As I sit here typing, I am in pain. It's because he is in pain. He is disappointed with a change in today's plans, and he is angry and hurt and disappointed. This tears me up inside, and tears roll down my face. As he lashes out, I hear the honesty of how he really feels about our situation. And I swear, I'm doing the best I can.
I don't go shopping for the sake of shopping. I don't go out anymore, to save money. I stopped buying some things on my grocery list that were costly and unnecessary. Any extra cash goes to him. For school activites, hanging out, and allowance. I think of him first even when buying cereal.
Today he is hurting and doesn't want to live here anymore. He's tired of living in a rental, where things are older and fall apart. He's sick of me. He doesn't want me here. I love him more than my own life. His heart hurts, and as if he were still within me, so does mine. I'm not sure how to help him.
When he hurts like this, he falls back on how the past two years have treated him. Divorce, loss of three loved ones, not including his favorite dog, Mercury. Truly, he has mourned more in a short period of time than most others his age. I wish we could heal those hurts. How can I help him heal?
Just loving him doesn't seem nearly enough. Especially when he won't let me show him. I want to embrace him tightly and tell him it won't always be this way. It's only been two years. But, he pulls back when I try to hug. I know it's his age, and being a boy. And resentment.
I want so much for him to be able to see the positive things peeking through the disappointment. His multitude of friends. His love of football--that 80yd TD run. How much he is loved--by four families! Having the best "step" family, and how lucky he is that it is that way, rather than the more common conflicts.
I am sorry, bud, that today fell through. I'm sorry that you come home to just me. I'm sorry that everything doesn't go as smoothly as you want. But, I swear to you, I am doing the best I can and loving you more with every second of every day. God loves you too. No matter what you do, no matter how angry you feel, no matter how "unloveable" you may thing you are...He loves you!
Just like I do. Unconditionally...forever. Cross my heart.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Seriously??
Oye.
I have truly missed my calling. Dick Van Dyke and John Ritter made millions performing, on TV, the very things I seem to encounter regularily. Lucille Ball was loved by millions for her zany mishaps.
My life, it seems, IS one zany mishap. Without humor, I'd be dead!
I'm not sure it was all that zany when I was a child, although my Aunt Reen, Aunt Dorie, and Mom kept zany an acceptable way to live. But, when I got older....
There was the weight machine incident when I was a sophmore. I was bearing down to leg press 260lbs, and the girl in charge of inserting the pins ASSUMED that I wouldn't be able to press it and pulled the pin out at the exact moment I pressed. This left only about 20lbs to press. With all my vigor I pressed for 260, met 20 and my feet slipped right off the pedals, sending them downward into my shins. Two fractured shinbones. The gym teacher was about 5'1" and 90lbs soaking wet, and she bore the weight of my large, fainting frame to the school nurse. Must've been quite a sight. Lesson: never assume--its makes an ass out of you, and shatters ME bones....
And the rainstorm. It came down like the heavens were having super soaker wars. It left huge gulleys of water at every dip in the street or sidewalk. I tried to jump across a huge one on my way into the grocery store after the storm. Damn. Gulley too wide, feet soaking wet. After several minutes, browsing aisles, I noticed a young boy holding his mother leg and pointed down--at me. He looked a bit frightened. I followed his point and found that my canvas shoes had gone rabid. Foaming. More foam with each step. I had used a spray on canvas shoe cleaner the night before. Perhaps I could've used less or rinsed them better.....
More recently, there was a three month ride of the uprising of home machines. The computer died. The washer quit spinning, the vacuum stopped sucking, the coffemaker stopped making, and my glasses snapped. Okay, the glasses aren't a machine, but they are what gives me my super powers. This uprising cost me a ton, but on the bright side, it really would make for good TV.
After spending months waving at the cars behind me, my tailpipe was removed by a friend. Not a problem, except for the pollution of the enviroment, and the possible poisoning of anyone riding in my car. When my little Suzuki started roaring, it became embarrassing, but at least I had a car. That my son was mortified riding with me is sad, but life. However, when I jumped in and turned the key on the day of grocery shopping, and got a click, things became harried. Damn. Another breakdown. More money.....no groceries. Oh well, call a repair guy. Luck! Found a good guy that would let me pay my bill a bit at a time.
As I watched my little SUV leave the driveway, I was saddened, but encouraged to have found such a great repairman. Until we ran out of food. After all, that's where I was headed when the vehicle died. Three days later, my son was scrounging in cupboards for something to snack on. He found, stale saltines, semi stale cheese whales, and....croutons. He was overjoyed to snack on croutons. Time to get the car back? I think so. But, alas, this was not to be. I drive a '99 Suzuki and a starter, it seemed, was a rare commodity. Six days later, by no fault of the repairman, I got my little "beep beep" back. Oh joy! Oh reveillee! Oh God it needs gas! Lots of gas. I grabbed my wallet and headed to the gas station. It sputtered, but I figured it'd been sitting for six days--warm up girl. Big sputter. Well, it's mostly downhill...I'll make it. Until that little surge uphill to get to the downhill--silence. Really? Turn the key. Absolute farting sound, then silence. After a sigh, I walked to a friends house to grab a ride to the station to get enough gas--to get to the station. Had to spend $9 on a small gas can--again---yes this has happened before and don't even approach the question of why I don't carry a can in the car! Okay. Paid $5 for gas in the can. Pumped too fast and it blew up onto my person. Gas all over. Can doesn't hold $5. Can I get this in my car and get back to this stall so I get my remaining $1.88? My dear friend takes me to my "bleep bleep", I start pouring and it leaks all over, splashing onto my feet. Let me add, here, that once a can is purchased you must assemble. Directions are stamped into the plastic, making assembly impossible for a 50yr old, nearsighted lady. Back to "BLEEEEEEP!" Got in, car started. Friend left. Thanks Kate.
I raced back to the stall and 'aha!' $1.88 still there. I'm still wondering if I hadn't pressed the type of gas I wanted, if I would've gotten my credit. But, it was erased and I put my last $6 in. When a tank is that empty, $9 doesn't do much. As I walked toward the station I could see a huddle at the cash register, and knew it was about me. Reeking, I walked in and announced, "I'm bAAaaack!" "Say, I didn't use that entire $5 a minute ago...." "Yeah, I see that." Oh boy. After much discussion, I was given my $1.88 back. I went slinking home...or stinking home...dragged up the stairs while saying a quick prayer of thanks--yes, thanks--and walked in the apartment. "Everything running okay?", came the question from my son. "Great.", I say. "I ran out of gas, walked to friends, got ride, spilled gas all over, and I stink. Car's running fine." "Cool!" Seriously???
Gotta laugh at it all. Gotta. Or I'll strangle the first cheery person I see. Seriously.
I have truly missed my calling. Dick Van Dyke and John Ritter made millions performing, on TV, the very things I seem to encounter regularily. Lucille Ball was loved by millions for her zany mishaps.
My life, it seems, IS one zany mishap. Without humor, I'd be dead!
I'm not sure it was all that zany when I was a child, although my Aunt Reen, Aunt Dorie, and Mom kept zany an acceptable way to live. But, when I got older....
There was the weight machine incident when I was a sophmore. I was bearing down to leg press 260lbs, and the girl in charge of inserting the pins ASSUMED that I wouldn't be able to press it and pulled the pin out at the exact moment I pressed. This left only about 20lbs to press. With all my vigor I pressed for 260, met 20 and my feet slipped right off the pedals, sending them downward into my shins. Two fractured shinbones. The gym teacher was about 5'1" and 90lbs soaking wet, and she bore the weight of my large, fainting frame to the school nurse. Must've been quite a sight. Lesson: never assume--its makes an ass out of you, and shatters ME bones....
And the rainstorm. It came down like the heavens were having super soaker wars. It left huge gulleys of water at every dip in the street or sidewalk. I tried to jump across a huge one on my way into the grocery store after the storm. Damn. Gulley too wide, feet soaking wet. After several minutes, browsing aisles, I noticed a young boy holding his mother leg and pointed down--at me. He looked a bit frightened. I followed his point and found that my canvas shoes had gone rabid. Foaming. More foam with each step. I had used a spray on canvas shoe cleaner the night before. Perhaps I could've used less or rinsed them better.....
More recently, there was a three month ride of the uprising of home machines. The computer died. The washer quit spinning, the vacuum stopped sucking, the coffemaker stopped making, and my glasses snapped. Okay, the glasses aren't a machine, but they are what gives me my super powers. This uprising cost me a ton, but on the bright side, it really would make for good TV.
After spending months waving at the cars behind me, my tailpipe was removed by a friend. Not a problem, except for the pollution of the enviroment, and the possible poisoning of anyone riding in my car. When my little Suzuki started roaring, it became embarrassing, but at least I had a car. That my son was mortified riding with me is sad, but life. However, when I jumped in and turned the key on the day of grocery shopping, and got a click, things became harried. Damn. Another breakdown. More money.....no groceries. Oh well, call a repair guy. Luck! Found a good guy that would let me pay my bill a bit at a time.
As I watched my little SUV leave the driveway, I was saddened, but encouraged to have found such a great repairman. Until we ran out of food. After all, that's where I was headed when the vehicle died. Three days later, my son was scrounging in cupboards for something to snack on. He found, stale saltines, semi stale cheese whales, and....croutons. He was overjoyed to snack on croutons. Time to get the car back? I think so. But, alas, this was not to be. I drive a '99 Suzuki and a starter, it seemed, was a rare commodity. Six days later, by no fault of the repairman, I got my little "beep beep" back. Oh joy! Oh reveillee! Oh God it needs gas! Lots of gas. I grabbed my wallet and headed to the gas station. It sputtered, but I figured it'd been sitting for six days--warm up girl. Big sputter. Well, it's mostly downhill...I'll make it. Until that little surge uphill to get to the downhill--silence. Really? Turn the key. Absolute farting sound, then silence. After a sigh, I walked to a friends house to grab a ride to the station to get enough gas--to get to the station. Had to spend $9 on a small gas can--again---yes this has happened before and don't even approach the question of why I don't carry a can in the car! Okay. Paid $5 for gas in the can. Pumped too fast and it blew up onto my person. Gas all over. Can doesn't hold $5. Can I get this in my car and get back to this stall so I get my remaining $1.88? My dear friend takes me to my "bleep bleep", I start pouring and it leaks all over, splashing onto my feet. Let me add, here, that once a can is purchased you must assemble. Directions are stamped into the plastic, making assembly impossible for a 50yr old, nearsighted lady. Back to "BLEEEEEEP!" Got in, car started. Friend left. Thanks Kate.
I raced back to the stall and 'aha!' $1.88 still there. I'm still wondering if I hadn't pressed the type of gas I wanted, if I would've gotten my credit. But, it was erased and I put my last $6 in. When a tank is that empty, $9 doesn't do much. As I walked toward the station I could see a huddle at the cash register, and knew it was about me. Reeking, I walked in and announced, "I'm bAAaaack!" "Say, I didn't use that entire $5 a minute ago...." "Yeah, I see that." Oh boy. After much discussion, I was given my $1.88 back. I went slinking home...or stinking home...dragged up the stairs while saying a quick prayer of thanks--yes, thanks--and walked in the apartment. "Everything running okay?", came the question from my son. "Great.", I say. "I ran out of gas, walked to friends, got ride, spilled gas all over, and I stink. Car's running fine." "Cool!" Seriously???
Gotta laugh at it all. Gotta. Or I'll strangle the first cheery person I see. Seriously.
Monday, October 18, 2010
My Best Guy
He is almost 5'8" tall, with blonds curls. He is intelligent, and has a great sense of humor. He has common sense--and uses it. He is athletic, and a natural leader. He knows right from wrong, and when faced with touchy decisions, chooses right more than wrong. He is not a morning person. He is not patient. He is protective of those he loves. And loves fiercely.
He will be fourteen in December.
As any mother, I remember that uber-cold day. I was scheduled to be induced due to pre-eclampsia, and the drip started at 8am. Boredom set in for his Dad and me within an hour. It was gonna be a long day! I don't remember what I did to pass the time. I know his Dad wandered in and out, and pitched cell phones to the nurses. He was a born salesman....
At some point I began to feel something. Uncomfortable, but manageable. The two of us walked up and down the halls, as was suggested during our classes. I must've been quite a sight, waddling with my drip rolling along. Getting back onto the table, once back in the birthing room, was like an episode of "I Love Lucy", with the comic error of it. By now it was about 11am, and I was really hurting. I told the nurse, who checked the monitor and told me to relax, as the tape showed very little in the area of contractions. Boy, I wondered, what do they consider a contraction cause I'm h u r t i n g!! After reporting, again, to the nurse, and her checking the tape--again--I was told that if I didn't show some "real" contractions by noon, I'd be sent home. Panic. I begged her to believe me...these were contractions. I'm not a doctor, but I think the medical term for what I was feeling was "holy crap that hurts!" The Dr. was called in to check me and I hadn't dialated. Yep, it was gonna be home for me.
At what point it was noticed that the labor belt had slipped, I don't know. Now keep in mind that all this time, the amount of pitocin was being increased to bring on the contractions because the machine didn't show jack. The inducer was working...the look of alarm on the nurse's face when the labor belt was adjusted was memorable. I remember wanting to mock "told ya, told ya", but I was in too much pain. According to the tape, my contractions were close to going off the tape. Call in the Doc.
When she came in I had high hopes, but I was going nowhere in terms of being baby friendly. I think I cried. Birth became imminent around 3 or maybe 5pm. Doc? Still not ready. Where was my focus point? I couldn't remember. Breathe. Can't, it makes me nauseous and faint. I think I snapped at the nurse on that point. So THIS is what all the fuss is about! Damn!
The steady increase of pitocin had caused violent contractions by that time. My blood pressure, which had been dangerously high in the first place, now registered on the the machine as "please fix me". Seriously! I don't remember much...the panicked look on his Dad's face, the nurses hustling, the frustration of two failed epidurals...and the Dr. checking and finding that I'd become baby ready in an hour! The relief of that alone must've brought my blood pressure down a little, but the machine still demanded attention.
At 7:01pm my best guy litterally flew into the doctor's hands. I was kind of fuzzy, but I swear she had a catcher's mitt on. His Dad snipped the cord, and our lives were changed forever. His cries were not howling, but cute...at least at first. I remember repeating my delight at his "cute" cries. After his sister came in and declared he was purple, and I'd received congrats from the in-laws, I relaxed. I felt elation. When the nurse put him with me to feed, I felt calm, warm.
As he grew, we became best buds. It was obvious to everyone how close we were. Too close? Maybe. But, I don't think so. Perhaps our relationship was in preparation for what we face now. It's just us. And it has it's bumps. He is almost 14. He has attitude, as all kids his age do. He knows it all, as all kids his age do. We are both stubborn. There has been door slamming and yelling and silences. But given time, these iron out, and we talk once again about hunting coyote, the war, and how he wishes I wouldn't talk to his Facebook friends. Apparently, it's embarrassing to have someone come up to him and mention something I said. Go figure...
Because I am in pain most of the time, I hope he doesn't see women as weak. I hope he sees my passions and sees women as strong and committed. I hope when he sees me cry, he knows it's okay to do it. I hope he continues to see himself as "a beast." I hope I will see him graduate. I hope I will seem him succeed. I hope the world for him.
For every moment of childbirth pain, there is a moment that he has captured my heart. The endless hugs when he was younger. The surprise of receiving a Mother's Day card when I thought he was too old to go for that stuff. His declaration of "you're a great Mom!", when discussing a less than stellar parent. And, the last minute "Happy Birthday, Mom. I Love You." as he exited the truck to go to school. I know he'd been holding onto that for effect. It worked. I cried for an hour.
He was, is, and always will be my Best Guy.
He will be fourteen in December.
As any mother, I remember that uber-cold day. I was scheduled to be induced due to pre-eclampsia, and the drip started at 8am. Boredom set in for his Dad and me within an hour. It was gonna be a long day! I don't remember what I did to pass the time. I know his Dad wandered in and out, and pitched cell phones to the nurses. He was a born salesman....
At some point I began to feel something. Uncomfortable, but manageable. The two of us walked up and down the halls, as was suggested during our classes. I must've been quite a sight, waddling with my drip rolling along. Getting back onto the table, once back in the birthing room, was like an episode of "I Love Lucy", with the comic error of it. By now it was about 11am, and I was really hurting. I told the nurse, who checked the monitor and told me to relax, as the tape showed very little in the area of contractions. Boy, I wondered, what do they consider a contraction cause I'm h u r t i n g!! After reporting, again, to the nurse, and her checking the tape--again--I was told that if I didn't show some "real" contractions by noon, I'd be sent home. Panic. I begged her to believe me...these were contractions. I'm not a doctor, but I think the medical term for what I was feeling was "holy crap that hurts!" The Dr. was called in to check me and I hadn't dialated. Yep, it was gonna be home for me.
At what point it was noticed that the labor belt had slipped, I don't know. Now keep in mind that all this time, the amount of pitocin was being increased to bring on the contractions because the machine didn't show jack. The inducer was working...the look of alarm on the nurse's face when the labor belt was adjusted was memorable. I remember wanting to mock "told ya, told ya", but I was in too much pain. According to the tape, my contractions were close to going off the tape. Call in the Doc.
When she came in I had high hopes, but I was going nowhere in terms of being baby friendly. I think I cried. Birth became imminent around 3 or maybe 5pm. Doc? Still not ready. Where was my focus point? I couldn't remember. Breathe. Can't, it makes me nauseous and faint. I think I snapped at the nurse on that point. So THIS is what all the fuss is about! Damn!
The steady increase of pitocin had caused violent contractions by that time. My blood pressure, which had been dangerously high in the first place, now registered on the the machine as "please fix me". Seriously! I don't remember much...the panicked look on his Dad's face, the nurses hustling, the frustration of two failed epidurals...and the Dr. checking and finding that I'd become baby ready in an hour! The relief of that alone must've brought my blood pressure down a little, but the machine still demanded attention.
At 7:01pm my best guy litterally flew into the doctor's hands. I was kind of fuzzy, but I swear she had a catcher's mitt on. His Dad snipped the cord, and our lives were changed forever. His cries were not howling, but cute...at least at first. I remember repeating my delight at his "cute" cries. After his sister came in and declared he was purple, and I'd received congrats from the in-laws, I relaxed. I felt elation. When the nurse put him with me to feed, I felt calm, warm.
As he grew, we became best buds. It was obvious to everyone how close we were. Too close? Maybe. But, I don't think so. Perhaps our relationship was in preparation for what we face now. It's just us. And it has it's bumps. He is almost 14. He has attitude, as all kids his age do. He knows it all, as all kids his age do. We are both stubborn. There has been door slamming and yelling and silences. But given time, these iron out, and we talk once again about hunting coyote, the war, and how he wishes I wouldn't talk to his Facebook friends. Apparently, it's embarrassing to have someone come up to him and mention something I said. Go figure...
Because I am in pain most of the time, I hope he doesn't see women as weak. I hope he sees my passions and sees women as strong and committed. I hope when he sees me cry, he knows it's okay to do it. I hope he continues to see himself as "a beast." I hope I will see him graduate. I hope I will seem him succeed. I hope the world for him.
For every moment of childbirth pain, there is a moment that he has captured my heart. The endless hugs when he was younger. The surprise of receiving a Mother's Day card when I thought he was too old to go for that stuff. His declaration of "you're a great Mom!", when discussing a less than stellar parent. And, the last minute "Happy Birthday, Mom. I Love You." as he exited the truck to go to school. I know he'd been holding onto that for effect. It worked. I cried for an hour.
He was, is, and always will be my Best Guy.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
The Way "It" Is....
Been going through some rough financial times over the past six months. Just as so many people are these days. I'm not new to stretching a dollar. When I was in my 20s partying mattered much more than paying the bills. In my 30s I changed, "careers" and was forced to take on full time-temp work. It payed less than half of what my nanny job paid. But, it was my decision to leave the nanny job, and I had to take the punches. I did not count on being nearly KO'd. Eventually, the temp work turned permanent, and some things started to iron out. Got married, had kids, became ill, lost my job...and although tight, we still made it pretty well.
Divorce changes many things. Suddenly, I was a single mom. Paying for everything on disability and support. I made changes in my adjustable expenses--things were tight again, but it seemed like it was going to be okay. Come December, I had to make a choice. I made the wrong one, and it put me a month behind on the mortgage. And, as always happens, it spiraled out of control.
In June of '08 I was forced to sell the house, or be foreclosed on. A house that was built to our specs--somewhat to make things a bit easier for me, due to my ongoing pain. One floor, hi-rise potty and all. Those were some of the darkest days I've seen. I had a son now. Only a respectable apartment would do. I'd promised my ex that I wouldn't take him out of the school district, so finding a decent apartment would be tricky.
On one of my cruises around this tiny little town, I saw a big sign in front of a four-plex. I called, I met the gentleman, I fell in love with the tiny apartment. I exlained my situation to the landlord, and he was more than accomodating. After spending weeks cleaning out the basement of the house, having it flood once and goo up alot of boxes, it was moving day. I was exhausted beyond anything I'd experienced before. One of my son's friends and his brother and mom helped us move a house into an apartment. There are 19 stairs. I pushed as hard as I could to help as much as I could, but finally broke down. It was my 12yr old son that took me by the shoulders and said, "We're gonna get this done. Don't worry. It'll get done." The pact the four of them made came to truition at about 10pm when my bed got set up. It was their intention to make sure I had my bed at the end of that day. Could anyone ask for better people?
We adjusted pretty quickly to our new surroundings. I wasn't so sure my sons buddies would want to make the uphill journey to our apartment to hangout, as they did at the house, but if that's what it took to hang with Nick, then so be it. We are so very lucky....no, blessed!
Then, as I've written before, everything (it seemed) broke down. In three months I had just shy of $2,000 of replacements and repairs. Do that math...$667 a month extra for three months! No "extra" about it. Things had to be repaired and replaced. And once again, the downward spiral began. Of course, at first it was not too noticeable. And then it was. And now I am seeking assistance. Just temporary, but enough to get back "in the black".
When I had the house, I could not get food assistance. Too many assets. Couldn't get State help with utilities...made $60 too much. And now. Now. The fine State of Illinois is out of money for assistance. Before I took the trip into the big city, I researched whether I would even be eligible. Indeed I was. But, as I got to each place I was told there was no money for assistance. On the township level I was told I could not get rent assistance because I already got government assistance through my SSDI. So, I think that means they'll pay you to survive, just not under a decent roof. To give them some props, though, they did refer me to a church.
Crossroads Community Church is a modern church, that preaches in a not so preachy manner. I've never been to the church, but have watched some sermons online and listened to some as well. Their following is staggering. This is the church that was suggested to me. I called, and was told that they assist by giving directly to the various programs. I was directed to one of them. When my call was finally returned, I was asked immediately if I was homeless. When I answered 'no', I was rushed off the phone with the words "Sorry, we only help those that have no home." Now as much as that is a good thing if, indeed you are homeless, it makes no sense to wait until one IS homeless to help.
A friend of mine directed me to the churches here, and gave me a name or two of folks always willing to lend a hand. I called the churches. First returned call--same day--said they don't do rent assistance, but would a gift certificate to the local market help? Yes, of course. The second call came today, Sunday, October 10, 2010. 10-10-10. Supposedly a lucky day. The second church will help. I don't know how much. I couldn't be so bold as to ask. They would, however, need to make the check payable to my landlord...they hoped I understood. Of course I understand. It is for the same reason that it is so hard to get disability when you really need it. Or any assistance, for that matter. There are people that play the system, and somehow get away with it.
Today is my lucky day. I've found that you can count on your local resources, family, and friends more than you can your highly paid, elected officials. I don't know what I will be sending my landlord tomorrow. I do know that God provides. I wish that came more easily for me. To just know and not get worked into three weeks of panic attacks. But, it will come. In its time. When my heart is fully ready, and not so filled with worry where the assurance should be.
Oh! And to make this date even luckier, my boy comes home after five days in Arizona. Funny how you can miss the sound of bombs and gunfire coming from across the apartment.....
Divorce changes many things. Suddenly, I was a single mom. Paying for everything on disability and support. I made changes in my adjustable expenses--things were tight again, but it seemed like it was going to be okay. Come December, I had to make a choice. I made the wrong one, and it put me a month behind on the mortgage. And, as always happens, it spiraled out of control.
In June of '08 I was forced to sell the house, or be foreclosed on. A house that was built to our specs--somewhat to make things a bit easier for me, due to my ongoing pain. One floor, hi-rise potty and all. Those were some of the darkest days I've seen. I had a son now. Only a respectable apartment would do. I'd promised my ex that I wouldn't take him out of the school district, so finding a decent apartment would be tricky.
On one of my cruises around this tiny little town, I saw a big sign in front of a four-plex. I called, I met the gentleman, I fell in love with the tiny apartment. I exlained my situation to the landlord, and he was more than accomodating. After spending weeks cleaning out the basement of the house, having it flood once and goo up alot of boxes, it was moving day. I was exhausted beyond anything I'd experienced before. One of my son's friends and his brother and mom helped us move a house into an apartment. There are 19 stairs. I pushed as hard as I could to help as much as I could, but finally broke down. It was my 12yr old son that took me by the shoulders and said, "We're gonna get this done. Don't worry. It'll get done." The pact the four of them made came to truition at about 10pm when my bed got set up. It was their intention to make sure I had my bed at the end of that day. Could anyone ask for better people?
We adjusted pretty quickly to our new surroundings. I wasn't so sure my sons buddies would want to make the uphill journey to our apartment to hangout, as they did at the house, but if that's what it took to hang with Nick, then so be it. We are so very lucky....no, blessed!
Then, as I've written before, everything (it seemed) broke down. In three months I had just shy of $2,000 of replacements and repairs. Do that math...$667 a month extra for three months! No "extra" about it. Things had to be repaired and replaced. And once again, the downward spiral began. Of course, at first it was not too noticeable. And then it was. And now I am seeking assistance. Just temporary, but enough to get back "in the black".
When I had the house, I could not get food assistance. Too many assets. Couldn't get State help with utilities...made $60 too much. And now. Now. The fine State of Illinois is out of money for assistance. Before I took the trip into the big city, I researched whether I would even be eligible. Indeed I was. But, as I got to each place I was told there was no money for assistance. On the township level I was told I could not get rent assistance because I already got government assistance through my SSDI. So, I think that means they'll pay you to survive, just not under a decent roof. To give them some props, though, they did refer me to a church.
Crossroads Community Church is a modern church, that preaches in a not so preachy manner. I've never been to the church, but have watched some sermons online and listened to some as well. Their following is staggering. This is the church that was suggested to me. I called, and was told that they assist by giving directly to the various programs. I was directed to one of them. When my call was finally returned, I was asked immediately if I was homeless. When I answered 'no', I was rushed off the phone with the words "Sorry, we only help those that have no home." Now as much as that is a good thing if, indeed you are homeless, it makes no sense to wait until one IS homeless to help.
A friend of mine directed me to the churches here, and gave me a name or two of folks always willing to lend a hand. I called the churches. First returned call--same day--said they don't do rent assistance, but would a gift certificate to the local market help? Yes, of course. The second call came today, Sunday, October 10, 2010. 10-10-10. Supposedly a lucky day. The second church will help. I don't know how much. I couldn't be so bold as to ask. They would, however, need to make the check payable to my landlord...they hoped I understood. Of course I understand. It is for the same reason that it is so hard to get disability when you really need it. Or any assistance, for that matter. There are people that play the system, and somehow get away with it.
Today is my lucky day. I've found that you can count on your local resources, family, and friends more than you can your highly paid, elected officials. I don't know what I will be sending my landlord tomorrow. I do know that God provides. I wish that came more easily for me. To just know and not get worked into three weeks of panic attacks. But, it will come. In its time. When my heart is fully ready, and not so filled with worry where the assurance should be.
Oh! And to make this date even luckier, my boy comes home after five days in Arizona. Funny how you can miss the sound of bombs and gunfire coming from across the apartment.....
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Last week the world lost 100 teens. Not runaways. Not "hide n seek". Suicide. It has been going on for a very long time, but the death of Tyler Clementi brought this astounding, heartbreaking statistic into a bright, glaring, light.
In Tyler's case, he was bullied because he was gay. His roommate and a friend used the gift of technology to expose Tyler's private life to the world. As a result of the embarrassment, shame, and shock, Tyler, too, used this gift of technology to alert the world that he was going to jump off the George Washington bridge. He was 18. That same week kids aged 13, 15, and 18 killed themselves due to bullying.
First, let me say that I refer to our technology as a gift because it is. What used to take days to accomplish in the workplace can now be done in hours or minutes. Distant relatives can share photos of new additions, Social networks, like MySpace and Facebook, allow old classmates and relatives to reaquaint themselves. And that is just on the "joe slob on the street level." Think of what ever- advancing technology has done for medicine, space research, agriculture. It is a gift.
When I was a kid, I was bullied. Looking back, I can find no reason I would NOT have been bullied. I had glasses at age five, a grown-up, teased hairstyle when the style was long and straight. I was loud, and cried at anything. Such an easy target. I had worms thrown at me, buttons ripped off my clothes, hair pulled out in hunks. I was punched, knuckleheaded, had glasses purposely broken (multiple times--parents thrilled...) and piles of schoolbooks dropped on my head by the boys taller than I. Other victims of bullying included the overweight, and those from poor households. Or the improperly dressed. Or the recipients of an odd last, or first name. And, we were told it was just part of growing up. "Ignore them, and they'll ignore you." Since many of the things I was bullied over physically hurt, I cried. Because I cried I was bullied. I wanted to die for many reasons. Being different was in the top two. I remember holding a bottle of aspirin one day, when I was home alone. And thinking. Just thinking. Mom pulled in the driveway, thought tucked back inside.
I never felt like I fit in, thanks to bullies, making the vicious cycle neverending. Until my Sophmore year. I made cheerleader. Within the blink of an eye, I fit in, and the bullying stopped. I was the same person. Kind, funny, smart. By the end of lunch hour that day I'd been invited to three parties. Because I fit in to a predetermined stereotype, produced by parents.
Bullying is not okay. It is not to be laughed off, or bragged about at the 25th reunion. It really does affect a persons future. I find it sad to say, that it makes the victim--if they can live through it--stronger. They become tenacious and hard working. To a fault. To a breakdown. If there is a hidden emotional imbalance, the effects can be fatal. For me, it nearly was several times. Thanks to the gifts of technology in medicine, twenty five years ago, that part of my angst was controlled. But, the rest of the scars still ache from time to time.
Bullies are as insecure as any child of school age. They find, at some point, that making some else feel awful makes them feel good. It's a sort of high. Many bullies are bullied. And their bullies are bullied. It's sort of the human version of the food chain. But, it is not okay.
In between the bullies and the bullied are the bystanders. They are aware that they are not perfect, and that stepping in could make them the next victim. I wonder how a bystander feels when they see the bullied fall apart...or die. Is there a "I should've done something" feeling? God, I hope so. Let their guilt be their punishment.
The death of Tyler Clememti has brought about a movement for teens called "It Gets Better." I've just finished watching many of the videos associated with this movement, and various celebrities speak on the subject, on Ellen. Although I think it is a good message, as everything in life "gets better" at some point, it is important to point out that it doesn't ALL just one day get better. It is gradual. Sometimes unnoticed, until you wake up one day, and are not afraid to go to school, or work. But, yes, every tough situation gets better eventually.
Tyler's death has focused on teen sexuality choices. Choices? Life is not "duck, duck, goose." "You're straight, you're straight...you're gay!" Your are who you are. I hear you all...the Bible says.....
indeed, there are verses that cite that one man may not lay with another. But above all...above the Noah, the Moses, the "valley of the shadow of death"....it says to LOVE ONE ANOTHER. Not just the straight, college educated, trendiest dressed, homeowner, with blond hair and blue eyes, that was the captain of the football team or head cheerleader. Love One Another. Any other. Every other.
I have been fortunate in my life to have met many people of many social classes, ethnic classes, and religious views. Some of those people have been gay. And some of them have been my best friends. One, was in a car accident that killed everyone in the vehicle but him. One was in the army. One worked in a factory, one worked in an office. These are experiences that many people can relate to. They all have blood that is red. Their hearts beat, their lungs expand, their voicebox vibrates to make sound. One of these friends just got married to the man he has loved for 25 years. My marriage ended at 12 years. Another, gave up his bed for me when I had nowhere to live during a trying time in my life. He slept on a cot in his living room for two months. His morning greeting of "Good Morning Sunshine!" grated my every nerve, but I loved him, and he me, because we were friends. Before he was ready to "come out", one of these friends was my boyfriend. He could be very sweet, but his temper didn't suit me, so I broke it off. The office friend was the victim of sexual and physical abuse during his youth.
"Being" gay is not even an accurate phrase. I am not, at this moment, "being" straight. I am writing from my heart, waiting for the landlord to call about the rent check. I just... am.
Kids now use jargon that is contradictory. As stated on Ellen, if any child....anyONE uses the "N" word they are sorely punished. The "F" word is "just the way they talk at school." The only place that does not allow it is regular television. You can pay an extra $10.99 to hear it on pay channels. But, "that's so gay", and "you faggot" are today's accepted slang. They are not even aimed at a gay person. Just an expression to ridicule or insult. I am guilty of letting this slip by me now. My son uses these expressions as do his friends, his older sister, and most other kids. I fought it for a long time. I finally waved the white flag, but made him learn the real definition of the words. He had no idea that the word "gay" meant happy. He did know that Negro meant the color black. He did not know that faggot was a bundle of sticks or twigs. He does know that an ass is a sort of donkey. I am certain he does not know that the "F" or "N" word are not in my dictionary. I made him learn the dictionary defintion of these words he uses so freely as everyday exclamations. I will continue to do so.
Tyler Clementi and the 99 other teens that threw away God's most precious gift last week, due to the pain caused by bullies can not die in vain. Today is Wednesday. There go another 50. Parents,
teach your children tolerance. Teach them the beauty of difference. If you don't know how, then Google it. You have the gift of technology at your fingertips.
In Tyler's case, he was bullied because he was gay. His roommate and a friend used the gift of technology to expose Tyler's private life to the world. As a result of the embarrassment, shame, and shock, Tyler, too, used this gift of technology to alert the world that he was going to jump off the George Washington bridge. He was 18. That same week kids aged 13, 15, and 18 killed themselves due to bullying.
First, let me say that I refer to our technology as a gift because it is. What used to take days to accomplish in the workplace can now be done in hours or minutes. Distant relatives can share photos of new additions, Social networks, like MySpace and Facebook, allow old classmates and relatives to reaquaint themselves. And that is just on the "joe slob on the street level." Think of what ever- advancing technology has done for medicine, space research, agriculture. It is a gift.
When I was a kid, I was bullied. Looking back, I can find no reason I would NOT have been bullied. I had glasses at age five, a grown-up, teased hairstyle when the style was long and straight. I was loud, and cried at anything. Such an easy target. I had worms thrown at me, buttons ripped off my clothes, hair pulled out in hunks. I was punched, knuckleheaded, had glasses purposely broken (multiple times--parents thrilled...) and piles of schoolbooks dropped on my head by the boys taller than I. Other victims of bullying included the overweight, and those from poor households. Or the improperly dressed. Or the recipients of an odd last, or first name. And, we were told it was just part of growing up. "Ignore them, and they'll ignore you." Since many of the things I was bullied over physically hurt, I cried. Because I cried I was bullied. I wanted to die for many reasons. Being different was in the top two. I remember holding a bottle of aspirin one day, when I was home alone. And thinking. Just thinking. Mom pulled in the driveway, thought tucked back inside.
I never felt like I fit in, thanks to bullies, making the vicious cycle neverending. Until my Sophmore year. I made cheerleader. Within the blink of an eye, I fit in, and the bullying stopped. I was the same person. Kind, funny, smart. By the end of lunch hour that day I'd been invited to three parties. Because I fit in to a predetermined stereotype, produced by parents.
Bullying is not okay. It is not to be laughed off, or bragged about at the 25th reunion. It really does affect a persons future. I find it sad to say, that it makes the victim--if they can live through it--stronger. They become tenacious and hard working. To a fault. To a breakdown. If there is a hidden emotional imbalance, the effects can be fatal. For me, it nearly was several times. Thanks to the gifts of technology in medicine, twenty five years ago, that part of my angst was controlled. But, the rest of the scars still ache from time to time.
Bullies are as insecure as any child of school age. They find, at some point, that making some else feel awful makes them feel good. It's a sort of high. Many bullies are bullied. And their bullies are bullied. It's sort of the human version of the food chain. But, it is not okay.
In between the bullies and the bullied are the bystanders. They are aware that they are not perfect, and that stepping in could make them the next victim. I wonder how a bystander feels when they see the bullied fall apart...or die. Is there a "I should've done something" feeling? God, I hope so. Let their guilt be their punishment.
The death of Tyler Clememti has brought about a movement for teens called "It Gets Better." I've just finished watching many of the videos associated with this movement, and various celebrities speak on the subject, on Ellen. Although I think it is a good message, as everything in life "gets better" at some point, it is important to point out that it doesn't ALL just one day get better. It is gradual. Sometimes unnoticed, until you wake up one day, and are not afraid to go to school, or work. But, yes, every tough situation gets better eventually.
Tyler's death has focused on teen sexuality choices. Choices? Life is not "duck, duck, goose." "You're straight, you're straight...you're gay!" Your are who you are. I hear you all...the Bible says.....
indeed, there are verses that cite that one man may not lay with another. But above all...above the Noah, the Moses, the "valley of the shadow of death"....it says to LOVE ONE ANOTHER. Not just the straight, college educated, trendiest dressed, homeowner, with blond hair and blue eyes, that was the captain of the football team or head cheerleader. Love One Another. Any other. Every other.
I have been fortunate in my life to have met many people of many social classes, ethnic classes, and religious views. Some of those people have been gay. And some of them have been my best friends. One, was in a car accident that killed everyone in the vehicle but him. One was in the army. One worked in a factory, one worked in an office. These are experiences that many people can relate to. They all have blood that is red. Their hearts beat, their lungs expand, their voicebox vibrates to make sound. One of these friends just got married to the man he has loved for 25 years. My marriage ended at 12 years. Another, gave up his bed for me when I had nowhere to live during a trying time in my life. He slept on a cot in his living room for two months. His morning greeting of "Good Morning Sunshine!" grated my every nerve, but I loved him, and he me, because we were friends. Before he was ready to "come out", one of these friends was my boyfriend. He could be very sweet, but his temper didn't suit me, so I broke it off. The office friend was the victim of sexual and physical abuse during his youth.
"Being" gay is not even an accurate phrase. I am not, at this moment, "being" straight. I am writing from my heart, waiting for the landlord to call about the rent check. I just... am.
Kids now use jargon that is contradictory. As stated on Ellen, if any child....anyONE uses the "N" word they are sorely punished. The "F" word is "just the way they talk at school." The only place that does not allow it is regular television. You can pay an extra $10.99 to hear it on pay channels. But, "that's so gay", and "you faggot" are today's accepted slang. They are not even aimed at a gay person. Just an expression to ridicule or insult. I am guilty of letting this slip by me now. My son uses these expressions as do his friends, his older sister, and most other kids. I fought it for a long time. I finally waved the white flag, but made him learn the real definition of the words. He had no idea that the word "gay" meant happy. He did know that Negro meant the color black. He did not know that faggot was a bundle of sticks or twigs. He does know that an ass is a sort of donkey. I am certain he does not know that the "F" or "N" word are not in my dictionary. I made him learn the dictionary defintion of these words he uses so freely as everyday exclamations. I will continue to do so.
Tyler Clementi and the 99 other teens that threw away God's most precious gift last week, due to the pain caused by bullies can not die in vain. Today is Wednesday. There go another 50. Parents,
teach your children tolerance. Teach them the beauty of difference. If you don't know how, then Google it. You have the gift of technology at your fingertips.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Grandma
She always smelled like flowers. She always grew flowers. Beautiful flowers. I remember the lily of the valley just outside the side door to the house. And mixed in were the wild violets. I'm not sure how, but the love of violets trickled down to all of us. There were tulips of every color, and others I didn't know the names of, and the Clematis. Oh, the Clematis were her flower pride. Brilliant purple. When I got a house, I wanted Clematis somewhere. The Bleeding Hearts leading into the "front" door were so fun to squeeze. They always popped back. Today, my heart is squeezed and it's not popping back. My Grandma Jessie Mae Callahan Sanderson passed at age 93, last nite.
I think she was more than a grandmother somehow. We travelled from Stockton to Galena every Saturday to visit her. Galena became my second hometown--she another mother. She was stern when needed and comical in an ever so nonchalant way. What Grandma said, she meant. No punches, no lies. A strong woman out of need at a young age.
She was born in 1917. The middle of seven children. Well, somewhere around the middle. Her mother died when she was young. She mothered her siblings at age 13. Her stepmother sent her packing. Although I'm not clear on the whole story, I think that's the gist. I know she had an eye disorder that required strong lenses to correct and getting those glasses was next to impossible. But, she got them, and had beautiful, but sad eyes.
She lived through six wars. Her opinions on those wars I do not know. She sent two of her sons into service. Both returned home. She gave birth to five children. She was a twin, who's counterpart was lost. She said once, that she did, as the reports said, feel the presence of her twin.
She was all American. Patriotic. Love of country. Grateful to it's protectors. When 9-11-01 happened she cried with the rest of us, and was inspired to write yet another poem to commemorate its significance. She was a poet laureate. Published, no less. Her book, "Fireflies" sold many, many copies. I am grateful to have received her gift of word. At one point, she and I were published in the same Anthology. What an honor.
I remember holidays at her house. The smell of ham, or turkey pushing it's way through the door when it was opened. The table was always set for the holiday and she had personal touches at every place. Homemade name cards. Some with glitter. Colored eggs with our names on them. The Christmas cookies!! Oh that "secret" recipe of Grandma Eustice....actually published in the paper! No secret anymore...outstanding. Christmas Eve was the night of magic, when the gifts were exchanged. After everyone has opened theirs, the share began with her inquiries as to what everyone had received.
As a child, I remember our trips to Grandma Sanderson's. If you got there at lunch, you ate whatever was on the table. And it was always something good. Even leftovers taste better at Grandma's. After lunch we took a trip downtown. At the time, Galena was a regular town. An A&P, a dime store, a pharmacy, several bars, and tons of antique shops. Of course, being given a quarter or fifty cents made Ben Franklin my favorite store. Oh, the paper dolls I bought on Grandma's quarters! But we visited all the stores, and I became mildly knowledgeable about antiques. Those stores always smelled funny, but the treasures were unbelievable.
For a week every summer, even as I became a young adult, I spent it at Grandma's. As I laid in Aunt Maureen's old bed, I was awakened by the morning doves and the smell of Grandpa's coffee brewing. In the distance, I could hear the train travelling its mission. Later in the day, just to pass the time, I would walk downtown, over the train tracks...the smell of tar...still takes me back. As I got older my trips would include the pharmacy, just to fawn over the help. I can't tell you what we had for supper. I'm sure it was wonderful, as Grandpa had put in a hard day at the Mobil station, and needed sustenance.
Funny the things you remember. Laying out in the backyard when I was 19 and Grandpa making a comment about my growing up. Staying the week with Janet and going downtown and speaking gibberish to make people think we were tourists. Listening to the DeFrancos and swooning over their pictures in the Music Lyrics magazine I'd purchased. Janet and I doing dishes and singing "Rock The Boat" in harmony. And Uncle Jim telling us we should be in a group.
She was always dressed to the nines. Even at home. But a special event, brought out her best broaches and earrings. Matched perfectly to her outfit. A very classy lady.
She bowled for years. Once retired, she enjoyed trips to Minnesota, Texas and...yep...Vegas. Oh did she love the slots! She brought that love home and spread it around the Dubuque hangouts. She golfed for awhile, not learning until her 70's (60's?). It became another adventure and joy.
She suffered a stroke not long before her 90th birthday. It was devastating to those of us that knew her as the spunky do-it-all lady. She spent her final years in a nursing home, giving joy---and frustration--- to the aids and nurses. Her greatest advocate was Aunt Reen. Reen rode that staff like a rodeo pro. And Grandma got qualified care as a result.
On the 29th of September we celebrated my mother's conquer of another year in the nursing home as the result of a stroke. On that day Grandma was preparing, I think, for her reunion with her love and best dance partner, Grandpa. We, of course prayed for recovery, but something inside of me said that she had had it with this nonsense. When Janet called this morning, I was not surprised at the news. Just very sad. She'd had many wonderful years and memories with those of us that loved her, but her release to God was her prayer, I think. A new world filled with violet fields, cardinals feeding at her heavenly bird feeder. And dancing. The Shag. With Grandpa...finally.
She will be put to rest on Tuesday. I hope there are no yellow ribbons....she really hated yellow. Really.
Love you Grandma. Tell Grandpa and the gang we think of them often.
Godspeed.
I think she was more than a grandmother somehow. We travelled from Stockton to Galena every Saturday to visit her. Galena became my second hometown--she another mother. She was stern when needed and comical in an ever so nonchalant way. What Grandma said, she meant. No punches, no lies. A strong woman out of need at a young age.
She was born in 1917. The middle of seven children. Well, somewhere around the middle. Her mother died when she was young. She mothered her siblings at age 13. Her stepmother sent her packing. Although I'm not clear on the whole story, I think that's the gist. I know she had an eye disorder that required strong lenses to correct and getting those glasses was next to impossible. But, she got them, and had beautiful, but sad eyes.
She lived through six wars. Her opinions on those wars I do not know. She sent two of her sons into service. Both returned home. She gave birth to five children. She was a twin, who's counterpart was lost. She said once, that she did, as the reports said, feel the presence of her twin.
She was all American. Patriotic. Love of country. Grateful to it's protectors. When 9-11-01 happened she cried with the rest of us, and was inspired to write yet another poem to commemorate its significance. She was a poet laureate. Published, no less. Her book, "Fireflies" sold many, many copies. I am grateful to have received her gift of word. At one point, she and I were published in the same Anthology. What an honor.
I remember holidays at her house. The smell of ham, or turkey pushing it's way through the door when it was opened. The table was always set for the holiday and she had personal touches at every place. Homemade name cards. Some with glitter. Colored eggs with our names on them. The Christmas cookies!! Oh that "secret" recipe of Grandma Eustice....actually published in the paper! No secret anymore...outstanding. Christmas Eve was the night of magic, when the gifts were exchanged. After everyone has opened theirs, the share began with her inquiries as to what everyone had received.
As a child, I remember our trips to Grandma Sanderson's. If you got there at lunch, you ate whatever was on the table. And it was always something good. Even leftovers taste better at Grandma's. After lunch we took a trip downtown. At the time, Galena was a regular town. An A&P, a dime store, a pharmacy, several bars, and tons of antique shops. Of course, being given a quarter or fifty cents made Ben Franklin my favorite store. Oh, the paper dolls I bought on Grandma's quarters! But we visited all the stores, and I became mildly knowledgeable about antiques. Those stores always smelled funny, but the treasures were unbelievable.
For a week every summer, even as I became a young adult, I spent it at Grandma's. As I laid in Aunt Maureen's old bed, I was awakened by the morning doves and the smell of Grandpa's coffee brewing. In the distance, I could hear the train travelling its mission. Later in the day, just to pass the time, I would walk downtown, over the train tracks...the smell of tar...still takes me back. As I got older my trips would include the pharmacy, just to fawn over the help. I can't tell you what we had for supper. I'm sure it was wonderful, as Grandpa had put in a hard day at the Mobil station, and needed sustenance.
Funny the things you remember. Laying out in the backyard when I was 19 and Grandpa making a comment about my growing up. Staying the week with Janet and going downtown and speaking gibberish to make people think we were tourists. Listening to the DeFrancos and swooning over their pictures in the Music Lyrics magazine I'd purchased. Janet and I doing dishes and singing "Rock The Boat" in harmony. And Uncle Jim telling us we should be in a group.
She was always dressed to the nines. Even at home. But a special event, brought out her best broaches and earrings. Matched perfectly to her outfit. A very classy lady.
She bowled for years. Once retired, she enjoyed trips to Minnesota, Texas and...yep...Vegas. Oh did she love the slots! She brought that love home and spread it around the Dubuque hangouts. She golfed for awhile, not learning until her 70's (60's?). It became another adventure and joy.
She suffered a stroke not long before her 90th birthday. It was devastating to those of us that knew her as the spunky do-it-all lady. She spent her final years in a nursing home, giving joy---and frustration--- to the aids and nurses. Her greatest advocate was Aunt Reen. Reen rode that staff like a rodeo pro. And Grandma got qualified care as a result.
On the 29th of September we celebrated my mother's conquer of another year in the nursing home as the result of a stroke. On that day Grandma was preparing, I think, for her reunion with her love and best dance partner, Grandpa. We, of course prayed for recovery, but something inside of me said that she had had it with this nonsense. When Janet called this morning, I was not surprised at the news. Just very sad. She'd had many wonderful years and memories with those of us that loved her, but her release to God was her prayer, I think. A new world filled with violet fields, cardinals feeding at her heavenly bird feeder. And dancing. The Shag. With Grandpa...finally.
She will be put to rest on Tuesday. I hope there are no yellow ribbons....she really hated yellow. Really.
Love you Grandma. Tell Grandpa and the gang we think of them often.
Godspeed.
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