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. 

"Plese"

Yes, I am aware of it's misspelling.  There's a reason for it and you will understand by the end.  You know it means "Please".

When we say "please" we are usually trying to be polite and get something in exchange.  We are taught from a young age (well, we should be at least) that it's the "magic word" and it will get you what you want.  All you have to do is use it.  I imagine that I say "please" about 100+ times a day.  "[Youngest Boy], please don't wipe that booger on the couch" or "[Middle Son], please put on underwear"  or "[Oldest], please stop making 'Your Mom' jokes with your brothers" to the generic "Please pick up your toys" and an occasional "Bitch PLEASE!".  As a parent you want to instill politeness in your children.  So you teach them to use it.

My kids are generally pretty good about using it.  Most of the time it goes unnoticed or unmentioned and sometimes taken for granted.  I'm probably guilty of not enough praise and a little more emphasis on the negative than I should.  Guess it's part of parenthood.  There are times where Youngest Boy will look at me with those big blue eyes and in his sweet, yet devilish voice and ask for an Uncrustable.  I'll hold it in my hand and say "What do you say?" and he will respond with a "Please" knowing that satisfaction is just a word away.  He will snatch it from my hand and skip off to some remote location of his room where he is not supposed to have food and consume it.  His belly will be full - all because he said it.

Every time we go to the store the kids ask me for trips down the toy aisle.  They don't necessarily want something (ok, who am I kidding?).  They like to look and dream about toys I can't afford to give them.  They start in with their insincere "please" fest.  Begging me for 1 more godforsaken Beyblade or just 1 more Toy Story figure - I'll hear "please" no less than 712 times per child.  Sometimes I feel bad because I don't have enough money to give them these little things.  The way that they say "please" tugs at my heartstrings.  But then I remind myself that I provide them with much, much more.  Clothing, food, shelter, love, Eddie Izzard... you know, the important things.

On Monday morning my little Tabasco (the last nickname my dad was able to grant before he died) and Youngest Boy started their 6 day visit with their father.  Mini-Me has been spared somewhat for now.  Maybe a little longer if I can manage it.  Middle Son has been having the worst time with the divorce.  He was very close with his father.  That closeness was lost over the last year that Ex Douchebag chose to stay out of his life.  He has kind of clung to me in the process in ways that he hadn't before.  We've bonded in a different way.  He was apprehensive about this stay.  He saw his father not only leave him and his 2 brothers but his unborn sister too.  I can tell him that it'll be okay til I'm blue but actions have spoken much louder than words.  He's not ever been away from me for more than a day or 2 since he was born.  That's 8 years of togetherness.  His lifetime.  He and I have kept in touch through texting and calls.  I got to see him yesterday for a few minutes at his therapy session.  He looked down, withdrawn and sad.  I wanted to hold him and run out the door to take him home.

Around 7:30 last night I got a text from him asking if he can come home.  I explained that this was his time with Daddy and that he would be back in my arms in no time.  I tried to tell him that this time apart was going to fly by and that he'll have fun, Daddy loves him and will take good care of him.  In my mind I saw him standing there, in that hallway outside of his therapists door - with that sullen look on his face and the tears welling up in those precious brown eyes.  I started to cry.  He couldn't hear me or see me.  But I felt for him.  His fear, his anxiety - that hopeless feeling of wanting so badly to go home.  For a minute I was in his heart - confused and scared.  Several minutes went by and my phone emitted the "I like turtles" alert letting me know that I had an incoming text again.  I looked down and next to his name and picture of his beautiful smile taken during a much happier moment and saw the painful pleading of a little boy who wanted his mommy -

"Plese"