clueless in carolina

And My Heart Did A Little Dance

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 01:37:00 +0000

Jacksonville, Florida 1957

I took a picture of Mom at home just before we took her to the nursing home where she will probably live out the rest of her life. It's awful looking. I can't put it up here. Instead, I found these pictures in one of her several lock boxes. It's a beautiful Sunday in Jacksonville, Florida and it's 1957 and a happy young couple is clowing around with some friends.

We put Mom in a new nursing home on July 2, 2008, one day after her 83rd birthday. Things were rough the first few days. I had the worst fibro flare from all the tension, and Mom was so angry, so confused, so disoriented.

But now she's doing much better! She has her hair cut in an adorable bob, she's making some new friends, she's enjoying the food, and she's safe. SAFE.

List of things Mom did while at home being supervised by a caregiver:

1. Tried to cook a shirt in the microwave to warm it up.

2. Tried to cook a pillow in the microwave.

3. Escaped out the front door and fell, but those calcium pills paid off. No broken bones, ever.

4. Tossed several dozen paper towels down the toilet, necessitating another plumber's bill for $293.

I tried to watch her, and so did the other caregivers. But if you've ever tried to "watch" a toddler, you know that they can get in trouble in a second. Same with an Alzheimer's patient.

Today when I saw her clean and neat with a stylish new haircut enjoying talking to her new friends, my heart did a little dance. It would have been a better dance if a miraculous cure was announced for Alzheimer's and Fibromyalgia, but it was a dance nonetheless.

Life goes on, and now I can too. It's summertime! And Mom is safe in a lovely place! And she's not hating it! And...and.. things are going to be okay. Somehow, things are going to be ok.

When I'm 64

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 00:51:00 +0000

You want US to support you one day? ROFLOL

When I get older losing my hair,

Many years from now.

Will you still be sending me a valentine

Birthday greetings bottle of wine.

If I'd been out till quarter to three

Would you lock the door,

Will you still need me, will you still feed me,

When I'm sixty-four?

You'll be older too,

And if you say the word,

I could stay with you.

I could be handy, mending a fuse

When your lights have gone.

You can knit a sweater by the fireside

Sunday mornings go for a ride.

Doing the garden,

digging the weeds,

Who could ask for more.

Will you still need me,

will you still feed me,

When I'm sixty-four.

Every summer we can rent a cottage

In the Isle of Wight

if it's not too dear

We shall scrimp and save

Grandchildren on your knee

Vera, Chuck & Dave

-The Beatles "When I'm 64"

THE BILLS ARE ARRIVING FOR MOM.

IN HOME CARE: $14,000/ month.

NURSING HOME CARE: $5400/month

Wanna know what Roger's pension is after retiring fully vested under the State of South Carolina? 25 years service? I don't mind telling you. I've never understand why we all feel we need to be so secretive about money. $1400/month.

Projected Social Security income: $900/month. We'll be getting that in 7 years.

BABYBOOMERS, TREMBLE IN FEAR!!!!!!

"They" predict that one day there will be 2 workers for every 1 person on Social Security. Do you see our children and our children's children eagerly chipping in for mum and dad's rheumatism medicine, nursing home care, in home care, etc?

I DON'T. Furthermore, I DON'T WANT MY KIDS TO HAVE TO SUPPORT ME. As Suze Orman says, all I want to have to ask for is more time with my grandchildren.

Mom and Dad worked very hard to save for their future. If only mom had checked one little box on her nursing home insurance application:

"Inflation premium".

'Cause she is getting $50/a day.

My mom has enough money to last her for the rest of her life, if I carefully manage it, I think. I hope. Mom and Dad worked really hard to save for their retirement. They didn't factor in Alzheimer's, though.

I'm not putting forward anything new here, I know. Zillions of economists are predicting the same thing. Basically, we baby boomers are going to have to work a lot longer than our parents, pay for our own Depends, and the ones who don't are going to be placed in some hellish care facility that makes Alcatraz look like Club Med.

Well, I'm waking up now. I just increased my 401K contributions to $300/month from $100/month and we do already live extremely frugally.

Plus, read this book.

Nobody's paying me to recommend it. But I can honestly say that this book changed my life. I was already doing some things right (no credit card debt) but she's got a lot more stuff that I never thought about.

Face it guys. We had to fight to get into college, we had to fight to get jobs, we are now having to fight to put gas in our car, and we're going to have to fight to support ourselves till the day we go to that great BabyBoomer crib in the sky.

Great New Advertising Campaign

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 10:23:00 +0000

I couldn't resist passing along this gem from this guy, whose wife is serving in Afghanistan while her husband is taking care of the kids.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy!!

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 19:23:00 +0000

Dear Daddy, Happy Father's Day. It's hard to believe that you've been gone now for over ten years. You slipped off into eternity on August 1, 1997. I feel you sometimes close to me. I wish my girls could have known you. How they would have loved you! How I would love to see the crinkle in your eyes when they did something cute. How I would have loved to see them sitting in your lap as you patiently explained something to them.

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Think of Bob Newhart, and you have my dad. Painfully shy and quiet, but one or two little words slipped in between the constant, raucous conversation of three loud females and you'd laugh so hard tears would come to your eyes. A talented writer--a man of matchless integrity and honor--a brilliant scholar-a bachelor's, two masters, and a PhD-My Daddy.

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Daddy, I once believed you could do anything. I like to think that you've broken through the steel wall of death and hang around me sometimes.

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"Don't smoke in my truck!" I feel you saying. Not that helpful, okay? Yes, we now have your 1989 Nissan truck. I will keep it on the road as long as I live if possible. Yeah, a former two packer a day who quit FOR ME (I supposedly cried as a tiny child when he smoked around me) I know you hated cigarettes. A reformed smoker is always the worst, right? I know you'd crinkle your eyes into a little grin and agree with me.

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Mom is slipping further into dementia. She now thinks that you are still alive. While I was driving her home from the doctor the other day, she casually asked why Grady had to leave. "Did he have to get back to the office?" "Yeah," I casually replied. "Yeah, he wanted to stay till the end of the appointment, but he had to get back to the office." And then I wiped my eyes.
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Please come and get Mom. Pretty, pretty please. She misses you so. Prove to me that you can do anything. Just one last favor, Daddy!! Indulge the six year old in me who believed that you could leap tall buildings and rescue fair maidens in distress.

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Tell you what. I won't smoke in your truck. I promise pinky-swear.

Bawling

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 02:52:00 +0000

1963-Mom and me

I'm not a crier. Y'know, I was just musing tonight about some of the high-uh-LOW lights of my life and the few times that I have cried. I didn't cry when Daddy died. First of all, I was pretty much in shock, and secondly, it was, if I may say, so, about a great a way to die as possible. BOOM! Massive, immediate heart attack. No pain. We always said BYE I LUV YOU at the end of every conversation since he was diagnosed with 4 blocked arteries at age 54 (MY HUSBAND IS 55 now! And his EKG is picture-perfecto) so there was no regret that I didn't say goodbye.

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I remember a few times in the past when I did cry. Like the night before the Bar Exam, when I took a practice Multi-State exam (50 questions) and literally got every single one of them wrong. Then I went for a walk and while strolling along contemplating the thought that 3 years of anguish and tuition had been wasted and that I was going to disgrace myself and bring shame to my family, I ran smack into some pieces of wood sticking out from a truck and busted my lip open. Yeah, I cried! p.s. I passed the bar.

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Then there was that time at age 28 when the Big Love O' Mah Life took me to breakfast to tell me whether or not he had decided to marry me or not. Yes, he actually planned AND ANNOUNCED IT TO ME three months in advance. Yes, murder IS illegal, thanks for asking. The answer was no, and I fled New York in hysterics and landed back here in SC. Of course I cried when the other Big Loves busted up with me or me with them, but meh, y'know, after a while it got to be sort of boring. Onward and upward to the next!!

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Didn't cry at the happy times that followed...wedding, babies, etc...I cry when mah babies get an award for being the most spectacular children in the universe, etc. of course, but usually just a brief sniffle.

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Nothing has compared to this. Nothing. Watching my beautiful and brilliant mother turn into an incontinent, vacantly grinning zombie has been the most painful thing...Wait! No! LAST YEAR when I was in constant pain and no doctor could figure it out and I wondered if I was going to have to give up my job and life that I loved with all my heart...yes....that was worse...but I figured it out and of course, being generally lucky all my life, it turned out to be something fixable and not deadly. Sure, it's been an adjustment financially, and sure, I'm still hurting some, but I'm getting better all the time. Very slowly. Still in pain. I have an appointment with a pain doctor on July 9 and I plan to demand some narcotics to get me over the bad days. I expect to be healing up for at least two and probably three and maybe five more years, so no champagne yet, but anyway..

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But Mom has a death sentence. One that has stripped her of her dignity. One that now has her wearing diapers and basically, I could carry on a conversation with my two year old that was far more satisfying to both parties, seeing as how she's progressed downward so fast that most of the time if you ask her a question she simply stares into space.

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So now my sister and I must figure out how to manage her finances, with interest rates dropping faster than interest in gas guzzling vehicles, and in home care costing fourteen thousand dollars a month. We can't afford that. So we are putting her into a lovely nursing home, and I've been taking night shifts with Roger to try and reduce the bills some until she moves in which can't come too fast for me. Sometime in the next few weeks..

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And I'm bawling constantly. Today I just lay in bed, sobbing my heart out. I want Mom to be freed from this terrible prison of pain and humiliation. I want her back in Daddy's arms as fast as possible. I want to stop changing her diapers. I want to stop watching her frantically scratch herself (some medicine is making her itch, but I think we have figured it out).

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I want her to be romping through the streets of Heaven with her man and her parents and her brothers and her sisters and her cats and her dogs. And God won't let that happen. He's going to make this as drawn out as possible. While I go through boxes of Kleenex. While my children watch in terror as I sob.

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p.s. PLEASE don't feel like you have to comment, you sweet lovely people. I know I always feel obligated to comment when someone writes a really sad post, but don't. Just click on an ad if you want to help. It's such a pain to comment with Blogger, although I've tried to make it as easy as possible. Just send a good thought my way if you can...

Seven Years (Meredith Grace Li-Pei)

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 20:54:00 +0000

Smart and coy,

A little crazy,

The kind of face that starts a fight

Let me tell you 'bout the girl who danced last night

It's understood

That to reach her

We had to let the wheel of fortune spin,

We were high before the night started kickin' in

We are so proud of our big girl

It's like we're living in a fantasy world

We searched the whole world over

To find a heart so true

Such complete intoxication

We're high on you.

Nine Years (Madeleine Margaret Chen)

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 04:26:00 +0000

I wouldn't have missed it for the world,

Wouldn't have missed lovin' you girl

You make my whole life worthwhile

When you smile

I wouldn't have missed one memory

'Cause you mean that much to me

Sniff. Corny. Yeah. Can't help it.

Meredith's recital is tomorrow.

I HATE YOU, WORLD!!!

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Tue, 27 May 2008 19:16:00 +0000

Oh, I still hold out hope that one day I will gaze at the sun sinking slowly beneath the waves (or rising slowly over the waves, if you want to get technical about which beach we live near) while clasping my lover to me and I shall sigh, "Ah, this grand rough world isn't such a bad place after all."

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But not today. Today I want to run away from everything. I HATE YOU, WORLD!!!!

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p.s. Seriously good news, though. Completely off Cymbalta. No side effects. Zip. Wahoo.

Delilah

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Tue, 20 May 2008 03:21:00 +0000

I was reading my blog with a brain that seems to be actually working again instead of in a cymbalta haze and I forgot to explain that we don't have little Delilah yet.

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See, I first became a mother in 1990 when I adopted my poodle son Nicky. Sadly enough, he had inherited a terrible disease called Progressive Retinal Atrophy. He was blind by age 5.

There were no tests for PRA in 1990, but now there is. So Delilah is getting tested for it--at our expense--and we'll get her after the tests come back negative (I hope).

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PRA has wrecked havoc among minature poodle breeders over the past 30 years. While the lines that carry it are gradually being eliminated, DO NOT BUY A POODLE UNLESS THEY HAVE BEEN TESTED FOR IT. This company tests for it.

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Not only did Nicky lose his eyesight, but he lost his ability to tear up and his eyes were always fire engine red. I had to put drops in them until I finally had them removed. It didn't really affect the way he looked--I kept him cut so you couldn't really tell--but it was weird, having a dog with no eyes at all.

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Don't buy a poodle from a backyard breeder or a pet shop!! Unless one of your hobbies is Russian Roulette.

Zombie!

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Sun, 18 May 2008 03:43:00 +0000

Blog? What blog?

Oh this. My beloved blog, into which I've been pouring my heart and soul for almost three years. And I finally got a check from Google!!! What a glorious day that was!!! (You have to earn at least $100 to do that. Took me 2 1/2 years).

I started taking the Cymbalta and at first all went well. My pain decreased quite a bit. My moods didn't miraculously improve, but since I've never had a brain chemistry depression disorder, I guess there wasn't much work to be done there. I did sort of look forward to prancing joyously around singing and distributing daisy petals, but instead I...

just.......didn't..........care........about...........anything..........

Now I had a little of that when I was on Paxil in 1995 for what was erroneously diagnosed as "panic disorder" which turned out to be nothing but "shortness of breath" (a fibro symptom). Paxil didn't do much for me one way or the other, except make me gain 30 pounds. But......I.....just.....didn't.......care.....until that horrid day when I tried on a bikini bathing suit in Myrtle Beach and sobbed for 5 hours straight and left my 20 year old bomber leather jacket in the store by mistake. (otoh, it was getting awful beat up looking).

So! Bring on the Cymbalta.

Next I noticed that I had no appetite. This was fine, I guess, as 9 pounds slithered off me without me even noticing. I'd get on the scales and see the decline and go, "oh. How nice" instead of joyously twirling through the fields sprinkling daisy petals.

Next I noticed that there was only TWO things that I could eat without getting sick. Peanut Butter & Banana sandwiches on whole wheat bread with organic honey for lunch/dinner and an egg for breakfast. One night Roger fixed a glorious filet mignon with pan-grilled asparagus and an hour later I felt terribly nauseous.

Then I started itching all over. Itch, itch, itch. Then I had to take about 8 benadryls to stop the itching.

Fine. I could deal with all of that except one little, tiny, itsy, bitsy problem...

I wanted to sleep all day every day and sleep and sleep and sleep and sleep and then about 10:00 at night I'd start with the insomnia and be up until 1-2 in the morning. One night I was up until sunrise. I tried taking the Cymbalta in the morning, evening, afternoon, etc. Nothing worked.

You'd be surprised to hear this, but my employer actually expects me to STAY AWAKE WHILE AT THE JOB. Unreasonable, sure, but they write the paychecks. I could not stay awake. Sure, I could drink coffee or diet coke for caffeine energy, but that just made my fibromyalgia flare and my muscles start to spasm, which kind of cancelled out the lack of pain from cymbalta.

Thursday I took my last cymbalta. The internet is filled with horror stories of cymbalta withdrawal, but so far....nothing. Nothing except I actually feel alive. Now I'm hoping I won't have any withdrawal symptoms, which would make you laugh hysterically if you google "cymbalta withdrawal" but so far...nothing.

I have a very, very strange body chemistry. I can drink until I pass out and wake up the next morning feeling invigorated. (Only done this about 6 times in my life). I quit Paxil cold turkey without any symptoms other than some transient dizziness and a tendency to sob at a Hallmark commercial. I quit Lyrica cold turkey without any symptoms whatsoever, but I had only been taking it for a month. I hope that I don't go through withdrawal.

But time will tell. I'll keep you up to date. I knew I was in trouble when I didn't feel like blogging. I always feel like writing. But it just seemed too....much....trouble.....

Oh and SUPER AWESOME GROOVY COOL NEWS. I got mapped for my fibromyalgia and it's going away! The guai is working!!!! My fibro deposits are breaking up and going away!!!

When that didn't make me flip out, I knew it was time to quit the Cymbalta.

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MONDAY NIGHT UPDATE: No Cymbalta since Thursday. No withdrawal symptoms at all. Nothing.

Alas, I still have fibro...it will probably take a few more years to clear completely--but definite progress is being made.

Meet Delilah

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Mon, 05 May 2008 03:01:00 +0000

Sorry for the lack of posting. End of the year frenzy has begun--violin recitals, ballet recitals, extra practices, Madeleine has to do 10 pages of work each night to ready herself for the PAC test (Thanks, No Child Left Behind)....stomach flu, etc.

My mom had a toy poodle named Lucy. When she became unable to care for her, we thought we had a lock on her. But my sister, who bought her in the first place, has claimed her. She assures me that she's keeping her away from the three other dogs, two of whom would enjoy a Lucy snack. But the fever had taken hold and lo and behold, Carolina Poodle Rescue had the perfect dog!

She's a healthy little 14 month old girl toy. Loads of personality.

We visited her today. We're having huge fights over her name. Madeleine wants to name her "Jessica" but I hate the Carly Simon song "Jesse" so that's out. I suggested Sassy. No. I suggested Cara for her caramel covered paws. Her name at this point is Sally. Roger is all for keeping that. But I don't like it--no offense, any Sallys out there. I like Delilah.

Lord KNOWS I don't want any part of single motherhood of ANY beast, human or otherwise, but at least you do get to pick names. If we had a son, I wanted to name him Beauregard. "Beau" or "Bo" for short. Roger about had a seizure at the thought. Of course, he's a Yankee, and doesn't really understand anything about the Glorious South. Never mind that he's lived here for 47 years, once a Yankee, always a Yankee. Damn Yankees. (Just kidding, honey! Sort of) We'd probably still be calling a son "Kid", so I guess it's a good thing our baby making/adopting days are over with.

Doom and Gloom Abounds

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 01:10:00 +0000

1962-Dad, me and my grandparents

Oh Hi! Thanks for stopping by.

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We sprung Mom from the Nursing Home due to her pathetic pleas and brought her home to live this weekend, but things are not going well. Now that she's home, she's stopped being pathetically nice and has turned into a tyrant again. She has her caregivers completely cowed. Refused to take her medicine. I stopped by yesterday and practically had to shove it in her mouth. Plus having home caregivers round the clock is simply not affordable for any sustained period of time.

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Work is going ok, the kids are doing great, and my sister broke her arm in like three places riding horses last weekend. Then last Tuesday I swerved to avoid a dog in the road while entering the freeway, went off the side, overcorrected, and managed to slam my car into one of those reflector posts. $2,300 damage. $500 deductible.

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Mom went back to the hospital today for a condition entitled Pyloric Stenosis. I knew about it from reading Manana Banana. It's when your stomach has a very narrow opening which doesn't allow food to enter the intestines. They widened her stomach opening from the size of a finger to the size of a quarter. Now maybe she can eat and gain weight. The procedure was successful and she's already back at home. Maybe now she will perk up some.

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That's about all the cheer I can take for one day, how about you?

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I like the Cymbalta though. That's going ok.

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More later, ok? Thanks for stopping by.

Diamonds and Rust

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 18:03:00 +0000

Me-Easter 1962

Ok, I took one dose of Cymbalta, and had no terrible effects. Usually I tolerate drugs well. Onward and upward, to a day when I can picture visiting my mother without sobbing.

I take the girls over to my parents' house.

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Empty.

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I so miss being able to say "My Parents". My Parents would kill me if they knew about... I'm spending the weekend with My Parents...My Parents are so excited about the adoption plans we're making (for a 1996 adoption that fell through, cracking my heart just a little more) My Parents are coming down to see me walk in as Faculty at my job's graduation ceremony. "Daddy! Take my picture underneath the tree!" My Daddy with his omnipresent camera, capturing all the moments of my life. My Daddy shot a picture that I can't wait to find in the house somewhere--it was law school graduation day and I'm walking away, with my colorful robes, waving my diploma triumphantly....

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I had My Parents until I was 36. I know I am lucky.

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I enter the empty house with trepidation. Where are My Parents? One's a heap of ashes, one is lying in a nursing home.

I begin cleaning, filling four large garbage cans with the deitrius of a life. Innumerable magazines, old newsletters from How To Avoid Brain Atrophy (she was worried about Alzheimer's for years! I knew it! She would never talk about it though).

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I take the girls to Mom's bedroom and look at the bed. Did My Parents ever, like, you know, do, um, THAT? Their door was ALWAYS unlocked and open. ALWAYS. Maybe I was sleeping when the door was locked. My parents were very physical. They kissed, necked, hugged, my dad caressing the body of a woman who never, ever, got fat like his friend's wives. My proud Dad. Who would sit down to a meal of healthy food that a rabbit would turn up his nose at. So he could avoid heart disease.

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The heart attack didn't care. It struck at the exact same age that my grandfather's did, even though my grandfather enjoyed wine, whisky, a good cigar, and real dairy cream and butter. Both died at age 76. If I carried their bloodlines, age 76 would worry me, oh yeah.

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You cannot fight genetics. Well, you can try. But genetics wiped away every bit of my parents' health, even though they tried so hard to be healthy. Good food. Walks. Hard exercise...And my Dad had a quadruple bypass at 54, the same age as my husband is now.

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I eye the photographs and declare out loud "I think I'll just steal this picture of me at Easter" since Easter is so fresh in my girl's minds. Meredith, Miss Conscience, "You can't STEAL ANYTHING." "I'm not, sweetie, just kidding, I'm BORROWING it." I tell the girls the story of the picture. I remember that day and Mom and I both drew pictures of the toy bunny I got and Mom's picture was better than mine and I was wildly jealous and I vowed that one day I would do the same to my kids. I have never done that.

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I open a drawer and find my Daddy's and Grandfather's cufflinks. The Joan Baez song runs through my mind. "Ten years ago I bought you some cufflinks.....You bought me something...We all know what memories can bring..They bring diamonds and rust."

I find my Grandfather's stethoscope. The years drop away as I press the stethoscope to the girls little chests and they giggle 'cause it's cold. "See how you can hear your heartbeat? You can? Wow, you're so smart! Maybe you'll be a DOCTOR!" It's 1964 and my Grandfather is showing me his real stethoscope. "Lorrie's so BRIGHT! Lorrie, promise me you'll be a doctor like me and your AUNT!"

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Yes, my aunt went to medical school in the thirties, while her sister was writing her thesis in French. Sorry, I was such a bust at French that I can't stop marveling at this.

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I wonder if Grandfather would approve of his legacy being carried by two little Asian girls. I think he would. He was ahead of his time.

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I leave the beautiful house I grew up in, so lovingly decorated, so alone now. Except for the ghosts who wander through. I can feel my Dad and Grandfather so strongly that I know they are there, laughing at the girls as they play with the stethoscope.

Cymbalta

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 04:07:00 +0000

I am not depressed..I am not depressed.....I tell myself.

I have a wonderful job, husband, house, and kids. I'm not terribly bad looking. I'm fairly intelligent.

I have fibromyalgia and guai treatment takes years to really work and a mother sliding into dementia who is currently telling us that she is miserable in her expensive nursing home that I don't know if she can afford after taking a hard look at CD interest rates which are dropping like a jet plane whose engines have died and consist of a major part of mom's income..... while my sister I and I frantically try to figure out how to bring her home while both working demanding jobs plus raising a family and running a home and....

After sobbing uncontrollably during the first two (and only) visits to mom, I have decided to try cymbalta. I don't feel depressed, as in I usually wake up filled with optimism and looking forward to the day ahead. I don't sit around and think about how miserable I am. I love life but...

Sobbing uncontrollably isn't a good thing is it? And when I mean uncontrollably I mean UNCONTROLLABLY. I have been down before. Who hasn't? Once, after being dumped and thrown out of the apartment in New York by my fiance, I was forced to come home to Columbia and I laid on the couch eating Lean Cuisines for three months. I lost 20 lbs. But I never remember sobbing uncontrollably.

Please write me if you've had any experience with Cymbalta. I'm terrified of taking this drug. Askapatient.com has people who love it and people who hate it. People talk about how hard it is to get off Cymbalta. Well, I stopped Paxil cold turkey (I was taking it for shortness of breath which was incorrectly diagnosed as anxiety attacks--it was an early fibromyalgia symptom) and had no problems at all and people talk about Paxil withdrawal like they're talking about being tied up and tortured. People talk about how hard it is to get off Lyrica--well I take it only sporadically and have had no problems.

So we'll see.

Road Map to Acceptance

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 15:40:00 +0000

This is a book review for Mother Talk. I have received a free book. I am donating it to a friend who is a special ed teacher.

The book is Road Map To Holland, and I specifically requested it because I enjoy reading stories of women far more...well...everything..than I am. Nicer. Better mothers. Why? Read on.

When I was back in those long ago fertile years when it actually seemed possible to, you know, get pregnant after engaging in thatspecialthingthatmenandwomendowhentheyreallyreallyloveeachotherandarepreferablyjoinedtogetherina committmentceremony..... Oops!! Can you tell I've been spending time around children? Can you tell that I can't actually talk dirty any more unless I'm locked in my bedroom after homework and Madeleine's daily 46 phone calls (now to one person at a time), when all I want to do is sleep? Anyway, I digress. I told a friend that if I became pregnant, I wanted prenatal screening, then a brand new and very expensive option for expectant mothers.

"Oh!" she said. "So, if there's a problem, you can prepare for it?" I just looked at her for a minute, trying to figure out that statement, until it dawned on me that she thought I'd keep the baby. I'd have had an abortion that same day, if possible. Now, after experiencing the miracle of life and seeing fingernails and heartbeats on ultrasounds and all that, I'd have the baby and put the baby up for adoption.

No, I wouldn't keep a child with Down syndrome, so I was interested to see what Jennifer Graf Groneberg had to say about her baby. He was born both premature and with Down, while his twin was born premature without Down.

Here's the deal.

For better or for worse, I was raised with parents who valued the life of the mind greatly. Parents who started talking about Phi Beta Kappa while I was watching Captain Kangaroo. (I'm not kidding). A B.A. degree was, for them, the equivalent of finishing the 8th grade for most families. The next question was which master's degree did you intend to pursue first, and did you intend to get one or two before you began work on your PhD. I decided to shortcut that and get a Juris Doctor. That kept them off my back.

I decided that I would not give them grandchildren who I knew up front could not follow in their academic footsteps (four generations of doctors and M.A. candidates (my aunt wrote her graduate thesis entirely in French back in 1935). I could barely memorize French verbs so this impressed me more than it should have, I guess. I wouldn't throw a child with learning difficulties out into the snow, but I would not take a child into my family knowing that they would experience them. That's me. Right? Wrong? Snobby? I cannot wipe out 18 years of brainwashing as easily as I wiped my countertop yesterday.

Am I raising my children this way? Not really. College is presented as a must, the natural step after high school. However, after seeing many four year, heck, two year college graduates be faaaar more successful than I am, I am leaving any further education options up to them.

But I digress. Anyway, I was interested to see what Jennifer Graf Groneberg did when she found that her son had Down syndrome. The book is a story of his first two years on the planet and her shock, dismay, and later on, acceptance.

It is beautifully written without being pretentious. Jennifer has the gift of writing seemingly ordinary prose yet making it sound interesting without dressing it up with headlights and flashiness. I read each page eagerly, waiting for the next drama to begin.

She's honest about her exhaustion dealing with fragile premature twins and her and disappointment after learning of her son's diagnosis. She's honest about her next door neighbor who avoided her as if Jennifer had posted a "Measles. Quarantine" sign on her door. Even I know that Down's is not contagious. I hope the neighbor wasn't revolted but simply unsure what to say. Congratulations? Gosh, glad it's you and not me!....Who knows.

It's not a story with a big flashy ending, because it's impossible to know what a 2 year old can do. Jennifer makes it clear though that she has worked through the initial angst and has found joy in her son, and confidence in his future, whatever it is.

There's a young lady in Japan with Downs' who has actually earned a four year college degree from an accredited university but that is an exception to the rule. Regardless of the internet superstars, most Downs children are retarded, ranging from moderately to severe. We don't know what Avery will become but by the end of the book I'm convinced that Jennifer and her family will love him and will be able to cope. I'm impressed by both her writing and Jennifer herself.

Anybody Interested In A Threesome? Or A Three-Way?

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Sat, 05 Apr 2008 22:23:00 +0000

The bill that almost put me into the nut house. In all, FIFTY three way calls were made. I was too lazy to scan page two.

Ok! Ok! So I wanted some kinky Google hits. If you're here for the dirt, look elsewhere. Sorry, I'd love to tell you about the time that I **** with ***** and then did some **** with **** and then **** some guy named ****** but I can't. I'm too easy to find on the net. I am using my real name. I wanted to be "honest" and "authentic" when I began my blog. Sorry 'bout that.

So it started out as a routine rainy Saturday. I arose from my bed groaning at the arthritic like pain that fibromyalgia sufferers get when it rains, apparently. I stuffed some pain pills down my throat and my loving husband prepared some awesome French toast for breakfast and I hopped on the computer to see if my emails about acquiring a new toy poodle had born any fruit. Just another day in paradise.

Yes, I think we might have found a poodle. More later.

Oh, and I got a phone call from Mom complaining loudly about the nursing home she's in. She's still nauseated, but is starting to sound feisty again. She wants to go home. When I think of how much the nursing home costs and how her cds may not bear enough interest to pay for it, oh so do I!

Then I opened the mail. And saw that my phone bill was $95.00 instead of the usual $26.25. And I nearly had a stroke.

DID YOU KNOW THAT THERE IS SOMETHING CALLED THREE WAY CALLING? WELL I DO NOW!! I LEARNED ABOUT IT WHEN I OPENED MY PHONE BILL!!!!!!

You know what? The only 3 way calling I knew about before today was in Mean Girls. I love that movie. Madeleine's constantly on the phone with her friends now, having dramatic fights and all, just practicing for the teen years I guess. They had a scene in Mean Girls where Jane calls Julie and puts Amy on the line without Julie's knowledge and asked Julie what she thinks of Amy and Julie replies with something derogatory and Jane says "Ha! Gotcha! Amy's on the line!" That's all I knew. I don't know how to make the dang calls, and I didn't know you even could make them from our phone.

When we hooked up our home phone again last year after several years of just cell phone use, I told the nice lady on the phone that I wanted only the BASIC PACKAGE. JUST local calls. NOTHING fancy. I explained that I had young children and I didn't want them being able to do anything but make local calls. No long distance. That's for the cell phones. The nice lady said all right.

So I got on the phone with A TEE AND TEE.

The first person I talked to said "someone made the calls, you have to pay for them." I said a lot more, but I'll save you the details. I also threw a few dishes at various targets.

The second person I talked to said it was just too bad that I had a daughter who did stuff on the phone that I didn't even know you could do and they sent me a 4 page letter at the time I signed up describing all the horrible things that could possibly happen with my "basic plan" so suck it up and pay or else they'd do terrible things to my credit report and then he offered a $20.00 credit. I hung up.

I called back and said, "Look, if you're just going to give me the party line about how the calls were made and I have to pay for them even though the nice lady I signed up with had a long chat with me. I carefully and in detail explained to her that I had young children and wanted nothing on the phone but simple local phone calls. She told me that is what I had. So if you're going to just give me the same old spiel, let's cut to the chase and let me speak to your supervisor."

He said, "Would you hold on a minute, ma'am?" I replied "sure."

He said "I'm putting a block on your phone so 3 way calls can't be made any more." I thanked him. Neither of the other two people I talked to had mentioned that this was possible.

He said, "I'm giving you full credit for the calls. Just pay the normal fee. Are you satisfied with the service that I offered you today at A TEE and TEE?" I grinned and said yes indeedy.

So what have we learned here today guys?

1. Make sure your phone is blocked from 3 way calling.

2. Be a pest. A total, obnoxious pest.

3. If you do ***** with ***** and then include ***** while doing ********* always use protection. This has been a public service announcement. The more you know..... I talked to Madeleine a little today about The Birds and the Bees and she cut me off with "Mom, I already know about condoms." Well. Excuuuuuuuuseee me.

So, Let's Talk About Something Else

noreply@blogger.com (clueless carolinagirl) — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 02:39:00 +0000

So let's talk about something else...but before we do, I have to tell you that Mom was admitted to the hospital on Saturday, March 22, suffering from starvation and dehydration. I don't think she'd be alive if we hadn't convinced her doctor to admit her. She was so weak and dizzy she could barely walk. She was nauseous, so she wasn't eating, so she was getting weaker and weaker and got down to a skeletal 92 pounds.

The doctors ran a zillion tests on her and found several things--a gut infection, a bladder infection, and painful internal hemorrhoids (I had to look that word up). What they didn't find was any serious or fatal diseases, except Alzheimer's, which is enough really, don't you think? Of course being so weak exacerbated the Alzheimer's and she didn't recognize her friend of 30 years, or her doctor of 15 years...

So on Friday, March 28, she was transferred by ambulance to a locked Alzheimer's unit filled with people in advanced stages of the disease. Some of them just walk around all day, some sit in a chair and stare at nothing, but there are a few ladies who dress up for dinner and seem to be able to carry on a conversation. Maybe they'll be future friends. MAYBE.

Mom has no idea that she may be in that unit for the rest of her life. Fortunately the social worker told her that she had to go to the unit for "rehabilitation." She thinks she's coming home any day now. That would require private nurses to the tune of $12,000 a month. Um, not happening.

Mom is crabby and complaining about everything, especially her stomach. She is on strong antibiotics which should cure the stomach pain---I hope, I hope. We will just have to take it one day at a time, like AA.

Ok! Well, that was fun. Now let's talk about the kids and what they've been up to. I'd post a picture of myself but I look like the caption should be Survivor: Bataan Death March. I'm beyond exhausted and extremely emotional. But I am keeping up with my job requirements and the virus that has plagued me since January is GONE. (I hate to write that, I hate to tempt fate!) I'm actually able to wake up and go to work and drive home without sleeping in my office, so that is a good thing. You know, so I can collect a paycheck and all that. And eat, and put gas in the car. Good God, gas is expensive.

First we had Easter, and an ungodly amount of sugar.

Then we had an art show on the deck.

I mean, Picasso couldn't even begin to produce such masterpieces.

Portrait Of The Artist As A, well, something. Not sure what.

Then we had some special guests. The famous Gwen and her delightful mom Karen and a friend visited. We all had a blast. Karen turned out to be one of those people who you meet and five minutes later you are BFF. Karen's new blog is password protected. Write me if you want me to write Karen and ask for the password. I will forward the emails to Karen.

The lovely Miss Gwen in a contemplative mood.

And then tonight the artistes were honored at a reception at the local library. Madeleine's piece was one of two chosen (out of 120 4th graders) to be displayed. It's the one with the yellow border.

And Meredith's piece was one of three chosen (out of 150 first graders) to be displayed.

Am I proud of them? Nawwwww..........