Here I am, working on finishing Book #21, and thinking about all that is going on. The class I helped teach is graduating today. I can tell which of the male students were crushing on me by their invitations to graduation and Grad Night. I’ve had to graciously decline several times today. I just can’t bring myself to go to Grad Night or the celebration.
My mother is off the respirator. She’s still dangling on the plateau of living and dying, but I feel that she is getting better. Thank you for all the prayers. Please keep sending them her way! Much love!
My mother is in the hospital. I’ve known she was in there for a while, hence why I planted the Zinnias and picked her up a pink tote bag with a full bottle of Sunshine perfume.
Today I was told she has 24-48 hours to live. I’ve already made plans to go see her tomorrow. Maybe take her the husky toy I bought her. My stepfather says there’s no reason for us kids to go because she doesn’t know where she’s at or who anyone is. This worked for my brothers, but not me. There are some things I feel I should say to my mother before she goes.
I told my stepfather before he left to go to the hospital that I wanted only two things that belonged to my mother: the strawberry Coach key chain I got her for Mother’s Day back in 2008, and the rice paper butterfly Fossil watch I gave her for her birthday in March 2008. That is all I want, and I want her to know that I want it and am taking it.
I don’t know how I feel about taking those things before she’s dead. The watch stopped at 4:15:5. The battery died. I also have a stack of DVDs of her shows that she wanted me to record while she was in the hospital. My older brother wants her house, the other older brother wants her car. I want something the lawyer can’t give me: Time. My mother never got to hold Zinnia. We were going to take a “Four Generations” photo, but that is not going to happen now. My older brother tells me that our mom had a bunch of antique jewelry that I could sell. Unfortunately I don’t know who to give the money to to give her more time.
Please pray for my family.
I’ve been home a couple of days, and my readership has doubled. Who’d have thought no one wants to read about patients with DID, children affected by depression far too soon, and daily thoughts that are powered by Risperadal and Seroquel XR. As well as I can write, which some say should be published beyond the web, little known to them that it is, people just want to hear about a normal person’s life with their beloved family and the quirks that come with that.
I could also tell how I guzzled an entire bottle of Merlot because I was so damned depressed after therapy today, but people can’t relate to that, so for the sake and love of having readership here, I won’t go into it too deeply. Other than I got nauseated and not drunk on a 13.5% alcoholic bottle, there’s nothing really to tell.
It saddens me, really. I assumed that my mental illnesses and cancer diagnosises would bring people here by the flocks. I was told at a young age that I had the talent of a professional writer, and frequently my high school teachers would ask me if one of my parents “helped” me write my essays. I’d always laugh and tell them the same thing: My parents can barely read and write, never mind use words with more than one syllable.
Most people come here wanting to know about the baby. Okay, here goes:
My baby was born on April 9, 2013 at 11:07pm. Twenty inches long and 6 lbs, 2 ounces, the smallest baby born that day and who resided in the NICU.
I had to have a cesarian after all, and I’m sure that no matter which version I had had, I would have complained. At least this method will leave me “still fuckably tight” and I won’t have to worry about Dennis taking off and finding some tighter and firmer pussy out there on the road.
If he ever goes back out on the road.
We named our baby on April 10, 2013. A small baby, we named her after the flowers someone from the web left on her older sister’s grave a little less than four years ago: Zinnia. Zinnia Everly.
The Monday after being discharged, Zinnia had gained an entire pound, after me allowing her to pig out on breast milk whenever she wanted it. I didn’t even try another path. Zinnia would cry and I would offer her food. Dennis says if I get her in that type of bad habits, she will become an emotional eater. I guess he knows all about that.
Throughout all of this, Zinnia is such a good baby. She doesn’t cry often, she’s very active, constantly discovering her world and attempting to learn all she can about the people whom just a month ago she only recognised through giggling, laughter, singing and conversation. That confirms, to me anyway, that she is not deaf. Her other sisters were born deaf, like their mother. Not Zinnia. Zinnia even likes music without vocals. We’re introducing her to new sounds and games every day. I just want her to have the best head start she possibly can.
I love Zinnia. She and I have bonded in the best possible way, and she is adapting to her family life so well. On thing I’ve noticed is that she doesn’t sleep as often as her sisters and brothers did. I can’t find any real problem with that, other than it means that her parents have to devote more time to her.
Things just seem so right. All in my world is right.
A week ago at 11:07pm, Little One came into this world. Since I haven’t revealed the gender or name on my site, I’m not going to reveal them here. Little One was 6 lbs 2 ounces (I believe – I don’t have my paperwork in front if me), but Little One was the smallest baby born on April 9, 2013. At 7:16pm on April 9th, just after we sang Happy Birthday to Dennis, and he was in the process if blowing our his birthday candles, my water broke and I started having sharp labour pains. I thought I could survive at least one slice of cake, but the pains became so uncomfortable and harsh that I took Dennis aside and told him to get me to the hospital NOW.
I was in labour and delivery, pushing as hard as I could every ten minutes. Little One would just not come out. The doctor said that it appeared that my cervix and muscles weren’t working properly. Three hours later, Littke One was in distress, I was in distress, and the doctor went ahead and ordered a Cesarean section. I remember laying in the table with blackened snow/spots spreading across my eyes. A nurse commented that my heart beat was super low, and the doctor ordered a crash cart to be in the O. R. just incase. A soft mask was put on my face, three deep breaths later and I blacked out. My world went silent and black.
I woke up a little after midnight, and checked to see the new strip of staples across my belly. Little One was asleep in a bassinet in the room with me. Since waking up, Little One never slept in that bassinet again. They slept in the arms of Dennis or I. Little One is so curious, looking around, trying to take it all in. Little One is an eager feeder, and had gained an entire pound by the time they were six days home, and once my blood tests came back clear of infection, we were both discharged from the hospital.
There is a sad part to Little One’s birthing story. Our little baby came home with a nebuliser. Little One has severe lung injuries because Dennis took the baby outside and would chain smoke while bonding with our baby, the first four days of their life, and Little One’s tiny lungs filled with second hand smoke, killing off the lining in the new tiny lungs. Our little baby has COPD. Whether it is permanent or not is another story. Since he caused it, I have been making Dennis do the breathing treatments with the nebuliser. He’s not happy, but neither am I. Our little baby was so happy to have us for their family, and so bouncy when one if us would talk, sing, giggle or laugh, and now that is a little stunted because it hurts Little One to breathe, especially to exhale.
Warm thoughts or prayers. Our little baby deserves to have a healthy, happy childhood.
I believe I made history yesterday when I was confronted by my SEVEN YEAR OLD’s home room teacher. She accused me of being an abusive, neglectful parent because my daughter is “six weeks from going into the fourth grade,” yet she doesn’t have a cell phone. A smart phone, nevertheless. What would I do if my girl got lost or abducted??? I’d call the police. That’s their job.
It seems as though Chloe is the only student in the third grade and up who does not have a smart phone. She’s also the only student who is making straight A’s, and will probably be the only virgin to graduate in her class, while never doing drugs, even if they have been made legal in the next eleven years.
I’m not sure why the school thinks she needs a phone. She has our cell phone numbers, she never goes off alone without one of her parents, and she knows how to work our phones, incase something happens to one of us cannot use their phone.
Would you give your 7 year old a smartphone just because she is the only kid in her class/level without one? What about ear piercing? Is seven too young for ear piercing? I’m more worried that her piercings would get infected than she would lose an earring or swallow one.
Today is my oldest daughter’s Fourteenth Birthday.
Or it would be, if she were alive.
Poetry Rose died of a barbiturate overdose, just a dose and a half of what was prescribed for her, in the wee hours of the morning on May 20, 2009. She was ten years old.
Suffering from multiple tumors that were causing her severe pain, PoRo’s doctor had told her father and I that chemotherapy would just prolong her suffering, and wrote us a prescription for her of high dose barbiturates, a dose so high that I once tried it and found myself sobbing and “out of body” for hours. The doctor informed us that if we tried to pursuit chemotherapy from another physician or cancer treatment center, he would personally report us to child services for child abuse. Our parents also threatened us with a report to child services if we did nothing and just let our daughter die.
It was a horrible time for me, for Dennis, for our family.
PoRo mimicked my medication taking. She had watched me take pain medication for a long, long time (since July of 2003), and she was certain if I did it, it had to be right. I was her hero, another mistake she made. In mimicking what I do many times with my invalid pain medications, she took just a half a dose higher than was recommended, and it killed her.
Her death was ruled an accident.
Dennis and I both turned ourselves in to the police after the paramedics took PoRo’s body away. We blamed ourselves, and each other, at the same time. No charges were brought because PoRo had written in her journal hours before taking the fatal dose, that she had saw not only myself take multiple pain medicine pills, but her father usually over medicated, and so did her cousin Jess. We were all fine. She was never aware that medicine could be lethal, and if you died in this world, there’s no reset button, and you don’t get to come back. She thought she had super powers, as she thought the same about me, because she had beaten cancer three years before she died. I still cry for her because she died like an unwanted animal. With the same overdose they get. Except she wasn’t an animal, and she wasn’t unwanted. She was dearly loved and much wanted.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her and the situation, and how tragic it turned out. There are many days that I wonder if there was something I could have done differently, that would make her alive to this day. When she was seven, she had several tumors removed from her breast, and was given a clean bill of health after six months. But the cancer came back. It has a nasty, bad habit of doing that. I was happy when Chloe’s tumors were declared benign. I don’t think I could live through another innocent life being sick, weakened by a disease that is almost always fatal.
Because they were the best of friends on this Earth, in this Life, PoRo and Jess were interred next to one another, so their spirits need not wander too far to be together again.
Every February 25th since her death, I make a birthday cake for dessert at dinner time. I made one this year. As a tributing tradition, we, as a family, all blow out the candles on the cake at the same time. My hope is that she will be remembered because of this tradition.
I’d also like to point out, even though it is irrelevant in this whole thing, that a freak from the far ends of the web harassed me to tears over me taking extra pain medication for my severe pain. They mocked me, telling me that my kids were going to get into my medicine and die from drug overdoses. That person was not right. In both telling me that I was this apathetic bitch who partied down on prescription pain killer, and in accusing me of not caring for my kids. I care for my family. Just because I don’t update my blog every day with how much I love and cherish them doesn’t mean that I do not feel it, that I do not care for them. I don’t know where that person (or her other two personalities are, the ones that pretended to be my friend(s) to get info out of me) is now, but if she does want to come mock me for her being “right” I really don’t care. I don’t have to let her comments through. And I can ban her second set of IPs as well.
Oh, and if he were alive, George Harrison would be 70 today.
I have a parenting question that I would really appreciate an honest answer to.
Since she was a new born, my daughter, Chloe, has always urinated when she is submerged in water (ie: sitting in waist-deep bath water, in a pool, ocean, river, etc). She does not urinate if I wash her hair with her head bent over a sink, but she always does when anyone, including herself, brushes her hair.
We have taken her to a doctor and ruled out a deformed or defective urethra, sexual abuse, bladder disorders, phobias, and temperatures in the water or hard hair pulling.
Chloe doesn’t seem she’s aware that she is doing it until after she has done it, and lately she cries over it.
Our next stop is psychological, and then we don’t know what to so. Neither Dennis, not I ever had this problem, nor has any of our other children. We have tried having her go pee before getting in the water or having her hair brushed, but she still urinates quite a bit while she is being bathed or brushed.
Has anyone ever had this problem with themselves, a friend, or family member? What was it? How was it treated? What caused it?