Supermarket Fury

Going to the supermarket. Christ, is there anything worse? They just get bigger and bigger and when I finally leave I’ve lost 3 hours and wonder if I’ve been abducted by aliens. I know, I know. I’m lucky to have a supermarket to go to. Nonetheless. I feel like I am there every single day of my godless life. And you can’t just go in and buy the one thing you actually need, or at least I can’t, there are always half a dozen other things. Ooh, that’s on sale! Ooh, that’ll be good for dinner! Ooh, my favorite piece of junk food that is not at all good for me but I like to eat anyway! So, even though all I freaking needed was a loaf of bread that I can buy for 40 pence- I end up leaving with £35 worth of groceries. Granted, I buy a lot of reduced stuff that can be frozen and used for future meals, so I save money in the long run. I’m trying to bring my family round to trying the paleo diet, which I gather is just meat and veg and the money I’d save by shopping at the green grocer and the butcher and never setting foot in a supermarket makes me giddy with possibilities, I might finally be able to fix my sons bike! Lo and behold my family likes their carbs, thank you very much, so I may have to employ the use of stealth when making the switch. Though there is always the possibility of the old “I’m paying for the groceries, if you don’t like what I’m buying, get a job and buy your own.” That tends to stop the whining in it’s tracks…

What annoyed me recently (well, ok, a month ago) at the supermarket was the cashier. Usually they just ring the stuff up and make small talk (occasionally with me, usually with a colleague or the customer in front who won’t pick up their damn bags and GO already) but this one decided she needed to comment about what we were buying. Grrr. We’d gone in for only a few items but I’d come across quite a few sale items, of course. So we had three boxes of ice cream bars at 50 pence each for the kids, an apple tart that I thought would be a nice dessert one night for £1. Two boxes of my favorite cornettos, 2 for £2. And some other bits and bobs. Yes, there was a bit of junk. I joked about it to my husband. Yet this cashier decided she need to tell me all about weight watchers. And how half her grocery shopping is always vegetables. I tried to keep things light, and said something about how it’ll be nice when the kids go back to school and arent clamoring for ice cream all the time. To which she replied “Well that’s when you tell them they can have a piece of fruit!”

Sorry, guys. Kids with fat mommies aren't allowed ice cream!

This annoyed me. I didn’t say anything to her, other than just a “Oh, I do!” but the sheer audacity pissed me off. Why pass judgement on my purchases? I have three slim, healthy, active children. One of which prefers to snack on carrots more than anything else, and two who love salad and always have seconds. They arent allowed to drink soda, fast food is a rare treat and all their regular meals are homemade. They get told “If you’re that hungry, have a carrot or a piece of fruit” six times a day. The only one who eats to much junk in my household is me. And clearly I am an adult and perfectly capable of deciding for myself what and how much I eat. I have one child who hates fruit and veg and would prefer to eat junk all day. I don’t allow this. His favorite breakfast item is cereal, which I rarely buy. He has to eat more healthy food. If he doesnt eat his carrots at dinner, he gets no dessert, etc.

I suppose people just like to feel superior and I shouldn’t be offended, but it seems to illustrate once again that fat people are fair game for ridicule. I know I’m fat, I promise I’m not stupid and I really don’t need a lecture from the cashier on the value of eating vegetables. Neither do I need random people assuming that since I am fat, I am a simpleton incapable of appropriate parenting, especially as how the 6 year old next door is never without a can of coke and a packet of sweets, though his mom is thin as a rail. Shockingly enough, I don’t sit around eating junk and watching daytime telly all day, either.

So what I’d like to say to that cashier is this: “Look bitch, it’s the middle of August, the kids are off school and if I want to give them some damn ice cream, I will. And, by virtue of not being stupid, I know exactly how to lose weight when and if I choose to, so I really don’t need you to lecture me about weight watchers and fucking vegetables.”

Seriously, my kitchen is a disaster area.

“I can’t.”

Oh, I can’t even tell you the amount of times I have uttered those two little words in my mind over the last six months or so. I can’t. is what makes me retreat to my bed and curl up under my big fluffy duvet and close my eyes, sometimes sleeping, sometimes crying, sometimes just… laying. Not studying, not writing the assignments that are majorily overdue, not sorting out my kitchen which is still in post move chaos.

I suppose things are not so bleak as previously. I smile and laugh with my children, and enjoy our evening strolls.  I get up early, much as I did before…all this… and the baby and I water the flowers and make breakfast and it is nice. But when the children have gone to school or out to play and the husband is busy and I am faced with the neccessity of working, I freeze up. I can’t. I just can’t.     I make halfhearted efforts to whip the kitchen into shape and congratulate myself when I have cleared some counter space, only to feel dejected when just 12 hours later, it is a mess again. I get out the textbooks and do some reading, but after about 5 pages, realize I have no idea what is being discussed and no understanding of the concepts being explained. I start work on a research report, now 2 months overdue, and freeze 10 words in. I just don’t know what to write, or how to write it.

My doctor told me I had severe depression (what does that even mean?) and that my brain wasn’t working right and I needed to take a break from my studies. I couldn’t bear to do that, so I kept on, and now I’m in a gigantic hole that I can’t seem to climb out of.

This degree means so much to me and I am so dearly afraid it is slipping out of my grasp. At some point after my husband hung my whiteboard over my desk, my kids and my husband wrote messages on it. They say “You can do it!”  “You know you can do it, silly!” “PASS!” and lots of smiley faces.   When I saw that for the first time, my heart leapt. I am so so lucky to have them. They believe in me, and they love me and I don’t want to let them down. Yet, that seems to be the only thing I feel I actually can do at the moment.

I am here. I feel a bit like I’m glued to the seat of the roundabout in my kids favorite park. Just endlessly spinning round and round, dizzy and unable to focus on anything. But, I am here.

And, I have chocolate.

 

 

"If just one person believes in you, deep enough and strong enough..."

I can’t.

If there were ever two words to describe what depression feels like.

– Dooce.com

20/20

My eldest son has what I imagine is about the worst vision possible this side of legal blindness. Nobody knew this until he was about 6. I suppose a lot of his early behaviour issues probably were closely linked, but I was a young first time mother and oscilliated between privately thinking my child was crazy or completely normal. I didn’t know. Oddly enough, I don’t remember the first time it was suggested he may have a vision problem, whether it was before or after his teachers tried to convince me he had ADD and to medicate him, his first vision test, or even his first pair of glasses. I don’t even remember the first time I learned how poor his vision was, perhaps I blocked it out because not a day goes by that I don’t berate myself for unintentionally letting him go through his first years of life like that. Shocking to me is that my child was forcibly taken from me and circumcised while he screamed and I begged them not to, but checking his vision was not a priority for nearly 6 years. (I gather the APA’s priorities are slightly different now, we can but hope.)

My daughter had her vision tested at my firm insistence early on and, thankfully, it was perfect. I have not worried about Rafe’s vision as he has not exhibited any signs of vision trouble, and here in the UK, the health visitors are pretty on top of it. But, it’s been awhile since Rafe has seen a health visitor and rarely needs to go to the doctor and since he is school age, I thought it should be professionally checked. The morning of the appointment, I kicked myself for not insisting it be done when he was much younger, for once again putting my faith in the professionals and I was terrified it was going to be a similar case to my older sons. Thankfully, it was not. I had prepared him for the appointment beforehand and he quite enjoyed wearing all the funny contraptions and telling the eye doctor what the symbols on the wall were. He really wanted to use the letters and not the symbols, but wasn’t quite confident enough in letter names (they teach them the sounds first.)

To be told he had 20/20 vision made me want to cry with happiness. I suppose I wouldn’t go so far as to call my eldest son’s poor vision a disability, but I imagine the relief I felt knowing my younger children will not have to endure the same challenges and pain that he has must be equal to that of any mother, who aches to see one child suffer and rejoices to know their siblings will not.

Rafey

Yes, that is a Santa hat next to him. The fact that he was wearing a Santa hat in August greatly offended the cleaning guy we passed, who felt the need to point out Christmas was 4 months (is that all? Shit- I’m still in 6 months away mode!) away, and then a moment later, having apparently decided he was super annoyed, informed me it was at least 130 days away! (144 days to Christmas, actually. 89 until Halloween and, most important in this house- 227 days until Rafe’s 6th birthday. This kid is on top of his holidays!)

worry, strife and a really uncomfortable bed

We all know how suddenly things happen, lives change. Very often it is the telephone, Alexander Graham Bell’s ingenious invention, that is the harbinger of bad news. Nearly two weeks ago at a few minutes to 2:00, I received a telephone call. I’d been out that day, escorting my youngest sons class on a trip to the library, the walking and the keeping a close eye on and entertaining 4 small children had left me feeling a bit drained and so I settled in to watch a bit of tv with the husband before getting back to my coursework. I had momentarily considered not answering the phone, it being all the way upstairs and me feeling so tired and comfortable on the couch. But, with three kids in three different schools the odds are always in favour of it being one of the schools. So, I rushed up the stairs and leapt on it. And I was right. It was a school. But, not phoning to ask me to collect an ill child (like today), or to bring in that £2 for that school lunch from 3 months ago (like yesterday) or even to schedule a meeting or ask about an after school club or any other mundane thing. No. It was the call you hope you never get from the school.

“Hello, Mrs. G?”
“This is Devon’s school. Could you come to the school please? There’s been an accident, we’ve called the ambulance and they’re on their way”

This is where you stop breathing. This is the split second where your life changes. The moment before you know for sure if your child, who was fit and well and happy and fed and dry and warm and loved only six hours ago when you kissed him goodbye and reminded him to put his best foot forward as he left for school, is alive or dead.

“We think he’s broken his leg.”

And, like that, you can breathe again. You promise to be right there. Rush downstairs, slip your sandals on, calmly tell your husband “It’s the school, they think he’s broken his leg, we need to go”, rush outside, jump in the car and spend the next 5 minutes swearing about the fact you had to send your kid to the school that takes twice the time to get to as the closer one.

the side entrance. Straight into the emergency dep't. and his own special room.

One torturously long walk across the school campus, 20 minutes trying to comfort a teenager alternating between screaming and sucking gas and air and a light and siren ambulance ride later, I was here. Pacing, worrying, not crying.

They didn't know where to take him at first. Is a tall 13 year old still a child?

His thigh had doubled in size, it was hugely swollen and oddly discoloured. But there was no wound, no blood, no bone sticking out. No one could say if it was broken or not, we just had to wait for the xray. We waited. They told me the femur is the biggest and strongest bone in the body, it’s pretty hard to break it, they said. Especially at school. It’s usually car crashes, they said.

snapped.

Usually. Suddenly he was famous. The ambulance crew were back, they crowded around the xray to have a look, then Devon’s bed to more or less congratulate him on achieving a 71mph motorcycle crash injury.

Eventually Devon was taken to the adolescents ward and we spent the night. He was on a heavy dose of morphine and slept and threw up most of the night. The next day, four hours after he was scheduled, he went in for surgery. As I left him in the operating theatre, after telling him I loved him and watching the anaesthetic take hold, knocking him out cold, I finally started to cry. Leaving my child, unconscious, in a strange room, full of strange equipment with strangers who were going to slice his leg open and screw a metal plate to his bone while chatting about their day or their plans for the weekend, went against every maternal instinct I have and I wanted to scoop him up and just run far, far away. Logic dictates I wouldn’t have gotten very far, however what with him being almost a foot taller than I and weighing 50kgs of mostly muscle. Also, I probably would’ve brought him straight back anyway, once he’d been without his morphine long enough to start screaming again. So, I let myself be led out of the room, and the hospital to fetch my little ones from school, while they operated.

He was in surgery about 3 hours, and unconscious another 3 after that. It was a long night, waiting for him to come back to his room, and then to wake up.

out for the count

awake, but tired.

In total we stayed 5 nights. The nurses were lovely, but the parents bed was awful, the “parents” break room dreadful, and getting any useful information out of anyone was akin to breaking through the iron curtain with a heavy stick. I was grateful to get home.

Devon broke his femur, which was repaired using a metal plate and 5 screws. He’s not allowed to put any weight on the leg for 6 weeks, and is living in the living room, only occasionally getting off the couch with the use of crutches or a walker, due to the weight of the huge cast on his leg. He’s likely out of school for the remainder of the year, and no action has been taken against the pupil who threw himself at my son and broke his leg. It’s being called an “accident”, which I suppose is code for “no one wants to take responsibility or even apologize so you should just accept it and get over it”

My intention to “sue” the school for negligence is currently being treated as unreasonable and as if I’m just out for money.

Almost two weeks since the "accident", and still no apology from the boy who did it.

Getting Ready For Braces

Him: “I want them to be neon pink”

Me: “Son, this is the NHS, you’ll be lucky if they haven’t been fashioned out of coke tins in the back room”

Mom

I’ve mentioned here that my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer last summer.  She had surgery and the cancer was removed and she’s now healthy and happy. Mostly recovered and back to work.

Finances prevented me from going home to be with her during all that, as much as I wanted to. It tore me up, not being able to be there. As much as my sister and I would prefer to just forget each other exists, I have to acknowledge her role in moms recovery. She gave up time off work, missed classes, and was just there for mom, every step of the way. I am very grateful for that.

My mom and I have talked about having video chats before but never really went further then that. Finally we decided to do it, and we set up skype and  I got to see my mom. For the first time in over a year.  It was good to see her looking healthy. But it really brought it home to me, again, what she had been through. How strong she had been.  It is the hardest part of living in another country. I have never been back to visit, it is far to expensive, and far from being preserved in a time capsule, my family is carrying on with their lives without me.  My mom has been diagnosed with and survived cancer. My nieces are not little girls anymore. My sister has lost a lot of weight, is doing great at her job, studying for a career in forensics, and jets off to see her boyfriend in Florida whenever she can. My big brother is knocking on the door of 40.

I think I have finally accepted that this is where I live now, this is my life. That isn’t going to change. But part of me is afraid, I will never see them again, never see my hometown again, part of me is afraid I will never be able to go back and fix things.  Getting on a plane is easy. Realizing that everything you leave behind on the ground doesn’t just stop because you are gone, that’s hard.

We are planning on moving down under as part of our ten year plan. I am excited about that possibility, but also, worried. I don’t think I’ll be able to do that without going home first. Without accepting that my life didn’t stop when I got on that plane either, that I have to grow and move on as well.

Ectopic heartbeat

It started with me doing nothing. Sitting on the couch, watching tv, I imagine. Suddenly, a drop. Literally, it felt as if something in my chest had just dropped. This was followed by that funny butterfly feeling you sometimes get in your stomach, but in my chest and accompanied by a swiftly rising panic. The kind you get when a very specific thought flashes through your brain- “I can’t breathe.” Then, a monster thump, almost like being kicked in the chest, and it was gone. The butterflies, the pressure on my chest that made me think I couldn’t breathe, the panic. Everything was fine, again. Except, I was bewildered, worried.

The next day, another one. Sitting on the couch, studying this time. The next day, lying in bed. The next day, two. Then the day after that,  late in the evening, walking around the shop picking up last minute items for my sons food tech class in the morning, they began again, this time coming thick and fast, only 1-3 minutes between them. I started to feel as if I couldn’t breathe even between attacks, the lights of the shop became very bright, the environment taking on a surreal feeling, I felt lightheaded, almost dizzy, panic rising that I would collapse, that it actually was some sort of bizarre heart attack, even yes, that I would die. In fucking Asda.

My husband asked if he should take me to the hospital. I reluctantly nodded. We paid for the groceries. “Please don’t let me die in Asda. Please, for fuck sake, don’t die in Asda.” Then walked to the car. “Should we call an ambulance instead? Am I freaking out for nothing?”  During the drive, they became more regular, coming every 3 minutes. Thankfully, we live close to a hospital.

At the emergency room, I only had to wait a few minutes to be called to the counter. She asked what the problem was and I told her. She did not immediately turn white or shout for a doctor. Therefore, I decided I must be fine and asked my husband to take me home. He said no. (Bastard.) She did have me sit in the wheelchair though. (The wheelchair is special, it means you will be whisked away imminently instead of sitting back down in the waiting room and waiting for someone to get back from break and see you) Sure, enough within 3 minutes I had been whisked away into the triage unit, told to take my top off, and strapped to an ECG machine. At which point, the episodes, which had been going strong, stopped completely.  They took blood, did another *normal* ECG. Then, another normal ECG. I told them they were still coming, even when I wasn’t hooked up. So, they hooked me up to a continuos monitoring device. I lay there for an hour, listening to a man a few beds over screaming in pain and begging not to be touched. A nurse said to another, “Bed 7 isn’t due until 10 to 2:00, so best to just let him sleep. Best to be careful when you do though, he’s unpredictable, might make a grab for you, might be good to have security with you.” I drifted in and out of sleep, occasionally jerking awake as my heart kept dropping on and off the grid.

Eventually I woke to find a doctor standing above me. My bloods had come back normal, bar a slightly high white cell count. He could see the events on the monitor, a spike, which immediately spiked again, 1/2 as much, and levelled out, before returning to normal. He started by telling me I have a condition called Ventricular Ectopic.   The best way to explain, I suppose, is simply by saying that normally there is one area of your heart that gives the command to beat when the chambers fill with blood.  Sometimes another part of the heart gets a bit fed up with always having to do what the first one says, and decides that SHE will give the command, except she has no idea what she’s doing and the command is to early, and there isn’t enough blood to pump out yet. The part of your heart that is supposed to give the signal just carries on as normal.  So, the screwy beat is compensated for. When I noted that it sounded scary, he assured me it was normal and benign. I had two more while he spoke and he showed them to me on the monitor. He explained there really isn’t anything to do to get rid of them, that maybe eventually I will stop being aware of them, but if not, then yes I could spend the rest of my life with it.

I did a little googling and discovered that the condition is know as an “ectopic heartbeat”, and is fairly common. Some people seem terrified by it, and spend their lives trying to find some sort of cure for it.  Apparently it can be controlled using drugs for other heart conditions, but it seems unnecessary. Having said that, I think those same people are the ones who have hundreds or thousands of ectopic heartbeats a day, though, so I don’t really blame them.

It’s been a bit hard to get used to it. When it’s a quiet day, ectopic heartbeat wise, then I barely think about it. When they happen but are small, I barely register them. But when they are big, when they happen in a string, then it is frightening. I think “What if they are wrong? What if it’s actually something serious?”  But, I force myself to breath, and they go and all is well again.

My only real fear is that combined with another heart condition, they can lead to “sudden death”, so I’d like to minimise my risk of heart attack as much as possible. But, I think I’ve got a few more years before I really need to worry about that, all the more reason to lose the weight, though, right?