Today was a rough day for Katie and me.
One of the "special needs" issues that Katie deals with is congenital hypothyroidism. Somehow, inexplicably, Katie was born without a thyroid gland. Because of this, since she was only about a week old, she has had to take thyroid hormones to keep her functioning. And because of this, she has had to have bloodwork done periodically, to make sure that these hormones are balanced.
Today was a bloodwork day.
When Katie has to have blood drawn, we always go to the Nationwide Children's Hospital "Close to Home" center in Hilliard. When Katie was released from the hospital that first time, after we figured out what was going on and got her started on the medicine, we went there, and the phlebotomist there, Kristy, was so compassionate and so skilled, that she is the reason we keep coming back. One day we had to do a draw at the hospital downtown, and the service was exactly opposite what I was used to receiving from Kristy. I won't go there any more, even though I'm sure the fellow who traumatized me is probably long gone.
Each time we went to Kristy, she would warn me that one day, Katie wouldn't be happy to see her and would fight us.
Today was that day.
Don't get me wrong; Katie didn't put up a big fight. But when I pulled up in front of their door and went to unstrap her car seat, she started begging me to go home instead. We went inside, and instead of rushing to the play area or the book area, the way she used to, she stood by my side, whimpering. When we went to the lab, she froze at the door. I got her on my lap, but she was squirming, and my lap wasn't big enough to compensate. I got up to let her sit in the chair all by herself, and she began to plead again to go.
She sat, a little big girl in the big chair, sobbing, while I knelt in front of her, holding her little hand and telling her I understood. "No, Mommy, no!" she said.
Kristy called Kris in from the x-ray lab to help us, and the three of us helped Katie through the horrible routine. She did just fine, of course; Kristy always "gets it" on the first stick. (This, despite the fact that Katie inherited my incredible "disappearing" veins.) She got a pretty Band-Aid with butterflies and ladybugs, and afterward we went to Target and got her a cheese pretzel.
Hopefully her hormones will still be on-target enough this time that we don't have to repeat the labs any time soon.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
A Precious Memory
September 12, 2012: I don't remember any more what day I started writing this, and I don't know why I never went back and finished it...
This evening, I turned on my Facebook account and skimmed through the news feed. There was a post from Melissa, my little Katie's former teacher in the Easter Seals Early Intervention School, telling about some children in her class who demonstrated new skills today. Her post instantly took me back in time, a little over two years. The tears began to flow anew, and now I can't get that beautiful day out of my mind. Often when that happens, I'll post some little bit of it on Facebook and it is enough. But today, I think I'll journey a little deeper into my memories and try to share it here.
Katie is a special little girl. I remember as a child liking to be told I was special, and then, when I got older, it took on a less appealing meaning, connected to "special education." I remember a friend in high school who drew a cartoon of two women. One wore a t-shirt that said, "I'm special." The other (more attractively drawn) wore one that said, "I'd rather be dead than special." I laughed then. Well, my Katie is special. To me, she is the most beautiful, amazing girl in the world, and I'm so honored to be her mom. (She interrupts me now, "Mommy! A mingamail!" She has a snaggy fingernail; I "fix" it for her. "Thank you!" she says, running off.)
Well, I don't want to go into all the challenges she has faced, or faces. Suffice it to say that when she was quite small, and showing more and more delays, I finally accepted that I needed more help. Ohio's "Help Me Grow" program referred us to Early Intervention schools, giving me a choice of locations. I chose Easter Seals because of their location, which is less than 2 miles from our house. I figured they were close enough that I could drive her; I could not bear the thought of carrying her out to the bus and handing her over to the bus driver. We were lucky; they had an opening right away. It was only a couple of months before the end of the school year. I would drive Katie to the school, we would hang out together in the lobby until the teachers came out to get the children. Ms. Pam had the youngest class, and she and her assistant brought out wagons every day to gather the non-walkers and all the backpacks. I would cheerfully say goodbye and wave as they pulled her down the hall. For the first couple of weeks, I walked out to the car and cried my eyes out for a few minutes, and then drove home.
This evening, I turned on my Facebook account and skimmed through the news feed. There was a post from Melissa, my little Katie's former teacher in the Easter Seals Early Intervention School, telling about some children in her class who demonstrated new skills today. Her post instantly took me back in time, a little over two years. The tears began to flow anew, and now I can't get that beautiful day out of my mind. Often when that happens, I'll post some little bit of it on Facebook and it is enough. But today, I think I'll journey a little deeper into my memories and try to share it here.
Katie is a special little girl. I remember as a child liking to be told I was special, and then, when I got older, it took on a less appealing meaning, connected to "special education." I remember a friend in high school who drew a cartoon of two women. One wore a t-shirt that said, "I'm special." The other (more attractively drawn) wore one that said, "I'd rather be dead than special." I laughed then. Well, my Katie is special. To me, she is the most beautiful, amazing girl in the world, and I'm so honored to be her mom. (She interrupts me now, "Mommy! A mingamail!" She has a snaggy fingernail; I "fix" it for her. "Thank you!" she says, running off.)
Well, I don't want to go into all the challenges she has faced, or faces. Suffice it to say that when she was quite small, and showing more and more delays, I finally accepted that I needed more help. Ohio's "Help Me Grow" program referred us to Early Intervention schools, giving me a choice of locations. I chose Easter Seals because of their location, which is less than 2 miles from our house. I figured they were close enough that I could drive her; I could not bear the thought of carrying her out to the bus and handing her over to the bus driver. We were lucky; they had an opening right away. It was only a couple of months before the end of the school year. I would drive Katie to the school, we would hang out together in the lobby until the teachers came out to get the children. Ms. Pam had the youngest class, and she and her assistant brought out wagons every day to gather the non-walkers and all the backpacks. I would cheerfully say goodbye and wave as they pulled her down the hall. For the first couple of weeks, I walked out to the car and cried my eyes out for a few minutes, and then drove home.
You see, even now, it is unbelievably hard for me to accept that I was not the best teacher for my daughter. That I am not the best teacher.
At the end of that school year, Katie had made some progress. By no means was she "catching up," but she was learning some new skills. I used her progress as a way to beat myself up regularly. I told myself that if she had those teachers earlier, maybe she wouldn't even be delayed now. Maybe it wasn't that she was delayed at all, just that I wasn't enriching her enough. (I'm not known for having a lot of self-esteem.)
We had to take the summer off, and then Katie went back for her "second" year. She had new classmates, a new teacher, Ms. Melissa. She loved it. After a while, I was able to drop her off and go without crying, but I was always so happy to see her after school. Best of all, she was always happy to see me. It was definitely the best part of the day, when I would come in and see her face light up.
Dropping her off and picking her up every day, I got to know some of the other children and moms. One day in early December, I had gotten there a few minutes early to pick up Katie after school. Brian's grandmother was there to pick him up, too. What a little cutie he was, riding in the wagon to and from Ms. Pam's class! But this particular day, when the electronic doors opened, there stood Brian, grinning from ear to ear. He was strapped into a little walker, and with the help of the physical therapist, he came through that doorway laughing. His grandmother laughed and cried, and standing behind her, so did I. It was a beautiful thing to witness. At the same time, I was painfully jealous.
Dropping her off and picking her up every day, I got to know some of the other children and moms. One day in early December, I had gotten there a few minutes early to pick up Katie after school. Brian's grandmother was there to pick him up, too. What a little cutie he was, riding in the wagon to and from Ms. Pam's class! But this particular day, when the electronic doors opened, there stood Brian, grinning from ear to ear. He was strapped into a little walker, and with the help of the physical therapist, he came through that doorway laughing. His grandmother laughed and cried, and standing behind her, so did I. It was a beautiful thing to witness. At the same time, I was painfully jealous.
Being Katie's mom is simultaneously the most fabulous thing I've ever done, and the most gut-wrenching. Seeing smaller children reach milestones beyond her capabilities, I will catch myself staring. I don't remember what is "normal" development any more, so these babies toddling around at church seem terribly precocious! I look around at the faces of the mothers and they don't seem amazed, so I try to just smile, but I keep staring. I think Katie might have been sitting up alone by that size, but I'm not sure.
The next day, when I came to pick up Katie, I was a minute to two late. As I walked up to the door, I saw one of the other teachers running back into the building from the bus, and heard her call, "Here she comes, Katie!" Since the buses were still there, I knew I wasn't overly late, but I walked a little faster, worried that Katie might be upset.
I think everyone from the Easter Seals staff had come out that day to watch. There was Katie, strapped into a walker, hands on the grips, laughing and smiling. She walked two or three steps toward me, and the walker turned to the right; she wasn't quite strong enough to keep it going straight yet. Someone pointed her toward me again and she took a few more steps. It was all I could do to not rush to her and scoop her up, walker and all! The delight and pride on her face as she walked to me, to her mommy, was so perfectly beautiful. I cheered and sobbed, and cheered again, and sobbed again.
The next day, I had my oldest son with me, and Richard had the presence of mind to suggest I pull out my cell phone and record some video. Unfortunately, I didn't know how to override the phone's default timer, so I have very little of the actual walking recorded. However, I am very thankful that my phone has a camera.
(Apparently the video is saved on our other computer, and not this one, so I'll link this to my FB account for now and download the real thing later.)
Katie Walking at Easter Seals
The next day, when I came to pick up Katie, I was a minute to two late. As I walked up to the door, I saw one of the other teachers running back into the building from the bus, and heard her call, "Here she comes, Katie!" Since the buses were still there, I knew I wasn't overly late, but I walked a little faster, worried that Katie might be upset.
I think everyone from the Easter Seals staff had come out that day to watch. There was Katie, strapped into a walker, hands on the grips, laughing and smiling. She walked two or three steps toward me, and the walker turned to the right; she wasn't quite strong enough to keep it going straight yet. Someone pointed her toward me again and she took a few more steps. It was all I could do to not rush to her and scoop her up, walker and all! The delight and pride on her face as she walked to me, to her mommy, was so perfectly beautiful. I cheered and sobbed, and cheered again, and sobbed again.
The next day, I had my oldest son with me, and Richard had the presence of mind to suggest I pull out my cell phone and record some video. Unfortunately, I didn't know how to override the phone's default timer, so I have very little of the actual walking recorded. However, I am very thankful that my phone has a camera.
(Apparently the video is saved on our other computer, and not this one, so I'll link this to my FB account for now and download the real thing later.)
Katie Walking at Easter Seals
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
September 11th
September 11th, 2001. Eleven years ago, today. It is hard to believe that eleven years of sunrises and sunsets, breathing and eating and drinking and sleeping, eleven years of actual every-day living has actually followed that day. It was a day that felt like the end of the world.
I don't remember what I was doing that day. Everybody says they remember what they were doing when the first plane hit the World Trade Center; I don't. It was just a day for me, and for my two boys. They were still so little. Can that be true? R was only 3-and-3/4 years old, and B was only 1-and-a-half. Yes, they were little. I was doing something. Maybe I was making them breakfast. Maybe I was cleaning it up. Did we eat that day? We must have. I don't remember.
My phone rang.
Most people that I know found out about the disaster through television. They were watching this, or that, and the news broke in that a plane had hit one of the towers of the World Trade Center. They were watching the reports, looking at that awful gash in the side of the building, when another plane crossed the screen and smashed into the other tower. They spent the day watching horrible images -- images that only became the thing of nightmares after 9/11, because they were too unbelievable to have been imagined beforehand.
I answered my phone.
It was my friend, Diane. She was one of those people watching television, and when the first plane hit she thought of me, because she knew we didn't have television reception at our house. She had called to let me know what was on the news. She didn't sound terribly upset at first. We didn't really know enough yet to be upset. We talked about what a terrible accident it must have been, wondered how big the plane was, if there were any passengers aboard. We assumed it was a really inexperienced pilot, or that something had malfunctioned in the plane. How sad, we said. We hoped there were few injuries in the building.
And then, suddenly, Diane's tone changed. She was agitated, almost gasping for air. "Another plane!" she said. "I just watched another plane hit the other tower!"
My mind reeled. "It wasn't an accident," I said.
"It wasn't an accident," she agreed. "And it wasn't a little plane. It was a passenger jet."
I didn't know what to say. She didn't either. She told me goodbye; she was going to call her husband. I don't remember if I called mine; if I did, he wasn't at his desk. I hung up the phone and turned on the radio.
It was a difficult day. I had to limit myself to only a few minutes of radio at a time. The boys are too little to deal with this, I thought. They don't need to hear it all day, even if I do. I remember praying a lot, praying for the victims, for their families, for the rescue workers. I tried to smile and have a normal family day with the boys. We watched a video, read books, played with blocks and cars together. I heard about a plane striking the Pentagon. I worried what would be next. I think I was listening to the radio when the first tower fell. I think I was listening when the second fell. I heard there was a crash in Pennsylvania.
I was alone in a fragile bubble, waiting for the next horror to drop from the sky and smash into our little house, probably to take my precious sons and leave me entirely broken. I read with the children and my voice seemed to echo inside my head, while other sounds seemed distant and muffled. I kept going to the front window and looking out into the empty cul-de-sac, wondering if my neighbors were watching what was happening.
I didn't know what it all meant. Someone had done this, planned this, carried it out. Someone hated the America I love, so much that they hated "generic" Americans enough to blindly kill them. They hated me. Not me specifically, but if they were told they could push a button and kill a mother of two in Indiana, they would do it. I'd known there were terrorists in the world, but I'd never known the terror of being one of the little metal targets in the carnival shooting booth. The wheel turns and here comes that mother duck followed by one, two little ducklings. Sh-ping! Sh-ping! If I quack, will my ducklings answer back? I'm afraid to find out.
I remember as a child hearing that my grandfather had died. I remember feeling guilty for getting hungry and thirsty, even for using the bathroom, when he never would again. I told myself it was silly to feel guilty, but it is an emotion that still comes back with other losses. I felt guilty that night for going to bed, knowing there were people buried in the rubble -- maybe some of them alive! -- and I wasn't doing anything to help them. I felt guilty for kissing my husband when he came home that day, and the next, and the next...
I didn't feel guilty for being an American, by the way, and for loving my country. For that, I have never felt guilty, or ashamed.
I just felt guilty for going on living my everyday life when for so many... it was over. People who had lives as simply American as mine were dead, simply because they lived their American lives in a different place than I did.
I just took a long, deep breath. And another. And another. It has been eleven years. My boys don't remember that day at all, and in my more rational moments that makes sense... But memory isn't totally rational, and I keep thinking that they will grow into the memory, like somehow aging now makes them older when it happened, or like the American collective will teach them to remember events they did not experience.
Several of my friends blogged about their 9/11 memories today, and I thought I'd come back here to my neglected blog and read what I've said about it before. Imagine my surprise to discover I'd written nothing about it here.
Well, now I have.
I don't remember what I was doing that day. Everybody says they remember what they were doing when the first plane hit the World Trade Center; I don't. It was just a day for me, and for my two boys. They were still so little. Can that be true? R was only 3-and-3/4 years old, and B was only 1-and-a-half. Yes, they were little. I was doing something. Maybe I was making them breakfast. Maybe I was cleaning it up. Did we eat that day? We must have. I don't remember.
My phone rang.
Most people that I know found out about the disaster through television. They were watching this, or that, and the news broke in that a plane had hit one of the towers of the World Trade Center. They were watching the reports, looking at that awful gash in the side of the building, when another plane crossed the screen and smashed into the other tower. They spent the day watching horrible images -- images that only became the thing of nightmares after 9/11, because they were too unbelievable to have been imagined beforehand.
I answered my phone.
It was my friend, Diane. She was one of those people watching television, and when the first plane hit she thought of me, because she knew we didn't have television reception at our house. She had called to let me know what was on the news. She didn't sound terribly upset at first. We didn't really know enough yet to be upset. We talked about what a terrible accident it must have been, wondered how big the plane was, if there were any passengers aboard. We assumed it was a really inexperienced pilot, or that something had malfunctioned in the plane. How sad, we said. We hoped there were few injuries in the building.
And then, suddenly, Diane's tone changed. She was agitated, almost gasping for air. "Another plane!" she said. "I just watched another plane hit the other tower!"
My mind reeled. "It wasn't an accident," I said.
"It wasn't an accident," she agreed. "And it wasn't a little plane. It was a passenger jet."
I didn't know what to say. She didn't either. She told me goodbye; she was going to call her husband. I don't remember if I called mine; if I did, he wasn't at his desk. I hung up the phone and turned on the radio.
It was a difficult day. I had to limit myself to only a few minutes of radio at a time. The boys are too little to deal with this, I thought. They don't need to hear it all day, even if I do. I remember praying a lot, praying for the victims, for their families, for the rescue workers. I tried to smile and have a normal family day with the boys. We watched a video, read books, played with blocks and cars together. I heard about a plane striking the Pentagon. I worried what would be next. I think I was listening to the radio when the first tower fell. I think I was listening when the second fell. I heard there was a crash in Pennsylvania.
I was alone in a fragile bubble, waiting for the next horror to drop from the sky and smash into our little house, probably to take my precious sons and leave me entirely broken. I read with the children and my voice seemed to echo inside my head, while other sounds seemed distant and muffled. I kept going to the front window and looking out into the empty cul-de-sac, wondering if my neighbors were watching what was happening.
I didn't know what it all meant. Someone had done this, planned this, carried it out. Someone hated the America I love, so much that they hated "generic" Americans enough to blindly kill them. They hated me. Not me specifically, but if they were told they could push a button and kill a mother of two in Indiana, they would do it. I'd known there were terrorists in the world, but I'd never known the terror of being one of the little metal targets in the carnival shooting booth. The wheel turns and here comes that mother duck followed by one, two little ducklings. Sh-ping! Sh-ping! If I quack, will my ducklings answer back? I'm afraid to find out.
I remember as a child hearing that my grandfather had died. I remember feeling guilty for getting hungry and thirsty, even for using the bathroom, when he never would again. I told myself it was silly to feel guilty, but it is an emotion that still comes back with other losses. I felt guilty that night for going to bed, knowing there were people buried in the rubble -- maybe some of them alive! -- and I wasn't doing anything to help them. I felt guilty for kissing my husband when he came home that day, and the next, and the next...
I didn't feel guilty for being an American, by the way, and for loving my country. For that, I have never felt guilty, or ashamed.
I just felt guilty for going on living my everyday life when for so many... it was over. People who had lives as simply American as mine were dead, simply because they lived their American lives in a different place than I did.
I just took a long, deep breath. And another. And another. It has been eleven years. My boys don't remember that day at all, and in my more rational moments that makes sense... But memory isn't totally rational, and I keep thinking that they will grow into the memory, like somehow aging now makes them older when it happened, or like the American collective will teach them to remember events they did not experience.
Several of my friends blogged about their 9/11 memories today, and I thought I'd come back here to my neglected blog and read what I've said about it before. Imagine my surprise to discover I'd written nothing about it here.
Well, now I have.
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