Offspring has been playing with a friend who lives down the street, and she loves dogs. When they play here, she gloms onto Dog and just loves him. I taken to walking Dog with them, where I double leash Dog so that she can walk him, but I have secondary backup controls in case he sees a: cat, squirrel, rabbit, goose, or duck. In those cases, Dog yanks the leash so hard that he has actually* pulled me over once he spies one or more of those creatures. His prey drive is strong and intact - to say the least.
Today, she came over after school and we took Dog for a walk. I double leashed Dog, but this time attached him with a long leash to Wheeler's chair and a short one for her. Unlike me, Dog physically incapable of pulling Wheeler's chair even one inch - with him in it, the chair is almost 500 pounds. That and Offspring was sitting in Wheeler's lap today during the walk, so add another 50 pounds. We went up and around the far edge of the lake, and I let Dog go .... and go and go! He ran like the wwww-iiiii-nnnn-dddd with absolute sheer joy in every gallop leap and turn. Then, he ran pell mell into the it-surely-must-be-cold-in-November lake up to his belly so that he was covered in water, dirt and utterly disgusting green algae. HE STUNK. Badly!! That little adventure ensured that I'd be giving him a much needed (even before his lake run) bath tonight.
We're walking back from the lake and Offspring's friend was again lamenting the fact that her parents won't let her get a dog. My son decided to be helpful and explained how to procure her much wanted dog.
OK, here's what you do. You BEG. You just say please please please please PLEASE PLEASE pleasepleasepleaseplease until they get so sick of it they say ok eventually. That's what I do!
Ahhhhhh, that's my boy. Sharing wisdom (and my parenting weaknesses) with the world.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
I am Poodle. Pamper me.
I'm on the back porch. Trying to look casual. Turning on the water, pretending to water my plants. My mom quietly brings out two ratty towels wrapped around a bottle, and hands them to me as if dropping off a covert package between spies.
Damn.
He saw the shampoo bottle.
This means that now I have to come in off the back porch and chase Dog, who was previously whining to come on the back porch with me, all over the house. He knows. Shampoo bottle = bath. And despite his breed being a WATER DOG, he loathes a bath. Absolutely hates it with a passion.
So I chased him around the house, eventually cornering him in a bedroom upstairs. Then I have to drrrrrag him down the stairs and out the door, with the DRAGGING becoming harder and harder the closer we get to the back door. Hosed him down, lathered him up, with him getting lower and lower to the ground the whole time. And just when he hits maximum suds + water?
SHHHHHHHAAAAKKKKKKKKKKKKE!
Which of course soaks me entirely. He looks at me as if to say "see?!". Finish washing, rinsing (with several more shakes in there) and dry him off with the aforementioned ratty towels.
Now, the poodle part kicks in.
Its dark, so I can't just set him in the sunshine to dry. I call him and he follows me up the stairs into the bathroom, and he sits down expectantly. He knows what comes next. The hair dryer. Ahhhhhhh. He hearts the hair dryer. Seriously. He loves the hair dryer! I dry him, with him turning his head up, down, side to side, and then? He lifts his paw. Seriously. "Please dry me under here too, thank you my servant owner".
Good grief.
Damn.
He saw the shampoo bottle.
This means that now I have to come in off the back porch and chase Dog, who was previously whining to come on the back porch with me, all over the house. He knows. Shampoo bottle = bath. And despite his breed being a WATER DOG, he loathes a bath. Absolutely hates it with a passion.
So I chased him around the house, eventually cornering him in a bedroom upstairs. Then I have to drrrrrag him down the stairs and out the door, with the DRAGGING becoming harder and harder the closer we get to the back door. Hosed him down, lathered him up, with him getting lower and lower to the ground the whole time. And just when he hits maximum suds + water?
SHHHHHHHAAAAKKKKKKKKKKKKE!
Which of course soaks me entirely. He looks at me as if to say "see?!". Finish washing, rinsing (with several more shakes in there) and dry him off with the aforementioned ratty towels.
Now, the poodle part kicks in.
Its dark, so I can't just set him in the sunshine to dry. I call him and he follows me up the stairs into the bathroom, and he sits down expectantly. He knows what comes next. The hair dryer. Ahhhhhhh. He hearts the hair dryer. Seriously. He loves the hair dryer! I dry him, with him turning his head up, down, side to side, and then? He lifts his paw. Seriously. "Please dry me under here too, thank you my servant owner".
Good grief.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Six Word Memoirs
I have this book from the library (see 2 ago previous entry) called "Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs By Famous and Obscure". They are wickedly awesome and surprisingly diverse. Some of the ones I really, really like are below. Some I like for their pithiness, some for their closeness to my own experiences, and some are just funny.
A sake mom, not soccer mom.
Tombstone won't say "Had health insurance".
Wasted time regressed so changed life.
Catholic school backfired! Sin is in.
Made a mess. Cleaned it up.
Bad brakes discovered at high speed. <-- I think this is me
I was born. Some assembly required.
I'm enjoying even this downward dance.
I recognize red flags faster now.
Macular degeneration. Didn't see that coming.
No words can describe my life.
Red diaper baby, hippie bourgeoise adult <-- I wrote my overcoming upbringing one before I read this one
Girlfriend is pregnant my husband said.
I was and now I'm not.
In a Manolo world I'm Keds.
I'm just here for the beer!
I've been thinking of my six word memoir candidates. So far I have:
Crazy. Worth effort to be with.
One mom. One boy. Happiness found.
Had career, lost it, was happier.
Free spirit overcame straightlaced conservative upbringing
And Offspring came up with this one, which is the title of this blog:
It wasn't funny ... at the time.
And also:
If it's fun, don't do it.
What is/are yours?
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Wee wee wee bee bee bee music
Did you know that there is an XM/Sirius station that is only Elvis songs (note: also sung by Elvis, no covers). Well, there is. There is also a station that is only Jimmy Buffet (note: no covers either). These are the only two stations my dad ever listens to. EVER! For real, I'm not joking. The only station my mom listens to is the sixties channel. EVER! OK, sometimes she listens to 40s ands sometimes to 50s and gasps, sometimes to Faux News. Jesus H. Christ, help me.
Even Offspring is uber sick of sixties though, he exasperately asked me awhile back "Mom, why does grandma always listen to the "wee-wee-wee-bee-bee-bee" station? (think chipmunk voice). I said it was because she grew up listening to that music and she still liked it. He asked if I grew up listening to 60s, and I said no. He asked what I grew up listening to and I said the 80s. He said "But mom, you so totally don't listen to the 80s! Why is grandma stuck in the past?! Geeesh. That crap gets on my very last nerve. The apple doesn't fall from the tree eh - in both the manner of speaking and our mutual annoyance of listening to the 60s ad infinitum.
So my parents and I (sans Offspring) were driving to go out for dinner last night and as always, the car was tuned to the sixties channel. I asked if we could puuhhhhhleaze turn the station to something in, say, this century. Much to my shock, my dad agreed, and switched it to a top 40 station (I had to tell him which one though, as 18, 56, 6 and Faux News are all that he knows). Turning it to the station I requested, an Eminem song that I absolutely love was on - that one with Rhianna, I Love the Way You Lie. I love that song, and I said as much, that its on my ipod. Befoere I had to fully process that hmm, maybe this wasn't the best song to have playing just now, here is where the song picked up, with the lyrics bangin' slammin' loud (cuz my dad is partially deaf, he can't hear unless it is TURNED UP TOO LOUD FOR EVERYONE ELSE):
Baby it was me
Maybe our relationship
Isn't as crazy as it seems
Maybe that's what happens
When a tornado meets a volcano
All I know is
I love you too much
To walk away though
Come inside
Pick up your bags off the sidewalk
Don't you hear sincerity
In my voice when I talk
Told you this is my fault
Look me in the eyeball
Next time I'm pissed
I'll aim my fist
At the dry wall
Next time
There will be no next time
I apologize
Even though I know it's lies
I'm tired of the games
I just want her back
I know I'm a liar
If she ever tries to fucking leave again
I'mma tie her to the bed
And set the house on fire
Needless to say, I'll never hear anything but wee-wee-wee-bee-bee-bee ever again in the car. Sigh.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Me versus the bee
I was sitting on the front porch yesterday, reading a book, happily minding my own business when I heard a prop engine plane approaching me. As in 10 feet away approaching me. And it wasn't a prop plane, it was a giant, huge, large, massive, did-i-say-BIG bee. I'm talking 2 inches long, and about half again as wide. It looked like a small barrel with wings. And a stinger. And antennae. I think I might have even glimpsed a tatoo. This was the mack dady of all bees. The QE2 of bees. The 747 of bees. OK, I think you get the idea, it was a big ass bee.
I froze in place because I have always had a nearly pathological fear of bees. I've only been stung once - by a wasp when I was 31 years old, but I've been terrified of them all my life. When I was stung by the wasp, it was because I disturbed their nest inadvertantly - I was trimming the hedges in the front yard when I must have also trimmed their nest. I suddenly was surrounded by wasps (it still gives me heart palpitations thinking about it now, a decade later). I was really lucky that only one managed to sting me. And the sting didn't feel like I expected, it didn't sting, it felt like a dull nail was being hammered into me.
So I know that bees don't want to sting, they just want to fly around, eat pollen and get happy. If you don't bother them, they don't bother you. I have very slowly over the years gone from trying to jump out of a car going 30 mph when a wasp came through the window [really, I did - I unbuckled my seat belt with left hand and began to open my door with my right hand, only the driver reaching over and grabbing my left arm hard and pulling me back in saved me] to trying to freeze in place when I see them and wait for them to retreat. But its the buzzzzzzzz that gets me. I am petrified when I hear that low bzzzzzzzz sound, and this big boy, its sound was BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. It was SO loud, and soooooo scary. My coping technique is to close my eyes, cover my ears, and then count to 20, by which time it is usually gone (although not always) ... and then I flee. Which is what I did. He was gone, I ran in the house, hyperventilated, and swore to myself I would not go back outside until at least November.
It was sooo nice though, just gorgeous. I decided to try again. I went back out, sat for a few minutes. Then, BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. He was back. This time, I couldn't escape. I covered my eyes and ears two times and he was still flying around the porch each time I opened my eyes. Finally, he started going down the ramp towards the yard, and I figured I could make my escape. But that was when Dogette, who was sitting at the top of the ramp, saw an irresistable toy (the bee). She perked up, which caught the bee's attention, which further intrigued Dogette. Then the bee started circling her tail, which she beat furiously, whirling in circles, trying to investigate this very interesting and noisy toy (the bee). At this point I realized I was in mortal danger. The bee was pissed off. Dogette didn't know that a pissed off bee is a tres uber very bad thing. I was too close to the front door to just jump up and run in, at least in my estimation, because I was afraid it would see my movement as more interesting than Dogette's movement, and follow me. And if followed me in the house I would have to either a) kill it or b) move out until the bee died of natural causes.
So I sat still. In a total panic. Every time I closed my eyes and opened them, the bee and Dogette were still locked in mortal combat. She was swatting it with her paw, it was dive bombing her repeatedly .... and I will admit here, that I kinda hoped that it would sting her in lieu of stinging me, I know, I am a tres uber very bad person. Better her than me, right? Then finally, the bee flew far enough away that Dogette lost interest.
Whew.
Until.
The bee now started flying in and around Dog's interesting, floofy poodle tail. He was farther down the ramp off into the yard about 10 feet away. I obsessively watched the bee and Dog. Relying on my multiple degrees in mathemagic, I calculated (on the fly, in a near panic), the optimal vector and timing of my escape. I inched sllllllowly towards the door. I needed to be absolutely sure that the amount of time it would take me to open it, back in (so as to keep my eye on the bee) and shut the door was clearly exceed the amount of time it would take the bee to fly at his top speed to my location. As I waited (and now half hoped for Dog to be stung so as to remove all danger from me, I'm a bad person, I know), the bee miraculously decided to go check out a bush farther out in the yard. This was my chance!! I bolted in the house, shut the door, obsessively looked everywhere around the door to make sure the bee didn't possess a covert warp drive and had managed to come in the house.
He hadn't.
The end.
And yes, I am the only person I know (and probably you know, or ever will know in the course of your lifetime) who can write this much about an encounter with a bee.
I froze in place because I have always had a nearly pathological fear of bees. I've only been stung once - by a wasp when I was 31 years old, but I've been terrified of them all my life. When I was stung by the wasp, it was because I disturbed their nest inadvertantly - I was trimming the hedges in the front yard when I must have also trimmed their nest. I suddenly was surrounded by wasps (it still gives me heart palpitations thinking about it now, a decade later). I was really lucky that only one managed to sting me. And the sting didn't feel like I expected, it didn't sting, it felt like a dull nail was being hammered into me.
So I know that bees don't want to sting, they just want to fly around, eat pollen and get happy. If you don't bother them, they don't bother you. I have very slowly over the years gone from trying to jump out of a car going 30 mph when a wasp came through the window [really, I did - I unbuckled my seat belt with left hand and began to open my door with my right hand, only the driver reaching over and grabbing my left arm hard and pulling me back in saved me] to trying to freeze in place when I see them and wait for them to retreat. But its the buzzzzzzzz that gets me. I am petrified when I hear that low bzzzzzzzz sound, and this big boy, its sound was BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. It was SO loud, and soooooo scary. My coping technique is to close my eyes, cover my ears, and then count to 20, by which time it is usually gone (although not always) ... and then I flee. Which is what I did. He was gone, I ran in the house, hyperventilated, and swore to myself I would not go back outside until at least November.
It was sooo nice though, just gorgeous. I decided to try again. I went back out, sat for a few minutes. Then, BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. He was back. This time, I couldn't escape. I covered my eyes and ears two times and he was still flying around the porch each time I opened my eyes. Finally, he started going down the ramp towards the yard, and I figured I could make my escape. But that was when Dogette, who was sitting at the top of the ramp, saw an irresistable toy (the bee). She perked up, which caught the bee's attention, which further intrigued Dogette. Then the bee started circling her tail, which she beat furiously, whirling in circles, trying to investigate this very interesting and noisy toy (the bee). At this point I realized I was in mortal danger. The bee was pissed off. Dogette didn't know that a pissed off bee is a tres uber very bad thing. I was too close to the front door to just jump up and run in, at least in my estimation, because I was afraid it would see my movement as more interesting than Dogette's movement, and follow me. And if followed me in the house I would have to either a) kill it or b) move out until the bee died of natural causes.
So I sat still. In a total panic. Every time I closed my eyes and opened them, the bee and Dogette were still locked in mortal combat. She was swatting it with her paw, it was dive bombing her repeatedly .... and I will admit here, that I kinda hoped that it would sting her in lieu of stinging me, I know, I am a tres uber very bad person. Better her than me, right? Then finally, the bee flew far enough away that Dogette lost interest.
Whew.
Until.
The bee now started flying in and around Dog's interesting, floofy poodle tail. He was farther down the ramp off into the yard about 10 feet away. I obsessively watched the bee and Dog. Relying on my multiple degrees in mathemagic, I calculated (on the fly, in a near panic), the optimal vector and timing of my escape. I inched sllllllowly towards the door. I needed to be absolutely sure that the amount of time it would take me to open it, back in (so as to keep my eye on the bee) and shut the door was clearly exceed the amount of time it would take the bee to fly at his top speed to my location. As I waited (and now half hoped for Dog to be stung so as to remove all danger from me, I'm a bad person, I know), the bee miraculously decided to go check out a bush farther out in the yard. This was my chance!! I bolted in the house, shut the door, obsessively looked everywhere around the door to make sure the bee didn't possess a covert warp drive and had managed to come in the house.
He hadn't.
The end.
And yes, I am the only person I know (and probably you know, or ever will know in the course of your lifetime) who can write this much about an encounter with a bee.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Thoughts from a really weird wedding
Weird in the good sense. Weird is a high compliment here, as it makes you ONE OF US, to be weird.
In no particular order, just the order they pop into my head:
The girls (meant broadly since I'm not really a spring chicken) all got to wear whatever dress we wanted - as long as it was black and/or red. I loved how Bride phrased it "I want you all to look like YOU". We all felt comfortable and it made it such a neat assortment of outfits. Wellll, except one (just don't ask about the striped socks). And I must say that I wore 4 inch red satin stilettos, against direct medical advice but they were soooooo sexy I just couldn't not. But after 10 mins I gave up and switched into more sensible shoes. Maureen couldn't walk with her 4.5 inch shoes on the cobblestones and ended up going barefoot in her fishnets for the whole thing - pics, ceremony, reception. I forgot Offspring's shoes at the hotel, so he wore bright red snow boots with his fancy evening wear. Hey, it matched the theme: black, red, and weird.
An elf crashed the reception. Really. A guy wearing a head to toe green and red elf costume (presumably on clearnace after christmas) with a blinking red light on his cap. Everyone assumed somebody else knew him. But it turns out, no one did.
When asking the formality "If anyone here objects, please state your objections now", a guy jumped out of his seat and attacked Groom with a light sabre. More notably, Groom fought back. And won. There were also light sabers at the reception. Every guest got one, if you were under 5 feet tall, you got two (that was an on the fly rule). When they danced their first dance, the whole place spontaneously lit up their sabers and waved them, lighter style, during the dancing. *word*
I was the maid of honor. No one calls me a maid, and I certainly have no honor, but I was VERY honored to be the maid of honor. However, the down side was that the wedding ceremony was right in front of a huge roaring fire in a gorgeous fireplace and I was front and center in its path. OMG, I though I was going to melt. I surreptiously asked the other girls to scooch down so that my hair wouldn't pull a Michael Jackson Pepsi move, I had on so much hairspray it felt like a linebacker's helmet.
During the ceremony, the bride and groom exchanged heartfelt vows (although barely heard through Bride's sniffling, geeez), after which there was an awkward pause where the officiant looked a bit like a deer caught in headlights. As we all started looking around trying to figure out what to do next, Daughter - now imagine her, in a gorgeous satin red frock, white faux-fur shawl, red hair bow - shouts "Now .... KISS!", waving her hands at them as if to say WELL DUH! After the laughter died down, they exchanged rings (that's the bit that was supposed to be after the vows that everyone seemed to forget) - then the officiant leaned over and stage whispered to Daughter "do it again". Daughter then proclaimed, loudly and with even more gusto, the kind that only Daughter can muster NOW KISS!!!
Someone made the cake. Like an actual person who attended the wedding, and it was a real cake, not a fancy pancy wedding cake that looks more like art than food. It was peanut butter and m&ms. How awesome is that?! And, Bride ensured I had gluten free food. She's the bestest. And the food was awesome, really really good. With an open bar, and as a driver, I made sure I ate ALOT of food.
Groom and Bride have some cool friends. And I finally met a friend, whom I've known online for 10 years and only just now met face to face there for the first time. Ian was alright too. If he hadn't been, this friend and I would have ...... "lost" .... the groom and there would be no groovy photos and stories. And if he ever looks at her sideways for the rest of his life ... she and I will .... well, let's just keep that a surprise. In reality, Groom ROCKS way super much. Don't tell him tho, it'll go to his head.
They actually got married Wed night at a tiny courthouse by a very cute, old, and prone to rambling about toothpaste, judge. Right after that, Groom freaked and had his wedding ring cut off his finger. No joke. Long story. But they're still married, you can swell up too big for the ring, but you're stuck with the girl forever. And the $15 ring we bought near midnight at walmart on new year's eve worked just fine for the ceremony. It'll make a great story for the grandkids someday. Hell, it was already funny as it was happening!
Groom and Daughter had a daddy daughter dance, he held her and she put her head on his shoulder and they danced to Anti-Lullaby, a song he sings to her at night. I cried. It was just so beautiful and made me see immediately why Bride loves him so much. And right after the ceremony, Son said to Groom as we were going up the stairs to the reception "Now we're an official family now, right? OFFICIALLY?" and he said yes. They may be an unusual family but an amazing one.
On the way home, it took us 90 mins to go the first 25 miles. I was very annoyed. The wiper fluid froze up in the thingies (the technical term is actually Thingie-Dingies 2.1 twin pack) and I had to use the posts of my ruby earrings to clear out the ice. Oh, and it only worked on one side after that. Not my side of course.
There is a great place called Mama on the Half Shell in Baltimore that is awesome. We used the GPS to find seafood in Baltimore, and the first place I picked was closed. The second place was closed. We finally struck gold on the third try - it was fabulous. I tried oysters for the first time. I can't quite get the point of eating them since you just gulp them down like a tablet of tylenol. Wheeler says they put wood in your pencil. But I write with a pen!!
Congrats, Groom* and Bride, Son and Daughter. I love you ALL so very much.
*as long as you stay on my good side.
In no particular order, just the order they pop into my head:
The girls (meant broadly since I'm not really a spring chicken) all got to wear whatever dress we wanted - as long as it was black and/or red. I loved how Bride phrased it "I want you all to look like YOU". We all felt comfortable and it made it such a neat assortment of outfits. Wellll, except one (just don't ask about the striped socks). And I must say that I wore 4 inch red satin stilettos, against direct medical advice but they were soooooo sexy I just couldn't not. But after 10 mins I gave up and switched into more sensible shoes. Maureen couldn't walk with her 4.5 inch shoes on the cobblestones and ended up going barefoot in her fishnets for the whole thing - pics, ceremony, reception. I forgot Offspring's shoes at the hotel, so he wore bright red snow boots with his fancy evening wear. Hey, it matched the theme: black, red, and weird.
An elf crashed the reception. Really. A guy wearing a head to toe green and red elf costume (presumably on clearnace after christmas) with a blinking red light on his cap. Everyone assumed somebody else knew him. But it turns out, no one did.
When asking the formality "If anyone here objects, please state your objections now", a guy jumped out of his seat and attacked Groom with a light sabre. More notably, Groom fought back. And won. There were also light sabers at the reception. Every guest got one, if you were under 5 feet tall, you got two (that was an on the fly rule). When they danced their first dance, the whole place spontaneously lit up their sabers and waved them, lighter style, during the dancing. *word*
I was the maid of honor. No one calls me a maid, and I certainly have no honor, but I was VERY honored to be the maid of honor. However, the down side was that the wedding ceremony was right in front of a huge roaring fire in a gorgeous fireplace and I was front and center in its path. OMG, I though I was going to melt. I surreptiously asked the other girls to scooch down so that my hair wouldn't pull a Michael Jackson Pepsi move, I had on so much hairspray it felt like a linebacker's helmet.
During the ceremony, the bride and groom exchanged heartfelt vows (although barely heard through Bride's sniffling, geeez), after which there was an awkward pause where the officiant looked a bit like a deer caught in headlights. As we all started looking around trying to figure out what to do next, Daughter - now imagine her, in a gorgeous satin red frock, white faux-fur shawl, red hair bow - shouts "Now .... KISS!", waving her hands at them as if to say WELL DUH! After the laughter died down, they exchanged rings (that's the bit that was supposed to be after the vows that everyone seemed to forget) - then the officiant leaned over and stage whispered to Daughter "do it again". Daughter then proclaimed, loudly and with even more gusto, the kind that only Daughter can muster NOW KISS!!!
Someone made the cake. Like an actual person who attended the wedding, and it was a real cake, not a fancy pancy wedding cake that looks more like art than food. It was peanut butter and m&ms. How awesome is that?! And, Bride ensured I had gluten free food. She's the bestest. And the food was awesome, really really good. With an open bar, and as a driver, I made sure I ate ALOT of food.
Groom and Bride have some cool friends. And I finally met a friend, whom I've known online for 10 years and only just now met face to face there for the first time. Ian was alright too. If he hadn't been, this friend and I would have ...... "lost" .... the groom and there would be no groovy photos and stories. And if he ever looks at her sideways for the rest of his life ... she and I will .... well, let's just keep that a surprise. In reality, Groom ROCKS way super much. Don't tell him tho, it'll go to his head.
They actually got married Wed night at a tiny courthouse by a very cute, old, and prone to rambling about toothpaste, judge. Right after that, Groom freaked and had his wedding ring cut off his finger. No joke. Long story. But they're still married, you can swell up too big for the ring, but you're stuck with the girl forever. And the $15 ring we bought near midnight at walmart on new year's eve worked just fine for the ceremony. It'll make a great story for the grandkids someday. Hell, it was already funny as it was happening!
Groom and Daughter had a daddy daughter dance, he held her and she put her head on his shoulder and they danced to Anti-Lullaby, a song he sings to her at night. I cried. It was just so beautiful and made me see immediately why Bride loves him so much. And right after the ceremony, Son said to Groom as we were going up the stairs to the reception "Now we're an official family now, right? OFFICIALLY?" and he said yes. They may be an unusual family but an amazing one.
On the way home, it took us 90 mins to go the first 25 miles. I was very annoyed. The wiper fluid froze up in the thingies (the technical term is actually Thingie-Dingies 2.1 twin pack) and I had to use the posts of my ruby earrings to clear out the ice. Oh, and it only worked on one side after that. Not my side of course.
There is a great place called Mama on the Half Shell in Baltimore that is awesome. We used the GPS to find seafood in Baltimore, and the first place I picked was closed. The second place was closed. We finally struck gold on the third try - it was fabulous. I tried oysters for the first time. I can't quite get the point of eating them since you just gulp them down like a tablet of tylenol. Wheeler says they put wood in your pencil. But I write with a pen!!
Congrats, Groom* and Bride, Son and Daughter. I love you ALL so very much.
*as long as you stay on my good side.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The oldest photographers in the south
Got Offspring's school pictures today, his 3rd grade photos. His kindy, 1st and 2nd grade photos are all uniformly atrocious because a) I never remember its photo day and he was wearing some lousy t-shirt, b) he wouldn't smile or did a dumb smile, 3) it was on a godawful background. All 3 were in play every year. These those? GREAT! His hair is super cute (he is into spiking the top, short around the edges) and I pur a cute shirt on him and the background is relatively benign. But, as I looked at the package envelope, the tag line proudly proclaimed:
The oldest school photographers in the south!
All I can imagine is a very old, old, old man stooped over saying "I says smy-ah boy!" in a wobby croakey voice.
They need a new motto, don' cha think?
The oldest school photographers in the south!
All I can imagine is a very old, old, old man stooped over saying "I says smy-ah boy!" in a wobby croakey voice.
They need a new motto, don' cha think?
Well, if heroin addicts can do it ....
Wheeler has been struck down by the dreaded pseudomonas bacteria in his bladder. Its a particularly nasty bug that it exceptionally hard to kill, in fact, most of the time it can only be (marginally) controlled, not actually eradicated. So yesterday, we went in to the urologist dreading it because we knew that the only treatment was with antibiotics given by IV, which meant a stay in the hospital for a few days or a PICC line and home treatment. Problem is, we don't have home health care benefits so it would have meant a hospital stay, which is reallllllllly a pain for oh so many reasons. Not least of its an excellent place to get sicker, not better, particularly when dealing with a UTI in a spinal cord injured person.
However, it turns out that the doc recommended gentamyacin, which can be given by IV or by IM injection, a huge dose given every day for 7 days. So, he got an injection there in the office and we were supposed to come back every day to have another injection every day. The weekend was a problem though, since they are closed, so I asked if I could do it. Sure! Then I realized, well, if I'm gonna do it over the weekend, I might as well do it all and save us the 2 hours a day it would take minimum to get there and back ... and the $60 COPAY for a specialist visit every day. Gulp. More on that in a minuute. So, the girl (I'm a pig, I know, I know, but she was a girl) showed me how to do it, the doc gave us the prescription, called our pharmacist who ordered the meds in so they would be here today. They loaded us up with syringes and needles, and I got the meds today.
I stared down the bottle, the needle, the syringe and went for it. Swabbed top of the vial with alcohol, pushed 2 ml of air into container, just as the pharmacist told me to do to avoid a vacuum when sucking the drug out. Drew up the 2 mL of drug. Failed. I only got about 1.25 mL. And given it vitally impt to get all of this medicine down the muscle hatch, I was a bit distressed. Luckily, I had them write him for an extra day's worth of drug for just this reason, so I got another needle and tried again. Success this time. Swabbed his leg with alcohol, jabbed him, Then I went for the second dose (third vial) because he has to take 4 ml (80 mg of gent) and failed again, same thing, could only pull up about 1.25 mL even though I did it the same way. Hmmm. Not wanting to waste another vial, I gave him the 1.25 mL injection, then put a new needle on the syringe, alcohol swabbed the top off again, then plunged it in and pulled up the remaining gent. Jabbed him again (the one small advantage is that he doesn't feel any of this thank god .... then again, not being able to feel, this whole paralysis thing, is how he got the UTI to start with... hmmm, I guess its a draw). As I'm jabbing him he says "You're not pushing air in there are you?!". So now with visions of air emboli hurtling through his body and choking off his brain in less than 30 seconds, I push the remaining gent in and wait for him to die. Thankfully, he didn't die (yet).
I had no idea it was so intimidating to give an injection. Only 6 more days of this, by which time I'll be an expert. Wheeler said that I've watched enough Intervention on A & E that I oughta know how to do this by now. True that. If heroin addicts can do it, so can I. I bet they worry less though.
And if anyone wants an injection, let me know. Just bring your own drug of choice, the gent is ours.
However, it turns out that the doc recommended gentamyacin, which can be given by IV or by IM injection, a huge dose given every day for 7 days. So, he got an injection there in the office and we were supposed to come back every day to have another injection every day. The weekend was a problem though, since they are closed, so I asked if I could do it. Sure! Then I realized, well, if I'm gonna do it over the weekend, I might as well do it all and save us the 2 hours a day it would take minimum to get there and back ... and the $60 COPAY for a specialist visit every day. Gulp. More on that in a minuute. So, the girl (I'm a pig, I know, I know, but she was a girl) showed me how to do it, the doc gave us the prescription, called our pharmacist who ordered the meds in so they would be here today. They loaded us up with syringes and needles, and I got the meds today.
I stared down the bottle, the needle, the syringe and went for it. Swabbed top of the vial with alcohol, pushed 2 ml of air into container, just as the pharmacist told me to do to avoid a vacuum when sucking the drug out. Drew up the 2 mL of drug. Failed. I only got about 1.25 mL. And given it vitally impt to get all of this medicine down the muscle hatch, I was a bit distressed. Luckily, I had them write him for an extra day's worth of drug for just this reason, so I got another needle and tried again. Success this time. Swabbed his leg with alcohol, jabbed him, Then I went for the second dose (third vial) because he has to take 4 ml (80 mg of gent) and failed again, same thing, could only pull up about 1.25 mL even though I did it the same way. Hmmm. Not wanting to waste another vial, I gave him the 1.25 mL injection, then put a new needle on the syringe, alcohol swabbed the top off again, then plunged it in and pulled up the remaining gent. Jabbed him again (the one small advantage is that he doesn't feel any of this thank god .... then again, not being able to feel, this whole paralysis thing, is how he got the UTI to start with... hmmm, I guess its a draw). As I'm jabbing him he says "You're not pushing air in there are you?!". So now with visions of air emboli hurtling through his body and choking off his brain in less than 30 seconds, I push the remaining gent in and wait for him to die. Thankfully, he didn't die (yet).
I had no idea it was so intimidating to give an injection. Only 6 more days of this, by which time I'll be an expert. Wheeler said that I've watched enough Intervention on A & E that I oughta know how to do this by now. True that. If heroin addicts can do it, so can I. I bet they worry less though.
And if anyone wants an injection, let me know. Just bring your own drug of choice, the gent is ours.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
One of my biggest fears
I have a huge fear of choking when it comes to Wheeler.
With anyone choking is very scary, but with Wheeler its extremely scary because he has a very poor swallow/gag reflex due to his injury - which makes him more likely to choke in the first place but also almost totally unable to cough anything up. Then, put him in a wheelchair, strapped down in 5 places (2 feet straps, a seatbelt, 2 arms bands, a chest strap and chin control) - it would be really hard to get him out of the chair fast enough and be able to somehow administer the heimlich maneveur since his legs are limp noodles. So I've always had a fear of him choking and I'm hypervigilant about it. Well, it happened on Monday, he choked. After 6.5 years together, its kinda amazing it took this long for it to happen.
He was in bed, I was feeding him ramen noodles (don't blame me, I just make what he asks for, there's no accounting for taste). He took a drink of water and it all got bungled up in his throat somehow. I saw the look in his eyes that said "trouble". I asked if he was choking - in the past when I've asked, its always been a false alarm and he would just say no, albeit sputtering most of the time. But this time, he didn't answer when I asked him, his eyes were just wide open staring hard at me. For a split second I wondered if he really was since he didn't say he was choking, then in the next split second I realized he can't talk because HE IS CHOKING.
I am a good person to be around in an emergency. I focus immediately, I stay calm cool collected and I just move into a zone, I just act and don't feel any emotion at all. And thats what kicked in at that moment. I made a plan and executed it. First I just pulled him forward and thumped him open-handed on the upper back a few times. Nothing. I hit him much harder, with a closed fist, very hard, down in the middle of his back. Nothing. I leaned back around to see how I could best jump behind him, hoist him up to try to do a real Heimlich and I caught his eyes again. There was panic in his eyes, and for a moment, I felt the same panic kicking in. But I fought it, and I decided I would give him one last thump before I tried to somehow get behind him. The thought crossed my mind of calling 911 but one can only be oxygen deprived for 4 minutes before brain damage begins, so I would have wasted precious seconds calling and there is no way anyone could have gotten here in less than 4 minutes, especially since we were already 1 minute in by this time.
I leaned him over again, as much as possible at the waist to keep the airway straight, I wound up my left arm, balled up my fist and I hit him with all my might, a punch worth of Muhammed Ali, pushing as much presure from bottom to top as I hit as I could. In response, I heard the most beautiful sound I've ever heard - a gasp of air in. He coughed weakly and swallowed over and over again, while still struggling to breathe. I wasn't entirely sure he could fully breathe so I asked if I needed to hit him again and he shook his head no (of course, he may have decided death was preferrable to another punch like that). After a few minutes he was breathing normally again. And that's when I panic - after the fact. I just starting to tremble and shake head to foot because I realized that he could have so easily have died right then and there. It was very frightening and just underscores what a bitch spinal cord injury is all around. Its not that you just can't feel or move, there is SO much more. At Wheeler's level, you can't pee or poop anymore - you need a tube to pee and you just don't even want to know about the back door. Your lung function is compromised, your immune system is compromised, you are subject to bone breaks because you can't feel your limbs if they get pinched or stretched in the wrong direction, prone to pressure sores because you sit in one place for so long, you get urinary tract infections (see previous about tubes to pee, they carry bugs quite effectively), you get fungal infections, which are opportunistic since there is little airflow due to lack of movement, and then there's the higher risk of everything from depression to heart disease. SCI sucks. Alot. And so much more than it seems on the surface, and it sure seems shitty even on the surface.
Moral of the story? Don't break your neck. And learn the Heimlech maneuver.
With anyone choking is very scary, but with Wheeler its extremely scary because he has a very poor swallow/gag reflex due to his injury - which makes him more likely to choke in the first place but also almost totally unable to cough anything up. Then, put him in a wheelchair, strapped down in 5 places (2 feet straps, a seatbelt, 2 arms bands, a chest strap and chin control) - it would be really hard to get him out of the chair fast enough and be able to somehow administer the heimlich maneveur since his legs are limp noodles. So I've always had a fear of him choking and I'm hypervigilant about it. Well, it happened on Monday, he choked. After 6.5 years together, its kinda amazing it took this long for it to happen.
He was in bed, I was feeding him ramen noodles (don't blame me, I just make what he asks for, there's no accounting for taste). He took a drink of water and it all got bungled up in his throat somehow. I saw the look in his eyes that said "trouble". I asked if he was choking - in the past when I've asked, its always been a false alarm and he would just say no, albeit sputtering most of the time. But this time, he didn't answer when I asked him, his eyes were just wide open staring hard at me. For a split second I wondered if he really was since he didn't say he was choking, then in the next split second I realized he can't talk because HE IS CHOKING.
I am a good person to be around in an emergency. I focus immediately, I stay calm cool collected and I just move into a zone, I just act and don't feel any emotion at all. And thats what kicked in at that moment. I made a plan and executed it. First I just pulled him forward and thumped him open-handed on the upper back a few times. Nothing. I hit him much harder, with a closed fist, very hard, down in the middle of his back. Nothing. I leaned back around to see how I could best jump behind him, hoist him up to try to do a real Heimlich and I caught his eyes again. There was panic in his eyes, and for a moment, I felt the same panic kicking in. But I fought it, and I decided I would give him one last thump before I tried to somehow get behind him. The thought crossed my mind of calling 911 but one can only be oxygen deprived for 4 minutes before brain damage begins, so I would have wasted precious seconds calling and there is no way anyone could have gotten here in less than 4 minutes, especially since we were already 1 minute in by this time.
I leaned him over again, as much as possible at the waist to keep the airway straight, I wound up my left arm, balled up my fist and I hit him with all my might, a punch worth of Muhammed Ali, pushing as much presure from bottom to top as I hit as I could. In response, I heard the most beautiful sound I've ever heard - a gasp of air in. He coughed weakly and swallowed over and over again, while still struggling to breathe. I wasn't entirely sure he could fully breathe so I asked if I needed to hit him again and he shook his head no (of course, he may have decided death was preferrable to another punch like that). After a few minutes he was breathing normally again. And that's when I panic - after the fact. I just starting to tremble and shake head to foot because I realized that he could have so easily have died right then and there. It was very frightening and just underscores what a bitch spinal cord injury is all around. Its not that you just can't feel or move, there is SO much more. At Wheeler's level, you can't pee or poop anymore - you need a tube to pee and you just don't even want to know about the back door. Your lung function is compromised, your immune system is compromised, you are subject to bone breaks because you can't feel your limbs if they get pinched or stretched in the wrong direction, prone to pressure sores because you sit in one place for so long, you get urinary tract infections (see previous about tubes to pee, they carry bugs quite effectively), you get fungal infections, which are opportunistic since there is little airflow due to lack of movement, and then there's the higher risk of everything from depression to heart disease. SCI sucks. Alot. And so much more than it seems on the surface, and it sure seems shitty even on the surface.
Moral of the story? Don't break your neck. And learn the Heimlech maneuver.
Friday, October 9, 2009
The literacy notebook
While Offspring has many, many wonderful characteristics, he often lacks in the "follow up" department. Especially when it comes to things like remembering to bring his homework home. His homework in 3rd grade consists of two parts each night - a sheet with math problems and a literary assignment. The literacy assignment is supposed to be written into their literacy notebook, a notebook they are to carry back and forth to school each day. Offspring has less than a stellar record on remembering his literacy notebook. We've replaced it twice now since only July. I was completely fed up yesterday when he turned up after school empty handed AGAIN. So this morning, I told him that if he didn't bring it home today that a) he would be in BIG trouble and that b) I would turn him right around and he'd have to walk back to school to retrieve it.
About 10 minutes after school let out, I was looking out the window expecting to see him skipping down the sidewalk. Instead, my phone rang. It the school's phone number. That means one of two things. He's sick/hurt, or he has behaved very badly. Being the mother of a small mischevious boy, I have received more than one of the latter calls. Instead I heard his teacher's voice: "Hello, Offspring's mom? I'm calling to tell you that your son won't leave school."
I will admit, that's a new one.
She explained that he was unsuccessful in his attempts to find his literacy notebook - and that she even had the whole class looking for it in all of the desks, etc. He said "My mom's gonna kill me if I don't bring it home today". She assured him that it would be ok to go home, that I wouldn't actually kill him, but he was adamant that he stay at school because I would make him go back. Stifling my laughter, I told her that she could confirm to him that I would not actually kill him. Yes, he would be in trouble, but no, I would not turn him around to go back. After I hung up, I continued to laugh - but you can't argue with the boy's logic:
Mom says she will turn me around to get it if I come home without it.
I can't find it.
So ..... I'll just stay at school.
Plus ... she's probably gonna kill me.
It's a little evil, but I love that I can instill the fear of god in that child. I have a feeling it will come in handy when he's a teenager.
About 10 minutes after school let out, I was looking out the window expecting to see him skipping down the sidewalk. Instead, my phone rang. It the school's phone number. That means one of two things. He's sick/hurt, or he has behaved very badly. Being the mother of a small mischevious boy, I have received more than one of the latter calls. Instead I heard his teacher's voice: "Hello, Offspring's mom? I'm calling to tell you that your son won't leave school."
I will admit, that's a new one.
She explained that he was unsuccessful in his attempts to find his literacy notebook - and that she even had the whole class looking for it in all of the desks, etc. He said "My mom's gonna kill me if I don't bring it home today". She assured him that it would be ok to go home, that I wouldn't actually kill him, but he was adamant that he stay at school because I would make him go back. Stifling my laughter, I told her that she could confirm to him that I would not actually kill him. Yes, he would be in trouble, but no, I would not turn him around to go back. After I hung up, I continued to laugh - but you can't argue with the boy's logic:
Mom says she will turn me around to get it if I come home without it.
I can't find it.
So ..... I'll just stay at school.
Plus ... she's probably gonna kill me.
It's a little evil, but I love that I can instill the fear of god in that child. I have a feeling it will come in handy when he's a teenager.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The most embarrassing thing and a VERY itchy head
Offspring is at that age where he is obsessed with what makes people embarrassed, and all of the what-ifs scenarios. What if you barfed in front of the President? What if you peed your pants because you laughed so hard? What if you tripped and fell right on your face in front of everyone at your work? And so on. He's clearly in that stage, the one where he's starting to be self conscious. So yesterday when he asked the same question he'd asked 1000 times already, I was pretty sure I knew how the conversation would go.
Mom? What would be THE most embarrassing thing EVER to happen to you?
Ummmm, I dunno.
Well, *I* know what would be the most embarrassing thing ever for you.
Ummm. Ok. What would that be?
If you were a college professor, and you were up in front of hundreds - no a thousand! - students, and they were all looking at you, just staring at you, and it was just you up there .....
(inwardly groaning here, knowing what he was going to say)
.... and you opened your mouth to talk and you used poor grammar!!! Mom, you would totally die of embarrassment!
Ahhhh, my son does know me well. Poor grammar (as opposed to bad grammar) is a huge pet peeve of mine. I am constantly correcting him on verbal and written uses of words, especially adverbs versus adjectives. One doesn't run slow, but slowly (this reminds me of the entry about Offspring's grammar gun). I do find it interesting though that he said something about being a college professor - my mind must be projecting my desires to switch back to academics.
On another note entirely, Wheeler has a completely bald head now. On Sunday, after we got back from dinner, he asked me to look at his head and scratch it, because it was making him absolutely bonkers, itchy - super itchy all the time. I put him directly from his chair into the shower chair, which makes it much easier to have a panoramic view of his entire head. I could see lots of fiery red bumps and I was shocked at how many there were. As we've learned from the past, where there's smoke there's fire, so I suggested that we shave his head completely so that I could get a truly clear view and then treat it with my variety of potions and lotions. He agreed, so I shaved him completely.
Oh. My. God.
Well, whichever worked, I don't care because it worked. By Monday morning, his head was significantly better. I could see where the rash had been, but all of the pustules were gone, and the skin was basically just mottled from where the rash had been, but wasn't now. Since then I've been watching it like a hawk, and I've transitioned off of using hydrocortisone during the first 12 hours to using topical antifungals. So far, so good. And no matter how long I live next to a spinal cord injury, I will never, ever have a clue what it means to have one. Poor Wheeler. My ant bites seem rather inconsequential now ... perspective is important.
Mom? What would be THE most embarrassing thing EVER to happen to you?
Ummmm, I dunno.
Well, *I* know what would be the most embarrassing thing ever for you.
Ummm. Ok. What would that be?
If you were a college professor, and you were up in front of hundreds - no a thousand! - students, and they were all looking at you, just staring at you, and it was just you up there .....
(inwardly groaning here, knowing what he was going to say)
.... and you opened your mouth to talk and you used poor grammar!!! Mom, you would totally die of embarrassment!
Ahhhh, my son does know me well. Poor grammar (as opposed to bad grammar) is a huge pet peeve of mine. I am constantly correcting him on verbal and written uses of words, especially adverbs versus adjectives. One doesn't run slow, but slowly (this reminds me of the entry about Offspring's grammar gun). I do find it interesting though that he said something about being a college professor - my mind must be projecting my desires to switch back to academics.
On another note entirely, Wheeler has a completely bald head now. On Sunday, after we got back from dinner, he asked me to look at his head and scratch it, because it was making him absolutely bonkers, itchy - super itchy all the time. I put him directly from his chair into the shower chair, which makes it much easier to have a panoramic view of his entire head. I could see lots of fiery red bumps and I was shocked at how many there were. As we've learned from the past, where there's smoke there's fire, so I suggested that we shave his head completely so that I could get a truly clear view and then treat it with my variety of potions and lotions. He agreed, so I shaved him completely.
Oh. My. God.
I was so incredibly horrified. His ENTIRE head was a fiery mass of angry red bumps, scattered absolutely everywhere, all over his head. The bumps I could see were maybe 10% of the ones that were there. I cringed inwardly thinking how much this much this must have been hurting him, and that he'd been suffering in silence. I still just can't imagine how horrible it must have been for him. I couldn't even bring myself to take a picture of his head to show him, which I normally do for all manner of things - pressure sores, infections, whatever, since he is physically unable to see most of his body (ask QuadCat, I photographed his pressure sore every day to track its progress). I - mistress of never being bothered by anything - couldn't even take a photo to show him, it was that bad.
First, I scratched the everlovinshit out of his head - after which I nearly had to hand him a cigarette because he kept saying ahhhhhhhh ahhhhhh ohhhhhhh ooooooooohhhh with a scandalous look of bliss on his face. Then I used Nizoral (ketoconazole based) shampoo on his head. I scrubbed it in really well, massaging it into his scalp, over and over and over again. I left him out of the shower, washed him up without the water running so that the shampoo could work its magic for longer. After I let it sit for about 10 mins, I washed it off, finished up his shower, and dried him.
At that point I was torn on what to put on next. Hydrocortisone would quiet down the incredible itching and inflammation, but this rash (based on experience) was almost certainly a fungal infection on his scalp. Hydrocortisone is a steroid, and fungal infections feed on steroids. If you aren't careful, putting a powerful steroid on a fungal infection can light it absolutely on fire. But, if I put on just an anti-fungal without a steroid, it would take at least a day for the itching to decline - and after seeing the angry rash, I couldn't deal with the thought of him being that itchy any longer. I gambled and put on a hearty layer of Rx strength hydrocortisone and then for good measure, smeared lidocaine all over the scalp.
Lidocaine deadens sensation - just like novacaine for dental work. In topical form, its used for cathing and all sorts of other applications, so we always have lots of it on hand. It has handy for intense itching because it just physically blocks the sensation. Unfortunately the effect is short lived and you can't put on more than about a quarter size dollop over the skin in any 4-5 hour period because high doses of absorbed lidocaine can cause seizures and even death. But, I could at least deaden the itching for 20-30 minutes after the shower and by then the hydrocortisone should start to quell the inflammation.
Lidocaine deadens sensation - just like novacaine for dental work. In topical form, its used for cathing and all sorts of other applications, so we always have lots of it on hand. It has handy for intense itching because it just physically blocks the sensation. Unfortunately the effect is short lived and you can't put on more than about a quarter size dollop over the skin in any 4-5 hour period because high doses of absorbed lidocaine can cause seizures and even death. But, I could at least deaden the itching for 20-30 minutes after the shower and by then the hydrocortisone should start to quell the inflammation.After putting on the hydrocortisone and lidocaine on, I put him in bed, babied him to death because I felt soooo badly for him, and then gave him oral fluconazole to try to fight the fungal infection from the inside out to balance against the topical hydrocortisone. A few years ago we battled fungal infections from hell on his head, his crotch, in the webbing of his toes and fingers, his armpits, anywhere it was dark and most - and the strains he had became resistant to absolutely everything Rx. It has been quite a long time since he had a serious infection though, so I hoped the fluconazole would be effective.
Well, whichever worked, I don't care because it worked. By Monday morning, his head was significantly better. I could see where the rash had been, but all of the pustules were gone, and the skin was basically just mottled from where the rash had been, but wasn't now. Since then I've been watching it like a hawk, and I've transitioned off of using hydrocortisone during the first 12 hours to using topical antifungals. So far, so good. And no matter how long I live next to a spinal cord injury, I will never, ever have a clue what it means to have one. Poor Wheeler. My ant bites seem rather inconsequential now ... perspective is important.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Clanging doors
Today I visited the Federal Medical Center (FMC) with our dog Dog. The FMC is hospital into which ill, mainly desperately ill, federal prisoners from all over the country are sent. FMCs take in all level of prisoners from low level non-violent offenders to supermax level felons. As a result, the security at the FMC is the maximum possible.
There are only 6 FMCs in the country, one being in Butner, NC which close to where we live. When locals here think of the prison in Butner, they think of the minimum security prison where among others, ‘white collar’ criminals such as Bernie Madoff are sequestered from humanity for 150+ years. The staff at the FMC call these local low security prison inmates campers, which for some reasons struck me as sort of funny in a sort of not-funny way. Perhaps like day camp, only free. And less fun. And you don’t get to go home on Friday. But this isn’t where I went; I was at the FMC, a nearby but totally separate place.
I am affiliated with a local professional therapy dog program run by a person who is truly kind soul with a pragmatic approach to life. In addition to the typical therapy dog program stuff, like visiting sick kids in the hospital and visiting nursing homes, he has been trying diligently to develop a ‘cell dog’ program whereby inmates raise and train shelter dogs to become more adoptable, and perhaps to even become service dogs. Search the internet for examples of these programs. They are truly in all ways a win-win proposition. However, the paperwork to develop this – and gaining the trust of the warden on down – is a long process. In the meantime, I have repeatedly expressed a high level of interest in taking Dog to do pet therapy at a prison. It must be the do-gooder in me, but I truly believe that there is no one so terrible that they shouldn’t get the pleasure of petting a dog. I’m sure that some would disagree with me, but of those I would ask them to follow me metaphorically through my journey today.
To get in, I could only bring a single car key and a form of photo ID, all else had to be left in the car. I filled out a number of forms and log books while Dog sat patiently and happily, being petted by the social worker who coordinated my visit. I went through a metal detector, noting that the X-ray screener type device was used even for a single sheet of paper to pass through into the prison. After I cleared the initial security, we visited a number of the administrative staff on the 1st floor. Perhaps this was to let me get used to the idea of being in a maximum security prison facility. Or perhaps they just really did want to meet Dog. Either way, everyone was smitten with Dog.
There were several more layers of security to get in, and yes, the doors clang. Loudly. We went to the hospital floors after we got through all of the clanging doors. Right off the bat, there were a number of inmates in the hallways, mostly in wheelchairs. We visited the men in the hallways and went individually to the rooms of patients too ill to be upright in a chair. Dog is what we call a ‘nudger’ – he will push his head up against you to signal his overwhelming desire to be petted. He nudged nearly everyone, and won over even those who initially expressed no interest in petting him. In one room, Dog – bless his heart – carefully jumped up, unprompted, and put his paws ever so gently on the edge of the bed of one inmate so that he could at least see him and perhaps reach over him to pet him. I do not know how, but honestly, Dog just knows who needs him. He really, truly does. I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it over and over again with my very own eyes. He laid his head down on this man’s bed so that he could reach him, and the inmate reached over with obvious effort to try to touch Dog and could just barely reach the top of his head. I have no doubt that Dog sensed a deep need within this man, and Dog didn’t know what he had done before coming to be in that bed. He just wanted to give him a small piece of happiness, a tiny ray of sun, in an otherwise sad existence made all the worse for being near death alone in prison. I fervently hope that no matter what he did in the past that one of his last memories is of a beautiful gentle dog with his head on his lap.
Some inmates appeared to be very healthy, which confused me until I learned that they were low security inmates who became helpers to those most ill. From what I understood, these inmate helpers essentially perform nursing care and live on the floor with the patients for whom they care. These inmates particularly touched my heart because although there must be benefits to being on the hospital floors, perhaps a bigger room or more freedom to roam about – I don’t know – it was clear that regardless, they really cared for ‘their’ patients. One inmate helper propped up ‘his’ very ill inmate who was on a ventilator, holding him very gently, placing his hand gently on Dog so as to pat him on the head. The inmate, who is very near death, smiled every so slightly which caused me to fight off tears.
One of these helper inmates was so lonely and needy that it practically radiated out of every pore. He volunteered to keep Dog in his room if we needed to eat lunch or take a break, which is of course against the rules. If there were any possible way I could leave Dog there with him for an hour, a day, a few days, I would do it in a heartbeat. His hunger for the affection of dog was palpable and make my heart ache in concert with his loneliness.
Throughout my visit I was struck by the level of respect given to the inmates by the staff. All men were called by their last names preceded by “Mr.”. Based on what I saw – albeit a short time period – I believe that the people at the FMC see themselves as in the business of healing and rehabilitation, not necessarily in the business of punishment. All told, I spent about an hour on the floors all total and about an hour talking about logistics, meeting the administrative staff and clearing security.
It was an emotional visit. It was immensely satisfying to see my dog help so many people, even those that some deem unworthy. I am so proud that I trained him so well, that he is well behaved enough to do these things. But the credit isn't due only to me, we are so lucky that we found a dog with an innately gentle spirit who sees and loves the good in all of us, he somehow sees the part that makes us human. Dog recognizes need by instinct and responds to that need the best way that he knows how, by looking up with those giant brown eyes and by burying that soft poofy white head into a lap.
The day’s visit was also tremendously sad. Whatever these men had done, they were dying or were ill, more or less alone, in prison. Many of them will die there. At least a few will have died by the time I return next*. Some may have absolutely no one who cares if they live or die, and in fact, some may have those who fervently await their death as reparation for the bad things they did during life. This set of conflicting emotions were intense as I drove home and are spilling over as I type this.
No matter what anyone would say, no matter what it would seem, life is not black and white. There isn’t a bad person and a good person. Life is grayscale, a continium. Today Dog brought some white to the black and white scale that exists in these mens’ souls. For that, I am proud, sad, and happy. And because of that, I will be back every Monday. Count on it.
*update since I wrote this, about 1/2 of the inmates I saw the first time had died by the time I returned the next week. The social worker said to expect that, but it still was a shock.
There are only 6 FMCs in the country, one being in Butner, NC which close to where we live. When locals here think of the prison in Butner, they think of the minimum security prison where among others, ‘white collar’ criminals such as Bernie Madoff are sequestered from humanity for 150+ years. The staff at the FMC call these local low security prison inmates campers, which for some reasons struck me as sort of funny in a sort of not-funny way. Perhaps like day camp, only free. And less fun. And you don’t get to go home on Friday. But this isn’t where I went; I was at the FMC, a nearby but totally separate place.
I am affiliated with a local professional therapy dog program run by a person who is truly kind soul with a pragmatic approach to life. In addition to the typical therapy dog program stuff, like visiting sick kids in the hospital and visiting nursing homes, he has been trying diligently to develop a ‘cell dog’ program whereby inmates raise and train shelter dogs to become more adoptable, and perhaps to even become service dogs. Search the internet for examples of these programs. They are truly in all ways a win-win proposition. However, the paperwork to develop this – and gaining the trust of the warden on down – is a long process. In the meantime, I have repeatedly expressed a high level of interest in taking Dog to do pet therapy at a prison. It must be the do-gooder in me, but I truly believe that there is no one so terrible that they shouldn’t get the pleasure of petting a dog. I’m sure that some would disagree with me, but of those I would ask them to follow me metaphorically through my journey today.
To get in, I could only bring a single car key and a form of photo ID, all else had to be left in the car. I filled out a number of forms and log books while Dog sat patiently and happily, being petted by the social worker who coordinated my visit. I went through a metal detector, noting that the X-ray screener type device was used even for a single sheet of paper to pass through into the prison. After I cleared the initial security, we visited a number of the administrative staff on the 1st floor. Perhaps this was to let me get used to the idea of being in a maximum security prison facility. Or perhaps they just really did want to meet Dog. Either way, everyone was smitten with Dog.
There were several more layers of security to get in, and yes, the doors clang. Loudly. We went to the hospital floors after we got through all of the clanging doors. Right off the bat, there were a number of inmates in the hallways, mostly in wheelchairs. We visited the men in the hallways and went individually to the rooms of patients too ill to be upright in a chair. Dog is what we call a ‘nudger’ – he will push his head up against you to signal his overwhelming desire to be petted. He nudged nearly everyone, and won over even those who initially expressed no interest in petting him. In one room, Dog – bless his heart – carefully jumped up, unprompted, and put his paws ever so gently on the edge of the bed of one inmate so that he could at least see him and perhaps reach over him to pet him. I do not know how, but honestly, Dog just knows who needs him. He really, truly does. I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it over and over again with my very own eyes. He laid his head down on this man’s bed so that he could reach him, and the inmate reached over with obvious effort to try to touch Dog and could just barely reach the top of his head. I have no doubt that Dog sensed a deep need within this man, and Dog didn’t know what he had done before coming to be in that bed. He just wanted to give him a small piece of happiness, a tiny ray of sun, in an otherwise sad existence made all the worse for being near death alone in prison. I fervently hope that no matter what he did in the past that one of his last memories is of a beautiful gentle dog with his head on his lap.
Some inmates appeared to be very healthy, which confused me until I learned that they were low security inmates who became helpers to those most ill. From what I understood, these inmate helpers essentially perform nursing care and live on the floor with the patients for whom they care. These inmates particularly touched my heart because although there must be benefits to being on the hospital floors, perhaps a bigger room or more freedom to roam about – I don’t know – it was clear that regardless, they really cared for ‘their’ patients. One inmate helper propped up ‘his’ very ill inmate who was on a ventilator, holding him very gently, placing his hand gently on Dog so as to pat him on the head. The inmate, who is very near death, smiled every so slightly which caused me to fight off tears.
One of these helper inmates was so lonely and needy that it practically radiated out of every pore. He volunteered to keep Dog in his room if we needed to eat lunch or take a break, which is of course against the rules. If there were any possible way I could leave Dog there with him for an hour, a day, a few days, I would do it in a heartbeat. His hunger for the affection of dog was palpable and make my heart ache in concert with his loneliness.
Throughout my visit I was struck by the level of respect given to the inmates by the staff. All men were called by their last names preceded by “Mr.”. Based on what I saw – albeit a short time period – I believe that the people at the FMC see themselves as in the business of healing and rehabilitation, not necessarily in the business of punishment. All told, I spent about an hour on the floors all total and about an hour talking about logistics, meeting the administrative staff and clearing security.
It was an emotional visit. It was immensely satisfying to see my dog help so many people, even those that some deem unworthy. I am so proud that I trained him so well, that he is well behaved enough to do these things. But the credit isn't due only to me, we are so lucky that we found a dog with an innately gentle spirit who sees and loves the good in all of us, he somehow sees the part that makes us human. Dog recognizes need by instinct and responds to that need the best way that he knows how, by looking up with those giant brown eyes and by burying that soft poofy white head into a lap.
The day’s visit was also tremendously sad. Whatever these men had done, they were dying or were ill, more or less alone, in prison. Many of them will die there. At least a few will have died by the time I return next*. Some may have absolutely no one who cares if they live or die, and in fact, some may have those who fervently await their death as reparation for the bad things they did during life. This set of conflicting emotions were intense as I drove home and are spilling over as I type this.
No matter what anyone would say, no matter what it would seem, life is not black and white. There isn’t a bad person and a good person. Life is grayscale, a continium. Today Dog brought some white to the black and white scale that exists in these mens’ souls. For that, I am proud, sad, and happy. And because of that, I will be back every Monday. Count on it.
*update since I wrote this, about 1/2 of the inmates I saw the first time had died by the time I returned the next week. The social worker said to expect that, but it still was a shock.
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