Dad's Shirts

Dad's shirts arrived in the mail in a plain brown box in April 2017. Understandably, Mom needed to take her time to go through them; they were now incredibly special treasures, containing memories of times gone by and places they had traveled to together. She needed to process, in her own way, what it meant to pack up her deceased husband's shirts to send to me, with the plan being for me to cut some, possibly all, of these shirts up and then sew them back together as a memorial quilt. She didn't know which shirts I would end up working with when she bravely packed them up in Oklahoma, sealed the box and addressed it to my husband and me, and took them to have them shipped all the way up to Northwestern Washington.

Mom and I had many conversations about this project, prior to her shipping them up. I requested creative control, which Mom agreed to. However, she had one caveat: she needed the shirt that Dad had designed and made himself to be in the middle...

...because, obviously, Dad had an incredible sense of humor. And really, you guys, he made it. Because that's what he & Mom used to do for a living before they retired in 2013...about 6 months before Dad was diagnosed. They planned on spending their retirement traveling in their big and beautiful 5th wheel trailer.

My husband's Father was diagnosed with stage 4 prostate cancer in October 2013. And, basically, stage 4 cancer means you're in some serious shit. Like, you really don't EVER want to hear your doctor tell you that. You don't ever want to hear your husband's physician say to your husband, "You have stage 4 cancer." It's the worst of the worst...of the worst.

But Dad, just being Dad, did a bunch of his own research on his disease, he educated himself, and he found a drug study that he was able to participate in which helped to extend his life by about 18 months.

Dad ♡

When my father-in-law passed away in June of 2015, I was going through my own breast cancer chemotherapy treatments. Sometimes life is just fucked up like that. My husband did not attend this father's funeral, which was in Oklahoma. His father was a firm "no" on the topic.

Actually, it was more like an ABSOLUTELY NOT!

He did not expect his son to leave me alone with our two boys, who were 8 and 6 at the time, and home on summer break. Now would probably be a good time to mention that our oldest son has myriad neurological disorders and requires extra supports to get through the day. Because sometimes life is just fucked up like that.

Sorting out child care as a single parent going through chemo...? While I know that there are parents that do not have the choice, I am eternally grateful that my father-in-law was generous enough to not put me through that. I am thankful that he was not so selfish in his dying days that he put his son in a position to choose between staying in Northwestern Washington State with his family who was depending upon him like never before, and traveling to Oklahoma to attend his funeral. A dying father made a decision for his adult child; it was a tremendous gift.

What are ya gonna do?

We visited with him frequently via video chat. We saw him as often as we could all emotionally and physically manage. Being a cancer patient is exhausting. Caring for a cancer patient is taxing. Parenting a child with special needs is incredibly stressful. All of that combined? The amount of pressure we were all under is hard to describe...but at a certain point you have to just surrender that sometimes life happens big time for some families. What are ya gonna do?

While we all emotionally struggled with our own grief in our own way during his passing, we all ultimately respected Dad's dying wish. It was one less decision my husband and I had to make during an already life-altering time for each of us as individuals; for who we were as a couple; for what it means to be parents; and even as adult children, we needed Dad to make this decision...but we didn't know what we needed. Thanks, Dad. I love you.

We all grieve in our own way. There's no "right" or "wrong" to it. It's unique to each individual. So, it didn't surprise me that it took my mother-in-law to take nearly two years to send up the box of shirts. There were about two dozen in all. Not all of them were cotton. I was taught to quilt by old school quilters before my kids were born: cotton.

Cotton-poly blend...ehhh...not so much.

But those 100% cotton t-shirts with all the cool stuff Dad loved? Yup! Gimme those!

However, the box sat in the closet, sorry, Mom, for quite some time. My husband wasn't ready. I was not capable of going through the box myself; at the end of the day, it's his Dad, and he needs to go through it when he's ready. I gently encouraged him when it first arrived...and he pushed back. His own experience with cancer wasn't far enough behind him. His experience as my caregiver during my cancer wasn't far enough behind us. We became busy, as we all do, and the box sat in the closet. For a very, very long time...forgotten...seen occasionally...not quite ready...maybe it was used more than once to cover up a few Christmas gifts for the boys...I'm sure Dad was happy to oblige in a little conspiracy for the boys he loved so much....

Me, texting with my MIL

And then, out of the blue, one day in November 2018, Mom texted me and said, basically, "How's it coming with the quilt?"

I think the first thing I did was say, "Randy! Can you please get that box of your Dad's shirts outta the closet? I gotta get started on that t-shirt quilt for your Mom!"

And then I texted Mom back a few minutes later and said, "Oh, it's coming along...."

The one that got away

My husband opened the box, and he went through the shirts. He separated the t-shirts from the button down shirts. He decided to keep the short-sleeved button down shirts and give me the t-shirts for the quilt. There were a total of 10 t-shirts, however, 9 of them ended up going in the quilt. The last one my husband decided to keep for himself to possibly wear, because it's Batman. Old school Batman.


Now, making a t-shirt quilt is quite an involved process because t-shirts are made from pretty stretchy material...where quilting fabric is, comparatively, less forgiving. It's a tighter weave...and thicker. So you don't use quilting fabric in a wet t-shirt contest.

Also, t-shirt fabric can roll in on itself, and when you're sewing fabric together, you need flat edges...you don't need fabric rolling in on itself because that would make you so frustrated you'd end up throwing your goddam sewing machine through a fuckin' window. So to help keep your sanity from shattering like a pane of glass, you have to get this stuff called fusible interfacing. And this is totally worth it because without it, your t-shirts won't last as long, and quilts are made to be used for years, unlike wet t-shirts. So, the interfacing makes the t-shirt fabric stronger. Got it?

Back of the front of a shirt, with interfacing

It's a necessary step. It's a pain in the ass and it's hella time consuming, but it's not a negotiable thing. First you cut the t-shirts up the seam on each side, then you cut the sleeves at the shoulder...on the seams.

Make sure you check each sleeve because sometimes souvenir t-shirt designers think they are clever and put stuff on the sleeve and you gotta decide if you're gonna incorporate that into the quilt.

Then you gently cut the collar out of the shirt out. You have to be careful here, because some times there can be a design close to the neck, and you certainly don't want to go cutting someone's design. I mean, that's just rude.

Anyway then you take your ironing board and your iron and you have to press, not iron back and forth, but PRESS the fusible interfacing on to the inside of the front of the t-shirt. And you have to HOLD the iron on the fabric for about 10-15 seconds. And you have to have a towel or a cloth diaper or some bullshit piece of fabric between the interfacing and the
iron because you certainly don't have time to get the adhesive from the interfacing off of your iron....

Press the iron. Count to ten slowly. Move the iron. Press the iron. Count to ten slowly. Move the iron. Repeat. A lot. All over the shirt.

On the design wall

I did that for nine shirts. I made each block about 15 inches wide by 17 inches tall. I honored Mom's request that the white Guinea Pig High Powered Drug Control Testing Specimen t-shirt be in the middle. I made sure that the one shirt that had writing on the sleeve was added in. And then I played with different options on my design wall, which is really fancy...it's the underside of a cheap table cloth...the other side is vinyl. And you just put the shirts on the wall...no pins...nothing fancy...just run your hand over it to make it stick.

As I worked on this project in November, with the goal to get it to Mom by Christmas, my family slipped in and out of gastrointestinal illnesses that were going around in our community. Life was telling us to slow down in a way that it hadn't in a while...quilts can wait.

Double border

But we talked a lot about Dad...about Pop-pop...while I worked on this quilt. He was with us. Perhaps he wanted to spend Christmas with us, and that's why I didn't make my personal deadline. Sorry, Mom. But I know you get it better than my own parents do. Thank you for being who you are. 

In our conversations, I asked my husband what his Dad's favorite thing to do was. "Fish," was what #RandySaid

...and as a result, we chose to do a double border: a thin inner border of light blue for water, and a wider outer border full of fishing lures. It was one of those things that just came together.

In the process of sandwiching Dad's Shirts. 

The back of the quilt is also worth considering...and I tend to overthink things. Elvis fabric? They fell in love listening to The King. No. That didn't feel right. Too masculine. After all, it's technically for Mom. Green? Eh...it could work. Brown? Maybe. Purple...of course, because it's Mom's favorite color. But also because no matter what happened, she always had Dad's back. A deep royal purple was in order. The purple is for you, Mom. 

Then I had to sandwich it. No, for real, that's what it's called, you guys.

Basting the quilt

I don't have room in my home for a long-arm quilting machine. But I do have laminate flooring. So, I asked my family to move the dining room table, it was before lunch, and they were feeling really quite helpful throughout this particular project. Then I busted out the 2" wide masking tape, and got down on my hands and knees and taped the back of the quilt to the dining room floor, making sure it was rather taut, keeping the seam in the purple straight. There can be no wrinkles in the fabric.

Then I got the quilt batting and laid that on top of the back of the quilt. And it had to be smooth...no wrinkles. I use the long edge my 24" x 6" flat ruler to gently flatten the batting...kind of a push broom...for the smoothing process.

And then I laid out the quilt top. Again, smoothing it with the edge of the ruler.

And then, finally, I basted the quilt by pinning the shit out of it. I used my flat 24" x 6" ruler again, and safety-pinned all three layers together, in 4" increments, so it'll end up a gigantic grid. I do this so because the old school quilters said. Also, when I eventually untape and pick up the quilt sandwich, it will all stay together and nothing slides around.

The 12 year old sews

And that's sandwiching a quilt.

The final measurements of Dad's Shirts was about 58" wide by about 66" long, so the sandwiching process took a couple of hours of sitting and moving on the floor. It's very grounding, and I think about the type of stitching, or quilting I'm going to do, as I'm moving around and pinning.

And by the way, having quilting as a hobby...it's ain't for the inflexible. Quilting is rather physical. Thank you, me, for giving myself 20+ years of regular yoga practice.

The 9.5 year old sews

Aaaaanyway...so I quilted this bad boy with coordinating thread to match each individual t-shirt. When I was making this quilt, I thought about, and put the call out via Facebook, for quilting with invisible thread. I appreciate the folks who helped and for the loan of invisible thread. However, a very wise quilter at my local quilt shop advised me to not explore invisible thread with this quilt. Why? Too emotional. Dad's Shirts is...and was...a very emotional piece of art for me to be given the opportunity to create. I am very proud to have made something so beautiful. I was, and am, thankful that my Mom-in-law trusted me and loves me and is confident in my crazy ideas and my abilities. But this was absolutely not the quilt to learn to do something new on. I'll save the invisible thread for another time.

So, while matching 12 threads to 12 t-shirts was tedious, it's ok because I added some new colors of thread to my stash. For the bottom thread, on the back of the quilt, I used a variegated purple thread, because I wanted dashes of lighter purples in the back of the quilt. 

Back & binding

I selected a deep burgundy for the binding. The binding of a quilt is the part that goes around the perimeter and part of it is attached to the quilt with a machine. But, the old school quilters said that you are going sit yo'ass down and you're gonna finish that quilt up in your lap, by hand, and use a whip stitch. You do the last step with love. Never with hate. That's only for cooking. 

Label, on the back left bottom corner. Ruler is 12"x6".

It is worth noting, as a Washingtonian, that I did NOT choose purple for the Huskies and burgundy for the Cougars... besides...WSU is crimson, and crimson and burgundy are not the same color. Google it. I did. I'm just too goddamn tired to do a link. I can't give you everything, you guys...be a little bit responsible for your own learning, mkay?

Attaching the label

Because both of my sons sewed on Dad's Shirts, I asked them to help me with the creation of the label. I surrounded the label with dark blue butterflies, because Mom loves butterflies, and Dad loved blue.  The label was attached by hand.

Port Angeles, WA shirt

While working on this project, I remembered fond times of when Dad and Mom came to visit us when we lived in Las Vegas. And I'm thankful they also made it all the way up to Port Angeles to visit us before Dad's diagnosis. Seeing Pop-pop take Angry Birds lessons from my older son, slide down the slide and play with his grandsons is a memory I cherish.

Dad having an Angry Birds lesson

Dad and I's, flying high!

To make sure everything was secure and my quilt was ready to go, I threw it in the washer and dryer, like you do...and it passed inspection. I put Dad's shirts in a large plastic garbage bag, to make sure it was protected, just in case anything happened during shipping.

Hair back; safety first!

And then I put it in a box. Oh! And Mr 9.5 made a couple of one-seam-fleece hats: one for Mom and one for her brother. He was quite proud of these because his entire fourth grade class made hats one day because their teacher is awesome like that! And it would be remiss if me if I didn't include a picture. Boys sew. It's cool, you guys.

And then I put that box into a larger box. Because I'm paranoid about something happening to this one-of-a-kind creation. Of shirts that my Father-in-law used to wear. When he was alive.

It was a stressful couple of days, just after Christmas when I shipped this very special package off. I was regularly checking USPS.com and would get anxious when I didn't know where Dad's Shirts was. But I knew when it was out for delivery. And I made arrangements for Mom to sign for it. Because, you don't cut up your Father-in-law's shirts only to sew them back together and make a memorial quilt for your Mother-in-law and then send it without requesting a signature on delivery. Duh!

Regardless, she texted me when she got it. Thanks, Mom, for trusting me with this. It was an honor and a privilege to create this. Thanks to my husband for always having a keen eye for fabric. Thanks to my sons for helping create something beautiful for Grandma.

Dad's Shirts, 58"x66"

Mrs. Claus

When I was younger, in my late teens, I was pretty serious with this one fella....

And every year at Christmastime, his mom would give her kids gifts from Mrs. Claus.

Right? 

She's obviously brilliant. 

And she told her husband that Mrs. Claus was a neighbor or acquaintance or someone she knew from when they lived back east. 

Seriously. 

And to the best of my recollection, on the rare occasion that the husband questioned, then she was like "Honey, you remember! The lovely neighbor Mrs. Claus!" and that was the end of it. He blew it off...whatever.

I'm giving credit to my ex-boyfriend's mother on this Mrs. Claus thing up front because I had a major plagiarism case in my classroom last year, and I'm a firm believer in citing my sources. And while I have a lot to say about the major plagiarism case, I'm not saying anything because I really love the teaching gig I've had since 2002.

For the past year or so my family has been letting go of the traditional approaches to the holidays, and let's face it, we all know women have been running the show around purchases for Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or whatever holiday families celebrate. Women. And Mrs. Claus has been a silent partner too goddamn long.

My family celebrates Christmas, and not in the religious sense. We celebrate simply being together and yes, we do Santa. It's part of having a child who is chronologically 12, but developmentally 5. We will likely always do Santa....

Honestly, I put a lot into the Solstice, living up here at 48.12* N, and 123.43* W where the sun was up from 8:01 am till 4:22 pm on December 21. Each day after the solstice, the sun is up for a little longer. Let there be light.

In my house, we celebrate Christmas. And we're fine to say Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays and, really, I, like a growing number of Americans, don't give really care what kind of greeting you say, just be kind when you say it. For reals.

But, here's the deal, the Santa I was taught to love is an old white dude who's been given credit for the work of others for a few hundred years. And, honestly, Mrs. Claus has been getting the shaft, if you will, about this whole thing. I'll let Miss Granger deal with the elves, yo. That's not my jam...

As a feminist, my heart belongs to Mrs. Claus, because I, like many women I know who happen to also be moms, am the following Departments:

• Planning
• Purchasing
• Wrapping
• Decorating
• Cooking/Baking
• Cleaning/Housekeeping

Sometimes, we call the last two Departments the Bitch Work Departments, because obviously.

Also, as the primary food source (wasn't that shit supposed to stop after I weaned them? FUCK!) sometimes I add hate as a necessary ingredient in my recipies. A lot of people cook with love. But I find hate works, too. It's better than spitting into their food. I mean, that's just disgusting. But hate? Adds a little spice to life. Just kidding. I only add love. Because there's already a lot of anger in my house because of the myriad diagnoses my family has been handed over the past eight years. And, Jesus knows, there's a shit ton of hatred in the world.

So, as Mrs. Claus, it's my responsibility to ensure that Christmas happens...to be totally responsible and make magic happen for my kids.

And, as Mrs. Claus, I purchase really good stuff for myself. Duh. For the past several Christmases, Mrs. Claus purchased a gift certificate for a pedicure for me. Because Mrs. Claus knows I need to park my ass for an hour and indulge in self-care with no children around.

Mrs. Claus has even become so popular in my home that my kids say things like, "I sure hope Mrs. Claus has arranged for the elves to fill up my stocking!" That's right. They are boys being trained to know that women run the show.

Over Portugal

Even though my very bright, but young 4th grader is starting to question me about Santa...I went straight to Mrs. Claus: "Yes, actually, Mrs. Claus is the one responsible for overseeing all the planning including the route planners who work with the meteorologists, and then they coordinate it all and send it up to Google Santa Tracker and then Mrs. C gets the final word on all of that. You know?"

A couple of weeks ago, we were standing in line to see Santa at Swain's, because they have everything including Santa, my boys asked me where Mrs. Claus was, "Oh she just dropped him off and is gonna pick him up later because she's gotta get back to the North Pole and make sure the elves are getting the toys made."

Secretly, it's kinda fun.

I even talk to strangers about Mrs. Claus. I recently had a delightful conversation with a nearly 4-year-old girl and she's never fucking heard of Mrs. Claus! Sweet Jesus! That's just shameful. So I filled her in. I think her dad was a little concerned. He didn't turn around and look at me because he either didn't want to encourage me, or he wanted to get the fuck outta there. I can't say I blame him. I mean, some middle-aged broad with a purple pixie was talking to his 4-year-old in a pink pussy hat about Mrs. Claus. He was not gonna jump in on that conversation. Gotta penis? Get out.

Last night, as my husband and I were setting up and making Christmas happen, because my husband knows which side his bread is buttered on...our younger son struggled to get to sleep. It's the excitement of Christmas. I get it. I've been there. Sometimes I'm still there. But not when a child gets out of bed to pee...and then can't get back to sleep...because he's never been to sleep in the first place. Ugh.

Our living room and the boy's bedroom share a wall, and we were as quiet as we could be in our set up. But, due to sickness last week, we've been super duper minimal this year. It was all we could do to get the Christmas stockings out of the loft in the shed. I'm not down with live trees; allergies. And, I don't want to make our incredibly dedicated 4-legged child move out of her space.

Keeping in the tradition of thinking outside of the box, my 4th grade son decided to paint a Christmas tree...and we placed presents under it. He was concerned that Santa wouldn't find our house. I told him Mrs. Claus had it all under control, and that there'd be gifts from Santa and Mrs. Claus in the morning.

And there were. Complete with flame-less candles for the win. 

Painted Christmas Tree with gifts.

NatrureBridge Field Trip

At the end of October, my son went on the biggest school field trip ever. The entire sixth grade class went to a 3-day, 2-night expedition to NatureBridge at Olympic National Park. 

All the gear. Note the van and packed trailer in the background.

The school district where my kids are enrolled is generous enough to pay for every sixth grader who attends school, as well as the teachers and a few parents that are crazy enough to chaperone, to go out to Lake Crescent and learn about the natural environment up here on the North Olympic Peninsula.

Waiting to load up

The sixth graders were given Field Journals, in which they take notes about what they learn in their natural environment: Old growth forests, the Elwha River system, studying water samples and macroinvertabrates, and geology.

Writing in his field journal

NatureBridge promises a classroom without walls, and they delivered big time for my son. Did I think he'd be capable of doing this? Yes, absolutely. Was I nervous about sending him? Absofuckinlutely. Did I over-pack the suitcase? Totally. But, when your kid is spending three days outside in the largest rainforest in the world, which is North America's Pacific Temperate rainforest, and it's the beginning of the rainy season, and you know your son gets messy at the drop of a hat, you over pack his suitcase.

Happiest kid ever

He didn't brush his teeth. He didn't take a shower. He may have changed his clothes. But he's a twelve-year-old boy who was with his friends, away from his parents, and upon his return I asked him if he did any type of personal hygiene, he said he "wasn't really interested" in those things.

Fantastic. For reals. Because I'm sure the other sixth grade boys also did not clean any parts of themselves, either. Integration at it's finest. Borderline Lord of the Flies.

In order for this trip to happen, my son needed additional supports from adults. My son is developmentally disabled, and struggles to grip a pencil to write his name, but did the best he could with his field journal. He walks really quite slowly, which translates to he needed a lot of gentle pushing, and perhaps even a bit of pulling, when they were hiking Marymere Falls. But he did it. He's done it before, so it's not like he's never been. But some of his peers had never been. It provided him an opportunity to be a leader.

At Marymere Falls

The adult that was primarily in charge of him was his former Special Education Teacher, Ms. B. She was in charge of my son during first grade, and then again in fourth and fifth grade. He was homeschooled for half of second grade, and all of third grade. So, she knows him, and our family, very well. I consider her an integral part of my son's education and we've become dear friends.

Eating the sandwich he made

My son made his own sandwich and ate it. I found this hard to believe, and Ms. B knows I would think she was totally bullshitting me, so she took a picture for proof!

Little bit of soccer practice

While he was out playing and learning and having the coolest experience ever, my husband and younger son and I had a little fun. I got to go to soccer practice. I typically didn't go because there's really no need for all four of us to go to practice. It's a logistical nightmare for all four of us to go anywhere during dinner time because it throws off the entire schedule in a way that takes days for my special needs child to recover, so he and I would typically stay home and play UNO. He's really quite good and ends up kicking my ass quite a lot.

Dinner: chicken, slaw, ginger cake. He ate it all.

My kid with special needs ate all of the food that was offered to him. We were not permitted to pack food for them. And, as a dedicated rule follower (mostly) I did not pack food for him. I'm sure they accommodate kids with special dietary needs...but that's not something my son deals with so it's not on my radar.

Because my son takes medications on a regular basis to control his seizures, a form needed to be completed by his physician, and of course, I had to send all of the necessary meds, in their prescription bottles. So, there was some homework on my end to get this shit done. I know intrinsically my kid isn't the only kid that was medicated who was going on this massive expedition, but when you're doing the prep for this, it feels completely fucking isolating. Because, as a culture, we're trained to NOT talk about these things. We're trained to NOT discuss the fact that some kids need meds to get through their day. There's no shame in the fact that my child needs medications in order to not seize. But my culture makes me sometimes feel like he's not healthy because he needs medications...leading me to meditate on "what does it mean to be healthy?"

The kids all went out to NatureBridge on Wednesday and came home on Friday. And everyone was exhausted when the buses pulled in to the school parking lot about 45 minutes later than they were expected. But, considering they had to move about 100 kids and adults, running 45 minutes late is understandable. In my experience of being at the lake, it's so beautiful out there that it can be difficult to leave and head back to reality.

I am so thankful that my son had this amazing experience and for the adults that helped him. Special thanks to Ms. B for having his back, for taking all the pictures, and getting them to me. We love and appreciate you more than we could ever express.

In the burned out tree on the trail

With Ms. B.

Larger than life

How Abby spent most of her time: on her boys' bed

In a canoe on the lake

Happy and exhausted

Brothers reunited; they really did miss each other

How's It Hanging

9.5: Hey, Mom! How's it hanging?

Me: They're both hanging fine, thanks.

9.5: smiles and nods as he takes a drink of water.

Me: How's it hanging for you?

9.5: Fine, thanks.

Me: Do you know what that means?

9.5: Ummm...no….

Me: It means you’re talking about your penis.

9.5: No it doesn’t!

Me: Yes it does.

9.5: I'm never saying that again! (Pause) No it doesn’t mean that, Mom!

Me: Yes it does. Go ask Dad. Because, clearly, being a woman, I have no 
idea about penises.

9.5: DAAAAADDDD!!!!! Runs down the hall. Returns about 10 seconds later, 
running at top speed down the hallway into the kitchen.

Me: Well? What’d Daddy say?

9.5: He said it means I'm talking about penises.

Me: It’s fine to talk about penises, we just don’t need to harass anyone about penises. 
Or vaginas.

9.5: Right. Or vaginas, Mom.

Me: Thanks, I. I love you.

9.5: I love you too, Mom. 

Surprise! Surprise!

So, My Little Brother, who is 12 years younger than me and provided me the BEST form of birth control EVER as a teenager, showed up at my younger son's last soccer game of the season yesterday.

They boys had the biggest and best surprise of their lives! Because they really do love their Uncle Sammy. No, he's not Uncle Sam. Never has been, and likely never will be. Because, seriously? In this political climate? No, thank you. 

My Little Brother brought his girlfriend, and they are rather serious. Like, I'm pretty sure they're gonna get married type of serious. You don't trek all the way up to the North Olympic Peninsula from Phoenix, Arizona, with your lady, if you're not serious about this broad.

And it's great! For reals. Because she's an ophthalmologist and his vision has been shit pretty much his whole life. She's got an impeccable future-sister-in-law-bedside manner because, according to her: "he needs some pretty powerful lenses." But, really, we all know he's really just interested in her for her LASIK surgery abilities.

That and our mother is probably thrilled that her son the lawyer is marrying a doctor. Seriously. Because it's all about appearances with my mother. She's a "what would the neighbors think?!" type of a gal.

The last time My Little Brother was on the Olympic Peninsula, was the summer of 2015, when I was going through chemotherapy treatments for breast cancer...and yes, he went with me to chemo...because he's a nice guy. My parents didn't come up. I'm still working on letting go of that...and it's not the point of this post.

The last time I saw My Little Brother I went down to Arizona in the spring of 2016, about 6 weeks before my husband was diagnosed with HPV caused tonsil cancer. He was living with a different woman at that time...and they were completely different. And while I was disappointed they didn't work out, I'm also kinda relieved...because the new girlfriend he's living with...in a completely different house...is delightful.

Like, she doesn't miss a beat, has a quick wit, with a touch of dark humor. We're very much looking forward to getting to know her this week.

They are not staying with us, thank you Jesus.

Partly because we don't really have the living space. I mean, we could make it work if we absolutely had to...but we are thankful they are AirBnB-ing it.

Partly because they are vegan...and the logistics of cooking two dinners...and sometimes I have to throw corn dogs and Ore-Ida French fries at my kids to get food in them...right?!

Partly because I'm recovering from the Ear Infection From Hell...and while I just finished 14 days of antibiotics, I'm still using ear drops 4 times a day (only 4 more days of that)...and nobody wants to deal with house guests when they're recovering from illness. Not to be rude...just being realistic, you guys. 

She has no desire to have kids. And I'm ok with that. Because, really, in the event of something catastrophic happening to my husband and me at the same time, I'll need my brother to step up....

But, if she can survive the week with my crew, and learns more about the Anderson Family Circus, then she's in......

August 2, 2017

The kid sitters weren't available.

A-Team Leader Momma Christine wasn't available, since she had out of town guests. From Japan. When Momma Christine was Teenage Christine, her family hosted a Teenage Exchange Student from Japan, and now that lady was a Momma and she was traveling with her family to reunite, in person, with her American Host Family. Hence, Momma Christine was unavailable.

A-Team Leader Momma Bonnie was unavailable because her family had returned the day before from an extended road trip. I chose to not ask because it just didn't seem like the right thing to me. There was a no in me. And I know she would've taken my kids, had I asked, and it's totally cool, because seriously, I made the best decision I could for all 8 of us, Sister. It's all good.

A-Team Leader Momma Stacie? Working. I'm sure she was presenting some data sets at multiple meetings with administrators and physicians, because that's what she does. She's a Bad Ass Epidemiologist and dealing with data is her super power. So, in the interest of protecting public health, Stacie was not an option. Even though she's a good person because on March 20, 2015, the day of my lumpectomy, she was at our home before 6 am for the first round of Boy Duty. But, for this day trip to the city, I decided that it would be best for my family to be together.

So, Wednesday August 2, 2017, all four of us went. To Seattle, only a 90-ish minute car ride and a wait for the ferry, and a 30-ish minute ferry ride, and navigating the streets of a major city. No biggie. It was for the post-op with the Lady ENT, which was really a no-op, since she didn't really operate. We had to check-in at 10:30 am, the appointment was on a Wednesday in the summer, so traffic shouldn't be too bad. We'll have to get up early. Really early. What's the ferry schedule? Because we'll have to arrive two days before sailing, because summer in the Pacific Northwest means backups.

But Randy has super limited voice. And the boys are...the boys.... What the fuck am I thinking?

Oh! I'll get an audio book from the library. I've been wanting to read Wonder to the boys but I am unable to find my copy. Did I loan it to someone in book club? Or did I borrow it? Jesus I need that app that keeps track of my personal library. I don't have time to scan all of our books though. September is coming, maybe I'll find the time when school starts...? I think I borrowed someone's copy. But I returned it. That I know. Otherwise the book would be in my house. Ha. I have the best deductive reasoning skills, ever.

Abby will be fine. She can hold it. She can skip lunch. But just to be safe, Stace has keys and can get in, so she can be on standby for the four-legged dog-child. Summer traffic can mean a later than planned on ferry. Or a bridge opening. So, just in case, Stacie's got Abby if need be.

Randy and talked about it, and below is the jist of our conversation. Well, really I talked, and he whispered, even though he wasn't really supposed to, as directed by the Lady ENT. He's a rule breaker, though, you guys. 

Me: Nope. You're not going alone. You don't get to make that choice because the Lady ENT is going to do do some kinda procedure where she's gonna laser warts off your throat and you don't know if she's gonna give you a little sedative or something to help you relax and make it easier to get the goddamned warts off your vocal cords.

Him: silence, nods once. 

Me: Second, what if the pathology report is cancer. Again. Do you really want to get that news ALONE? Because I don't want you to get that news alone.

Him: silence, nods once. 

The smoke-filled sky on our incredibly early drive to Seattle Aug 2017

Me: Finally, you're a guy, obviously, and ultimately, even if you're in pain and you're gonna go through cancer  again, you're going to try and muscle through this and drive home, but do you really want to fucking drive HOME, regardless of the results, after she's gonna laser off more warts? We're talking Seattle. We're not talking a quick jaunt to Sequim.

Him: (whisper) fine. What about the boys?

Me: I's cast is off, so they will be capable of waiting in the waiting room with our old their iPhones with their headphones, like when we went over and the Man ENT biopsied your tonsil and you had a PET scan done. You know, when the Man ENT said, "Cancer"? It'll be like that for them and hopefully a lot different for us.... I'll be able to check on them as time permits while I'm supporting you during your appointment. It's a Team Anderson effort and event, dude. It'll be fine, just fine.

Him: (whisper) Ok. Thanks for thinking this through and planning. I love you.

Me: I know. And I love you too, dude. And you're welcome. I don't have a Master's Degree in Health Education for nothing, you guys.

And so our alarms each went off at 4:30 am. Got that? Fourgoddamnedthirtyam. That's before Steve Inskeep is on the air. I really, really, really love my husband. And I really, really, really needed to be with him at this appointment. Dealing with health issues is my super power.

My husband drove like Batman, because that's what he does. And we listened to "Wonder" on CD, which was brilliantly done. We got to the ferry with plenty of time to spare.

Plugged in, complete with headphones, for two hours

And the boys rocked it in the waiting room like the bosses that they are. For two hours. TWO WHOLE HOURS while I accompanied their father into the back of the house, if you will, so they could get him ready for the Lady ENT to use her Laser Wart Removerinator on the inside of his throat.

Laser.

In his throat.

Again.

Fuck me. Can this stop? Because seriously, I'm starting to crack a little under all the Wonder Woman pressure. I'm not her. She's a God. I'm a mortal adult woman who has found herself in incomprehensible, extremely stressful, mind-blowing, situations in a very short time frame, that have changed the way I live and breathe. I have been forced to become proficient in dealing with multiple life-threatening health issues for three of my four immediate family members, including my oldest son, myself, and my husband.

I suppose this is why I have two degrees in Community Health Education. I know it's my super power; what I've spent years in college and grad school studying and teaching: Health. I'm highly trained in the art of Health Communication and I really do know when to be diplomatic and and how to effectively speak with individuals who are highly trained in their professions, including but not limited to:

• Pediatric Neurologists
• Neurodevelopmental Psychologists 
• ABA Therapists 
• Pediatric Epileptologists 
• Pediatric Otolaryngologists (ENT)
• Pediatric Sleep Specialists 
• Speech Therapists
• Physical Therapists
• Occupational Therapists
• General Surgeons
• Medical Oncologists (Chemo Doc)
• Radiation Oncologists (you're not alone; I didn't know there were different types of cancer docs until I was diagnosed, either)
• Certified Lymphedema Therapists (because you don't EVEN want lymphedema in your boob after you have a lumpectomy)
• Otolaryngologists with specialties of head and neck cancers as well as voice disorders
• Orthopedic Surgeons

As a patient, parent, wife, and caregiver, I know when to advocate, and even push, for myself and my family to receive the adequate health care we deserve. And I know when to back off...but only a bit. I'm academically and professionally trained to research what current scientific research and data show regarding the multiple health issues my family faces. I know I'm only one click away from ending up at ScareTheHellOuttaMe.com and I do my best to avoid that.

And I know when to drop F-bombs; I'm really good at that: FUCK Universe, stop dropping so much fucking shit on me and my family! Please. For the love of all that is fucking holy. Just fucking stop, motherfuckers! See? I'm pretty good at the use of the word fuck. I know how to employ it as an interjection and a noun. Sometimes I unpack it as an adjective.

And, no, I don't think I've ever said "fuck" to a practitioner. Except those two separate times I gave birth to each of my lovely little boy babes. I'm sure I said fuck at least once during each of those situations. Laboring women get a free fuckin' pass on that. And my doc is awesome and didn't bat a fuckin' eye.

But ain't no amount of schooling gonna teach a person how to best manage the cards I've been dealt. There is no class called "how to effectively raise your oldest child with life-threatening neurological disorders while you homeschool him and do drug trials to stop his seizures, WHILE you go through breast cancer surgery, chemo, and radiation, AND THEN your husband is diagnosed with HPV caused tonsil cancer less than six months after you finish your treatment for breast cancer, and let's throw a broken arm on the younger son, just for the sake of it" because who in their right fuckin' mind would sign up for that shit storm?

I guess now I know why some of my professors in college and grad school had us use the book they wrote: not because they were egocentric jackasses, but because they had knowledge to impart. So I'm imparting my knowledge via blogging.

Annnyyywaaayyy...

Back in the prep room, they had slathered cotton balls with some type of bullshit numbing agent and stuck those cotton balls up my husband's nose. They also sprayed some serious numbing stuff up his nose and it slid down his throat...or maybe they sprayed it directly into his throat through his mouth...? I don't know exactly what was sprayed where...but they numbed the shit out of his nose and throat because LASERS were coming at him.

We went into another room, and were given some very fancy orange tinted glasses to put on over our eyeglasses, like the cool shades senior people wear, because the laser she was going to be firing onto my husband's vocal cords could really fuck up your eye sight. I don't know. I didn't ask. But I did put my glasses on and I did occasionally steal a glance at the monitor that the camera was attached to and I also sat in the corner like a good wife. I may have even crossed my legs at the ankles, like the fuckin' lady that I am.

So the Lady ENT came in. And the Speech Therapist. And the Laser Guy, who literally takes this big ass machine around the hospital to different clinics and helps get it set up. And the medical transcriptionist, because that woman was recording everything that the Lady ENT said and did. Standard. Who the hell else is going to take notes? I mean, that's usually my job, but nope, not today. Today I'm the one responsible for transporting my family home.

Because at this point, my husband is so numb and the Lady ENT has got scope up his nose and down his throat and I don't know if the laser was attached to that but she turns the laser on by stepping on a pedal like it's a goddamn sewing machine, and the laser makes a noise and goddamnit technology is so cool this better work, please Jesus, let the laser fuckin' work and let the warts be burned off. For reals.

The Lady ENT working the laser, my husband, and the Speech Therapist

And, please Universe, don't let the Lady ENT suddenly sneeze. Because if she sneezes, she's gonna laser his vocal cords right off and he'll never speak again. I don't know if that last part is really true. I didn't ask. Because there's some stuff I don't want to know so I just sit there and am quiet about, with my legs crossed at the ankles, like the fuckin' lady that I am, and in a skirt, no less, because it was hotter than a motherfucker outside. Because it was AUGUST, and August is hot no matter where you live in the Northern Hemisphere.

Let's just say the room started to smell...burning flesh...she didn't sneeze...and yes, it really took two hours for all of this to go down.

I'd flit in and out of the room to check on the boys and make sure they had not completely destroyed the waiting room. Because my kids are feral monkeys. And sitting in the car for 90 minutes to get to the ferry and then sitting another 2 hours in the waiting room for their father, and then sitting another 90 minutes to get home would make anyone batshit crazy, and my kids are fucking clowns who go batshit crazy if they have to sit for five seconds, so I was deeply worried about what five HOURS of sitting was going to do. Apparently my kids were so well behaved and so quiet playing in our old their iPhones that the front office staff forgot they were there...? Huh. Well good for me that my boys to be that well behaved. Seriously. I'm one fuckin' fantastic ring leader! And, thank you boys, for behaving like gentlemen. I love you both and am proud of you. I know you each have a lot on your plates.

Also, my husband is the toughest motherfucker I've ever known. Because I just watched him take a tube the same width as a pencil, up his nose, then it went down his throat, and he allowed the Lady ENT to use a laser on his vocal cords to remove warts in order to prevent them from growing and possibly developing cancer again. He said that at one point, he could feel it being burned off, but that he knew she was nearly done and he just wanted to finish, so he didn't speak up. I get it. Not that he could speak up, because, duh...but he didn't notify her that he could feel it. And, again, I get it...but, dude....

The Lady ENT finished lasering off the warts, and then we had to get the fuck outta there, because it had been two fucking hours...and I was beyond the point that I needed to eat. I asked the front office staff for a ferry pass, because by this point, well after lunchtime, none of us had the ability to wait for what would probably be a couple of hours in line for the ferry. And, no, I'm not driving around through Tacoma. Fuck that.

Since providing medical passes for the ferry is not something that her office usually does, they had to scramble, and it took a lot longer than anticipated. Fortunately for all four of us, they got their shenanigans together and made it happen, given our situation, they were as helpful they could be. Thank the goddesses for compassionate physicians providing direction to their support staff. We loaded up and headed to the ferry dock; I drove, because my husband was not capable. I think the boys ate lunch in the waiting room...? I know I packed lunch, and I know they ate, because their lunchboxes were empty. There was no food stuck to the waiting room wall, so I presume their tummies were full. Let's go, dudes! We got a boat to catch!

After a full day of sitting in the car, and in the waiting room,
we're finally heading home to the Peninsula. Run, boys...run.

When we got near the downtown ferry dock (don't judge me; I HATE driving up to Edmonds!) the line was...longer than a bunch of fucking bullshit! Are you fucking kidding me? I have a goddamn medical pass! Here! Thanks! I zipped us over to the ferry terminal, paid the $50 million fare and we cut way ahead of the line. Sorry, bitches! My husband just had his throat lasered because HPV on your vocal cords is a thing and he's a hot goddamn mess. I was given the choice of being near the bathroom or the stairs; my husband said bathroom, but I'm pretty sure he didn't get out of the car for the entire ferry ride across Puget Sound; I know he was mentally and physically exhausted.

The boys and I got out, because we all needed to move our bodies and use the potty. Because we go when we get the chance. My husband has a bladder of steel but didn't get out of the car until we got all the way home; I know he slept on and off and I'm so thankful I used my super powers to be there with him.

And, thank the goddesses for whoever made the decision to put family bathrooms on those boats, because my Family Circus uses them. Not that it saves my sanity to have my boys watch me pee, because they think it's weird that I squat over a potty and the less things I can fucking touch in a public fucking bathroom, the better, right? This includes the paper that is supposed to be for my protection. No. I'll squat. Work on my glutes, yo. I always go last, and remind each of them to not flush, because the toilet's too goddamn loud and everyone has sensitive hearing. No my boys don't pee at the same time to save everyone's sanity. Don't even get me started about that bullshit.

Please don't wash your hands. I have a gallon of hand sanitizer in my purse. You don't live through cancers without that shit.  

OH for fuck's sake! Don't touch the goddamn faucet! But it saves my sanity to not leave my boys alone on a ferry.

WHY DID YOU TURN THE HAND DRYER ON?! JESUS IT'S LOUDER THAN THE TOILET!!! We all make choices that are best for us.

NO! I'LL OPEN THE DOOR WITH MY SLEEVE!!! DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!!! 

The boys and I spill out of the family bathroom and begin to walk around the ferry for a while, waving goodbye to the city, looking forward to docking at Bainbridge Island. We are always on the look out for Orca, but instead see cargo ships and sailboats and, of course, the ferry headed to the city, which always causes my older son to say,  "Like 'Yellow Submarine'"and I know he's referring to the scene when the Beatles see themselves going backwards in time. So we wave, and he says, "Just like the Beatles, Mom." And I reply, "Yup. Just like Yellow Submarine, kid." It's a comforting exchange for both of us.

We go back to the car, load up, disembark the ferry, and drive a solid 90 minutes before we get home in the summertime traffic. It's been a long and arduous day. I'm thankful we are home safe and sound.

The Lady ENT keeps a close watch on my husband, and he's seen her about every 10 weeks for a check-up. And her "check-up" always involves numbing ointments and sprays, and a scope up the nose and down the throat. It's not easy, but he does it. He usually goes by himself, but when he went earlier this month, on September 10, 2018, which happens to be our older son's birthday...he had the opportunity to be driven by a dear friend who recently relocated from Seattle to Port Angeles. And in spite of the fact that our older son thought Brother Jeff (we're not Mormon, it's just their thing to call each other "Brother") was there to see him on his birthday at 6:15 am, and our day was super stressful and my son and I fought on and off throughout the day...this is the same friend who, when my husband had tonsil surgery two years ago, provided me with the support I needed in the city. So, when my husband and our dear friend went to see the Lady ENT in Seattle last week, it was a much needed opportunity for my husband to have a break from us. He went in alone, because that's what he wanted to do. But Jeff picked Randy up and they went to a fantastic Mexican restaurant. It is incredibly helpful to have a great friend who knows the city well.

The Lady ENT said that Randy's throat looked pretty good, and that the warts on his vocal cords are stable. She compares all of the pictures each time she's seen him, which makes me thankful for the technology that she can just pull that stuff up really quickly. Randy will see her again at the end of November. And in December. Because, just in case she needs to do another laser treatment in the clinic, like she did on August 2, 2017, she'd rather have it on her calendar, because it's easier to cancel the December appointment than it is to find room in her schedule for him...since it's a long two fuckin' hours, and it would be rather pressing. And, she's accommodating his needs in a huge way since she scheduled it right around the time we're done teaching, but before the boys get out for the winter break, so he can spend a little time resting his voice.

Or at least he doesn't have to listen for me yelling at the boys on the ferry.

WALK ON THE BOAT!!! WHAT WOULD THE CAPTAIN SAY!?!?

Thanks for reading. xo

A Tale of Two Casts (Part 2)

And here is the continuation of A Tale of Two Casts...

If you need to read the backstory, I encourage you to read Part 1.

So, we were at Hapkido on a Tuesday in August, which is my least favorite month after February, and after the big kids class, but before the little kids class, Mrs. V allows the all kids to get out all the climbing stuff out and party hard on the mat for about 15 minutes. It's a way for her to build community between the two age groups, kids are together on the mat, and figuring out how to work and play together. It's a very cool time of day at the dojo.

During the big kids' class, my younger son had the opportunity to work with the teenagers one-on-one, and both of the teenagers are both black belts. For the record: my son caused his injury all on his own, as usual; there were no other people around. But, he was feeling incredibly confident because they worked on some really cool stuff. The school is set up so that students of all ages are constantly teaching and learning. So the black belts each taught my son some things, and then he worked with another student and taught that student some things, and basically Mrs. V has it so that a person's brain works as hard as the body. The set-up for teaching and learning is absolutely brilliant.

During the play time in between classes, my younger son got on the monkey bars...you see where this is going...that hang from the ceiling and are higher than the monkey bars at school. My family has been at the dojo since January 2011, before the monkey bars were constructed and hung, so my kid has been on these monkey bars a lot. He lost his grip and fell onto the mat. It was that simple. He landed wrong. And he knows how to land, because in addition to eventually writing, staring, producing and directing...and be the cameraman...for his first ever full-length film...for which he'll win ALL THE OSCARS...he's also going to do ALL HIS OWN STUNTS. Duh. Because that's what he does. I am thankful that his vestibular sense is mostly on point. Mostly.

Below is a video of both of my sons at Hapkido during play time between classes. My older child is knocking down the bag, because he is a sensory seeker and needs deep impact. My younger child is on the monkey bars, crossing back-and-forth for the THIRD time that day. This is during play time between classes at the dojo. And, no, this isn't video of my kid breaking his arm, because I'm not that parent. But, it does give you a sense of the type of shenanigans that go down on the mat between classes.

The problem is that, as he's learned a lot in his young life, physics works; he's named after the man who discovered the Universal Law of Gravity. So, bear with me because I'm not a physicist: when my son fell from the monkey bars and broke his arm, he had a little forward momentum when his hand slipped and caused him to fall. The result of the forward momentum caused him to not land directly on his feet, which would've allowed for him to do a back break fall, decreasing the chance of injury. But because of the forward momentum, his feet and fanny hit at nearly the same time and, out of plain old instinct when a person falls from about 8 feet in the air, he put his left arm down, since he was falling to the left, and that was that.

He immediately grabbed his arm, got up, made eye contact with me, bowed off the mat, and quickly came over to me. Mrs. V came over and she assessed his arm...she's very thorough in her triage since dealing with injuries is part of what she does in her profession as a Martial Artist and personal trainer. He could bend and straighten all of his fingers, and he could move his wrist back and forth. He could bend and straighten his elbow; he could move his shoulder. And thank God for all of his parts moving properly, because it looked to me as though it was gonna be uglier than it was...and because of all the shit my family's been through, I kinda panic sometimes.

The only thing that hurt him was rotating his arm from front to back--so basically turning his hand and arm over to show us the underside of his forearm. He didn't cry...because he's pretty tough...but I knew he was hurting. He agreed to sit on the bench for the little kid's class with an ice pack on his arm. This was very difficult for him because his older brother was on the mat. So...brotherly competition...do I need to even say anything about that? No. No I don't.

One of the adult Hapkido students, who is a wonderful man, took the time to speak with me privately and disclosed that once upon a time, one of his daughters sustained an injury that is called a buckle fracture, and basically, her bone wasn't broken in two pieces, but it was slightly bent and caused some pain. According to the Pediatric Orthopedic Society of North America, a buckle fracture "occurs when only one side of the bone is compressed and buckles but does not break all the way through."

So it turns out that my 9-year-old has a buckle fracture. We found this out on Wednesday morning when we went to the walk-in clinic. But we went to the Emergency Room first, on Tuesday night, because my concern was that because he was in so much pain when he would turn his hand over, I was worried that the growth plate was broken, since his BFF Miss C broke her growth plate in third grade. And I knew it wasn't a complete fracture, which is what my son sustained last year when he broke both his radius and ulna on the monkey bars at school.

Fuckin' monkey bars.

But as we were getting ready to go to the ER, we went into to the bathroom at the dojo, and my kid was balling. He is not a crier. Dude didn't cry in June 2017 when I picked him up from school and took him to the ER with his broken bones when he was 8. So, if he's ugly crying in the bathroom, at the dojo, he's hurting pretty badly. So, I took him, and the ice pack, to the ER, which is less than 5 minutes away from the dojo. My husband went to the dojo to pick up our older son, because taking him with his brother and I to the emergency room was a horrible fucking idea.

And the ER was packed. Like, crawling with people, ain't even gonna get to see the goddamn triage nurse for an hour, sit yo' ass down because the doc won't have time to see you for at least three to four hours, type of packed.

We checked in: Anderson...s-O-n at the end. No, there are two A's in his first name, NOT two S's in his first name. How many times do I have to spell his names? How many times can you misspell Anderson or Andersen or Andersson or...seriously? Oh for fuck's sake, lemme come around that goddamn desk and access Epic and register him myself. How goddamn hard can it be? Yes, he's been here before. His birthday is XX/XX/2009. What? What do you mean you can't FIND him in the system?! A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N. One S, two A's in his first name. Are you fucking kidding me right now? He was here last June...? For a broken arm...? No the other arm. Yes. He's a frequent flyer. Yup. He's had stitches in his chin, too. Why the fuck can't I just pre-register this child for the ER? I mean, I was pre-registered with each of my kids when I was pregnant? It makes sense to just pre-register some kids for the ER, and my kid is one of them. Yes. Mmm-hmm....s-O-n at the end. Yes, A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N. Yup. That's my guy! Well, I'm really glad you found him, too.... Goddamnit...I totally should've gone to the other lady doing registrations....

Buckle fracture; left arm

Jesustapdancingfuckingchristonagoddamncross, that was painful, but we got in. Praise be. Because when we went to sit down some young woman looked like she needed to borrow my bag to puke in it.

As we were sitting there, and my son calmed down, we were able to talk. So, I asked him compared to when he broke his right arm last year, how badly does this hurt? And he said not as badly. We agreed that, since the waiting room was so packed, that it would be quite some time before they'd call him back. He said he was hungry, and I told him that I couldn't feed him because whenever they get him back there, they'd give him medicine to relieve the pain and we certainly don't need him throwing up. We agreed that it was a better idea to go home, get a fresh ice pack, some Tylenol and some dinner, and get to bed at a reasonable hour, and that if it was still hurting in the morning, we'd call our doctor's office.

So, we checked out. We didn't even stick around for the triage nurse. We did go to the other lady who was at the registration desk and formally leave, because I don't need CPS on my ass for eloping from the ER with a kid with a broken goddamn arm. Right?

Oh snap! Kinda. It didn't completely break in two.

Anyway, so home, dinner, Tylenol, ice, bed. Woke up the next morning still hurting. Called our doc's office...and they were closed for a training...of course. So we went to the walk-in clinic and were seen pretty quickly. X-ray revealed that he had a buckle fracture, and so the doc put a splint on it and said he would put in a referral to the orthopedic clinic. But he didn't. And yes, I've already had a very long discussion with the folks at Patient Experience since the very first part of my hospital's Vision Statement was not upheld: "...will achieve excellence, and provide quality, value and safety in everything we do." The physician completely failed my pediatric patient by not speaking with him about his injury and defaulting to me, when my kid is completely capable of explaining himself. Also, the doc did not make the referral to the Ortho clinic. Oh, and he totally judged me for giving my kid Tylenol and not Advil. No, really. So, three strikes means I make a phone call. And, yes, I also let the Patient Experience lady know all about how the lady in the ER couldn't find my kid in the system. I learned that usually the walk-in clinic docs don't ordinarily make referrals to the orthopedic clinic, but that since the x-ray revealed my kid needed to be seen, the referral should have been made. But this doc, and his sanctimonious tone regarding me administering Tylenol and not Advil...he's probably the type of man that also feels free to make decisions about my uterus, so I'll refrain from commenting further.

Annnyyywwwaaayyy...

My kid wore the splint on his left arm for a week, which, of course, I know from experience is standard. During that time we went to the county fair and partied pretty hard. He did the rides he felt he could; we were thankful that the carnival staff even let him on.

My boys, partying hard at the county fair!

And the following Tuesday after his injury, we went to see Orthopedic Surgeon Dr. M, who, fortuitously, is part of our Hapkido family. She and her son have been part of the dojo for many years, and she knows our family dynamic and is pretty familiar with our family health history. I was anticipating a partial cast; my son was thinking that he'd just stay in the splint. And Dr. M is fantastic because when she examined him, she talked with him like he was a person who is capable of understanding what she was saying, and she said that she really felt, since he's a rather rambunctious young man, it was better to put a cast on his arm for a few weeks to prevent it from breaking further. Because, as I stated in Part 1: prevention works.

Left: 2018 buckle fracture on the left arm. Right: 2018 mega fracture on the right arm

Here's the deal as to why my kid is in a short-arm cast, which I'll all the Half-Assed, Half-Arm Cast. This is probably the first thing my family has ever done half-assed. So, the way this buckle fracture thing works, the bone is weaker in that area, and even though the doc at the walk-in clinic said being in a splint for 3-ish weeks is acceptable, Dr. M said that if my son were to punch a bag, or to wrestle with his brother and take a hit to his arm, the risk of his arm breaking is higher and then he'd have to wear a cast for a longer time. And no matter how old a person is, it's easier to wear a cast for three weeks than eight weeks. And given that Dr. M has spent years of her life helping people heal their BONES, we chose to listen to Dr. M and get the cast. My son was true to himself and chose purple, which has been his favorite color since he was a toddler. Last year he chose blue, because he experienced peer pressure and thought that boys were supposed to like blue. I know this because in discussion about choosing his cast color last year, he said "no, Mom, blue because all the boys like blue." Bless his heart.

He's not in any pain, and really, with this break, his ego is not his amigo. We're letting him be a kid, taking reasonable risks with his extra-curricular activities. He's learned that a Half-Assed, Half-Arm Cast is easier to manage than a Full-Assed, Full-Arm Cast.

He's able to be on the mat at Hapkido, supporting other students by teaching, and of course he's also learning a lot. He's able to do some Hapkido, but Mrs. V said no rolling, no throwing any punches, and no throwing people. He is able to do some techniques. He is able to do all of his kicks. But no bokkens, until his cast is off. And bokkens are his thing, so that's a bummer.

He is able to be on the soccer field and practice a little. He's mostly doing drills. His Dad is the assistant coach, and my husband played soccer for 20 years, so he and the head coach, who is also a Mom of one of the players, are putting some tight reigns on our son. Our 9-year-old is not permitted to play scrimmage because he certainly doesn't need to be taken down or tackled by another player. Any 1:1 work is against his head coach, because she's a bad ass and can hand him his ass in a nice way, without taking him down or causing further injury. We all know the other 9-year-olds on the field have no such discipline.

He'll start fourth grade on Tuesday with the cast on. He's carrying a black sharpie with him to get signatures, of course. The cast is scheduled to come off on Tuesday September 11th at 8:30 in the morning by Dr. M. His first soccer game is scheduled for September 15th, and we all anticipate he'll be on the field and capable of playing. I anticipate that the purple cast will be added to the art project that he'll create with the two blue casts from his right arm.