Brain Barf

May contain traces of nuts.

Saturday, February 28, 2009

Yes, we have no bananas.

One of my most difficult issues of this life so far, was when my Apraxia Expressive Speech Disorder Issue Twin Boy A (before he was labeled) would come toddling in, crazy excited...Desperate to share with his Mom about, etc! etc! etc!...

And THE MOM! who should! Couldn't understand.

There isn't a word in the English language to express that pain and frustration.
On both our parts.

Thankfully, it only lasted a second. I wanted to understand him just as much as he wanted to be understood.

And it really should have taken more of an effort.
But there is just something about a mom and child. Who already understand each other but need a few words in the spaces.

Now, a few years later, I had a resident who had "word salad" due to a delightful white matter aging issue.

She knew what she what she was saying and what she wanted:

"It is not a result of deficits in sensory, intellectual, or psychiatric functioning, nor due to muscle weakness or a cognitive disorder.
Dysphasia (pronounced
/dɪsˈfeɪziə/) is a language disorder in which there is an impairment (but not loss) of speech and of comprehension of speech.

And BOY oh (my) BOY, did I relate to this woman.

Like my son, she was very intelligent.

And I became her translator.

Twin A had taught me that communication was about much more than words.

I remember one defining day in the dining room, where this lady had become frustrated trying to communicate her needs to another staff member and then just decided to point at me. I was helping other people and oblivious to their plight. Until the exasperated staff member physically pointed me in her direction.

After a few moments, a few random words, and for whatever reason, I knew she wanted a glass of milk and some ketchup for her fries.
I can't explain it. I am just a Mom who loves her boy that has difficulty speaking, and we just figured it out.

After that, she always sought me out.

And the days I didn't work, she was reportedly frustrated.

And the rest of the staff became crazy frustrated with both of us.

And then she unexpectedly died. At 72, of heart failure, of all things.

And I was/am sad.

And then I realized that I wouldn't always be around.

To translate..protect...solve.

Which feels really negligent on my part.

And regardless of any any speech issues, I wish I could see my children be ornery old farts.

And I hope there is someone to translate and care for them when I'm, not anymore.

But, on the other hand, I VOW that my children will never have to change my diapers.

I've had amazing teachers, working in a long term care facility.
I've had life altering experiences, working in a long term care facility.
Now I have:
A living will.
Advanced directives.
And if all else fails I will be a pill hoarder.


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Tuesday, February 24, 2009

My Mo

When my husbands company transfered us from the beautiful Seattle area to the sage brush (eww, ick) Eastern Washington area many moons ago (2001) we tried to ease the transition.

By fulfilling (bribing) the oldest girls dream of having a dog.

So we moved to Moses Lake and bought house with a fenced yard, and a Golden Retriever...wait for it....dutifully named MOSES.

And I'll never forget when we went to the place where we bought him. Such a wonderful fuzzy litter.

And we adored the beautiful radiant red girl retriever.

When the rest of litter decided to nurse, this fat little dude wouldn't leave us.

He chose us.

And we took him home.

And he fit in my hand.

And he snored the whole way home.

And I had to bathe him that very night because he was so stinky.

And I vowed to never let a dog sleep in my bed.

And then he whimpered once, and slept on my chest for months.

And the first time my twin crawling boys (13 months) slapped a warm puppy puddle into their face, and squished a warm puppy turd between their fat fingers...barely intervening before it went to their mouth... I explored every resource of puppy house training.

And this puppy was house trained within five months, with major treats and "oh you are the best doggy in the whole world!" praise.

Because we were motivated. He was so eager to please.

And then this fuzzy puppy grew a little.

And then one night, years later, he woke me with a bark I hadn't ever heard.

It paralyzed me to the point that I wasn't able to get out of bed, but I shook the husband awake.

And he heard this new scary bark and catapulted out of bed.

And he looked out the front windows to find two police cars with their spot lights trained on our house.

To find that two juveniles had escaped from detention and had tried to break into our house.

But Mr. Protector Barky Bark, formerly known as Mr. Fuzzy Drool master had scared them away.

So much so that they broke down our fence trying to escape.

And when my husband worked nights for two years, Mr. Fuzzy Drool Meister, was my sole comfort.

And I felt more protected than any alarm system could offer.

And it started with a grey chin.

And then grey under the eyes.

And now my Mr. Hairy Ass has a full grey face.

And the walks are shorter.

And the naps are more frequent.

And now, he'll even let Thomas the most annoying kitten in the world nap with him.

And I love how when it snows, he turns into the kangaroo puppy, running biting the snow.

And I love how he LOVES ocean. Every year, he'll never learn not to BITE THE WAVES, BITE THE WAVES, even though it makes him puke every time.

And this year, I had to hide some ibuprofen in a hot dog, because the sand and the waves kicked his hairy ass.

And I love how he anticipates summer, because he knows we will take him to the lake.

He loves to dive for the leather handle on his leash.

My snorkel dog.

The law say he has to be on a leash, not that we have to hold it.

I love how every visitor at the lake pauses and grins, watching him jump off the diving board after every family member.

I love how the fish freak his fuzzy ass out.

And I love how when he gets bored with us, he drops his ball down the stairs and repeatedly chases after it.

And I love his magnetic personality, very few humans have yet to resist at least a few ear scratches.

And I love the words that he knows.

Besides the normal, sit, lay, stay, roll over, etc. I love saying "brush" "bath" "walk" "treat" , just to see the light in his eyes and then fulfilling it.

I love how every time we pile into the car he sits in drivers seat, until we tell him to get in the back.

And I love how he loves his seat belt.

And I love how when he realizes that he is going to the vets office, he puts his brakes on, but then dutifully steps on the scale.

He has an amazing sense of time, he knows when school gets out, and waits by the door, shaking with excitement.

And I love how the Mail Man and Baristas love him, and give him treats.

And I love how he loves.

And I love the way he loves us.

And I wish that there were more humans like him.

And I love the permanent impact he's made on every one he meets.

And I wish that he wasn't so grey, and that his joints didn't ache so much.

And I wish that dog years were more aligned with human years.

And my renting Utah sister who has another older amazing canine, has already planned to travel to Washington to her home owners sisters (me) when their fuzzy family member needs a permanent bed.

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Sunday, February 22, 2009

Strep + pain in dah Hiz-house

I just have to mess with my 444 post count.

But 444 just seems so EVEN.

When I tend to be so ODD.

Not that this 445 will be noteworthy.

Please lower your expectations at this point, if you haven't already.

Two of my children have Strep. One nine year old twin is dealing well. One seventeen year old is a whiny, pathetic mess, but interesting to observe when taking TheraFlu.

Especially fun, when MOM tells TEEN she can't drive (under the TheraFlu influence) even in the worthy pursuit of PMS chocolate.

I predict whining on this blog in the future about my own scratchy sad throat. And the effort it takes to type to make you suffer with me. Because I share. I'm a giver.


I love to read medical blogs, and have quite a few of them on my list.
I was reading one of them, where she stated that she was an OB nurse because, "birth is the ultimate rush". I can see that. I did have four kids.
I mean, I even did the twin thing where one was vaginal with episiotomy and the other was Cesarean. With lots of stress or "rush" with an hour in between. Not knowing which baby to worry about. The birthed one, or the womb one.
I get it.


I say try the death experience.
It's not so celebrated.
It's not timed down to a + or - 9 month period.
It's not surrounded by people so excited to see what happens.
But I think it is JUST as important.
And I wish it could be viewed that way.

I work in a tiny little bubble.
Not the norm in the general population.
And for the first time, only three residents out of twenty four are younger than eighty.
Five of them are turning ninety in the next few months.
A 101. A few 97's. A few 93-4's. etc...
Most of them could kick my ass...and have, and will surely continue to do so.

I sometimes feel like I am a private documenter of silent history.
I wipe the butt's of people who fought in our world wars, and survived the last great depression etc.
What an un-tapped source and/or incredible knowledge and experience!
Being the age that they are, they have outlived most of their friends and families.

But I realize where this is going.
I know what happens next.
I know that I'm just about to lose a great group of friends.

And yes I've took the classes, read the text, seen the counselor.
I've heard the charge nurse tell me for eight years that I care too much.
I just wish as many people were around to celebrate GOING from this life as the COMING into this life.

All of this coming from an ornery Atheist. Who knew?

Spot on awesome old farts!

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Sunday, February 15, 2009

Learnin' shit

Because I am a mature and responsible parent, when my 14 year old asked for help with her "Homophones" homework, I told her that Homophones were gay people that were afraid of phones that sound alike.

Because that's the way I roll.

Don't you judge me.

Snap to the square.

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Eleven legal plus two

Happy anniversary!

And yay that our anniversary is right before V-Day so we can get over "the goopy" in one swell sweep.

After eleven years married and thirteen years together, I am still crazy attracted to this man.

Even in my dreams (yes those kind), he is the ONLY "action figure". Pardon the TMI.

Even with all of my flaws, he still says ditto.

On to other issues.

It's taken 34 years, 13 years together, 11 years married and four children and an "interesting" childhood, to learn that I have great difficulty with emotion.

I avoid emotional pain even more than I avoid physical pain.

Due to my general/social/whatever anxiety issues, I 've HAD to learn some coping skills. Especially since I won't do the pill thing.

I've come into a fair amount of stress-ors lately. Fine. Dealt.

Flooded guest house, gutted, deductible. Fine. Dealt.

Hit and run on my car, body shop, shitty rental car, deductible. Fine. Dealt.

Twin A, speech issue target child, who finally fought back against the bullies and therefore got suspended in THIRD GRADE. Tough one, but dealt.

Husband encountering another mass layoff at work. Fine. Dealt.

Grandmother had to have a large portion of her face carved off due to a cancerous tumor. Really tough, but dealing.

Then I encountered a few, should be happy shit things.

ERrrrrrrr? Fut the Wuck?

The problem is: I've just learned to become so numb, to avoid any emotional WHATEVER outside of my own narrow capacity? definitions?, I couldn't even...FEEL the happy ness.

I avoided the stress shit, but I was unable to feel the good shit.

So yeah, that's where I am.