Except for that time a few years ago when most food tasted bad or made me nauseous (and I lost 17 pounds and wore a size 4 and looked great) I have basically been the same weight for decades. I know this because I can still wear jeans and skirts from the 90's and before. Why I still have these clothing items is a mystery - but the point is - they still fit. My annual trip to the doctor (complete with a weigh-in) provides further proof. Aside from the time I porked out and went over 140, I hover around 130 -135. For me, that's a size 6-8. I'll take it.
Staying the same weight sounds like a positive. Problem is.. as I age.the weight stays the same but it doesn't stay in the same PLACE. I cannot boast ever having a flat, firm tummy. I've dreamed about it. I've even promised myself that I'll start working on it. But I never have. Never will.
My excess body fat appears to have called a family gathering in my middle. The family has stayed put. I suddenly have a wiggly tummy and a muffin top. This is not attractive. I now understand why older women buy and wear billowy tops. I don't own a billowy top. I don't even know where people get them. QVC maybe?
Weight shifting is not the same as shape shifting. If I could shape shift I would become Marion Cotilliard.
My Dad used to complain that old age had made him shrink. He was correct. It's another yummy part of aging. He went from a whopping 5'7" to 5'4" over the course of fifteen years. Thankfully he had a friend who was good at altering his pants.
I am still 5'3 and I will do all I can to stay there. But other things are shrinking. The source of my current physical problem centers around a shrinking part. Did you know that "use it or lose it" is based on fact? I didn't use it enough (or use the estrogen inserts I had) so it shrunk. Apparently past use does not count. And now I'm going through some less than enviable stuff to return it to it's upright and locked position. The estrogen ring was inserted several days ago and the process was agonizing. The "ring" has a circumference of much larger proportion than the host. Overcrowding.
It's these little changes - and a few more - that remind me I am not 40 or even 50. I am grateful, however, that my mental age of 30 remains unmoved and unbroken.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Friday, June 28, 2013
Applesauce
This applesauce thing is really pissing me off. In fact the entire food thing is starting to get to me. Is it a man/woman thing or a side effect of aging...or both? In the seventeen years that I have been married to my husband, (referred to by all as Bob #2) his forays to the grocery store have been laden with errors. And he considers himself the primary grocery shopper. Delusional.
Here is the issue - there are things I like and things I don't like. After seventeen years one might assume that some of these data have embedded themselves in his brain and serve as guideposts as he maneuvers his cart through the supermarket aisles. Alas, that is not the case. Take, for instance, applesauce. I prefer "natural" (no added sugar) he consistently buys "original". Finding sugar-laden "original" applesauce in the grocery bag or the pantry ignites my "fury" button. "Bob?" "Yeah?" "What's this?". I hold up the jar. "Applesauce," he says. "Bob, this is "original". I hate original. It's too sweet. Haven't we had this conversation a thousand times?" 'I thought you liked original," he pouts. Big sigh. "I'll take it back." Do you know how many times he has taken it back? Almost every other week for years.
Same thing happens with Fudgesicles. I love Fudgesicles. They are comfort junk. I am happy peeling off the stuck-on wrapper ( Note: when I was a kid the wrapper slid off - now it gets stuck and has to be peeled off in chunks) My mouth waters when that dusty brown frozen (almost) chocolate, icy thing is in my hand and standing proudly on its stick. I even have a ritual for eating them...but I digress. The first time he bought them he brought home "sugar free". "Bob?" Yeah?" "These are sugar-free." "I thought you liked those." "Bob, sugar-free means aspertame...I might as well eat lighter fluid. Plus it leaves an aftertaste." "I'll take them back." "Get me the "original". Never ever get sugar-free anything!" "Ok." In the years we've been together he has purchased the correct Fudgesicles once. Apart from that one time...this conversation repeats itself regularly. I have finally removed Fudgesicles from the grocery list. Hey, I'm no dummy.
( By the way, I "get" that the sugar-free, "no sugar added" "natural" and "original" thing might be confusing. But after all this time? Uh uh. Not buying it. Neither is he I guess.)
He also has trouble thinking universally for dinner. When I hear, "I'm going to the store - I'll pick up something for dinner..." I sigh.. "Dinner" will inevitably be, a pork tenderloin (I'm not a big pork fan) or an over priced hunk of beef tenderloin (I'm a New York Strip kinda girl). So I usually cook something else for myself. He is okay with that.. "You're missing out on something really good," he announces chowing down on his dead pig or his over-cooked meat . "My loss," I reply with my usual sarcasm while eating my salad or my pasta with butter, olive oil and cheese. (My fall backs. My lifelines.)
If I ask for "crackers" he brings home saltines. "These, " I have explained hundreds of times, "are not crackers. I want good, tasty crackers." I rattle off a few possible kinds. He brings home saltines anyway. "I don't know what you want..." he says. Really? Huh, coulda fooled me. He is cracker-phobic. I buy my own crackers now.
"How about Pizza for dinner?" he will suggest at least once a week. Pizza, for me, is not dinner. I've lost track of the times I've said that to him. I haven't had a dinner-quality pizza since I moved to the midwest. Pizza here is consists of crust that tastes like a saltine, sauce that tastes like ketchup and a chunk of sausage - and I will not eat sausage. (I don't know what's in sausage. Any time someone grinds up a bunch of leftover crap and sticks it in a casing that could have been an intestine, I am highly suspicious.) Anyway, then that "pizza" gets cut into little squares. No self-respecting east coast pizza would be caught dead cut into squares. Everyone knows that pizza comes in wedge shaped pieces and you fold it to eat it. Didn't you watch the Sopranos?
I've considered that all this may be passive aggressive...but mostly I think it's a brain flaw. When I say something he doesn't retain it..I can hear the vacuum flush in his brain. It's a little like dementia...each time I remind him that I don't like pizza for dinner, or that pork is gross, or that artifical sweetners are poison, he has brain freeze. Not the kind you get with ice cream...the kind you get with a Y chromosome.
Here is the issue - there are things I like and things I don't like. After seventeen years one might assume that some of these data have embedded themselves in his brain and serve as guideposts as he maneuvers his cart through the supermarket aisles. Alas, that is not the case. Take, for instance, applesauce. I prefer "natural" (no added sugar) he consistently buys "original". Finding sugar-laden "original" applesauce in the grocery bag or the pantry ignites my "fury" button. "Bob?" "Yeah?" "What's this?". I hold up the jar. "Applesauce," he says. "Bob, this is "original". I hate original. It's too sweet. Haven't we had this conversation a thousand times?" 'I thought you liked original," he pouts. Big sigh. "I'll take it back." Do you know how many times he has taken it back? Almost every other week for years.
Same thing happens with Fudgesicles. I love Fudgesicles. They are comfort junk. I am happy peeling off the stuck-on wrapper ( Note: when I was a kid the wrapper slid off - now it gets stuck and has to be peeled off in chunks) My mouth waters when that dusty brown frozen (almost) chocolate, icy thing is in my hand and standing proudly on its stick. I even have a ritual for eating them...but I digress. The first time he bought them he brought home "sugar free". "Bob?" Yeah?" "These are sugar-free." "I thought you liked those." "Bob, sugar-free means aspertame...I might as well eat lighter fluid. Plus it leaves an aftertaste." "I'll take them back." "Get me the "original". Never ever get sugar-free anything!" "Ok." In the years we've been together he has purchased the correct Fudgesicles once. Apart from that one time...this conversation repeats itself regularly. I have finally removed Fudgesicles from the grocery list. Hey, I'm no dummy.
( By the way, I "get" that the sugar-free, "no sugar added" "natural" and "original" thing might be confusing. But after all this time? Uh uh. Not buying it. Neither is he I guess.)
He also has trouble thinking universally for dinner. When I hear, "I'm going to the store - I'll pick up something for dinner..." I sigh.. "Dinner" will inevitably be, a pork tenderloin (I'm not a big pork fan) or an over priced hunk of beef tenderloin (I'm a New York Strip kinda girl). So I usually cook something else for myself. He is okay with that.. "You're missing out on something really good," he announces chowing down on his dead pig or his over-cooked meat . "My loss," I reply with my usual sarcasm while eating my salad or my pasta with butter, olive oil and cheese. (My fall backs. My lifelines.)
If I ask for "crackers" he brings home saltines. "These, " I have explained hundreds of times, "are not crackers. I want good, tasty crackers." I rattle off a few possible kinds. He brings home saltines anyway. "I don't know what you want..." he says. Really? Huh, coulda fooled me. He is cracker-phobic. I buy my own crackers now.
"How about Pizza for dinner?" he will suggest at least once a week. Pizza, for me, is not dinner. I've lost track of the times I've said that to him. I haven't had a dinner-quality pizza since I moved to the midwest. Pizza here is consists of crust that tastes like a saltine, sauce that tastes like ketchup and a chunk of sausage - and I will not eat sausage. (I don't know what's in sausage. Any time someone grinds up a bunch of leftover crap and sticks it in a casing that could have been an intestine, I am highly suspicious.) Anyway, then that "pizza" gets cut into little squares. No self-respecting east coast pizza would be caught dead cut into squares. Everyone knows that pizza comes in wedge shaped pieces and you fold it to eat it. Didn't you watch the Sopranos?
I've considered that all this may be passive aggressive...but mostly I think it's a brain flaw. When I say something he doesn't retain it..I can hear the vacuum flush in his brain. It's a little like dementia...each time I remind him that I don't like pizza for dinner, or that pork is gross, or that artifical sweetners are poison, he has brain freeze. Not the kind you get with ice cream...the kind you get with a Y chromosome.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Floaters
In police vernacular, a "floater" is a dead body found in the water. In aging vernacular a "floater" is a small dark shape that appears in your eye and darts across your "screen" randomly. I remember hearing my Dad complain about floaters. More recently my husband reported having one. Mine appeared two weeks ago and I'm not adjusting to it very well.
One cannot prepare for a floater - they appear randomly. Often, when mine pops up and zooms across my field of vision I raise my right hand to my forehead and brush my "hair" from my eye. I often think it's a stray hair. But it isn't. Fools me every darn time. For those times when I don't think it's a stray hair, I KNOW it's a fruit fly. One of those pesky little bugs that hitch hikes in on your plums or peaches. I swat it. Or at least I did until I recalled one of the last scenes in Psycho where Norman, dressed as his Mom, talks about swatting the fly that is crawling on him....I don't want to be that person. I've stopped swatting. I know for sure it's not a fruit fly. But I still get fooled when I think it's a hair.
Old age is amusing.
One cannot prepare for a floater - they appear randomly. Often, when mine pops up and zooms across my field of vision I raise my right hand to my forehead and brush my "hair" from my eye. I often think it's a stray hair. But it isn't. Fools me every darn time. For those times when I don't think it's a stray hair, I KNOW it's a fruit fly. One of those pesky little bugs that hitch hikes in on your plums or peaches. I swat it. Or at least I did until I recalled one of the last scenes in Psycho where Norman, dressed as his Mom, talks about swatting the fly that is crawling on him....I don't want to be that person. I've stopped swatting. I know for sure it's not a fruit fly. But I still get fooled when I think it's a hair.
Old age is amusing.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
The new adventures of old Mandy
I think I am at a loss for words. Sure, some will come pouring out as I try to string this together, but, overall, I am stunned. This past week has been unusual...strange...odd.
It all started with that bizarrely timed visit to the specialized clinic last week...the one I was supposed to go to several years ago, but didn't. Why did I go last week? What strange cosmic energy cause the idea to pop into my brain and have me actually act on it? I sure don't know. If I hadn't gone- I wouldn't have seen a gynecologist for 2 more years. (After 65 "they" say you don't need pap smears more than once every two years). But I did go and I am grateful for whatever message the universe sent me to "do it" when there was no compelling reason to do so. Things were as they had been for several years. It was just a whim. It's good to follow your whims, I've learned. The doctor found something inside that wasn't supposed to be there - so she biopsied it. That's where I left this story in a previous blog entry.
Four days ago I got a call from the doctor who'd found the "unusual thing". As phone calls go - it wasn't a great one. I remember the words "pre" and "cancerous" (like anyone would not notice those words..)..."need a large excision" and "refer you to " a gynecological oncologist". She painted a grim picture and asked for my permission to forward my records to the oncology specialist. I clearly recall hearing her urging me to share what I was thinking/feeling and i vaguely remember telling her I was "freaked out" and "didn't feel like talking". Within ten minutes I was contacted by the oncologists' office and an appointment for the next day was scheduled. Why was everyone in such a hurry???.
I told my husband - who looked stunned,gave me a hug, and went golfing. I called my friend - the one who is wise and calming and knows just enough about everything to convince me I am safe. She picked me up off the emotional floor and spoke reasonably. (But she later confessed calling her daughter to get more information and relieve her worry. People just function better with information than with speculation)) She advised me to NOT go online and research the issue. (She knew I would) Then I snapped out of it! I'm calling MY doctor - he'll know what to do. So I did.
After a verbal swordfight with the Aurora Healthcare receptionist/operator (I don't think I should have to tell anyone not involved in my healthcare or directly with my physician the specifics of WHY I want to talk to MY doctor) and a short explanation to my doctor's nurse, I got a call from him. That's why I love him. He calls back and he does it quickly. My hero. My savior. (My longtime sexual fantasy). The best way to characterize his response was "pissed" and concerned. Pissed that he refers someone to a clinic and the clinic doctor never contacts him and tries to send the patient elsewhere. Concerned because he had just seen me 60 days ago and NOTHING was wrong then. He was also displeased that the other doctor had scared the hell out of me by sending me on to an oncologist. "It's a bit premature," he explained, "I have several patients dealing with the same issue. I can handle it. I'll do the excision." (I later learned he also called the clinic doc and reamed her a new orifice.)
The following day, after a brief exam in his office, he concluded that the excision should be done at the hospital - as soon as possible. So we did it. It was my one and only hospital experience -ever. In 65 years I have not ever been sedated for any surgical procedure or hospitalized for any illness.( I have now experienced my first anesthesiologist and my first taste of a propofol/fentamine "cocktail". Yum.)
I lived. I even got a bonus during the surgery - my doctor told my husband he did a little remodeling so that "things" might go a little easier for us in the future. Did he paint or wallpaper my insides? Move the furniture a bit? I'll find out next week I guess.
Today the results came in. The "margins" were clear. That is good. I also discovered that within the tissue was the human papiloma virus (HPV). Who knew? How long has that been there? Which of those many many men of my youth (and my middle age) left me with this gift? This gift and cancer are often tied together. I will have to be monitored from this point forward. I will get to see my doctor MORE than every year or every other year. That is a nice payoff....I'll take it.
I guess the things we do in our youth follow us in some nasty ways into our later years. Remember when that string of freckles across your nose in the summer was cute? It's not so cute later on...nor are the "freckles" that emerge up and down your arms and legs. Not cute at all. And all those men I loved during and after the sexual revolution of the 60's and 70's - apparently they're still with me (or one of them is). I can't help but wonder what other products of my youth remain to be revealed. I kind of hope they're not all unpleasant. You know what would be unpleasant? If I'd gotten the HPV from Mel...Mini-Mel. The big psychologist with the miniature penis...That would be the worst...Instead, I'll imagine it was left by Carlos, the Argentinian hunk who...oh never mind. I'll save that for later.
It all started with that bizarrely timed visit to the specialized clinic last week...the one I was supposed to go to several years ago, but didn't. Why did I go last week? What strange cosmic energy cause the idea to pop into my brain and have me actually act on it? I sure don't know. If I hadn't gone- I wouldn't have seen a gynecologist for 2 more years. (After 65 "they" say you don't need pap smears more than once every two years). But I did go and I am grateful for whatever message the universe sent me to "do it" when there was no compelling reason to do so. Things were as they had been for several years. It was just a whim. It's good to follow your whims, I've learned. The doctor found something inside that wasn't supposed to be there - so she biopsied it. That's where I left this story in a previous blog entry.
Four days ago I got a call from the doctor who'd found the "unusual thing". As phone calls go - it wasn't a great one. I remember the words "pre" and "cancerous" (like anyone would not notice those words..)..."need a large excision" and "refer you to " a gynecological oncologist". She painted a grim picture and asked for my permission to forward my records to the oncology specialist. I clearly recall hearing her urging me to share what I was thinking/feeling and i vaguely remember telling her I was "freaked out" and "didn't feel like talking". Within ten minutes I was contacted by the oncologists' office and an appointment for the next day was scheduled. Why was everyone in such a hurry???.
I told my husband - who looked stunned,gave me a hug, and went golfing. I called my friend - the one who is wise and calming and knows just enough about everything to convince me I am safe. She picked me up off the emotional floor and spoke reasonably. (But she later confessed calling her daughter to get more information and relieve her worry. People just function better with information than with speculation)) She advised me to NOT go online and research the issue. (She knew I would) Then I snapped out of it! I'm calling MY doctor - he'll know what to do. So I did.
After a verbal swordfight with the Aurora Healthcare receptionist/operator (I don't think I should have to tell anyone not involved in my healthcare or directly with my physician the specifics of WHY I want to talk to MY doctor) and a short explanation to my doctor's nurse, I got a call from him. That's why I love him. He calls back and he does it quickly. My hero. My savior. (My longtime sexual fantasy). The best way to characterize his response was "pissed" and concerned. Pissed that he refers someone to a clinic and the clinic doctor never contacts him and tries to send the patient elsewhere. Concerned because he had just seen me 60 days ago and NOTHING was wrong then. He was also displeased that the other doctor had scared the hell out of me by sending me on to an oncologist. "It's a bit premature," he explained, "I have several patients dealing with the same issue. I can handle it. I'll do the excision." (I later learned he also called the clinic doc and reamed her a new orifice.)
The following day, after a brief exam in his office, he concluded that the excision should be done at the hospital - as soon as possible. So we did it. It was my one and only hospital experience -ever. In 65 years I have not ever been sedated for any surgical procedure or hospitalized for any illness.( I have now experienced my first anesthesiologist and my first taste of a propofol/fentamine "cocktail". Yum.)
I lived. I even got a bonus during the surgery - my doctor told my husband he did a little remodeling so that "things" might go a little easier for us in the future. Did he paint or wallpaper my insides? Move the furniture a bit? I'll find out next week I guess.
Today the results came in. The "margins" were clear. That is good. I also discovered that within the tissue was the human papiloma virus (HPV). Who knew? How long has that been there? Which of those many many men of my youth (and my middle age) left me with this gift? This gift and cancer are often tied together. I will have to be monitored from this point forward. I will get to see my doctor MORE than every year or every other year. That is a nice payoff....I'll take it.
I guess the things we do in our youth follow us in some nasty ways into our later years. Remember when that string of freckles across your nose in the summer was cute? It's not so cute later on...nor are the "freckles" that emerge up and down your arms and legs. Not cute at all. And all those men I loved during and after the sexual revolution of the 60's and 70's - apparently they're still with me (or one of them is). I can't help but wonder what other products of my youth remain to be revealed. I kind of hope they're not all unpleasant. You know what would be unpleasant? If I'd gotten the HPV from Mel...Mini-Mel. The big psychologist with the miniature penis...That would be the worst...Instead, I'll imagine it was left by Carlos, the Argentinian hunk who...oh never mind. I'll save that for later.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Happiness Addendum
I could not resist. This is what happens when you try to be happy:
The Pursuit of Happiness Ends in a Double Suicide: New York Daily News: "A Brooklyn couple who hosted a radio show called The Pursuit of Happiness committed suicide together by putting plastic bags over their heads and inhaling helium. Lynne Rosen and John Littig, who were found dead on a couch in the living room of their Park Slope apartment, left behind two notes, police said Wednesday. 'We’re going to do this together,' was the gist of Littig’s note, sources said. ... Until their decomposing bodies were found Monday, the couple had been best known as the hosts of a self-help radio show on WBAI-FM. Rosen, 46, was a psychotherapist. Littig, 48, was a motivational speaker and a musician. And for an hour every month, they took to the airwaves and doled out advice on how to be your best self.
Enough said.
The Pursuit of Happiness Ends in a Double Suicide: New York Daily News: "A Brooklyn couple who hosted a radio show called The Pursuit of Happiness committed suicide together by putting plastic bags over their heads and inhaling helium. Lynne Rosen and John Littig, who were found dead on a couch in the living room of their Park Slope apartment, left behind two notes, police said Wednesday. 'We’re going to do this together,' was the gist of Littig’s note, sources said. ... Until their decomposing bodies were found Monday, the couple had been best known as the hosts of a self-help radio show on WBAI-FM. Rosen, 46, was a psychotherapist. Littig, 48, was a motivational speaker and a musician. And for an hour every month, they took to the airwaves and doled out advice on how to be your best self.
Enough said.
Cheap hooker
Well, this might fall into the category of TMI but I need to record it.
Yesterday, I visited a highly specialized Woman's Clinic - among other things, they focus on girly part issues. When we get older, many of us have those issues. Not much fun.
First hurdle...the doctors were all women. Now, if you're younger that sounds perfectly normal; if you've been around awhile and only had male doctors, it's kind of wierd. I think I got through the touching stuff okay - but I was aware that I was unable to turn off my mouth. I was a one-woman stand-up (lie down?) comedy routine. I had an audience of two (the doc and her resident) and we were trapped in that high-tech room together. They could not escape.Sometimes I wish I had an off button. I'm sure they did too.
The details aren't important. Suffice it to say there was an unexpected biopsy (OUCH), an opportunity to view my inside stuff through the magic of vagi-cam (I made that name up) and a long lesson on the proper use of the medication I only occasionally use...which means I misuse it. That's why it doesn't work. Hmmm.
There was also a prescription for something new. Something I could "wear" inside and therefore not forget to take. Intriguing. With my ADD even the strongest of my intentions can dissipate on the way to take a pill...oh look, a twizzler and there's that book I misplaced.... So, wearing something sounded good. The doctor warned me, "It's a bit pricey, but if you break it down and divide by how long it lasts, it's not bad at all." She quoted me a price that she thought was correct. Of course it wasn't. Doctors don't use what they give you.
Unable to give me a written prescription (WHY???) I had to give her a local pharmacy. I don't really have one. I've already hit the donut hole of Part D and I go to Canada for the rest of the year. Can't do that. They won't do that. I'm stuck.
After calling 4 pharmacies, I was quoted $252, $256, $242, and 304. (Note: The Canadian price is $118) I don't know what planet the doctor lives on, but that's a lot. My dilemma: sex or no sex? Pain or no pain? I vote for abstinence!!!. My husband does not agree.
I have calculated that if we have sex four times a month, over three months, each time costs approximately $21. I have mixed feelings about that. I believe that's less than the street hookers cost...but I could be wrong...My husband says if we do it more often it would be cheaper. I tell him to "go for it" but not with me..
.
Yesterday, I visited a highly specialized Woman's Clinic - among other things, they focus on girly part issues. When we get older, many of us have those issues. Not much fun.
First hurdle...the doctors were all women. Now, if you're younger that sounds perfectly normal; if you've been around awhile and only had male doctors, it's kind of wierd. I think I got through the touching stuff okay - but I was aware that I was unable to turn off my mouth. I was a one-woman stand-up (lie down?) comedy routine. I had an audience of two (the doc and her resident) and we were trapped in that high-tech room together. They could not escape.Sometimes I wish I had an off button. I'm sure they did too.
The details aren't important. Suffice it to say there was an unexpected biopsy (OUCH), an opportunity to view my inside stuff through the magic of vagi-cam (I made that name up) and a long lesson on the proper use of the medication I only occasionally use...which means I misuse it. That's why it doesn't work. Hmmm.
There was also a prescription for something new. Something I could "wear" inside and therefore not forget to take. Intriguing. With my ADD even the strongest of my intentions can dissipate on the way to take a pill...oh look, a twizzler and there's that book I misplaced.... So, wearing something sounded good. The doctor warned me, "It's a bit pricey, but if you break it down and divide by how long it lasts, it's not bad at all." She quoted me a price that she thought was correct. Of course it wasn't. Doctors don't use what they give you.
Unable to give me a written prescription (WHY???) I had to give her a local pharmacy. I don't really have one. I've already hit the donut hole of Part D and I go to Canada for the rest of the year. Can't do that. They won't do that. I'm stuck.
After calling 4 pharmacies, I was quoted $252, $256, $242, and 304. (Note: The Canadian price is $118) I don't know what planet the doctor lives on, but that's a lot. My dilemma: sex or no sex? Pain or no pain? I vote for abstinence!!!. My husband does not agree.
I have calculated that if we have sex four times a month, over three months, each time costs approximately $21. I have mixed feelings about that. I believe that's less than the street hookers cost...but I could be wrong...My husband says if we do it more often it would be cheaper. I tell him to "go for it" but not with me..
.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Peter Pan's bad twin lives here
I don't know when "parenting" became a verb. It used to be a noun but it isn't anymore. At any rate, I began parenting in my late 30's and today, in my mid sixties, I'm still doing it. And I don't know how to make it go away. My life sentence. My recurring theme.
Why visit this again? A bad weekend with "the kid" and today's horoscope. The horoscope got me thinking that maybe the universe is again taunting me. It wouldn't be the first time; won't be the last. Here it is::
"It's time to put a stop to something. It may be a bad habit, a bad job or even a bad relationship, but you know in your heart what you have to do. Endings create beginnings, after all!"
(Note the "chipper" delivery. Obviously the writer lives in a monastery and has no life. - or worse, he/she is one of those perky positive people.)
With Father's Day approaching I would like to give my husband and my ex-husband the gift they both want. (Actually the gift we all want)A real, live, functioning, self-sufficient. motivated, honest, and independent son/stepson. But I can't. the only person who can do that is my son and he is showing no interest. This weekend was loaded with verbal skirmishes about finding a job - any job. Each of us jots down the names of places that have "help wanted" signs in the windows. We give this information to him. He finds fault with all of it. Mostly he just ignores us. He has better things to do. He is trying to conquer all levels of Candy Crush Saga.
Why not toss him out? Seriously? Would I ever sleep again? He has no money, no job, no motivation, no skills and a police record that begins at age 14 and ends with a drug felony for possession. Oddly enough, the felony hasn't been as big a job-finding problem for him as the OWI that occurred during one of the arrests. This OWI keeps him from getting any job in or around cars (which is the only interest or semi-skill he has).
He also has some serious mental health issues having been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder (the worst), Attachment disorder, and some Narcissistic tendencies. So he gets fired a lot and it is never his fault. He is remorseless - but can feign it when necessary. He appears to have no shame either. His life is like no one else he knows...and he doesn't seem to care or notice. Most of the guys he got in trouble with along the years are either dead , working to build a better life, or are married with kids and living like a normal person. My son has few friends, if any, no social life, and debt collectors chasing him down all over the city. He can't handle a checking account and his overdraft history is awful. (Do you think Candy Crush will help this?)
He lives today, like he did when he was 16. Nothing about him has changed. He has bursts of mania during which he can be incredibly wonderful and helpful - but they don't last long.. He is not bi-polar and if he were, he would refuse medication.
Sadly, as frustrating and maddening as this is, I still look at him and see that beautiful little almond-eyed boy who walked off the plane from Korea clutching the hand of his escort and trying to take in everything around him. The only "orphan" who wasn't crying. The little guy who walked into my arms , let me hug him and then handed me one of the toy cars he had in his hand. I see the child who never quite fit in with kids his age. A loner - who never seemed to notice that he had no friends. He would call anyone who talked to him "my friend". Even when he didn't know them. So, I was his friend. We did everything together. He never got invited to birthday parties - so we had other kinds of parties. He never got invited to other kids' houses to play. So I played - or someone I knew played with him. I guess he was an unsuccessful kid. He is now an unsuccessful adult. Not much has changed I guess. Not much at all.
A few months ago I found out about a grant that was awarded to the Dept. of Workforce Development. It is a training grant that focuses on persons who want to be welders. I showed the flyer to him and he did nothing. I persisted and eventually he made a call. Last week he was accepted into a "welding bootcamp" program that starts in August. This will cost me $500. If completed $300 will be returned. He seems resigned to doing this.Not enthusiastic. My husband predicts he will either get kicked out or quit and says that I'm throwing away money. My friend says that it's worth the risk. I think this is the last chance for him - and for me. At least it's the last money I throw at him. Can't give when there is nothing left to give.
As I close down this entry nothing has changed. Possibly nothing will change. That $7500 we spent 26 years ago to bring this child into our lives has not yielded much in terms of joy or happiness or even normalcy. For all the graduations, proms, first dates, girlfriends, first cars, college applications, engagements, grandchildren etc that I have never experienced, I often wonder if it has been worth it. I'm not sure it has been. And that sucks to say.
Oh - guess what - he just reached level 66 of Candy Crush.....oh yippee.
Why visit this again? A bad weekend with "the kid" and today's horoscope. The horoscope got me thinking that maybe the universe is again taunting me. It wouldn't be the first time; won't be the last. Here it is::
"It's time to put a stop to something. It may be a bad habit, a bad job or even a bad relationship, but you know in your heart what you have to do. Endings create beginnings, after all!"
(Note the "chipper" delivery. Obviously the writer lives in a monastery and has no life. - or worse, he/she is one of those perky positive people.)
With Father's Day approaching I would like to give my husband and my ex-husband the gift they both want. (Actually the gift we all want)A real, live, functioning, self-sufficient. motivated, honest, and independent son/stepson. But I can't. the only person who can do that is my son and he is showing no interest. This weekend was loaded with verbal skirmishes about finding a job - any job. Each of us jots down the names of places that have "help wanted" signs in the windows. We give this information to him. He finds fault with all of it. Mostly he just ignores us. He has better things to do. He is trying to conquer all levels of Candy Crush Saga.
Why not toss him out? Seriously? Would I ever sleep again? He has no money, no job, no motivation, no skills and a police record that begins at age 14 and ends with a drug felony for possession. Oddly enough, the felony hasn't been as big a job-finding problem for him as the OWI that occurred during one of the arrests. This OWI keeps him from getting any job in or around cars (which is the only interest or semi-skill he has).
He also has some serious mental health issues having been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder (the worst), Attachment disorder, and some Narcissistic tendencies. So he gets fired a lot and it is never his fault. He is remorseless - but can feign it when necessary. He appears to have no shame either. His life is like no one else he knows...and he doesn't seem to care or notice. Most of the guys he got in trouble with along the years are either dead , working to build a better life, or are married with kids and living like a normal person. My son has few friends, if any, no social life, and debt collectors chasing him down all over the city. He can't handle a checking account and his overdraft history is awful. (Do you think Candy Crush will help this?)
He lives today, like he did when he was 16. Nothing about him has changed. He has bursts of mania during which he can be incredibly wonderful and helpful - but they don't last long.. He is not bi-polar and if he were, he would refuse medication.
Sadly, as frustrating and maddening as this is, I still look at him and see that beautiful little almond-eyed boy who walked off the plane from Korea clutching the hand of his escort and trying to take in everything around him. The only "orphan" who wasn't crying. The little guy who walked into my arms , let me hug him and then handed me one of the toy cars he had in his hand. I see the child who never quite fit in with kids his age. A loner - who never seemed to notice that he had no friends. He would call anyone who talked to him "my friend". Even when he didn't know them. So, I was his friend. We did everything together. He never got invited to birthday parties - so we had other kinds of parties. He never got invited to other kids' houses to play. So I played - or someone I knew played with him. I guess he was an unsuccessful kid. He is now an unsuccessful adult. Not much has changed I guess. Not much at all.
A few months ago I found out about a grant that was awarded to the Dept. of Workforce Development. It is a training grant that focuses on persons who want to be welders. I showed the flyer to him and he did nothing. I persisted and eventually he made a call. Last week he was accepted into a "welding bootcamp" program that starts in August. This will cost me $500. If completed $300 will be returned. He seems resigned to doing this.Not enthusiastic. My husband predicts he will either get kicked out or quit and says that I'm throwing away money. My friend says that it's worth the risk. I think this is the last chance for him - and for me. At least it's the last money I throw at him. Can't give when there is nothing left to give.
As I close down this entry nothing has changed. Possibly nothing will change. That $7500 we spent 26 years ago to bring this child into our lives has not yielded much in terms of joy or happiness or even normalcy. For all the graduations, proms, first dates, girlfriends, first cars, college applications, engagements, grandchildren etc that I have never experienced, I often wonder if it has been worth it. I'm not sure it has been. And that sucks to say.
Oh - guess what - he just reached level 66 of Candy Crush.....oh yippee.
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