RedHeadMama

Starting to breathe again

Okay. So no more seizures since Sunday, which is a good thing. I was able to sleep Monday night for a few hours, with Henry right next to me in the room, which is also a good thing. He’s not having his small “twitches”, which as we found out today at the neurologist are small seizures, as much, although when he first wakes up he does have them, which we learned is his body building up to A Big One.

We did see the neurologist today, and he confirmed that Henry does have epilepsy. He’s having several different types of seizures, which means that he gets to go get an MRI on his brain to see the full picture of what’s going on. I almost French-kissed that doctor when he told me that Henry would be on meds for the seizures immediately that would STOP THEM. All the way. Completely. Nothing’s foolproof, of course, but seriously, that doctor has no idea what was almost going to happen to him (I did restrain myself, but it was hard).

Henry’s pretty much back to normal, back to nagging me about oh, pretty much everything, back to kissing me and hugging me and telling me he loves me every five minutes, back to arguing with his sister, back to farting ALL THE TIME and laughing hysterically about it. Yep. No long-term damage, no after effects from the huge seizure on Sunday.

A few things have changed. He can’t be without adult supervision, like, ever. When he goes to the bathroom, I listen, outside the door, for a telltale thud on the floor. When he walks downstairs, I walk behind him, holding his shirt, since his balance is off a bit. When he rides in the car, I make sure that he’s in my mirrors, and every time we go anywhere, I have an emergency kit in my purse with syringes full of enough seizure-stopping medicine to knock out a horse.

A few things have not changed. I still can’t stop thinking over the moment I first saw him convulsing, his eyes staring straight at me, when I screamed. I’m not a screamer, so for some reason this really has struck me as weird. Probably it’s just that the adrenaline kicked in when I saw my baby boy doing something that I would never wish on my worst enemy to see. Even my pediatrician said that seeing someone in a full-blown seizure is “about the worst thing you’ll ever witness”. I can tell you that’s true. Watching him convulse wasn’t the absolutely worst thing (surprisingly); even when his lips, eyelids, and sweet chubby cheeks turned blue wasn’t the worst thing. No, the worst thing was watching his eyes, wide open, staring straight at me, as he convulsed, turned blue, and then went away. His eyes staring straight at me as I pleaded with him to come back. I can’t really explain how utterly terrifying that was. It was horrifying to see my child present in body but not in spirit, and to suddenly face the possibility that perhaps he wasn’t coming back.

He started really coming back to me in the ambulance. I was crying with my hand slapped tight against my mouth so I wouldn’t howl (honestly), and he looked at me, I mean, really looked at me. The first thing he said? After all that? Why, that little stinker casually popped his knuckles and asked the paramedic sitting next to him trying to put in an IV in a speeding ambulance: “Do you like to cwack yo fingohs? I like to cwack my fingohs.” (trying to duplicate the sweetness of his speech there, probably failing miserably!)

When we got to the ER, the problem was to get him to STOP talking. We were so shell-shocked at that point that pretty much anything he said was grounds for hysterical laughter. Oh, and yes, he did manage to bring in a few fart discussions. OH YES, he did. In fact, the cute resident working on him had to put up with Henry asking him if he farted (yes), how often he farted (quite often), and hey, did you know that I JUST FARTED? (yes, because it was really loud and you’re laughing about it). I was so relieved and stretched and stressed and just generally discombobulated at that point that hey! I decided to add to the party by almost passing out and throwing up, right there, in the ER, as a sweet nurse from South Africa rubbed my back and told me about her sister with a seizure disorder who is just fine and it’ll be okay, honey. Really, it will.

So things are starting, gradually, cautiously, to get back to normal. I still am having a hard time processing what happened, so is Dean, and so is Emma. Dean and I both thought he was dying in front of us, and that fact has changed a few things, made some decisions for us. I’m trying not to be hyper-vigilant, I’m trying to let him be a kid (as much as he’s able to, he’s never been a “normal” kid). This is a new state of being for us, one that we’re testing with one toe in the water, edging out inch by inch, holding on to each other ferociously with as much grace and love and courage as we can possibly muster up.

Sunday morning

Yesterday morning, I woke up, went to the living room, sat down and stared out the window for a few minutes. Henry got up soon after me and went into the bathroom, I passed him in the hallway as he walked to the living room. I found some pee on the floor, so I immediately turned around and walked out to the living room to make him clean it up. He was sitting on the red couch behind our desk, so all I could see were his legs, which were kicking a blanket up and down, up and down. My first thought as I rounded the corner was that he was certainly cheerful today, since he was kicking so hard.

I turned the corner and opened my mouth to talk to him. He wasn’t just kicking his blanket. He was having a full-on, uncontrollable, horrifying in the pit of your stomach seizure.

I screamed for Dean to call 911. I pulled him onto his side, or at least, I tried to, since he’s a pretty good-sized kid and he was convulsing so hard it was hard to get a hold of him. I held him in my arms as the convulsions shook him like a rag doll.

He started turning blue. His lips went blue, his face went blue. Emma screamed behind me. I put my ear up to his mouth to feel breaths, and started getting ready to perform CPR. His convulsions started slowing down, and his color gradually came back.

His eyes were open this whole time. As the seizure stopped, his eyes got bigger and bigger. I kept saying desperately “Come back to me, Henry. Come back to me, Henry. Come back to me, my love. Please don’t leave.” Over and over.

By that point the paramedics were there and while the seizure was over, he was not there. Henry wasn’t present. He didn’t recognize me, couldn’t hold his head up, and he had peed his pants a little. So did I, honestly. I thought my child was dying, right in front of me. In my arms. And there was nothing I could do but plead with him to come back.

The paramedics hooked him up to all sorts of different machines, asking me quick questions, and while they were doing that I was stroking his face, calling him to come back to me, come back, praying, pleading. I wondered if he would have brain damage. I wondered if he would no longer know me or his father. I considered the possibility that my child would not recognize me anymore and what would I do with that. Would I be able to bear it.

They started loading him into the ambulance, calling ahead to the hospital. I had called my godparents as they loaded him to come over immediately to watch my other two kids. I hugged them both as I ran down the steps; Emma was sobbing and James was bewildered. I told them everything would be all right.

I grabbed my husband and hugged him, hard, before climbing into the ambulance. Henry was starting to come around at that point. I refused to take my eyes away from him, I refused to stop touching him. I couldn’t stop crying. More than 24 hours later, and I can’t stop crying.

Bottom line, he’s okay. As okay as he can be. The EEG that he had last weekend, since he’s been having what we call “twitches” for a couple months, showed that he had a number of serious abnormalities in his brain waves that indicate that he’s been having seizures and he’s going to have more.

I had him sleep with me last night in our bed. I can’t let him out of my sight. I stayed up until 4 AM and finally fell asleep for a couple hours. Every time I close my eyes I relive what happened. My heart starts beating really fast, I can’t breathe, and my anxiety goes up sky high. I can’t stop this. I prayed, listened to music, read, but nothing will stop my mind from turning this over and over.

I don’t have a tidy end to this story, and I don’t have any thoughtful observations. I am clinging to hope, but my anxiety and outright terror just won’t stop eating at me. I try to defeat it by hugging him and kissing him and believing in faith that everything will be okay, but so far, I haven’t been able to make my body cooperate.

Stuff you shouldn’t do while you’re on hold for 45 minutes

Whilst on hold with my mortgage company this morning (they messed up my automatic payments and after 45 minutes being on hold, talking, being on hold again, talking some more, BEING ON HOLD AGAIN, talking, it’s still not resolved), I decided to, you know, be useful or something. Make the most of that time where I was just sitting idly on hold, doncha know.

This sounds noble and pure, but it backfired on me (just a bit). Here are three things you MUST NOT DO while you are on hold, and I’ll tell you why for each one:

Read gossipy threads started on your favorite parenting board. Okay, so this particular board can have some doozies, and I don’t usually have the time to browse through all the good stuff, but since I was on hold, I suddenly (at least according to my *%&T& mortgage company) had all the time in the world. Why you shouldn’t do this while you’re on hold: Um, basically, it’s because you get WAY too engrossed, and forget why you were calling, and since you’re already a bit absentminded this isn’t really a good thing.

Take the phone into the bathroom with you. Eventually, everyone needs to visit the bathroom, and taking the phone with you while you’re on hold listening to Lionel Richie songs seems like a good idea until the customer service person comes back onto the line right during, um, a “crucial moment”.

Wash the dishes. You would think that this would be a good idea, since most people would understand that a)you can put the phone on speaker and b)you can then place the phone in a safe place away from hot water. I didn’t drop the phone IN the sink, per se, but I did drop it on the floor. Twice.

I do need to add that it’s also not a good idea to keep your neck cocked in that special “holding the phone to my shoulder causing permanent injury to my spine” position, mostly because of the whole pesky blinding muscle pain thing, but also because you can accidentally press too hard against your super duper advanced phone that comes with everything but the kitchen sink, causing it to hang up OR go mute, right when you finally get somebody who speaks English and isn’t silently deleting your account.

From now on, Tuesday shall be known as Naked Day.

So! According to Henry, who is the authority in such matters, Tuesday is “Naked Day”. Shall we talk about what this means to you? YES, WE SHALL.

First, if it’s Tuesday, you must be naked. Not all day, certainly. But at least part of the day.

Second, you must be publicly naked. Henry came strolling out into the living room a few minutes ago, nekkid, and when I sputtered “NOBODY WANTS TO SEE YOU NAKED AND YOU’RE IN FRONT OF THE LIVING ROOM WINDOW STOP NOW”, his (calm) response was “But Mom. It’s Tuesday.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Henry: “If it’s Tuesday, it’s Naked Day.”

Third: the nakedness must be surprisingly, yet naturally, casual. This one is hard to explain, but basically, you can’t be all waving your kibbles and bits in somebody’s face. It’s gotta be CASUAL, like “oh hai, I didn’t see you there. Yes, I’m naked. Let’s make some waffles.”

Hopefully, this brief, yet informative public statement on Naked Tuesday has been useful. I expect that there will be some confusion, like “is it every Tuesday” (yes) and “can I cook bacon while I’m naked” (yes, but I wouldn’t suggest it) or “can I go to church naked” (well, if you go to church on Tuesdays, you’ve pretty much got your answer). PLEASE don’t send me angry letters talking about all the naked shenanigans you’re now getting yourself into; this is not a mandatory, set in stone rule that you have to be naked on Tuesdays, but let me tell you, all the hip kids are doing it, and don’t you want to be a hip kid? WELL, DON’T YOU?

That’s what I thought.

Introducing Broken Leg Guy

Lately I’ve been watching some “adventure” documentaries, which basically consist of a couple guys who are obviously certifiable doing something that no sane person would want to do and then telling everyone about it. You know, like that one time me and the treadmill had a wee falling out? Shoot, that sounds like a made for Lifetime movie there…..”"Me and the Treadmill”, a heartwarming tale of how one woman dared to love someone no one else would love.” Starring Jennifer Love Hewitt in the ROLE OF A LIFETIME.

Yeah, so anyway, I watched this documentary about these two guys who decided to climb this insanely high mountain in Peru. Everything was going just fine until somebody just had to fall off a cliff, hooked by a rope to the other guy. That’s when things got a little nuts, because that guy? Who was holding the other guy hanging by a rope off the cliff? He had to CUT THE ROPE, therefore sending his friend – who had a broken leg, by the way – plummeting into oblivion. It was either that or both of them would have fallen, which obviously was not a great option.

So Broken Leg Guy falls into this deep crevasse, and everyone assumes that he’s dead. He HAD to be dead, right? Nobody could survive that. But obviously, we have all deeply underestimated Broken Leg Guy, because not only does he claw his way out of the 150 ft. crevasse, but he DRAGS HIMSELF FOR EIGHT DAYS back to camp. With no water, no food, and no painkillers for the femur which had quite inconveniently drove itself into his kneecap.

OW.

It was honestly amazing, but also somewhat disturbing, because Broken Leg Guy was one of the “real” people narrating the reenactment, and he casually mentions that he still climbs big scary mountains. That would be like me finding cat pee on the bed and after cleaning it up (it’s SO HARD, yall…….arghhhh, whine, blurrrrggg), inviting the cat to come and pee on it again, because I enjoyed cleaning it so much the first time.

Okay, not a really good comparison, but you know what I mean. I have lots of admiration for Broken Leg Guy and what he went through, but seriously, dude. GIVE IT A REST. We all totally get it that you are some kind of sentient cyborg person who is physically superior to the rest of us, but you don’t have to rub it in. Geez.

I can has Warrior Cats?

Emma is a HUGE fan of the Warriors series of books, which are basically Clan of the Cave Bear with cats. Yes, cats.  All the cute widdle kitties you see toddling around on a daily basis apparently have a secret life we don’t know about. What else are my pets hiding from me? Stock investments? A hidden interest in dentistry?

Part of her fun with these books is creating her own Warriors “world”. She was trying to come up with a good name for a medicine cat, you know, something Clanny like “MoonLeaf” or “SagePaw” or “ItchyRash”.  These are the suggestions we came up with:

• CATatonic
• CAT scan
• CATastrophe
• CATheter

Those didn’t fly too well. I did suggest “CATalytic converter” for a mechanic cat, but alas, my suggestion fell on deaf ears.

I think Nancy Botwin would approve

I’m somewhat (completely, disturbingly) addicted to Netflix’s all free streaming media that seriously, is like MADE OF AWESOME. Usually, when I sit down for the night, I watch stirring political or travel documentaries, but I decided to try something new and watch the show “Weeds”, which is basically about a mom selling marijuana to support herself and her family and all the shenanigans that happen because of this.

I watched it for a couple of seasons and then put it aside, mostly because I just ended up feeling kinda dirty after watching it, and not the “fweeeee!” kind of dirty. The kind that makes you want to go take a bath. And add a few cupfuls of bleach.

I did always enjoy the intro song to Weeds, which is “Little Boxes”, originally written by Malvina Reynolds in the 60’s, and now sung by different artists for every episode. For instance, here’s Elvis Costello:

This weekend, as I was plucking the mysterious goat hairs that apparently have decided to make my neck, jaw, and chin their new summer residence, I started singing a little song put to the tune of “Little Boxes”. You can sing along if you like. Personally, I find that singing this song as I rip out various intruders with sharp metal tweezers makes the whole process that much more super-de-duper. Here we go!

Little Goat Hairs

Little goat hairs, on my jawline, little goat hairs on my my neck and chin
Little goat hairs, on my face now, little goat hairs, why are you here
There’s a brown one and a long one and a short one and a black one
And they’re all made out of collagen and they all look just the same.

And the goat hair on my chin now all pokes out waving to my friends
Saying “hello I’m a goat hair look at me now LOOK AT ME”,
And there’s tweezing, and there’s trimming, and there’s painful hot wax applied
Yet they all come back again and again, and they all bring some friends.

TA DAAAAA!!!!!!

Did you sing along? I know I did.

P.S. There’s actually four verses to this song, but I gave up after two, because honestly, how much do you really want to hear about my ’special little problem’?

Hello, my friend, hello

This post has taken me a couple of days to get the courage up to write it. Not that I’m going to be flashing you any nude pictures (THANK GOD, right?) or telling you about my hemorrhoids (ooh, something to look forward to!). No, nothing that thrilling (although I do want to state that I do not, in fact, HAVE any hemorrhoids. Really, I don’t. You believe me, right?).

Here’s the thing: I struggle with bone-crushing, soul-sucking, kick-me-in-the-teeth depression. And for some reason, summertime seems to make it about ten times worse than it usually is, which, hey! Just what I needed, right? Instead of the Universe giving me, oh, I don’t know, the ability to LOSE WEIGHT ten times faster, I get a crazy-making mental condition that shifts into super overdrive as soon as the sun comes out! Whoo hoo!

I do take medication for it. But, like a dumbass (!), I stopped taking them earlier this spring because I “was in control”. I “could handle it”. My depression “wasn’t really that bad” and I just “needed to get over it.”

See all those quotation marks? That’s the number of times I just face-palmed reading that sentence.

These last two weeks, I’ve felt the Monster – yes, I named it – trudging purposefully and dreadfully up behind me. It’s hard to explain, but if I had to describe it in just one word, it would be……

Darkness.

(Note: I realize that this post is getting quite emo, and I promise, it will end before we all start wearing gobs of black eyeliner and quoting Proust.)

Little things made me overreact in such a violent and over the top way that I scared myself. I scared my children. Terrified them. At one point this week, I was so enraged that I tore a book apart and screamed so loud that I literally lost my voice.

The looks of horror on my children’s faces as I completely lost it……I don’t think I can forgive myself for that. In fact, I know I can’t.

I’ve had to ask for forgiveness many times this past two weeks. The intense remorse I feel after my descents is apparently not enough to stop me from willingly throwing myself down there again.

In addition to the anger, I’ve had the most hand-shaking anxiety I’ve ever experienced in my life. I’d be driving and be so worried that another driver was going to slam into my car killing me and leaving my children without a mother that I would have to pull over and calm down. I’d play the piano, usually something that gives me peace, and suddenly the thought of having to play in front of someone else – anyone else – would make my fingers tremble so bad that they hurt. Just looking at my children, my delicious, wonderful children, would give me such anxiety (are they healthy? happy? fulfilled? I’m a terrible mother, I’ve failed them, ad infinitum, ad nauseum) that I would have to go into their room at night while they were sleeping and time their breathing, watching their chests rise, as the air literally was sucked out of my own chest by a full-blown panic attack. This anxiety would last all day long, and then camp out overnight – you know, like a slumber party? Except the hellish opposite? Yeah.

I’m stubborn, and kind of (A LOT) stupid when it comes to my own health, so even though I knew that this Monster had me by the scruff of the neck and was shakin’ me like a Polaroid picture, I figured I could tough it out.

But then I suddenly realized, WHY THE HELL WOULD I WANT TO DO THAT. There’s nothing admirable about refusing to take care of yourself. There’s nothing particularly praiseworthy about ignoring your mind’s desperate cries for help. If you can save yourself from drowning, why wouldn’t you do it?

All this to say that I started taking my meds again. And already, my fists are unclenching. I’ve stopped grinding my teeth. The anxiety, while still there and stinking up the room like a peanut butter dog fart, is starting to take her leave. And the anger, the disgusting, self-loathing anger, is starting to recede.

I guess my point in writing all of this is twofold.

First, meds are important (DUH) . I can’t go off them. They are necessary, and they make me healthy, and I need them. They are part of what I do to take care of myself, just like when I brush my teeth or exercise or eat frosted chocolate Pop Tarts.

Second, I need to have a record of what this feels like. It’s too easy for me to forget how awful this really feels and how utterly helpless I am against it. How it takes over, eclipsing me, erasing me.

So, hey. Future RedHeadMama! You with the slender thighs and the doctorate in something really impressive and the New York Times best seller!

(You never know. The future is CUHRAZY.)

I want you to remember something, toots. You are not fun when you go off your Happy Pills. Your family loves you, and you love your family, and this is a way of showing them that love. Don’t try to do it yourself. You can’t. (See Above Paragraphs, Please.) Remember? You don’t want to go back there. It’s not fun. AT ALL.

Oh, and by the way, Future RedHeadMama. Your kids forgave you within like 30 seconds. Really, they did. I promise. They are happy, healthy, well-adjusted kids. Even though they all still think it’s the funniest thing in the world to think of weird food combinations and the crazy-awesome farts that they would produce.

You can rely on me. I’m telling you the truth.

Be kind to yourself, kiddo.

Love, Me.

Why, cat? Why?

We have three cats:

That cute fluffynutterball on the end there? The kitten looking thing who we in fact DO call Kitten even though his name is Max Power?

He won’t stop peeing on my bed. On MY side of the bed. On my blankets, on my pillows, on my pajamas.

Last night I staggered into the bedroom around 11:15 PM, ready for a good hour or so of reading my latest book when lo and behold, a familiar stink filled  my nostrils and DAMMIT.

DAMN YOU CAT.

Why must you pee on my bed? The same place I’ve given you literally HOURS of petting and scratching and rubbing and general adoration?

We give you food. We give you water. We give you catnip so we can laugh at you getting COMPLETELY STONED out of your little kitty brain.

And this is how you repay me?

I don’t understand.

And I swear to Six Pound, Seven Ounce Baby Jebus that if you do it again, I’m going to deliberately look the other way when Snugs, the head of the cat hierarchy, attempts to “have his way with you”, Biblical-style.

You have been warned.

An open letter to Mike, of Mike’s Hard Cranberry Lemonade.

Dear Mike:

I thought I’d just drop a line to tell you how wonderful I think you are.

Actually, how wonderful your hard cranberry lemonade is. Because I don’t know you personally (but I’m sure you’re very nice).

See, I have three demonic wonderful spawns of the devil children, who are here ALL SUMMER. And by the end of the day, this mom? She is feeling a tad cranky! From all the fighting and the whining and the what-not that goes CLANG CLANG CLANG in the pulsing migraine! SUMMER! Whoo hoo!

Whilst making dinner tonight, I decided to pop open your deliciousness, and the welcome “I really don’t give a damn” is now coursing happily through my veins, making it possible for Mommy to NOT LOCK THE CHILDREN IN THE CLOSET or some other such irresponsible, yet completely satisfying shenanigan.

Thank you.

Seriously, THANK YOU. Sweet buttered Moses, I was about to lose it BIG TIME.

Love, RedHeadMama