What Do I Do When They Leave Home?

Being a stay-at-home parent is like a roller coaster. And I hit the lowest point this weekend.

Like any career there have been moments when I felt on top of the game, operating at full capacity and performing at the highest level in my field.

There have been moments when I’ve been off my game, uninspired. Things don’t get done. I always reminded myself that the world wouldn’t end, which is how I learned to cope in the crazy universe of probation when caseloads ramped up and crisis ensued.

I could always pull into the previous career’s bag of tricks to help with the “new” , stay at home one. I’ve continued to utilize mentally and emotionally supporting tricks from that same bag over these past eight years.

Eight years.

It has been eight years since I quit working outside of the home.

I penned a blog about the emotional ups and downs of being a stay at home mom a few years ago and in it I acknowledged the enormous gift staying home has been along with an awareness of how valuable it has been.

There is one thing I can’t wrap my mind around though. I want to get past it but I’m really struggling. I’m feeling sorry for myself, which piles on humiliation and shame because I have no RIGHT to feel sorry for myself. I have a pit in the bottom of my stomach. I’m a little lost. And I’m deeply worried.

My engineer husband has been working on a “list” and checking off the items one by one. It is almost completed. It is THE list. Everything we need to head into retirement, take care of the kids if something were to happen to both of us, and the big financial plan for our future.

We cancelled my life insurance policy and increased his. Do you know why?

Because if I were to die they would be okay without me financially. I contribute nothing financially anymore. Nothing.

But if he were to die? We would be devastated without his life insurance.

This is why I’m at the bottom of the roller coaster. My kids can get love and guidance from many people. They have a community around them, extended family who love them. I’ve planted the seeds, done the hard work in cementing those core needs we read about. I read once that the first eight years are the ones that matter when it comes to childhood development.

But they cannot survive without food, a roof, clothes, or school.

And me? I could get a job most likely. I have a college degree and am personable, articulate and bright. I couldn’t, however, get a job that would pay what I made when I quit working. I would be looking at minimum wage which would change our lifestyle in a drastic way.

My old industry has changed. Best practices are different, technology is different, and most in the field don’t even know my name anymore.

Plus I’m on the downside of 50.

Oh, I’ve done some things. I’ve written for an online paper (for free), helped care for an aging grandparent (wouldn’t trade that time for anything), write this blog, ran for State Representative (no money in that; in fact, it cost my family money), & helped someone else run (more money).

I know, I know. I KNOW.

What I have done with the kids has no price. They are thriving…our home is stable…but there is a cost.

And today I feel like my value is the cost. Please don’t make me say that it’s worth it, because that is a huge, screaming given. Of COURSE the kids are worth it.

But I have to say it. Maybe because I need to know I’m not alone.

I finally think I understand that invisible weight I saw pressing down on my grandmother. She became less confident, less outspoken and more of an observer of what was going on around her. It is because she felt she had nothing to contribute to the conversation.

When I was in high school my grandfather was struggling to find a job. He had retired early but still needed an additional income; pushing the age of 60 was a problem.

In the interim, she went to work at the only place that would hire her – the housekeeping division at a local hospital. She hadn’t held a job since the 60’s; then it was part time at the local TG&Y.

She was 58 years old.

I remember, vaguely (I didn’t pay too much attention, worrying more about my next basketball game or date), how tired she seemed to be after cleaning floors on her hands and knees all day and then coming home to cook dinner and throw in some laundry.

And the pay? It wasn’t worth the toll the job took on her health. But I never worried about finances or where my next pair of shoes were going to come from. They made sure of that.

All of this has left me pondering my own situation, frustrated and urgent to find something, ANYTHING, to get me “back in the game”.

And I hate this feeling.

If I were you and you me I’d have all of the right words to say. I’d say what Brian said when he saw I was close to breaking as we discussed this; when he said “remember we cancelled your life insurance because, don’t take this wrong, but we’d be okay if something happened to you”.

I couldn’t hide it, was choking as I tried to leave the room.

He reminded me that the kids are straight A students, happy and adjusted, perfect in almost every way and he said the right words, said “it’s because of you.”

He said “we can’t put a value on what you’ve done by being home.”

He’s a good man. He said what I would say to me.

But I’m still at an impasse.

Which is why I’m writing this today. If you are a stay at home parent I want to warn you that this is also part of the deal.

Staying home, to use that oft-quoted word that makes me cringe sometimes, is a blessing. You won’t be as tired, as stressed. Which is an amazing gift, priceless for you and your family. I GET that. I’m not complaining, please understand that. I wouldn’t change staying home with them, not at all.

I’m just being real, sharing my own feelings right now, today.

When you stay home there could be a cost to you later. And when you are with your friends, who are advanced in their careers and bringing in money, receiving accolades, travelling, talking about industries of which you are clueless, increasing their retirement funds as salaries increase, you will smile and nod and admire.

And wonder what you are going to do in eight more years when your youngest finally leaves home and you are too old to start over.

I’m allowing myself to feel this for a few days. Frankly, I can’t stop it. Sometimes we have to let something that hits us on such a deep emotional level marinate a little. We have to let it wash over us, drown in it, before we finally come up for air with a renewed sense of purpose.

I have options, which is another (here it is again) blessing. Many women do not.

Which means I am obligated to take advantage of those options…and I will.

I’ll apply to graduate school in a month. If I’m not accepted, I’ll start looking for a part time job. Something, anything, that can get me back “out there”. Something that pays. Before I’m in a position to HAVE to work. Life doesn’t wait to see if you are ready for crisis or tragedy. It moves forward like a freight train, plowing through anything in its path that doesn’t move.

And I’ll keep writing and sharing stories because I can’t be the only one who feels this way, can I?

Six Simple New Rules for the Anti-Vaccine Crowd

I’m just going to cut to the chase. These are some fun proposed “New Rules” for the anti-vacciners.*

Rule 1: When you or your family member finds out you have cancer you cannot seek treatment. You understand oncology.

Rule 2: When your son breaks his arm playing football, you must set it yourself at home. You are completely familiar with orthopedics.

Rule 3: When your daughter falls and ends up with a gaping open wound on her face you have to stitch it up yourself at home. You are an arm chair plastic surgeon.

Rule 4: When a mysterious rash develops all over your husband’s torso, you must look online to diagnose the problem and handle it with home remedies. You once read an article on dermatology.

Rule 5: When your wife unexpectedly starts bleeding at 6 months gestation, under no circumstances are you allowed to take her to the obstetrician. You know more than a maternal-fetal medical specialist.

In fact, the new Golden Rule is this.

Rule 6: After you’ve ignored all of the research, doctors and specialists (absent a practical reason or something completely out of your control), and when your free will in the face of medical science and absolutely raging common sense results in the death of another human being? Or enables an outbreak or resurgence of deadly diseases that had finally, after years of research/hard work/diligence/exhaustive scientific study, been subdued?

And if you are an elected politician who votes “yes” on legislation that enables an outbreak or resurgence of deadly diseases that had finally, after years of research/hard work/diligence/exhaustive scientific study, been subdued?

Your ass goes to jail. **

*not to be confused with those who suffer from compromised immune systems who are unable to receive vaccines; you know, the ones who can die because of the anti-vacciners

** welcome to one of the few areas in my world that I view as black and white

Flawed Heroes

When it comes to politics and writing I try to stick with Kansas. Arguments about the broader country rarely turn out well and I’m more concerned with my own back yard right now.

The Chris Kyle debate has become intriguing to me though. The articles are certainly thought provoking – on both sides. But, frankly, it is the reader comments and Facebook posts that have captured my interest the most.

Here is what I have gathered so far. In typical US fashion, we’ve rapidly fled to one of two corners. We like our teams, don’t you know. We like things black and freaking white!!! We don’t like any in-between, any gray, and certainly we don’t like to agree on individual points.

Every issue HAS to be a battle, a war. This one is no different it appears. Which is ironic, considering it is about, eh hum, war.

The sides, for the most part, appear to break down like this:

Pro-Kyle team believes he is an American hero, worthy of sainthood, martyrdom and a national holiday. Pro-Kyle team believes every Arab/Muslim/Iraqi/middle-easterner is an American hating killer and they need to die and that Chris Kyle is personally responsible for saving the entire American military from death at the hands of these haters.

Pro-Kyle team believes if you dare say a single negative thing about the man, the movie, Clint Eastwood, Bush, the invasion of Iraq, et al, then you are an American hating sissy liberal who has never served in the military (it’s assumed if you aren’t on Pro-Kyle team then you have no military background, which would be an in-accurate assumption based upon what I’ve read).

Pro-Kyle team believes if you so much as hint at anything negative about Kyle then you should immediately get your ass the hell out of this country or they will kick it because you are un-American (which, unfortunately, will mean me by the end of this post because despite the fact I'm calling him a hero I'm also using the word flawed). Pro-Kyle team believes you should get on your knees and thank Chris Kyle for your ability to speak.

The anti-Kyle team is no less abrasive, although they generally use fewer aggressive words and revert to fewer threats.

Anti-Kyle team believes he was a sociopath and a killer, one who woke craving Muslim blood. They believe he was a boaster and a sell-out, a blood thirsty warrior who capitalized on his service to make money.

Anti-Kyle team believes he was an invader of Iraq. They believe he was at best a teller of tall tales and at worst a habitual and chronic liar.

I set out to read both sides, to see why people believed what they believed about him, and I was utterly sickened and saddened by the things people are saying to each other about this topic. The pro and anti Kyle comments I repeated above? Not exaggerations; these are examples of the things people are writing online.

I did not know Chris Kyle nor did most of you. I wasn’t there with him and, as such, I cannot and will not judge this man having not walked in his shoes.

We know what he wrote. We know what he said. That still doesn't mean we know him. Sometimes I go back and read something I wrote and am dumbfounded at how it came across and I'm most likely a far less complex person than Chris Kyle.

I haven't served in the military or been in combat. I also haven’t been through boot camp but I did ask my grandfather once about his training as a United States Marine in San Diego during WWII. I asked him “what did they teach you at boot camp?”

He responded “they taught us to kill.” That one statement is why I was hesitant to wade into this discussion. It is also another reason I can never judge Chris Kyle.

My grandfather was my hero. He was also flawed. As painful as it is for me to say, acknowledging those flaws has been one of the hardest things as an adult for me to accept.

We are all flawed. Even our heroes.

You see, America, it is possible to be a hero and to be flawed at the same time.

Argue all day long about Eastwood’s movie if you choose. It is no secret his political views so it should come as no surprise that there appears to be an attempt to link 9/11 to Iraq. You'll have to ask Clint if that was deliberate. Regardless, the movie isn’t going to change the minds of people who already mistakenly believe we invaded Iraq because of 9/11 and it is, in true Hollywood style, still a movie. Hate his politics all you want (which I do, other than that time he spoke to an empty chair, which still makes me chuckle) but Clint makes damn good movies. Gran Torino and Million Dollar Baby? Awesome! But I digress...

The saddest thing for me, other than watching my fellow citizens continue to scratch and claw at each other online as we seem to relish, are the increased threats towards Muslims in this country which have reportedly resulted, and the failure to focus on what I see as the true message in all of this: we have to take better care of our veterans.

Kyle, and all American soldiers and Marines, are not responsible for where they are sent or what they are asked to do. Our leaders bare that responsibility.

American military members who see combat often suffer a debilitating mental and/or physical toll. Our leaders own the responsibility of ensuring we do everything in our power to make sure they can be as whole again as possible, knowing that combat and death can never be erased from their psyche. PTSD is a reality, a monster that causes suicide and destroys lives.

Which leads me to this belief.

Rather than argue over Chris Kyle, we should be using these discussions to look at Washington and to demand they stop cutting funding to veteran’s benefits. We should demand they never send our military into battle under false pretense, or for any reason our leaders wouldn’t be willing to risk their own or their children’s lives.

Our government needs to ensure when they ask a serviceman to cross the deepest and most sacred law – the taking of another human life – they rule out all other options and, absent those options, provide every service available to heal that American.

Stop fighting. Stop calling each other names. Have a discussion about our veterans' needs.

Chris Kyle, I believe, was flawed. I’ve often heard within the Christian community that there was only one perfect man who ever lived and his name was Christ. Kyle wasn’t Christ and neither are the rest of us. Stop acting like he was but also stop acting like he should’ve been.

He was a hero when it was demanded of him. There are many others out there quietly doing their jobs so instead of Chris Kyle's face picture theirs and make damn sure you speak out loudly when the United States government decides to put them in harm's way.

Life isn’t simple folks. So stop acting like it is in your discussions. If Americans started treating each other like we were part of the same team we’d all be better off.

Wouldn’t that be a great way to honor all of our veterans?

Diary of An Angry Left Hand

August 25, 2014: I suffered a goalie injury tonight while playing soccer......it really hurts. In fact, it hurts so badly that I even allowed a few tears to drip down my pitiful cheeks while driving solo to the emergency room. Very humiliating; there’s no crying in soccer! (or is that baseball?).

I am now there still waiting on x-rays of an immobile right hand. She is bent at an odd angle and a large bump is rising from the wrist. Left hand is getting tired of playing slots on the cell phone while we wait. I can’t believe how out of shape she is!

August 26, 2014, 7:00 am: Grrrrrr, woke feeling very grumpy today. There are so many things I do with my right hand that I’ve taken for granted. Grandpa Stone (RIP), who lost his right arm in 1945, is laughing at me right now I’m sure.

My left hand is still tired from handling the phone and everything else.

August 26, 2014 11:00 am: It has now been 13 hours since the break & I am in fear for my life. My left hand is revolting & has declared war. I caught her whispering to right hand "you little wussy! I didn't sign up for this type of work”! My right eye is furious...I think lefty maliciously rammed the mascara wand into her. I keep telling myself I must.....not.....succumb.....to.....hateful......left hand.... Please keep me in your prayers; not sure when or if I’ll be able to persusde hre to kpee tyinpg.....

August 28, 2014: Day three of "the break" & left hand's sadistic personality is becoming more pronounced. The right eye can barely see & I've decided to remove mascara from Lefty's reach permanently. She wields it like a ninja sword.

This morning Baths (short for Bathsheba, my new name for her) made a point regarding who is in charge by pouring water for the coffee pot all over the coffee filter instead of the water chamber.

She takes particular joy in soiling herself when I try to wipe after using the bathroom and I swear I heard her whisper to Righty last night "see, that's what happens when you force me to perform jobs that are beneath me".

I see the orthopedic doctor this morning & can only hope she doesn't embarrass me.

I feel possessed.

Pray for us.

August 28, 2014: The official diagnosis is a fracture of the distal radius bone. Four weeks in the hard cast and then at least another two weeks in a wrist splint but things could be so much worse. The smaller bones around it are okay and imagine the horror of an out of control left LEG if this had been an ankle or knee injury!

August 28, 2014: I began another diary entry but quickly gave up. Left hand is getting lippy again & I need to tend to her. I feel as if the Bride of Chuckie is living in my arm.

September 2, 2014: I decided to go ahead and write a serious blog in order to keep things in perspective. This was a mistake. Lefty fought me every step of the way and it took all day to type. For some strange reason her middle finger seems to be overcome with spasms that result in revolting extensions. I’m not stupid. I know what she is doing.

September 10, 2014: I feel like the little train that could.....purchased some new piano sheet music and even with the cast I can pitifully play a little (it’s actually somewhat comical to observe). Lefty is behaving herself. I’m wondering how long this will last.

September 15, 2014: Showed up for soccer tonight and proved it is possible to play with a cast (if you want to call my defense “playing”). Have missed my “Bad Ass Moms”, aka BAM, ladies and Lefty didn’t have time to act out because I was panting too hard. The field was wet, though, and within minutes of playing we had hit the deck hard. Lefty refused to cushion the fall, glaring at me and whispering “are you insane? I see what you did to the other hand. Not this girl. NOT this girl”.

September 16, 2014, 4:55 am: Pampered Chef cake tester use #33- this amazing tool fits perfectly down into a cast to hit that one spot causing maniacal & insane itching. If I were a dog my leg would be jerking. Awwwww, blessed relief! It is even worth the short stabs Lefty gleefully inflicts every so often.

September 23, 2014: The cast comes off in two days. In the meantime, Lefty has tried to behave herself but this morning it just was too much for her to overcome. After she jabbed the roof of my mouth with the Oral-B flosser or I swear I heard her whisper "sucker".

For over two weeks I have had very limited mobility with my right thumb and can't straighten it. In the interim, until the cast comes off and a proper diagnosis can be made, Lefty has been forced to provide archaic manual physical therapy to keep said right thumb in motion. This morning she snapped and I swear I heard her say "dumbass wussy thumb, I'm getting sick of taking care of you. I know pinkies with more intestinal fortitude than you. Oh, and by the way, even with "her" attempts at cleaning you still are starting to smell."

She’s just starting to be mean for the sake of being mean.

I should've seen that she was close to the breaking point when she flipped Brody's omelette this morning across the kitchen. Kona enjoyed this post-breakfast snack but I angrily reminded Lefty she is just punishing herself with these childish outbursts because she has to wipe up the mess. She just whispered “karma bitch”. Which makes no sense to me. Why would karma punish me when I’m not the one who flung the food?

Thursday can't come soon enough.

September 25, 2014: Lefty is in full blown melt down. I sympathize with her and even cried briefly after leaving the hand specialist, sniffle. I've given myself one hour for self-pity then WE IS MOVIN' ON!

In laymen’s terms the cast is gone and the fracture is healed, but the tendon from the thumb is completely severed. Righty will have to undergo surgery next Wednesday to repair the EPL and then, gulp, spend another 4-6 weeks in another cast and then a splint.

I've put off trying to blog but maybe this will teach me to be more succinct and brief (Lefty is already doing that, in spite of her motives). BAM is going to be frustrated I’m sure....none of them really like playing goalie and a tendon issue is more delicate than a bone issue so I won’t be playing, even with a cast.

A bonus is that voters seem to be nicer to me when I canvass for Amber Versola (who is running for Kansas State Representative). So there's that silver lining; nobody has threatened to shoot me like they did her the other night (aw, bloody Kansas).

Lefty applied lotion to the dry and pale right wrist and arm just now, making me believe for a brief moment that there might be hope. Then she squeezed her sister arm’s sore and achy wrist aggressively, whispering "I'm going to remember this, you weakling".

October 1, 2014: The surgery was successful but the doctor did have to transfer the tendon from my finger because the thumb tendon has retracted. A second cast, which frankly looks like a medieval monster club, will remain on my hand until next Thursday when a new and smaller one will be cast. It looks like the Shuldas are eating carry out for a week, which makes Lefty somewhat happy. Her Evil Honor seems to appreciate the new pain prescription for oxycodone. I am feeling a little loopy right now but she’s being nice so I’m looking at the narcotic as another silver lining.

October 7, 2014: Lefty got a little whiny today because her thumb and hand are getting sore from overuse. Then, after glancing at righty and the bulging mammoth monstrosity of cast she has to wield, I heard her whisper to herself "chill out; at least you aren't THAT guy!" Maybe Sibyl is starting to settle down?

October 9, 2014: Rain can't dampen my mood this morning! The sutures will be removed and this club on my hand changed out for something smaller. I'm downright giddy, even if Lefty is still lurking.

October 11, 2014: Lefty pissed me off today. I guess she really is angry about this whole "right hand in a cast for the next 5000 years" prognosis.

I was in the shower brushing my teeth while resting my right elbow on the soap dish because she gets tired after holding herself up in the air for so long (trying to avoid water flowing down into the cast). So….inevitably my right elbow knocks the soap off and in a blur Lefty ACTS like she's going for the soap but actually jabs the still toothpaste loaded toothbrush into my left eye.

I have a new weapon that will motivate terrorists to spill their secrets. Jab toothpaste into their eyes.

Don't even get me started on the fact that it is now jeans season and I'm trying to get jeans on with one hand. She just will NOT work with me on this issue and says she refuses to cooperate with getting dressed unless I agree to wear yoga pants or sweats only. She tried to add in a refusal to help with bras until I threatened to take a sledge hammer to her.

Lefty will be grounded when this is all over.

October 14, 2014: Lefty and I had a terrifying moment this morning over the litter box.

Every time I force her to clean it out she toys with me, randomly flinging the litter up towards my face.

Not only did I have to deal with Lefty while changing the litter but Hope the Cat watched me with accusatory eyes because I have not been on top of it in the manner to which she has become accustomed.

Unfortunately, the accusatory glares of Hope the Cat distracted Lefty who then decided to fling more than just litter towards my face. I keep trying to remind her that we share the same body. After a few harsh words we finally came to a truce. At least the cat is happy now.

October 21, 2014: Dn#@8BLR"P%&%^$SH*&^%!!!

Lefty did it again. I made the ignorant mistake of asking her to pull a strap up onto my right shoulder and she "slipped" and punched me in the chin.

I swear I heard a silent giggle while I was cursing and am fairly certain this was in retaliation for the sledge hammer threat. Well played, Lefty, well played.

October 30, 2014: Today is the beginning of another new journey and the final cast is gone. I can't move my thumb at all but am sure with physical therapy and a little bit of grit and determination we will be wiggling in no time! The tech who removed the cast salvaged every single Jayhawk autograph and I’m beginning to like the term “silver lining”.

I’m trying to not dwell on the fact that our very skilled hand surgeon, Dr. Lanny, said I most likely will never be 100% again. He has no idea how close Lefty came to taking him out for good after he uttered those ill-fated words. Fortunately, I’m stronger than her.

November 1, 2014: Now that the cast is off and I have a temporary splint that can be removed, we were able to have the first truly touching moment with Lefty since this all began yesterday morning.

I took the splint off and attempted to brush my teeth holding the toothbrush with fingers and not the thumb (not supposed to use the thumb with the exception of three attempts a day to touch it to my fingertips). I quickly realized that it was going to take two hours to completely finish brushing and in a moment of pure tenderness and sacrifice Lefty gently sighed and said "here, let me take care of that!" It almost brought me to tears.

Fast forward to yesterday afternoon when we visited the grocery store and did the first full shopping trip I've done since this happened. The cart was packed and Lefty was having to put every single item on the belt one at a time.

I was shocked when about two thirds of the way through she simply refused to pick up another grocery item and then glared at Righty yelling "I'm sick & tired and you can take over from here Miss 'I can brush my teeth all by myself' "!!!!

There was an uncomfortable pause while the clerk waited for me to cajole her back into action (I could tell she thought I was one of those crazy people who talks to herself; hater). Lefty and Righty haven't spoken since....but my family is happy to have food again.

November 20, 2014: Yesterday the cat scratched me while I was holding her (yes, the same cat who is disgusted with her litter box; I’m surrounded by demanding figures). She did it directly on the tendon surgery incision, which absolutely HAD to be deliberate.

Last night I dreamed that cats carry the Ebola virus and as a result of the scratch I started developing symptoms. In the dream I attempted to sneak into the hospital without bringing attention to myself. Nurses whisked me into an exam room and instead of using a needle to withdraw blood the nurse pulled out a huge razor and proceeded to slash my right wrist. I screamed while she put the blood on a test strip and Righty was crying “Why? Why?” Then, just before receiving the diagnosis, I woke up. Damn cats. Damn Ebola.

Clearly the stress is starting to impact my mental condition.

December 14, 2014: It is time to give Lefty her due.

I began occupational therapy two weeks ago and am making amazing progress (shout out to OT Tamara, who is amazing). Mobility on the part of Righty is exceptionally improved. Strength is at about half of what Lefty has but even so Righty is working hard and demanding action. I think Lefty respects this. She hasn’t jabbed, poked or punched me in a month now. There have been no whispered insults or name calling either. In fact, she seems to be feeling parental even, proud of Righty’s accomplishments. Just a few days ago she sat back and allowed Righty to try and twist the wine opener. When it became apparent that things would work much faster if Righty held the bottle and Lefty turned the corkscrew she simply sighed and said “come on, let me do it”. (this may have been a mind over matter issue….I REALLY needed a glass of wine and was getting impatient)

I started to believe, briefly, that she had let go of this irrational resentment.

That is, until we were at Brian’s work party Saturday evening and the white elephant gift exchange commenced. As soon as Susan (the wife of one of his co-workers) opened the electric wine bottle opener I realized Lefty hadn’t forgotten a thing. Unknown to the rest of the guests, I was literally having to hold her back from leaping across the room and grabbing the contraption out of Susan’s hands. It was then that I heard her whisper to ME, not to Righty, “you dumbass!!! Why in the HELL didn’t you buy one of those three months ago??? Do you know how much easier BOTH of our lives would have been?”

The electric wine opener now looks lovely sitting on our counter. Nobody fought me for it after I stole it from Susan. Lefty was clenched and I think made them nervous. We had wine for dinner and Lefty and Righty are now working together as a beautiful team while I quietly sit typing on our bed.

It has been one hell of an adventure, but I’ve discovered a few things.

Sometimes, no matter how much we like to think our body is ours, it can and does have a mind of its own. And if I ever break my hand again? I’m putting Lefty in a splint too. I’ve seen what she can do when she’s pissed and I’d rather air dry after going to the bathroom then go through that hell again.

Photo Journal

Broken Wrist Opens Eyes

A week ago tonight I broke my right wrist while playing soccer.

I am right handed and feel as if my eyes have been opened.

It’s only a cast and waterproof at that.

Regardless, it is a loud and frustrating barrier to life as I knew it.

Typing this is already pissing me off. I’m using my left hand as usual and my right middle finger for all right handed letters. It is deeply satisfying using that finger, by the way.

As I share some of the things I struggled to do within the past few days let me be clear about something. Even though the forearm is casted it is still very sore, meaning pressure and hard movement can be painful. In addition, the top of the cast is just high enough that it prevents me from being able to comfortably bend it when reaching for the right side of my neck, face or torso. I also can’t grip anything because, well, because there is a hard fiberglass barrier between index finger and thumb. This explains why I’m not relying on the cast itself as a tool. Because it hurts the limb INSIDE it!! Now for my complaint list:

- Pulling apart and zipping a zip-loc baggie

- Opening and closing child-proof pill bottles

- Writing and typing

- Using a can opener

- Eating with a fork and cutting with a knife (hint: accept that you will drop food and sometimes miss your mouth completely when using left hand and that you will simply eat less, which is actually a glorious silver lining)

- Steering a car

- Putting my hair up in a clip or pony tail (gives new meaning to the word “tendril”)

- Putting on makeup with your non-dominant hand… Try it tomorrow ladies, I dare you.

- Putting deodorant on your left arm pit or, for that matter, washing your left pit

- Brushing teeth and flossing (teeth just suffer with leftie but those Oral B “one hit" plastic flossers had to be designed by a one armed person….LOVE them)

- Tying anything

- Cutting watermelon (there are, like, only four chunks after my efforts and they look like Steve Buscemi’s teeth)

- Buttons

- Opening jars (hint: hold jar between ribs and right bicep and pray the jar isn’t full)

- Picking up an obnoxious, pushy, demanding and absolutely adorable cat (hint: allow her Majesty to use the cast as a seat while resting her forearms on your shoulder)

- Making a bed with a fitted sheet (curse and then threaten your children if they don’t do it for you)

- Cutting anything with scissors (buy stock in Pampered Chef because I’ll be damned if those ambidextrous kitchen shears aren’t truly multi-arm capable!! Those rank above the Oral B flossers)

- Changing out the trash (hint: whine until someone else does it for you)

- Door knobs ( hint: stop trying to open the door with casted hand while holding the phone and car keys in the other and accept that multiple trips are required)

- Using the bathroom…. I DARE you to do this for a week. You are only allowed to wipe with your non-dominant hand AND you must pull your pants up and down with one hand. I’m laughing just picturing it (a maniacal laugh, but a laugh just the same).

These are just items off the top of my head.

Bottom line? It sucks.

I didn’t mention the itching. Or the aching. Or the smell that would start to permeate were this a non-waterproof cast. Or the sleepless nights because I can’t get comfortable. Or the side effects from the pain medication I took the first few days.

Now let me tell you what would really suck.

Losing a limb permanently.

Living life bound to a wheelchair.

Being born with a debilitating disease such as Osteogenesis Imperfecta.

For Jodi Picoult lovers, this is the disease highlighted in “Handle With Care”. Better known as “brittle bones”, the genetic disorder is characterized by bones that break easily, sometimes from no obvious causes and sometimes from simply moving the wrong way.

My family is familiar with this disease because my cousin Rachael has lived with it for 35 years.

There is, quite frankly, no way to completely paint an accurate picture of the hell this disease has wreaked upon her small frame.

Rachael was born with double digit fractures to her tiny body.

Read that again. Double digit breaks of her precious infant bones. She looked as if she had been beaten before ever taking a first breath. Rachael’s skull was described by doctors as “crackling” and with more severe cases such as Rachael's some of the fractures could have occurred in-utero even.

Childhood years were spent in body casts. I repeat: BODY casts… in addition to multiple arm and leg casts. You see, Rachael could break her hip from something as simple as rolling over.

I remember accompanying Rachael and her mother to the Shriner’s Hospital in St. Louis during my sophomore year in college when the first rod was placed in her back. I never understood the amount of pain she was in and we teased her for hitting the morphine button repeatedly after the allowed doses had already been given. I’m fairly certain there was nothing funny about it to Rachael.

She still has a steel rod in her back as well as one in her leg. She broke her left tibia and actually bent the first rod (a subsequent second and third had to be inserted). The worst break she remembers, though, was the femur and all of the injuries seem to ache long after they are supposed to have healed.

Rachael has never passed the 5’0 mark in height and one leg is a full 5+ inches shorter than the other one. Imagine trying to buy shoes. She requires a specially made and very expensive lift in order to equalize the lengths of her legs.

No, insurance doesn’t cover the lifts. As a result, Rachael will wear one pair of shoes until the pair becomes old and worn out. Only then will she purchase a new pair.

Look in your closets and count. How many pairs of shoes do you own? I’m almost ashamed of my stash; I love shoes.

Attending a wedding? She wears her one pair, which have always been tennis shoes. They are, after all, pragmatic.

Let’s be real, though. Shoes are one thing but the daily pain from dozens of bone breaks has taken a harsh toll and there isn’t a single day that Rachael doesn't hurt.

Sometimes it is tolerable…other times it is all she can do to get from the bed to the couch. If the barometric pressure changes outside her bones will sound the alert. There are physical scars and body memories…phantom reminders of past fractures.

This tiny little hiccup has left me thinking about Rachael daily: each time my injury aches, I struggle with arm mobility, and when I catch myself thinking “it’s only 4-6 weeks”.

Osteogenesis Imperfecta (or “OI”) and other disabilities don’t “go away”. There is no light at the end of the tunnel.

But every day those struggling with diseases we cannot even begin to fathom (the ALS Bucket Challenge has been an amazing catalyst) get up and face their monster head on. Rachael, bravely and against her doctor’s recommendation (she is affectionately and by personality and necessity fairly stubborn), is the mother of two healthy kids. She is happily married to a man who loves her and who wasn’t afraid of OI.

We can all learn from their strength and perseverance.

When you walk across a room, use both hands freely, speak without struggling to get the words out, or bend over without giving your back a second thought take the time to smile.

When you see someone with a disability give them a nod of admiration and respect.

Good health is a precious, precious gift. Cherish and nurture it.

Resources: http://www.oif.org

World's Tallest Water Slide

It’s official: I am insane!!

“r u Insane?” is the mantra of Schlitterbahn’s water slide, the Verruckt. The funny part? I’ve been saying “Are you freaking insane?” whenever I’ve seen footage of the slide, not realizing this was the actual mantra and not realizing I was going to ride it.

Seriously, it’s Barbara Kempf’s fault. She has no fear, none. The day she invited me and the kids to join her at the park (her daughter Gabrielle works at Schlitterbahn and we were grateful recipients of guest pass fees) I knew I was in trouble when I said “are you doing the water slide?”

Barb, in her typical no-nonsense way, responded “of course.”

There was no way in hell I could go now and not do it.

All week long I found myself mumbling “damnit Barb”. Verruckt was there, hanging out in the back of my mind, and the words “r u insane?” creeping in.

When footage was first released in the local media about this slide I promised myself I would never ride it. Nope, no one can make me.

On Thursday, I found myself in the first line at Schlitterbahn, waiting for them to open. A cute young woman, sporting a blue Schlitterbahn shirt, gathered us around and began the lecture. When the doors opened, we were directed to follow her all the way to the back of the park if we wanted to ride the slide. She was VERY firm, stating “if you move ahead of me, push forward, or pass me on the way to the back your ticket will be revoked, your arm band removed, and you will be kicked out of the park for the remainder of the day with no refund!!”

Clearly people have been serious about this ride. Sheesh.

When we reached the ride there were two additional lines. I hate lines.

Let’s just get one thing out in the open: this is the most inefficient process I’ve ever seen.

Moving on…

The first line took thirty minutes. At the end, our threesome (Verruckt requires three riders at a time) of Marah, me and Barb found ourselves on a large scale to see if our combined weight would allow us to ride together. Whew, green light.

We then had to get into a second line. Twenty minutes later we were on the schedule for 4:00 pm.

At 3:50 sharp we hopped into line with four other sets of three. The same girl who weighed us in the morning was still there (aren’t there child labor laws in Kansas?) and she weighed us again; still a green light.

She then proceeded to read through what seemed like ten pages of instructions re: our own liability so quickly that it sounded like an auctioneer. We all nodded dumbly in agreement when she said “just nod”. It is highly possible she said something like “over half of all rides have resulted in the death, dismemberment, or decapitation of participants; do you still release Schlitterbahn from any and all liability?” and we still nodded “yes”. Because we couldn’t understand a damn thing she said.

The hardest part of the ride then ensued. We hiked 168’7” up, which included 264 steps. If you have any type of physical disability, pulmonary issues, or are simply waaaaay out of shape then you might want to avoid this ride. Here’s another thing to consider: the heavier your threesome weighs the faster you will fly down the slide (and the longer it will take to make that walk to the top). We were a feather-weight crew compared to some of the groups I saw.

Honestly, it wasn’t that bad and there were plenty of landings to stop and rest along the way. The steps have nets around them and nets over the top so I felt pretty safe as long as I didn’t look down. Barb, however, took great pleasure in stopping to point out local Kansas City sites as we rose. I don’t hate heights but I don’t immerse myself in them either. She’s a sadist and, at one point, told me to cover my ears because she wanted to share something with Marah that she thought might frighten me. I still haven’t asked what it was.

Management had included emergency buttons for those experiencing nausea/dizziness/cardiac arrest and there were signs letting us know we had passed the height of The Statue of Liberty, Niagara Falls….it honestly doesn’t look that high when you are standing below it!

We arrived at the top and I took comfort in the fact I couldn’t see over the edge. I pitied the young boy behind us, though. He looked about Brody’s age (9) and was, quite frankly, softly crying. His dad was leaneding down, encouraging him to go through with this insanity.

Honestly, I’m not sure how I would’ve handled it if it had been Brody (who was below absolutely seething because I thought he was too short to meet the guidelines; in all honesty, knowing my kid, he would’ve had no problem going over the edge). Part of me was ticked at the dad. The other part of me felt certain this kiddo insisted on riding and then panicked at the top. For the record, he DID go down the slide and at the end was downright giddy.

Our turn came and after saying a cheery hello to my best friend’s nephew (who looked at me like I was weird; okay, I’ll accept that because I AM a little weird) we climbed into the tube.

Marah and Barb were strapped in by staff but before they could get to me the tube began to move forward. Towards the edge, like it was going to take a dive.

I panicked, yelling “I’m not strapped in, someone strap me!!!” Folks in the line started laughing at me, pointing and saying “do you see her face?”

Assholes. Easy to laugh when you aren’t the one on top of Mount Everest getting ready to fly off the edge!

I continued begging “Seriously, strap me in!! Somebody strap me in NOW!!!”

My friend’s nephew was cracking up and his partner laughed, saying “we’ve been waiting to do that to someone all day!”**

With that, our tube moved forward, the bar lifted, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

The first thing you notice is how long it takes to tip straight down. Within the first blink of an eye I knew, could FEEL, that we were literally free falling STRAIGHT DOWN. The tube wasn’t touching the slide.

Then I felt the slide and peeked. Holy shit. I was looking straight down and it must’ve been at this moment we hit 65 miles per hour.

You can’t scream. I mean, literally, you physically can’t scream. The force propelling you straight towards the ground won’t allow you to scream. If you needed to vomit, you couldn’t. So in the midst of this insanity, there was complete and total silence. Except for the wind, of course.

I squeezed my eyes shut again. Yes, I’m a coward.

The drop took three seconds. Three amazing and adrenaline inspiring seconds.

Then we hit the bottom and in that moment our voices worked again. We shrieked, hollering, as upward momentum propelled us over the five story hill. Roller coaster enthusiasts will be able to relate to the “holy cripes I’m flying out of my seat” feeling that ensued when we hit the top of the hill.

As we careened down the last slope I couldn’t believe the screaming voice shouting “THAT WAS AWESOME!!!”

Then I realized it was my own. I couldn’t quit yelling, locking eyes with the staff member at the bottom and trying to make him understand “that was so awesome!! I want to do it again!”

He just smiled, shook his head, and waited for us to get out of the tube. Guess he’s heard it before.

Getting out wasn’t quite so easy. My legs were quivering. I started to stand and had to sit back down again. Taking a deep breath, I tried it again, this time managing to stay upright. I looked at Marah, asking if her legs were quivering.

When the daredevil teenager who often looks at you as if you are the biggest weirdo dork in the world sheepishly says “um, yeah” then you KNOW you’ve done something pretty cool.

My back was a little sore and those legs remained quivering for a short while. Even so, I would do it again in a heartbeat. It was that awesome.

Make plans to visit Schlitterbahn.

I dare you.

** I hereby release from liability Schlitterbahn staff members who pranked me; being a family friend let them know I was prankable and no injury or PTSD has and/or will result from said pranking. Does this legally get them off the hook if Schlitterbahn officials read this blog? Here's hoping....

Yeah, It Sucks To Lose Someone You Love

It has been 40 days. And I’m doing okay, really, I am.

Each one of you has either experienced the death of someone very close to you or, let’s face it, you will. This was my second “biggie”, so to speak. I thought I was ready.

When my grandmother Mary Jean died four years ago I was surprised when Homecare Hospice started sending me things in the mail. How in the hell did they even get my address or name? Somehow, they learned that I was one of her children (okay, most of you know the story well but for those first time readers who don’t….my maternal grandparents raised me, from the age of five).

I’ll be honest. I threw away everything Hospice sent me. Honestly, I didn’t need a pamphlet to tell me I was grieving or to give me permission to cry, be angry, or shut down. Besides, I felt “okay” then just like I feel “okay” now.

Maybe that's a little untrue. Maybe losing my Grandmother tested me as I never expected; tore my heart in ways for which I wasn't prepared. I mean, come on. Most mothers love us like no other human on the planet can love us, right? My champion, biggest fan and rock was gone. Forever. Period.

“Okay” doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell. “Okay” doesn’t mean I don’t feel the loss of them in my life every. Single. Day. Or that I don’t sometimes find myself looking up, tears in my eyes, whispering “I can’t believe you are gone; I wasn’t ready!”

“Okay” doesn’t mean that I don’t sometimes gasp when remembering I will never. Ever. See them again.

Just typing those words make it hard to breathe.

“Okay” does mean that I push through the pain and have a pretty solid mental understanding of the processes and of the inevitability of loss in all of our lives. Pragmatically, I also understand that I was blessed to have had both of my (grand)parents until they were almost 90 years old. If fate were to be so unkind as to take my spouse, children, or best friends some time soon I might not see things so pragmatically. In fact, I’m not sure I could ever write about it.

So why am I writing about my Grandparents? Today I received a third mailing from Homecare Hospice since Grandpa Delbert died 40 short days ago (but who’s counting?).

Instead of throwing the papers away I decided to read them. After all, I had a small breakdown today while driving. It was prompted by the Fairway KU Med office, which we we passed while driving down Shawnee Mission Parkway. My Grandfather’s much adored sleep specialist from KU, Dr. Stevens, has relocated there and his next appointment would have been at this office.

Sometimes I forget how quickly the pain punches you in the chest.

Marah looked away. She’s seen it a few times before. Once, about six months after Mary Jean died, we pulled into the garage and a song came on the radio. The punch felt the same as today’s punch: squeezing my lungs, burning my eyes, clenching my throat. She was nine, Brody’s age, and simply looked at me and said “you are missing Grandma, aren’t you?”. Out of the mouth of babes…

The literature from Homecare Hospice talked about grief, techniques to get through it and pathways to peace and wholeness. What it has done for me today is to reaffirm that what I’m doing is healthy, at least for me personally.

Here’s the deal. I’m a talker, big time. I’m not a talker about my deep feelings, however. I don’t need to be. I write about them. So I’m doing that today.

I’m a hoarder; a hoarder of family mementos. If it’s a photo of my Grandparents, it’s been preserved. If it was an item given to me by them, I’ve saved it. Not only have I saved it, but I get it out. I touch it, hold it, close my eyes and try to imagine the item's place in their past.

Several years ago my Grandfather bequeathed me something he had made when just seventeen years old. Two pieces of wood with a hole drilled in each and a chain linked through them. On one he had carved “Mary Jean” and on the other “Chinker”. They were companion “necklaces” before the days of Claires “BFF” matching heart necklaces. These pieces of wood are so much better. Grandpa’s school nickname was Chinker. He made these during the earliest days of their love affair. I find myself holding them frequently lately, closing my hands around them while letting the grief wash over me.

The Hospice literature says to let yourself grieve. I cry when I need to but I shut it down quickly. I don’t let it consume me. Okay, that’s not true. On a few occasions, when I’m alone and have a little bit of time, I’ll let it wash over and blanket me. I’ll sob, deep, wracking sobs. And it feels good, almost like a workout. When I’m done, I quietly tell them I miss them and I move forward. I think this is okay.

I have one of her cotton bathrobes, the knee length zip up kind she used to wear while making breakfast. I hold it to my face and try to breathe in her scent. There is no smell anymore…after four years, it is gone. But my grandfather’s Dickie jump suit still smells like him and I covet it now. Mary Jean taught me that the smell will leave; I want to bottle his smell because when it goes I’ll have to experience a small amount of loss again.

It’s okay to keep these possessions, really, it is. If you are reading this, sniffling because you’ve done the same thing, KNOW THAT IT IS OKAY.

Hospice mentioned that grief can strengthen relationships when others reach out. I was blown away at the level of support provided by friends, old and new. Argue all you want about small town versus big town. I’m here to tell you both are filled with amazing people. I’m blessed to have experienced old friends who reached out, after decades, to hold me. I am also blessed to have met some of the most amazing people in my “post” small town life. Friends who made a two hour drive and showed up, unexpected, to extend their shoulders and hearts on my behalf.

Of all the things we need to get through grief, this is the most important: people who love you and who will be there for you without being asked. I’d like to name each of you, but you know who you are and, most importantly, you have my deep and abiding gratitude. You also have my promise. I will be there for you when you need me because I’ll know you need me. I’ve been on the needing end now and it humbles, teaches, wakes you.

The literature also says to create a new relationship with your deceased loved one, a non-physical one of the heart, mind and spirit. This means incorporating your loved ones values and passions into your own life and passing them on to others.

In order to do this, I’m taking a long look at my relationship with my husband and with my children. What better way to pass on their love than to start with the three most important people in my life?

Our generations are worlds apart. We are busier, less connected. When I look back on the lives of my grandparents, this is glaringly apparent.

Things weren’t perfect. My grandmother struggled with deep feelings of inadequacy and low self-esteem. She questioned her intelligence because she didn’t go to college. She was the quintessential housewife who never, ever, put herself first and who never experienced a “girls night out” in her life. But my Grandfather also made her the focal point of everything in his life. He didn’t engage in “boys night out” either, at least not in their middle aged years and later. Maybe they should have...who knows. What I do know, having been their child, is that my home was solid, dependable, and they were always there. Every night. Every weekend. Every time I needed them.

I don’t want to be June Cleaver, I truly don’t. But I do want to take time to reflect on how today’s values have maybe impacted how I treat my kids and husband. We are the generation of parents who have to ask two, three, four times “what did you say?” because we are reading a text and missed our child’s question. Mary Jean never had to ask me to repeat a question because she wasn’t listening.

They weren’t perfect, not at all. But the hospice literature has reminded me that they were pretty damn close.

The one thing I haven’t done yet to help conquer the grief is incorporate their values into my own life. Sure, some of those values were instilled and are a part of me without trying. If I am honest, however, I fall woefully short in other ways. I know which ways….I don’t have to write about them….I just have to work on them.

And if I do? Maybe the next 40 days will be easier.

So thanks Hospice. Keep spending the postage. Some of us can use the message.