Though I can't pinpoint the exact moment of my descent, I can say that February of 2011 is when I fell so far down I had difficulty spotting the sun's rays on a daily basis. By March, I was swimming with the angler fish and I think Grace was, too, for a period. Her month-long bout of Scarlet Fever combined with the severe allergic reaction to the penicillin left us both struggling for air and light--for hope and faith.
Grace--she bounces, she floats up, she swims to the top, she basks in the shimmering waters until she feels her wings growing back... and she flies. She can sink to the bottom and shoot up to the sky in one day--in one moment. She lives mostly in the now and I am so grateful for her ability to dance in the light even when shadows lurk in the corners. She seeks out the bright clarity of joy.
I pulled it out of her on October 2 that she has been bullied in school since day one by a particular girl who knows enough to always do it when no adults are within hearing range. Grace is naturally drawn to people. She loves all people, male/female isn't an issue for her as it seems to be for many of the girls in her class. But back on October 2, I had no idea, Grace really had no idea how rampant the possessiveness and jealousies ran in that room. When she first told me, I felt the blow from the sucker punch--what must she feel everyday when she goes to school? The problem with the first girl came to a climax by the next week when she and another girl ganged up on Grace and threatened to punch her in the face (because she was friends with a boy who "belongs to" another girl, a girl who we thought was Grace's friend, too). It was the first time her teacher was able to catch something without making it worse for Grace by letting the girl know she'd told someone.
The principal and a counselor were brought in to deal with it, parents were called, I am on top of it, her teacher is on top of it, and now even Grace is on top of it because she gets it: it's the mean girl syndrome and Grace is the target. Ironically, the first girl who wouldn't leave her alone until it came to that culmination hasn't been much of an issue at all, mostly now it is the girl who befriended her the second week of school. Her teacher says that Grace uplifts the classroom with her upbeat and happy personality. She says that Grace is helpful and friendly to her classmates, she says that she is "lovely." She says she has never had a class like this before: where the ties of possessiveness run so deeply among so many of the girls--even to include some of the boys, making them uncomfortable. (The boy who is friends with Grace and made to feel that it is wrong to talk to her, because he "belongs to" the other girl, for instance.)
Her teacher has said she feels like she has to protect Grace from a hornet's nest and little fires that these girls are starting everywhere with their gossip. Grace was seven until two weeks ago and these girls are nine and ten years old. They are fourth graders. Grace really is so innocent, was so innocent...yet so much more mature. She gets it now. It saddens me.
Okay, on November 8 when I originally wrote this in my journal, she was only just starting to grasp it and she was still seven, technically. I'm improvising on what I wrote earlier. I was more sad and hopeless then. Only 18 days ago. What I really wrote was:
I cry most nights for what she must endure, for the chipping away at her innocence by girls who obviously just need more love and better role models in their own lives. (One day, when I had to intervene to stop a fist fight between two girls in Gracie's class before the morning bell rang, I went home and cried for them, too. The words they used and the front they put up--Grace wouldn't even know about...and I know she is lucky in that--that she has love and support at home, even if school is a dicey social situation.) I cry because she deserves a break--I feel like the only person and thing she can count on is me. Her dad is too far away and her brother is gone so often...her true friends are now a forty minute drive away...
I cry because I have been down too long. That water is filling my lungs making me just want to give in to it and sleep and sleep. I'm drowning and no one gets it. Maybe Joel does. But he's in Arizona. My kids have an inkling because they live with me--though I fake it so often for them, I don't think they realize how bad it is. But they know. I can't fake it 24/7 on the weekends. The very chore of opening my eyes each morning is hardly bearable. But I do it. It has to be done. There is no one else, so I must. I must lift my head from the pillow. I must use those stomach muscles and make my body sit up. I must make my legs swing to the edge of the bed and I must make my feet stay planted on the ground. My kids need me, especially Grace, and I must stand.
(I started this on November 8, but could not finish or put it on this blog until the 26th, when again...I couldn't finish. Today is January 12, 2012, as I'm about to type these last few paragraphs from a boat, drifting mostly peacefully and breathing real air instead of those heavy, heavy waters.)
I went to the doctor finally, on a recommendation of a very dear, old friend who dropped by unexpectedly and told me I should. It had never once occurred to me, even though I'm a nurse and have passed a thousand antidepressant pills to a thousand different patients, I never thought once to go to a doctor. To make an already long story a bit shorter, I was diagnosed and prescribed meds, but I'm just not a pill person. They are wonderful for some who are in pain (emotional, physical) but not me. I waited till a Friday, took one pill and did not react well to it (difficulties talking and breathing, jittery-an allergic reaction, I'm sure). I was alone with Grace all weekend, so if things got worse...the pill was a 24 hour thing, but the effects lasted longer. They faded of course, but even on Sunday I was aware of the slight tightness in my throat each time I spoke.
So. I decided to create my own serotonin-boost. I know I could have done this all along--I'm not only a nurse, but a nurse with a B.S. in exercise science! I know the right thing to do to get the chemical imbalance in my brain righted from being down for so long, but the irony is that when anyone is depressed, we can't make ourselves do it...really, it just doesn't even come up in our thoughts. But that was a scary weekend and it was my wakeup call, and I just suddenly decided on an action plan that would help me climb out of the depression the natural way: Yoga. And writing.
As most everyone knows, exercise--any kind you enjoy--creates more of those feel-good chemicals and yoga is especially good because of the whole philosophy behind it. Letting go of what you don't need. Being in the now. Bre-e-e-a-t-h--e-. Just breathe. And writing because I love it. I told myself that I would MAKE myself do yoga and write every single day. I even thought I might blog on working through my 2 yoga DVDs, one of which has over 20 different routines on it, but you see that hasn't happened.
I've been keeping busy helping out at Grace's school and with Nathan's People to People fundraising. I slacked on the daily yoga but I'm coming up. Ironically, Jen noticed something was off about me that weekend I tried the antidepressant (I took Grace to her daughter's birthday party), she said SAM noticed and told her she better call me or do something. It was embarrassing, but also like a lifeline was tossed out. Thank you, friends.
In case you're wondering, my plan is working even though I'm not following it to a tee, or even to a tah. I never was one to plan-plan. I'm more of a take it as it comes. But having that plan, that idea, that sudden shock of realizing I need to DO something to get myself back up, has helped tremendously. It may not have happened if not for that very dear person in my life who first noticed (or verbalized it) that I needed help and that I should get to a doctor. Thank you.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Friday, September 30, 2011
Upside Down Dancing Snoopy
On 9-11-11 I placed a dancing Snoopy and fluttering Woodstock sticker on the inside flap of my journal. Snoopy was always my dad's favorite character and since he passed on from this place to the next back in 2004, Snoopy has been a sign to me that my dad is somewhere near. I decided I needed a pick-me-up as often as I could get it--for my own sake and for my kids' sake. By placing Snoopy (a smiling and dancing Snoopy) right in my journal, I would somehow guarantee my dad's protective and guiding presence when I needed it most.
On 9-12-11, I realized that I had placed the Snoopy stickers upside down. Coincidentally...providentially, on that day Grace had her first really great day since Joel left from his four day visit on 9-6-11 and I had my first yoga class. On that night I wrote this in my journal:
Yesterday Gracie stayed awake
and awake. And she cried
and she cried.
For her Daddy.
At midnight
she slept.
At midnight I cried
and I cried. And I stayed
awake
and awake. And I cried more
and more.
Then,
I remembered
The moon.
All night
ignoring its light
from the
sun
as the waters spilled.
And there it was
shining still
its splendor
on my tears.
First I implored
regained myself
gave thanks
grateful.
Our rich life
full of love.
Faith. I cast my spell
smiled a real smile.
Apologized for the lapse.
Texted Joel to
say his prayers again
in the light of the full moon
I slept.
(That was on one page. On the flip-side of that page, I continued:)
Today, after school
Grace
prattling on
animated
sophisticated
detailing her day
she floated through the kitchen
lunch dishes in the sink
water bottle to the freezer...
She stilled;
her thoughts
her movements
her hand gestures
never her smile
or her radiance
"I had the BEST day! I LOVE it there..."
And I was effervescent.
And so
so thankful.
(She was referring to her new school, which, by the second day there, we all knew was a great fit for her mainly because of the awesome Mrs. Suida, but the kids welcomed her too. Being there helps her to get through the day knowing her dad isn't home yet. Thank God she is a child who mostly lives in the present moment.)
My little diddy of a poem went on to talk about my freeing yoga class and Shari, the perfect yoga teacher for me, but I think that ending sums it up best. Grace is happy; I am happy.
So that was the 12th and that's when, after seeing that I'd stuck the Dancing Snoopy upside down, I said to myself: It's about time I write something for my blog--that Dancing Snoopy...there's something there...But first, sleep.
Since February, I had been surviving on four hours of sleep most days. But that night I fell asleep just past midnight and didn't wake until six-thirty. I was ecstatic. Things were looking up.
Of course, nothing lasts. Nothing stays the same.
The next night, Gracie cried again for Joel. Nights are most difficult because she finally slows down...and it all comes crashing to the front of her mind. It's always there. But at nighttime she can't ignore it as easily. With her pale blue eyes turning green as her tears pour out: He left when I just turned FIVE. Now I'm almost EIGHT. It's been almost THREE YEARS. He has to get one of those Michigan jobs BEFORE three years. He can't be gone from us for three years.
These are the things she tells me on that night as she cries and cries.
But nothing lasts. Nothing stays the same.
The next day at school she lives in the present moment and she is happy again. Up and down. Down and up. But she never lacks for love. Always, there is love surrounding her.
I put that upside down Dancing Snoopy in my journal on the tenth anniversary of 9-11. For so many thousands of people, their lives were turned upside down on that day. Changed forever.
I put him there in a moment when I was not thinking of the people of 9-11, though I'd been listening to stories of hope and love on NPR all day, in that moment I was only thinking, begging: Please help us come together as a family again. Help Joel back to us with his job intact. Please give Gracie peace, give me peace until we make it to that day. Can someone help Joel's light be felt by the man or woman making the decisions about who gets the Detroit and Selfridge jobs? Dad? Grandma? Grandma Meinema or Grandma Rozema? Any of the ancestors? Do any of you have any clout to get our prayers answered by mid-October at the latest? Let them know his work ethic and SEE him and get him back home to us...
(Joel applied for a position here back in January. He knew he wouldn't know anything until July. He also applied for an Ohio position in May since no Michigan postions were posted. In July he found out that he didn't get on the Ohio "list" but that he made it onto the list for the position he applied for in January. So he's on a "list" to potentially be transferred back here, to the Detroit area. They notify you either way--so we hope and pray each day, so many moments of the day, that he will get that call...We've kind of agreed that if we don't hear anything by end of October, Joel will have to let them know he MUST get home even if it means quitting. Joel doesn't want that, I don't want that, but we can't do this much longer. Grace can't and we can't stand being the ones responsible for her pain.)
So that was all that was on my mind when I stuck Snoopy in my journal inadvertantly upside down. It was on the same night that Gracie cried until midnight and then I cried until three (which was really not too unusual lately for either of us.) It was the anniversary of a night when ten years ago, and probably on that night, thousands cried and cried, too. The next day, 9-12 was a completely new, changed world. Life turns on a dime.
We just have to flip it.
Flip the page.
Flip the book.
Flip our thinking.
Flip our actions.
Nothing lasts. Nothing stays the same.
And that's a good thing.
It helps us to get through those unyieldingly painful days. It helps us to not feel so lost when we have a streak of seemingly perfect days that suddenly turn arduous. The dancing, the singing, the weightless joy will return, and...it will eventually leave again...but always, it comes back. Our dancing, smiling selves might get mixed up or turned upside down--but we're still there--we just have to remember to flip back when we're ready.
My Upside Down Dancing Snoopy and Woodstock are there to remind me to have faith, keep dancing, never give up hope, and always remember the moon.
On 9-12-11, I realized that I had placed the Snoopy stickers upside down. Coincidentally...providentially, on that day Grace had her first really great day since Joel left from his four day visit on 9-6-11 and I had my first yoga class. On that night I wrote this in my journal:
Yesterday Gracie stayed awake
and awake. And she cried
and she cried.
For her Daddy.
At midnight
she slept.
At midnight I cried
and I cried. And I stayed
awake
and awake. And I cried more
and more.
Then,
I remembered
The moon.
All night
ignoring its light
from the
sun
as the waters spilled.
And there it was
shining still
its splendor
on my tears.
First I implored
regained myself
gave thanks
grateful.
Our rich life
full of love.
Faith. I cast my spell
smiled a real smile.
Apologized for the lapse.
Texted Joel to
say his prayers again
in the light of the full moon
I slept.
(That was on one page. On the flip-side of that page, I continued:)
Today, after school
Grace
prattling on
animated
sophisticated
detailing her day
she floated through the kitchen
lunch dishes in the sink
water bottle to the freezer...
She stilled;
her thoughts
her movements
her hand gestures
never her smile
or her radiance
"I had the BEST day! I LOVE it there..."
And I was effervescent.
And so
so thankful.
(She was referring to her new school, which, by the second day there, we all knew was a great fit for her mainly because of the awesome Mrs. Suida, but the kids welcomed her too. Being there helps her to get through the day knowing her dad isn't home yet. Thank God she is a child who mostly lives in the present moment.)
My little diddy of a poem went on to talk about my freeing yoga class and Shari, the perfect yoga teacher for me, but I think that ending sums it up best. Grace is happy; I am happy.
So that was the 12th and that's when, after seeing that I'd stuck the Dancing Snoopy upside down, I said to myself: It's about time I write something for my blog--that Dancing Snoopy...there's something there...But first, sleep.
Since February, I had been surviving on four hours of sleep most days. But that night I fell asleep just past midnight and didn't wake until six-thirty. I was ecstatic. Things were looking up.
Of course, nothing lasts. Nothing stays the same.
The next night, Gracie cried again for Joel. Nights are most difficult because she finally slows down...and it all comes crashing to the front of her mind. It's always there. But at nighttime she can't ignore it as easily. With her pale blue eyes turning green as her tears pour out: He left when I just turned FIVE. Now I'm almost EIGHT. It's been almost THREE YEARS. He has to get one of those Michigan jobs BEFORE three years. He can't be gone from us for three years.
These are the things she tells me on that night as she cries and cries.
But nothing lasts. Nothing stays the same.
The next day at school she lives in the present moment and she is happy again. Up and down. Down and up. But she never lacks for love. Always, there is love surrounding her.
I put that upside down Dancing Snoopy in my journal on the tenth anniversary of 9-11. For so many thousands of people, their lives were turned upside down on that day. Changed forever.
I put him there in a moment when I was not thinking of the people of 9-11, though I'd been listening to stories of hope and love on NPR all day, in that moment I was only thinking, begging: Please help us come together as a family again. Help Joel back to us with his job intact. Please give Gracie peace, give me peace until we make it to that day. Can someone help Joel's light be felt by the man or woman making the decisions about who gets the Detroit and Selfridge jobs? Dad? Grandma? Grandma Meinema or Grandma Rozema? Any of the ancestors? Do any of you have any clout to get our prayers answered by mid-October at the latest? Let them know his work ethic and SEE him and get him back home to us...
(Joel applied for a position here back in January. He knew he wouldn't know anything until July. He also applied for an Ohio position in May since no Michigan postions were posted. In July he found out that he didn't get on the Ohio "list" but that he made it onto the list for the position he applied for in January. So he's on a "list" to potentially be transferred back here, to the Detroit area. They notify you either way--so we hope and pray each day, so many moments of the day, that he will get that call...We've kind of agreed that if we don't hear anything by end of October, Joel will have to let them know he MUST get home even if it means quitting. Joel doesn't want that, I don't want that, but we can't do this much longer. Grace can't and we can't stand being the ones responsible for her pain.)
So that was all that was on my mind when I stuck Snoopy in my journal inadvertantly upside down. It was on the same night that Gracie cried until midnight and then I cried until three (which was really not too unusual lately for either of us.) It was the anniversary of a night when ten years ago, and probably on that night, thousands cried and cried, too. The next day, 9-12 was a completely new, changed world. Life turns on a dime.
We just have to flip it.
Flip the page.
Flip the book.
Flip our thinking.
Flip our actions.
Nothing lasts. Nothing stays the same.
And that's a good thing.
It helps us to get through those unyieldingly painful days. It helps us to not feel so lost when we have a streak of seemingly perfect days that suddenly turn arduous. The dancing, the singing, the weightless joy will return, and...it will eventually leave again...but always, it comes back. Our dancing, smiling selves might get mixed up or turned upside down--but we're still there--we just have to remember to flip back when we're ready.
My Upside Down Dancing Snoopy and Woodstock are there to remind me to have faith, keep dancing, never give up hope, and always remember the moon.
Monday, July 11, 2011
A Soothing Summer Sound
Maracas in the sky, I call them. They play their music with the whispering leaves of the trees or, maybe more so, in the still, heavy heat of a breezeless day. Always, there is sun and warmth to accompany their continual concert of hypnotic buzzing and maraca-like harmonics. It is the steady and bewitching song of the cicada that has the power to transport me back to my childhood summers in Michigan.
Their sound alone conjures images of reading Nancy Drew Mysteries, The Chronicles of Narnina, or Island of the Blue Dolphins for the third time as I laze in a hammock beneath a canopy of trees while camping with my grandparents in Michigan's great Up North; or lying in the cool, fragrant grass with two or ten other kids to watch the clouds go by after a lively game of freeze-tag; or walking home in subdued contentment with my best friend from the community pool--our hair dripping down our backs, our wet swimsuits rolled inside of our damp towels, and the audible flip-flopping of our shoes joining the buzzing and shaking of those cicadas.
They are always there in the trees, making themselves heard, but it is in the hushed moments that our minds acknowledge the lulling call of the cicada. Like a sedative, their rhythmic percussions and buzzes commence softly, swiftly growing emphatic and intense with their sure stream of sound, then quieter again, with an abrupt end...only to start their good vibrations afresh minutes later.
Their sound alone conjures images of reading Nancy Drew Mysteries, The Chronicles of Narnina, or Island of the Blue Dolphins for the third time as I laze in a hammock beneath a canopy of trees while camping with my grandparents in Michigan's great Up North; or lying in the cool, fragrant grass with two or ten other kids to watch the clouds go by after a lively game of freeze-tag; or walking home in subdued contentment with my best friend from the community pool--our hair dripping down our backs, our wet swimsuits rolled inside of our damp towels, and the audible flip-flopping of our shoes joining the buzzing and shaking of those cicadas.
They are always there in the trees, making themselves heard, but it is in the hushed moments that our minds acknowledge the lulling call of the cicada. Like a sedative, their rhythmic percussions and buzzes commence softly, swiftly growing emphatic and intense with their sure stream of sound, then quieter again, with an abrupt end...only to start their good vibrations afresh minutes later.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Crazy
It's July; my husband is still in Arizona and we are still here. I remember thinking that he would make it home with his job intact no later than May, but by June for sure; and how hard that would be--to wait until June. And it has been hard. For Grace especially. But here we are, two and a half years of living apart, and we are still living. And I mean living, not just surviving. Our lives go on, everything goes on: the rain falls in buckets here, but in Arizona the fire raged on with no rain to quell those flames, but life went on there, too. And now there will be new growth in those massive areas of devastation, just as all lives cannot stay the same and must go through a death of sorts to make room for change and growth. I know that as truth, I'm sure many people of Arizona know that too, but some moments, some days it's not enough to palliate the pain one feels.
But I'd like to get back to publicly acknowledging the sunny spots.
Back in March, Grace came down with a fever after being exposed to a friend who, we later found out, had strep throat. I watched her for signs of strep, checked her throat with a light, but after three days she continued to deny any pain or discomfort in that area yet the fevers did not let up. Gracie has a long history of unexplained high fevers (105 degrees Fahrenheit regularly) so I quickly learned to deal with them when they came. It seems that whomever she is exposed to, no matter what they are sick with, it will manifest as a high fever in Gracie, with or without the other symptoms of that other person's illness.
On the fourth day, the fever had eased up to a mere one hundred and Grace was more chipper because of it. But when I invited her to sit on my lap so I could read to her, I slowly realized that the girl could not be still. She's a naturally energetic child to begin with, even when sick, but this was different. I asked her what was going on; she said, "I'm just itchy all over, Mama." Her neck and torso were covered in a red, bumpy rash. I called her doctor's office but they couldn't get her in until the next day, so I took the appointment, but got online right away to see if I could figure out what kind of bug was attacking my daughter.
It was scarlet fever. Scarlet fever is caused by the same bacteria that causes strep throat. Most get strep throat when exposed to Group A streptococcus, but for some it manifests differently: scarlet fever. Again, I called the doctor's office to tell them my findings and the fact that she was exposed to strep, but still they could not fit her in and recommended I take her to an urgent care facility. I was actually relieved because I knew of just the one that was less than a mile away and both of my kids had been to before--I had called my insurance company before the first time I took one of them and they had said that it was within the network and it would be treated just like an office visit, but I would pay $30 instead of $25 copay--and that was exactly how it was both times. I was relieved because I was afraid I'd waited too long already--she needed antibiotics--I was worried about her heart, so I felt blessed that it worked out this way because I knew I could just go.
The desk clerks and the medical assistant, Jessica, were so compassionate and understanding at the urgent care center. But the doctor, he said, "I doubt very much that this is scarlet fever; she's not acting sick enough..." I explained how Gracie is different, how she never wants to give in to the sickness, how even when she has a one-oh-three fever someone who didn't know her (and hadn't touched her skin) would not know she was sick. He countered with the fact that her temperature was barely one-hundred right then; I had already told him how high it had been for the last three days, especially at nighttime and that the motrin was probably still holding it down. He just eyed me dubiously and said he'd do the throat swab if that was what I really wanted. (He wanted to let it "resolve itself" because he was sure it was "just a viral infection.") I knew he was thinking I had Munchhausen by Proxy or that I was an anitbiotic seeking mom, but I also knew my daughter, and I was sure she needed those antibiotics. The doctor, gave us one last ominous look before leaving the room to get the supply kit; I prayed that he would send Jessica back in to do the dirty work for him. And then there was Grace. She's a smart, intuitive, highly sensitive kid, the doctor's obvious doubt in my story and his opinion that the throat swab would be an unnecessary trauma to her easily sent her into a panic.
Thank Heaven and Earth, Jessica was the one to return with the swab kit because even to my utter shock, Gracie darted past us and hid under a chair in the corner of the room, tearfully begging us not to make her do the swab. My sophisticated seven year old was suddenly acting like a three year old. It took me hours later to wrap my mind around how she reacted, but my nursing and mothering instincts kicked right in, then and there, and I immediately went to talk her down, coaxing her out from under the chair. But it took more work to get her to keep her mouth open for Jessica--she tried, but she had so much fear about being choked that she would snap it shut at the last second. It didn't even help to let her see me getting my throat swabbed with a q-tip because Grace said it wasn't as big as the swab she would get. It was a smaller tip.
Jessica said she was going to get another medical assistant "with more experience" to help out. While she was out of the room, I talked to Grace again about facing a fear and trusting me to not let anyone hurt her; I promised her that she would not choke and that the swab would not go down her throat. It helped to have the object of her fear removed from the scene for that moment and she realized...she agreed to just let them do it but she said, "Mama? I really like Jessica, can you ask Jessica to do it when she comes back with the other lady?" And that was that. As scared as she was, she made herself remain calm so that Jessica could get in there and swab that streptococcal infested throat. It came back positive and for the first time in her life, Grace was started on oral antibiotics. And Jessica, sweet, compassionate Jessica, came back with a big (quart sized-big) baggie full of granola bars, cheese-n-crackers, licorice, tootsie rolls, suckers...she told Gracie how proud of her she was for the courage it took her to remain calm and keep her mouth open for the swab when she could tell how afraid she was, but that made her all the more brave.
Gracie made a picture and wrote a thank you message to Jessica right when we got home that day; I had planned on dropping it off to her with a bouquet of flowers within the next week when Grace was feeling better. But it didn't quite happen that way.
Six days after that, she was still having fevers, but much lower without the aid of motrin or tylenol; her rash had initially improved after three days but seemed to be at a standstill...the long and short of it is that on that sixth day I realized that Gracie was having an allergic reaction to the penicillin. This time I called her doctor expecting that he would start her on a different one. It was supposed to be a ten day course and she really only completed five full days; the fevers were still there, too, but he said no, just stop the course and start her on children's Benadryl. He said it was probably just the allergic reaction causing the fevers and rash now and that the scarlet fever was likely resolved. It was my turn to be dubious but I hoped he was right--ten days of fevers was enough for anyone, even Grace who was used to it.
As the day wore on, the hives and itchiness grew worse as did her temperature again. That afternoon after I'd asked her yet again how she was, how her throat was as she appeared to be turning into the Stay-Puff-Marshmallow-Man with red spots, and had a 102 fever, she smiled and replied, "I'm fine," in her own brand of insouciance that only Gracie can pull off while in that state.
By midnight I knew I would not sleep. Her face had become more swollen, she was restless with the high fever and though she continued to deny any trouble breathing or swallowing...what if she stopped breathing in her sleep? I watched her until five am until finally, I asked my dad and grandma (our guardian angels) to watch over her while I caught a few Zs with my hand on her chest and my face right next to hers. We woke at six-thirty; she was smiling and excited: "Mama! Look, the hives are gone!"
Oh, if you could've seen her. I struggled to compose my expression so she wouldn't become afraid. Her hives appeared to be gone to her because her entire body down to her finger tips and toes were one big, red, swollen mess. And her face--she looked like a person with botched collagen injections in her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, all over her face--she didn't look at all like my beautiful seven year old daughter; except in the light that still shined through her eyes. I mean, she was smiling, but it looked so tight and forced...so strange.
At the doctor's office, I asked about another throat swab to check for the infection since her fevers remained so high at night, but he said he was sure it was just the allergic reaction. She was started on oral steroids and a stronger, adult antihistamine. That was a Thursday, day eleven, he wanted to see her again on Monday. Good, because I still had my doubts about whether or not the scarlet fever was resolved.
I told him at that appointment, that she had had these fevers for fifteen days straight, and though there was an obvious improvement in the swelling and hives, it appeared that she was getting a new finer rash on her back that looked like the scarlet fever rash again. No, he said, it's still the allergic reaction.
On Wednesday, I was back at their office basically insisting on another throat swab. I had told him on Monday how important it was for her to be completely better by Friday, March 25th because she would be leaving on a plane at 7am by herself to see her dad who is still in Arizona, and now I was reiterating that point, along with the fact that I wouldn't ask if I didn't believe that that was what was causing her fevers. He tried to argue against it but I wouldn't back down this time, he said it would have to be a three day culture because the instant one would come back positive no matter what because she had it so recently. Fine. As a nurse I knew that the culture could show growth of the strep by Friday if it was virulent enough. I was sure it would.
When Friday came and went with no call back from her doctor, I was distressed to say the least. Her fevers had not let up and the rash was no better. She was a sick and sad girl. To her (and to me, who are we kidding) it seemed like forever with no hope of getting better before going to see her dad. She was sleeping eleven and twelve hours a day and not at all her upbeat self when she was awake. It had to be the scarlet fever keeping her down. The rash was there, the fevers, this could not be the penicillin still making her sick.
All weekend it was the same.
On Monday, before nine am, I got the call from her doctor. He said he had tried to call on Friday because as he said, "She must have a stubborn strain of strep because it was growing like crazy by Friday. But, he said he had an out-of-order phone number and didn't know how to reach me. He "kept hoping all day" that I would call him.
I was quietly angry. First: I had filled out all of the paperwork for the updated phone number during the visit almost two weeks earlier. And second: why didn't he keep trying then; why was he able to get a hold of me before his office even opened on Monday? Because all he had to do was ask the office clerk then too, as he said that was how he finally figured it out--that the paperwork I had filled out never got put into the computer. And third: he, along with that other doctor at the urgent care had been sufficiently condescending enough toward me to make me feel like I was just a crazy, MbP mom who couldn't even wait the required three days for the culture results. (But they're not open on Saturdays so I had to wait until Monday.) (Also, I knew I wasn't crazy and that I did not have MbP, but to convince these doctors of that...I felt like I was going a little coo-coo!) Not that I don't take responsibility for my own decision not to call when I so desperately wanted to, but that really was the reason I didn't. It sounds crazy to me as I type this that I didn't just call on Friday, but it's just another case for me and for others who need to trust our instincts no matter what the people of supposed authority say. I made myself not call.
She was started on the five day azithromycin that day, and by the next day I saw improvement in all symptoms. I also received an "Explanation of Benefits" from the insurance company for Gracie's visit to the urgent care; they weren't paying. Just when you think things will ease up...
I called. A nice man named William heard my story and agreed that I had no reason to doubt that it shoud've been covered as it was in the past, but that this particular doctor was not in network and that is why the insurance won't pay. He gave me the address to mail a letter of appeal. I wrote and mailed it along with a copy of the "Explanation of Benefits" which I had to take to the library to do. Then I waited.
A few weeks later I received a bill from the urgent care. I called to let them know the deal. They put my account on hold for thirty days while I called the insurance company back. They said that the letter was likely still being reviewed, that it was too soon to expect an answer yet. Fine. I waited some more. And forgot about it until...
Two weeks ago I received another bill from the urgent care. I set it down to do later. I really didn't want to, but finally, last week I called the insurance company again to inquire about the letter, explaining the story as to why the letter was sent in the first place. No record of any letter on file, she said. Oy Vey. She asked if I had a fax machine. No, hence the mailing of the first letter, but I simply said that yes, I could go to the library. So I reprinted the letter, wrote my note about sending it in March the first time...I mean really, how often does mail get lost? Hardly ever. But now suddenly, my appeal letter is just lost? Not by the U.S. Postal Service, I knew that much.
Before heading to the library, I called the billing department for the urgent care back to update them again. Lo and behold a woman named Pam answered this time. She said the story sounded fishy on the insurance company's part because she said that they have a "facility contract" with that company so it should've been covered no matter what. Then she looked up the particular doctor and said he also has a contract with that insurance company. She said that the fact that it was federal employee coverage shouldn't make a difference but that she needed a day to look deeper into it. She told me to hold off on sending the fax since it would cost me unnecessary time and money because she was almost sure that the insurance company was responsible for this bill.
Two days later she told me that it was their responsibility from the start and that this particular company is known to try to not pay--so she said she just "wrote off" our bill. You don't owe anything anymore, she said, and you don't have to worry about resending that letter to them and then waiting for an answer again. I was stunned and so grateful. Thank you Pam.
Oh, and thank you again to Jessica. (Grace and I did bring her the flowers and picture/note on March 31st when she was finally 100% better!)
Sometimes a littel bit of crazy makes us appreciate the little (and BIG) gestures of kindness and compassion all the more from those who let you know that they see you and know that you are not crazy, even if you once hid under a chair or called your child's doctor no less than five times in two weeks.
But I'd like to get back to publicly acknowledging the sunny spots.
Back in March, Grace came down with a fever after being exposed to a friend who, we later found out, had strep throat. I watched her for signs of strep, checked her throat with a light, but after three days she continued to deny any pain or discomfort in that area yet the fevers did not let up. Gracie has a long history of unexplained high fevers (105 degrees Fahrenheit regularly) so I quickly learned to deal with them when they came. It seems that whomever she is exposed to, no matter what they are sick with, it will manifest as a high fever in Gracie, with or without the other symptoms of that other person's illness.
On the fourth day, the fever had eased up to a mere one hundred and Grace was more chipper because of it. But when I invited her to sit on my lap so I could read to her, I slowly realized that the girl could not be still. She's a naturally energetic child to begin with, even when sick, but this was different. I asked her what was going on; she said, "I'm just itchy all over, Mama." Her neck and torso were covered in a red, bumpy rash. I called her doctor's office but they couldn't get her in until the next day, so I took the appointment, but got online right away to see if I could figure out what kind of bug was attacking my daughter.
It was scarlet fever. Scarlet fever is caused by the same bacteria that causes strep throat. Most get strep throat when exposed to Group A streptococcus, but for some it manifests differently: scarlet fever. Again, I called the doctor's office to tell them my findings and the fact that she was exposed to strep, but still they could not fit her in and recommended I take her to an urgent care facility. I was actually relieved because I knew of just the one that was less than a mile away and both of my kids had been to before--I had called my insurance company before the first time I took one of them and they had said that it was within the network and it would be treated just like an office visit, but I would pay $30 instead of $25 copay--and that was exactly how it was both times. I was relieved because I was afraid I'd waited too long already--she needed antibiotics--I was worried about her heart, so I felt blessed that it worked out this way because I knew I could just go.
The desk clerks and the medical assistant, Jessica, were so compassionate and understanding at the urgent care center. But the doctor, he said, "I doubt very much that this is scarlet fever; she's not acting sick enough..." I explained how Gracie is different, how she never wants to give in to the sickness, how even when she has a one-oh-three fever someone who didn't know her (and hadn't touched her skin) would not know she was sick. He countered with the fact that her temperature was barely one-hundred right then; I had already told him how high it had been for the last three days, especially at nighttime and that the motrin was probably still holding it down. He just eyed me dubiously and said he'd do the throat swab if that was what I really wanted. (He wanted to let it "resolve itself" because he was sure it was "just a viral infection.") I knew he was thinking I had Munchhausen by Proxy or that I was an anitbiotic seeking mom, but I also knew my daughter, and I was sure she needed those antibiotics. The doctor, gave us one last ominous look before leaving the room to get the supply kit; I prayed that he would send Jessica back in to do the dirty work for him. And then there was Grace. She's a smart, intuitive, highly sensitive kid, the doctor's obvious doubt in my story and his opinion that the throat swab would be an unnecessary trauma to her easily sent her into a panic.
Thank Heaven and Earth, Jessica was the one to return with the swab kit because even to my utter shock, Gracie darted past us and hid under a chair in the corner of the room, tearfully begging us not to make her do the swab. My sophisticated seven year old was suddenly acting like a three year old. It took me hours later to wrap my mind around how she reacted, but my nursing and mothering instincts kicked right in, then and there, and I immediately went to talk her down, coaxing her out from under the chair. But it took more work to get her to keep her mouth open for Jessica--she tried, but she had so much fear about being choked that she would snap it shut at the last second. It didn't even help to let her see me getting my throat swabbed with a q-tip because Grace said it wasn't as big as the swab she would get. It was a smaller tip.
Jessica said she was going to get another medical assistant "with more experience" to help out. While she was out of the room, I talked to Grace again about facing a fear and trusting me to not let anyone hurt her; I promised her that she would not choke and that the swab would not go down her throat. It helped to have the object of her fear removed from the scene for that moment and she realized...she agreed to just let them do it but she said, "Mama? I really like Jessica, can you ask Jessica to do it when she comes back with the other lady?" And that was that. As scared as she was, she made herself remain calm so that Jessica could get in there and swab that streptococcal infested throat. It came back positive and for the first time in her life, Grace was started on oral antibiotics. And Jessica, sweet, compassionate Jessica, came back with a big (quart sized-big) baggie full of granola bars, cheese-n-crackers, licorice, tootsie rolls, suckers...she told Gracie how proud of her she was for the courage it took her to remain calm and keep her mouth open for the swab when she could tell how afraid she was, but that made her all the more brave.
Gracie made a picture and wrote a thank you message to Jessica right when we got home that day; I had planned on dropping it off to her with a bouquet of flowers within the next week when Grace was feeling better. But it didn't quite happen that way.
Six days after that, she was still having fevers, but much lower without the aid of motrin or tylenol; her rash had initially improved after three days but seemed to be at a standstill...the long and short of it is that on that sixth day I realized that Gracie was having an allergic reaction to the penicillin. This time I called her doctor expecting that he would start her on a different one. It was supposed to be a ten day course and she really only completed five full days; the fevers were still there, too, but he said no, just stop the course and start her on children's Benadryl. He said it was probably just the allergic reaction causing the fevers and rash now and that the scarlet fever was likely resolved. It was my turn to be dubious but I hoped he was right--ten days of fevers was enough for anyone, even Grace who was used to it.
As the day wore on, the hives and itchiness grew worse as did her temperature again. That afternoon after I'd asked her yet again how she was, how her throat was as she appeared to be turning into the Stay-Puff-Marshmallow-Man with red spots, and had a 102 fever, she smiled and replied, "I'm fine," in her own brand of insouciance that only Gracie can pull off while in that state.
By midnight I knew I would not sleep. Her face had become more swollen, she was restless with the high fever and though she continued to deny any trouble breathing or swallowing...what if she stopped breathing in her sleep? I watched her until five am until finally, I asked my dad and grandma (our guardian angels) to watch over her while I caught a few Zs with my hand on her chest and my face right next to hers. We woke at six-thirty; she was smiling and excited: "Mama! Look, the hives are gone!"
Oh, if you could've seen her. I struggled to compose my expression so she wouldn't become afraid. Her hives appeared to be gone to her because her entire body down to her finger tips and toes were one big, red, swollen mess. And her face--she looked like a person with botched collagen injections in her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, all over her face--she didn't look at all like my beautiful seven year old daughter; except in the light that still shined through her eyes. I mean, she was smiling, but it looked so tight and forced...so strange.
At the doctor's office, I asked about another throat swab to check for the infection since her fevers remained so high at night, but he said he was sure it was just the allergic reaction. She was started on oral steroids and a stronger, adult antihistamine. That was a Thursday, day eleven, he wanted to see her again on Monday. Good, because I still had my doubts about whether or not the scarlet fever was resolved.
I told him at that appointment, that she had had these fevers for fifteen days straight, and though there was an obvious improvement in the swelling and hives, it appeared that she was getting a new finer rash on her back that looked like the scarlet fever rash again. No, he said, it's still the allergic reaction.
On Wednesday, I was back at their office basically insisting on another throat swab. I had told him on Monday how important it was for her to be completely better by Friday, March 25th because she would be leaving on a plane at 7am by herself to see her dad who is still in Arizona, and now I was reiterating that point, along with the fact that I wouldn't ask if I didn't believe that that was what was causing her fevers. He tried to argue against it but I wouldn't back down this time, he said it would have to be a three day culture because the instant one would come back positive no matter what because she had it so recently. Fine. As a nurse I knew that the culture could show growth of the strep by Friday if it was virulent enough. I was sure it would.
When Friday came and went with no call back from her doctor, I was distressed to say the least. Her fevers had not let up and the rash was no better. She was a sick and sad girl. To her (and to me, who are we kidding) it seemed like forever with no hope of getting better before going to see her dad. She was sleeping eleven and twelve hours a day and not at all her upbeat self when she was awake. It had to be the scarlet fever keeping her down. The rash was there, the fevers, this could not be the penicillin still making her sick.
All weekend it was the same.
On Monday, before nine am, I got the call from her doctor. He said he had tried to call on Friday because as he said, "She must have a stubborn strain of strep because it was growing like crazy by Friday. But, he said he had an out-of-order phone number and didn't know how to reach me. He "kept hoping all day" that I would call him.
I was quietly angry. First: I had filled out all of the paperwork for the updated phone number during the visit almost two weeks earlier. And second: why didn't he keep trying then; why was he able to get a hold of me before his office even opened on Monday? Because all he had to do was ask the office clerk then too, as he said that was how he finally figured it out--that the paperwork I had filled out never got put into the computer. And third: he, along with that other doctor at the urgent care had been sufficiently condescending enough toward me to make me feel like I was just a crazy, MbP mom who couldn't even wait the required three days for the culture results. (But they're not open on Saturdays so I had to wait until Monday.) (Also, I knew I wasn't crazy and that I did not have MbP, but to convince these doctors of that...I felt like I was going a little coo-coo!) Not that I don't take responsibility for my own decision not to call when I so desperately wanted to, but that really was the reason I didn't. It sounds crazy to me as I type this that I didn't just call on Friday, but it's just another case for me and for others who need to trust our instincts no matter what the people of supposed authority say. I made myself not call.
She was started on the five day azithromycin that day, and by the next day I saw improvement in all symptoms. I also received an "Explanation of Benefits" from the insurance company for Gracie's visit to the urgent care; they weren't paying. Just when you think things will ease up...
I called. A nice man named William heard my story and agreed that I had no reason to doubt that it shoud've been covered as it was in the past, but that this particular doctor was not in network and that is why the insurance won't pay. He gave me the address to mail a letter of appeal. I wrote and mailed it along with a copy of the "Explanation of Benefits" which I had to take to the library to do. Then I waited.
A few weeks later I received a bill from the urgent care. I called to let them know the deal. They put my account on hold for thirty days while I called the insurance company back. They said that the letter was likely still being reviewed, that it was too soon to expect an answer yet. Fine. I waited some more. And forgot about it until...
Two weeks ago I received another bill from the urgent care. I set it down to do later. I really didn't want to, but finally, last week I called the insurance company again to inquire about the letter, explaining the story as to why the letter was sent in the first place. No record of any letter on file, she said. Oy Vey. She asked if I had a fax machine. No, hence the mailing of the first letter, but I simply said that yes, I could go to the library. So I reprinted the letter, wrote my note about sending it in March the first time...I mean really, how often does mail get lost? Hardly ever. But now suddenly, my appeal letter is just lost? Not by the U.S. Postal Service, I knew that much.
Before heading to the library, I called the billing department for the urgent care back to update them again. Lo and behold a woman named Pam answered this time. She said the story sounded fishy on the insurance company's part because she said that they have a "facility contract" with that company so it should've been covered no matter what. Then she looked up the particular doctor and said he also has a contract with that insurance company. She said that the fact that it was federal employee coverage shouldn't make a difference but that she needed a day to look deeper into it. She told me to hold off on sending the fax since it would cost me unnecessary time and money because she was almost sure that the insurance company was responsible for this bill.
Two days later she told me that it was their responsibility from the start and that this particular company is known to try to not pay--so she said she just "wrote off" our bill. You don't owe anything anymore, she said, and you don't have to worry about resending that letter to them and then waiting for an answer again. I was stunned and so grateful. Thank you Pam.
Oh, and thank you again to Jessica. (Grace and I did bring her the flowers and picture/note on March 31st when she was finally 100% better!)
Sometimes a littel bit of crazy makes us appreciate the little (and BIG) gestures of kindness and compassion all the more from those who let you know that they see you and know that you are not crazy, even if you once hid under a chair or called your child's doctor no less than five times in two weeks.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Searching for the Sun
A sunspot searcher would say that not knowing when their loved one was coming home could be a reason to be hopeful and eager everyday. They would say it's like knowing you'll win the lottery but you just don't know exactly when that day will be. It could be tomorrow.
Tomorrow could be a day of news you've been hoping to hear.
Or the next day.
Or the next. You try. Grace tries.
But the air feels so heavy. It suffocates you. It weighs you down. You can barely lift your head to seek out that sunshine that you know is there. It's there. You know it is...
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