That one time we were almost reality TV starzzz

I can’t recall a time in the past seven years when life hasn’t been panting hot, stinky drool down the back of my neck. I suppose once you add a certain number of people and Life Events to a person ill equipped to function on a simple, solitary level shit gets out of hand. Last summer, sometime in June when life was spiraling slightly out of control, I stopped on a street corner to check my email. Yes, I do that because 1) I can and 2) if I saved it for a sensible time it would mean I possessed an organization I’ve never before held. The emails were the typical grab bag of crap coupled with a new sender, Jenni, whom I had not before seen. Turns out she was a a scout for an upcoming reality series, excuse me docu-series -as I was to later learn. Apparently Jenni, or somebody on her team, had been poking around the Internet looking for people fool enough to not only live with their parents beyond a certain age, but who had written about it online. Lucky me, I fit that category.

I’m always a bit touched, if not slightly horrified, when somebody publicly acknowledges they have read an online tidbit of mine. These Hansel & Gretel nuggets of my less than ambitious self floating about online, and somebody has bothered to absorb them! Always a bit of a thrill. So when after a short email exchange Jenni asked that I call her, I did. She and her crew were searching for an interesting extended family of several generations to document. She wanted all sorts of details about the children, my mom and me. Huh.

I was intrigued enough to tell Cassidy about this turn of events. She who had recently started watching the Kardashian’s, she was ecstatic. “We’ll be stars, Mom! We’ll be rich! Think of all the clothes I’ll be able to buy!” At 14 the prospect of pouring our innards out for the entertainment of national TV appealed to her. When I informed Loren of the idea he paused, shrugged his shoulders and said it didn’t matter to him since he was about to move away for school. I didn’t tell Devon since I figured it would weird him out on nearly all levels. My mother was so opposed to the idea that her body stiffened at the mere mention of it. Me, I knew there was no way I could live my life with a television crew following our every step. I itch from every day life, toss in sound and lighting and I don’t think I could breathe. Plus, everything out there? I think not. Blogging about stuff is one bit of madness, living and breathing it is Jerry Springer on an entirely new level. However, the fact that we were chosen to be in the queue somewhat fascinated me and I wanted to see just how far we could make it before politely telling them, “Um, no thank you. You see we are actually very sophisticated and so above this sort of thing. Excuse me while I go pick my nose.”

I submitted the required pictures and bio’s for each of our family members. Jenni said she loved the look of the kids, the fact that each of them have different hair and eye colors was even better for her. She wanted more. So we did a conference call with all our family members. She liked the way we interacted. We took the next step and filled out gobs of paperwork. She loved our words and wanted more. This is where my mother said, “Enough. No more.” The truth is that without her we were nowhere. She was our Kris Kardashian, the captain of the ship. Cassidy was furious, her future wardrobe now derailed from Prada to TJ Maxx. Loren again shrugged his shoulders. Devon never really knew.

So we had an almost brush with dysfunctional fame. I always knew it wasn’t for us. My friends would never have let the cameras into their homes. The potential damage to our family was too much to even contemplate. Yet. Yet there are moments when Cass and I will look at each other and say, “This so could have been a reality TV moment.” This is usually in reaction to my mother who would have outshone any of us and would likely have landed herself her own spin-off series.

Posted in GAD, generalized anxiety disorder, Reality TV | 2 Comments

Parenting from afar

It’s no secret that I was ill prepared for motherhood. When I started this madness nearly 19 years ago I was a young 22 and so clueless that I couldn’t even contemplate how much my life would change after having a baby. Yet there was that moment when after an absurdly long labor, after the doctors and nurses had cleared the room and I held my baby in silence. The bond was instant, as though he had always been right there, just waiting for me to get off my ass to say hello and welcome. Everything about Loren was just right. His shape, his sounds, his light.

It didn’t particularly matter that I was not ready for a baby. As long as Loren had a full tummy and good company all was well in his world. He was a content soul and we learned the ropes together. Then a bunch of stuff happened along the way. I left Matt when Lo was 18 months old, we got back together when he was three. We had Cassidy, I finished up college. We moved, got a divorce, we reconciled and had Devon. Then we fought for about a year. My father died, we separated. Then Matt had a stroke. Loren went away to college. Now Matt, the younger two and I live together. That’s a full plate o’ drama any way you chalk it up. Poor kid.

When Loren first moved to Denver this past August I experienced a grief I hadn’t known would surface. I figured he was a mere 2 1/2 hours away, a fairly easy drive over The Divide and I could be downtown to see him with very little effort. But in a sense I had lost him and didn’t quite know how to reach him. Our phone calls were awkward, I usually wanted to get off the phone because this new stage of mothering held so much discomfort that I found I had few words to share. Then there were the phone calls where Lo was distraught, unsure, lost. He would rant and I felt even more lost and unable to reach him.

Sometime over the winter Loren told me during a conversation, “Mom, you always say you don’t have anything spectacular to share. I don’t need amazing, I just want to hear your voice.” It’s incredible how liberating those two sentences were. I had been feeling that he expected something substantial when he called, that he needed a zing in order to feel good. But no. He only needed that full tummy and good company effect, and up until that point I hadn’t been able to give it to him.

Now when we chat I feel comfortable staying on the phone and truly listening to what he has to say. This new stage of parenting isn’t always about fixing or guiding, it’s a companionship on an entirely new level. My boy doesn’t need me to bandage his knees or read him a book, but he still needs me. I think I was so afraid this wouldn’t be the case, that when he moved out he would be gone. Loren tells me just the opposite is true, that he feels he needs me now more than ever. He needs my opinions on how to live, function, make decisions. It’s a new frontier for him and for me, the way it has been from those moments in the hospital when we shared a silent stare at the very beginning of this adventure.

 

Posted in Itching | 12 Comments

In my head I sound like Oprah

The real Oprah. Duh.

It’s totally true. When  I’m alone at my drafting table and pecking away on the keyboard the voice in my head is nearly identical to Oprah’s. Well, make that Maya Rudolph’s interpretation of Oprah. On a typical day Oprah-In-My-Head (OIMH) is fairly quiet, only getting worked up and mouthy about a few things. But when I’m stressed or upset, girl starts bellowing and draaaagggggiiiing out her words. It rarely gets so out of hand that I check under my chair to see if OIMH has left me a gift card for a free car, but it has been known to happen. Whatever, we all have our freak flag to fly and this is mine.

For some unforeseen reason some of The Other Mother’s (TOM’s) at Devon’s school selected me to chair up the biggest school fundraiser of the year. I can’t imagine what prompted them to do it, I suspect absolute desperation because my name is simply not synonymous with the phrases “get ‘er done’ or ‘team player’. But whatever the reason, here I am, 10 days out from the big night and attempting to work, figure out liquor licenses, find the right shaped tables, come up with decor on a zero budget and keep my shit together. Indeed.

Or not. I haven’t been on a proper grocery shop in over a week. Devon’s weekly homework packet, due tomorrow, is likely hiding under the couch, its pages virgin white because we haven’t even yet started it. And Cassidy’s campaign for a hip tattoo is gaining momentum. I haven’t had a shower in two days and I just had carrots dipped in watermelon Go-gurt for lunch. The chances of clean laundry are far outweighed by the possibility that tomorrow the kids will be dressing in underwear fresh from a Target bag.

As I’m madly writing myself endless notes on post-it notes to remind myself to place the newspaper ads so people will actually come to the fundraiser,  the OIMH voice is singing loud and proud. And before I go pick up the kids I’m going to feel under my chair for the gift card I know will hold the keys to my new car. That’s just how OIMH head rolls.

Posted in GAD, generalized anxiety disorder, Itching | 2 Comments

Holding her close

Cassidy as photographed by Carly Apple

Fifteen years ago right about now I was in misery. I had been on bed rest for nearly three months with a due date of April 20th and a promise from my doctor that as soon as I hit 36 weeks, the baby raising hell in my belly would plop out and free me from the constant discomfort and insomnia that had become my norm. However, at this point those many years ago, I was at a smidge over 38 weeks and desperately calling any ob/gyn I could find in the book in hopes that they might induce the ball of pain I carried out front. Needless to say I wasn’t the happiest of campers.

Cassidy ended up arriving two days past her due date, she came screaming into the world from an induced labor that left her with a belly full of blood and fairly pissed off to be booted from her cushy water world. And then she proceeded to kick my ass every which way on a daily basis. And here we are. Nearly fifteen years later. She is amazing. A creature so divine I can’t find adequate words to describe the glory that is Her. I can try with words such as breath taking, smart, witty, charming, beautiful to the ends of the earth. But they aren’t enough. There is simply nothing that encompasses all of her.

As fabulous as Cass is, she scares the hell out of me every single day. Because while she has no clue as to how stunning she is, she is well aware of her intelligence and the fact that she has more focus, stamina and energy than I do. If Cass wants something enough, she gets it. She knows I’m tired and worn from nearly 19 years of this gig. She know my weaknesses and has no hesitation in exploiting them if need be.

This year Cass has decided that nothing will do unless she gets a tattoo for her birthday. Yes, I did just write that. A Tattoo. On my baby. The request/demand was initially so outrageous I couldn’t even form an answer to it. Because really? Are you kidding me? And then. Then she started. Like a buzzard casually picking out the glazed eyes of road kill, she scraped and plucked bits of my brain and psyche. She rationalized, told me she’d end up getting it done anyway. She rattled off statistics, emailed me pictures. She got other people on board. And now I’m tired. That wee picture of a pretty blue bird with swirly tail feathers no longer looks so menacing. The idea of a two inch inked spot around her jutting hip bone doesn’t seem so scandalous.

I’m not in the misery I was 15 years ago at this time. But I’m worn out and not at all a worthy opponent for this girl/child who has the energy of the universe coursing through her veins.

Posted in Itching | 7 Comments

Yesterday was a good day

The above statement is not one I’ve felt on a daily basis lately, or really ever since I tend to be more of an Eeyore than I really should. But it was a good day.

There wasn’t anything overtly special about yesterday. It was a Wednesday, a school day. But really? It was spectacular. I woke up feeling good. Matt had slept most of the night through, quite a feat when you have FMD that fatigues the body and sends a person to bed before most toddlers. The kids woke up in good moods. The sky was clear, the weather uncommonly warm for April in the Colorado Rockies (Here I could totally go all Eeyore about how it’s too warm and the mountains will be hot and dry in the coming months and likely lit with fire. But I won’t.).

I got my work done. Matt and I went for a walk in the evening. We made dinner, laughed, relaxed. It was normal. The FMD was fairly quiet. The voices in my head kept a respectful distance. Cassidy was mostly a kind teenager. Devon played outside with the neighbor kids until it was dark. Loren sent me some sweet texts. Then we went to bed.

No drama. No teeth gnashing. It was good. And I’m so grateful.

Posted in Fibromuscular Dysplasia, FMD, GAD, generalized anxiety disorder | 2 Comments

Diary of a hyporchodriac: That time I had a blood clot

I can’t deny it, I am a bit of a hypochondriac. If I did try to deny it I would get all nervous, start scratching, make a scab that might not heal in two hours and then I’d be looking at cancer. That’s how I roll. Migraine? Likely caused by a brain tumor. Eye dryness? Obviously caused by the Big C. Soar throat? Totally have a fast growing tumor in the nether regions of my mouth. I’m a bundle of awkward nerves from it all. This too is likely a cause of cancer, albeit a very slow growing one since I’ve lived with it for the last 41 years.

A couple of weekends ago Devon and I went skiing together. This is the first year I haven’t tucked him away in lessons and have chanced traversing the hills with him. It’s a love/hate thing for me, these excursions. On the one hand I love watching him fly down the hill, hurling his 7 year-old self off of jumps in imitation of his older brother. On the other hand, well the above sentence applies there as well. Dev is the kind of kid who gets off the chairlift and heads straight down the hill until he happens to encounter the lift lines below. Stopping or turning are not on his list of priorities, an unfortunate side effect to this is me yelling at the top of his lungs for him to, “Make a turn for fucking sake, Devon!” His reaction is a small tinkling of giggles that float up towards me as I watch him travel in mini-guy warp speed.

Another issue is getting on and off the chairlift. For a variety of reasons we are skiing at the ghetto mountain this year. Devon has grown up with swanky, padded high speed lifts and gondolas. Our current  mountain is so old school there are not even bars to pull down in case a 7 year-old slips out due to excessive wiggling. This means my anxiety powers into over drive. To add to this cocktail of nerves is the fact that Devon is not a suave chair loader. He has a tendency to  look anywhere but where the heavy, metal chair is heading for us, this means I often am bending over and helping him on while the liftie is doing the same. I always count it a miracle that we manage to get loaded and up the hill without any major injuries. The exception to that statement would be this past trip when somehow the chair nailed my left calf leaving me in so much pain that I thought I would simultaneously faint and barf from 30 feet in the air.

I wanted to go home right then and there but Devon had other plans and so we spent the afternoon careening down the slopes while I tried to ignore the fact that my left calf was swelling. By the time we got home I could barely walk and spent the evening with heat on my leg. After putting Devon to bed and sitting in the Saturday night silence my mind started to wander and I recalled my days working as a CNA and all the young construction guys who had fallen through roofs and whatnot. The pain in their calves was also excruciating. Why? Well because they had blood clots, of course. So I hobbled over to my trusty keyboard and started Googling. Dear god, within three minutes I had diagnosed myself and was sure I would perish in the night once the clot loosened and traveled to my heart or lungs. If I did survive until morning it wouldn’t matter because by lunch I would develop a trauma induced tumor that would likely be some sort of mutant cancer. Luckily for me, Cassidy ended the weekend with a soccer training injury that left her unable to move her neck and right arm. By Sunday night I decided her cancer situation far outweighed mine and then spent hours hovering over her until she informed me that she and her friend had trained by tossing 10 pound medicine balls back and forth to one another. The next morning I took her to sports message therapist and she was on the mend.

Me and my calf, you ask? It still hurts to walk and there is a trail of bruise where the trauma seems to be draining from the calf to my ankle. A few days ago I showed my mother and relayed the tail to her. She paused, then leaned froward and asked, “My God, Heather, do you think that’s a blood clot in there?” And it all comes full circle.

 

http://caloden.com/2006/09/and_this_weeks_cancer_is.html

Posted in GAD, generalized anxiety disorder, hypochondria, Itching, skiing injuries | 2 Comments

Fashionably challenged

 

This looks functional, even flattering, on the model. In real life? Not so much.

Life after a stroke has so many different aspects than a pre-stroke existence. Most of them concern Matt, which is spot on considering he is the one who swallows the daily morning pills and has to experience the bizarre aftermath of having his brain vessels burst. One of the things that most frustrates him is his inability to enjoy physical activities on the level he previously did. We live in the Colorado Rockies, the moment we step out the door the mountains send a daily taunt of, “Ride me. Ski me. Walk me.” He can’t and it truly sucks.

Luckily for us there is the most amazing hot springs pool where we can get out two to three times per week and enjoy the healing waters and breathe the fresh air. We’re not the only ones, it is often packed with other people seeking some peace. We love it. However, and this is where it becomes about me, this means I have to stuff myself into a swim suit on a weekly basis. Not a huge deal since there are people of all size, shapes and ages there; it’s no beauty pageant. But still, I am not bikini material. Nay, quite the opposite.

The truth is that until quite recently I’ve been wearing a couple of swimsuits that I inherited. From my mother. Oh yes, I did just say that. A few years ago she somehow placed a double order for her annual Land’s End Tugless Tanks and was generous enough to share the extras with me. So not only have I been wearing old lady suits, they have been identical matches to my mother’s old lady suits. Yup, that’s just how I roll. Recently the last one, whom I had affectionately named Brown Betty, became so worn and misshapen that I had to retire it. This has left me with my back up Jaclyn Smith knock off from K-Mart while I contemplate the purchase of a new suit.

Yesterday Matt and I were in the pool and discussing my plight. Gazing around I noticed quite a few Brown Betty’s.

Me: Wow, I’m not the only one with a thing for that suit. I miss the skirted bottom, now I actually have to shave to come in the pool.

Matt: Yes, I’ve seen about ten of those suits today.

Me: Have any of them been on anybody under the age of 70?

Matt: No. Not a single one. You sure know how to pick ‘em.

That’s totally how I roll, man.

Posted in Fibromuscular Dysplasia, FMD | 6 Comments

Dreaming big

I recently read a snippet quoting Madonna that says she hasn’t taken a day off in ever. She said something along the lines of, “I sometimes walk by my bedroom, see the sun shining through the windows and the bed looks so enticing. Maybe someday when I’m old I’ll take a day off and stay in bed.” Huh. Sure, she’s queen of pop music, wildly successful and keeps up with 22 year-old boy-men. But no day off? That makes me nervous just thinking about the lack of relationship she must have with her bed, in my life I’ve found that to be one of the most vital elements in my existence.

Today I would give most anything to go back to bed. I would donate one of my lesser important body organs to science if the kids would go away for about 72 hours. I would spend the first 24 in complete silence and stillness. The next 24 would be more quiet and a bit of laundry and some fabulous bubble baths. The last 24 hours would include a 90 minute massage, some hot yoga, a walk and a thorough grocery shop without Devon hanging on the cart and Cassidy tossing in high priced facial cleansers.

I’m not sure what Madonna’s typical schedule entails. She likely has an on sight masseur and probably never has to sort laundry. Nannies are also probably an element of her life. More power to her. Me? I’ll explore a deeper and more meaningful relationship with my bed and maybe that will make up for the noise from the kids.

Posted in GAD, generalized anxiety disorder | Leave a comment

I think I might be a frog killer

I used to be a vegan. I used to worry about the baby seals losing their white pelts to clubbers. I fretted about dolphins getting caught in nets. I never went as far as not wearing leather shoes, it was the late 80′s and hello? Loafers with pegged jeans? Hot shit there. But I never wore fur and felt somewhat guilty about the leather shoes.

When I was 14 I read Diet for a New America and was so moved by the pig chapter that no meat passed my lips for about eight years. At some point in that span of time I became so devoted that I was even a vegan. Then I met Matt, discovered chicken and drive thru’s, then he knocked me up and I realized I didn’t like being hungry all the time and the slide down the slippery slope began. Red meat was not part of my diet until I got pregnant with Devon. But I still can’t eat pigs without shedding a tear.

All of that is to say I’m sensitive, dammit. I love animals and yearn for their well-being. Yes, after I started up the baby maker the passion for four legged creatures was replaced with my near constant fear that if I blinked my eyes the kids might die, so the baby seals and pigs have been shifted to other people’s plates -so to speak. But I still love them. I don’t hunt. Don’t eat veal. I try only to only buy free range meat that states the animals lead happy, sunshine filled lives before they met their ends. Again, that sensitivity is quite stunning if I do say so myself.

A couple of summers ago the kids and I embarked on a frog adventure. We saved a wild frog from a theatre parking lot and later set him free near a secluded ditch. However, the excitement of the jumping fellow lead to an aquarium of smallish Petco toads that the kids quickly forgot and I have been feeding them bags of crickets on a weekly basis since then. They sort of bark from time to time, I clean out their bowl and leave them to their business. Good stuff. Except that last week the room where they reside got really cold and now I don’t hear them barking. Then I found their heating pad unplugged. Except I can’t bring myself to go look. They might not be dead. Perhaps they’ve taken a vow of silence in preparation for Lent?

It’s no good. I mostly don’t intentionally kill animals, at least not house pets. The fact that there might be stiff little froggy corpses rotting in my daughter’s bedroom makes me sick to my stomach. Ont he other hand, life is crazy busy and my plate is already full. How am I going to explain to Devon that I am a frog killer? What will the baby seals think? The dolphins likely already know and are crying their magic dolphin tears into the oceans. But the thought of not having to buy crickets on a weekly basis is kind of liberating.

 

 

Posted in Itching | 3 Comments

Just one reason I love my mother

So I’ve been a bit down in the mouth, overwhelmed, blue, stressed, in need of a huge scream. Whatever. While my mother and I don’t sit down and pour our hearts out to one another, sorority girl style, I always know she’s there for me. About a week ago I sent her the following:

M,

Yesterday was a difficult one. I’m in a hole right now but I’ll crawl out and be fine.

Just wanted to let you know.

H.

The following morning I found this in my in-box:

Honey Badger don’t get stuck in no stinkin’ hole. Honey Badger’ll bust out. Or dig out inch by quarter inch. Honey Badger might even find gold in that damn hole. Maybe an eternal spring. 

You are (always) in my best thoughts and prayers. Love, m
Posted in GAD, generalized anxiety disorder | 1 Comment