In five more days I will be allowed to use crutches for the first time since my accident. Because I broke my clavicle at the same time I broke my leg, using crutches was not until this point a possibility. My clavicle fracture, however, was not nearly as serious as my leg fracture. It should be sufficiently healed by Sunday that I will be allowed to use crutches in order to transport myself. My crutch time will be limited for a week or so, but after that, I'll have relative freedom. My dad bought crutches that adjust to my height, and my mom spray-painted them a lovely shade of pink. I keep them in view in my bedroom to serve as a reminder not to do anything stupid to delay their use any further. I am so excited I can scarcely contain myself.
I haven't been online or watched much TV today, but I did catch a headline that Lindsay Lohan has been sentenced to jail. It will be interesting to see if this is a "for real" sentence, or if she basically walks in the front door of the jail and out the back door. I suspect she won't be required to put in the full ninety days, but even a month would be a step in the direction of justice. I don't have any personal grudge against Ms. Lohan beyond what I have against anyone else whose behavior endangers the welfare of others. What I really dislike is the multi-tiered justice system whereby the wealthy are often treated with more deference than are ordinary citizens.
One of my cousins had a teacher who was convicted of something related to having juvenile pornography on his computer. Exactly how long the material was viewed, exactly by whom, and how it got there in the first place were all topics never fully divulged. It's a small town where they live, and rumors tend to run rampant; there's talk that the man is actually taking the rap for someone else. Yet he's locked away for an absolute minimum of six years. I'm not condoning the viewing of child pornography, and I'm very sorry for the victims. Still, this man touched absolutely no one. In our area we have murderers serving less time than this man will serve. Might society have been better served by revoking the man's teaching credential and requiring him to register as a sex offender for life? For that matter, shouldn't a little more effort go into nabbing the producers of child porn rather than taking the simpler route of finding and punishing the viewers?
I don't know if there are easy answers here, but I hope Ms. Lohan does at least as much time as I would do had I been found guilty of the same thing, and then of violating the probation, which was, in itself, probably a gift.
Perhaps Judge Alex will be a talking head on one of the news shows covering Ms. Lohan's plight. The problem is that more often than not, I don't learn of his appearances on such programs until after they've aired.
This is unfortunate, as his comments are usually very insightful.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Informing TV Judges so this Case Can Never be on a TV Judge Show
Sometimes life throws curve balls at you and, try as hard as you may, dodging them is nearly impossible. Even though I'm not a baseball player as my brother is, a really fast-moving and rapidly curving ball hit me squarely in more places than one ball just over two inches in diameter should be able to cover. Of course I'm speaking metaphorically, especially since curve balls do not usually travel all that fast, hence the term "curve ball" versus "fastball." Anyway, figuratvely, the curve ball that hit me was actually a runner and hurdle in my lane of a track.
I'm still not really allowed to give tons of details. Another person who was injured in the accident is the offspring of an attorney. I don't wish to paint all attorneys with the same brush (aren't I full of hackneyed idioms tonight?), especially since I hope to one day be an attorney, but my parents said ever since this happened that conventional wisdom dictates that when you are involved in any sort of incident also involving the close relative of a trial lawyer, anything you say ANYWHERE can and will be used against you in a deposition, regardless of how much at fault the other party may have been and how little of the fault was actually yours. All I will say is what I've said before: the other hurdler and her hurdle landed in my lane. Blood stains and tissue samples, as well as photographic evidence, back up this assertion of my coach's 100%.
Incidentally -- and here is where I'm possibly crossing a line and giving out too much information -- the other injured party suffered very minor injuries in comparison to mine. As far as I know, the extent of the damage to my collidee was a skinned knee and sprained ankle. I'm not downplaying the pain caused by a sprained ankle. We all perceive pain differently, so it is within the realm of possibility that the pain experienced by one person with a scraped knee and not-too-severely sprained ankle could conceivably equal or exceed that experienced by another person with a compound tibia-fibula fracture, in addition to a broken clavicle. It seems a bit of a stretch, but for the sake of argument, we'll allow it.
I won't blame the collidee for subsequent happenings, including a dislocation of the uninvolved shoulder, a refracture of the clavicle, a staphylococcal skin infection, and four -- count them: one, two, three, four -- surgeries to my leg. The most recent leg surgery involved taking pieces of bone from each of my hips and grafting them into places in my tibia that were not healing with just the rods initially placed there. (Actually, I will blame the collidee for the surgeries; they were as a direct of the initial collision; they would be her fault as much as anyone else's.) For practical purposes, I now also have minor fractures and temporarily missing bone fragments in both hips.
The bottom line is that my parents have received notice that the collidee's attorneys wish to meet with my parents' attorneys. Nothing has yet been filed through any court. If this action gets to a courtroom, the county in which this accident occurred is, to express it in the mildest possible terms, out in the boonies. We're all going to be spending beaucoup (for the unschooled in French among us, the correct pronuciation is boh- KOO', not boo- KOO'; it's one of my pet peeves, albeit a very minor one; pronounce the word correctly or don't say it at all, please!) time in a place in which I suspect one would hear the sound of banjoes dueling off in the distance if one listened carefully for long enough. I certainly hope it never reaches that point. As much as I would have loved to have gone off to a university this fall as a sixteen-year-old, that was not going to happen unless President Obama found a way to lower the age of majority to sixteen, effective immediately. My second choice is to spend my next year in a classroom, on a diving board, and God willing, on a track. I don't wish to be tied up in a courtroom in the equivalent of a practically inbred version of Mayberry or Hooterville, testifying about exactly where I was and what I was thinking when another hurdler pushed her hurdle into my lane, then came down on top of me with her hurdle under me.
The truth of the matter is that I remember so very little that not much I would have to say could be of much value. I was probably thinking, "Go faster!" After that, I have vague memories of going in and out of consciousness as my coach was trying to keep me still until an ambulance arrived with a stretcher. I may have groaned a few curse words at some point. Can that hurt me in a law suit? ( For the record, my inappropriate language would have been more along the lines of "God#$%^ it, this hurts!" as opposed to "Fu@% the b!#@& who did this to me!" I don't know if that matters or not. In fact, I'm not actually sure if I said anything aloud or just thought it.)
So next week my parents' lawyers are meeting with the attorneys for the other parties. My mom knows the attorneys well and trusts them to represent us well. The attorneys don't even want to dignify the initial request for a meeting with the presence of anyone from our family. Additionally, my parents are scheduled to be out of the state on that day, and they don't want me to be there without them . I'm considered a bit of a loose cannon. They're apprehensive about what I might say, especially without them there to hear it in person.
I don't think my parents should be so concerned about my decorum at the meeting. I would say nothing if told to remain silent by my parents' lawyers. I usually listen to and comply with other adults far better than I do with my own parents. The scoop is that my parents' lawyers are informing those of the adversary that they, my parents, have every reason to seek compensation for my injuries, as the action was not my fault, and while actual medical bills have been covered, insurance has not taken care of some expenses related to my care. Additionally, I am probably entitled to compensation for pain and suffering. (I'll certainly second that!) My parents, through their attorneys, will offer to consider the incident an "accident, " which it certainly was. Although if blame were to be placed, it could not be placed anywhere near my direction, my parents are willing to overlook that and stipulate that accidents sometimes happen. Furthermore, they're willing to provide photographic information the lawyers have in their position that the hurdles may not have been weighted properly, if the parents of the other party wish to seek action agaist the hosting school district, which is the school district in which their child is enrolled. (Ironically, this would be of limited value to them; the girl would still have tripped over the hurdle; the resulting skinned knee and sprained ankle probably would have happened with the hurdles having been weighted properly. Only my injuries were likely worsened but the lack of weighting of the hurdles.)
My parents believe this is largely a peremptory strike on the part of the adversaries. They're operating under the assumption, my mom thinks, that if one is in danger of being sued, first yourself threaten to sue and maybe the other party will be so intimidated by your Rottweilers that they'll back off any legal action quickly. My parents and their lawyers are too smart to fall for this, if it is indeed the strategy being employed by the opposing side.
"Last week" has actually already happened. I'm posting this only after the meeting happened, so no one's battle plan will be revealed prematurely. The meeting should have occurred today. I will know nothing until next week. Please pray for me, light a candle, keep your fingers crossed, or do whatever you know to bring good fortune to a person. I absolutely HATE the sound of banjoes.
Judge Alex, I highly doubt that you are reading, but if you are, is there any way your program can show reruns from previous seasons? This would be a boon to viewers everywhere, but especially to bored little girls in casts who can't use crutches for eight more days.
I'm still not really allowed to give tons of details. Another person who was injured in the accident is the offspring of an attorney. I don't wish to paint all attorneys with the same brush (aren't I full of hackneyed idioms tonight?), especially since I hope to one day be an attorney, but my parents said ever since this happened that conventional wisdom dictates that when you are involved in any sort of incident also involving the close relative of a trial lawyer, anything you say ANYWHERE can and will be used against you in a deposition, regardless of how much at fault the other party may have been and how little of the fault was actually yours. All I will say is what I've said before: the other hurdler and her hurdle landed in my lane. Blood stains and tissue samples, as well as photographic evidence, back up this assertion of my coach's 100%.
Incidentally -- and here is where I'm possibly crossing a line and giving out too much information -- the other injured party suffered very minor injuries in comparison to mine. As far as I know, the extent of the damage to my collidee was a skinned knee and sprained ankle. I'm not downplaying the pain caused by a sprained ankle. We all perceive pain differently, so it is within the realm of possibility that the pain experienced by one person with a scraped knee and not-too-severely sprained ankle could conceivably equal or exceed that experienced by another person with a compound tibia-fibula fracture, in addition to a broken clavicle. It seems a bit of a stretch, but for the sake of argument, we'll allow it.
I won't blame the collidee for subsequent happenings, including a dislocation of the uninvolved shoulder, a refracture of the clavicle, a staphylococcal skin infection, and four -- count them: one, two, three, four -- surgeries to my leg. The most recent leg surgery involved taking pieces of bone from each of my hips and grafting them into places in my tibia that were not healing with just the rods initially placed there. (Actually, I will blame the collidee for the surgeries; they were as a direct of the initial collision; they would be her fault as much as anyone else's.) For practical purposes, I now also have minor fractures and temporarily missing bone fragments in both hips.
The bottom line is that my parents have received notice that the collidee's attorneys wish to meet with my parents' attorneys. Nothing has yet been filed through any court. If this action gets to a courtroom, the county in which this accident occurred is, to express it in the mildest possible terms, out in the boonies. We're all going to be spending beaucoup (for the unschooled in French among us, the correct pronuciation is boh- KOO', not boo- KOO'; it's one of my pet peeves, albeit a very minor one; pronounce the word correctly or don't say it at all, please!) time in a place in which I suspect one would hear the sound of banjoes dueling off in the distance if one listened carefully for long enough. I certainly hope it never reaches that point. As much as I would have loved to have gone off to a university this fall as a sixteen-year-old, that was not going to happen unless President Obama found a way to lower the age of majority to sixteen, effective immediately. My second choice is to spend my next year in a classroom, on a diving board, and God willing, on a track. I don't wish to be tied up in a courtroom in the equivalent of a practically inbred version of Mayberry or Hooterville, testifying about exactly where I was and what I was thinking when another hurdler pushed her hurdle into my lane, then came down on top of me with her hurdle under me.
The truth of the matter is that I remember so very little that not much I would have to say could be of much value. I was probably thinking, "Go faster!" After that, I have vague memories of going in and out of consciousness as my coach was trying to keep me still until an ambulance arrived with a stretcher. I may have groaned a few curse words at some point. Can that hurt me in a law suit? ( For the record, my inappropriate language would have been more along the lines of "God#$%^ it, this hurts!" as opposed to "Fu@% the b!#@& who did this to me!" I don't know if that matters or not. In fact, I'm not actually sure if I said anything aloud or just thought it.)
So next week my parents' lawyers are meeting with the attorneys for the other parties. My mom knows the attorneys well and trusts them to represent us well. The attorneys don't even want to dignify the initial request for a meeting with the presence of anyone from our family. Additionally, my parents are scheduled to be out of the state on that day, and they don't want me to be there without them . I'm considered a bit of a loose cannon. They're apprehensive about what I might say, especially without them there to hear it in person.
I don't think my parents should be so concerned about my decorum at the meeting. I would say nothing if told to remain silent by my parents' lawyers. I usually listen to and comply with other adults far better than I do with my own parents. The scoop is that my parents' lawyers are informing those of the adversary that they, my parents, have every reason to seek compensation for my injuries, as the action was not my fault, and while actual medical bills have been covered, insurance has not taken care of some expenses related to my care. Additionally, I am probably entitled to compensation for pain and suffering. (I'll certainly second that!) My parents, through their attorneys, will offer to consider the incident an "accident, " which it certainly was. Although if blame were to be placed, it could not be placed anywhere near my direction, my parents are willing to overlook that and stipulate that accidents sometimes happen. Furthermore, they're willing to provide photographic information the lawyers have in their position that the hurdles may not have been weighted properly, if the parents of the other party wish to seek action agaist the hosting school district, which is the school district in which their child is enrolled. (Ironically, this would be of limited value to them; the girl would still have tripped over the hurdle; the resulting skinned knee and sprained ankle probably would have happened with the hurdles having been weighted properly. Only my injuries were likely worsened but the lack of weighting of the hurdles.)
My parents believe this is largely a peremptory strike on the part of the adversaries. They're operating under the assumption, my mom thinks, that if one is in danger of being sued, first yourself threaten to sue and maybe the other party will be so intimidated by your Rottweilers that they'll back off any legal action quickly. My parents and their lawyers are too smart to fall for this, if it is indeed the strategy being employed by the opposing side.
"Last week" has actually already happened. I'm posting this only after the meeting happened, so no one's battle plan will be revealed prematurely. The meeting should have occurred today. I will know nothing until next week. Please pray for me, light a candle, keep your fingers crossed, or do whatever you know to bring good fortune to a person. I absolutely HATE the sound of banjoes.
Judge Alex, I highly doubt that you are reading, but if you are, is there any way your program can show reruns from previous seasons? This would be a boon to viewers everywhere, but especially to bored little girls in casts who can't use crutches for eight more days.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
My parents have redeemed themselves.
My parents came home from their party very late last night to find me asleep on the landing halfway up the stairs. They woke me up and asked me why I was there. I explained that I was too tired to scoot any further up the stairs so I just went to sleep there. At one point while my mom was helping me into bed, she asked me what I had for dinner. I told her I ate brown sugar. At first she went on a rant and screamed at me.
She went downstairs after screaming for awhile. She must have reevaaluated the situation or looked at the contents of the fridge and pantry that are within my reach. she had my father (the sober one because he was the designated driver after the party) go to an all-night grocery store and pick up food that I like and food that can be within my reach that doesn't need to be cooked. My dad made me eat a banana and instant instant oatmeal and drink chocolate milk before I went to sleep. I had to brush my teeth all over, which is an ordeal because I have to get out of bed and back into my wheelchair, then put the toothpaste on the toothbrush single-handedly, which isn't as easy a it sounds (try it) and then get back to bed all over, but it was worth it not to be hungry.
We had pancakes this morning. I ate two all by myself without feeding any to the dog. We went to mass. We went to one where another priest who didn't excommunicate us was celebrating the mass so we could have communion. I don't know if that's cheating or not, but I don't really care. I never threw a dart at the pond-scum-prom-date-breaker's picture on the dart board, and it was all over the stupid dart board someone else made anyway. It was the first time I'd been to mass aince the accident. My parents have gone, but I haven't. It was sort of embarrassing to be pushed in a wheelchair, especially during communion. The people who don't know us probably felt sorry for me and thought 'Oh, that poor little crippled girl!" I don't like to be noticed in the wheelchair at all.
After church, we went to a store and my parents bought crutches and pink spray paint. I still have about 12 days until I can use them, but they will be ready. My parents can be very nice people.
My mom triple-wrapped my leg and let me float on a raft in the pool with a life preserver on just in case I fell off and no one was watching closely enough. It was hot today, and I didn't get very wet on the raft, but I got wet enough to cool off a little. My cast stayed dry.
One of my friends came home from vacation. She smuggled in the other knitting needle from the pair she had bought. My parents took the first one away. I'll be very furtive and they'll never know about this one. I can't keep it under my mattress, because my parents have grown brains and decided that someone with just one working hand can't put sheets on a bed all by herself with no help at all, but I have a better hiding place. I won't say anymore.
This was a nice day. My friend can drive, but she can't legally transport underage passengers yet, so she's going to bring me fast foood for lunch tomorrow. It may not be the most nutritious food in the world, but it's probably no worse than brown sugar and I don't eat that much of it, anyway.
A boy that was in my anatomy class and on the track team with me visited. We took a walk to a park not too far away. It's not quite as embarrassing being pushed in a wheelchair by a boy as it is when your parents are pushing you.
I hope everyone has a nice day tomorrow.
She went downstairs after screaming for awhile. She must have reevaaluated the situation or looked at the contents of the fridge and pantry that are within my reach. she had my father (the sober one because he was the designated driver after the party) go to an all-night grocery store and pick up food that I like and food that can be within my reach that doesn't need to be cooked. My dad made me eat a banana and instant instant oatmeal and drink chocolate milk before I went to sleep. I had to brush my teeth all over, which is an ordeal because I have to get out of bed and back into my wheelchair, then put the toothpaste on the toothbrush single-handedly, which isn't as easy a it sounds (try it) and then get back to bed all over, but it was worth it not to be hungry.
We had pancakes this morning. I ate two all by myself without feeding any to the dog. We went to mass. We went to one where another priest who didn't excommunicate us was celebrating the mass so we could have communion. I don't know if that's cheating or not, but I don't really care. I never threw a dart at the pond-scum-prom-date-breaker's picture on the dart board, and it was all over the stupid dart board someone else made anyway. It was the first time I'd been to mass aince the accident. My parents have gone, but I haven't. It was sort of embarrassing to be pushed in a wheelchair, especially during communion. The people who don't know us probably felt sorry for me and thought 'Oh, that poor little crippled girl!" I don't like to be noticed in the wheelchair at all.
After church, we went to a store and my parents bought crutches and pink spray paint. I still have about 12 days until I can use them, but they will be ready. My parents can be very nice people.
My mom triple-wrapped my leg and let me float on a raft in the pool with a life preserver on just in case I fell off and no one was watching closely enough. It was hot today, and I didn't get very wet on the raft, but I got wet enough to cool off a little. My cast stayed dry.
One of my friends came home from vacation. She smuggled in the other knitting needle from the pair she had bought. My parents took the first one away. I'll be very furtive and they'll never know about this one. I can't keep it under my mattress, because my parents have grown brains and decided that someone with just one working hand can't put sheets on a bed all by herself with no help at all, but I have a better hiding place. I won't say anymore.
This was a nice day. My friend can drive, but she can't legally transport underage passengers yet, so she's going to bring me fast foood for lunch tomorrow. It may not be the most nutritious food in the world, but it's probably no worse than brown sugar and I don't eat that much of it, anyway.
A boy that was in my anatomy class and on the track team with me visited. We took a walk to a park not too far away. It's not quite as embarrassing being pushed in a wheelchair by a boy as it is when your parents are pushing you.
I hope everyone has a nice day tomorrow.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
I take back what I said before
I want to go back into the hospital. At least they have juice, cereal, and milk there. If my parents don't shop soon, I'm going to be sick from hunger and end up there anyway. My parents go out to lunch and go to parties almost every night for dinner. They get to eat decent food. I just get to make peanut butter sandwiches with no jelly or eat uncooked ramen noodles because I can't use the stove or microwave. Life isn't supposed to be fair, but is it supposed to be this unfair? Is there a camp for the temporarily handicapped?
Friday, June 25, 2010
life sucks
I can't go anywhere. I've watched everything on TV that is worth watching. Even the Judge Alex reruns suck. I can only type with one hand for so long, and even reading is a chore with just one hand that is also attached to a sore shoulder. My parents are rationing the Vicodin as though we're in the Donner Party and Vicodin is the only food our family has to eat, so everything hurts all the time. Anti-inflamatories maake me really sick, so I can't take Motrin or anything like it. My parentss won't let us have aspirin even though most doctors say it's OK by 16. Tylenol does little to help, and if I've had much, my parents won't give me Vicodin when it's time because there is acetaminophen in Vicoden, and they're worried I'll destroy my liver. I'm not sure how much it would matter at this point, anyway.
Speaking of food, there is nothing in the house that I like to eat, and neither of my parents will go shopping. There isn't even any milk or juice in the refrigerator. They just tell me to use my one semi-good hand to make a peanut butter sandwich. We don't even have jelly. My brother is at a baseball camp, so food is no longer important. If he were here, the fridge and cupboards would be full of cereal, ice cream, cheese, and all sorts of good things. He's not here, so my parents aren't shopping. Then they have the nerve to complain when I lose weight.
My friends are off having fun. I'm stuck in the wheelchair for at least two more weeks. It's too hot, and my leg itches inside my cast. My parents took away the knitting needle my friend gave me for scratching on the very rare chance (like it's probably never happened in history with a dull knitting needle; a coat hanger or something sharper, maybe, but not a dull knitting needle) that it could cause a break in the skin and an infection.
What doesn't hurt itches. I'm receiving regular antibiotic injections, which makes even sitting painful. I hate my life.
I know that there are others in the world who have it worse than I. Soldiers are in foxholes in Afghanistan. People are dying of cancer. Little girls have close relatives who molest them. I could be stuck again with my unnamed aunt and uncle, although CPS would probably go after my parents if they put me there again. Children in many parts of the world are hungry to the point of starvation.
Still, I'm so out of it that I barely care. I'd almost rather be in a foxhole in Afghanistan with the use of all my extremities than where I am and in the condition I am right now. I wish something good could happen.
Dad, if you read this and complain to me that I'm starting to sound like an old lady again, you will see a hissy fit that makes the tantrums I threw as a two-year-old seem like cocktail hour at Bar Americain.
Speaking of food, there is nothing in the house that I like to eat, and neither of my parents will go shopping. There isn't even any milk or juice in the refrigerator. They just tell me to use my one semi-good hand to make a peanut butter sandwich. We don't even have jelly. My brother is at a baseball camp, so food is no longer important. If he were here, the fridge and cupboards would be full of cereal, ice cream, cheese, and all sorts of good things. He's not here, so my parents aren't shopping. Then they have the nerve to complain when I lose weight.
My friends are off having fun. I'm stuck in the wheelchair for at least two more weeks. It's too hot, and my leg itches inside my cast. My parents took away the knitting needle my friend gave me for scratching on the very rare chance (like it's probably never happened in history with a dull knitting needle; a coat hanger or something sharper, maybe, but not a dull knitting needle) that it could cause a break in the skin and an infection.
What doesn't hurt itches. I'm receiving regular antibiotic injections, which makes even sitting painful. I hate my life.
I know that there are others in the world who have it worse than I. Soldiers are in foxholes in Afghanistan. People are dying of cancer. Little girls have close relatives who molest them. I could be stuck again with my unnamed aunt and uncle, although CPS would probably go after my parents if they put me there again. Children in many parts of the world are hungry to the point of starvation.
Still, I'm so out of it that I barely care. I'd almost rather be in a foxhole in Afghanistan with the use of all my extremities than where I am and in the condition I am right now. I wish something good could happen.
Dad, if you read this and complain to me that I'm starting to sound like an old lady again, you will see a hissy fit that makes the tantrums I threw as a two-year-old seem like cocktail hour at Bar Americain.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
out of the #%&!! hospital, hopefully for the rest of my life
Seriously, I don't ever want to go back. I suppose I might go to visit one of my parents or close friends if one of them were extremely ill, but that's the extent of my intended presence inside any hospital. I've even decided not to have any children because home births don't seem terribly safe (although some would dispute that) and I'm not entering any hospital or hoapital-like setting to give birth. I don't have anything against children; I'm just not going to produce any myself. If I'm really motivated in the future, I'll find some child to adopt, although it's debatable that I would ever be a suitable parent for a guinea pig, much less a child.
Speaking of suitaable parents . . . one night in the hospital, my parents and I became engaged in a heated debate. They both insisted that they had raised my brother and me in a non-sexist manner and had treated us equally as much as was practical. I have no problem with their having clothed me in dresses and put ribbons in my hair on occasion. The thing with the Jolie-Pitt family dressing Shiloh like a little boy and calling her John sseems a bit far out there to me. I'm just as happy my parents didn't carry their gender neutrality quite so far. It's the more recent parenting practices that cause me to question the veracity of their claims.
Some of you may have read from way back that my brother was asked to the prom by a bimbo whose sole intention for having selected him as a prom date was to become impregnated by him. She thought the baby would get her looks and his brains, and that he wasn't so hideous-looking that his DNA would ruin the potential love child's looks. i was supposed to have served as my brother's chaperone to and from the prom, and at the restaurant. Mom's co-worker spies were sworn to keep the frisky adolescents inside the building. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon how one views the situation, my hurdling accident and broken prom date by a bum who didn't want to be seen at a prom with a wheelchair-bound cripple (I would have told him I didn't want to go anyway if he'd just asked) effectively prevented me from chaperoning my twin brother who is less than two minutes younger than I. (For the record, my brother's trying to be secretive about just what happened at the prom, but those who would know say that Bimbo could only have conceived that night by immaculate conception.)
My question to my parents was this: if a boy announced his intention to impregnate me on prom night (this is purely hypothetical; I don't want to share too much information, but it's not likely that I'll be capable of conceiving even by the time next spring's prom rolls around --plus, I'm not EVER getting pregnant because I'm not going back into a hospital as a patient) would I be allowed out the door with the boy with my brother chaperoning, with my mother's friends watching like eagles, or, for that matter, with the very same Secret Service agents who protect President Obama protecting me instead that night?
Of course, my parents were forced to admit that they'd do anything, including taking out a restraining order, to keep the boy in question at least the length of three football fields away from me. So much for gender-neutral parenting.
I did get to swim on Sunday. It was lots of fun except for the time my brother was supposed to be lifeguarding me while my father went inside briefly to take care ofpersonal business. My brother has passed Red Cross Junior and Senior Life-saving, and has passed the Water Safety Instruction course. On paper, he's qualified to watch a girl in a cast with a bound arm while she hangs onto a floatie with her semi-good arm for three minutes or so while her father visits the bathroom. Theory and practice are two different things, however, especially when females my brother considers attractive are present to distract him. I lost my grip on my floatie. With the extra weight of the cast, my ne good leg and arm weren't enough to propel me to the surface. Fortunately, another boy less lame than my brother noticed and pulled me out before it got to the point that anyone had to perform CPR. (If it had been needed, I'm lucky my dad's a doctor, because my brother would have found a way to screw that up as well.) Can you believe what a sub-moron my brother is. My parents were mad at him, but not as mad as they should have been, in my humble opinion.
Despite the triple wrapping, the cast did get wet, but it was cut off about sixteen hours later, so it didn't matter all that much. The new cast is even bulkier. It's supposed to be on for about seven weeks. My hips hurt about as much as my leg right now. The surgeon says in aother day or so, the leg will settle into the cast and won't give me too much pain, but that my hips will still hurt. They give me drugs if I complain enough. I've learned to exaggerate my complaints. I don't want to become an opium addict, but I also don't want to be in so much pain that it's making me hurl. My parents hand out Vicodin the way Ebenezer Scrooge shared his wealth before his visits from the ghosts, so it's unlikely that I'll ever become a full-fledged addict on their watch.
I haven't seen a single episode of Judge Alex since last week. Is he still in rerun mode?
Speaking of suitaable parents . . . one night in the hospital, my parents and I became engaged in a heated debate. They both insisted that they had raised my brother and me in a non-sexist manner and had treated us equally as much as was practical. I have no problem with their having clothed me in dresses and put ribbons in my hair on occasion. The thing with the Jolie-Pitt family dressing Shiloh like a little boy and calling her John sseems a bit far out there to me. I'm just as happy my parents didn't carry their gender neutrality quite so far. It's the more recent parenting practices that cause me to question the veracity of their claims.
Some of you may have read from way back that my brother was asked to the prom by a bimbo whose sole intention for having selected him as a prom date was to become impregnated by him. She thought the baby would get her looks and his brains, and that he wasn't so hideous-looking that his DNA would ruin the potential love child's looks. i was supposed to have served as my brother's chaperone to and from the prom, and at the restaurant. Mom's co-worker spies were sworn to keep the frisky adolescents inside the building. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon how one views the situation, my hurdling accident and broken prom date by a bum who didn't want to be seen at a prom with a wheelchair-bound cripple (I would have told him I didn't want to go anyway if he'd just asked) effectively prevented me from chaperoning my twin brother who is less than two minutes younger than I. (For the record, my brother's trying to be secretive about just what happened at the prom, but those who would know say that Bimbo could only have conceived that night by immaculate conception.)
My question to my parents was this: if a boy announced his intention to impregnate me on prom night (this is purely hypothetical; I don't want to share too much information, but it's not likely that I'll be capable of conceiving even by the time next spring's prom rolls around --plus, I'm not EVER getting pregnant because I'm not going back into a hospital as a patient) would I be allowed out the door with the boy with my brother chaperoning, with my mother's friends watching like eagles, or, for that matter, with the very same Secret Service agents who protect President Obama protecting me instead that night?
Of course, my parents were forced to admit that they'd do anything, including taking out a restraining order, to keep the boy in question at least the length of three football fields away from me. So much for gender-neutral parenting.
I did get to swim on Sunday. It was lots of fun except for the time my brother was supposed to be lifeguarding me while my father went inside briefly to take care ofpersonal business. My brother has passed Red Cross Junior and Senior Life-saving, and has passed the Water Safety Instruction course. On paper, he's qualified to watch a girl in a cast with a bound arm while she hangs onto a floatie with her semi-good arm for three minutes or so while her father visits the bathroom. Theory and practice are two different things, however, especially when females my brother considers attractive are present to distract him. I lost my grip on my floatie. With the extra weight of the cast, my ne good leg and arm weren't enough to propel me to the surface. Fortunately, another boy less lame than my brother noticed and pulled me out before it got to the point that anyone had to perform CPR. (If it had been needed, I'm lucky my dad's a doctor, because my brother would have found a way to screw that up as well.) Can you believe what a sub-moron my brother is. My parents were mad at him, but not as mad as they should have been, in my humble opinion.
Despite the triple wrapping, the cast did get wet, but it was cut off about sixteen hours later, so it didn't matter all that much. The new cast is even bulkier. It's supposed to be on for about seven weeks. My hips hurt about as much as my leg right now. The surgeon says in aother day or so, the leg will settle into the cast and won't give me too much pain, but that my hips will still hurt. They give me drugs if I complain enough. I've learned to exaggerate my complaints. I don't want to become an opium addict, but I also don't want to be in so much pain that it's making me hurl. My parents hand out Vicodin the way Ebenezer Scrooge shared his wealth before his visits from the ghosts, so it's unlikely that I'll ever become a full-fledged addict on their watch.
I haven't seen a single episode of Judge Alex since last week. Is he still in rerun mode?
Sunday, June 20, 2010
D-Day, or Dx Day
I don't really mean to equate my own personal milestone with the day in which our troops stormed the beaches at Normandy, knowing that in order for their mission to be successful, odds were in favor that some of their lives would be lost. To do such would be trivializing the sacrifices made by many of the greatest generation. Additionally, it would make me 100% guily of self-aggrandization.
Still, this is a signifcant day in my life, or at least I hope it will be. In a few hours, my father will drive me to a hospital lab, where the technicians will procure samples of body fluids and will determine whether or not my kidney infection has been cured and that no other nefarious bacterial or viral infection has popped up to take its place. If the results are as anticipated, I will have auto-bone-grafting surgery. Pieces will be taken from both hips to put into my leg in order to help the fractures there mend themselves. That's for tomorrow, however. What I'm looking forward to is today.
Test results should be in by noon-ish. If everything looks good, at that time, I'll put on my swimsuit. I'll take off my ace bandage that immobilzes my arm because of the broken clavicle. Then, once my suit is on, my dad will re-wrap the ace bandages to immoblize my arm. I'll put my leg inside one plastic garbage bag, then tuck the top inside the cast. I'll put my leg into another garbage bag, and attach a rubber band around it. I'll put a third plastic bag over the first two, and attach a rubber band even higher than the first two.
Then I'll go into the pool. With the extra weight of the cast and the overall lack of mobility of at least two extremities, I won't be a very effective swimmer. I'l mostly float around clinging to a flotation device, with my dad swimming nearby because he thinks I require a personal lifeguard, and it's conceivable that I will. Still, I've been waiting for this since April, and I intend to have fun if it kills me. Several friends are coming by for my pool party, and we'll order pizza at some point.
Despite my best efforts, the cast will probably still get wet. This is why I'm not allowed to do this unless surgery has been OKed for tomorrow. Since the cast has to be cut off anyway, what's a little water? My dad said I'll be surprised to learn how moldy and smelly it will be just one day after getting wet, but I dont care. I GET TO GO SWIMMING!
I am so pathetic that all it takes is floating around in a giant tub of water to cause me to be excited practically out of my skin, which my brother kindly pointed out yesterday, but I don't care. I GET TO SWIM TODAY! YIPPEE!!!!!!!
Happy Father's Day to any fathers who may read this, including my own father, my Uncle Steve, my Godfather Uncle Ralph, Judge Alex, and even dear sweet Uncle Mahonri. Have a blessed day, everyone.
Still, this is a signifcant day in my life, or at least I hope it will be. In a few hours, my father will drive me to a hospital lab, where the technicians will procure samples of body fluids and will determine whether or not my kidney infection has been cured and that no other nefarious bacterial or viral infection has popped up to take its place. If the results are as anticipated, I will have auto-bone-grafting surgery. Pieces will be taken from both hips to put into my leg in order to help the fractures there mend themselves. That's for tomorrow, however. What I'm looking forward to is today.
Test results should be in by noon-ish. If everything looks good, at that time, I'll put on my swimsuit. I'll take off my ace bandage that immobilzes my arm because of the broken clavicle. Then, once my suit is on, my dad will re-wrap the ace bandages to immoblize my arm. I'll put my leg inside one plastic garbage bag, then tuck the top inside the cast. I'll put my leg into another garbage bag, and attach a rubber band around it. I'll put a third plastic bag over the first two, and attach a rubber band even higher than the first two.
Then I'll go into the pool. With the extra weight of the cast and the overall lack of mobility of at least two extremities, I won't be a very effective swimmer. I'l mostly float around clinging to a flotation device, with my dad swimming nearby because he thinks I require a personal lifeguard, and it's conceivable that I will. Still, I've been waiting for this since April, and I intend to have fun if it kills me. Several friends are coming by for my pool party, and we'll order pizza at some point.
Despite my best efforts, the cast will probably still get wet. This is why I'm not allowed to do this unless surgery has been OKed for tomorrow. Since the cast has to be cut off anyway, what's a little water? My dad said I'll be surprised to learn how moldy and smelly it will be just one day after getting wet, but I dont care. I GET TO GO SWIMMING!
I am so pathetic that all it takes is floating around in a giant tub of water to cause me to be excited practically out of my skin, which my brother kindly pointed out yesterday, but I don't care. I GET TO SWIM TODAY! YIPPEE!!!!!!!
Happy Father's Day to any fathers who may read this, including my own father, my Uncle Steve, my Godfather Uncle Ralph, Judge Alex, and even dear sweet Uncle Mahonri. Have a blessed day, everyone.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
To go away or not to go away to college? That is the question.
The idea of life being boring is sometimes a good thing. There are certainly worse things in life than the mundane. My mom is doing better, though not yet 100%. We eagerly anticipate her full recovery. My brother is his usual obnoxious self; he occasionaly resorts to behaving in an almost human manner just to catch me off-guard, but for the most part, his mission in life is to make my life less pleasant. I have accepted this and am thus no longer terribly bothered by it. My dad is putting in extra hours to make up for recent time he had to miss work due to my mom's illness and my injuries and illness. It's good that he likes his work. I would have to feel sorry for him otherwise. Judge Alex has been in rerun mode, but the Hooters episode was one I'd watch ten times; it was THAT funny.
My kidneys are near where they need to be. I have a tentative surgery date of June 21. Pieces of bone will be removed from each hip and grafted into strategic points in my leg. I'm annoyed by the idea of having additional body parts in pain. It seems like a compound fracture of two bones in my leg, a collarbone fractured, a dislocated shoulder (the left one, not the same side as the broken clavicle), infections in both kidneys, and the dreaded (as much as I hate to mention it, I might as well if I'm trying to make anyone feel sorry for me) staphylococcal diaper rash; now I will have to feel as though both of my hips have been fractured. To say I am looking forward to any of this would be a big fat lie, but I am looking forward to having it all finished. The idea that it's probably on June 21 bothers me. I could visit the doctor beforehand, for instance this Monday, have levels of everything checked, and find out that everything is so great that the surgery will be done the next day. Or things couldn't be ready yet by June 21.
This all reminds me of an international case I read about that happened many years ago. A teenager, maybe 17 or 18, named Michael Fay, had been convicted of vandalism in Singapore, where the traditional penalty for such action is caning. It became an international incident. Although, I think as a sort of peace offering, the Singapore government reduced the number of times they hit Mr. Fay with the cane, he still was caned. The thing about his situation that reminds me of mine is that he never knew when he was to be caned. He just knew that one day his jailers would wake him up and it would happen. I feel that my surgery is the same in that I'm not sure when I'm going to be medically tortured (for my own benefit-- I'm not blaming the doctors); I just know it will probably happen sometime in the next two weeks. Not knowing when is stressful.
Just in case my dad violates the agreement not to read my blog because others are monitoring it for safety and appropriate content, and there is thus no need for him to read it, I must discuss something besides my health. If you are a regular reader, such as my English teacher and a few relatives, and my blogging/Twitter buddies Joslyn and Rebecca, you might remember that my dad complained that the only topic old people willingly discuss is their state of health, and that my blog was precariously close to that level. If you're reading at this point, Daddy, keep reading. I'm digressing from my usual hospital stories and medical travelogues.
I mentioned in my profile, I believe, that I have sufficient units to
have graduated after fall semester of last year. I knew that the chances of my parents allowing such a thing were about as likely as the odds that one of the Kardashians would be elected to a high-level government office in the near future. Still, just in the interest of experimentation, I filled out several applications and sent them in with the required fees at my own expense. Before my arms were temporarily rendered useless by my accident, I earned, between school and church piano/organ jobs, almost two thousand dollars a month after taxes. My parents required me to tithe and to bank 90% of what was left over. The remaining amount was considered my "allowance." I have no problem with their requirements of what I needed to do with my money; just the term "allowance" annoyed me, as it was money I earned myself. They could have just called it my "uninvested salary" and left it at that.
My parents have said that they will only pay for public colleges and universities, so I didn't waste a lot of money applying to private colleges. I did apply to Stanford with the idea that maybe enough scholarship money would appear to make enrollment there feasible, as unlikely as that sounds. Also, my mom's undergrad degree was from Stanford; she might soften up a bit if it came right down to the wire. For the most part, I applied to numerous University of California campuses. At about sixty dollars a pop, I'm roughly four hundred dollars poorer for the experience. Anyway, lost in all the drama of the accident was that acceptance/rejection letter time came. My mail piled up until I was eventually conscious and alert enough to care to open it. I was accepted for next year at U.C. Berkeley, UCLA, UC Santa Barbara, UC San Diego, UC Irvine, and ././././././././ (drumroll)././././././ Stanford!
All of this is moot. My parents are not going to let me graduate early. I will be incredibly lucky if they let me go anywhere other than to a university near us even after I've done my four years of high school, because I'll only be seventeen-and-one-half at the time. They're afraid I lack the common sense to be safe in the big bad world without their supervision. I told them that college dorms supervise minors more closely than regular enrollees. (That is something I made up on the spur of the moment. It stands to reason that it might be true, but I don't know
for anything resembling a fact that it is the case. Still, since I didn't know it to be false when I said it, it was not a lie.)
If I knew that I would be able to hurdle and dive next year, it would be my choice to stick around anyway. My doctors can't guarantee anything. One orthopedist told me that chances are my diving won't be severely impaired regardless by spring. I should have enough leg strength to project off a springboard. Gymnasts (which I used to be) are natural divers mostly because of ability to manipulate upper bodies. My leg should at least be straight by then, and able to bear enough weight to spring off the board.
The running/hurdling thing is a bit more questionable. Even if I can physically run and make it over the hurdles, I may not be very fast. We'll just have to wait and see.
In any event, it seems I threw away hundreds of dollars for nothing. Actually, it only seems that way. There were methods and strategies behind my seemingly wasteful spending. I intend to use it all as leverage in about ten months when the time to choose a university for real rolls around. (Additionally, if I can convince any of these universities to defer my enrollment for a year, I may be able to convince my parents to reimburse some or all of my application fees.)
The university near me is a good school, but who wants to attend a university that is practically within bicycling distance of his or her own home? (I should be careful in saying that. It might give my parents the idea to buy me a bicycle[or make me buy my own with my "allowance"] to use as transportation when they finally force me to enroll there.) I would agree to enroll there this year, although it's too late, as I deliberately didn't apply there. Next year, I want the "real" college/university experience. I don't plan to make a roaring drunken fool of myself. I've tasted my dad's and my uncle's drinks, and I'll never taste them again. They taste like cough syrup, which I have to be bribed to take no matter how bad my cough is. I just want the opportunity to watch others in their varying states of drunkenness while I'm in the process of acquiring a high-level education. Is this so much to ask?
Is is really my fault that my parents' poor planning resulted in babies that were born on December 2, which is the kindergarten cut-off date in California? If they wanted me to be eighteen when I went off to college, they should have conceived in June so that I could have been born sometime around February. They also could have held my brother and me out of kindergarten until we were five. They made the decision not to do this. I feel that they need to take responsibility for decisions they have made in the past. They made their bed (or, more literally, had a bit of recreational activity in it). Now they need to man up and sleep in the bed they've made for themselves.
In reiteration, I'm not seriously asking to be allowed to go away to college as a sixteen-year-old, having graduated early. I am requesting, however, that after I've completed my four years of high school successfully, I should be allowed to enroll at a reasonable university of my own choosing. Am I asking too much? Please post your comments.
My kidneys are near where they need to be. I have a tentative surgery date of June 21. Pieces of bone will be removed from each hip and grafted into strategic points in my leg. I'm annoyed by the idea of having additional body parts in pain. It seems like a compound fracture of two bones in my leg, a collarbone fractured, a dislocated shoulder (the left one, not the same side as the broken clavicle), infections in both kidneys, and the dreaded (as much as I hate to mention it, I might as well if I'm trying to make anyone feel sorry for me) staphylococcal diaper rash; now I will have to feel as though both of my hips have been fractured. To say I am looking forward to any of this would be a big fat lie, but I am looking forward to having it all finished. The idea that it's probably on June 21 bothers me. I could visit the doctor beforehand, for instance this Monday, have levels of everything checked, and find out that everything is so great that the surgery will be done the next day. Or things couldn't be ready yet by June 21.
This all reminds me of an international case I read about that happened many years ago. A teenager, maybe 17 or 18, named Michael Fay, had been convicted of vandalism in Singapore, where the traditional penalty for such action is caning. It became an international incident. Although, I think as a sort of peace offering, the Singapore government reduced the number of times they hit Mr. Fay with the cane, he still was caned. The thing about his situation that reminds me of mine is that he never knew when he was to be caned. He just knew that one day his jailers would wake him up and it would happen. I feel that my surgery is the same in that I'm not sure when I'm going to be medically tortured (for my own benefit-- I'm not blaming the doctors); I just know it will probably happen sometime in the next two weeks. Not knowing when is stressful.
Just in case my dad violates the agreement not to read my blog because others are monitoring it for safety and appropriate content, and there is thus no need for him to read it, I must discuss something besides my health. If you are a regular reader, such as my English teacher and a few relatives, and my blogging/Twitter buddies Joslyn and Rebecca, you might remember that my dad complained that the only topic old people willingly discuss is their state of health, and that my blog was precariously close to that level. If you're reading at this point, Daddy, keep reading. I'm digressing from my usual hospital stories and medical travelogues.
I mentioned in my profile, I believe, that I have sufficient units to
have graduated after fall semester of last year. I knew that the chances of my parents allowing such a thing were about as likely as the odds that one of the Kardashians would be elected to a high-level government office in the near future. Still, just in the interest of experimentation, I filled out several applications and sent them in with the required fees at my own expense. Before my arms were temporarily rendered useless by my accident, I earned, between school and church piano/organ jobs, almost two thousand dollars a month after taxes. My parents required me to tithe and to bank 90% of what was left over. The remaining amount was considered my "allowance." I have no problem with their requirements of what I needed to do with my money; just the term "allowance" annoyed me, as it was money I earned myself. They could have just called it my "uninvested salary" and left it at that.
My parents have said that they will only pay for public colleges and universities, so I didn't waste a lot of money applying to private colleges. I did apply to Stanford with the idea that maybe enough scholarship money would appear to make enrollment there feasible, as unlikely as that sounds. Also, my mom's undergrad degree was from Stanford; she might soften up a bit if it came right down to the wire. For the most part, I applied to numerous University of California campuses. At about sixty dollars a pop, I'm roughly four hundred dollars poorer for the experience. Anyway, lost in all the drama of the accident was that acceptance/rejection letter time came. My mail piled up until I was eventually conscious and alert enough to care to open it. I was accepted for next year at U.C. Berkeley, UCLA, UC Santa Barbara, UC San Diego, UC Irvine, and ././././././././ (drumroll)././././././ Stanford!
All of this is moot. My parents are not going to let me graduate early. I will be incredibly lucky if they let me go anywhere other than to a university near us even after I've done my four years of high school, because I'll only be seventeen-and-one-half at the time. They're afraid I lack the common sense to be safe in the big bad world without their supervision. I told them that college dorms supervise minors more closely than regular enrollees. (That is something I made up on the spur of the moment. It stands to reason that it might be true, but I don't know
for anything resembling a fact that it is the case. Still, since I didn't know it to be false when I said it, it was not a lie.)
If I knew that I would be able to hurdle and dive next year, it would be my choice to stick around anyway. My doctors can't guarantee anything. One orthopedist told me that chances are my diving won't be severely impaired regardless by spring. I should have enough leg strength to project off a springboard. Gymnasts (which I used to be) are natural divers mostly because of ability to manipulate upper bodies. My leg should at least be straight by then, and able to bear enough weight to spring off the board.
The running/hurdling thing is a bit more questionable. Even if I can physically run and make it over the hurdles, I may not be very fast. We'll just have to wait and see.
In any event, it seems I threw away hundreds of dollars for nothing. Actually, it only seems that way. There were methods and strategies behind my seemingly wasteful spending. I intend to use it all as leverage in about ten months when the time to choose a university for real rolls around. (Additionally, if I can convince any of these universities to defer my enrollment for a year, I may be able to convince my parents to reimburse some or all of my application fees.)
The university near me is a good school, but who wants to attend a university that is practically within bicycling distance of his or her own home? (I should be careful in saying that. It might give my parents the idea to buy me a bicycle[or make me buy my own with my "allowance"] to use as transportation when they finally force me to enroll there.) I would agree to enroll there this year, although it's too late, as I deliberately didn't apply there. Next year, I want the "real" college/university experience. I don't plan to make a roaring drunken fool of myself. I've tasted my dad's and my uncle's drinks, and I'll never taste them again. They taste like cough syrup, which I have to be bribed to take no matter how bad my cough is. I just want the opportunity to watch others in their varying states of drunkenness while I'm in the process of acquiring a high-level education. Is this so much to ask?
Is is really my fault that my parents' poor planning resulted in babies that were born on December 2, which is the kindergarten cut-off date in California? If they wanted me to be eighteen when I went off to college, they should have conceived in June so that I could have been born sometime around February. They also could have held my brother and me out of kindergarten until we were five. They made the decision not to do this. I feel that they need to take responsibility for decisions they have made in the past. They made their bed (or, more literally, had a bit of recreational activity in it). Now they need to man up and sleep in the bed they've made for themselves.
In reiteration, I'm not seriously asking to be allowed to go away to college as a sixteen-year-old, having graduated early. I am requesting, however, that after I've completed my four years of high school successfully, I should be allowed to enroll at a reasonable university of my own choosing. Am I asking too much? Please post your comments.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Interruption of Post about my Parents
My parents recently experienced what they should probably consider one of their less proud moments of parenthood. Maybe they don't feel that way at all. Perhaps they think it wasn't their fault in the least. They weren't the people who left me alone in a a house with some edible-only-to-goats creation baking in a 400-degree oven and without the ability to safely exit the house. It was, however, their decision to leave me with the people who did just that.
My mom is still sick with kidney-related problems. She is home now and can somewhat take care of herself, but she can't take care of me. My aunt needed to work. She is a nurse practitioner; she doesn't work regularly, but she fills in for weeks when other nurse practitioners or office managers take vacation time in her husband's practice.
My dad has to work. He has stayed home with me a little, but he says he can't do it anymore.
I have an aunt and uncle who live in the sticks. I'm not allowed to divulge the location. The uncle in this family is an MD, but either because they have so many children or for some other reason, they sometimes have difficulty making ends meet financially. My uncle Steve was scheduled to attend some sort of medical seminar in the Lake Tahoe area. This would only be about an hour's drive from the nameless aunt and uncle's house. The plan was for my Uncle Steve to drive me to the unnamed aunt's and uncle's house when he drove to the seminar near Lake Tahoe. My father offered to pay them two hundred dollars per day to care for me. The reasons he was offerring to pay so much were: a) the people are in dire straits financially; b) I need help getting to the bathroom and have to either be carried up and downstairs or have food brought to me upstairs; c) I still needed nightly antibiotic injections, and medical care is something for which a provider should be compensated.
I begged my parents not to take me there. I offered to pay for a private nurse from my own savings. I offered to call each of my friends' moms and offer them whatever amount of money my parents would authorize. My parents overruled me and made me go to stay with the aunt and uncle.
My aunt and uncle waited until my Uncle Steve left to take me to my "bedroom." It was a cot with a sleeping bag in an unfinished attic. There was no bathroom. I asked if it was going to be inconvenient for them to help me get to the bathroom. My aunt brought up a stack of Pampers (her almost-four-year-old still wears them, and the kid's so chubby that his Pampers fit me; if anything, they're a bit on baggy on me) and a package of baby wipes, along with a reclosable plastic garbage bag. She told me that, one-armed and legged [temporarily; I'm not an amputee] or not, I would be expected to manage my toileting needs independently.
As I may have told you, I do not own a real cell phone because I once ran up a huge text-messaging bill. My Aunt Heather was concerned, however, so she sent me with a cell phone. I would have used this cell phone to call for help, because surely my parents wouldn't have left me in such conditions. My plans for using the phone were thwarted when my unnamed aunt found it. She gave it to her fifteen-year-old daughter to use.
As far as the injections I was supposed to receive from my unnamed uncle (my Uncle Steve had prepared the syringes in advance), it never happened. At first, I was pleased with that. I hate shots. Eventually, though. I noticed the infection returning in greater force than ever. If I changed a Pamper as soon as it was wet, I would run out of Pampers too soon, and my aunt was only letting me have six a day. If I didn't change it promptly, the stinging was horrendous.
Once a day, my aunt would bring up three sack meals. One would usually be an English muffin with nothing to put on it. Another sack would contain half a peanut butter sandwich on dried-out bread. (Day-old bread was probably all the family could afford.) The third sack would contain a self-opening can of Spaghettios or Raviolios, which I cannot stomach even heated up, much less cold. My aunt also delivered a two-liter recycled soda bottle half filled with water.
As picky an eater as I am, I knew I had to eat something, as disgusting as the offerings were. I settled on the dry English muffin and a few bites of the even drier peanut butter sandwich each day. After a few days, I could feel my temperature beginning to go up despite the relative coldness of the attic. I told my unnamed aunt this on what I think was Wednesday morning. (I had arrived early Monday morning.) my aunt said that I would only be there for three more days and probably wouldn't die in that amount of time.
On what I think was Thursday morning, I heard alarms of some sort going off downstairs. Eventually smoke rose to the height of the attic. It was clear that if my aunt were even home, she had no intention of helping me out of the house. I dropped in my sleeping bag and scooted in it along the attic beams so that I wouldn't get splinters in my bottom. (In retrospect, it seems odd that splinters were even the least of my concerns.)
I remembered one time the first day I was there, when my aunt had come upstairs and told me she was grocery shopping and that the seven-month-old baby was asleep. I should listen for the sound of the baby crying. With my limited mobility, only God knows exactly what I was supposed to do about it if the baby had woken up and began screaming. Keeping that in mind, it concerned me that my aunt might have left the baby in his crib. I didn't want it on my conscience that a seven-month-old infant had burned to death, so I used my semi-good arm to scoot on my bottom down the hall to the children's room, where, fortunately, there was no baby in the crib. I have no idea how I would have gotten him down the stairs without hurting him.
So I scooted back down the smoky hall, went down the stairs one at a time on my bottom, and eventually pulled myself high enough to release the deadbolt and get outside. I scooted myself the best I could along the sidewalk to the curb. Smoke was pouring out the open front door.
This is the part that is a bit gross. Don't read (as though anyone actually reads anymore)if you're squeamish. The quality of the food I was being given, and the conditions in which it was being stored, probably were not of health department-certified quality. I ended up with a case of Montezuma's revenge despite having never been south of the U. S. border. I hadn't been able to bring extra Pampers, and even if I had, I probably wouldn't have felt comfortable changing myself on the curb, even though everyone in the entire subdivision seemed to be working or at least somewhere other than at home. After what felt like hours but was probably more like forty-five minutes, a lady from down the street drove by. She saw the smoke and the unattended and obviously sick child (I look much younger than 15). She called 911, and the rest is practically history. (I still haven't quite gotten rid of the diaper rash, and my aunt and uncle haven't yet regained custody of their children from child protective services.)
As it ended up, my aunt had received a call from her seven-year-old's school that the child was sick. She took the baby and the almost-four-year-old with her to pick up the sick child and to take him to her husband's medical office. In her haste, she had forgotten that she'd left a gosh-awful concoction baking at a fairly high temperature in the oven. There was never an actual fire.
I was admitted to a hospital somewhere not too far from Reno, about fifty minutes away, and was considered in the custody of child protective services until my Uncle Steve, who carries papers authorizing him to take custody of me if my parents are not available, arrived. My kidneys were barely functioning. I was air-lifted to a hospital where my Uncle Steve and my father have privileges. My aunt Heather, who is of a less genteel background than anyone else on either side of my family, offered to drive to the sticks and kick the unnamed aunt's a$$. My dad said he was tempted to accept her offer, but he'd prefer to let the legal system take care of her. He also demanded the money back that he'd foolishly paid in advance for my care. He said it's not really the money, but that you don't take two hundred dollars a day to care for a child and then practically let her die.
I was in the Nevada hospital for one day and in the hospital near my home for five days. I will need one more surgery on my leg, but my kidney infection has to get better first.
All this went down in a tight little Mormon town in the sticks. the Church can't prevent charges from being filed, but they can and will illegally hold files so that nothing ever makes the news . . . not that I'd want it reported in the news that I have diaper rash.
My mom is still sick with kidney-related problems. She is home now and can somewhat take care of herself, but she can't take care of me. My aunt needed to work. She is a nurse practitioner; she doesn't work regularly, but she fills in for weeks when other nurse practitioners or office managers take vacation time in her husband's practice.
My dad has to work. He has stayed home with me a little, but he says he can't do it anymore.
I have an aunt and uncle who live in the sticks. I'm not allowed to divulge the location. The uncle in this family is an MD, but either because they have so many children or for some other reason, they sometimes have difficulty making ends meet financially. My uncle Steve was scheduled to attend some sort of medical seminar in the Lake Tahoe area. This would only be about an hour's drive from the nameless aunt and uncle's house. The plan was for my Uncle Steve to drive me to the unnamed aunt's and uncle's house when he drove to the seminar near Lake Tahoe. My father offered to pay them two hundred dollars per day to care for me. The reasons he was offerring to pay so much were: a) the people are in dire straits financially; b) I need help getting to the bathroom and have to either be carried up and downstairs or have food brought to me upstairs; c) I still needed nightly antibiotic injections, and medical care is something for which a provider should be compensated.
I begged my parents not to take me there. I offered to pay for a private nurse from my own savings. I offered to call each of my friends' moms and offer them whatever amount of money my parents would authorize. My parents overruled me and made me go to stay with the aunt and uncle.
My aunt and uncle waited until my Uncle Steve left to take me to my "bedroom." It was a cot with a sleeping bag in an unfinished attic. There was no bathroom. I asked if it was going to be inconvenient for them to help me get to the bathroom. My aunt brought up a stack of Pampers (her almost-four-year-old still wears them, and the kid's so chubby that his Pampers fit me; if anything, they're a bit on baggy on me) and a package of baby wipes, along with a reclosable plastic garbage bag. She told me that, one-armed and legged [temporarily; I'm not an amputee] or not, I would be expected to manage my toileting needs independently.
As I may have told you, I do not own a real cell phone because I once ran up a huge text-messaging bill. My Aunt Heather was concerned, however, so she sent me with a cell phone. I would have used this cell phone to call for help, because surely my parents wouldn't have left me in such conditions. My plans for using the phone were thwarted when my unnamed aunt found it. She gave it to her fifteen-year-old daughter to use.
As far as the injections I was supposed to receive from my unnamed uncle (my Uncle Steve had prepared the syringes in advance), it never happened. At first, I was pleased with that. I hate shots. Eventually, though. I noticed the infection returning in greater force than ever. If I changed a Pamper as soon as it was wet, I would run out of Pampers too soon, and my aunt was only letting me have six a day. If I didn't change it promptly, the stinging was horrendous.
Once a day, my aunt would bring up three sack meals. One would usually be an English muffin with nothing to put on it. Another sack would contain half a peanut butter sandwich on dried-out bread. (Day-old bread was probably all the family could afford.) The third sack would contain a self-opening can of Spaghettios or Raviolios, which I cannot stomach even heated up, much less cold. My aunt also delivered a two-liter recycled soda bottle half filled with water.
As picky an eater as I am, I knew I had to eat something, as disgusting as the offerings were. I settled on the dry English muffin and a few bites of the even drier peanut butter sandwich each day. After a few days, I could feel my temperature beginning to go up despite the relative coldness of the attic. I told my unnamed aunt this on what I think was Wednesday morning. (I had arrived early Monday morning.) my aunt said that I would only be there for three more days and probably wouldn't die in that amount of time.
On what I think was Thursday morning, I heard alarms of some sort going off downstairs. Eventually smoke rose to the height of the attic. It was clear that if my aunt were even home, she had no intention of helping me out of the house. I dropped in my sleeping bag and scooted in it along the attic beams so that I wouldn't get splinters in my bottom. (In retrospect, it seems odd that splinters were even the least of my concerns.)
I remembered one time the first day I was there, when my aunt had come upstairs and told me she was grocery shopping and that the seven-month-old baby was asleep. I should listen for the sound of the baby crying. With my limited mobility, only God knows exactly what I was supposed to do about it if the baby had woken up and began screaming. Keeping that in mind, it concerned me that my aunt might have left the baby in his crib. I didn't want it on my conscience that a seven-month-old infant had burned to death, so I used my semi-good arm to scoot on my bottom down the hall to the children's room, where, fortunately, there was no baby in the crib. I have no idea how I would have gotten him down the stairs without hurting him.
So I scooted back down the smoky hall, went down the stairs one at a time on my bottom, and eventually pulled myself high enough to release the deadbolt and get outside. I scooted myself the best I could along the sidewalk to the curb. Smoke was pouring out the open front door.
This is the part that is a bit gross. Don't read (as though anyone actually reads anymore)if you're squeamish. The quality of the food I was being given, and the conditions in which it was being stored, probably were not of health department-certified quality. I ended up with a case of Montezuma's revenge despite having never been south of the U. S. border. I hadn't been able to bring extra Pampers, and even if I had, I probably wouldn't have felt comfortable changing myself on the curb, even though everyone in the entire subdivision seemed to be working or at least somewhere other than at home. After what felt like hours but was probably more like forty-five minutes, a lady from down the street drove by. She saw the smoke and the unattended and obviously sick child (I look much younger than 15). She called 911, and the rest is practically history. (I still haven't quite gotten rid of the diaper rash, and my aunt and uncle haven't yet regained custody of their children from child protective services.)
As it ended up, my aunt had received a call from her seven-year-old's school that the child was sick. She took the baby and the almost-four-year-old with her to pick up the sick child and to take him to her husband's medical office. In her haste, she had forgotten that she'd left a gosh-awful concoction baking at a fairly high temperature in the oven. There was never an actual fire.
I was admitted to a hospital somewhere not too far from Reno, about fifty minutes away, and was considered in the custody of child protective services until my Uncle Steve, who carries papers authorizing him to take custody of me if my parents are not available, arrived. My kidneys were barely functioning. I was air-lifted to a hospital where my Uncle Steve and my father have privileges. My aunt Heather, who is of a less genteel background than anyone else on either side of my family, offered to drive to the sticks and kick the unnamed aunt's a$$. My dad said he was tempted to accept her offer, but he'd prefer to let the legal system take care of her. He also demanded the money back that he'd foolishly paid in advance for my care. He said it's not really the money, but that you don't take two hundred dollars a day to care for a child and then practically let her die.
I was in the Nevada hospital for one day and in the hospital near my home for five days. I will need one more surgery on my leg, but my kidney infection has to get better first.
All this went down in a tight little Mormon town in the sticks. the Church can't prevent charges from being filed, but they can and will illegally hold files so that nothing ever makes the news . . . not that I'd want it reported in the news that I have diaper rash.
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.
TO BE CONTINUED
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.
TO BE CONTINUED
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
Nothing
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
Sayonara!
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.
Sayonara!
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