Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Parents- Part One

It's probably not entirely uncommon for children to wish their parents were someone else. My first set of fantasy parents I remember were the Seavers, whom I caught on reruns of "Growing Pains." My second idealized parent was "Lorelei" from "Gilmore Girls." There's probably some deep-rooted psychological involvement in my choosing a single mother as my imaginary parent. My mother has been significantly ill for much of my life, and even when she's not ill, she's sometimes too tired to do more than go to work, then come home and go to bed. She's not always asleep during this time, and even if she is, my brother and I are allowed to wake her up for any reason at all, even if we just want to talk. Still, many parenting chores have fallen on my father. He's had to be the bad guy more than his share of the time. My imagining him out of the picture in my perfect world was probably because of all the times he had to function as a parent and put a stop to my foolishness.

My parents' lives have been far from charmed. My dad's mom had and continues to have mental health issues that are hardly ever discussed. When
Dad was around twelve, his parents lost a baby to SIDS. Doctors thought his mother needed a change in scenery and a sunnier location in order to recover, so the family packed up and moved from Massachusetts to Florida. Then the formerly stauch Catholic family decided to convert to Mormonism. If a child has been thoroughly entrenched, brainwashed, or whatever one might call it, in a particular faith, just telling the child, "You no longer believe in this, this and this; you now believe in THIS!" is not necessarily going to take. My father wanted to make his parents happy, so he never complained about the change in religion. He enrolled at the university operated by the family's new church, and he even served a two-year mission for their new church, despite the fact that he says he never believed a word of it. He says that it nearly killed him to lie in the interviews required for him to be ordained an elder, to go through the temple, and to serve a mission, but he did what he had to do to make his own parents happy. He'd seen his mother in the depths of despair, and he didn't want to see it again.

When my father returned from his mission, he took larger-than-usually-allowed academic loads to get through undergrad studies as soon as possible.
He was accepted into the University of California Medical School. His parents were not happy to see him go to California, as they considered it some sort of a den of iniquity. A few years later, their worst fears were confirmed when my father met my mother. She was a (GASP) Catholic! If he married her, their marriage could not take place in an LDS temple, which would mean that the marriage would last for time only and not for all eternity. (My grandparents hated my mother so much that this should have been a source of consolation rather than one of grief to them.)

Shortly after informing my parents of his engagement to my mom, my father was served with papers from his parents' law firm. His parents were suing him for the cost of his undergraduate education and his mission. They offered to drop everything if my father would likewise drop his engagment to my mom. He refused. As a university medical student, my father had access to some sort of legal services from an affiliated college of law (it may have been Hastings). The suit was soon found to have no merit, and my grandparents had to pay court and legal costs.

Under more normal circumstances, this would probably have severed any and all ties between my father and his parents. My mother, however, is one of the most compassionate beings ever to have walked the planet. She told my father to give his parents time to recover, then to resume contact as though nothing of the sort had ever happened. Every gift, card, visit, or any contact has been as a direct result of my mother's insistence, yet my grandparents and many of their children still behave as though my mom is The Anti-Christ.

The wedding happened in Nebraska. My fathers' parents and siblings did not attend, except for my Uncle Steve, who was fifteen and served as my dad's best man. He was treated as persona non grata for months by his family for his participation in my parents' wedding. My father's aunt and uncle from Massachusetts came and sat in the place where the groom's parents normally sit.

My mom was the youngest (by just a few minutes, as she was a twin) in an Irish Catholic family of seven children. Her parents were, by nearly all accounts, good people who loved their children but who also loved booze. My grandfather was a retired U. S. Air Force pilot who later worked for commercial airlines before retiring from there as well. My mom's mom died of cancer when my mom was fourteen.

My mom doesn't know that I'm aware of this, but other relatives have filled me in on a few details concerning my mom's adolescence. She was growth-delayed and physically immature, as I am, so she wasn't a slut, but she was wild in many other ways. Subtance abuse wasn't a problem for her, either, probably because of she possessed the inherent desire of many teens to be different than their parents. My mother's misbehavior took the form of minor organized crime. It started with a sports-betting ring she ran. She was able to start it up with proceeds she earned from playing the organ at church, which is ironic in its own right. The bookie gig served my mother well. Even though she earned a full ride to college, she never had to work a day in college to come up with spending money. I say she never had to work, because she did a bit of moonlighting by authoring term papers for the athletic department of a neighboring university. She was paid to work as a tutor, but her actual duties were clearly understood by all involved, and she never spent as much as a second of time in direct contact with students -- athletes or otherwise.

My mother's other mischief wasn't for financial gain, but purely for pleasure. She was a computer whiz before her time, and programmed the school principal's computer so that any messages he sent on his computer to his love interest (both the principal and the love interest were married to other people in the district at the time) would scroll onto the marquee (facing a very busy avenue) repeatedly until which time the principal sent another message to his lady love, at which time that message would scroll. She would pass strategic rumors that a food fight was to take place in the cafeteria on a particular day at lunch. All the administrators would be ordered to report to the cafeteria for the lunch period. This would allow the students to come and go as they pleased elsewhere on the campus, and it was a closed campus. She once orchestrated an "eathquake" in an upstairs classoom by having students shake desks and pound the floors, solely for the purpose of seeing if it could be done well enough to fool the teacher. (It did.) What I've shared are the very least of the things she has done. A few of her colleagues read this blog, so I'll spare her privacy and her job by quitting while she is ahead.

My aunts and uncles say that my grandfather was too grief-stricken and too far into the bottle to have a clue what she was doing. Her older siblings would occasionally threaten her with bodily harm if she carried anything too far, but they otherwise just prayed a lot.

So anyway, my parents got married and lived happily ever after except for the times real life interfered in various ways, such as my mom's illnesses including leukemia, the loss of premature twins, the birth of surviving twins, one of which (ME!) weighed two pounds, four ounces, and my grandparents' failure to understand that charity should begin at home.

As much as it pains me to admit it, raising me has done very little to make my parents' lives easier. I don't know if I'm just genetically my mother's child (although most of what I've been able to come up with pales in comparison to her antics), if being a small person has made me fearful of being ignored, and so I've behaved outrageously at times to ensure that such is not the case, or if I have a complex about being the less favorite of my parents' two children (I really don't know if this is true or not, but too often it seems that way). I can't really blame anything on my mother's illnesses because I reportedly first asserted my difficult personality in the delivery room.


Man (or Woman or Child) Cannot Live by Candy Alone

My mother has been faced with significant health issues for much of my lifetime, although she drags herself out of bed almost every day and conducts her life as though there is nothing wrong. When my brother and I were really little, she developed Graves' Disease, which causes hyperthyroidism. A small percentage of Graves' sufferers will also develop eye involvement independent of thyroid function. Though my mom wasn't in any high-risk categories for that except for being female, she was unlucky enought to develop a full-blown case of thyroid ophthalmopathy. She came too close to losing part of her vision, and still has less acuity or field of vision than she would otherwise have, but roughly eight surgeries later, the vision issues have largely been resolved.

A few years after the eye problems abated, my mom developed a form of leukemia. My brother and I were too young to be let in on exactly what was happening, but we were old enough to know that it was major and that it wasn't good. We have a large extended family, who took turns moving in with us or moving us to their homes so that my dad could devote his attention to my mother. My dad didn't abandon us at this time, but my mom needed the bulk of his focus.

Some of our caregivers were better than others. One in  particular, who shall remain nameless, was not a blood relative but was the younger sister of an uncle by marriage. She was paid a substantial salary to be responsible for us five days per week. At least six hours of each of those five days, my brother and I were at school. Another ten or so hours of each day we should have been asleep (but probably weren't). That would have given the twenty-four-year-old (which was considered a consummate "Old Maid" by LDS standards) nanny substantial down time during which to conduct her own life, but it was, apparently, not quite enough. The food we ate, if we ate, consisted largely of frozen dinners that we, the  five- and six-year-olds (we turned six during the interval in which she was responsible for us), heated up ourselves.

At some point while under this quasi-relative's care, I came to the ridiculous realization that I had in front of me a perfect opportunity to test my long-held hypothesis that a body could sustain itself in at least moderately good health almost indefinitely by eating nothing but candy. I had saved allowance for quite some time, and there was a convenience market about five blocks from our house. (One might argue that an undersized five- or six-year-old shouldn't have been walking five blocks to and from her home by herself, subsisting entirely on candy notwithstanding, but what's done has already been done.)

The candy diet seemed like heaven for awhile. I don't remember how long the honeymoon period lasted, but after what was probably a few weeks or so of eating nothing but sugar-laden junk, it ceased to appeal to my appetite. The problem was that nothing else appealed to my appetite, either. No one at home was paying enough attention to notice. (The adolescent cousins who were filling in on weekends to give my uncle's sister her "much-needed" time off were better care providers than she was, but were probably too young and inexperienced to notice anything wrong.)

At some point, I think I fell asleep at my desk at school and couldn't be woken up. Something of that nature must have occurred, because an ambulance was called, and my father had to leave my mother and fly from southern California to find out what the problem was. It didn't take long to figure it out. I was in big trouble because even though I was just six, my father felt that I should have known better. The babysitter was in even more trouble, and was provided with a one-way ticket home to Utah, along with instructions to pack her bags and to be out of the house before my father saw her and said words he was not supposed to say. (Now that we're older, no one keeps up such pretenses on our behalf; we've heard his rather expansive vocabulary firsthand.)

I had to stay in the hospital for almost a week. Part of the issue wasn't even nutition-related, as bone-marrow compatibility testing had to be done. The rest of the treatment involved IV's, injections, supplements, and having every sort of food I've ever hated in my life shoved into my mouth. Resisting would have been suicidal in more ways than one.

The miraculous thing was that my teeth survived the ordeal, which is largely a testament to the power of vitamins containing fluoride supplements, and the fact that I was still years away from any permanent tooth breaking the surface of my gums. Neither my brother nor I has ever had a cavity. I did brush my teeth feverishly during my "diet," but the fluoride and the grace of God probably did more to save the enamel of my baby teeth than did my brushing.

The uncle's sister who "took care of" my brother and me successfully rectified her "Old Maid" status and now has five children of her own. I certainly hope she pays more attention to them than she did to my brother and me.

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Saturday, May 15, 2010

SAT Results

My dad was supposed to be in New York until Friday for something work-related, but he came home today because my mom is sick. My mom was released today because he's home. Otherwise she would have stayed in the hospital for at least two more days. She has a really large urinary calculus obstructing her right ureter. A procedure known as a stent implantation was done. She's in pain, but she's being medicated enough than she can stand the pain. She can't otherwise function well. She's getting lots of IV fluids to move the calculus.

I'm staying at my aunt's and uncle's house so that my dad can focus on taking care of my mom. I don't mind; because of a pretty bad kidney infection and because the shoulder attached to my uninjured arm is majorly strained from overuse and falling, I'm totally confined to bed except to use the bathroom and to have one shower daily. My bed at my uncle's house is really comfortable, and there's a nice mid-sized plasma screen TV in my room (my uncle's office that he hardly ever uses except to store things) that has a DVR in case I need to sleep when Judge Alex or a similarly important program is on. I'm allowed to use my laptop for 90 minutes daily. My aunt cooks lunch so my friends from school will come to visit me at lunchtime. My very best friends come after school as well. My dad visits me every day. My mom has tried calling, but she's so out of it that I told my dad not to have her call out of obligation. If she's too sick to call, it's OK. My brother is back at home. Other than when he's at school or baseball, or if he's doing homework that he can prove is really homework, he is my parents' slave, which is as it should be right now.

SAT results arrived in the mail some time ago, but for some reason, they were just found. My overall score was 2240. This is good but not stellar. The breakdown was 730 for math, 710 for critical reading, and 800 for writing. I was disappointed in the critical reading score, but it still may be good enough that I don't have to take the test over again. Once my mother is coherent, she will confer with university acquaintances to get their opinions as to the wisdom of re-taking. I still need to take subject tests. My father's concern is that I may not score my very best if I'm still in a cast, as it will be uncomfortable to sit for the length of the test. Waiting until fall will be cutting it close and not leaving an option for retaking if scores are not good, but I may have no choice.

My brother did not do quite as well. I've violated his privacy sufficiently just by giving that information. I won't reveal more specific data. In school classes, I take great pains to outscore him. I wanted to do better than he on this set of exams as well, although I'm trying not to rejoice excessively for having done so. Because he hasn't been very kind to me, it's hard not to pull out all the stops and celebrate, but I'm trying hard to be a bigger person.

Friday, May 14, 2010

Uncle to the Rescue

Things were dismal when I last posted. My dad had read my entire blog from Entry #1 to the present ands was not pleased. My mom was PMSing in a big way, and I was bearing the brunt of it. My dad left town on Monday for nine days. My brother was charging me five bucks a pop for transportation up and down the stairs, and since I'm not presently earning money, I was running out of funds to pay him. This forced me to scoot up and down the stairs on my bottom, which was already sore from antibiotic injections for my kidney infection. Scooting up the stairs put a strain on my good shoulder, which made me unable to get into my bed or wheelchair from the floor. Even getting to the bathroom was an ordeal. One night I slept on the bathroom floor with whatever towels I could reach to cover me. Another night I slept on my bedroom floor. It wasn't a very nice existence.

My Uncle Steve, my pediatrician, came to check on me Wednesday. My mother was sick from one of the things that makes my mother sick. She's had leukemia and Graves' Disease with thyroid eye disease, and she has all sort of autoimmune things that she refuses to recognize but come up every so often. When my Uncle Steve showed up, he found my mother throwing up non-stop from what was probably a kidney stone. I was on the floor next to my bed with my blankets pulled off. I couldn't even reach my pillow. My brother was apparently downstairs in the family room sitting in front of the TV while eating a big bowl of ice cream. My Uncle Steve lifted me into bed while he threw some of my clothes into a duffle bag. He told my brother to get every dirty dish in the house rinsed and into the dishwasher in the next five minutes or he would not be playing, much less starting, in the next baseball game. (My uncle is the manager of our high school varsity baseball team. It's unusual for an MD to take on something like that, but the partners in his practice have been very supportive, and he has an assistant coach to take over if there's an emergency and can't leave. He donates the small coaching salary back to the basball boosters because he doesn't need the money.)

Uncle Steve carried me to his car. He helped my mom downstairs and into the car. My brother wanted to stay at home by himself (supposedly so he could take care of the dog, like we're really that gullible), but Uncle Steve forced my brother to bring the dog and to come with us. We went to my uncle's house, then my Aunt Heather, who's an RN, took my mom to the ER. My Uncle Steve yelled at my brother for a long time. He told my brother he had to give back every cent he had charged me for transportation up and down the stairs. Predictably enough, my brother had spent most of it, so my uncle took what he had, then paid me the rest out of his own wallet and said my brother could work it off in my uncle's yard. Then my uncle called my dad, and my dad asked him to put my brother on the phone so that he could yell at my brother. All things considered, it was a great evening except that I was in pain and my mother was very sick.

My mother was admitted to the hospital, but she will probably be released either tomorrow or Sunday. My Aunt Heather's sister, who lives nearby, helped me take a shower, then my uncle gave me medication that made me very sleepy. My brother is grounded indefinitely.

I don't usually rejoice so much in my brother's unhappiness, but is he so deserving of everything he is getting and more.

I got to watch "Judge Alex," either live or recorded, yesterday and today. Today was a great episode with arguing women. It wasn't quite as exciting as the Hooter's episode, but good just the same.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010


I'm sad. I tried to be cheerful when my friends visited, but most have them have stopped visiting. When you are sick or hurt people try to include you and be nice to you at first but if it goes on too long they stop. I mostly just stay in bed and do nothing all day and night. I use my laptop if it is within reach or I can find it, but sometimes it isn't or I can't. No one helps me with anything anymore. I do everything the best I can and I fall a lot. If I can't get back in bed I pull my blankets on the floor and stay there.

Monday, May 10, 2010

I Am Just Like an Old Woman Who Does Nothing But Complain

My father read my blog, which he is not supposed to do. It's in a public forum, so he has the same legal and practical rights to read it as anyone else, but our agreement was that my parents would only scan to ensure that I was not divulging information that would jeopardize my safety or that my content was not profane or inappropriate. My parents were otherwise not to offer editorial comment. Their need to scan was limited, anyway, as my English teacher was also monitoring my blog, as it is part of a class assignment. I did use one noun in reference to my father that was either disrespectful or borderline disrespectful, but I otherwise committed no infractions.

Curiosity eventually got the better of my father. He read every word. (This was after I edited the borderline-offensive noun, fortunately. Now you can rack your brain trying to figure out what it might have been, Daddy.) Most fathers would have kept their silence if they had read something they had agreed not to read. My father, of course, didn't. I was forced to listen to a detailed critique of each posting. I didn't even have the freedom to walk out of the room because I can't walk and I couldn't reach my wheelchair.

One might argue that if I want privacy from my parents or anyone else, I shouldn't post the information I'd like to keep from my parents on the Internet. While this is certainly true, I still feel violated by the breach of our verbal contract. Life, however, must go on, as must this blog if I wish to receive credit for the english class assignment. (Dear Ms. Teacher: Please keep in mind that I have to type with one hand. I probably deserve extra credit for my one-handed typing, as posting an entry takes much longer that way.)

One of my father's most salient criticisms of my blog (there were far too many to give mention to each) is that all I now write about is my current state of health. He likened my blog to a conversation one might have with virtually any person over sixty-five. Often, he says, all that person can talk about is his or her health. He says I have become very much like these people, and that my blog is his evidence in point.

What, exactly, does he expect me to blog about? I suppose I could give a detailed accounting of the textured formations in the ceiling directly above my bed. I could write about thread counts in sheets. (Two of my sheet sets have a decent thread count, while the third set chafes my skin. My parents would never put such cheap sheets on their own bed or even on my brother's bed, but they have no problem casting them off on their less-favored child.)I could blog about how I am expected to change my own bedding daily even though I have only one usable hand and can't balance well on one foot, and half the time I end up falling, and then I get yelled at for being careless and falling. My parents don't want me to become spoiled and self-indulgent, which I understand, but it seems like they're erring too far in the opposite direction. I just can't win here. I could and sometimes do write about what I watch on television, but do you really want to know the finer points of Steve Wilkos or Jerry Springer each day? Other than TruTV and the judge programs (Thank God for "Judge Alex") there's not a whole lot of quality programming available during the day. I could write about how my mom and the Monsignor are still angry at one another and how I'm being denied Holy Communion as a result even though I didn't say or do anything wrong that I know about, but I'm sure my mom would prefer that I say even less than I've already said about it. I could share the gossip my friends have shared with me, but doing such would be a breach of confidentiality. Furthermore, if I did that, they would no longer share anything really juicy with me.

So I have to write this blog in order to fulfill the requirements of an English class assignment. I have nothing about which to write. If I write about what's going on in my life, my father will apparently read it and complain. It's boring. No one knows that better than I, because it's my life. I'm living it, and I'm bored as he!!, but I have to write it to get credit.

Right after my accident, my parents were extremely nice. It now seems that their niceness toward me has exceeded its statute of limitations. I understand that they're tired of me, because I'm tired of myself. I'd love to leave for awhile and give them a break, but I can't go anywhere by myself. My mom was complaining to me because she and my dad couldn't go out to dinner by themselves for my dad's birthday because of me. I'm sorry!

I ruined Mother's Day, too. I gave my brother money to buy a present for my mom. I told him what to get and where to get it. In order to compensate him for his trouble, I gave him $50.00 of his own so that he could buy his own present for my mom, because he doesn't work and hardly ever has money. He bought his present for my mom (using about half the money I gave him for it and pocketing the rest) but didn't have time to pick up my gift. So my mom is totally hurt, and my dad is angry at me. What was I supposed to do?

This is a pathetically self-pitying post, but my life is pathetic at the moment. I know things will eventually get better, but for now I am 16-year-old old lady who talks about nothing but my health and the miserable state of my life. Dad, if you are looking for uplifting reading material, try reading your Bible.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

@$&$@# Infection

Yesterday afternoon at around 4:00 I fell asleep on the sofa in my living room. It's the furthest distance from the stairs and from the bedrooms in my house. I woke up at 12:15 in the night still on the couch. I didn't have a blnket. The heat was turned off and I was cold. I really needed to visit the bathroom. I yelled several times, but no one came. After waiting a few minutes I yelled again as loudly as I could. Still no one answered or came.

It was very dark, but I could see in the dim light coming from the digital TV clock that my wheelchair was just a few feet away from the sofa. I moved into a sitting position and tried to use my good arm to hold onto the coffee table while I stood on my good leg and attempted to hop to my wheelchair. I didn't quite make it. Somehow I lost my balance and fell foreward. I hit my forehead on one of the little wheels on the front of my wheelchair. It left a goose egg and a bruise, but didn't cause an actual head injury. The forehead is more able to withstand injury than are most parts of the head. The uninjured side of my body absorbed most of the impact, although my doctor said any healing of the clavicle injury was probably undone. I had to lie there on the floor on my stomach and bad arm until my dad finally got up at 5:30 a.m. and found me.

My dad was, predictably, mad at me, and said the whole thing was my fault because I have been told that I may not try to get into my wheelchair by myself. As soon as she got up, my mother told him he was wrong. By the time I finally made it to the bathroom, it was more 14 hours since my last visit and more than five hours since I really needed to go. I don't want to share too much information, but it was too long, and I ended up with an infection that you can get from waiting too long.

My dad doesn't keep the sort of medication needed for UTIs on hand, so he called my uncle, who is my pediatrician. My uncle came over with all the right supplies. He tested what he needed to test (I at least didn't have to have any embarrassing exams) and took blood to deliver to a lab. He gave me an antibiotic injection and then had me take a pyridium tablet. Within ten minutes I was barfing non-stop. Pyridium is not my friend.

I had to visit my orthopedic surgeon, who was not happy with my parents. It was nice not to be blamed for a change. My parents felt so guilty that both of them stayed home with me. One of them is staying home tomorrow, too, because they don't want my Aunt Heather to have to take care of me when I'm really sick.

I was too sick to watch "Judge Alex," and, predictably, no one recorded it. It was supposed to have been a really good episode. #%^@!
When lab reports came back, my uncle called to say that I have a kidney infection. He said that it progressed quickly because my body is already in a weakened state. I had to have another injection. At least no one tried to force anymore pyridium on me.

I am really tired of this current state of affairs. My dad is trying to make light of it by saying that I need to get one of those Life Alert "I've fallen and I can't get up" necklaces. I told him that my emergency button should be linked directly to child protective services instead of 9-1-1. He apologized again. At some point I will forgive and forget, but not yet. It was a very long and uncomfortable night even before the pyridium debacle began.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

No School Yet

No one brought up school at my doctor appointment yesterday. I don't know whether I'm still out of school because my doctor says I can't go back, or if my parents are choosing to keep me out. My dad and my uncle are MDs and could both excuse me. My uncle could do so quite legitimately because he is my primary care physician.

When I first came out of sedation, my mom said that I would be out of school through the week of April 26th but would go back May 3. It's now May 4. No one is giving me any reason why I'm not back in school yet. I could ask, of course, but I don't because I'm hoping everyone will forget about it for the rest of the year. Right now I can sit up for almost two hours, but part of the two hours would be wasted getting dressed. Maybe I could get up early and get dressed, then go back to bed for a few hours, then get up for two hours of school. I don't know. I'll just keep my mouth shut and see what unfolds.

Last week my Aunt Vicki stayed with me while my parents were at work. She lives three hours away and still has a husband and one kid at home, so she couldn't stay here indefinitely. This week my Aunt Heather is babysitting me at her house. I stay with my Uncle Steve and Aunt Heather a lot, so I have a really comfortable bed in my Uncle Steve's office that's mine. I could sleep in their guest room, but my bed is a Westin bed, and there's a TV in the office, so I like it there. My Uncle Steve doesn't use his office much anyway; he just keeps stuff there. Their house is two-story, but my Aunt Heather is stronger than my mom and could carry me down the stairs if there were a fire, so I can be upstairs all day there if I want to be. My Aunt Heather lets my friends eat lunch at her house, so they've come yesterday and today. It's not quite as good as being at home, but it will do. On Friday my dad is working from home, so I don't have to go anywhere, which is nice. I don't mind going to my aunt and uncle's house that much except it makes me tired before the day even starts.

I'm getting tired enough of staying home that I would be OK with going back except for the embarrassment factor and not being able to walk anywhere including to a bathroom myself. If my collarbone would heal I could use crutches, but the latest estimate is that it's more than four weeks away from being healed sufficiently for using crutches. A word of advice to anyone who is planning an accident: don't injure both your aram and your leg at the same time. I won't get into details, but life is exponentially more complicated with the arm/leg disability combo.

I am getting to watch plenty of TV. Judge Alex had an excellent episode last week with three girls who worked at Hooters. I don't think I would ever want to work at Hooters, but it would be nice to be invited. For me, that opportunity, if it ever comes, won't come for quite some time. Delayed growth sometimes sucks.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Brother Is Getting Learner's Permit

My dad adjusted his work schedule to take me to my doctor's appointment this morning. On the way back, he mentioned that he and my mom had decided a few weeks ago (before my hurdling accident) that my brother and I would be allowed to get our learner's permits this month. He thinks I won't even be allowed to take the written exam now without a statement from a doctor that I'm physically capable of safely operating a vehicle. So he wanted to know what should be done about my brother.

This is a tough one for me. Part of me really resents that this accident is causing me to get my permit, and thus eventually my license, even later than I otherwise would have gotten it. It now bothers me that my brother can go ahead with the process while I can only hope that maybe by this summer I will be ready. My dad offered to wait a little longer before saying anything to my brother. I was tempted, but I told my dad to let my brother go ahead.

I think my dad would have been really disappointed anyway if I had told him to make my brother wait. He might not have followed my wishes, so I might as well appear to be a good sport even if I'm not, although it really wouldn't make me feel any better to deny my brother the privilege any longer than it's already been denied. It's mainly maddening to me because that is just one more milestone this accident has screwed up for me. (The list is: #1 Diving (I probably would have been MVP); #2 track; #3 Prom #4 Driving.) The list will probably get longer before things get any better.

Even though the right thing was to tell my dad to let my brother get his permit, does anyone else think my parents' timing sucks?

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Survived the Prom (NOT going, that is)

My brother got home at 2:00 a.m. as planned. He's being very vague in reporting last night's events. Regarding the pregnancy supposedly planned by his date, he said, "We'll all know in about nine months, won't we?" Unless you can get pregnant from sharing a fork, Bimbo is not pregnant by my brother, according to my friend Megan, who babysat him in my absence. Megan's my best friend, but she's also bossy and very nosy; not much happens without her knowledge. It seems a fairly safe bet that I will not be an aunt at anytime soon, at least not with a child that is also Bimbo's.

One unfortunate aspect to my not attending the prom last night was that I was at home when my Uncle Mahonri unexpectedly dropped by for a visit. He lives in Utah, but was in California for official LDS Church business. I was lying on the family room sofa trying to use my laptop to type into my Twitter account, but not having much success because of serious Vicodin dosage, when Mahonri just appeared. My dad says that I lack an age-appropriate filter for my speech when I haven't taken as much as Pepto-Bismol. Give me Vicodin and absolutely nothing is sensored by my brain before it comes out of my mouth. The name Mahonri allegedly comes from the Book of Mormon, but to me it always sounded like his parents were forced to draw seven Scrabble letters and use them in any order to make up a name for their child. This may have been one of the many Vicodin-enhanced thoughts I shared to offend the dear, sweet Mahonri, who is married to my dad's sister. At some point my Uncle Steve, my dad's younger brother who lives and practices medicine in our town, carried me upstairs and put me in my bed. Uncle Steve doesn't like Mahonri any more than I do, and he thinks the name is stupid as well, but he has better social graces than I do, particularly when I've been given Vicodin.

Another time I'll share information that justifies my feelings toward my Uncle Mahonri, but I'm getting sleepy, so it will have to wait. In the meantime, trust me: my feelings are warranted, and I'm not the only one who has them. Just be glad he's not your Uncle Mahonri. And if he is, the kindest thing would be not to tell him about this blog, but if you must, it probably wouldn't come as that much of a surprise to him.