Christmas Eve Gifts

Tonight, on Christmas Eve, I am humbled by the knowledge that God not only gave His Son for us, but that he continues to give gifts.

Today, I was wrapping up a gift for my brother, a book about John 3:16.  That reminded me of a short story that I shared earlier on this blog, which reminded me of the reason that I wrote that story.  I was standing in a church service, listening to someone reading that passage and thinking, though I knew better, that anyone would die for the whole world.  I mean, watch the movie Armageddon and you see that.  Immediately, I felt the presence of God around me and I FELT the words, "even if you had been the only one, I still would have died for you."  I felt weak and stunned and unworthy and yet loved at the same time.  I had never had such an amazing experience before and I have never looked at the familiar verse the same since.  As I recalled that day, I was again reminded of my unworthiness and yet my value to God.

It was a recurring theme today.  Earlier in the day, a friend had called me to tell me of the miraculous happenings at her sister's house.  Christmas was going to be extremely lean at their house, but out of the blue, a U-Haul pulled up to their house and people they didn't know got out and started unloading groceries and gifts for them.  It reminded me of when I was a single mom and was out of makeup and conditioner, two things that were luxuries I couldn't afford.  A knock at the door revealed strangers from a nearby church, passing out gift bags.  Inside the bag was conditioner and makeup.  The message was crystal clear: "I will provide.  I am concerned with the details of your life."  But, who am I to have God send some strangers to my door to deliver cosmetics?  My brother asked the same question earlier this year when a stranger approached him with a message from God, armed with details that he couldn't possibly have known otherwise.

When we went to the Christmas Eve service at church tonight, our pastor delivered an envelope to us, containing $200 from an "anonymous donor."  This is the second time something like this has happened to me.  Several years back, our Sunday school teachers gave us an envelope with a couple hundred dollars in it, saying they choose a family to bless every year and that year, it was us.  Now, just as I did then, I feel unworthy.  Yes, life has been difficult, but we have what we need.  God has been good to us.  I thought, "surely there must be someone else that needs this more than we do."  I thought of all the ways that I have failed and wondered why God would seek to bless me when I have let Him down in so many ways.  I thought of the times we have squandered money and felt guilty.  It wasn't long before I was crying, thinking again of how much God loves me even though I don't deserve it.

Just last week, my friend called to tell me that the same thing had just happened to her: the pastor had given her an envelope containing $500 after asking her what the church could do for them, since receiving an anonymous prayer request for them.  She was sure that it had been me because only I could know the struggles they were facing.  But, I am not the only one.  Regardless of who is humanly behind any of these random acts of kindness, we know that God is ultimately behind them.  He knows what no man can possibly know about our lives...and loves us anyway.

The life of His Son was more than we deserved.  His life was more precious than anything imaginable.  And yet, He doesn't stop there.  He continues to give, a loving Father at Christmas, giving gifts to His children.  O Father, make us more like you.

I Love You Too Much Not to Warn You (or to care what you think about this blog)

The question of whether a loving God would send anyone to hell is a stumbling block for many. It's a question Christians are often asked of their faith. If our God is love, why would He condemn any to a lake of fire? The conclusion of those who do not have a personal relationship with God is that either there is no God or that He is mean and vindictive.

God IS love. No, He isn't willing that any should perish (II Peter 3:9  "The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. Instead he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance."). Why else would He send His only son to die for us? He has pulled out all the stops to prevent those He loves from going to the place created for the devil and his demons. Those that end up in hell choose to ignore His gift., His exit strategy, His sacrifice, His love. They choose to go their own way. They are there by choice. This is the downside of free will: the freedom to make the wrongchoice.

Some Christians don't believe that there is a literal hell, that all the references in the Bible are figurative.  However, if you take the literal hell out if the equation, the whole theology of Christianity collapses. If there is no hell, why is there a death? Death is decay brought on by sin. If there is no hell, what is the point of death? Why shouldn't we go on living forever, or be raised to heaven, one and all? And if there is no hell or death, there is no consequences for sin. And if there is no consequences for sin, is there sin at all? If there are no consequences, how do you tell right from wrong? If there is no consequence, couldn't we live however we want and do what we want.? If there is no sin, why did Jesus die? If there is no hell, no sin, why would he have to die? If there is no consequences, no death, then he couldn't die. This destroys the whole crux of our faith. If Christ didn't die for our sins, why are we here?  If he didn't die for our sins, we should stop right now.  We have no hope.  We should pack it in and go home.  If he didn't die for us, then the Bible is a lie and we shouldn't trust any of it.  But, the good news is that he DID die to pay the debt against us.

When I was in high school, a classmate constantly ridiculed me for my faith and teased me about worshiping Satan. Before we were even upperclassmen, he was shot and killed accidentally. It broke my heart, thinking of his rejection of Jesus' gift of salvation.  A not so close family member died around the age of 40 from hard living. Although I hadn't been close to her, the funeral left me broken and weeping. The striking aspect of the funeral was the complete lack of hope. The wailing and sobbing was poignant, a stark contrast to the funerals of those who trust in Christ. One of the worst experiences with death I have ever had, if dwelt on for too long, reduces me to panic attacks because of the heartbreak it represents. My former father-in-law thought he had plenty of time. He said he'd make things right with God eventually, but for the present time, he wanted to live the way he wanted to live. He died a couple of weeks after he told me this, at the age of 40.  I loved him very much and it still breaks my heart to think of him in hell.  But, that was his choice.  His choice was to reject the Savior.

Please don't make the same mistakes that these made.  You don't know how much time you have.  Don't wait.  Waiting is saying no.

I am reminded of a couple of songs, whose authors are much more eloquent than I:

Thorns on his head
A spear in his side
Yet it was a heartache that made him cry
He gave his life
So you'd understand
Is there any way you could say no to this man?
If Christ himself was standing here
Face full of glory and eyes full of tears
And he held out his arms
And his nail-printed hands
Is there any way you could say no to this man?
How could you look in his tear-stained eyes
Knowing it's you he's thinking of?
Could you tell him you're not ready to give him your life?
Could you say you don't think you need his love?
Jesus is here with his arms open wide
You could see him with your heart
If you'd stop looking with your eyes
He's left it up to you
He's done all he can
Is there any way you could say no to this man?

What if you're right?
And he was just another nice guy
What if you're right?
What if it's true?
They say the cross will only make a fool of you
And what if it's true?

What if he takes his place in history
With all the prophets and the kings
Who taught us love and came in peace
But then the story ends?
What then?

But what if you're wrong?
What if there's more?
What if there's hope you never dreamed of hoping for?
What if you jump
And just close your eyes?
What if the arms that catch you, catch you by surprise?
What if He's more than enough?
What if it's love?

What if you dig
Way down deeper than your simple-minded friends?
What if you dig?
What if you find
A thousand more unanswered questions down inside?
That's all you find

What if you pick apart the logic
And begin to poke the holes?
What if the crown of thorns is no more
Than folklore that must be told and retold?

But what if you're wrong?
What if there's more?
What if there's hope you never dreamed of hoping for?
What if you jump
And just close your eyes?
What if the arms that catch you, catch you by surprise?
What if He's more than enough?
What if it's love?

You've been running as fast as you can
You've been looking for a place you can land for so long
But what if you're wrong?


I am reminded of an article that I read online not that long ago.  An atheist said that if we as Christians truly believe what we say we believe, then we should be out there telling people, regardless of what they may think of us.  He said he respects someone who believes they have hope and the answer, sharing it with others.  If I had the cure for cancer, what benefit would it be if I kept it to myself?  How selfish!  What I have is infinitely more precious and necessary.  What I have written may offend you, but if I truly believe it (and I do) and if I truly love you, then I can't walk on eggshells. There's no time to be politically correct.

Papa

My grandpa was larger than life.  He was a large man with massive hands.  He made his living as a carpenter and even though I only knew him as an older man, he was still one of the strongest men I ever knew.  And yet, he was gentle, funny, and loved the Lord.  He was so tickled when we named our son after him, that he carried him around and showed him off to everyone, buttons bursting.  Anytime Billy was misbehaving, grandpa just smiled in that way that meant he thought that little boy could do no wrong, and said, "He just takes after me!"

Nine years ago, he was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease and his health began to decline.  It was hard watching my hero becoming more frail, crying, and saying his goodbyes as though he might not make it to the next Christmas or the next family reunion.

Three years ago, he went into the VA hospital and came out with a permanent feeding tube.  While visiting him there one day, I was sure he was very close to leaving us.  I immediately rejected the idea because after my dad's death and my divorce, I couldn't take losing another man from my life.  However, he was still strong and kept going.  He did a couple of stints in a nursing home and several trips to the VA hospital.  He learned to eat again twice before he completely lost the ability.  He was also suffering from longer and longer bouts of dementia.

Gradually, I realized I had to let him go.  He told me that he was tired and wanted to go "home."  I knew it was selfish to want him to stay in this fragile body on this troubled earth.  So, every time I saw him, I would hug him and tell him that I loved him, prepared for it to be the last time I would see him on this earth.

About two and a half weeks ago, my mom texted me that they had taken him to the hospital by ambulance.  This is not the first time, but this time, they had to put him on a ventilator.  They tried a few times to take him off the ventilator, but he wouldn't breathe on his own.  He had two kinds of pneumonia, sepsis, and had decreased brain activity from small previous strokes.  After lots of discussion, they decided to take out his ventilator a week after he had been admitted.  We packed up and drove to Wichita.

I stayed by his side as much as I could. For one, I felt like it was the least I could do for a man that was the backbone of our family.  For two, my mom and my grandma needed my help and support.  And three, I think I was trying to make up for not being there for my dad when he died.  I won't go into the next week and a half of watching him fade away in hospice. I don't want to dwell on what it was like listening to him choking and gurgling or on the tears we shed, but on his life and the example he left behind.  He is exactly the kind of man I want my son to grow up to be like.  I have no doubt that I will see him again and that he is with Jesus. He went home and I can imagine him strong and whole, walking with his Lord, whooping and hollering his praises.  I wouldn't wish him back to this life of pain and suffering for anything.

One moment I will never forget.  A day or two before he died, he was mumbling a lot.  He was never fully conscious, but he was looking around more that day and focused his eyes on grandma for a second.  I walked to his side and patted him and said, "I love you, Papa."  He mumbled a response.  He had been unresponsive since entering the hospital, so this was unexpected.  I said, "I know you love me too," because I could hear in his mumbling what he always said to me, "I love you, too, sis."  I will treasure that goodbye for the rest of my life, until we are reunited in heaven.

The morning he died, I had stayed the night at the hospital.  My mother had been debating about taking a shower, afraid to leave for even a moment.  I had been reading about hospice care and knew he couldn't go on much longer without food or fluids.  But, I encouraged mom to go take care of herself.  Not long after she went down the hall to the family bathroom, as grandma and I sat talking, there was a hitch in his breath.  We had been so attuned to the sounds he made that when it suddenly stopped, we immediately started.  Grandma started to cry and said, "Oh, it's happened, he's gone."  I told her to wait a minute, that one of the signs of the end was pauses between breaths.  Sure enough, he took another breath.  We both gathered around his bed and she held his hand and stroked his hair while I patted him.  She prayed, "Jesus, take him," and I whispered a thank you in his ear.  The nurse's aide came in to care for him and when she saw his breathing pattern, she went to get the nurse.  We debated about whether or not to go get my mom.  Grandma thought it was best that she wasn't there, but I knew mama would be upset that she wasn't.  So, eventually, we decided I should go get her since we had no idea how long this may go on.  I knocked on the door and told mom what was happening.  She said she would be there as soon as she was done, thinking that it could last for a while.  When I came back in, the nurse's aide was back with the nurse and the chaplain.  I saw papa take a breath as I crossed the room to his bedside and then he was gone.  Of course my mother was upset that she hadn't been there, but grandma believes that he was waiting for her to leave, that he hadn't wanted any of his children there.

I have never been a particularly strong person, but I am glad I was there.  I am glad that I was able to do something for him and for my family.  I'm also glad that I was able to experience some personal growth through this.  If no other good came from his death, it brought my brother and I closer together, as we sat in the hospice waiting room, talking for hours.  That, in itself, was worth all the tears.

Sleep Depriv...oops, I Mean, Sleep STUDY

I made the mistake of telling my doctor that I have been extremely exhausted, sweating profusely, and experiencing palpitations and shortness of breath.  I love my doctor dearly--he is the best one I have ever been to and I love that he takes me seriously and doesn't dismiss my concerns, but I opened myself up to a whole world of testing that I didn't even know existed.  Probably a good thing to make sure nothing is seriously wrong with me, but I am beginning to feel like a guinea pig or a pincushion.

First, he drew blood to check my thyroid, cholesterol, CBC, etc.  Then he sent me to get a chest x-ray.  Chest x-ray was clean; the blood work was fine except for some high liver levels.  He ordered Hepatitis tests, but they were negative.

Next, I was sent for a nuclear stress test.  This is like a normal treadmill test, only they also shoot radioactive stuff into your veins.  The first day, I came in and they set me up with an IV and electrodes and stuck me on the treadmill.  Now, the worst part of this test was that before they attached the electrodes, they sandpapered my skin to get rid of any dead skin.  WOW!  The electrodes they put on those spots inflamed the skin they had scratched, so I had bright red irritated spots all over me.  At the risk of sounding like a big baby, that HURT!  After the redness went down, I had scratches in those areas.  Looked like I had a weird case of carpet burn or had survived an attack by a seriously methodical and deranged cat.  It didn't take long, walking on the treadmill, for my tachycardia to kick in and I overshot their target heartrate.  At first, I tried to chat with the techs in the room, but as my heartrate shot up, I couldn't catch my breath and my priority became getting enough oxygen, not what they were doing this weekend.  Funny how your outlook can change in a matter of seconds.  They injected the radioactive ooze and then kicked the treadmill up in speed and incline.  They told me I had to do it for 30 seconds.  Thank God that's all they expected because any more and I would have looked like one of those losers on America's Funniest Home Videos, faceplanting into the conveyor belt!  They made me go out and eat something and drink water and then they took me in to the machine that would take pictures of my heart.  They did one set on my back and one on my stomach.  This was the other challenging part because having acid reflux and just having eaten, lying flat on my back or on my stomach represented a challenge in keeping my food where it was supposed to be.  The next day, they had me come back.  They injected me with the nuclear stuff again, made me eat and drink and walk around for a while, then took more pictures.  That test apparently came back fine, as well.

When I went for a follow-up with my doctor, he realized that he had meant to order a test on my blood work to check for blood clots, but either they hadn't done it or he had forgotten to request it, so he sent me back to the lab for poke number four.

Then he set me up with a chest CT scan with contrast.  Now, THAT was one of the weirdest experiences I have ever had.  I had to lie down and the machine would swirl around me, taking pictures of my chest.  The tech had warned me that she would be giving me directions about holding my breath, etc.  However, she didn't warn me that the MACHINE would be giving me these orders.  When a mechanical male voice said to hold my breath and a little picture on the machine lit up, showing a cartoon face holding its breath, I about lost my breath in a fit of giggles.  Then the machine tells you to let it out, hold it, breathe normally, etc.  The tech pulled me out and injected me (poke number 5, making me feel more like a sponge than a human) with the contrast.  She warned me that it would feel warm in the back of my throat and that I might smell something funny and might feel like I wet myself.  Side effect of feeling incontinent?  Oh, wow, this should be fun!  I thought it would be a faint sensation, or maybe something that only some percentage of the population felt.  Nope, immediately, my throat felt VERY warm as did my nether regions (ahem), my chest felt heavy and I felt light-headed.  By far, one of the weirdest sensations I have ever felt.  Then she asks me to stop breathing.  I feel like I have an elephant on my chest!  I'm thinking, "I don't think I could breathe if I wanted to," but I felt like panting.  It seemed like an eternity before she told me to breathe again.  Then it was over.  After the weird sensations, I felt like I should be admitted to the hospital, but no, they turned me out.  I felt used and abused.  :(

So, that brings me to the sleep study.  Sigh.  My husband had one a few months ago and came home, insisting that was the worst experience of his life.  I shook my head.  If that is the worst experience he has ever had....  I wasn't necessarily jumping to participate in one myself, but it couldn't be all that bad.  I don't sleep well in strange places.  Even in a hotel room or a relative's house.  Strange noises, strange surroundings, strange bed...I just have trouble.  And, of course, they don't want you to take anything to help you sleep.  But, I'm thinking that's the only way they will get me to sleep.  Otherwise, you can sit and watch me toss and turn all night.

I wasn't exactly nervous about it, but I wasn't looking forward to it.  My husband felt the need to warn me not to pick my nose or scratch my butt.  Oh great, now I wonder what embarrassing things I do in my sleep! I know I sometimes talk in my sleep.  What might I say???

So, I go in and the tech that is doing my study is very nice, but somewhat resembles a gay hippie.  Maybe that's offensive to say, but my point is that, as he was helping me into bed, I'm thinking, "If I was going to have a man putting me to bed, he sure is not the type I would have picked!"  Ha, ha!  Just kidding, honey, if you are reading this!

My room looked like a hotel room.  There was a bed, a desk, a wardrobe cabinet, side tables, and a recliner.  I requested the recliner in case I had to get up with my acid reflux.  I often sleep in my recliner.  The tech had me fill out a bunch of papers and directed me to a bathroom next door to my room where I could change into my pajamas.  When I was done, I sat in the recliner and read for a few minutes until he came back in.

He told me to come sit on the edge of the bed so he could fit me with the C-PAP.  Whoa, wait a minute!  I do not have a sleep apnea and no one said anything about wearing that thing!  When I protested, he said it was just to try it, in case they had to wake me up in the middle of the night to wear it if I had enough "events".  It felt very weird, but it was tolerable.  It fit over my nose and I could breathe okay, but when I opened my mouth to speak, air rushed in my nose and out my mouth and distorted my voice.  Then he sat me in a straight-backed chair and started wiring me up.  I looked worse than the back of your TV!  Fifteen electrodes on my head, three on my chin, one near each eye, something on my throat, two on my chest, four on my legs, something like a nasal cannula, a belt across my chest, a belt across my stomach, and a pulse-ox on my finger.  And a wire attached to each of these.  He first made red marks on my forehead and my scalp.  Then he applied paste to each of the marks on my scalp.  Yes, paste.  Not like toothpaste, like the paste weird kids ate in kindergarten.  Or Billy Madison.  Just the flipping my hair back and forth (no, not channeling Willow Smith here) was enough to tangle my hair for the next 3.7 weeks, not counting the paste he was applying in fifteen different places.  While he applied, he talked and asked me questions about myself.  We talked about family and work and I cracked a few jokes about my ex-husband.  I know, I know.  But, weird situation + weird mood = weird things coming out of my mouth....

After I was sufficiently hooked up, he helped me into bed and told me that he would go fire up the computer and ask me to do some exercises.  I heard a female voice over the intercom, asking me to blink, look up/right/left/down, flex my toes, cough, hum, fake snore and perform the pledge of allegiance.  Not really on that last one, I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.  Then he turned out the light.

I had asked if I could sleep on my stomach because that is my position of choice.  He said they get the best readings on my back, but if I was just laying there awake for an hour, I should just make myself comfortable.  I always sleep with a fan going because the white noise helps me sleep, so I had started my white noise app on my phone.  The plug-in I plugged my charger into was too far away to pull it close to me and I was so encumbered with wires, I couldn't lean close to it.  I was squinting at the screen because he had taken my glasses.  Go ahead and picture it:  me leaning off the bed with wires attached to my head, like a dog on a chain, my cell phone in my hand, cord stretched as tight as it would go, and me squinting at the screen to try to read which setting to put it on.  Okay, stop laughing.  It's really not funny.  I was finally able to choose a heavy rain setting.  I laid there listening to the "rain" and hearing repeating patterns and tones in the sound.  Or maybe I'm just nuts.  Well, that's a given...

So, I'm laying there and the weirdest thoughts started going through my head.  I start wondering what they can pick up with the scalp electrodes.  Can they read my thoughts?  Can they see what I am dreaming?  I'm sure they can't, but it still makes you wonder.  Maybe I should have thought of something interesting, like repeating the entire script of The Phantom of the Opera.  Or that my cat told me to put a lampshade on my head and hack them all to pieces with my nail file.  Or rehearsing lines from Silence of the Lambs, such as, "I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti."  Perhaps I could pretend I was channeling a Japanese radio station.  Wait, I don't speak Japanese.  I could practice my English accent, guv'nor.  I could really make them wonder....  Even if they couldn't actually read my thoughts, surely different parts of my brain light up when I think different things.  I can just imagine them sitting there, saying, "Well, we know she's not doing complex equations...that part of her brain is flabby and full of cobwebs."  Maybe I should have tried subliminal messages to my captors--I mean, techs: "You will go and get me a snack from the Cheesecake Factory.  Something chocolatey.  Go now and return quickly."  My usual thoughts when I have trouble sleeping is planning how to spend my millions if I ever won the lottery.  But, then I started wondering if they were sitting there, hoping I would channel winning lotto numbers so they could run out and win my lottery millions!  The nerve!  Or, maybe I wouldn't really wake up in the morning.  Maybe this was like the Matrix.  Maybe they were sucking my brain.  Well, at least it wouldn't take long.  If it was like Vanilla Sky, I hoped my "lucid dream" included the lottery winning and not just an unending loop of my lying in this bed, hooked to wires.  That would really suck.

I tried to go to sleep on my back, but it never happens.  It was early for me to go to sleep, but I had stayed up until 3:30 am the night before, hoping that would help me sleep.  I was starting to get tired, but the more tired I am, the more my restless leg syndrome acts up.  So, I'm laying there, flip-flopping like a fish out of water.  I should have been on an exercise bike, then my pedaling would have accomplished something.  Plus, my feet were cold, so I was trying to get them warmed up.  And all this while I feel like I am tethered down by my head.  NOT conducive to movement.  After what felt like an hour or more, I pushed the call button on the intercom.  When the tech came in, I told him I needed to go to the bathroom and needed another blanket.  I went to the bathroom before I went to bed, but my kidneys were in pain.  I looked in the mirror while I was in there, which was a mistake.  I looked like a Medusa zombie on life support.  Or as if I'd escaped the electric chair.  I had to chuckle because earlier in the evening, my friend Rachel had been joking about being the one in charge of my sleep study.  That thought was horrifying, thinking about her posting pictures on Facebook.  The view in the mirror confirmed that pictures would be enough to drive me into hiding for the rest of my life.  I'd be a hermit in the mountains.  Maybe I could let my leg hair grow out and freak out people searching for Bigfoot.  But, I digress.  When I crawled back into bed, the warmth of the extra blanket instantly calmed my legs.  I was still restless, but not nearly as bad.

I eventually decided that me sleeping on my back was just not going to happen, so I gingerly rolled to my right side.  The rest of the night was spent, flipping from right to left to right to stomach.  I felt like I mostly just dozed.  Turning over required such care, due to the many wires, that instead of just doing it in my sleep, I was fully waking to move.  I move frequently because of neck and back pain and because too much time on one side makes that hip hurt. At one point, the tech's voice came over the intercom, asking me to roll onto my back.  I groaned inwardly, but complied.  After about 20 minutes, he told me I could roll to whichever way was comfortable.  I said "thank you" and rolled to my right side.

A couple of times, I felt the urge to pass gas.  However, I didn't want to do that when I was being monitored.  Although, as hooked up as I was, they probably not only knew I had the desire to toot, but also knew what I'd eaten for dinner and what color it would be when it came out!  Maybe I should have just let it rip, to shock them thoroughly.  I wonder if I farted in my sleep!  Ack!

I must have slept at some point, though it really didn't feel like it.  But, at one point when I rolled over, I saw light around the window shades, so I knew it was about over.  Pretty soon, the tech came in to wake me up. It was 6:15am.  I should have taken a picture because it's been a long time since I've seen the 6am hour!  And will probably be a long time before I see it again!  He took my blood pressure and then had me do more of the exercises that I had done the night before.  Then he proceeded to unhook me.  I said I assumed I must not have stopped breathing or had too much snoring since they didn't come in in the middle to make me wear the C-PAP.  He said that I had had a few "events" but not enough to meet their criteria.  I asked for an explanation.  He said the best way to describe it was that I had a few partial obstruction events, but no complete obstructions.  Hmmmm...  That helps clear it up.  Does that mean I had a big booger blocking part of my nasal passage?  Or maybe my uvula (what a weird word, have you noticed?) swells in my sleep?  Does my acid reflux sneak up my esophagus while I am asleep and sit like a pond in my throat?  Or maybe my dreams were so scary/exciting that my breathing became shallow?  You're nice, dude, but not a fount of information.  And I have a hard time being especially friendly with someone who watched me sleep and I suspect may have made fun of me.  Guess my doctor will have to translate for me when I see him next.

I went to the bathroom, planning to shower, but I found no towels and had forgotten to bring a hairbrush.  So, I started trying to wipe some of the paste out of my hair and gather it into a ponytail.  I was thinking that maybe I should have asked for more of the paste to try to work out some foot-long spikes.  Hey, making lemonade out of lemons, here.  I was sure the techs were in there laughing about the state my hair would be in, joking at how I would likely be forced into a Sinead O'Connor 'do for the next few months.  Jerks.  I got dressed, gathered my stuff, and left.

My husband had wanted me to stop and get him some McDonald's on the way home, so I went through the drive through.  When I got home and looked in the mirror again, I had to laugh, thinking about what the McDonald's employees must have thought.  I still had paste in my hair, red X's on my forehead, and deep creases across each cheek from the cannula.  I told myself that they probably thought the crease was a scar and since I was shaded in the car, they probably didn't see the paste or the red X's.  Yeah, I'm sure they didn't think anything weird.  Sure.  That's what I'm telling myself.  I'm sure they see worse.  Maybe that's why the guy was confused about which drink was Dr. Pepper and which was Coke.  He had it straight as he was opening the window to hand them to me, but at the sight that met him, his mind went blank.  He stammered, "I think this one is Dr. Pepper."  Nope, he was wrong.  I thought he was just inept, but in retrospect, he may have been frightened out of his wits.  I have that effect on people.  Apparently red X's on my skin intensifies it.

So, I went home and took a shower.  I shampooed my hair three times before I felt like all of the paste was gone and I wasn't even sure then!  Then I laid down and slept for six hours.  See, if you want an accurate sleep study, you need to have wireless monitors and do it in-home.  Sleep in a facility, hooked up to wires is not indicative of my normal sleep patterns.

Dr. Robin has her own theories.  I believe my sleep problems are threefold.  First, acid reflux wakes me up at night.  Interrupted sleep = weary and tired.  Second, back/neck/shoulder/hip pain.  I have to rouse somewhat to change position when the pain becomes too great, therefore I am not getting deep, quality sleep.  Interrupted sleep = weary and tired.  Third, restless leg syndrome keeps me awake longer and makes it more difficult to fall asleep.  Delayed sleep = weary and tired.  All these things together = weary and tired.

I did a little research and found that the RLS drugs (also used to treat Parkinson's) are now available in generic form.  I tried them years ago and decided the out-of-pocket cost was too great and I could just live with RLS.  But now that they are available in generic, I will be discussing that with my doctor.

My next medical adventure will be wearing a halter monitor.  The cardiovascular department was supposed to call me, but since they haven't, I guess I will  have to make first contact.  I am at the point where I am beginning to think that my symptoms may be anxiety attacks.  My doctor said if that is the case, I need to go visit a shrink.  Sheesh.  I've had enough counselling and psychiatrists in my lifetime to staff a suicide hotline.  I really don't want to do it again.  But, I guess I will suck it up and do it.  If for no other reason than to set a good example for my kids, since they hate going to their counselling.  My doctor acknowledged that, yes, I have done counselling many times before, but pointed out that if your hand is stuck in the toaster, you can't really treat the burn until you pull your hand out of the toaster.  So, now that I am out of the proverbial "toaster" in my life, now I should seek treatment for the "burn."  Okay, okay.  I get it.  I'll go.  But don't expect me to be happy about it!

By the way, if you couldn't tell, I THOROUGHLY recommend a sleep study.  <snort>

Facebook Junior High

Is it just me or does Facebook seem more and more like junior high all over again? Thanks, but no thanks. Don't care to relive that torturous experience again. If the U.S. wants to interrogate terrorists, instead of sending them to Gitmo, they should just subject them to some time in junior high school.  That would have them squealing like a stuck pig.  Facebook is just an avenue for the cowardly to unfriend, block, and criticize without having to do it to your face. I post very little these days because it opens me up for criticism when I'm looking for support from my friends and family. You think you're safe among your friends and then a pot shot comes out of left field. For instance, a few weeks ago, I posted something on Facebook, hoping my fellow moms would support me. Someone who had never been a mom criticized me for it. I never comment on the completely ridiculous things she posts. But, she felt the need to lecture me when she's never walked a mile in my shoes. I found recently that a high school friend had unfriended me and I have no idea why. Tonight I had a friend make a general criticism on her status that was directed at me, then blocked me from her page and unliked my photography business page. I'm so over this juvenile sniping and drama. Yes, it hurts my feelings when I can't count on my family and friends to be there for me and when they don't have the guts to tell me what their problem is with me. But, even more so, I'm just sick of the drama. I've had enough in my life to keep two soap operas in business indefinitely. I just want a boring life. I've drastically reduced my Facebook time, but I'm about two seconds away from deleting everyone from my Facebook friend list except immediate family and tried-and-true friends. I don't need a lengthy friend list. I can be happy with my immediate family and one or two friends. I've been content with less.

It's sad when the strangers that I play Facebook games with are nicer to me than the people that I call friends and family.  Now, I'm not talking about everybody.  I have friends and family that are all that you would expect them to be.  I grouped those into a list I named "trusted" and most of my posts will be viewable by that group alone.

If I have done something to offend someone, it would be nice if they would come to me and give me the chance to fix it.  When that doesn't happen, I am left to assume that they don't have a good reason for slinking off with their tail between their legs.

But, then I start to remember things people have said or done:

* those that I thought were my close friends in high school, who didn't even last two weeks past graduation to come to my wedding.
* when my ex-husband was in the army, I had two very close friends one day, then the next day they stopped speaking to me altogether for some unknown reason.
* my ex-husband telling me:
     * that his foster mom said I come across as unfriendly
     * that he doesn't take me around his family and friends because I act like I am holier-than-thou
     * any number of things, ending with, "...that's why you don't have any friends."
* people that I thought were friends that didn't want to have anything to do with me when I was getting a divorce
* the family tiff I apparently started when I asked my relatives to help out grandma and grandpa by bringing a dish to Christmas dinner
* friends who don't have time for me on my birthday, even though I remember them on theirs
* having friends that are always there when they have problems, but are soooooo busy when I need someone
* seeing other people having tons of friends, while I only have a handful I consider close enough that I would call if I needed help in, oh ... say, moving a body (just kidding.  Seriously.  Maybe.  Well, you'll never know.)

I see all these things that I have listed and think, "It must be me."  I thought that when I was getting divorced too.  It didn't matter that he had been cheating and abandoning me, etc.  I thought that maybe if I had been a good enough wife, he would have wanted to stay with me, that I would have been enough.  I believe Satan brings up this list often.  He whispers to me that I am not a good friend.  He burns my ears with accusations. He squeezes my heart with all the hurt I have felt and makes me feel guilty for it.  But, what is the phrase?  "Every time the devil reminds me of my past, I remind him of his future."  It reminds me of part of the Casting Crowns song, Voice of Truth:

"But the waves are calling out my name and they laugh at me, reminding me of all the times I've tried before and failed.  The waves they keep on telling me, time and time again, 'Boy, you'll never win! You'll never win.'  But the voice of truth tells me a different story and the voice of truth says 'Do not be afraid!'  And the voice of truth says 'This is for My glory.'  Out of all the voices calling out to me, I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth."

The other song that I think of is Mark Schultz' "You are a Child of Mine":
I've been hearing voices
Telling me that I could 
Never be what I wanna be.
They're binding me with lies,
Haunting me at night,
And saying there's nothing to believe.
Somewhere in the quietness,
When I'm overcome with loneliness,
I hear You call my name.
And like a father You are near
And as I listen I can hear You say
You are a child of Mine
Born of My own design
And you bear the heart of life.
No matter where you go,
Oh, you will always know
You have been made free in Christ.
You are a child of Mine
And so I listen as You tell me who I am 
And who it is I'm gonna be.
And I hang on every word,
Knowing I have heard
I am Yours and I am free
But when I am alone at night
That is when I hear the lie
You'll never be enough
And though I'm giving into fear
If I listen I can hear You say
You are a child of Mine
Born of My own design
And you bear the heart of life.
No matter where you go,
Oh, you will always know
You have been made free in Christ.
You are a child of Mine

So, I must please Christ, not men.  Not friends on Facebook.  I am not perfect and I screw up.  If I do, I will do what I can to make it right.  But otherwise, I am who I am.  And furthermore, I have to forgive those that hurt my feelings, even online, because I have been forgiven.

Arrena Says Good-bye to Elementary School

So, today the mama is a little emotional.  This is the last day of school for the 2011-2012 school year.  Sounds pretty normal, but this year is a little different.  Today is the last day that all of my children will be at the same school.  That means that my oldest, Arrena, is leaving elementary school behind and going to middle school.  And I don't even have all summer to get used to that idea.  She starts middle school summer school in a week and a half.

Where did the time go?  Seems like just yesterday she was a little thing.  Actually, it seems like just last week I was in middle school myself...but reality is that I am closing in on my 20th high school reunion faster than I can imagine.

Arrena is about as teary about this life change as I am.  She commented the other day about how fast this year has flown by.  I replied, "I'm afraid it only goes faster as you get older."  She has been getting sentimental nearly every day: "Today was my last library day at this school."  "Today is the last day I get to see so-and-so because he/she is going to a different middle school."  "Today was my last elementary school Fun Day," etc., etc., etc.

As I was reflecting on the end and beginning for her, I thought back to those times for me.  I remember leaving elementary school very excited.  That year was the change from junior high to middle school.  My class was the last 6th grade class in the elementary school.  We went from being the last 6th grade kings of the school to middle school, skipping the whole babies of junior high thing since the outgoing fifth graders came up with us.  I remember the transition from middle school to high school being bittersweet.  We were excited to be moving on to bigger, better things, but also sad at the end of a chapter.  Leaving high school seemed so exciting at the time.  We'd finished something and were taking on the world.  I was getting married, moving to Germany, and looking forward to college.  In retrospect, that chapter closing was sad because many of the people that I thought were really close friends didn't take long at all to drift away.  And hindsight is always 20/20.  I couldn't wait to get out and get on.  Knowing what I know now, I wish I hadn't been so hellbent to break away.

As Arrena rushes headlong into growing up, I long to hit a "slo-mo" button.  I want her to be a kid as long as she can be.  I remember all the struggles I faced in middle school, high school, and adulthood.  I recall the teen angst, the depression, the friends, the boys, the academics, the entire concept of figuring out who and what you are.  I hope and pray that God helps me to prepare her for her life.  Please, Father, let me be a good mom.  Allow me to help her and please spare her from all the scary things that I can't fix and must trust to You.

I stood there on the side of the gym this morning, watching the final assembly with Arrena's friend's mom.  We both held wads of Kleenex and video cameras and wept quietly as the fifth graders filed past all the teachers, saying their goodbyes.  In my mind's eye, I could see that little girl that I took to Kindergarten somewhere behind that too grown-up face, inside that nearly as tall as me body.  Six years have flown by and I dread watching the next six careen past me, when my lovely daughter will be turning eighteen and getting ready to graduate and start her life.  That concept is too much for me.  It takes my breath away, so for now, I have to enjoy each day with her.  And thank God for this amazing girl that He placed in my life.  For right now, I have to go drive to the school and pick up my three children from elementary school for the last time.  The world isn't going to wait for me to catch up.

I recently took up knitting and crochet, teaching myself via online videos. I will post more about that at a later date. I have found so many cute patterns online. The Lovely Crow has the most adorable baby booties/shoes ever. And some hats too!

The Lovely Crow is doing a HUGE giveaway/sale/prize on her facebook page! Gorgeous crochet patterns! Go check it out! www.facebook.com/thelovelycrow

also, she is giving away a free pattern on Craftsy: http://www.craftsy.com/pattern/crocheting/Accessory/Baby-Boots-Baby-Garden-Boots/4936

Adventures in Dentalwork, Billy Edition

Before Smile:

Wow. What a long day. I'd rather have surgery myself than do that again. Literally.

As a mom, you realize that you would gladly walk through fire for your child. You'd rather have the surgery than to watch your "baby" go through it and not be able to help. And, just like a mother, you feel guilty for the whole durn thing because we all know that no matter what, it is always all your fault.

Today my six-year-old son had major dental work done. Nine teeth pulled, three crowns, two fillings, and a therapeutic pulpotomy (whatever that is).

I've known Billy had teeth problems for a while now. Here's where the guilt part comes in. I was a tired mom of three and I let Billy go to bed with a sippy cup even though I knew better. He has not been an easy child, so in order to keep him calm and save my sanity, I caved. My husband says I cave any time Billy is involved, but I am trying to be better. In the beginning, I didn't get his teeth fixed because I didn't have the money. Then, I hoped that the baby teeth would come out on their own. But, since he seems to be slow at most everything, he didn't lose his first baby tooth until a couple of weeks ago, two months before his 7th birthday. His teeth got worse, he started having pain, and we found out he had three abscesses. It was time to get it done.

The financing was something else altogether. The cost of this was astronomical and I tried calling insurance companies and other dentists and oral surgeons to find another option. But, the long and the short of it is that dental insurance doesn't cover general anesthetic and medical insurance will only cover dental expenses if there is an injury. With Billy's special needs, there was no way we could do this extensive work without general anesthesia. He would never have allowed them to come near him with a needle, let alone all the work they needed to do.

They originally scheduled him for noon, but changed it to 1:30pm. He was not allowed to eat anything after midnight--a long time for a little boy. He could have sips of water until 9:30am. I had to give him about half a spoonful of yogurt in the morning to take his meds with, since he can't swallow them whole. The dentist's office called in the morning and said they were running behind, so he was pushed to 2pm.

We had decided not to tell him about the surgery until the day of the surgery. We weren't sure if he could handle hearing all that. We didn't want him freaking out for two weeks. So, the night before, I told him he wasn't going to school, that he was going to the dentist to get his teeth fixed. He asked if they were going to pull them out and I said yes, some of them, but that they were going to give him medicine to make him go to sleep while they did it. He seemed to take it well.

We got to the dentist's office a little before two. Since this is a pediatric dentist, they had a couple of video games in the waiting room and Billy amused himself with that for a while. He brought one of his little stuffed bears and had fun dropping it from a little window at the top of a climbing/slide play area. We waited for a long time. It occurred to us that we were not going to get done in time to pick the girls up from school, so I called the school to arrange for them to stay at the after-school daycare.

Eventually, the anesthesia nurse came out and gave him some medicine to drink to make him sleepy, got his weight, and filled out paperwork and went over the risks with us. She kept checking on him because he was thumping around like boys do and she was afraid he was hitting the floor. She asked him if he was sleepy yet and he kept saying no. We finally asked him to come sit by us because we didn't want him to fall. He sat on my lap and played games on my phone. I started noticing that he was wobbling and he almost fell off my lap. I asked if he was tired and he said, "No, this medicine doesn't work. I'm dizzy, but not sleepy." Scott put him on his lap, but he wanted mama back. Then he protested being held, period. He did not think he was incapacitated and didn't understand why we wouldn't let him get up. I put him in the chair next to me, but he jumped up and tried to run. He stumbled and bumped into a tiki statue (their decor is jungle), jumped up before I could reach him and ran again. He stumbled again and this time, he went head first into the wall and started screaming and crying. He'd hit his face and ear and now has a light bruise under his eye.

He couldn't be consoled after that. Not only had he hurt himself, but he still didn't understand that he couldn't get up. He fought being held and we wrestled him. He kept screaming that he wouldn't hurt himself again, that he was okay. He argued, "I AM in control of myself!" Then he started talking funny, not finishing his sentences. He was still fighting us, but he could barely talk. The dentist came back out and heard what was going on and felt so sorry for him since he had hurt himself. The anesthesiologist came out and basically told us the same stuff his nurse had said. It was a good thing he didn't say anything new because I could barely hear him over Billy's wails.

Scott carried him back and as soon as he was laid on the chair, he was quiet. He had a hold of his bear and they had Rio on the TV above his head. They put a monitor on his toe and put a mask over his nose and mouth. They had him inhaling nitrous and an inhaled anesthetic. I held his hand and the anesthesiologist talked to him as he drifted off and let go of my hand. It was very hard for me as a mother. I have been under numerous times, but this was the first time I have watched this done. Usually it's done behind O. R. doors or if I'm the patient, I am asleep and have no idea what is going on. But, watching my baby laying there limp and hooked to machines was awful. I don't know how parents of sick children do it. This was just dental work and I was near tears and nauseous. The anesthesiologist was basically breathing for him, squeezing the bag to try to get him through the second stage of the anesthesia as quickly as possible. Apparently in that phase, the vocal cords can slam shut and cause him to not be able to breathe. I was worried that this would be a problem since he was crying so long, the mucous can cause this. It was frightening to me to see his chest rising and falling, his cheeks inflating with every squeeze of the bag. But even more frightening when the anesthesiologist took the mask away to gesture as he "talked shop" with my paramedic husband or to squirt nasal spray into his nose. He seemed to POUR that spray into his nose three times. Overreacting mom felt like they were drowning her baby.

When they put the breathing tube down his nose, I couldn't watch. After they did that, they took us to an office they had set up with snacks. We waited rather impatiently and I knitted furiously. Scott went to get us some food since we hadn't eaten all day and it was now about 4:30pm. He hesitated, asking me if I would be okay. I assured him I would be. I called my friend Elizabeth because I knew a fellow mom would understand how I felt better than my medically-minded husband, God love him. About 5:45pm, we figured we were not going to make it in time to get the girls from daycare, which closed at 6pm. Scott didn't want to leave, but I couldn't get a hold of any of my friends to ask them to pick the girls up for us. As Scott was getting ready to reluctantly leave, the dentist came in and told us that they were done. She told us he was doing well and reiterated what they had done. She said they were going to take him to another room to recover and they would come get me to see him.

Scott left to get the girls and a few minutes later, they came and got me to take me to Billy. He was curled up in an exam chair with a Toy Story blanket over him, the nurse keeping the hand with the I.V. under the cover to keep him from pulling it out. He was breathing with his mouth open and the first glance at his bloodied, tooth-deficient mouth was pretty heartbreaking and scary. They had warned me that most children cry coming out of the anesthesia and that some kick and thrash. Boy howdy! I lost count of how many times the nurse and I saved him from hitting the floor. He cried, he whined, he kicked, he thrashed, he rolled, he banged his head into the chair and yet he was still asleep. The nurse and I sat on each side of the chair and kept grabbing the flailing body parts to keep him from hurting himself or us. Occasionally he ended up in my lap. At one point, he flung his arm up over his head and hit me across the face. The anesthesiologist stepped in and said, "Billy...how are you doing?" At the sound of his name, Billy opened his eyes and turned his head to face the doctor. But, it was obvious he still wasn't awake yet. The doctor left again and we continued our vigil. I talked to him and crooned at him, but he didn't respond. His first words were, "I don't wanna wake up!" Then he started crying, "mama." He also said he was scared several times. He asked for a clock. When I asked why, he said he wanted to see what time it was. He said, "I want Scott!" I told him that Scott would be back soon. He said something about the dentist, but I couldn't make out if he said, "I want to go to the dentist," or "I don't want to go to the dentist." All the while, he is still kicking and fighting. I'm not sure how many injuries the nurse sustained, but I got kicked in the jaw at one point. He tried to pull out his I.V. and we had to stop him from hitting himself in the head with his own fist. Then he said, through tears, "I want to go home now." I told him he could go home as soon as he calmed down. He had said he was thirsty, so we gave him a blue popsicle, which he sucked on a bit. He asked for his socks and shoes. The nurse said he could go, so I asked him if he would promise not to kick me if I put his shoes on. I was getting enough without the shoes. He had been kicking Scott in the waiting room before with those shoes and Scott could attest to the kicks being more forceful with them on.

It wasn't easy juggling him, his popsicle, his bear, his jacket, my purse, and my knitting bag. My phone battery had died, so I asked the receptionist to call Scott, who said he was about ten minutes away. I lugged Billy out of the office, down the elevator, and to some comfy chairs by the front door to wait. By this time, it was about 6:30pm. Billy whimpered a bit and kept asking to go home, but he finished eating his popsicle and laid in my arms.

When Scott and the girls arrived, I tucked him into his carseat. He smelled the McDonald's the girls had and asked for fries. I told him he couldn't chew them but that we would get something when we got home. He fell asleep in the car on the way home. When we got there, Scott carried him in and we laid him on the couch. I gave him half a dose of liquid Lortab and a Pediasure. He tipped it back and drained it! He was thirsty and hungry. I gave him a pudding cup and he scarfed it. We giggled at him because he shoveled it in as fast as he could and had chipmunk cheeks. He also ate some Jell-O and drank some V8 Splash. Then he laid back and watched TV for a little while. After being tucked in, he only got up once, crying that his tummy hurt. He ran to the bathroom, but was nodding off on the toilet, so I tucked him back into bed. Poor little guy! So glad it's all over!

UPDATE: I kept him home from school Thursday, but he seemed so good all day, I wondered if I should have sent him to school after all. In talking to him, he doesn't seem to remember anything between playing games on my phone on my lap and watching TV on the couch.

After Smile (taken the day after surgery, so he looks pretty tired):

Update on the Little Prince

My last post was one of desperation. I have to say that things didn't get much better after that. Billy's tirade lasted four or five days. One particularly bad day, I took my phone, walked out onto the porch, shutting the front door on the sound of Billy banging on his bedroom door, and sat down to call a close friend and cry. We talked for a while and one thing she said to me was that she was not an advocate of institutionalizing children, but she was afraid that in this case, it might be necessary. I was NOT pleased to hear that.

My husband had worked the night before and as he works 24 hour shifts, he was sleeping that morning. When he woke up and found me in a state of tears, snot, and raw nerves, he said I should have woken him up. He said that we might have to think about hospitalizing Billy. I immediately burst into sobs and wails, saying that's what my friend had said and I couldn't imagine such a thing. How could I send my 6-year-old away to strangers? He's my baby! My husband helped me count my blessings to calm me down and urged me to call our counselor to see what he thought.

When the counselor called me back and heard the tale of woe, his response was that if we didn't get him under control quickly, we might have to send him to a residential treatment facility. We met with him and I cried in his office. I knew that I would do whatever was best for Billy, even if it meant sending him to some in-patient treatment, but the idea of it ripped my heart out. Our counselor urged me to harass the psychiatrist's office every day until we were able to get an earlier appointment. He said he was not able to make diagnoses, but he was leaning towards Billy having bipolar disorder, as well as some OCD, which would require some other meds (which would hopefully bring the situation under control without having to send Billy anywhere). We, personally, have long thought he might have some mild autism, perhaps Asperger's.

The psychiatrist's office was able to get us in last Wednesday. Since our counselor works some days out of the same office as our psychiatrist, he had met with the doctor and discussed with him the problems and his observations before our appointment. When I came in, he asked me some questions and then asked me if we were willing to go to a stronger medicine. It carries more risks, but we are at our wit's end and we don't know what else to do. The counselor who has been at this for thirty years doesn't even know what else to do at this point. And it has to be better than sending him to a facility. So, they took him off his afternoon med and his antidepressant and put him on an anti-psychotic. The doctor is not willing to change his diagnosis yet or label Billy as anything, but the meds that he put him on treat autism, bipolar, and schizophrenia. My ex-husband's family has more than enough bipolar and schizophrenia to go around, so it is entirely possible that one or more of my children could inherit these problems.

So, we've started him on half a dose. When his body gets used to that and he overcomes his sleepiness from the meds, we will bump him up to a full dose. We are praying that this makes a difference for him and that he will have little to no side effects from it. He did not behave well Saturday, when I hosted a friend's baby shower. But, he has been pretty good yesterday and today, so we are praying that this continues.

One blessing to come out of this was that I visited a new Sunday School class last week and met a woman who has a son with mild autism. He was placed on the same meds and she swore by them. So, when the doctor suggested them, I had already heard of them. And it is nice to have someone to talk to who knows what we are going through.

Our next step with him is to get him a dental appointment. He has needed some work done for a while, but it was either that we didn't have the money for it or that we had hoped he would lose the baby teeth soon rather than wasting a fortune on teeth that may fall out in a month. However, he has a couple that are really causing him problems and look really bad. My husband also believes that if his teeth were fixed, he might eat more and might be better-tempered. However, I am not sure how we will get him to hold still for the work I foresee coming. If they come near him with a needle or a drill, he will flip. The insurance company said they would cover sedation if the dentist gets pre-authorization and can show reason why it is necessary. I had hoped for a little bit more of a concrete diagnosis for Billy. I mean, they might be more likely to approve sedation for a child who has autism or bipolar disorder than a child who is just diagnosed as ADHD. ADHD just doesn't adequately cover Billy.

If his eating doesn't improve after his dental work, I am going to take him back to our primary care physician. I worry about his physical health as well as his mental and emotional health. He hasn't gained weight in more than two years (he's always been very skinny), he's almost seven and hasn't had even a hint of a loose tooth yet, and he complains about stomachaches all the time. He doesn't sleep well either, but I assume that has more to do with the mental and emotional issues he has.

Please pray for my little guy. I feel so sorry for him. But, I also feel sorry for the girls and for us because we all suffer with this.

Boycott!

I have never been an advocate for boycotting corporations. A few years back, I heard of a lot of Christians that were boycotting Wal-Mart because they contributed funds towards gay/lesbian causes. I considered joining the boycott because their reasoning made sense: I don't want my money supporting that lifestyle, which I am opposed to.

However, there are two reasons which made me reconsider. One was logic. Can you possibly track every dollar you spend and be sure that none of them goes to fund causes that you disagree with? If you shop at the grocery store, and the cashier is gay and his paycheck is paid by your shopping there, should you boycott that grocery store? What about your hair dresser, who may be secretly pregnant and planning to get an abortion? If you tip her, does that mean you contributed to what you believe is wrong? It's impossible to know where every dollar you spend goes. What about your tax dollars? Where do they go?

The second reason I reconsidered is because of the apostle Paul.  In I Corinthians 8, Paul writes that although he may have the liberty to eat meat offered to idols, he won't if it causes his weaker brother to stumble.  He never said that they should boycott the shops that sold meat offered to idols or not give their money to support such organizations.  He speaks of knowledge to know that what you are doing does not violate your faith.

While I won't donate to support organizations that I disagree with, I don't believe that it's necessary to boycott J.C. Penney or Wal-Mart or whichever corporation is currently served up on a platter on the altar of good intentions.

Happy New Year

So, if you know me or my family or have read this blog before, you know that my son has ADHD and ODD and we are in the middle of counseling for that, as well as medicating him. It has been a VERY bumpy road, but over the last four years, I've grown accustomed to most everything. I get tired and frustrated, but mostly, it's nothing new. This week has shown me that I ain't seen nothin' yet. Welcome to the new year....

Billy, as you may know, is six years old. He and his sisters went to visit their dad on Christmas day and stayed until the 27th. Billy came back a new boy. It was amazing. I thought maybe they had found a look-alike to switch him with or maybe he had been hypnotized or something. The only real answer was that his dad had given him a PSP (Play Station Portable) for Christmas and he was told that if he didn't behave with us, he would lose it at his dad's. As an added incentive, he was also informed that his dad would buy him some new games for it, if he was really good.

For two days, he was an angel. I was dumbstruck. He didn't get in trouble for anything. He was sweet and pleasant and I really enjoyed him. I was recovering from being sick, so it was nice to be able to sleep in, my husband gave him his morning medication, and then I woke up to a happy family.

We were running low on his morning meds, which are his primary ADHD medication. His psychiatrist had had to cancel his appointment and couldn't fit him in again until the end of January. They went ahead and wrote a prescription to make up for the month. His doctor's office is in Leawood, KS and we live in Raytown, MO, so I waited to pick it up until he had his counseling appointment in Overland Park, KS on Friday. While his behavior for two days had been exceptional, his counselor predicted it would be short-lived. Judging from the behavior we had recorded before Christmas, Billy obviously wasn't taking us seriously and it was time to up the ante. He brought Billy in and explained to him that he cannot continue to treat his mother the way he has and outlined the new rules, which allow very little wiggle room for him. And, sure enough, the good boy started to unravel later that day.

I didn't think to take the prescription in immediately to have it filled. He had his last dose yesterday morning. About 5pm, it dawned on me that it was New Year's Eve and the pharmacy might be closing early. I called and it was already closed. I thought I might go out after the kids went to bed and find a 24-hour Walgreen's to get it filled.

Billy ended up having a meltdown. It all started because he took a bite of a sandwich that had been sitting on top of the trash can. I said that was gross, so then he wanted me to kiss him, to gross me out further. When I refused, he picked up a can of Febreze and aimed it at me. I told him to put it down several times. He ignored me and sprayed me in the face with it. He not only got me, but also the chicken I was cutting up for dinner. I told him to go to his room and since this was his second strike, he would be getting a peanut butter sandwich for dinner, instead of eating with the rest of us. He refused to go, so he was escorted to his room. He returned with a boxed game and threw it at me, hitting me in the back. My husband got up then and dealt with him while I finished dinner. It sounded like a major battle in there, but Scott eventually got Billy calmed down, but not before Billy tore down the shade in the window.

However, after bedtime, Billy started banging on the door, which is a no-no, according to his counselor. As per the counselor's instructions, I went in and held him down for 15 minutes (once he gets riled, he continues to escalate--the holding seems to "reset" him), during which he fought me constantly, spitting on me, etc. After that, I found that he had broken a CD I had let him borrow from the library, so now he not only has to use his Christmas money to replace the shade, but also the CD.

I was so wiped, I didn't want to get out again, so we decided we would get his meds filled on our way to church since the 24 hour Walgreen's is about a block from the church. But, we slept in and missed church. When we woke up, we were laying there, discussing what the game plan was for the day when the house phone started ringing. The only people that ever call our house phone are the kids' friends and telemarketers, so we didn't run to answer it. But, then I heard sounds of a child skirmish, so I immediately went to check it out. Billy's hands were covered in what looked like glitter glue. His oldest sister was screeching about how he had dumped out all of her makeup and something about prank calls they had been getting. I was in the bathroom, trying to wash Billy's hands when the doorbell rang. Our middle child looked out the window and yelled, "Oh my goodness! It's the cops!" I could hear my husband let them in and talking to them and I gathered that Billy had somehow called 911. The "prank calls" the girls had been referring to was the 911 operator trying to call back. It came up as blocked and the girls wouldn't answer it.

I finished cleaning Billy up and sent him to put some clothes on since he was running around in his underoos, for some unknown reason. Then he went to face the two police officers in our living room. They were very nice and understanding, but the woman lectured him on the difference between an emergency and playing with the phone. He looked scared while they were there, but after they left, he was laughing like it was no big deal. We were NOT amused. We sent him to his room.

I went out to get his meds refilled. The pharmacy we usually go to was closed for the holiday, so I went to Walgreen's. They told me they don't accept our insurance anymore! Since when? I get his nighttime meds there every month because our other pharmacy doesn't carry it! And it isn't as though we have some weird insurance--it's Blue Cross Blue Shield! She said that they made a deal with CVS. Lovely. I DESPISE CVS! Now, I'm wondering if that's the only place I can fill at now. If so, that's ridiculous! And thanks for changing our insurance without telling us!

So, I headed over to CVS, reluctantly. Of course, instead of a 20 minute wait like everywhere else, it's going to be an hour (guess that's better than the time I had to go there for meds for an allergic reaction I was having--don't get me started). So, I go to the store to get a few things and kill time. While there, my phone rings. It was CVS calling to tell me that they couldn't run my discount card. Our psychiatrist gave me a 50% discount card because the meds are so expensive. Even with insurance, the copay is $60 a month. The card makes it $30 a month. It's still a lot when you add in that he has two other meds (not as expensive, thank goodness) and the copays for both a psychiatrist and a counselor (the latter he sees once a week). Well, I guess I didn't realize he had been on it so long, but it's only good for a year and guess what? The year is up. Of course it is. They told me that if I can get the info for another card over the phone, they can process it that way. But, it's Sunday and it's New Year's Day, so there is no one in the doctor's office to give me numbers off a new discount card. So, now it's a decision of whether I buy the groceries in the cart or buy Billy's prescription at full-price. My husband and I decided since it was getting so late anyways, we would just give him his afternoon pill and try to call the doctor in the morning.

So, I finished my grocery shopping and came home. We were putting away groceries and cleaning up when my husband found that Billy's bottle of nighttime meds (anti-depressant) was empty. I just filled it about a week and a half ago. I nearly lost it. Billy denied it at first, but eventually cheerfully confessed to pouring it down the drain because it tastes yucky. I'm looking into the face of this adorable 6-year-old, who is telling me that he just wasted some more medicine that I am sure the doctor will not refill this soon. He is smiling, like he he has had the best day ever, despite the police showing up, the absent meds, the glowering twitching parent in front of him. Then I notice the blue fish stamps all over his face. I look around the room and see green marker on the carpet. I demanded all the crayons, markers, stampers, anything that marked. I confiscated them all. Then I gave him an hour to get his room clean or I would clean it for him.

An hour later, my husband and I came back and filled up two trash bags. Billy acted like he didn't even care. How do you work with a child that doesn't care and doesn't have any remorse?

It's like I have an overgrown two-year-old. I feel like I need to sleep in front of his door or handcuff myself to him so that I know where he is and what he is up to every second of every day. He sneaks out of his room at night and pours liquid soap out into the bathtub or hydrogen peroxide all over the floor. He mixes soaps with bath fizzers. He scratches "No Girls Allowed" in the paint on his wall. He finds scissors and cuts large holes into his pajama bottoms and pillowcases. He squirts his sister's body lotion all over the basement floor. He put her lip gloss on all the doorknobs. And that's just the mischief he gets into.

There's the spitting and the punching. He calls me an MF. He calls his sisters the B-word. He calls everyone idiots. He throws things at his grandma. He tears up everything, or tries to, when he has a temper tantrum--from kicking car seats and windows when we're in the car, to tearing down blinds and throwing things when he's at home. He bites. He kicks the cats. He ignores me and tells me "No!" He runs and hides from me when he's in trouble or doesn't want to do something. He tells us he hates us and wishes we were all dead. He tells me he's going to kill me.

Calgon doesn't take me far enough away. If I were a drinker, I'd be an alcoholic for sure. His counselor says it's going to be slow progress, but times like this, I swear I can FEEL gray hairs and hear my life clock ticking backwards: there's another year off my life. I don't think MY antidepressants are strong enough for days like these. I hope that in a few years, I can look back on this post and laugh and thank God for how far Billy has come. But, I really hope it doesn't take years.