sad fingers

my fimgers are sad and in pain, so please exucse my typos you guys. and poor grammar. mkay? I'm not printing this shit off and handing it in. I give zero shits aboot spellimg right now.

Anyway. So whenever I walk Misty she is harnessed. She's really strong and she weighs about 38 pounds. She is only 15-months old and oftentimes she likes to stop and sniff whatever deliciousness she can get her nose near. She;s a very active heeler mix, and when she's coming at you, you need to look alive, bitches!

And she's jumpy. Skittish. She spooks easily. We've learned it's simply part of her breed. At home, whenever one of her four humans makes a move, Misty is on her feet, ready to work. And when you've had a lazy but lovable Labrador for 10 years prior to a heeler mix, there's an adjustment. You'd think by now, a year into having her, I'd pay better attentoion to her when we're out wa;likng, yet here we are.

This past Saturday, Misty and I were on a walk with a dear friend and fellow dog mom and she had her male 6-mo old 14-poumd black, white and brown ball of adorableness. The dogs did great at their first meet and greet and so we started walking west on the ODT, like ya do. 

We went over the crick and thru the woods, towards the beach. The leash dancing was minimal. Seriously. It was a treat to be walking with my friend and our dogs. 

But we didn't make it to the water. We didn't make it to the cows. We didn't make it beyond the neighborhood.

Misty had stopped and stepped off the trail, sniffing at a branch with leaves. So I stopped and my friend and her puppy stopped. Perhaps Misty needed to pee, which she hardly ever does when she's on her leash and not at home. She prefers to do her business not attached to me, and without an audience. I get it. Ali Wong gets it. I like to pee and poop at home alone, too, you guys. Right?

Anyway, my friend and I had stopped and were talking, like ya do, when all at once, I heard the rustling of the leaves, I saw Misty jump completely out of her skin, and I felt a sharp jolt to my right hand.

at the walk-in clinic

Then I saw the slice, the flap of skin, and blood.

Fuck.

And me with no fucking tissues. #MomFail 

Or perhaps no kids = #MomWin...?

My friend and I agreed the best thing to do was call it less than a mile in and turn around. I was disappointed to not spend more time with my long-time friend, not get in as much exercise, not see, smell, and hear the Strait. But, life happens, so I switched Misty to my left hand and elevated my right and we all started walking back towards the parking lot. The blood had pooled in my cuticle, and had started running down the outside of my pinky finger. The tip of my ring finger felt like it was on fire and a small dark bruise was starting to show near my nail.

My friend kindly offered to walk Misty for me, but I declined. Walking my dog helped me focus on getting to the car, and not letting my anxiety get ahead of me. Keeping my anxiety in check is important bc if not, then the next thing you know, my fucking anxiety has me being air evac-ed to Seattle with gangrene of the entire right arm, getting ready to get amputated, and all I wanted to do was walk my dog and spend time with my friend on a grey Saturday in the summer, you guys. #fuckinganxiety

splint and a bandage

We walked the three-quarters of a mile back to our cars with purpose: as calmly and efficiently and quickly as we could, with two puppies, and one person bleeding proficiently. As we walked, the blood pooled in the webbing between my pinky and my ring fingers. It was starting to run down the outside my hand, creeping toward my wrist.

I held my right hand up and let it bleed. What else could I do? Well I could have used my black fleece pull-over to apply pressure if I needed to, but I didn't feel like I needed to. Because then I gotta deal with getting the blood stain out of my black fleece. We all know the Award for Most Oppressive Bitch Chore goes to Laundry, yo! Why create more work for myself? 

Yes, I realize now, several days later, that the blood would probably not show on black fabric. And yes, as a quilter, I know that my own saliva is the best way to get blood out of fabric. But given the amount of blood I was loosing, I'd need a lot of spit. In the moment? I just needed to get to my car.

And really, I had no desire to even attempt to remove my clothing over my wounds. Fuck. That.

When we arrived in the parking lot, I opened my door and grabbed a couple of tissues and immediately applied pressure to my pinky finger to stop the bleeding. My friend offered to call my husband so he could come get me, but I declined; I was only a couple miles up the hill. I wanted to get home and get cleaned up and calmed down. I agreed to text her when I got home. And, yes, I know that the data show that most auto accidents occur close to home, but really, I just wanted to get home, you guys, and I had confidence in my decision.

Typically when I walk with my friends on the ODT, I'm gone a couple of hours. But this time, less than 40 mins after leaving the house I texted my husband and said "I'm injured onmy r hand 🏡".

I am thankful I drive an automatic. Do they even make a standard transmission anymore? I got myself home by intentionally not making a left onto the highway. Making a right, driving through a parking lot, sitting at a light, and doubling back added a few more minutes to my drive, but it was the safest health choice for me. Yes, driving is a health choice. 

I got home and cleaned myself up and calmed down. I sat down at the kitchen table with a large glass of water and drank it as I looked at my phone for the hours of the walk-in clinic at the hospital. My husband and I needed to make some quick decisions that would affect all five of us for the rest of the day. 

We compared my right and left hands.

Hubs: It's a pretty good slice. It may need some glue or a stitch. Your ring finger is swollen and not quite straight. Perhaps we need to go.

checking on her patient

Me: The boys are kinda responsible and can sorta feed themselves some lunch, in an emergency, which this is kinda turning into because my fingers and my hand are really starting to fuckin hurt. And I'm still fucking bleeding.

Hubs: They don't miss meals. They're not gonna starve. We'll stay in touch via text because they're living their best teenage boy slug life of playing video games and watching YouTube videos.

Me: I suppose if we're gone most of the day we can get Chinese takeout. Because fuck you dinner, make yourself. 

I decided to listen to my friend and my husband and go to urgent care. My awesome husband drove me, thankfully. I didn't need to drive again. And there was going to be paperwork to complete and sign. I'm right handed. I had absolutely zero fucking desire, or ability, to hold a writing implement. 

Perhaps not shockingly, "Learn to Function with Your Non-dominant Hand" was not on my Summer Bingo Card, you guys.

Several hours and three x-rays later, I have a hairline fracture in the tip of my right ring finger. The nurse practitioner I saw doesn't want me to bend the first joint closest to the tip of that finger, so she splinted it and told me to leave it on for four to six weeks. She said buddy taping my ring finger to my middle finger might happen in a couple weeks but to see how things heal. We'll see. We all know how important that middle finger is, you guys.

I have some soft tissue damage and will have some faint yet colorful bruises on my palm, near the base of my ring and middle fingers. Fortunately, I was not wearing jewelry. They asked if my dog pulled me down, and she did not. I suppose she could could have; I'm thankful the medical assistant who triaged me asked me. My wrist and elbow are fine.

They cleaned my pinky finger, but honestly it was already pretty darn clean from bleeding out on the trail and the washing I gave it when I got home from my walk earlier that morning. I put Neosporin and a band-aid on it before my loving husband drove me to urgent care.

In clinic, the nurse practitioner measured the slice on my finger, and she, my husband, and I all talked it through. In the end, we all agreed that leaving it alone was the best option. No glue. No stitches. Just a band-aid with triple antibiotic ointment. Wash it twice a day and put Neosporin and a new band-aid on it. Be gentle.

For both fingers: ice, elevate, rest, no pressure on your hand for 4-6 weeks (no down dog! WTF?!). Follow-up with your doc's office on Monday. Manage pain with Advil and Tylenol. 

We were home by mid-afternoon and skipped the Chinese takeout. 

I'm not sure the boys noticed we were gone. One ate lunch, the other did not. We all make choices. 

Misty was a bit stressed when we got home; she doesn't like the splint. Saturday evening, her autism was showing in that she doesn't like change, and she refused to come inside and eat her dinner until my splint and I left the room. #princess

I briefly stepped away from my before bed yoga practice, but for mental health and to help me sleep I'm figuring out how to practice differently. It's not the end of the world. Nobody died. I'll live. I'm cautiously optimistic that by the end of the summer, I'll improve my skills at sitting criss-cross-applesauce and not overthinking stuff, you guys. #goals

Normal Converstaion

Had you been listening:

Me: What did you do today, dude?

Hubs: Grade calculus. What did you do?

Me: Made an educational video for my Human Sexuality Students about the importance of butt plugs having a base so they don't get sucked up into a person's colon and then they have to go to the hospital and get it removed. I'm all about prevention.

Hubs: Nice. I presume you also discussed the importance of lube?

Me: Totes, dude. Lube is always the answer. Lube prevents rips and tears.

14: Mom, seriously. This isn't awesome. 

Me: Do you realize how many teenagers wish their mothers talked openly about butt plugs? And sexuality?

14: No. Did you do a survey?

Me: No, Mr. Snappy Pants, I didn't do a survey because I haven't written a proposal and/or gone before the Institutional Review Board. But I might. Maybe I'll ask the Boss Lady when I see her for our meeting. 

14: MOM! 

Me: Well, in this instance, I'll ask permission and not forgiveness. And that is hard for me.

Hubs: Did you do a demo in your video? 

Me: I did not. I talked it through with some pictures. 

Hubs: Well, on the one hand, that's disappointing. But on other hand, that's great! What pictures did you use? 

Me: This one, which I'm only now realizing is labeled incorrectly. It's labeled Beginner to Expert, but they need to flip the pic and start with the small one.

Hubs: Yeah that huge one is probably going to intimidate people. 

Me: Probably. 

14: MOM! Please! Stop. 

Me: Dude, some people are into anal pleasure. Try not to judge. Sex is only as weird as you make it. 

Hubs: what else did you teach your students?

Me: I showed them a cross section of a female so they could understand that, indeed, our colons are designed to keep stuff in. Our colons are kind of of like a vacuum. You don't wanna be walking down the street and have your poop fall out. That would be sad. 

Hubs: Very sad.

14: MOM! 

Me: Dude, you have options. You can leave the room. You can not listen. You can turn your music up. You can practice your ignoring skills.

Hubs: I have stellar ignoring skills.

Me: You do indeed.

Hubs: But I don't ignore sex. 

Me: You do not.

14: You guys are gross.

Me: You know how you were created, right? Like Daddy ejaculated inside of my vagina and his sperm joined with my egg and--

14: I can't.

16: You can.

Hubs: Wear a condom.

Me: And communicate with any potential sexual partner.

14: Stop.

Me: And use lube. Lube is always the answer.

16: And be kind and wonderful. 

Me: Exactly. Be kind and wonderful. 

How We Got Abby

Sunday, January 29, 2012. It was cold. We had snow. 

We got her when she was headed four. We were told her birthday was in August and that she had turned three the summer before we adopted her.

Abby was between the boys in age, and she was the right dog at the right time. Number One was five years old: "One whole hand!" And Number Two, if you will, was heading to three.

The only formal medical diagnosis my family had was my older son's pediatric epilepsy.

For the past several months, we'd been working closely with the volunteer organization Welfare for Animals Guild. Our requirements were no puppies, a large breed, female, good with kids. I don't recall if we disclosed about my oldest son having epilepsy that was controlled with medication.

Before lunch, we got a call from the super excited volunteer, who in one breath, asked if she could come up for a visit because she just met a super friendly and sweet 3-1/2 year old, black lab hound dog mix who's family has a 1-year-old baby, and the parents were divorcing. In the division, the dad got Abby, but reached out to WAG when he knew he couldn't give the dog the time and attention she deserved. The volunteer said she thinks she may have just the right dog for us. 

A visit? Sure. Let's see what happens. Best case: she's great and we get a dog. Worst case: she's not the one and we try a different dog on a different day. I mean, the boys were young enough that we could just say some bullshit on the fly and they'd believe it. Right? #parenting

Because we knew they were coming, we were keeping an eye out for the car to pull in. I went outside and greeted them as the senior volunteer and the large black dog came up the ten front steps and stood on the deck. Brief introductions were made between Abby and me, and then I opened the door and led our guests inside.

As a large dog, Abby was the same height as my younger son and they looked each other right in the eye. I'm fairly certain they imprinted on each other. Love at first sight is legit.

#2 and his best girl, on one of their first dates; Feb 2012

We visited with the volunteer and Abby for about an hour. The boys were thrilled to have a new playmate. 

It had been a solid five years since we'd had a dog in the house. Before kids, my husband and I had dogs. We each had dogs growing up. We wanted another dog. We know pets add richness to life. And the hour that we visited with the volunteer and Abby, our home full of warmth and constant joyful laughter from the boys.

As the boys and Abby were playing unsupervised in the playroom, the volunteer, my husband, and I were sitting in the living room. Because the boys were still pretty young, I know I was sitting on the floor. 

All of a sudden, I hear gleeful screams and Abby comes running down the hall, jumps up and over the couch, lands on all four of her feet, and then does this sliding-turning move onto her back, belly exposed, and landed right in font of me, basically saying, "I WANNA STAY!!!"

Right? I mean, seriously. Who does that? Abby. Abby does that. 

The volunteer, bless her heart, explained that Abby was completely submitting to me, as I stroked Abby's belly and told her she's a pretty cool dog. I looked up at my husband,"Well, what do you think?" 

My husband looked at Abby and I on the floor and replied, "I think she's been running around with the boys for a while and may need a drink of water and a potty break."

So we got her a drink of water, and then she and I went outside for a little break from the boys. She did a little sniffing around and probably relieved herself, and then I called her name. Abby came over to me and I told her to sit, which she did, and looked intently into my eyes, eager to please. I knew we were keeping her, so I whipped out my phone and snapped a quick pic.

We had a good first girl to girl conversation...

Me: You're a good girl. Can you stay?

first ever pic I took of our girl

Abby: Thanks! Yes, please!

Me: Can you handle those boys? Because they're crazy. And they don't listen because they are mobile and mindless. Basically, you're joining a circus, and you'll be my right hand in raising them.

Abby: Yes! I can because children are my favorite! I LOVE KIDS!!!!!! I mean, you saw that move when I jumped over the couch and slid into your lap right? I have some cool circus tricks, so I think I'll fit in. But you are the Boss Lady. Also that Man seems nice.

Me: Yes. He's a good egg. You're gonna do your business outside, right? Like, no pottying in the house because I do not have any time for that bullshit.

Abby: I'm house broken and technically, I make dog shit. I'm not leashed trained very well but this yard seems big enough.

Me: Thanks for letting me know about you not liking the leash. I completely understand that. And, I appreciate your snark. Seriously. I think you'll fit in. Should we go check on the boys? Ready to rejoin the party?

Abby: TOTALLY!!!!!!!

We went back inside and Abby immediately began playing with the boys again. I knew we were keeping her. My husband knew we were keeping her. The volunteer knew we were keeping her. 

My husband and I talked as privately as we could for a few minutes in the kitchen. We knew that if we were lucky, we'd get eight or so years out of Abby. We asked the volunteer if she needed to take Abby back to her owner's house to say goodbye, to which she said she did not. She had talked with him and he knew that Abby could be gone one day when he got home. The volunteer also said that we could try living with Abby for a week or two and see how things go...that if she didn't fit in, we could surrender her to WAG and they would find a different placement for Abby and work with us on finding a different dog. Absolutely no pressure. 

So she stayed.

And that is how we got Abby.

Our Anderson Family Circus was complete.

learn something new

You guys, I've been on lock down with my boys for 19 months. 

Remember early on in the pandemic, the #2020Lockdown...back in March 2020?

floss everyday

Before everything really went to shit? 

Yeah, anyway, people all over the world were all like, "let's learn new things, you guys!" 

I decided I wanted to learn how to floss.

Not my teeth. 

I do that every night. 

For real. 

Because I want an A at every dental visit, you guys.

flossing

I wanted to learn the dance. 

Seriously.

When my younger son was in second grade, flossing was the thing. 

Like, at pick-up after school everyday, he'd patiently wait while I chatted with the other moms, and to amuse himself, he'd floss. 

Then when his older brother would arrive a few minutes later, the boys would beat the shit out of each other, for which I would apologize to the other parents because my kids are the worst, obviously...and we'd have to leave quickly. 

Fucking children.

Over the past four years, I've tried flossing, but haven't been whats called a Strong Flosser.

And, when presented the opportunity, I use my graceless flossing to embarrass my children.  

dabbing

I mean, duh!

Of course, dabbing was also some kind of thing in the second grade.

As a seasoned Gen-Xer, who repeatedly watched and danced along with, Thriller as a child, I...

a) mastered that move on my first attempt.

b) need the challenge of crossing the brain mid-line.

c) know it means something different in the world of marijuana.

d) all of the above are true.

It's D, you guys. 

Just so you know. 

I'm that cool. 

For real. 

But, here we are, nearly two years into being together every single day, and my now 7th grader decides to tell me I gotta swing my arms and hips in opposite directions. 

So, on the one hand, I can now floss, which is fabulous. 

On the other hand, we don't go anywhere and I have zero opportunity to embarrass my children with my stellar dance moves. 

Yes, I can have a living room dance party. 

But it's not the same.

So I'm on to bigger goals: floss walking. 

floss walking

 

This way, when we go somewhere, I can make a statement with my exit, you guys. 

Even if it's the grocery store. 

Not only am I learning something new, I'm seizing every opportunity to embarrass my children. 

Because that's always fun!

The Costco Whisperer

I have not dismissed them. They are my parents after all. I have an incredible amount of love for them. 

And a stitch of compassion.

While my husband and our children and I are geographically isolated, I have not abandoned my folks.

When the stay at-home orders caused by the COVID-19 pandemic started in March 2020, my dad, who is an aging Baby Boomer, was understandably very worried about leaving the house. While we didn't know much, we knew COVID was capable of rapidly spreading between people. At the time, most of us were watching as seniors in nursing homes were rapidly dying in large numbers.  Because of science, and the importance of knowing our nation's health history, we know that when community-based illness hit, the young and the old are the most vulnerable. My folks are in a larger city and my dad was on high alert about contracting COVID and meeting his maker. 

Because, then what would happen to Mom? Not that she'd been diagnosed yet. Shhh, don't talk about it, you guys. Remember? #iCulturallyReferenceMyself

sometimes I'm brilliant

At the start of the shutdown, there was also understandable anxiety, and over the first couple of weeks, I had several long talks with my folks. 

They always have me on speakerphone. It's not my favorite but I roll with it, you guys.

In one of our conversations I offered to help them by placing their Costco orders. Online. Because the Internet is awesome like that. 

While I do come from the oppressively misogynistic culture that is the Sonoran Desert, I'm also an adult.

Ultimately, I was happy to help ensure that they at least had enough essentials to survive. I mean, I saw 28 Days Later, you guys. You know what I'm sayin'?

I'm saying that at that point in time, we were coming together as Americans and making sure that we each hoarded as much goddamn toilet paper as we could possibly hoard! 

RIGHT?! #ToiletPaperCrisis2020

Over the past 16+ months, I've had more in-depth phone conversations with my dad...who I love very much...about the different softness levels of toilet paper, than a person ever really needs to in their lifetime. 

Scott toilet paper is no longer something he can use: "It's like sandpaper, ya know what I'm saying?"

Yet, Charmin is too fancy for him. "That's for people with really tender a-holes. I'm not that person. I'm a little tougher than that. I'm a quarter Mexican."

Me: Got it, Dad.

Him: I  mean, I don't have hemorrhoids, or nothin'. I've had hemorrhoids. They are not fun. Did ya ever have hemorrhoids?

Me: Yes, I've had hemorrhoids, Dad. I've been pregnant twice. 

#JesusDad

Him [silence]: Anyway. Do they have the Kirkland brand of TP? That's between Scott and Charmin. It's like a five. On a scale of one to ten, ya know what I'm sayin? It'll do. Get me a couple packages of Kirkland toilet paper if they got it. I mean, they've gotta have it. It's Costco. It's their own brand."

Thank you, Kirkland, for making Dad Approved TP. 

Me: Dad, Costco does have Kirkland toilet paper, but they have a limit on one case. The case contains a total of 30 rolls of toilet paper.

everyone poops

Him: Okay. That'll be fine. As long as your mother or I don't get diarrhea...? I mean, I'll go out sometimes. I gotta get to the lab once a month for my blood draw.

Me: Dad, I got it! One case of Kirkland toilet paper! What else do you need?   

#FocusDad

Him: Ha! I was joking about getting diarrhea! It's not like we're leaving the house. We'll be fine.

Humor always helps, you guys. #PoopJokeFTW

Him: Get two cases, though.

Me: But, Dad, there's a one case limit on toilet paper. I'll check other online retailers and if I find something that's not horribly expensive, I'll arrange for it to be sent. 

Him: That'd be great. Keep checking Costco, too, though. I mean you're on the computer a lot more than me. 

Me: Dad, do you have a computer?

Him: No. I was joking.

I also told my dad that I know he and mom are on a fixed income, and to help, we could also help contribute to the expense of my parents' bimonthly Costco bill. My husband and I were both incredibly lucky, and very very thankful, to both have employment during the shutdown. #gratitude

But Dad sternly refused. "I can pay my own way," he said. "There may be a time where I'm not gonna be able to pay my own way and then you can pay my way. But right now, I'm paying for this. No. But thank you."

Me: Got it, Dad. And you're welcome. I'm happy to be able to help you and Mom with the Costco ordering online. The order has been placed and will be to your home within two hours.

Mom: That's amazing! Thank you, Rachel.  

Me: You're welcome, Mom. 

Today I am thankful Mom still knows my voice.

Over time, we worked out a system where I called once each week, and if I needed to be The Costco Whisper, then I'd place their order...and as if by magic...or perhaps a series of tubes...within a couple of hours, their purchase would be delivered to their door and unloaded into their garage by the Instacart shopper.

And, by the way, Dad, we always always always over-tip service people who are working during a respiratory pandemic. This is an incredible service folks are providing. Let's be thankful for the opportunity to help keep people employed. Because, really, we don't know what they are dealing with, but we are sure thankful to see them with all of our stuff. Seriously, you guys. #gratitude

Elsa letting it go

After the delivery was made and unloaded by the Instacart shopper onto the folding table in the garage, my dad proceeded to then wipe everything down with an anti-germ wipe and let it dry (his choice; let it go). He then brought his items inside and put everything away.

Then he'd call me. I'd ask him how the delivery went and made sure all items were delivered. I'd also give him the total amount of the bill, including the tip being agreed upon in the first phone call when I placed the order.

Sometimes he'd tell me to tip a couple of bucks extra and his feedback would be, "She was a real nice gal." 

Other times he'd provide me a commentary on the Instacart shopper's cuteness, but in a super sly way: "It's a hot one out today, so I slipped her an extra ten bucks."

To clarify, that roughly translates to "it's 100 degrees out today and that gal was so foxy she could have been in a 1980's ZZ Top video." 

Instacart women of the Sonoran Desert are so attractive they make men weak. That's a serious Super Power, you guys.

Me: Dad, I am paying for everything on my credit card. But, yes, go ahead and tip the cute ones extra cash if you need to.

Him: I'm an old man, honey. I'm not dead. Yet. 

Me: It's all good, Dad. No worries.

He'd then tell me when he was planning to mail the check, complete with a list of stops the mail would make between our cities, and predictions of when I should look for it in my post office box. 

He's usually pretty accurate. 

You guys, maybe my Dad could be The Mail Whisperer.  

 

Shhh, don't talk about it

Shhh, don't talk about it. 

That's been their mentality from the start.

Don't talk about Mom's Dementia.

Within the first year of my now 14-year-old son's arrival, she sent the same book twice. When I politely brought it up, she sang out, "Oh! I'm just a doting Grandma! [pregnant pause] But maybe I should make a list of what I send...?"

"No biggie, Mom. It's fine to have two copies of a book," I said.  Because: Books.

Way Out In The Desert(s)

To which she then suggested that since I have two books, perhaps I need to just have a second child. 

Yeah. Because children are like Lay's fuckin' potato chips. Ya might as well have more than one!

Fast forward 11 years to spring 2016, it was after my Breast Cancer Adventure. My first Port Angeles Friend and I took a field trip to see my folks. We went out to dinner, and after my mom excused herself to go to the bathroom, Dad addressed Mom's "problems with her memory."

"I know, Dad," I said. "That's a big reason why I'm here." 

We talked in hushed tones. I mean, we all know that every Mom has the Super Power of being able to listen to the conversation you're having at the table, in a noisy restaurant while she's in the bathroom, and the bathroom is on the other side of the restaurant, you guys. Right?

My dear first Port Angeles Friend was, as always, incredibly kind and offered my Dad her personal experience with her own mother-in-law's dementia diagnosis. The three of us conspired for me to have breakfast with my Mom alone one morning, so that I could express my concerns and offer ways to help. 

I mean, HELLLLLOOOOO? Health Educator since 1997! 

Oh! And as an added bonus: Special needs mom turned breast cancer survivor turned tonsil cancer caregiver, here! 

I wish I was lying.

And my day job is teaching college students how to make informed health choices! #DreamJob #Gratitude 

Dad! I am here to help you guys! This is what I do! Think of it as a return on your investment in my bachelor's degree. For real. I have specialized training, as well as personal experience, and can totally help you and Mom navigate the health care system and --

Here she comes!  

My dad had his eye on the bathroom door and watched my mother walk across the restaurant.

Shhh, don't talk about it. 

The next morning at breakfast, I explained to my mom how I found the lump in my own breast. That I promptly chose to talk with my spouse, and to see my doctor about a problem we could not deny. I stated that from my perspective, as a mom of a child who has neurological disabilities, I felt as though her brain health was beginning to decline. I told her I loved her several times, and I pleaded with her to please ask her own doctor for a referral to a neurologist or neuropsychologist. 

She said she would. 

But she didn't.  

Because shhh...don't talk about it. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, you guys.

Yet, from the perspective of the patient with dementia, it's gotta be the the hardest goddam thing to do. Walk into your physician's office and say "I need to be tested for dementia"...? Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. I imagine that's harder than, "I found a lump." 

But maybe making comparisons between their hard and my hard isn't the way to go with this. Their hard is their hard.   

And my hard is my hard. 

It's not a contest, you guys. 

Not my circus, not my monkeys. 

My monkeys fly...

 

 

Birthday Eve

Today is your Birthday Eve. 

Tomorrow you will be fourteen. 

It's kinda terrific. But kinda terrifying.  

Terrific because you have accomplished much in your number of years on our planet, even exceeding the experts expectations. 

Terrifying because of what is happening in the world.

Why is there so much smoke in our sky again? Why are these major fires happening? The Earth is screaming. Do you hear her? And why did he even suggest that California rake their forests? Right. Because he's clueless. Climate change is real. Please stop ignoring science. 

Terrific because you are working on listening comprehension. And, the other day, you figured out the talk to type feature on the computer! Your entire face lit up because you were so impressed with yourself! And that is the best feeling: seeing you happy.

Terrifying because perhaps that's why Coronavirus is here: Mother Earth is thinning us out. She doesn't necessarily need us as a species to survive herself. Some mothers eat their young. I know there are days I wish I certainly had. #MissedOpportunity #OhWell

Terrific because you know how to swallow all of your meds at once. That's Boss Level stuff, dude. Like all 7 pills down the hatch?! Amazing! I'm looking forward to that new super fancy-pants AM/PM, color-coded pill organizer arriving. We will absolutely work together to make sure you know how to correctly read your prescription bottles, and how to arrange your medications. I have confidence in you, son.

Terrifying because you have so many meds to take. I know what they do to your brain activity. But what do they do to your liver and kidneys? And your digestive system? 

Terrific because since you've been home in March, I've seen fewer seizures. You've slept better. Longer. More soundly. We've maintained your sleep schedule because our life is ruled by medications. Yes my children are still in their rooms between 7:30 and 7:45 pm. No. Really. #ParentalMentalHealth #YesWeGetBraggingRightsOnThis #TeamAnderson

Terrifying because he knew, and he chose to not act. There is so much blood on his hands. America's blood. What type of future does that leave for you, my child? Not to mention the racial unrest occurring. #BlackLivesMatter Terrifying because what happens if you are the next Linden Cameron? (God, forbid; knock on wood; please all the Deities in the Universe, protect my children. Amen.)

Terrific because you wanted to bake cupcakes today, and you did most of the work. I mean, it was a mix because while I do bake a mean cookie, baking cakes from scratch is not my area of expertise. So thanks for being flexible and doing cupcakes. Yeah, it's kinda a bummer that we didn't get the 24 that Betty Crocker said we would, but you did a fantastic job pouring the batter into the cupcakes mostly by yourself...mostly.

Terrific because, on this Birthday Eve, you chose to not eat any cupcakes today. This shows you have self-control and are maturing. And that is wonderful! Yes, we can put the frosting on tomorrow. I think it's fabulous that you call the dude on the can the Pillsbury Dough Brother. What else are you going to put on your cupcake? We have marshmallows. Yes, two sizes because that's important. And we have gummy bears. And I'm sure we have a fresh strawberry from the garden! Of course not. Why ruin it?

May you find happiness and joy. May you be healthy and happy. May you continue to listen to music and love cats.  

Happy Birthday Eve!

All my love always, 

Mom

xoxo