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!
Hope everyone has a happy Mother’s Day!
My mother is doing a little bit better at the hospital. If you’re not on my Facebook profile (and you should be as I don’t bite!), I was given some shitty news from my stepfather that turned out to be a lie. He was either told the wrong information, or he intentionally gave me the wrong information, and that is really an awful thing to do to someone. So I went into panic mode. I was really afraid that my mother was going to die. Then I went to see her on the 8th. She was stable, her body is fighting the infections she had (pneumonia and sepsis with some fungal infection). She was asleep because of the infections and is now on morphine to stop the pain. But she is alive, she is stable, and I want to repair my relationship with my mother. This bad-ass attitude that I have towards her is really for the birds and I have to get my affairs in order.
As of May 7th, for the next few months, I have a new shrink. I’m not crazy over him, but he seems to want to help. First thing he wants to do is stick me in the institution and have some observations and test run. Of course he does. What the hell? Am I the first schizophrenic patient these shrinks have ever encountered? Oh well. Might as well get it over with while I still have time off from work.
Have a fun, safe Sunday, everyone!
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 have chemically induced amnesia. It’s apparent in most of my posts that I dare stay awake after popping my pill for the night, that I am under the influence of something, but this medicine seems to have no mercy. No matter how long one has been on this medicine, it induces amnesia, there is no building up a tolerance, and the amnesia comes at irregular intervals.
Last night’s entry is the perfect example of that.
Part of me wishes that I had spent that time working on my new Theme because that was a fairly frustration for me. I’m trying to make a theme that matched my old MoveableType layout, but so far I have had no luck.
I also, apparently, ate a bag of potato chips and have no recollection of doing so. The positive side? I don’t have any guilt in inhaling a bag of potato chips, simply because I don’t remember doing so!
I’m planning on seeing my doctor at 4:30pm today. Happy thoughts for me? Warm thoughts? Prayers? I want to be healthy for a change!
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.
It was hot enough to run the air conditioner today. And we dyed Easter Eggs, in the part of the house that had no air conditioning. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Do something like cook hard boiled eggs in an already hot kitchen and then dye them. After all, tomorrow’s Easter, and we weren’t planning on celebrating, with my knocked up and due any day now (C’mon baby! I’m ready to meet ya!), we were going to do a small celebration, but now I don’t think we’re going to just have some toys and coloured hard boiled eggs around the table. I’m not that up for any hard boiled eggs. I can’t stand them when I’m not pregnant.
So I’m five days overdue today. I feel as though I am five years overdue. I feel like I have been pregnant forever. Worse, I feel like I am wasting everyone’s time with being pregnant, because nothing is happening.
I picked a bad time to try and blog. Dennis is due for his medication, and we’re going over double the dose, triple to be exact, and he’s just as scared as I am as to what this new dose is going to do. So here goes nothing. Happy Easter, in case I don’t get back to posting until Monday or so.