2 months ago exactly, The Youngest Boy got another trip to the ER.
This time it was different.
This time his status card moved from a Level 3 (reserved for such afflictions as the common cold and Nursemaid's Elbow) to a Level 1 (indicating something serious) in less than 10 minutes.
This time, he almost didn't get to come home.
But, in true The Youngest Boy-style, and a whole lotta good doctoring - He bounced back.
Parents - do yourselves a hugantic favor and learn the signs of an appendicitis. Err on the side of caution and take your kiddos in. My little guy wouldn't be on the couch crying every time he laughed if I had just listened to him. At some point in the 5 days of complaints of pain with fever, vomiting, and diarrhea his appendix swelled so largely that it burst and then became infected. That infection then filled his body and damn near killed him. After 5 days in the hospital, he came home on a picc line. Prior to the hospital trip, he couldn't stand, eat, or drink and looked like death. I've been scared in my life. I've been terrified in my life. Nothing I've ever been through has ever held a candle to this moment. The infection was very tough but my little The Youngest Boy is pretty tough too. He fought back while ordering every item on the room service menu and cracking hilarious jokes in an uncomfortable hospital bed. Making the best of every second and finding the joy in every moment.
Darling Husband and I were bedside for the first 48 hours. Then, the remaining days , it was just me. We did our best to calm fear, provide assurance, and comfort. We couldn't afford to both take time off, so Darling Husband had to go. The Youngest Boy remained in good spirits for most of it. Though, there was a lot of pain and a lot of uncomfortable procedures. I can't imagine a second away from him. I would have felt like a failure. Darling Husband and The Oldest held the fort down at home. They cared for The Middle Son and Mini-Me and did grocery shopping and managed a visit that lifted our spirits high. For Darling Husband, it was never a question. He came through and didn't let us down. Some incredible friends brought food and boredom busters. The Youngest Boy's class made him cards that his best friend brought over to him.
On the first morning of The Youngest Boy's' admittance, I did the legally obligated thing and I notified his "father" (a term I will permanently use loosely and with aversion and contempt). I tried his number. Of course, no answer. Texts to no fruition. Then, I messaged his niece. An hour later, he called back. I explained what all was going on.
"Well, keep me posted."
Seriously? Keep yourself posted, asshole. It's your son. Make the effort. But no. This is how he works. Always has been. It's someone else's fault that he can't be here. Everyone gets the blame but him. Usually me. And you know what? I WILL OWN IT. Damn straight we're divorced. Damn straight I wouldn't let him use me. Damn straight I wanted better for myself and my kids. And we got it.
I honestly don't care what his side is. He doesn't get one. The Youngest Boy is the only one who has a side in this. He was scared and things were touch and go for a while. And where was his "father"? 1,312 miles away. He only knows that he loves his daddy. He just knows that he wanted all of us next to him knowing that we care. He is just an innocent little boy that can only see the light and goodness in other people. He is so pure hearted and loving that he doesn't see what an astronomical piece of shit he is. He has called a few times to talk to The Youngest Boy and Mini-Me. He knows better than to ask for The Oldest or The Middle Son as they have felt the inevitable burn of his irresponsibility.
Yesterday, he finally was well enough to have the appendix removed. We spent another night in another hospital room and my little guy starts another recovery. Again, spirits high and jokes plentiful. He's currently watching another YouTube video and playing Minecraft with his little sister. And another night that the phone doesn't ring. This time, it went unnoticed.
At 8 years old, he has suffered so much monumental disappointment with his "father" that he didn't even ask for him. He didn't notice the omitted phone call. I just can't imagine being able to live with myself after letting this marvelous blonde haired, blue eyed cherub down in such a profound way. Let alone having the audacity of making my Facebook cover a photograph of myself with my abandoned children. And to have the grit to accept compliments on my parenthood skills?
Tonight, I got out the thesaurus - literally - to see if I could unearth the term for this unwordable word. Notwithstanding my diligence - I am left empty handed.
Showing posts with label douche. Show all posts
Showing posts with label douche. Show all posts
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Is something truly better than nothing?
(Sorry folks, I'm working on the funny one next.... gotta get this out)
There’s a funny hair that grows on your left shoulder. It used to annoy me so I’d pull it out. I know where that scar on your cheek came from. I was there. And I was scared to death but I never put the camera down. You’d give me a signal if something were really wrong. The shirt I got you for Christmas last year lies in a crumpled heap on the floor by the door next to her shoes. It’s got a flock of ravens on the back symbolic of me. I remember when you broke your tooth in that match with Iron Man. In a sick form of love and adoration I tried to find it “for the archives”. I knew you’d want it. The frames leaning against the wall hold pictures that we picked out together for our living room of our once happy home. Now, those poetic trees will look down on you, providing visual shelter, as you hold her. A solitary photograph of our children hangs in the center of the wall. Their innocent smiles frozen in time with their trusting eyes looking back at you. We were in the room that day coaxing them into the perfect pose. She will never hold these thoughts and memories the way I do. Instead she holds you.
In years past and months recent I’ve felt the first movements of life of the children that call you “Daddy”. I see you & I when I look at them. The perfect blend of our best features combined with interesting personalities. They have names and a consciousness. The Oldest shares our warped sense of humor. The Middle Son has my eyes but your build, The Youngest Boy has your hair and eyes and my arms and legs. Mini-Me has your eyelashes and iris’ identical to your shade of blue. She has my coal black hair. Not a day goes by that I don’t remember. It’s comforting and haunting all at once. They are pieces of us carrying on their own lives. I wonder if you ever see them that way too. Or are you able to separate?
I’ve been ignored and kissed and loved and hated and left and found and lost and pushed. Any other person and I’d say no. You enter my lungs and I can feel you hit my bloodstream. You flow through my veins. When it’s finished sometimes I don’t feel the exhilaration of satisfaction but the primal fear that I’ll never feel it again. Hours, minutes and seconds go by and I frenziedly hang on to every shred of evidence of you until the new fix arrives. On the exterior you see a cold fish with an empty gaze. Inside I’m melting without your freezing touch. And I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
I’m your alarm clock. I hold your wallet and your past. I keep tucked inside my soul the number of the hospital room you were in for surgery. I’m overflowing with your deepest secrets, protected health information and your high school mascot. I’m good to fill out a form and not letting you fall (hard). I sit next to you, stand beside you, lie beneath you – even in our darkest hours. Answering every call, anticipating every text – knowing that when the next doesn’t come it’s because she is getting my reward for being a good wife. I’m there at 2 a.m. so that you aren’t alone. I’m on the other end of the line at all hours of the night when she is busy. In my head this is more than I’ve had. Each song you send me is filled with confused hope of normal. You kiss me goodbye as I walk you to the door following secret rendezvous couplings in the dark where you act the part of loving husband. In the morning you are not mine. And I miss you. But I hate you with love so deep and passionate that even Homer couldn’t put it into words.
What’s it like for you in there? Do you think of me too? Do you look at me and see a ghost or do you see corporeally? Is touching me a dream come true? Or am I just another thing to use and place upon a shelf? I see love in your smile sometimes. I pray that you’ll realize the greatness of the family we have built. I’m on my knees behind doors closed screaming to God prayers that you’ll put down your weapon, back away from her slowly and decide not to commit this heinous robbery. I’d tell you that it’s not too late to walk in the door and start moving forward again. But I’d be whispering into the winds of a hurricane.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Freedom
When I was a little girl.. around 7 or so... my biological mother met a man who would change me. I was not just your average straight "A" student. In the 2nd grade I was promoted to 3rd. I was under evaluation for the gifted programs. I had a pink bedroom. I loved to dress up and look pretty. E.T. lived in my closet. Riding bikes was my favorite pastime. I loved Little House on the Prairie. My shoes always had to match my dress. My hair was brushed every day. I read my Bible every night. My "parents" made me feel like the smartest, most beautiful girl in the world. I'd had my share of rough patches but overall - I was the smart, pretty girl that everyone loved. And I felt worthy.
This man came along and wooed my (bio) mother. She hadn't been with anyone since my (bio) father left when I was 3. She was putty in his hands. Things moved rather quickly from there. Dates quickly became an engagement. The warning signs were there and my parents fought with my (bio) mom. They noticed hickies on my neck. Bite marks. All of a sudden I wasn't an outgoing little girl anymore. I stopped doing my homework. I withdrew. He liked to hit me a lot and call me names that I didn't understand. But he liked to kiss me too. I didn't understand those either.
My (bio) mother stopped letting me see my parents due to these fights. They fought for custody. Instead it ended with visitation every other weekend. Then my (bio) mom just stopped picking me up. One day during the summer of 1986 I was outside playing with my friends. I hadn't seen (bio) mom in a long time. Felt like ages when you are that little. I looked up and saw her smiling face. And I ran to her with no shoes on. Then she ran with me. He was in a car around the corner waiting with his green teeth and his crooked smile that made my stomach turn. I cried but it didn't matter. He made it very clear what would happen to me if my "wetback" mouth didn't shut up. I cried for hours anyway. He tied me to a chair in the living room of my mom's apartment that night. He beat me so badly that I stopped crying. Just so it would end. I don't know how long I was in that chair. My mom came home later and got me out.
Lots of days were like this. I was able to go home a few times. There were lots of fights. My parents - him - my (bio) mom - him - police..... It didn't matter. Nothing saved me. By this time I had a baby sister, Bean. She was beautiful. And squirmy. And I didn't know what to do with her but mom would have to work. So I took care of her. Our parents would send us toys and he'd sell them. They would call and he'd hang up. They'd come to see me at school but I wasn't there anymore. Angie was left in my arms a majority of the time. Looking back I can't remember how I did it. There are lots of memories there. None of which I think I can share. But I was smart enough to try to get help. Unfortunately, my voice wasn't heard in time. My sisters suffered. I suffered.
Several years later he served time in prison for what he did. A year. Seems rather short for stealing the innocence of 3 little girls. The damage was done. I shut down. I had nightmares where he was trying to rape me again. If I had a boyfriend I'd have flashbacks and get confused as to who was kissing me. Killing myself seemed like the only way out. I tried. My parents couldn't help. He came to our house once. He called often. In response I'd cut my arms. He stole my self confidence. He robbed me of my self esteem, my self worth. Even now - 25 years later- the damage is still at the surface. I still feel it. He got his karmic repercussions quite a bit over the last few years but nothing in comparison.
Have you ever taken a narcotic pain killer - for a toothache or some such malady - and actually felt the pain leave your body? You know, that instant that the pain you had is gone? That's what I felt when I read his name in the obituary section of today's paper. I'll never get back what was taken. But I'll sleep better knowing I no longer share oxygen with him. He will never lay eyes on my sisters, my (bio) mom, my kids - anything again. I may put on a pretty dress, make a nice dinner and pour a glass of wine and toast to FREEDOM.
This man came along and wooed my (bio) mother. She hadn't been with anyone since my (bio) father left when I was 3. She was putty in his hands. Things moved rather quickly from there. Dates quickly became an engagement. The warning signs were there and my parents fought with my (bio) mom. They noticed hickies on my neck. Bite marks. All of a sudden I wasn't an outgoing little girl anymore. I stopped doing my homework. I withdrew. He liked to hit me a lot and call me names that I didn't understand. But he liked to kiss me too. I didn't understand those either.
My (bio) mother stopped letting me see my parents due to these fights. They fought for custody. Instead it ended with visitation every other weekend. Then my (bio) mom just stopped picking me up. One day during the summer of 1986 I was outside playing with my friends. I hadn't seen (bio) mom in a long time. Felt like ages when you are that little. I looked up and saw her smiling face. And I ran to her with no shoes on. Then she ran with me. He was in a car around the corner waiting with his green teeth and his crooked smile that made my stomach turn. I cried but it didn't matter. He made it very clear what would happen to me if my "wetback" mouth didn't shut up. I cried for hours anyway. He tied me to a chair in the living room of my mom's apartment that night. He beat me so badly that I stopped crying. Just so it would end. I don't know how long I was in that chair. My mom came home later and got me out.
Lots of days were like this. I was able to go home a few times. There were lots of fights. My parents - him - my (bio) mom - him - police..... It didn't matter. Nothing saved me. By this time I had a baby sister, Bean. She was beautiful. And squirmy. And I didn't know what to do with her but mom would have to work. So I took care of her. Our parents would send us toys and he'd sell them. They would call and he'd hang up. They'd come to see me at school but I wasn't there anymore. Angie was left in my arms a majority of the time. Looking back I can't remember how I did it. There are lots of memories there. None of which I think I can share. But I was smart enough to try to get help. Unfortunately, my voice wasn't heard in time. My sisters suffered. I suffered.
Several years later he served time in prison for what he did. A year. Seems rather short for stealing the innocence of 3 little girls. The damage was done. I shut down. I had nightmares where he was trying to rape me again. If I had a boyfriend I'd have flashbacks and get confused as to who was kissing me. Killing myself seemed like the only way out. I tried. My parents couldn't help. He came to our house once. He called often. In response I'd cut my arms. He stole my self confidence. He robbed me of my self esteem, my self worth. Even now - 25 years later- the damage is still at the surface. I still feel it. He got his karmic repercussions quite a bit over the last few years but nothing in comparison.
Have you ever taken a narcotic pain killer - for a toothache or some such malady - and actually felt the pain leave your body? You know, that instant that the pain you had is gone? That's what I felt when I read his name in the obituary section of today's paper. I'll never get back what was taken. But I'll sleep better knowing I no longer share oxygen with him. He will never lay eyes on my sisters, my (bio) mom, my kids - anything again. I may put on a pretty dress, make a nice dinner and pour a glass of wine and toast to FREEDOM.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
It's Just Like Starting Over
Last Thanksgiving I spent with Ex Douchebag. Boy was it a doozy. I had received a call from his mistress' father informing me of his 18 year old daughter's affair with my husband just the day before. I was still a little shaken up and hurt. I had already known but hearing from the girls dad was just a little more than I was expecting. But I spent the holiday with this gut feeling that it would be our last. We conceived our daughter that night though.
Fast forward to a year later, 2010. This was my first holiday feast prepared for on my own, without my husband. Don't get me wrong - I had help if I wanted it. My sister, my friends and the few slivers of family I have left all offered to help. This was something that I just had to do myself. It was empowering. Little by little I have been taking back the control of my life. Owning Thanksgiving was therapeutic. I needed it for me.
After a struggle to get The Middle Son & The Youngest Boy to their dads (as in I struggled to get him to actually take them) I made a quick run to the store. After that I made it home to watch the parade and prepare the kitchen and the feast. The Oldest kept a watchful eye on a snoozing Mini-Me while I prepped the 22# bird we nicknamed "Evil Dr. Porkchop". Naming the turkey has been a tradition of ours for years. I feel that we should become acquainted prior to me shoving a hand up its carcass. Sometimes we give him a back story too. This year I made the mistake of purchasing an aluminum roasting pan from the Dollar Store. A mistake that would prove to be near devastating later. I plopped Evil Dr. Porkchop into the pan and gingerly placed his mass into the oven. As I slide the pan back onto the grate the cheap pan rips and I failed to notice until AFTER I started pouring in the water. Well shit. Water all over the inside of the oven. Go me! Here comes trip #2 to the store. I purchased some oven roasting bags as a solution to the pan problem. In my head I just figured I would throw the turkey in the bag and place it in the ripped pan. It's not like the bag would explode or anything, right? HA!
The Oldest and I watched his idol, Alton Brown, atop the turkey float dressed as a pilgrim. It was fantastic. I was a bit off schedule. Normally, I would cook the turkey over night. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I shut my alarm off at 1 a.m. and opted to wait til morning. We did the veggie prep, made the deviled eggs and started working on the house cleaning as well. I knock at the door revealed my biological mother (a paranoid schizophrenic) and her boyfriend, (a Romanian refugee) had arrived early to assist. After several hours of prep and another trip to the grocery store it was time to poke Evil Dr. Porkchop. I explained to BM's BF the joys and wonders of a roasting bag as he had never seen one before and he was intrigued. The bag appeared to be full of juice and Evil Dr. Porkchop was smelling tasty! The bag was so full that it was hanging over the side of the pan. As I shut the oven door it happened. Just then the bag touched the oven wall and melted. The juices, containing butter, hit the heating element in the bottom of the oven and burst into flames. I quickly turned off the oven and intercepted BM's BF carrying a large glass of water just before he tossed it onto the flames. After several minutes the flames rose up thru the oven vent, out the door and screaming ensued. Not mine mind you! Finally the fire subdued and BM's BF & I managed to extract the turkey without incident. To my amazement, damage was minimal and Evil Dr. Porkchop was done! Imagine what would have happened had I done that in the middle of the night?
Honestly, I felt like I could overcome any obstacle in my way after that. I went on to complete a meal for 12 people and dropped the laborious stuffing into the floor. Ex Douchebag dropped the kids off at 6 and I looked at him for the first time with new eyes. I didn't miss him. Or long for him to hold me again. Instead, pity replaced love. He looked worn, sad and pathetic. I'm not sure how, after all I've been through, but I feel sorry for him. I think the stress is taking it's toll on him. And for once I don't feel responsible for causing it or fixing it. So I sat down at the table, in my new dining room, by the fire, next to friends and family and didn't give him another thought. I just kept thinking that I'm blessed beyond measure. It's amazing what 365 days can bring. Liberation, freedom and a new path full of anxiety and excitement.
The moral of the story: Don't buy pans at the dollar store. :-)
Fast forward to a year later, 2010. This was my first holiday feast prepared for on my own, without my husband. Don't get me wrong - I had help if I wanted it. My sister, my friends and the few slivers of family I have left all offered to help. This was something that I just had to do myself. It was empowering. Little by little I have been taking back the control of my life. Owning Thanksgiving was therapeutic. I needed it for me.
After a struggle to get The Middle Son & The Youngest Boy to their dads (as in I struggled to get him to actually take them) I made a quick run to the store. After that I made it home to watch the parade and prepare the kitchen and the feast. The Oldest kept a watchful eye on a snoozing Mini-Me while I prepped the 22# bird we nicknamed "Evil Dr. Porkchop". Naming the turkey has been a tradition of ours for years. I feel that we should become acquainted prior to me shoving a hand up its carcass. Sometimes we give him a back story too. This year I made the mistake of purchasing an aluminum roasting pan from the Dollar Store. A mistake that would prove to be near devastating later. I plopped Evil Dr. Porkchop into the pan and gingerly placed his mass into the oven. As I slide the pan back onto the grate the cheap pan rips and I failed to notice until AFTER I started pouring in the water. Well shit. Water all over the inside of the oven. Go me! Here comes trip #2 to the store. I purchased some oven roasting bags as a solution to the pan problem. In my head I just figured I would throw the turkey in the bag and place it in the ripped pan. It's not like the bag would explode or anything, right? HA!
The Oldest and I watched his idol, Alton Brown, atop the turkey float dressed as a pilgrim. It was fantastic. I was a bit off schedule. Normally, I would cook the turkey over night. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I shut my alarm off at 1 a.m. and opted to wait til morning. We did the veggie prep, made the deviled eggs and started working on the house cleaning as well. I knock at the door revealed my biological mother (a paranoid schizophrenic) and her boyfriend, (a Romanian refugee) had arrived early to assist. After several hours of prep and another trip to the grocery store it was time to poke Evil Dr. Porkchop. I explained to BM's BF the joys and wonders of a roasting bag as he had never seen one before and he was intrigued. The bag appeared to be full of juice and Evil Dr. Porkchop was smelling tasty! The bag was so full that it was hanging over the side of the pan. As I shut the oven door it happened. Just then the bag touched the oven wall and melted. The juices, containing butter, hit the heating element in the bottom of the oven and burst into flames. I quickly turned off the oven and intercepted BM's BF carrying a large glass of water just before he tossed it onto the flames. After several minutes the flames rose up thru the oven vent, out the door and screaming ensued. Not mine mind you! Finally the fire subdued and BM's BF & I managed to extract the turkey without incident. To my amazement, damage was minimal and Evil Dr. Porkchop was done! Imagine what would have happened had I done that in the middle of the night?
Honestly, I felt like I could overcome any obstacle in my way after that. I went on to complete a meal for 12 people and dropped the laborious stuffing into the floor. Ex Douchebag dropped the kids off at 6 and I looked at him for the first time with new eyes. I didn't miss him. Or long for him to hold me again. Instead, pity replaced love. He looked worn, sad and pathetic. I'm not sure how, after all I've been through, but I feel sorry for him. I think the stress is taking it's toll on him. And for once I don't feel responsible for causing it or fixing it. So I sat down at the table, in my new dining room, by the fire, next to friends and family and didn't give him another thought. I just kept thinking that I'm blessed beyond measure. It's amazing what 365 days can bring. Liberation, freedom and a new path full of anxiety and excitement.
The moral of the story: Don't buy pans at the dollar store. :-)
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Til Death Do Us Part - or infidelity
I'm 32. I have 4 children - 3 boys and a girl. I've been with my husband for 11 years. And 2 weeks ago - he sent me divorce papers. Apparently, I'm not as fun as a teenager. Grown up life proved to be too much. He cheated, I cheated, then he cheated again and hasn't stopped yet. He left December 11, 2009. The boys and I have been left to deal with the ups and downs, cleaning up the messes and get on with life. So this is me - getting on with my life. Reluctantly.
My sons - The Oldest (14), The Middle Son (7) and The Youngest Boy (3) have been my reasons for carrying on and have provided solace when I didn't think it was possible. The 4 of us have formed this little tribe - unbreakable and delicate at the same time. In August 2010 we welcomed Mini-Me- my daughter- into the world. So go- do the math. Yep - he left 8 days after the "+" sign. But hey - we're not the first ones to go through this and we surely aren't the last. Together we have faced some interesting and frustrating obstacles. I don't know where I'd be without them.
My friends have been there for me at all hours of the night. Helping me analyze every text, call, email, visit and communication over the last 10 or so months. Up to now I'd never been the type to cry. Let alone cry uncontrollably. Definetly not the type to cry uncontrollably on people. Oh and never in public. Boy how things change. Used to be a time where I was always right. My gut was never, ever wrong. It's been an adjustment! Not only is my gut wrong but I've been more wrong than I have ever thought possible.
Anyway - my family, friends, therapist and even soon-to-be ex husband always said I should write. It's always been my dream. I don't want to pen the next Angela's Ashes or anything, nor do I want fame & fortune (at least not until the divorce is final, haha) - I just want to get it out. Sometimes it's funny. Sometimes it's angry. Sometimes it's torn, confused, hurt, tearful or astounded. It's always something. Maybe somewhere someone else will find this in the vast internet and get some inspiration.
My sons - The Oldest (14), The Middle Son (7) and The Youngest Boy (3) have been my reasons for carrying on and have provided solace when I didn't think it was possible. The 4 of us have formed this little tribe - unbreakable and delicate at the same time. In August 2010 we welcomed Mini-Me- my daughter- into the world. So go- do the math. Yep - he left 8 days after the "+" sign. But hey - we're not the first ones to go through this and we surely aren't the last. Together we have faced some interesting and frustrating obstacles. I don't know where I'd be without them.
My friends have been there for me at all hours of the night. Helping me analyze every text, call, email, visit and communication over the last 10 or so months. Up to now I'd never been the type to cry. Let alone cry uncontrollably. Definetly not the type to cry uncontrollably on people. Oh and never in public. Boy how things change. Used to be a time where I was always right. My gut was never, ever wrong. It's been an adjustment! Not only is my gut wrong but I've been more wrong than I have ever thought possible.
Anyway - my family, friends, therapist and even soon-to-be ex husband always said I should write. It's always been my dream. I don't want to pen the next Angela's Ashes or anything, nor do I want fame & fortune (at least not until the divorce is final, haha) - I just want to get it out. Sometimes it's funny. Sometimes it's angry. Sometimes it's torn, confused, hurt, tearful or astounded. It's always something. Maybe somewhere someone else will find this in the vast internet and get some inspiration.
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