Honey, It's The Police

We had been enjoying a mostly trouble free stretch where all of the children seemed to be clicking away in harmony. Nobody was in crisis and most days, we were able to shut the light out at night with a quick thanks to the universe for the relative calm. And so it goes. All good things must come to an end.

Last night, Dallas and I were comfortably tucked away in dreamland when his mobile began shrieking. It was close to midnight. I thought the alarm had gone off and was dismayed to find myself exhausted, which has become an all too familiar state of late.

Dallas got up out of bed and answered the phone. I could hear him answering questions and then he turned to me.

"Beth. What's Kim's last name?"

I was groggy, disoriented and had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

"It's the police. They have teenage daughter."

Immediately, my senses sharpened and my heart began to drum in my chest. It is NEVER a good thing to receive a call from the police in the middle of the night. I lay still, listening to his conversation and when it became clear that teenage daughter was not hurt, I relaxed. Dallas hung up the phone and began pulling on his clothes. Apparently, the police were on their way to another call when they noticed a truck full of teenagers doing donuts in an empty field. Teenage daughter was in the truck.

It's amazing how just a few minutes of time can change one's perspective on a situation. My first reaction was anger. I could feel myself boiling. Earlier in the day, teenage daughter had asked if she could spend the night with Kim, a girlfriend. We went through the usual banter: Who is the girl? Have I met her? What were their plans? Were her parents home? There was nothing that caused any red flags so I acquiesced. Later though, I was hacked off to find that she had left the house without finishing her chores from the weekend. This may not seem like a big deal but we don't ask much of any of the children so when they push the envelope, it chaps my ass. When the officer told Dallas that the girlfriend with whom she was supposed to be staying wasn't in the truck, I felt myself flush with the first sparks of serious displeasure. Why that little....

"Where was Kim?" we asked.

"She took off with some guy," was the reply, "So I had Brandy pick me up."

Okay, I thought, let me get this straight. You plan to spend the night at one girl's house. The parents are home. Girl calls boy and leaves you alone at her house with her parents. You then call other friend to come and get you. You helplessly find yourself in a truck with girl and two boys and go to an empty field to do donuts and burn outs.

At 11:30 pm.

Which begs the question about where teenage daughter planned to spend the evening and at what point was she going to communicate the changes to us? My guess would be um..NEVER.

So I was angry. Nearly bloody midnight, police involved, clear abuse of our trust and the freedoms she enjoys.....

But after a few minutes, the view of the whole thing mellowed and in this frame of mind, a couple of positives floated to the surface. First, we weren't getting a call from the police telling us that she had been hurt when the truck overturned in the field. Second, her mother blew into town late last night but she chose to call us even though the other path would have been much easier. Finally, once in perspective, the situation was really not that terrible. Inconvenient, yes but not horrible. Dumb teenagers with a pervasive sense of invincibility were doing something stupid. Hmm...not all that unusual.

Today, we are going to have to sit her down and address the breach of trust and the need for communication but the sky is not falling. And she'll be cleaning her bathroom today.

With a toothbrush.

Dylan Part 3

We called Dylan's new hearing aids his "magic ears". They were behind-the-ear models with digital volume control which were perfect for young children. As intimidating as it was to learn how to care for the aids, that first set was a miracle for us.

Over a period of two weeks, the audiologist progressively adjusted the volume of the aids until they were at the proper level. The change in Dylan was immediate and profound. I remember baking cookies one day and as I dragged the kitchen chair across the floor, the sound of it caused Dylan to violently jump away in fright. Another morning, we were weeding the flower bed in the back yard. All of the sudden, a bird started chirping and Dylan froze, turned his head toward the tree and pointed. I said, "That's a bird. A bird." It was the first time that he had heard a sound at that high a frequency. Then one night before bed, I gave him a small glass of water. "Fankoo", he said. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. He had never said it that clearly before. Within six months, Dylan was speaking in complete, complex sentences and he became much more settled in his demeanor. I can only imagine what it had been like to not have been able to make himself understood.

He had several years of speech therapy and today, he speaks like any other eleven year old. In the early years, many of his classmates went home to their parents begging for "magic ears". He has graduated to in-the-canal hearing aids and until recently, he avoided football not because of the bulk of the aids under the helmet but because he wanted to go through his life without any broken bones. He is on the honour roll, has a group of friends and rarely does the subject of his disability come up. Now that I have several years of perspective on the whole situation, I see his hearing loss as a blessing. I know that sounds queer but Dylan has compensated for his disability in a number of remarkable ways.

He has a singular focus to detail that developed during the first three years of his life when his attention was not regularly compromised by external stimuli. He is a child who read before he went to kindergarten and today, he still devours book after book. He is able to assemble complicated Leggo kits in record time and he reads lips proficiently, which is especially useful in a plethora of situations.

He is also a person that has a well developed need for a few minutes of quiet each day. In kindergarten, I was called to the school to meet with his teacher. She had noticed that when the classroom volume got to a specific point, Dylan would reach up and shut off his aids, bend his head to his work and not surface until he was finished. While she admired his focus, she found it inconvenient to gently tap him on the shoulder to get his attention. And this is what is challenging about the hearing loss.

Dylan's disability is no more significant in the big picture than a child who wears glasses with one exception. Children with hearing loss tend to go undiagnosed and thus, seeing another student with hearing aids is not as common nor as socially accepted as seeing a child with glasses. Teachers are not as familiar and while they might move a child with vision problems to the front of the classroom, they are at a loss as to how to manage their hearing impaired students. Lots of insurance plans include optical riders. The same is not true for hearing aids. I don't know of a plan that includes them as a benefit. You can find an insurance company to help you cosmetically straighten your child's teeth but ask them to help your child hear (essential for speech and learning) and they quietly flip you the bird. And hearing aids are prohibitively expensive. Dylan's first set were $1800 per ear. His second, with multiple channels and automatic static noise reduction were $2200 per ear. I am hoping that as the baby boomers age and experience the effects of their hippie, concert attending years, they will demand good quality, affordable hearing aids. Until then, we have medical savings accounts and our charge cards.

Dylan will grow up to be a better man for this challenge and I just know that somewhere down the road, science will find a way to regenerate those damaged nerves and he'll be able to throw away his hearing aids for good.

 

Dylan Part 2

Two weeks after Dylan's surgery, we scheduled a hearing test in the ENT's office. The trouble with trying to evaluate little people for hearing deficiencies is that the standard frequency tests rely upon the child for feedback. Unfortunately, the younger the child, the less accurate the results are likely to be. In spite of this, the doctor was convinced that there was indeed something off and that Dylan required a more thorough evaluation.We were referred to Texas Childrens' Hospital.

A month later, Dylan was subjected to a battery of tests, all of which indicated that something was amiss. When taking his medical history, the nurse asked us to detail my pregnancy and any unusual events surrounding his birth. We mentioned the jaundice and she nodded her head telling us that high levels of bilirubin was a major factor in infant hearing loss. I was dumbfounded. Dylan and I were booted out of the hospital less than thirty six hours after his birth because of insurance limitations. The hospital had pricked the bottom of his foot when he was born and again twelve hours later. These blood tests showed that his bilirubin level was escalating. They did one final test before we left the hospital but neglected to call us with those results. That test showed a level of 17.8 mg/DL, which was bordering on dangerous. By the time we brought Dylan back to the hospital that Saturday, he was registering 22.3 mg/DL.

The audiologist asked that we allow her to perform an auditory brainstem response (ABR), which is frequently used when more conventional methods have yielded less than satisfactory results. They put Dylan into a twilight sleep, attached electrodes to his skull and subjected each ear to a series of sounds. The electrodes measure the activity in the auditory centers of the brain and thus, give an accurate picture of any middle or inner ear damage.

After they completed the test, Dylan was allowed to sleep off the sedation while the doctor met with us to go over the results. The ABR test confirmed that Dylan had mild to moderate hearing loss in his left ear and moderate to severe hearing loss in his right ear. There was pronounced inner ear nerve damage which meant the loss was permanent. I burst into tears. That response seems so foolish to me now that I have years of distance from the event but at the time, the news was devastating. On the plus side, we were told that Dylan was a perfect candidate for hearing aids and the audiologist felt that they would correct his hearing to within the normal range.

Hearing aids?!!! On MY child? No, no, no, no, no.

Immediately, my mind flashed to football. Would he be able to play with the aids on? What about the reaction from other children? Would he be mercilessly teased? Would he be a social outcast? I was heartbroken at the future I envisioned for my son. Why him? Did I do something wrong to cause this? I had myself a full blown pity party until we were led down the hallway to a different office where we were to be educated on the different types of aids available to Dylan. Along the way, we passed an older child with a cochlear implant and in the blink of an eye, our situation was put into perspective for me. Dylan was not deaf. He would never have to learn sign language. He had hearing loss and we were fortunate that the jaundice did not leave him with cerebral palsy or other neurological disorders. I realized that Dylan's future opinion about his hearing loss and his aids would largely be predicated upon how his father and I chose to handle his disability. Once I pulled my head out of my ass and understood that my son would take his cues from my example, Dylan's impairment ceased to be a tragedy to me.

On the ride home from that visit, I pulled down the vanity mirror over the sun shade and had a look at my boy in his car seat staring quietly out the window. He was still groggy from the sedative but he seemed to sense that something had shifted. I turned around, put my hand on his foot and asked him if he was okay. He nodded and gave me a massive smile.

"I know you are", I whispered.

Dylan Part 1

My sista cousin, Jennie is taking a course which has her doing a presentation about children with disabilities. She asked if I might email her a few paragraphs discussing my son, Dylan, who is hearing impaired. It got me thinking about his story might so with Dylan's permission, here it is.

I remember looking down at the early pregnancy test and seeing a faint, nearly indiscernible, black hash in the "YES" column. I stared at it, willing the mark to grow darker. I wanted to be pregnant, desperately, even though the medical community had told me that pregnancy would not be an easy experience. Three years previously, I had been diagnosed with cancer of the cervix and although it was discovered at the earliest stage, I'd still had to submit to several invasive procedures including conization, which jeopardized fertility and left me physically compromised. Still, when it was confirmed that Dylan was on his way, I was beyond thrilled. I had figured that conceiving would be the hardest part. Not so.

Everything went according to plan until I was 28 weeks along and started to dilate. I was given two shots of the steroid, betamethasone for two consecutive days in an effort to mature Dylan's lung tissue. We knew that I wasn't likely to carry him to term and I was put on strict bed rest to try to make it to 32 weeks. Luckily, things went really well and I didn't go stark raving mad into labour until my 35th week. Dylan came out like a bullet, screaming his head off which was music to my ears. His lungs were obviously in good shape. He had ten fingers and ten toes and after inspecting his nether regions, I was relieved to note that he was most definitely NOT a hermaphrodite, which was only one of my many irrational fears while pregnant.

He was born very late on a Tuesday night. We were released from the hospital on Thursday morning and by Saturday afternoon, Dylan was unresponsive. Panicked, we rushed him to the hospital where he was diagnosed with hyperbilirubinemia. Simply put, this meant that Dylan's liver had not matured enough to breakdown the bilirubin in his system and he had become dangerously jaundiced. Jaundice occurs to 60% of all newborns and 80% of all preterm babies. Treatment is simple and effective, though. Dylan was bathed in ultraviolet light for twenty four hours and voilà, he emerged with an appetite and a creamy complexion.

In the beginning, I didn't notice anything wrong with him. In fact, my entire family and I marveled at how serene and happy he was. Dylan was an easy, easy infant. He rarely cried, ate well, slept well and was an absolute joy. I did find it slightly odd that while he napped, I could vacuum nearby without waking him but I just attributed this to my good fortune for having the best baby on the planet. As he grew, I was slightly concerned that he didn't coo like other babies. The pediatrician told me not to worry and that those verbal milestones that I was reading about were general guidelines. She reassured me that each baby was different and Dylan would find his voice at his own pace.

By the time he was eighteen months old, I knew in my heart that there was something definitely wrong. Other babies were stringing together a few words. Some were speaking in sentences. Dylan, on the other hand, would grab onto my pant leg to get my attention and then point at whatever it is that he wanted. One day, as I found him watching my lips intently as I spoke, I distinctly remember thinking that there might be something afoul with his hearing. Again, I discussed this with his doctor and was basically told that I was worrying over nothing. So, feeling like one of THOSE stereotypical crazy mothers, I took my son home and waited for him to utter a few words. Then, the ear infections began and for nearly a year, our life became a living hell.

Dylan was in and out of the pediatrician's office with one ear infection after another. He was constantly on antibiotics. We learned through a rather frightening incident that he shared my penicillin allergy and consequently, he was put on stronger, more robust, wide spectrum drugs. One early morning, Dylan showed up at my bedside stroking my face and pulling on his ear. Tears were rolling down his face but he wasn't making a sound. I finally snapped. That day, I begged an otolaryngologist (ear, nose and throat guy), to see Dylan without a referral. Dr. P took one look into Dylan's ears and immediately scheduled surgery to insert tubes and remove his adenoids. He was appalled that Dylan had been on antibiotics for so long without any measurable relief and could not fathom why nearly a year had passed without surgery being presented as an option. I mentioned my concerns about Dylan's hearing and for the first time, I received the acknowledgment that there might be a problem. Unfortunately, we would have to wait until after the infection had drained to make a proper assessment.

Dylan woke up from his surgery with thick gobs of blood infused pus streaming out of his ears. I rode in the back seat with him on the way home from the hospital, stroking his arm and telling him that I was sorry, so, so, sorry for not doing something sooner. That car ride was a significant turning point for me and my confidence in the medical establishment. Never again, would I ignore my instincts where the health of my child was concerned.

And this new resolved served us well in the next couple of years as we navigated the services available for a child with disabilities.

Can't We Move On?

Okay.

Enough already.

Why does anyone still give a crap about the dysfunctional triangle that was Jennifer Aniston, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie? It's been nearly four years and every couple of months as the Pitt-Jolies celebrate some sort of birth or adoption, the rags are covered with headlines about a secret rendevous between Pitt and Aniston or some such nonsense.

Yes, the divorce between Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston was a bit messy but what divorce isn't? It must have been wretched to have the entire world witness the disintegration of your marriage. I mean, they are people after all and I don't believe that celebrity and money insulate one from emotional pain so I cannot for the life of me figure out why Aniston would elect to answer questions posed by a Vogue journalist in regard to Angelina's comments A YEAR EARLIER! Talk about picking a scab.

She said she merely answered the questions as honestly as she could.

Whatever.

Why even dignify that line of questioning by actually making a comment? It's ancient history.

They met, they married, they divorced. The fairy tale didn't work for them. Lots of us can relate. And yes, it seems likely that Brad Pitt stepped out on his wife which unfortunately, is especially juicy gossip fodder but why do we care so much? I can understand the tabloids perpetuating this non story because high drama and misery sell but even the mainstream media refuse to let it go.

I never talk to my first husband. In fact, I can barely remember what he looks like. I certainly don't dwell on the sad and confused farce that was our marriage. I probably wouldn't give my second husband a thought either, but we had children together which necessitates civil conversation. The point is that relationships begin and some of them end. And if you didn't procreate together, what would possibly be the reason to continue to rehash it after four years?

So, after reading that a Vogue journalist popped the question and Jennifer Aniston chose to answer, I can only assume that she enjoys the role of wounded ex-wife. Of course, Angelina Jolie could probably have benefited from a muzzle in the same way that Bill Clinton could have used a chastity belt but there is something slightly afflicted about the way that Aniston continues to include "victim" as part of her public persona.

Under Pressure

I am a pressure cooker goddess.

I had coveted one since visiting my sista cousin in Toronto and watching her whip up these fabulous soups and stews in the blink of an eye. They tasted like they had been slow cooked for hours and you know, I am all about modern equipment that gives the illusion of me slaving over a stove.

Dallas and I received two pressure cookers as wedding gifts and my first attempt at trying to use them nearly had me calling our insurance agent. In the instruction manual that I didn't read, there was a complimentary recipe for Coq au Vin. Yummy. Easy. Or so I thought. I dumped all of the ingredients in the pot, managed to get the lid closed and put the heat on the highest setting possible. The pressure quickly built in the pot and within minutes, the thing was positively ROCKING on top of the stove. I remembered from watching my cousin that this was a desirable effect. So, I left it there and soon, the kitchen was overcome with the smell of something burning.

Dallas: "Something's burning."

Me: "I know it seems that way but the cookbook says 25 minutes."

Dallas: "Are flames supposed to be shooting out of the lid like that?"

Actually, it wasn't that bad until we opened it. The meal looked savoury enough if you overlooked the floating pieces of charred chicken. The entire bottom of the pot was coated in a thick, scorched film of slurry. It tasted like charcoal. I was crushed. And the kitchen had a stale burnt odour for days. Visions of Norman Rockwell inspired mealtimes with the kids around the table, happily lapping up their nutritious stew were permanently dashed when Dylan walked into the kitchen, glanced in the pot and said, "That looks gross, Mum. What's for dinner?"

It all started with instruction manuals that were in-freaking-comprehensible. I am not kidding. I am able to wrap my brain around imaginary numbers but learning how the lids went on these pots took me nearly thirty minutes to figure out. The author of said manuals was either unfamiliar with the English language or a freaking sadist. So, I called sista cousin and she patiently went through the operation of the pressure cooker, step by step. Now that I know how to use it, the directions could have been written on a single page:

1. Put stuff in the pot.
2. Put the lid on. (Ask your first grader to help with this task)
3. Turn the burner on high.
4. When the yellow thingy pops up, turn the heat down and set timer for 25 minutes.
5. When timer goes off, turn dial to release steam.
6. Remove lid (again, the elementary student should come in handy to help you figure this out because they read picture books well and will understand the ridiculous symbols on the dial)
7. Serve.
8. Bathe in the accolades touting you as a fabulous cook.

This week, I have had both pressure cookers going at the same time so I was able to prepare dinner a day ahead without the slightest inconvenience.

Look at me.

I am the model of modern day woman efficiency. Come worship at my stove.

Yeah. Or get yourself a pressure cooker and get your goddess on.

Airport Observations

An airport is a wonderful way to study what is really quite awful about the human condition and last week, I found myself at Bush Intercontinental in Houston for a two hour layover. My observations:

1. We are fat. Not phat. FAT. As a nation. What the hell is wrong with us? Why do we think it is okay to consume massive portions of food, washed down with giant-sized sodas and then call for a wheelchair to assist us to the airport gate because we are too large to walk comfortably?

2. Spandex is a material that should only be worn in the privacy of one's home or by people in exceptional physical shape. I understand the need to be comfortable on the plane because nothing is more wretched than inflight flatulence caused by constrictive clothing but the line has to be drawn at spandex. It is not flattering. It's like witnessing a sausage bursting from its casing? Seriously, we all have stretch marks from our babies but do you really want the guy sitting next to you to see them through your clothing?

3. Bathing before traveling is apparently optional. I was in a restaurant eating my lunch when the hostess sat a married couple two seats down from me. As they passed by on the way to their table, I caught a whiff of something foul but figured one of them had just passed gas. Within a minute, it became evident that the smell was not a temporary thing and it was coming from the man, who was at least ten feet away. He smelled like poo. It was awful. I sent a little prayer to the heavens and politely asked that this man not be the one sitting next to me on my flight.

4. Speaking of odoriferous things, if you ever spot me in an airport and we are on the same flight, you might want to make sure that you are seated several rows away. Oh don't get me wrong, I smell delightful but apparently, I am a fart magnet. It is rare that I travel that I am not seated within the nose detecting vicinity of someone who is rotting from the inside out. It's been bad enough to make my eyes water. Where exactly do they think that their vapours go? It is a plane. With finite space.

5. It's been seven years since terrorism changed air travel forever. Quart-sized baggie for your liquids (3oz and under), no lighters and for Pete's sake, empty your bloody pockets of loose change. You bonehead. While going through airport security is most definitely time consuming and tedious, it is a necessary evil and giving TSA a hard time about procedures that have been in place FOR YEARS and sighing dramatically as you are made to remove your shoes and your belt JUST PISSES THE REST OF US OFF! Right then, moving on...

I am fortunate that frequent travel is a thing of my past because somewhere along the way, I lost my personality and it stopped being fun. Now, it is kind of like what I imagine a prison sentence to be in that you are stuffed into a cramped space and managing the passage of time with a bunk mate who snores.

Thank goodness for iPods, sudoku and tabloid magazines. They help to take your mind off the child behind you kicking your seat until your teeth ring.

Viva Las Vegas

What can I say about Las Vegas that hasn't already been written?

It is bright lights and performance on an unimaginably grand scale. It is hookers and junkies and all night buffets. It is surgically enhanced breasts, one arm bandits and celebrity sightings. It is trade shows, displaced New York cabbies and endless tour busses. It is the personification of excess in the human condition soaked in alcohol and with a wallet full of cash. A weekend trip is a little slice of naughty. A full seven days is like having an ice pick jammed into your brain.

Our team stayed at the Bellagio and when we first made these reservations, I was excited. I've had the opportunity to bunk at several different Las Vegas properties but I had heard that the Bellagio was pretty swank and I was looking forward to the luxury.

Perhaps my multitude of trips over to the Orient has spoiled me but I felt the Bellagio was just okay. I got to my room and was THRILLED with the bathroom. It was large enough in which to host a cocktail party and had one of those lighted magnifying mirrors for the terminally middle aged. The bathrobes were thick and luxurious, bedding was lovely and mini bar was stocked should I lose my mind and choose to indulge in an $8 bottle of Fiji water.

I hooked up my computer and clicked on my browser, expecting to get the usual message about internet fees, blah, blah, blah but nothing happened. Hmm. Strange. So, I called down to the main desk to inquire as to what I was doing wrong.

"We aren't wired for WiFi ma'am." (Five Star hotel? In 2008?)

"Uh, okay. Where is the ethernet cord kept?"

"We have one available for purchase through your mini bar. It's in the basket with the chocolates and our world famous Bellagio chips. It's $13.99 but be careful ma'am. The items are hooked into a sensor and if you take it out of the basket, you are automatically charged." (Of course.)

Reluctantly, I purchased the cord and was sorely disappointed to find that it was not dipped in platinum and encrusted with diamonds.

And somewhere in the visit, my "Do Not Disturb" sign disappeared, never to return. This would have been fine except that one evening, I went to bed before midnight.

The night before, I'd had a thousand cocktails, a few nasty cigarettes and settled into bed for a mere two and a half hour snooze before my alarm went off. I got up, had a shower, started a caffeine IV and stood on my feet all day. I had the kind of headache that cannot be managed with water and ibuprofen. I needed sleep. So that night, when the rest of the team went out for dinner and cocktails, I declined and dragged my sorry ass back to the hotel room. I had a shower, brushed my teeth and slid gratefully into dreamland....

Until 10:40 pm when housekeeping banged on the door in an attempt to turn my bed down. I staggered up, threw on a robe and opened the door but she had already moved on to the next room after finding my security lock engaged. When she came out, I asked her for another "Do Not Disturb" sign and was told she would take care of that for me. I never got another one. And my clock was never changed to the correct time after daylight savings ended. And one ceiling light was burnt out and never replaced. And there was no shower gel. And the chocolates that they left during the turn down service tasted like Hershey's (yuck). And there was no pen with the stationary set. And the bathroom scale lied.

The one really great event of the week was attending Cirque du Soleil's show, "O", which was playing at the Bellagio's theatre. I'm at a loss to describe how fantastic this was. The Cirque du Soleil organization has the uncanny ability to stimulate every single sense during one of their performances. I have been fortunate enough to attend shows in San Diego and Florida and they never cease to amaze me. They are worth the steep ticket price.

So, aside from the show, I wasn't much impressed with the Bellagio even though David Duchovny was apparently laying his head down under the same roof. Paris Hilton showed her face, which did nothing for me but sent a shiver through the crowd. Next time, I'm likely to stay at the MGM or try to convince my boss to pony up a few more bucks and house us at the Wynn.

As I was preparing to leave my room for the last time, I took both door keys and laid them on the small table beside the bed like I always do. I opened all of the drawers and closets and did a sweep of the bathroom to be sure that I hadn't left anything behind. As I muscled my bulging suitcase out into the hallway, I caught sight of my $14 ethernet cord hanging from the desk as the door swung shut.

Viva Las Vegas.

President Obama

I am in Las Vegas on business right now and the days are crazy long but I wanted to take a few moments to say hello.

And breathe a sigh of relief.

President Obama. Sounds right.

I was very impressed with how gracious Senator McCain was in his concession speech. Even though I do not agree with most of his politics, I respect his passion for and his dedication to this country. I felt a twinge of something unidentifiable witnessing the end of the era he embodied.

But I didn't dwell long because for the first time in eight years, I believe that there is hope.