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 hospital. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hospital. Show all posts
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Saturday, October 13, 2012
I'm his momma - That's why.
In 1993/1994 I met some of the greatest friends - several (shout out to my Sca) are still in my life today. It was when I found my niche. In May of 1994 I became a statistic. I was pregnant. However, I was dealing with a weight problem. I was a whopping 85 pounds and had a quiet battle with anorexia. I lost that pregnancy., which was probably a blessing in disguise. I was just a kid. My doctor was a pretty blunt man and told me that I'd never carry children if I continued on the path I was walking.
Fast forward to August 1995. I was 17. I took a pregnancy test before my first day of senior year. Positive. Maybe I'm nuts but I was excited. Scared as shit but happy. This little life brought forth change. I put down the cigarettes, skipped out on binge drinking weekends, refrained from the weed, started eating. I was too scared to tell my parents until my 5th month. But I was taking care of myself. Something in my soul changed, deeply. I was a suicidal basket case and nothing short of nuts until that stick turned blue.
The Oldest entered the world on a Tuesday afternoon in April of 1996. 8 days after I became a legal "adult". I looked down at his beautiful, fresh face. He was quiet and content. The love was immediate and overwhelming. He became my every single thing. I knew that I had to give him better than what I had. That's my baby. My dark haired, grey eyed baby. There was just one issue. On his butt. A huge mole covering one entire cheek and upper thigh. At first, we made jokes about it. Said he'd never be able to moon someone and get away with it.
At The Oldest's 4 month visit his pediatrician expressed some concern over it. She recommended a dermatology consult which we scheduled right away. I remember driving there. My hands on the wheel, trying to find my way to this office. We signed in and handed over our insurance card. He was covered by my fathers General Motors plan. We were blessed for that. We got called back to an exam room. The nurse told me to take his clothes off and place him on the table. The doctor came in and immediately asked me where my mother was. Then he started speaking into a microcassette recorder. Never really looking at me again. Never acknowledged my existence again. I tried to make sense of what he was saying into that machine. Wanted to know, to understand, to communicate. He then said something that resonated with me - "these have a high propensity to become melanoma" followed by "mother has been instructed to follow up in one year." And he walked out. I re-dressed my baby, put him back in his car seat and went to the car. I remember thinking - "Did he just say that?" I know what melanoma is. It's cancer. It's skin cancer. I sat in the car and bawled. Didn't I do it all right? I ate. I took my vitamins. I stopped working with the chemicals at school (I was in a vocational program for Printing, Photography & Art). I did something wrong. And then my thoughts jumped to "What the fuck was wrong with that doctor?" A year?! HELL NO. I had a friend from school whose step father was a dermatologist and a damned good one. So I made some calls.
The visit with this doctor was much more thorough. He counted the hundreds of spots inside the mole. He noted it's indefinite shape and multiple colors. He measured. Took pictures. Told me it was the largest he's ever seen. That's when he got very frank. He told me that this was a dangerous mole that would probably become melanoma. He referred us to a plastic surgeon and advised that I not hesitate to make the appointment. A few months later - we were in another office, on another exam table, with another doctor. A few months later - we were at Children's. I cannot describe this to you without tears pouring down my face. My precious son laid there on a little bed while an IV was started. They gave him some medicine and shortly after he was out. He was put into a crib that looked like some kind of medieval torture chamber. The rails were higher than I stood. They wheeled him to the operating room. I watched as his cage disappeared behind swinging doors. I wish I could say that was the worst of it.
An hour later, his doctor came out and told me that part one was a success. Told me that I'd need to go down and learn how to dress his incision. I walked through the doors to recovery. Saw my baby laying there, peacefully. I felt relieved. He was okay! Then the nurse came to me with a large bagful of gauze and tape and ointments. She started to explain how to clean his staples and sutures. As she spoke, she drew back the bandage and I felt my knees shake. My head started to spin. And immediately I burst into sobs. I stared at 65 staples and 75 stitches that ran the width of his mole. A portion was left unclosed for "drainage". I can't tell you how terrified I was. Terrified for my little boy who just learned to walk. I pulled myself together to hear what she had to say. Hours later - I took him home. He was his normal little self. Happy. Bouncing. Cute. Tried to jump on the bed and do normal little boy things. By the time we made it to his follow up appointment - the staples and stitches shredded through his skin. The result of being a child. We scheduled his next surgery for another 6 months out.
In that timespan, I got married to his father. He had a good job as a steel cutter. He had good insurance. We added The Oldest to his plan immediately. The scar became keloid. It swelled and burned. He had a hard time sitting down. He screamed at diaper changes. I kept telling myself that this was for his own good. Then I'd hope he would grow to forget the pain. Those days were hard. There just aren't words. In the days prior to his second surgery, I got a call from the scheduling clerk at the plastic surgeon's office. Our insurance denied the pre-certification for the surgery. This was the first time I'd ever heard the words "Pre-existing Condition". Without payment upfront surgery could not be performed. I was now 20 (barely) working in a print shop part time. I didn't have the ungodly amount of money required. I was able to work out a payment arrangement. He underwent surgery #2. I made weekly payments of half of my wages to the doctor for over a year. The next December I got my monthly statement with a $0 balance. The doctor wrote off the remainder of our bill. This man is nothing short of amazing. He's been featured on numerous television programs including Ordinary Extraordinary. I owe him so much. However, the mole was too large to remove at once. The staples and stitches from the second surgery also tore through his skin. There was a ballooning technique discussed. In the end - we opted to keep an eye on it for changes for the rest of his life.
The Oldest is now 16. I couldn't ask for a better son. He's intelligent, funny, sarcastic, witty, kinda smelly, loving, and just all out incredible. He loves to cook. Makes his younger siblings pancakes. Loves a girl. Doesn't clean his room. Makes his baby sister watch Blue's Clues. I love him so much. He saved my life and I wouldn't want to spend a second of my life without him. He's a great big brother. Everything you could ask for in a son - it's right there. One day - his exam might come back bad. It's a fear that lives in my mind and weighs on my shoulders and sinks my heart. I'm petrified to take him to the doctor. Someday he won't be covered by my insurance. He won't qualify for Medicaid. And some executive sitting behind a desk may print a form letter explaining how they have to, regrettably, deny coverage of anything related to that mole and "pre-existing condition" smattered somewhere on the clean, crisp sheet of paper. We will have to figure out how to pay to save his life or hold his hand while he writhes in pain and suffers and slips away.
When you are all debating political horseshit - remember this. For me, it's real. When I hear "repeal Obamacare" this is what I feel. It's flawed. I get it. We can all find some problem we have with most laws on the books. That's why we amend from there. Take a rough draft, polish it up, and create something beautiful. Hopefully, this year will not be the year that a light is shined at the end of a tunnel only to be extinguished because of some political nonsense.
Fast forward to August 1995. I was 17. I took a pregnancy test before my first day of senior year. Positive. Maybe I'm nuts but I was excited. Scared as shit but happy. This little life brought forth change. I put down the cigarettes, skipped out on binge drinking weekends, refrained from the weed, started eating. I was too scared to tell my parents until my 5th month. But I was taking care of myself. Something in my soul changed, deeply. I was a suicidal basket case and nothing short of nuts until that stick turned blue.
The Oldest entered the world on a Tuesday afternoon in April of 1996. 8 days after I became a legal "adult". I looked down at his beautiful, fresh face. He was quiet and content. The love was immediate and overwhelming. He became my every single thing. I knew that I had to give him better than what I had. That's my baby. My dark haired, grey eyed baby. There was just one issue. On his butt. A huge mole covering one entire cheek and upper thigh. At first, we made jokes about it. Said he'd never be able to moon someone and get away with it.
At The Oldest's 4 month visit his pediatrician expressed some concern over it. She recommended a dermatology consult which we scheduled right away. I remember driving there. My hands on the wheel, trying to find my way to this office. We signed in and handed over our insurance card. He was covered by my fathers General Motors plan. We were blessed for that. We got called back to an exam room. The nurse told me to take his clothes off and place him on the table. The doctor came in and immediately asked me where my mother was. Then he started speaking into a microcassette recorder. Never really looking at me again. Never acknowledged my existence again. I tried to make sense of what he was saying into that machine. Wanted to know, to understand, to communicate. He then said something that resonated with me - "these have a high propensity to become melanoma" followed by "mother has been instructed to follow up in one year." And he walked out. I re-dressed my baby, put him back in his car seat and went to the car. I remember thinking - "Did he just say that?" I know what melanoma is. It's cancer. It's skin cancer. I sat in the car and bawled. Didn't I do it all right? I ate. I took my vitamins. I stopped working with the chemicals at school (I was in a vocational program for Printing, Photography & Art). I did something wrong. And then my thoughts jumped to "What the fuck was wrong with that doctor?" A year?! HELL NO. I had a friend from school whose step father was a dermatologist and a damned good one. So I made some calls.
The visit with this doctor was much more thorough. He counted the hundreds of spots inside the mole. He noted it's indefinite shape and multiple colors. He measured. Took pictures. Told me it was the largest he's ever seen. That's when he got very frank. He told me that this was a dangerous mole that would probably become melanoma. He referred us to a plastic surgeon and advised that I not hesitate to make the appointment. A few months later - we were in another office, on another exam table, with another doctor. A few months later - we were at Children's. I cannot describe this to you without tears pouring down my face. My precious son laid there on a little bed while an IV was started. They gave him some medicine and shortly after he was out. He was put into a crib that looked like some kind of medieval torture chamber. The rails were higher than I stood. They wheeled him to the operating room. I watched as his cage disappeared behind swinging doors. I wish I could say that was the worst of it.
An hour later, his doctor came out and told me that part one was a success. Told me that I'd need to go down and learn how to dress his incision. I walked through the doors to recovery. Saw my baby laying there, peacefully. I felt relieved. He was okay! Then the nurse came to me with a large bagful of gauze and tape and ointments. She started to explain how to clean his staples and sutures. As she spoke, she drew back the bandage and I felt my knees shake. My head started to spin. And immediately I burst into sobs. I stared at 65 staples and 75 stitches that ran the width of his mole. A portion was left unclosed for "drainage". I can't tell you how terrified I was. Terrified for my little boy who just learned to walk. I pulled myself together to hear what she had to say. Hours later - I took him home. He was his normal little self. Happy. Bouncing. Cute. Tried to jump on the bed and do normal little boy things. By the time we made it to his follow up appointment - the staples and stitches shredded through his skin. The result of being a child. We scheduled his next surgery for another 6 months out.
In that timespan, I got married to his father. He had a good job as a steel cutter. He had good insurance. We added The Oldest to his plan immediately. The scar became keloid. It swelled and burned. He had a hard time sitting down. He screamed at diaper changes. I kept telling myself that this was for his own good. Then I'd hope he would grow to forget the pain. Those days were hard. There just aren't words. In the days prior to his second surgery, I got a call from the scheduling clerk at the plastic surgeon's office. Our insurance denied the pre-certification for the surgery. This was the first time I'd ever heard the words "Pre-existing Condition". Without payment upfront surgery could not be performed. I was now 20 (barely) working in a print shop part time. I didn't have the ungodly amount of money required. I was able to work out a payment arrangement. He underwent surgery #2. I made weekly payments of half of my wages to the doctor for over a year. The next December I got my monthly statement with a $0 balance. The doctor wrote off the remainder of our bill. This man is nothing short of amazing. He's been featured on numerous television programs including Ordinary Extraordinary. I owe him so much. However, the mole was too large to remove at once. The staples and stitches from the second surgery also tore through his skin. There was a ballooning technique discussed. In the end - we opted to keep an eye on it for changes for the rest of his life.
The Oldest is now 16. I couldn't ask for a better son. He's intelligent, funny, sarcastic, witty, kinda smelly, loving, and just all out incredible. He loves to cook. Makes his younger siblings pancakes. Loves a girl. Doesn't clean his room. Makes his baby sister watch Blue's Clues. I love him so much. He saved my life and I wouldn't want to spend a second of my life without him. He's a great big brother. Everything you could ask for in a son - it's right there. One day - his exam might come back bad. It's a fear that lives in my mind and weighs on my shoulders and sinks my heart. I'm petrified to take him to the doctor. Someday he won't be covered by my insurance. He won't qualify for Medicaid. And some executive sitting behind a desk may print a form letter explaining how they have to, regrettably, deny coverage of anything related to that mole and "pre-existing condition" smattered somewhere on the clean, crisp sheet of paper. We will have to figure out how to pay to save his life or hold his hand while he writhes in pain and suffers and slips away.
When you are all debating political horseshit - remember this. For me, it's real. When I hear "repeal Obamacare" this is what I feel. It's flawed. I get it. We can all find some problem we have with most laws on the books. That's why we amend from there. Take a rough draft, polish it up, and create something beautiful. Hopefully, this year will not be the year that a light is shined at the end of a tunnel only to be extinguished because of some political nonsense.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Could you Google the number for Poison Control?
As a mother of 3 boys you expect to have to call Poison Control center at least once. Me? Well - my first experience with the1-800-222-1222 was in 1998 when my, then 2 year old, son decided to SUPER GLUE HIS MOUTH SHUT. Normally this wouldn't be a complaint. I was just concerned that he may have to have his stomach pumped or need some kind of IV Fluids. (Cut me a break, I was 20). For your future reference, Super Glue is non-toxic. It takes hours to get hardened super glue out of the teeth of a 2 year old boy, you know, in case it comes up on Jeopardy.
Yesterday started like many do. Mini-Me & I rolled reluctantly out of my smarshmellow soft bed and moseyed down the hall to the living room. Her diaper was excessively full so I took it off and sat her bare behinded onto the floor. Youngest Boy then asked for some breakfast as he and Middle Son were already up and at em viciously fighting over Wii privileges. I proceeded to make a pot of coffee, Youngest Boy's breakfast and sent a particularly snide email to my ex (who went from being a doll to being a complete and total jackhole in a matter of minutes - we will never speak again) all of which took about, I dunno, 12 minutes or less. Mini-Me crawls over to find me and I start to smell the smell of something really smelly. She has pooed a trail from the television to my desk. Roughly 8 feet of my living room is a giant skid mark of 10 month old infant droppings. Greeeeeat. I pick her up, grab a towel, half-assedly wipe up the ooze and make my way to the bathroom. I inform the boys not to answer the door or the phone as I will be showering with the Mini Me since I am now also covered in yuck.
10 minutes later we are squeaky clean! Youngest Boy and Middle Son are continuing their brutal video game argument in their bedroom. I place Mini-Me in their room with them so that I can now mop my living room. Again, I am praising God for hardwood floors! 20 minutes later I have completed the mopping. I think that now I will indulge in that pot of coffee. The night before was so incredibly hard. I smoked a cigarette for the first time since December 2, 2009 and got my drunk on. (Yes, what he did was that bad. If it's possible for a shattered heart to break even more it's been accomplished in my rib cage) I needed to just brush the weekend off and add it to the list of things I've survived in my lifetime. No sooner do I get the fat free french vanilla creamer poured when I hear Middle Son skipping down the hall to tell me that Mini-Me has gotten into the paint.
Before Ex Douchebag's incredibly dastardly misdeeds occurred I was painting my 34 square foot bathroom "Red Geranium". I'm going to paint the trim black, add some brushed nickel fixtures, lay some black & white checked flooring, decorative light switch covers and hang my vintage concert posters - Janis, The Doors, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline and Nirvana with my vinyl copies of Men Without Hats, Heart and The Village People. Music is the theme. Red seemed fitting. I didn't realize it was going to take 804 coats of this paint to cover the Pepto Pink that was previously on the walls. So this process has taken no less than 4 days and I'm still not even close to done.
I race down the hall to find my beautiful little girl happily splashing around in blood red paint that is quickly flowing from the overturned can. Apparently I hadn't sealed the lid completely and someone left the bathroom door open. In the 8 seconds it takes her to get from the boys' room to the bathroom doorway she'd managed to pull over the container. (Yes, nominate me for Mother of the Year!) Immediately I pick her up and call for The Oldest to help. I'm not sure which to do first. Toss her into the tub or stop the river of paint from taking over the hardwood floor hallway. Ultimately, it was neither. I asked The Oldest to get his camera. After he took the picture I put her into the tub - diaper & all and start hosing her off. That's when I realize there is a small amount of paint on her mouth. The Oldest comes into the bathroom to keep an eye on Mini - Me while I am scooping up handfuls of paint and pouring them back into the can. Mini-Me is screaming now and paint is seeping into the tiles, under the transition strip, beneath the trim and into the grains of the wood. The Oldest extracts a once again sparkling clean baby girl from the tub and whisks her off to the living room so that I can begin scrubbing.
"Hey [Oldest]" I call from my Cinderella position on the bathroom floor. He says, in a most annoyed voice - "Yes mother". "Could you Google the number for Poison Control?". There I am on my hands and knees scrubbing red paint from the floor dialing Poison Control. I look like Lizzie Bordon (had she really axed her parents). I'm still not even fully dried from my shower of 30 minutes ago. Mark, the RN on the other end of the phone assures me that Mini-Mewill be just fine. She may toss her cookies but she does not need a trip to the ER. I'm relieved. And I need a clone. Or 2. Or 4 - 1 to follow around each kid.
Yesterday started like many do. Mini-Me & I rolled reluctantly out of my smarshmellow soft bed and moseyed down the hall to the living room. Her diaper was excessively full so I took it off and sat her bare behinded onto the floor. Youngest Boy then asked for some breakfast as he and Middle Son were already up and at em viciously fighting over Wii privileges. I proceeded to make a pot of coffee, Youngest Boy's breakfast and sent a particularly snide email to my ex (who went from being a doll to being a complete and total jackhole in a matter of minutes - we will never speak again) all of which took about, I dunno, 12 minutes or less. Mini-Me crawls over to find me and I start to smell the smell of something really smelly. She has pooed a trail from the television to my desk. Roughly 8 feet of my living room is a giant skid mark of 10 month old infant droppings. Greeeeeat. I pick her up, grab a towel, half-assedly wipe up the ooze and make my way to the bathroom. I inform the boys not to answer the door or the phone as I will be showering with the Mini Me since I am now also covered in yuck.
10 minutes later we are squeaky clean! Youngest Boy and Middle Son are continuing their brutal video game argument in their bedroom. I place Mini-Me in their room with them so that I can now mop my living room. Again, I am praising God for hardwood floors! 20 minutes later I have completed the mopping. I think that now I will indulge in that pot of coffee. The night before was so incredibly hard. I smoked a cigarette for the first time since December 2, 2009 and got my drunk on. (Yes, what he did was that bad. If it's possible for a shattered heart to break even more it's been accomplished in my rib cage) I needed to just brush the weekend off and add it to the list of things I've survived in my lifetime. No sooner do I get the fat free french vanilla creamer poured when I hear Middle Son skipping down the hall to tell me that Mini-Me has gotten into the paint.
Before Ex Douchebag's incredibly dastardly misdeeds occurred I was painting my 34 square foot bathroom "Red Geranium". I'm going to paint the trim black, add some brushed nickel fixtures, lay some black & white checked flooring, decorative light switch covers and hang my vintage concert posters - Janis, The Doors, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline and Nirvana with my vinyl copies of Men Without Hats, Heart and The Village People. Music is the theme. Red seemed fitting. I didn't realize it was going to take 804 coats of this paint to cover the Pepto Pink that was previously on the walls. So this process has taken no less than 4 days and I'm still not even close to done.
I race down the hall to find my beautiful little girl happily splashing around in blood red paint that is quickly flowing from the overturned can. Apparently I hadn't sealed the lid completely and someone left the bathroom door open. In the 8 seconds it takes her to get from the boys' room to the bathroom doorway she'd managed to pull over the container. (Yes, nominate me for Mother of the Year!) Immediately I pick her up and call for The Oldest to help. I'm not sure which to do first. Toss her into the tub or stop the river of paint from taking over the hardwood floor hallway. Ultimately, it was neither. I asked The Oldest to get his camera. After he took the picture I put her into the tub - diaper & all and start hosing her off. That's when I realize there is a small amount of paint on her mouth. The Oldest comes into the bathroom to keep an eye on Mini - Me while I am scooping up handfuls of paint and pouring them back into the can. Mini-Me is screaming now and paint is seeping into the tiles, under the transition strip, beneath the trim and into the grains of the wood. The Oldest extracts a once again sparkling clean baby girl from the tub and whisks her off to the living room so that I can begin scrubbing.
"Hey [Oldest]" I call from my Cinderella position on the bathroom floor. He says, in a most annoyed voice - "Yes mother". "Could you Google the number for Poison Control?". There I am on my hands and knees scrubbing red paint from the floor dialing Poison Control. I look like Lizzie Bordon (had she really axed her parents). I'm still not even fully dried from my shower of 30 minutes ago. Mark, the RN on the other end of the phone assures me that Mini-Mewill be just fine. She may toss her cookies but she does not need a trip to the ER. I'm relieved. And I need a clone. Or 2. Or 4 - 1 to follow around each kid.
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