Category Archives: Kiddos

Two-for-one: sick kids

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Ethan came into my room yesterday morning, complaining about a sore throat. One look inside and I knew it was strep – this is the fourth time in 2012 for him so I’m somewhat of a strep-diagnosis expert these days.

But that wasn’t the worst part of the morning.

When Lauren woke up a few minutes later, things seemed normal. I picked her up from her crib and cuddled her. “Stairs,” she said pointing, indicating that she wanted to go down to see her brother and grandma.

I set her on her feet and she fell over. She stood up, took a few steps, then ran into the dresser. Back up, few steps, fell down.

“Maybe her foot is asleep,” I thought.

“Let’s go to mommy’s room for a minute, Lauren,” I said, holding out my hand to help her down the hall.

It was a weird walk, down the hall from her room to mine. She was pulling to the right quite a bit and was very unsteady. She wasn’t upset or fazed by it, just wobbly.

I carried her down the stairs and called my mom into the room. We watched as Lauren stood up and fell. Stood up, took a few steps, and ran into the wall. Then she threw up. “Ear infection?” I said, looking at my mom. She nodded, “Probably.”

Since I had to take Ethan to the doc anyway for strep, I made an appointment for Lauren. In the couple of hours we had to wait before we left the house, Lauren seemed to get a little better. She wanted breakfast, wanted to drink something. And she seemed to get a little more steady on her feet – she still had to be watched closely, but it was a little better.

The doc appointment was LONG. Yes, Ethan had strep, but the doc couldn’t figure out what was going on with Lauren. Her ears were clear and there wasn’t a fever or any other obvious symptoms. By now, Lauren could walk the length of the hall without help, but she would have to hold out her arm like she was walking a tightrope every few steps. Or she would have to slow down when she was moving to the right uncontrollably. Still, MUCH improvement from the morning.

The doc (not our usual pediatrician, but another in the practice) consulted with the others in the office. A neurologist from the local children’s hospital was called. No one could figure it out. Since she was showing signs of significant improvement, the docs didn’t think there was an immediate, urgent problem (anymore). Thoughts for what could have been wrong included: a virus that was messing with her inner ears, baby vertigo (rare but not without possibility), a seizure, or a form of migraine. (SIDENOTE: I was diagnosed with migraine auras about 20 years ago. I don’t get the pain of a migraine, but I get weird symptoms that last for up to a few hours: numbness in one side of my body, loss of speech, dizziness. It’s scary and almost stroke-like to anyone watching me, but it goes away, leaving me tired but functioning.)

Right now, we’ve been told to wait-and-see if it happens again. The neurologist suggested that we go ahead and do an MRI, MRA and EEG on Lauren, just to have a baseline. Orders for these tests have been placed and we can do them anytime in the next few weeks. I’m a little concerned about the MRI/MRA since she will have to be sedated for the procedures.

This morning, Lauren was fine. Totally back to herself, no indication of difficulty walking. She stayed home from “baby school” so my mom could keep an eye on her, but she seems like nothing happened.

Here’s hoping this never happens again…

Anniversary, part four (The End)

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If you’re just joining the story, you might want to start with parts one, two, and three.

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“Come on,” I said to Mike’s parents as the ambulance drove away. “You can follow me to the hospital.”

His parents looked shell-shocked. Mike’s dad just kept repeating that they couldn’t care for Mike when he was discharged from the hospital and couldn’t he come live at the house? “But where will he go after the hospital?” his dad kept asking, to no one in particular.

I drove to the hospital and walked into the emergency room. “My husband was just delivered here by ambulance,” I told the check in person in the waiting room.

“He’s probably getting checked now, it’ll be a while before you can go back,” she replied.

“Oh, I’m not going back there. Just wanted to get his parents here,” I gestured to Mike’s parents standing behind me. “And to make sure you have our insurance information.”

I handed over the insurance card. I didn’t want to get saddled with medical bills later, so wanted to make sure the hospital had what they needed. Then I walked out and drove home. In a strange way, I felt relieved, almost peaceful.

I called the hospital later that night and talked to Mike’s nurse. His blood alcohol level was five times the legal limit. (SIDENOTE: I will wonder, for the rest of my life, what in the hell Mike’s parents were DOING when they were at my house. They claim they never saw him drink, yet his BAL was FIVE TIMES the legal limit and alcohol bottles were thrown around the basement.)

Mike would spend a week in the hospital, shuffling from a rehab unit to the cardiology unit (his heart was showing signs of distress – even then). Over the course of the week, his parents came by the house a few times to get Mike’s belongings, but they never expressed interest in seeing the kids or having a conversation. And they would always come when the kids were in bed.

________________

When I picked Ethan up from school that day, I didn’t know what to say. His dad was gone and so were his grandparents (opting to stay in a hotel as opposed to staying at the house).

Of everything that’s happened over the last year, it’s how I handled it with my son that I regret. I should have thought that through better, but how could I have anticipated the ambulance, going to the hospital or getting the court order so quickly? I was prepared to tell Ethan about the separation, but now it was so complicated.

I told Ethan that his dad was sick. “It’s the alcohol, isn’t it?” he asked. He was way too wise for his own good – and he had seen and heard too much in his young years.

“Yeah,” was all I could say.

I stayed on the dad-is-sick message for weeks. When he told his therapist that he was worried his dad was going to die, I knew I had to be more forthcoming. Originally, I thought Mike and I could co-present the separation to him. Display a united front to show that we had Ethan’s and Lauren’s best interests in mind. I believed that we could act as adults and have a productive, loving co-parenting relationship.

That wasn’t going to happen. I was on my own. I shouldn’t have waited as long as I did, but I can’t change time. I was as honest as possible with Ethan, telling him that daddy was dealing with his drinking and that he was going to live with his parents in Indiana, but that Ethan and Lauren would have two houses someday. “So, two Christmases?” he asked. I guess that is all that matters to a six-year-old.

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When Mike was discharged, his parents took him back to Indiana. The kids and I saw him in-person only two more times between when he was taken by ambulance and when he died.

After the second court date a few weeks after the first (in which a second judge upheld the court order), he Skyped with the kids on occasion, and, at first, called every night to talk to Ethan. In November, the calls became fewer and fewer with more and more time in between. Skyping became even more rare.

_________________________

That’s the story of this anniversary. I’ve been meaning to write this for a while, but, well, as you know now, it’s a long story. It’s been a bittersweet time (man, using that word a lot lately) and it seemed the right time to get these thoughts out since I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.

There’s more to write, but not today. Today, I’m going to wrap up some work stuff and go play with the kids.

Anniversary, part two

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You might want to start at the beginning of the story here.

It was a Thursday, the day I went to the county courthouse. I remember feeling angry – this wasn’t how I imagined my life, contemplating being a single mom, divorcing a man who was spiraling down into the abyss of alcoholism. He wasn’t the man I fell in love with 16 years ago. He wasn’t the man I married almost 10 years ago. Or the man I wanted to have babies with. Or the person I wanted to spend my life with. That guy was gone.

The courthouse was busy that day – or maybe it’s busy everyday. It was the first time I was ever inside. I was a little nervous about running into someone I knew, someone who knew Mike. After all, he was an attorney and had a lot of friends and colleagues who walked those halls daily.

I found the room I needed and waited my turn on a hard wooden bench in the hall. Ten minutes later, I was telling my story to a VERY young woman in flip flops and short shorts. She wasn’t really what the person imagined I would be talking to. I didn’t know what to expect, but she wasn’t it. I wasn’t sure how someone so young was going to be able to help me. Flip Flops asked a lot of questions and filled out several pages of forms.

Then she handed me a brochure with telephone numbers on it. Numbers for abused woman. “I’m not being abused,” I said. “He’s a drunk. He’s never touched me or the kids.”

“Abuse is more than just physical,” she told me. “Those names he’s calling you? The way he’s treating you? It’s not right.”

This all felt very surreal. Of all the things I wanted to remember about that day, the lighting in that tiny, windowless room stands out. It was a pathetic, yellowish lighting coming from way-too-bright overhead fluorescent lights. In a room that is used mostly by women (I assume), the lighting should be better, I thought. In this room, it was unflattering and sad. Someone coming into this room should feel good, but the lighting was any thing but confidence inspiring.

“You’re up next in the courtroom,” the Flip Flops said.

I felt my stomach knot up. Up next? I had to go to court NOW? I hadn’t thought I’d be in a courtroom on the same day as the forms I just filled out with Flip Flop’s help. I wasn’t even dressed for it – in jeans and a tee-shirt. I would have been more “serious” looking if I thought I would be going in front of a judge.

Flip Flops walked with me to the courtroom where she introduced me to an older woman. “This is Elise,” the young woman said. “She’ll be your advocate in the courtroom.”

Elise talked in whispers, walking me through what was going to happen. Then the judge walked in. The judge decided to hear from a couple sitting in the last row of the courtroom first.

I will never forget the couple’s story, that case before mine. The man was here to get visitation taken away from his ex-wife. The kids had visited their mom (his ex) the weekend before and she threw their three-year old daughter across the living room and into a wall. More than once. I felt like throwing up.

“This isn’t my life,” I thought. “Maybe my situation is not so bad.”

I wanted to leave. Instead, I cried, feeling glued to the spot I was told to stand. It was my turn.

I’m a strong woman. I’m not afraid or intimidated by anyone. I’ve worked with CEOs from Fortune 500 companies, celebrities, sports stars. No one gets me rattled. But standing here, in front of the judge, made me feel small and weak. I wondered how women – especially those who aren’t as confident as I (usually) am – do this.

I stood silently as he read the form that Flip Flops filled out. Then he spoke in a booming voice. “Why are you here?” he asked.

My voice seemed to be coming from someone else. It was quiet and I was mumbling. The judge asked me to speak up. In that softer-than-normal voice, I gave a brief overview of my reasons for pursing the order of protection. “Sounds like he’s a lazy husband,” the judge said. “That’s not illegal.”

“It’s more than that,” I said. I told him about the name-calling, the neglect of the kids including driving Ethan around while intoxicated, the destruction of our finances, the collapse of our lives.

“I’m going to grant this to you,” he said after a bit more questioning, “But it’s only good for a few weeks, then you will face him. And you better be ready because he will probably destroy you. I was hard on you today because I need to know you can take it. You can handle this, right?”

I was ushered to the side of the courtroom to wait for the paperwork to be signed. I was told the sheriff would arrive in 24-36 hours to serve the papers to Mike. Then I left.

Anniversary, part one

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No, not the anniversary of our wedding, first date, or first meeting. Not even the anniversary of Mike’s death. There were no flowers, or fancy night out, or even a cake. It was a bittersweet day, a different kind of anniversary – it was the date marking Mike’s removal from my home.

I’ve alluded to it in past posts, but Mike was not amenable to our separation. I had to get a court order to have him removed from the house. If it were up to him, I’m sure he would have still been laying on my couch in the basement. But I couldn’t do that to the kids – or myself – anymore.

I discovered his drinking problem in May 2010. I was on maternity leave and Mike had been unemployed for about six months. It was then that I discovered he was spending his days laying on the couch in the basement, not moving, not talking, not watching TV (or helping around the house or paying bills or doing anything else productive). He was basically not functioning at all. Then, I caught him trying to hide a bottle when I came downstairs. Suddenly, the random (daily) charges at gas stations and Walgreens made sense. There was something behind the cloudy, unfocused, narrow eyes that he had been sporting for while. The falls down stairs, passing out in a bar, and five trips to the ER over the course of 12 months – there was probably more to those too. Everything pointed in one direction – drinking.

I confronted him and he denied everything. Then he promised to stop. And broke the promise. And promised again. He was kicked out of an outpatient rehab program for showing up drunk. AA made him think he didn’t have a problem (“THOSE people have problems,” he told me after attending a meeting.) On and on for more than a year. The lies, the hiding, the denial, the continued drinking.

When my job was eliminated, I told Mike that I knew he never stopped drinking and lying about it. He admitted it. And I told him that until we figured things out, until one of us was employed again, there was to be no drinking, no lies. I told him that I couldn’t handle it, that my heart couldn’t take any more.

He held me, kissed my head, and said, “I couldn’t do that to you. I love you. I understand.” He agreed no drinking until everything in our lives was back in place. He even showed me all his hiding places and threw away the half empty bottles.

His promise lasted a few weeks.

We had a fight – over something stupid. I left him alone in the basement and about four hours later, he came upstairs, smelling (reeking) of booze.

“You’ve been drinking,” I said.

“Yep, and I’m done lying about it. That’s your problem, right? The lying?” he responded.

I took off my wedding ring and kicked him out of our bedroom for the night. (Which was actually not a big deal since we hadn’t slept in the same room in months.) I cried for about 30 minutes, then stopped. There were no more tears that night. I knew what had to be done – I had prepared myself for it.

The next day, I drove to the library and sat in the parking lot. I pulled out a tattered notebook and flipped to the last page. Divorce attorneys. I had been doing research for months, just in case I needed it, and had it narrowed to three potential lawyers. I called the first one and explained my situation. He advised me to go to the courthouse and get an order of protection which would get Mike out of the house. The attorney walked me through the process, telling me where to go when I get to the courthouse.  “They’ll help you,” he said. “This is your first step.”

As I talked to the other two attorneys, I kept thinking about the order of protection. It seemed like a pretty extreme thing to do, but I knew that Mike wouldn’t leave on his own, and frankly, I was done.

When I got home that afternoon, I asked Mike to leave. At this point, he had been on a binge for more than 24 hours – no food or drink (other than drinking whatever liquor he was hiding). He called me a “fucking bitch” and said it was his house. Then, he passed out again.

I slapped him awake. (Really, he was PASSED OUT and I couldn’t wake him without doing something physical.) I wanted a confrontation. “You really need to leave,” I told him. “You can’t do this here anymore. Our kids! Me! It’s not right and it’s not fair.”

More names. He put a pillow over his face, removing it only to spout out more nasty names and tell me to get out of the basement. Then, something caught my eye by the stairs – Ethan had snuck into the basement and was watching us from around the corner. I saw the pain and confusion in his little eyes, and I knew that it was time to end this – for real.

I didn’t talk to Mike the next day, other than to tell him I calling his parents because he wasn’t eating or drinking anything. That announcement was met with more name calling. The next day, his parents arrived and stayed in the basement with him for the next several days.

 — TO BE CONTINUED. coming up: I go to court, the ambulance arrives, Mike leaves (not willingly)–

Moving out (well, thinking about it anyway)

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“I think I’ll find a duplex or condo soon,” my mom said at dinner last night.

I almost spit out my food – in shock.

My mom has lived with us since October 2010, moving in after my dad died and she sold their property in Tennessee. Lauren has never known life without Grandma RIGHT THERE, and Ethan loves having her close.

Of course, the original intent was never to have my mom live with us full-time forever. She was going to get her own house, close by, when we were in St. Louis. Then, things were bad with Mike, and she didn’t want to leave me (and the kids) alone to deal with his drinking and lying. She moved with me and the kids to Wisconsin and fully intended to get her own place there, but then Mike died and she thought the kids and I needed her close (we did/do).

But now, hearing that she’s actually LOOKING at places and has called an agent to help her search, it’s kind of a shock.

Yes, it’s tough sometimes having my mom live with me, like how she sets hot pans directly on my countertops (pet peeve) or how she doesn’t keep the pantry organized the same way I do (pet peeve). But, hell! She does the kids’ laundry, makes dinner, walks the dog, runs errands for us, keeps the house clean and running smoothly.

It would be nice to actually settle down in my house – my office is currently my mom’s bedroom and the guest room is PACKED with my mom’s “stuff.” Right now, my desk is in the dining room and office supplies are scattered in closets and the basement. And I don’t even know where the guest room furniture is… And three-quarters of my garage is filled with her furniture and boxes.

It would be nice to figure out how to be a single mom on my own. Besides, my mom will still be close – she watches Lauren three days a week. And it would probably be good for her to have her own space (and her stuff – which has been in storage or my garage for nearly two years). She needs to figure out how to deal with her own widow-hood.

I know I’m very fortunate to be in this situation with a mom who cares and wants to help (despite her own health and other issues). And a mom whom I can tolerate living under my roof.

It’s just bittersweet to think she’ll get her own place soon.