiness can cause bad things like pink eye and yeast infection. Maybe if Alice would heed my constant advice, "Front to back, for the love of God, FRONT TO BACK!!" she wouldn't be dealing with a funky, painful crotch, now would she!? From the words of Mother Gothel, "Mother...knows best!"

My Inner Merrymaker

I wanted to write something really thought provoking today, a real pot stirrer. Or maybe it would have been a hysterical take on some random aspect of raising my daughter.

But, sad to say, I just can't. Not today.

It would be wonderful if I had a killer explanation for you, but I don't. It's simple really.

I'm tired and hung over. Yup. A classic case of not enough water, a really good band, and too many beers. As a result, my brain is not thinking much. I do believe it's pissed off at me for the night I had.

I'm not in this predicament often. Taking care of the needs of Alice while I'm suffering from this unbearable affliction is lousy enough to keep me in check 98% of the time. However, every once in awhile something happens. Something inside me says, "Lighten up control freak. Enjoy yourself. Go ahead. You can do it. Just have one more drink. You'll be fine. Do it! Do it! Have fun!"

Last night, with Alice away at a sleepover with my sister, I succumbed to the peer pressure of my inner merrymaker and enjoyed myself with the help of two very good friends, Mister Dogfish Head and Sir Lagunitas. Thanks, guys, I had an awesome time last night. Your hospitality was exceptional. And the band, ALO, was phenomenal as well.