Delilah

I was reading my blog with a brain that seems to be actually working again instead of in a cymbalta haze and I forgot to explain that we don't have little Delilah yet.

****************

*****************

See, I first became a mother in 1990 when I adopted my poodle son Nicky. Sadly enough, he had inherited a terrible disease called Progressive Retinal Atrophy. He was blind by age 5.

There were no tests for PRA in 1990, but now there is. So Delilah is getting tested for it--at our expense--and we'll get her after the tests come back negative (I hope).

**********************

***********************

PRA has wrecked havoc among minature poodle breeders over the past 30 years. While the lines that carry it are gradually being eliminated, DO NOT BUY A POODLE UNLESS THEY HAVE BEEN TESTED FOR IT. This company tests for it.

********************

*********************

Not only did Nicky lose his eyesight, but he lost his ability to tear up and his eyes were always fire engine red. I had to put drops in them until I finally had them removed. It didn't really affect the way he looked--I kept him cut so you couldn't really tell--but it was weird, having a dog with no eyes at all.

********************

********************

Don't buy a poodle from a backyard breeder or a pet shop!! Unless one of your hobbies is Russian Roulette.

Zombie!

Blog? What blog?

Oh this. My beloved blog, into which I've been pouring my heart and soul for almost three years. And I finally got a check from Google!!! What a glorious day that was!!! (You have to earn at least $100 to do that. Took me 2 1/2 years).

I started taking the Cymbalta and at first all went well. My pain decreased quite a bit. My moods didn't miraculously improve, but since I've never had a brain chemistry depression disorder, I guess there wasn't much work to be done there. I did sort of look forward to prancing joyously around singing and distributing daisy petals, but instead I...

just.......didn't..........care........about...........anything..........

Now I had a little of that when I was on Paxil in 1995 for what was erroneously diagnosed as "panic disorder" which turned out to be nothing but "shortness of breath" (a fibro symptom). Paxil didn't do much for me one way or the other, except make me gain 30 pounds. But......I.....just.....didn't.......care.....until that horrid day when I tried on a bikini bathing suit in Myrtle Beach and sobbed for 5 hours straight and left my 20 year old bomber leather jacket in the store by mistake. (otoh, it was getting awful beat up looking).

So! Bring on the Cymbalta.

Next I noticed that I had no appetite. This was fine, I guess, as 9 pounds slithered off me without me even noticing. I'd get on the scales and see the decline and go, "oh. How nice" instead of joyously twirling through the fields sprinkling daisy petals.

Next I noticed that there was only TWO things that I could eat without getting sick. Peanut Butter & Banana sandwiches on whole wheat bread with organic honey for lunch/dinner and an egg for breakfast. One night Roger fixed a glorious filet mignon with pan-grilled asparagus and an hour later I felt terribly nauseous.

Then I started itching all over. Itch, itch, itch. Then I had to take about 8 benadryls to stop the itching.

Fine. I could deal with all of that except one little, tiny, itsy, bitsy problem...

I wanted to sleep all day every day and sleep and sleep and sleep and sleep and then about 10:00 at night I'd start with the insomnia and be up until 1-2 in the morning. One night I was up until sunrise. I tried taking the Cymbalta in the morning, evening, afternoon, etc. Nothing worked.

You'd be surprised to hear this, but my employer actually expects me to STAY AWAKE WHILE AT THE JOB. Unreasonable, sure, but they write the paychecks. I could not stay awake. Sure, I could drink coffee or diet coke for caffeine energy, but that just made my fibromyalgia flare and my muscles start to spasm, which kind of cancelled out the lack of pain from cymbalta.

Thursday I took my last cymbalta. The internet is filled with horror stories of cymbalta withdrawal, but so far....nothing. Nothing except I actually feel alive. Now I'm hoping I won't have any withdrawal symptoms, which would make you laugh hysterically if you google "cymbalta withdrawal" but so far...nothing.

I have a very, very strange body chemistry. I can drink until I pass out and wake up the next morning feeling invigorated. (Only done this about 6 times in my life). I quit Paxil cold turkey without any symptoms other than some transient dizziness and a tendency to sob at a Hallmark commercial. I quit Lyrica cold turkey without any symptoms whatsoever, but I had only been taking it for a month. I hope that I don't go through withdrawal.

But time will tell. I'll keep you up to date. I knew I was in trouble when I didn't feel like blogging. I always feel like writing. But it just seemed too....much....trouble.....

Oh and SUPER AWESOME GROOVY COOL NEWS. I got mapped for my fibromyalgia and it's going away! The guai is working!!!! My fibro deposits are breaking up and going away!!!

When that didn't make me flip out, I knew it was time to quit the Cymbalta.

********************

MONDAY NIGHT UPDATE: No Cymbalta since Thursday. No withdrawal symptoms at all. Nothing.

Alas, I still have fibro...it will probably take a few more years to clear completely--but definite progress is being made.

Meet Delilah

Sorry for the lack of posting. End of the year frenzy has begun--violin recitals, ballet recitals, extra practices, Madeleine has to do 10 pages of work each night to ready herself for the PAC test (Thanks, No Child Left Behind)....stomach flu, etc.

My mom had a toy poodle named Lucy. When she became unable to care for her, we thought we had a lock on her. But my sister, who bought her in the first place, has claimed her. She assures me that she's keeping her away from the three other dogs, two of whom would enjoy a Lucy snack. But the fever had taken hold and lo and behold, Carolina Poodle Rescue had the perfect dog!

She's a healthy little 14 month old girl toy. Loads of personality.

We visited her today. We're having huge fights over her name. Madeleine wants to name her "Jessica" but I hate the Carly Simon song "Jesse" so that's out. I suggested Sassy. No. I suggested Cara for her caramel covered paws. Her name at this point is Sally. Roger is all for keeping that. But I don't like it--no offense, any Sallys out there. I like Delilah.

Lord KNOWS I don't want any part of single motherhood of ANY beast, human or otherwise, but at least you do get to pick names. If we had a son, I wanted to name him Beauregard. "Beau" or "Bo" for short. Roger about had a seizure at the thought. Of course, he's a Yankee, and doesn't really understand anything about the Glorious South. Never mind that he's lived here for 47 years, once a Yankee, always a Yankee. Damn Yankees. (Just kidding, honey! Sort of) We'd probably still be calling a son "Kid", so I guess it's a good thing our baby making/adopting days are over with.

Doom and Gloom Abounds

1962-Dad, me and my grandparents

Oh Hi! Thanks for stopping by.

*****************

We sprung Mom from the Nursing Home due to her pathetic pleas and brought her home to live this weekend, but things are not going well. Now that she's home, she's stopped being pathetically nice and has turned into a tyrant again. She has her caregivers completely cowed. Refused to take her medicine. I stopped by yesterday and practically had to shove it in her mouth. Plus having home caregivers round the clock is simply not affordable for any sustained period of time.

************************

Work is going ok, the kids are doing great, and my sister broke her arm in like three places riding horses last weekend. Then last Tuesday I swerved to avoid a dog in the road while entering the freeway, went off the side, overcorrected, and managed to slam my car into one of those reflector posts. $2,300 damage. $500 deductible.

*****************************

Mom went back to the hospital today for a condition entitled Pyloric Stenosis. I knew about it from reading Manana Banana. It's when your stomach has a very narrow opening which doesn't allow food to enter the intestines. They widened her stomach opening from the size of a finger to the size of a quarter. Now maybe she can eat and gain weight. The procedure was successful and she's already back at home. Maybe now she will perk up some.

*************************

That's about all the cheer I can take for one day, how about you?

***************************

I like the Cymbalta though. That's going ok.

*****************************

More later, ok? Thanks for stopping by.

Diamonds and Rust

Me-Easter 1962

Ok, I took one dose of Cymbalta, and had no terrible effects. Usually I tolerate drugs well. Onward and upward, to a day when I can picture visiting my mother without sobbing.

I take the girls over to my parents' house.

*******************

Empty.

***********************

I so miss being able to say "My Parents". My Parents would kill me if they knew about... I'm spending the weekend with My Parents...My Parents are so excited about the adoption plans we're making (for a 1996 adoption that fell through, cracking my heart just a little more) My Parents are coming down to see me walk in as Faculty at my job's graduation ceremony. "Daddy! Take my picture underneath the tree!" My Daddy with his omnipresent camera, capturing all the moments of my life. My Daddy shot a picture that I can't wait to find in the house somewhere--it was law school graduation day and I'm walking away, with my colorful robes, waving my diploma triumphantly....

**************************

I had My Parents until I was 36. I know I am lucky.

***********************************

I enter the empty house with trepidation. Where are My Parents? One's a heap of ashes, one is lying in a nursing home.

I begin cleaning, filling four large garbage cans with the deitrius of a life. Innumerable magazines, old newsletters from How To Avoid Brain Atrophy (she was worried about Alzheimer's for years! I knew it! She would never talk about it though).

*******************

I take the girls to Mom's bedroom and look at the bed. Did My Parents ever, like, you know, do, um, THAT? Their door was ALWAYS unlocked and open. ALWAYS. Maybe I was sleeping when the door was locked. My parents were very physical. They kissed, necked, hugged, my dad caressing the body of a woman who never, ever, got fat like his friend's wives. My proud Dad. Who would sit down to a meal of healthy food that a rabbit would turn up his nose at. So he could avoid heart disease.

************************

The heart attack didn't care. It struck at the exact same age that my grandfather's did, even though my grandfather enjoyed wine, whisky, a good cigar, and real dairy cream and butter. Both died at age 76. If I carried their bloodlines, age 76 would worry me, oh yeah.

*************************

You cannot fight genetics. Well, you can try. But genetics wiped away every bit of my parents' health, even though they tried so hard to be healthy. Good food. Walks. Hard exercise...And my Dad had a quadruple bypass at 54, the same age as my husband is now.

***************************

I eye the photographs and declare out loud "I think I'll just steal this picture of me at Easter" since Easter is so fresh in my girl's minds. Meredith, Miss Conscience, "You can't STEAL ANYTHING." "I'm not, sweetie, just kidding, I'm BORROWING it." I tell the girls the story of the picture. I remember that day and Mom and I both drew pictures of the toy bunny I got and Mom's picture was better than mine and I was wildly jealous and I vowed that one day I would do the same to my kids. I have never done that.

****************************

I open a drawer and find my Daddy's and Grandfather's cufflinks. The Joan Baez song runs through my mind. "Ten years ago I bought you some cufflinks.....You bought me something...We all know what memories can bring..They bring diamonds and rust."

I find my Grandfather's stethoscope. The years drop away as I press the stethoscope to the girls little chests and they giggle 'cause it's cold. "See how you can hear your heartbeat? You can? Wow, you're so smart! Maybe you'll be a DOCTOR!" It's 1964 and my Grandfather is showing me his real stethoscope. "Lorrie's so BRIGHT! Lorrie, promise me you'll be a doctor like me and your AUNT!"

**************************

Yes, my aunt went to medical school in the thirties, while her sister was writing her thesis in French. Sorry, I was such a bust at French that I can't stop marveling at this.

*****************************

I wonder if Grandfather would approve of his legacy being carried by two little Asian girls. I think he would. He was ahead of his time.

********************************

I leave the beautiful house I grew up in, so lovingly decorated, so alone now. Except for the ghosts who wander through. I can feel my Dad and Grandfather so strongly that I know they are there, laughing at the girls as they play with the stethoscope.

Cymbalta

I am not depressed..I am not depressed.....I tell myself.

I have a wonderful job, husband, house, and kids. I'm not terribly bad looking. I'm fairly intelligent.

I have fibromyalgia and guai treatment takes years to really work and a mother sliding into dementia who is currently telling us that she is miserable in her expensive nursing home that I don't know if she can afford after taking a hard look at CD interest rates which are dropping like a jet plane whose engines have died and consist of a major part of mom's income..... while my sister I and I frantically try to figure out how to bring her home while both working demanding jobs plus raising a family and running a home and....

After sobbing uncontrollably during the first two (and only) visits to mom, I have decided to try cymbalta. I don't feel depressed, as in I usually wake up filled with optimism and looking forward to the day ahead. I don't sit around and think about how miserable I am. I love life but...

Sobbing uncontrollably isn't a good thing is it? And when I mean uncontrollably I mean UNCONTROLLABLY. I have been down before. Who hasn't? Once, after being dumped and thrown out of the apartment in New York by my fiance, I was forced to come home to Columbia and I laid on the couch eating Lean Cuisines for three months. I lost 20 lbs. But I never remember sobbing uncontrollably.

Please write me if you've had any experience with Cymbalta. I'm terrified of taking this drug. Askapatient.com has people who love it and people who hate it. People talk about how hard it is to get off Cymbalta. Well, I stopped Paxil cold turkey (I was taking it for shortness of breath which was incorrectly diagnosed as anxiety attacks--it was an early fibromyalgia symptom) and had no problems at all and people talk about Paxil withdrawal like they're talking about being tied up and tortured. People talk about how hard it is to get off Lyrica--well I take it only sporadically and have had no problems.

So we'll see.

Road Map to Acceptance

This is a book review for Mother Talk. I have received a free book. I am donating it to a friend who is a special ed teacher.

The book is Road Map To Holland, and I specifically requested it because I enjoy reading stories of women far more...well...everything..than I am. Nicer. Better mothers. Why? Read on.

When I was back in those long ago fertile years when it actually seemed possible to, you know, get pregnant after engaging in thatspecialthingthatmenandwomendowhentheyreallyreallyloveeachotherandarepreferablyjoinedtogetherina committmentceremony..... Oops!! Can you tell I've been spending time around children? Can you tell that I can't actually talk dirty any more unless I'm locked in my bedroom after homework and Madeleine's daily 46 phone calls (now to one person at a time), when all I want to do is sleep? Anyway, I digress. I told a friend that if I became pregnant, I wanted prenatal screening, then a brand new and very expensive option for expectant mothers.

"Oh!" she said. "So, if there's a problem, you can prepare for it?" I just looked at her for a minute, trying to figure out that statement, until it dawned on me that she thought I'd keep the baby. I'd have had an abortion that same day, if possible. Now, after experiencing the miracle of life and seeing fingernails and heartbeats on ultrasounds and all that, I'd have the baby and put the baby up for adoption.

No, I wouldn't keep a child with Down syndrome, so I was interested to see what Jennifer Graf Groneberg had to say about her baby. He was born both premature and with Down, while his twin was born premature without Down.

Here's the deal.

For better or for worse, I was raised with parents who valued the life of the mind greatly. Parents who started talking about Phi Beta Kappa while I was watching Captain Kangaroo. (I'm not kidding). A B.A. degree was, for them, the equivalent of finishing the 8th grade for most families. The next question was which master's degree did you intend to pursue first, and did you intend to get one or two before you began work on your PhD. I decided to shortcut that and get a Juris Doctor. That kept them off my back.

I decided that I would not give them grandchildren who I knew up front could not follow in their academic footsteps (four generations of doctors and M.A. candidates (my aunt wrote her graduate thesis entirely in French back in 1935). I could barely memorize French verbs so this impressed me more than it should have, I guess. I wouldn't throw a child with learning difficulties out into the snow, but I would not take a child into my family knowing that they would experience them. That's me. Right? Wrong? Snobby? I cannot wipe out 18 years of brainwashing as easily as I wiped my countertop yesterday.

Am I raising my children this way? Not really. College is presented as a must, the natural step after high school. However, after seeing many four year, heck, two year college graduates be faaaar more successful than I am, I am leaving any further education options up to them.

But I digress. Anyway, I was interested to see what Jennifer Graf Groneberg did when she found that her son had Down syndrome. The book is a story of his first two years on the planet and her shock, dismay, and later on, acceptance.

It is beautifully written without being pretentious. Jennifer has the gift of writing seemingly ordinary prose yet making it sound interesting without dressing it up with headlights and flashiness. I read each page eagerly, waiting for the next drama to begin.

She's honest about her exhaustion dealing with fragile premature twins and her and disappointment after learning of her son's diagnosis. She's honest about her next door neighbor who avoided her as if Jennifer had posted a "Measles. Quarantine" sign on her door. Even I know that Down's is not contagious. I hope the neighbor wasn't revolted but simply unsure what to say. Congratulations? Gosh, glad it's you and not me!....Who knows.

It's not a story with a big flashy ending, because it's impossible to know what a 2 year old can do. Jennifer makes it clear though that she has worked through the initial angst and has found joy in her son, and confidence in his future, whatever it is.

There's a young lady in Japan with Downs' who has actually earned a four year college degree from an accredited university but that is an exception to the rule. Regardless of the internet superstars, most Downs children are retarded, ranging from moderately to severe. We don't know what Avery will become but by the end of the book I'm convinced that Jennifer and her family will love him and will be able to cope. I'm impressed by both her writing and Jennifer herself.

Anybody Interested In A Threesome? Or A Three-Way?

The bill that almost put me into the nut house. In all, FIFTY three way calls were made. I was too lazy to scan page two.

Ok! Ok! So I wanted some kinky Google hits. If you're here for the dirt, look elsewhere. Sorry, I'd love to tell you about the time that I **** with ***** and then did some **** with **** and then **** some guy named ****** but I can't. I'm too easy to find on the net. I am using my real name. I wanted to be "honest" and "authentic" when I began my blog. Sorry 'bout that.

So it started out as a routine rainy Saturday. I arose from my bed groaning at the arthritic like pain that fibromyalgia sufferers get when it rains, apparently. I stuffed some pain pills down my throat and my loving husband prepared some awesome French toast for breakfast and I hopped on the computer to see if my emails about acquiring a new toy poodle had born any fruit. Just another day in paradise.

Yes, I think we might have found a poodle. More later.

Oh, and I got a phone call from Mom complaining loudly about the nursing home she's in. She's still nauseated, but is starting to sound feisty again. She wants to go home. When I think of how much the nursing home costs and how her cds may not bear enough interest to pay for it, oh so do I!

Then I opened the mail. And saw that my phone bill was $95.00 instead of the usual $26.25. And I nearly had a stroke.

DID YOU KNOW THAT THERE IS SOMETHING CALLED THREE WAY CALLING? WELL I DO NOW!! I LEARNED ABOUT IT WHEN I OPENED MY PHONE BILL!!!!!!

You know what? The only 3 way calling I knew about before today was in Mean Girls. I love that movie. Madeleine's constantly on the phone with her friends now, having dramatic fights and all, just practicing for the teen years I guess. They had a scene in Mean Girls where Jane calls Julie and puts Amy on the line without Julie's knowledge and asked Julie what she thinks of Amy and Julie replies with something derogatory and Jane says "Ha! Gotcha! Amy's on the line!" That's all I knew. I don't know how to make the dang calls, and I didn't know you even could make them from our phone.

When we hooked up our home phone again last year after several years of just cell phone use, I told the nice lady on the phone that I wanted only the BASIC PACKAGE. JUST local calls. NOTHING fancy. I explained that I had young children and I didn't want them being able to do anything but make local calls. No long distance. That's for the cell phones. The nice lady said all right.

So I got on the phone with A TEE AND TEE.

The first person I talked to said "someone made the calls, you have to pay for them." I said a lot more, but I'll save you the details. I also threw a few dishes at various targets.

The second person I talked to said it was just too bad that I had a daughter who did stuff on the phone that I didn't even know you could do and they sent me a 4 page letter at the time I signed up describing all the horrible things that could possibly happen with my "basic plan" so suck it up and pay or else they'd do terrible things to my credit report and then he offered a $20.00 credit. I hung up.

I called back and said, "Look, if you're just going to give me the party line about how the calls were made and I have to pay for them even though the nice lady I signed up with had a long chat with me. I carefully and in detail explained to her that I had young children and wanted nothing on the phone but simple local phone calls. She told me that is what I had. So if you're going to just give me the same old spiel, let's cut to the chase and let me speak to your supervisor."

He said, "Would you hold on a minute, ma'am?" I replied "sure."

He said "I'm putting a block on your phone so 3 way calls can't be made any more." I thanked him. Neither of the other two people I talked to had mentioned that this was possible.

He said, "I'm giving you full credit for the calls. Just pay the normal fee. Are you satisfied with the service that I offered you today at A TEE and TEE?" I grinned and said yes indeedy.

So what have we learned here today guys?

1. Make sure your phone is blocked from 3 way calling.

2. Be a pest. A total, obnoxious pest.

3. If you do ***** with ***** and then include ***** while doing ********* always use protection. This has been a public service announcement. The more you know..... I talked to Madeleine a little today about The Birds and the Bees and she cut me off with "Mom, I already know about condoms." Well. Excuuuuuuuuseee me.

So, Let's Talk About Something Else

So let's talk about something else...but before we do, I have to tell you that Mom was admitted to the hospital on Saturday, March 22, suffering from starvation and dehydration. I don't think she'd be alive if we hadn't convinced her doctor to admit her. She was so weak and dizzy she could barely walk. She was nauseous, so she wasn't eating, so she was getting weaker and weaker and got down to a skeletal 92 pounds.

The doctors ran a zillion tests on her and found several things--a gut infection, a bladder infection, and painful internal hemorrhoids (I had to look that word up). What they didn't find was any serious or fatal diseases, except Alzheimer's, which is enough really, don't you think? Of course being so weak exacerbated the Alzheimer's and she didn't recognize her friend of 30 years, or her doctor of 15 years...

So on Friday, March 28, she was transferred by ambulance to a locked Alzheimer's unit filled with people in advanced stages of the disease. Some of them just walk around all day, some sit in a chair and stare at nothing, but there are a few ladies who dress up for dinner and seem to be able to carry on a conversation. Maybe they'll be future friends. MAYBE.

Mom has no idea that she may be in that unit for the rest of her life. Fortunately the social worker told her that she had to go to the unit for "rehabilitation." She thinks she's coming home any day now. That would require private nurses to the tune of $12,000 a month. Um, not happening.

Mom is crabby and complaining about everything, especially her stomach. She is on strong antibiotics which should cure the stomach pain---I hope, I hope. We will just have to take it one day at a time, like AA.

Ok! Well, that was fun. Now let's talk about the kids and what they've been up to. I'd post a picture of myself but I look like the caption should be Survivor: Bataan Death March. I'm beyond exhausted and extremely emotional. But I am keeping up with my job requirements and the virus that has plagued me since January is GONE. (I hate to write that, I hate to tempt fate!) I'm actually able to wake up and go to work and drive home without sleeping in my office, so that is a good thing. You know, so I can collect a paycheck and all that. And eat, and put gas in the car. Good God, gas is expensive.

First we had Easter, and an ungodly amount of sugar.

Then we had an art show on the deck.

I mean, Picasso couldn't even begin to produce such masterpieces.

Portrait Of The Artist As A, well, something. Not sure what.

Then we had some special guests. The famous Gwen and her delightful mom Karen and a friend visited. We all had a blast. Karen turned out to be one of those people who you meet and five minutes later you are BFF. Karen's new blog is password protected. Write me if you want me to write Karen and ask for the password. I will forward the emails to Karen.

The lovely Miss Gwen in a contemplative mood.

And then tonight the artistes were honored at a reception at the local library. Madeleine's piece was one of two chosen (out of 120 4th graders) to be displayed. It's the one with the yellow border.

And Meredith's piece was one of three chosen (out of 150 first graders) to be displayed.

Am I proud of them? Nawwwww..........

Cool Baby Stuff

So Mom is in the hospital. She's not fatally ill (except with Alzheimer's). They're running tests on her innards, but everything is coming back ok. My sister and I are scouting nursing homes. It's been a stressful week (to put it mildly).

***********************

Therefore, I shall distract myself with something fun, which is reviewing a couple of things I got from Team Mom. I had to wait until I had contact with a real life toddler, but one showed up at work yesterday so I tried the various goodies on her. Ok, the first thing we have is a Baby Jamz Music Crew and a mini boom box. Tacy was less than enthralled with the tiny figures--she picked them up and examined them briefly before throwing them on the floor--but the boom box fascinated her. She kept turning it around and around in her hands and also carried it around with her after I tried to retrieve it. Tacy says yes to the boom box, and I'm sure she'll appreciate the figures more when she gets older.
These Baby Jamz Key Chains were the star of the occasion. She loved them. She entered the room holding her mom's key chain and when I gave these to her she looked sadly at her mom and handed the inferior key chains back to her, clearly feeling pity that mom didn't have a set like these.

She liked the music, also. Her mom was given the CD as a gift to play and reported great success with naps and soothing. These really are catchy little tunes, especially for a parent like me who suffered through years of Blarney and the Giggles. (Names changed to protect the innocent). Moe and Leve from Green's Clues will always have a special place in my heart and an open request to visit my home and pick out my clues, though.

**********

The three items were donated to Tacy after my review.

*****************

Ok, well, that's all for now. I would like to say that entertaining a toddler was the highlight of my week. Seeing new life after dealing with the harsh realities of a life in its "sunset period" (I have been touring too many nursing homes lately--they are masters of euphemisms!). Simply put, my mom was starving and dehydrating herself to death thanks to the cruel realities of a brain that has been decimated by Alzheimer's and if she hadn't gone to hospital she probably would be in a slumber chamber (funeral home euphemism) right now. Or, like my dearly departed Dad used to say more bluntly, she'd be pushing up daisies right now.

********************

Later, gators. Thanks for all the loving emails and comments. They keep me going. Seriously. Love you guys.

Those Were The Best Days Of My Life

Here we are at the end of Madeleine's first ballet recital. She was three. Now she is 9 going on 29 and says she hates ballet. Well, that's a blog post for another day. Here I am, radiant in the glow of new motherhood, healthy and happy. Somehow I knew one day I would stricken with my own monster to deal with, which I why I have been saving money industriously since I was five years old. But that's a blog post for another day. Here's Mom, with her own monster lurking inside her genetic code, but beaming with pride. The signs were there even 6 years ago that something wasn't quite right, but Mom has always been a little, well, weird. But that's a blog post for another day.

I just wanted to tell you that I made it through ok. Don't know why I was so freaked. Anyone who has babies and dogs knows that you deal with plenty of bodily fluids and functions.

"Why, this is nothing," I beamed as I administered the enema. "I should have gone to medical school instead of law school."

"I wish you had," sighed Mom.

"I didn't want to deal with those long Biology and Chem labs in college," I laughed.

"Those what?"

Mom received a B.S. in Biology from the University of North Carolina.

Spoiled Brats and Enemas

I'm going to tell you a little bit about my childhood. I wasn't responsible for this, so don't you be beaming haterz waves through the air, kay? I am simply going to state the facts. I was spoiled. Spoiled rotten. Doted upon. Praised liberally. My every (realistic) wish was granted. No, I didn't get a new car, but I got a car. Yes, I had to personally canvas Columbia to find the cheapest braces, but I got them. No, I didn't get a private school education, but I got an excellent public school education. No, I didn't get designer clothes, but Mom sewed me designer outfits. (I'd pick the material, cut the pattern, and she'd sew it up).

Mom was a housewife during my childhood. Why? Because she wanted to be one. You did not tell my mom what to do. Mom is a force of nature. If her mate had tried to force her to stay home or NOT stay home, she would have packed her masters degree, her dazzling blonde hair, her sparkling green eyes, her hideously annoyingly thin body (115 is her top weight EVER) and hit the road, Jack.

But she enjoyed being a housewife. She also liked to have things Done Just Right. Until the day I moved out of the house while she tearfully wailed on the couch, I had never:

1. Cooked a whole meal
2. Changed my sheets
3. Washed a load of laundry
4. Dusted
5. Vaccuumed
6. Made my bed

Let me assure you that my children are being raised quite, quite differently!!!!

I literally did not realize you were supposed to change sheets. Once I kept my sheets on my bed all year. My sister visited me and noticed the sheets were littered with things. Books. Cigarette ashes. Other things which I will have to leave to your imagination. No, not that (vbg) ! She snatched the sheets off and started a load of clothes, while I watched, bewildered. No, I'm not kidding.

And you wonder why I lived at home until I was a 3rd year law student? I had a live-in maid and a private bath. Daddy kept the oil changed in the car and paid all of the repair bills. Clothes flung on the floor appeared clean and ironed in my closet.

Once my VW broke down on Highway 17 between Georgetown and Myrtle Beach, 2 1/2 hours from home. I simply hitched a ride to the nearest phone, called Dad, and he arrived with a tow truck 2 1/2 hours later while I read a book. (I always carry books with me).

To this day, I approach the supper hour with loathing. You mean I'm supposed to cook supper? I usually eat a peanut butter & banana sandwich, Roger eats a Lean Cuisine, and we whip up something for the kids like a pizza or spaghetti or Kid's Cuisine.

Roger usually notices that the sheets look a little dingy and strips the bed while I run the load.

My USC sweater, which I'm wearing right now, bought in 1978, still has the little white holes that developed when I poured bleach over a color load. "It said Brighter, Fresh Colors!" I wailed.

Now I'm supposed to be the adult, caring for children and aged parents.

And I don't want to exert myself to care for Mom. She's supposed to do that for me, my inner brat whines.

My parents believed in thriftiness with every fiber of their being and they bragged constantly about how they were going to "provide for themselves in their old age" and how the "last thing they wanted is to be a burden on their children." And did they ever succeed! In fact, they took out nursing home/long term care insurance the minute it was available to state employees. Nobody remembered it. My mom of course is pretty much past the point of remembering what she ate for breakfast. My sister didn't remember. Daddy is dead. But I remembered. (Slow Golf Clap, please). So Mom's financial security is assured. It isn't much, but it will make all the difference. She has a nice nest egg too. I don't expect that I will ever have to support Mom. Thanks, Mom & Dad.

I grew up selfish. I never expected to have to take care of my parents. Oh, maybe in some misty land of The Distant Future I saw myself bidding them a tearful goodbye as they drifted into the arms of the angels. I never saw myself dealing with a parent with a terrible disease that creates a whiny, petulant, demanding, 2 year old. In my cold little barren Grinchy-size heart, I am furiously resentful of Mom's needs at this point. Because she isn't Sweet Mom. She's Crabby Mom. Nasty Mom. Whiny Mom. Endlessly Demanding Mom. Can't-remember-that-her-daughter-is-battling-fibromyalgia-and works-full- time-and-has-2-small children-Mom. Can't-remember-what-it's-like-to-work-8-hours-and-drive-80-miles every day Mom.

This post is inspired by the fact that I am going to have to give my mom an enema tomorrow.

Before He Cheats

Dedicated to Mr. Spitzer
with a nod of thanks to Carrie Underwood

Before He Cheats

Right now he's probably picking up the phone,
and claiming that he's all alone,
and she's probably putting on her makeup

right now, he's probably getting cash
so he can cheat on his wife with some slutty trash...
Right now, he's probably getting in the limousine...

And he don't know...
That the wires are being strung,
Songs of doom are being sung,
in some federal office with cheap furniture

and the computers are clicking
and the clock is ticking,
while he's thinking of his exciting rendezvous.....

Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats.

Right now, she's probably starting her routine
some funky white-trash version of a classy lady
Right now, he's probably thinking he's a real man
and he's thinking how cool is a one night stand

Right now, he's probably stuffing some hundreds in a bag
And he don't know...

That his enemies are chuckling and cackling,
and his political future is collapsing
the evidence is being collected,
while the lady he promised to cherish forever in front of God is being rejected

Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats.

Ohh.. Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats...

Ohh... before he cheats...

The Joy of Alzheimer's

I keep waiting for the Muse to strike, but between my job, handling Mom, and dealing with the social life of a 4th grader, nothin' is coming to me. So I'll just give a quick update.

Madeleine is becoming quite the popular child and has discovered The Phone as a method to chat with her homies. She arranged a slumber party for Saturday all by herself. We had 5 girls and 2 boys (who just stayed for the afternoon). The door was shut for 2-3 minutes while the boys were there so Roger had to march down the hall and remind her that boys and girls are NOT allowed in a closed room. She cooked up s'mores herself for the gang. I heard her on the phone trying to arrange a sleepover at someone else's house for Saturday. She was having so much fun at the party that that she even allowed me to dance that dance where you stomp your foot. Right, now left. Three hops and reverse! Whatever that one is called. I taught the girls the Macarena and we did some weird version of the Electric Slide. Much fun! I'm humbly thrilled that she didn't give me the Look Of Extreme Rage when I joined in the dancing.

Mom is still sending money to crooks and we're still trying to stop it. On Friday I grabbed a letter addressed to a sweepstakes prize place with a $20.00 check in it. Sunday night she called, thrilled, because she just won $11,000. Dinner was cooking but I jumped in the car and went to the house.

"This is a fake check."

"No it's not."

"I've got dinner on the stove. Let me see it quick." A check was at the top of the letter, and it DID, I admit, kinda look real. It had no endorsement on the back, you know, like "Acceptance of this check will mean you're going to pay back 49&% interest blah blah." But of course it was fake. I grabbed the entire package "Here's your check for $11,000! Just send in $22.00 to claim it!! And then you'll be eligible for $801,000!! She had written on the form. "Thank you. It will be so exciting to have the money!" and had written the check for $22.00. I grabbed the whole stinking mess and ran for the car. Got home. Got a furious phone call demanding her money back. Now she's forgotten about it. Today her best friend visited and volunteered to take some letters to the post office. I called BF and told her about mom sending checks in the sweepstakes letters. She was horrified and apologetic..."There were letters to different companies." I told her no biggie, just bring me the letters if she tries that again. She added another worry:

"Your mom keeps trying to give me things. Today she offered me a silver teaspoon."

Another friend volunteered to take mom to church and said, "Ruth has given me several teacups."

So she's giving away her things to her friends. That is not a problem---her house is jammed with stuff, but it's another disturbing Alzheimer's symptom. She was prescribed the Aricept, but of course she got stomach cramps and couldn't take it, so she says. I knew this would happen.

I called the post office to ask why the forwarding order wasn't working. My sister, using her POA, filed a forwarding order to try to keep the junk mail out of Mom's hands. "We don't forward bulk mail or letters addressed to Occupant." He suggested I fax him a request to not deliver any mail to mom. So I did, decorating it liberally with words like ATTORNEY and SEVERE DEMENTIA, etc. Let's see if if helps.

Boring post, but that's what's going on around Chez Clueless. My sister's secretary is going to start going over there every day to run errands, etc. (She has finally accepted that the car isn't coming back) and we're going to install cameras to monitor. Lucky my BIL is a genius techno-nerd type.

She can care for herself and isn't really ready for an Alzheimer's unit yet, so let's hope that my sister's secretary can run errands for her and deflect the junk mail and we can keep rolling along for awhile.

Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, Life Goes On

The year was 1947. Margaret Ruth, a young lady studying for a Master's Degree in Public Health at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, had just received a visit from a young man who had graduated the year past. He took the train up from his boarding home in Florida (a boarding house? He had his masters, a good job, and lived in a boarding house with a telephone and bathroom at the end of the hall) to present this lovely young lady with The Ring and photograph her walking in the Rose Gardens at the University. She's dreaming of degrees and rings and weddings and babies and living happily ever after. Today I, Margaret Lorraine, look at the picture while my daughter Madeleine Margaret drifts off to sleep dreaming of degrees and rings and playdates and fun and happiness.

Life goes on around here, as we get used to the new normal. As we talk nursing homes and conservatorships and deal with the worries, anger, paranoia and confusion of Alzheimer's.

Nothing much new. TWO doctors have now forbidden her to drive and we did confiscate the car. Every day we get a phone call demanding her car back and insisting that the doctors cleared her to drive. I say "I won't argue, I love you, see you later, bye," and gently click the receiver. Her neurologist prescribed Aricept. I hope it works, I'll take anything I can.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch....

I think I've recovered from The Achy Flu-Like Thing after a month. A MONTH! I went to Walmart Saturday night. THE EXCITEMENT, IT NEVER ENDS. It was the first time that I had ventured out of the house for anything except work and doctor's visits in a month.

Well, that is about all. Have a good week.