Yesterday was a travel and goof-off kind of day. I got up, finished up some laundry and sundry chores, loaded us up and headed toward Philly. The plan was to pick up my niece and double back to the amusement park for their big Haunt event.
The event was fun, and I'm always amazed by how well Babygirl and her Pink-haired cousin get along. At fifteen, she is the funniest, kindest young woman anyone could ask for. She and Babygirl genuinely enjoy each others' company. Conversations we had while waiting in lines had me (and the people around us) in stitches.
People say they are afraid for the future when they look at 'teenagers today.' I look at the teens and young adults in my life and have nothing but hope for a wonderful tomorrow. I know that my kids and nieces and nephews are not the exception, but the rule. Adults see pink hair and ear gauges. I hear discussions of car design and robotics, the arts and sciences. I see young people raising beautiful, if non-traditional, families to value hard work and good manners. I see readers, thinkers, inventors and humorists.
They don't look like I did as a teen. They don't talk like I did as a teen. They aren't like what I was as a teen - they are more. More confident, more worldly, more adventurous and more attuned to the world around them. They are tomorrows voters, politicians, and dreamers.
When I was a teen, we were blue-jeaned Jesus freaks or LSD-using hippies. Our music reflected our lack of values, and our generation was going to send the world to hell in a handbasket. I hear the same thing said about 'kids today' NOW that I heard people say about us THEN. But I don't see it that way.
I see hope.
DeeDee
Showing posts with label none of the above. Show all posts
Showing posts with label none of the above. Show all posts
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Friday, October 5, 2012
The Bittersweet Garden.....
There's a killing frost coming Monday. I could blanket the garden, but I won't be home. So today, using up my steroid-induced energy, I disassembled the garden.
It's 30 feet long and 3 feet wide, on the sunny side of the house's foundation. We started it years ago when our foster kids refused to eat veggies, thinking (correctly as it turns out) that a kid will eat something they grew themselves before they'll eat it from a pot on the stove. My memories of the garden are very intertwined with those children, so I spent most of my day thinking of them
You see, they are in a rough place. We had them for the first time in 2001. JuJuBee (aka Boo'sMommy), G, and GiGi were 9, 8 and 2. LittleBro was born that year but stayed with biomom while she finished rehab. While they were with us, Babygirl arrived, also 2. Since Curlygirl was 8 and Citygirl was 12, it was a very busy time - thank God our 'oldest' was there - she was an invaluable support. G and GiGi went home in 2002, and JuJuBee stayed with us forever. In 2006, biomom crashed and went to prison and the girls came back, bringing LittleBro, then 4, along. And that was when we started the garden. After 18 months, biomom got out and the kids went 'home.' Maintaining contact was challenging. We knew things weren't going well, but there was nothing we could do about it.
One week after we discovered that Babygirl had nephronophthisis and was going to need dialysis and a transplant, social services called us and asked if we would take the kids back. We prayed. We cried. We said no. Babygirl HAD to come first. And GiGi was exposed to a LOT of alcohol in utero. Kids with FAS/FAE don't quite think the way other people do. Boundaries are loose. Impulses are obeyed. Instructions, forgotten. We couldn't have a child who still trims other peoples' hair while they are sleeping in a house with a dialysis machine. We soldiered on. Last September they called again - it would be permanent this time, they assured us. We prayed. We wept. We said no.
A month later, their biomom died, in her forties, pregnant again - complications of tough life full of bad choices. By this time G was 18, on her own with a baby of her own. GiGi was 13, and LittleBro turned 10 the day his mom died. I was there when they told them - it seemed the very least I could do for my JuJuBee and the rest of them.
Last month, they called AGAIN. There is not one person they are related to who is capable of taking care of them.
We discussed it. Babygirl is stable, no dialysis, it's safer. But we are unexpectedly out of town on a fairly regular basis. GiGi is a teen from a family where abuse is the norm. Hubby can't be alone with her overnight without risking his safety and reputation. And there is the enormous cupboard of medications, posing a poisoning risk to a child whose impulse control is minimal. And there's energy, and time.....
And on the flip side is the only hope that LittleBro will have family, Boy Scouts, camping trips.....And the joy of GiGi's quirky humor and great love.
If only they had never sent them home. If only.....
We prayed. We wept more. My heart (and, I suspect, Hubby's) says YES. But Babygirl must, must must come first. However adaptable and loving she is, her life is overwhelming as it is. We can't. And we musn't. And we said no.
So all day, as I pulled weeds, cleaned out dead plants, found the only green bean of the year on a stunted plant, washed lettuce, hung herbs to dry and put green tomatoes in sunny spots, I thought of them. Prayed for them. Mourned the loss of them.
Fostering kids is the toughest job you'll ever love. JuJuBee is one of the greatest gifts God ever gave me, and the gift of being Boo's Grandma is a never-ending joy denied to her bio-grandma. G flits in and out of our lives, and her little boy is the image of LittleBro. And you know something? I think he could use a Grandma too. I need to start counting my Grandkids differently, I think.
Of all the griefs in my life, this is one of the very biggest ones - at times even bigger than all Babygirl has lost. After all, she still has us. And they have no one.
DeeDee
It's 30 feet long and 3 feet wide, on the sunny side of the house's foundation. We started it years ago when our foster kids refused to eat veggies, thinking (correctly as it turns out) that a kid will eat something they grew themselves before they'll eat it from a pot on the stove. My memories of the garden are very intertwined with those children, so I spent most of my day thinking of them
You see, they are in a rough place. We had them for the first time in 2001. JuJuBee (aka Boo'sMommy), G, and GiGi were 9, 8 and 2. LittleBro was born that year but stayed with biomom while she finished rehab. While they were with us, Babygirl arrived, also 2. Since Curlygirl was 8 and Citygirl was 12, it was a very busy time - thank God our 'oldest' was there - she was an invaluable support. G and GiGi went home in 2002, and JuJuBee stayed with us forever. In 2006, biomom crashed and went to prison and the girls came back, bringing LittleBro, then 4, along. And that was when we started the garden. After 18 months, biomom got out and the kids went 'home.' Maintaining contact was challenging. We knew things weren't going well, but there was nothing we could do about it.
One week after we discovered that Babygirl had nephronophthisis and was going to need dialysis and a transplant, social services called us and asked if we would take the kids back. We prayed. We cried. We said no. Babygirl HAD to come first. And GiGi was exposed to a LOT of alcohol in utero. Kids with FAS/FAE don't quite think the way other people do. Boundaries are loose. Impulses are obeyed. Instructions, forgotten. We couldn't have a child who still trims other peoples' hair while they are sleeping in a house with a dialysis machine. We soldiered on. Last September they called again - it would be permanent this time, they assured us. We prayed. We wept. We said no.
A month later, their biomom died, in her forties, pregnant again - complications of tough life full of bad choices. By this time G was 18, on her own with a baby of her own. GiGi was 13, and LittleBro turned 10 the day his mom died. I was there when they told them - it seemed the very least I could do for my JuJuBee and the rest of them.
Last month, they called AGAIN. There is not one person they are related to who is capable of taking care of them.
We discussed it. Babygirl is stable, no dialysis, it's safer. But we are unexpectedly out of town on a fairly regular basis. GiGi is a teen from a family where abuse is the norm. Hubby can't be alone with her overnight without risking his safety and reputation. And there is the enormous cupboard of medications, posing a poisoning risk to a child whose impulse control is minimal. And there's energy, and time.....
And on the flip side is the only hope that LittleBro will have family, Boy Scouts, camping trips.....And the joy of GiGi's quirky humor and great love.
If only they had never sent them home. If only.....
We prayed. We wept more. My heart (and, I suspect, Hubby's) says YES. But Babygirl must, must must come first. However adaptable and loving she is, her life is overwhelming as it is. We can't. And we musn't. And we said no.
So all day, as I pulled weeds, cleaned out dead plants, found the only green bean of the year on a stunted plant, washed lettuce, hung herbs to dry and put green tomatoes in sunny spots, I thought of them. Prayed for them. Mourned the loss of them.
Fostering kids is the toughest job you'll ever love. JuJuBee is one of the greatest gifts God ever gave me, and the gift of being Boo's Grandma is a never-ending joy denied to her bio-grandma. G flits in and out of our lives, and her little boy is the image of LittleBro. And you know something? I think he could use a Grandma too. I need to start counting my Grandkids differently, I think.
Of all the griefs in my life, this is one of the very biggest ones - at times even bigger than all Babygirl has lost. After all, she still has us. And they have no one.
DeeDee
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Week Seventy-five - Godzilla......
My facebook status yesterday read, "This cold is Godzilla to my Tokyo. I never saw the movie - did Tokyo make it?"
I've had asthma forever. It was probably the underlying cause of my frequent childhood bronchitis (that and parental smoking). It might even have explained my lack of respiratory endurance in gym class. But it wasn't actually diagnosed until some attending physician, tired of hearing his intern cough, made me go get tested. Overall, it's never been a major problem, never resulted in an ER visit, and never required more than a month or so of maintenance meds every few years.
But this cold.....
Godzilla settled in my chest and the coughing began. I unwrapped an inhaler that's been sitting in the medicine cabinet since last November (it expires in April for those of you who are concerned about such things LOL). And I used it. And used it. Every four hours, sometimes every three. In my experience, I'll end up needing it for a three or four days and then everything will go back to normal. I called in sick Monday and Tuesday, and then I took Godzilla to work with me yesterday.
But last night, starting at about 8, I was wracked by coughing spasms. Forceful, empty-your-lungs-and-see-the-pretty-stars spasms. I calmed it down and went to bed at 9:30, belly muscles aching. At about 10, I sat bolt upright and fought to get air in, coughing out, and keep the peels of the apple I ate before bed from blocking of my trachea as the force of the cough emptied my stomach. I went through about six 15-minute-long bouts of nonstop coughing, managing to hit my inhaler once every half an hour. The stars were starting to appear permanent. And then...
One cough was so violent I felt the entire right side of my head go numb. Have you ever turned your head suddenly and felt that burning shock go up the back of your scalp? Take that sensation all the way to the tip of your nose.
By this time it was midnight. Hubby was watching a movie in another room, so I went and alerted him (okay, I'm slow - but I couldn't breathe, okay?). We contacted Curlygirl. Squeaker's been sick, so she was up anyway. Hubby dropped me at the ER, and went to get her so she could stay with Babygirl. By the time he came back, I had registered, been triaged and was on my way for a chest xray and blood work. And then we waited. And waited.
Eternity can now be defined as 1 1/2 hours in the ER waiting room increasingly struggling to breathe. I know all the tricks - I've taught them to patients. Put some weight on your hands and lean forward - it opens up the chest. Purse your lips and blow - the back pressure gets more air out. Yup. Helpful tips. Not. The head numbness resolved. Turns out it was a migraine aura, so each and every cough of each and EVERY coughing spasm sent knife blades across the right side of my brain. Thank God I had my sunglasses with me - ER lighting is harsh.
At 1:45 AM the doc arrived, looked me over briefly, and within a very few more minutes there was a respiratory therapist, a shot of summatriptan for the migraine, prednisone tablets and an IV. After the third breathing treatment, I could finally lie down without choking - around 3:30 AM. At 5:30 I was discharged after listening to the pompous ass of an ER doc (not maligning his competence, just his bedside manner) finally realized who I was and blessed me out for not pointing out my superior importance to the triage nurse (I guess sunglasses at night DO constitute a disguise).
Sigh. Doctors put their pantyhose on one leg at a time just like everybody else. I don't deserve to budge in line based on my 'status'. Truth is, they put me in ahead of several folks who had arrived before me the only one they took ahead of me was a man who looked to be about 90 years old.
I came home, took a nap, went to work, and came home for a nap. Daytime wasn't so bad.
But the coughing spasms are back. It looks like it might be a long night. I take it Godzilla stayed in Tokyo for little while?
DeeDee
I've had asthma forever. It was probably the underlying cause of my frequent childhood bronchitis (that and parental smoking). It might even have explained my lack of respiratory endurance in gym class. But it wasn't actually diagnosed until some attending physician, tired of hearing his intern cough, made me go get tested. Overall, it's never been a major problem, never resulted in an ER visit, and never required more than a month or so of maintenance meds every few years.
But this cold.....
Godzilla settled in my chest and the coughing began. I unwrapped an inhaler that's been sitting in the medicine cabinet since last November (it expires in April for those of you who are concerned about such things LOL). And I used it. And used it. Every four hours, sometimes every three. In my experience, I'll end up needing it for a three or four days and then everything will go back to normal. I called in sick Monday and Tuesday, and then I took Godzilla to work with me yesterday.
But last night, starting at about 8, I was wracked by coughing spasms. Forceful, empty-your-lungs-and-see-the-pretty-stars spasms. I calmed it down and went to bed at 9:30, belly muscles aching. At about 10, I sat bolt upright and fought to get air in, coughing out, and keep the peels of the apple I ate before bed from blocking of my trachea as the force of the cough emptied my stomach. I went through about six 15-minute-long bouts of nonstop coughing, managing to hit my inhaler once every half an hour. The stars were starting to appear permanent. And then...
One cough was so violent I felt the entire right side of my head go numb. Have you ever turned your head suddenly and felt that burning shock go up the back of your scalp? Take that sensation all the way to the tip of your nose.
By this time it was midnight. Hubby was watching a movie in another room, so I went and alerted him (okay, I'm slow - but I couldn't breathe, okay?). We contacted Curlygirl. Squeaker's been sick, so she was up anyway. Hubby dropped me at the ER, and went to get her so she could stay with Babygirl. By the time he came back, I had registered, been triaged and was on my way for a chest xray and blood work. And then we waited. And waited.
Eternity can now be defined as 1 1/2 hours in the ER waiting room increasingly struggling to breathe. I know all the tricks - I've taught them to patients. Put some weight on your hands and lean forward - it opens up the chest. Purse your lips and blow - the back pressure gets more air out. Yup. Helpful tips. Not. The head numbness resolved. Turns out it was a migraine aura, so each and every cough of each and EVERY coughing spasm sent knife blades across the right side of my brain. Thank God I had my sunglasses with me - ER lighting is harsh.
At 1:45 AM the doc arrived, looked me over briefly, and within a very few more minutes there was a respiratory therapist, a shot of summatriptan for the migraine, prednisone tablets and an IV. After the third breathing treatment, I could finally lie down without choking - around 3:30 AM. At 5:30 I was discharged after listening to the pompous ass of an ER doc (not maligning his competence, just his bedside manner) finally realized who I was and blessed me out for not pointing out my superior importance to the triage nurse (I guess sunglasses at night DO constitute a disguise).
Sigh. Doctors put their pantyhose on one leg at a time just like everybody else. I don't deserve to budge in line based on my 'status'. Truth is, they put me in ahead of several folks who had arrived before me the only one they took ahead of me was a man who looked to be about 90 years old.
I came home, took a nap, went to work, and came home for a nap. Daytime wasn't so bad.
But the coughing spasms are back. It looks like it might be a long night. I take it Godzilla stayed in Tokyo for little while?
DeeDee
Saturday, August 18, 2012
The Grownup.....
I hate being The Grownup. Every family has at least one. I mean, I understand that families generally have lots of people over the age of twenty-one who take responsibility for themselves. But each family seems to have a limited number of people who are willing to supervise the whole shebang: Plan vacations, oversee the budget, make the doctor's appointments, select the nursing home, write the obituary.
While Hubby is an awesome life partner, much of the above falls to me. The main reason is that most of the people I feel responsible for are related to me, not him. He took care of his mom when she was dying (before I met him), was Boy Scout leader for his little brother because his dad was too old, and so on. He generously gave of his time and support when my Aunt Mary lived (and died) with us.
But my Mom is a different thing altogether. She was an awesome mom when I was a kid. She was THE Grownup. She planned camping vacations. She allowed a bajillion sleepovers, made creative Halloween costumes (my brother's Cub Scout den once ended up as a swarm of bees!), and happily hosted as many as 30 teens for Bible studies and sing-alongs. She took care of her mother and father in their home until they died. As she's aged, however, she's changed. She has become more anxious, less welcoming, more judgemental. It's very difficult for those who have married her children to feel accepted.
The dementia accentuates all of these problems. I watched my Mom and my Uncle struggle to find creative ways to keep my Grandfather safe as he declined - turning off the gas line to his stove, setting door alarms so the upstairs tenant could hear if he tried to wander off, and so on. I am trying to imagine how extremely long the years between my grandparents' deaths must have seemed. Seven years. My mom has the same type of dementia. We are about two years into it. Eternity. And more to come.
I joke that I know that I am part of the Sandwich Generation because my minivan has both a car seat and a walker in it. It makes people laugh, but.....
Today I took away my Mom's checkbook and debit card.
I can't let her keep them any more. Her budget is extremely tight, and although she might be able to eat lunch out with a friend or order a pizza once or twice a month, she can't do those things as often as she does, especially since she forgets to record them in her checkbook and thinks she has plenty of money left. This month she decided that her Social Security must have come in, so she added that to her balance. It did come. I already recorded it. We already spent it and can't afford to spend it twice. She's $260 overdrawn, or will be when the last of her automatic withdrawals occurs. I can't afford to cover it for her, so next month is going to be very interesting.
I explained why it was necessary. And she agreed, sort of. As she was handing me her card she was asking me what she should do about buying cigarettes (apparently she forgot she quit and started again). Taking her card will help keep her from burning the house down. I can't wait until she calls the police to report her stuff missing - I can kind of see that coming.
The car keys will be next. Lord help me.
DeeDee
While Hubby is an awesome life partner, much of the above falls to me. The main reason is that most of the people I feel responsible for are related to me, not him. He took care of his mom when she was dying (before I met him), was Boy Scout leader for his little brother because his dad was too old, and so on. He generously gave of his time and support when my Aunt Mary lived (and died) with us.
But my Mom is a different thing altogether. She was an awesome mom when I was a kid. She was THE Grownup. She planned camping vacations. She allowed a bajillion sleepovers, made creative Halloween costumes (my brother's Cub Scout den once ended up as a swarm of bees!), and happily hosted as many as 30 teens for Bible studies and sing-alongs. She took care of her mother and father in their home until they died. As she's aged, however, she's changed. She has become more anxious, less welcoming, more judgemental. It's very difficult for those who have married her children to feel accepted.
The dementia accentuates all of these problems. I watched my Mom and my Uncle struggle to find creative ways to keep my Grandfather safe as he declined - turning off the gas line to his stove, setting door alarms so the upstairs tenant could hear if he tried to wander off, and so on. I am trying to imagine how extremely long the years between my grandparents' deaths must have seemed. Seven years. My mom has the same type of dementia. We are about two years into it. Eternity. And more to come.
I joke that I know that I am part of the Sandwich Generation because my minivan has both a car seat and a walker in it. It makes people laugh, but.....
Today I took away my Mom's checkbook and debit card.
I can't let her keep them any more. Her budget is extremely tight, and although she might be able to eat lunch out with a friend or order a pizza once or twice a month, she can't do those things as often as she does, especially since she forgets to record them in her checkbook and thinks she has plenty of money left. This month she decided that her Social Security must have come in, so she added that to her balance. It did come. I already recorded it. We already spent it and can't afford to spend it twice. She's $260 overdrawn, or will be when the last of her automatic withdrawals occurs. I can't afford to cover it for her, so next month is going to be very interesting.
I explained why it was necessary. And she agreed, sort of. As she was handing me her card she was asking me what she should do about buying cigarettes (apparently she forgot she quit and started again). Taking her card will help keep her from burning the house down. I can't wait until she calls the police to report her stuff missing - I can kind of see that coming.
The car keys will be next. Lord help me.
DeeDee
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