Figurative Language

Kids with language disorders often experience difficulty interpreting figurative language forms.  I’ve been a speech-language pathologist working for many years with students whose language comprehension and expression skills are compromised.  Say to some kids, “It’s raining cats and dogs!” and they’ll look to the sky expecting to be pelted with fluffy quadrupeds.  Ask if they have butterflies in their tummies, and they’ll assure you most definitely that they did NOT eat a caterpillar.  Sadly, kids are entering schools with less and less language and more limited language competency (IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS DECENT AND PURE, PUT DOWN THE SCREENS and TALK TO YOUR CHILD!). My job security is a sad sign of the times.

---

For those of you looking for an upbeat, cute kids or holiday kind of story: this would be where you hit the back button web browser and split. For my more of the glutton-for-punishment type readers, please continue at your own risk.

---

Adults use figurative language all the time.  “Those maple bacon pancakes are the shit!” does not mean what the words literally indicate, thank stars!  Likewise, “I’m going to lose my shit” doesn’t indicate bowel incontinence. but rather means probably what you, a capable reader, thinks it means.  And I am microseconds from figuratively losing my shit on a large and public scale.

I’m competent with language.  I can string together a clever sentence or two from time to time, and I well comprehend figurative language.  When I was LITERALLY at the most vulnerable moment in my life as a wife and mother, institutions that could have made things easier, didn’t.  Where those institutions and individuals could have helped me (and millions others in similar shoes) navigate those treacherous waters, it was easier to let me float out, lost at sea.

What’s the protocol for what one should feel psychologically or emotionally following a spouse’s devastating accident?  I’ve experienced a grief-like arc of feelings since that dreadful May afternoon.  I’ve painted in shades of straight-up petrified, stunned, sad, humbled, relieved, thankful, hopeful, hopeless, disappointed, frustrated, and now I am painting angry, crimson red.

Here’s a little speech-language therapy compare and contrast activity for us, kids.  Ready?  Here’s what they say to you in the aftermath of the accident that changed every single thing about your life.  And here is what they literally mean.

When someone endures a catastrophic accident like your husband has, we are here for you, and will get back to you ASAP to answer any questions you may have.  We may respond to your email tomorrow, maybe next week, possibly never. 

Certainly we should have covered that–I don’t know how that got missed. Submit those receipts again and we’ll reimburse you for those expenses right away.  If you’re asking for reimbursement for out-of-pocket expenses, you’re looking at a good 3-4 months and several emails.  Go ahead, grab a snack, you’ll be waiting a good while.

We’re family.   By”family” we mean that you’re the weird uncle twice removed that no one wants to be stuck next to at dinner.

You’re the quarterback, you’re in charge.  I’m not even the junior varsity fourth stringer.

Of course we’ll work with you.  We won’t work with you.

Anything you need, you just let us know.  Actually, just don’t.  Please. 

We will try to see what we can do to help you, but we can’t promise anything.  “Trying to see” what you can do to help is doing exactly nothing, which is exactly what you’ve done.

I am miserable company at work, which is about the only company I’m forced to keep. And I’m so sorry, girls, for not being the Ol’ Faithful I was before, for being barely tolerable most days at that.  I still laugh and joke with my coworkers because they’re brilliant and funny, but my own humor too quickly crosses the line from snark to dark.  I can’t be the advocate there right now, and my lack of fire surprises even me.  Even when good things happen, and they do happen, I celebrate them then quickly retreat to the land of glass half empty.  My view feels like it does when you’re trying to hear while swimming underwater–you hear sound–you know it’s there, but it’s so heavily filtered and weighted, you can’t make meaning.

Being forced not only to make meaning in the business world of highly specialized medicine, insurance claims, and payroll, but also to become expert at it is exhausting.  Ironically, though thoroughly exhausted I don’t sleep well or much.  I’ve become mistrustful about what I’m told, and I don’t enjoy feeling like the little guy being set up for certain failure.  Back in May, I told Jen, one of Tom’s ICU nurses whom I loved, that I was “OK smart,” meaning I had a decent grasp of the medical information they provided me in those early days, but OK smart is not near enough now.  Back in May, I knew that the frustration I’m now feeling was on the horizon–I knew I’d get here, to where OK smart wouldn’t cut it, but I don’t much like it here.

My husband didn’t ask to be run over by a truck–he didn’t pick this.  I’m not so naive to cry how it’s not fair, but dammit, it’s not fair.  Our friends and family have moved mountains for us. It’s astonishing how truly right and good people can be. But these and all institutions should do what’s right for those who’ve been wronged because it’s the right thing to do.

A Jackson Pollock Thanksgiving

A friend and I exchanged text messages this week, each of us revealing trepidation regarding our preparations for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday.  Every so often, if I do say so myself, I completely nail a text message, and on this one to her:  I nailed it.

Holidays are good, but not without challenge.  It’s OK to be anxious about that.  There’s always that expectation of the ideal Normal Rockwell family gathering.  Ours ends up being more like a Jackson Pollock painting.

The idyll you envision your Thanksgiving table to be. . .

A linear representation of MY Thanksgiving preparations.

Every year since I began telling my tale here, I’ve written a message of thanks and gratitude on/around Thanksgiving.  Though I’m struggling mightily these days, the show must go on.  I’ve left no trail of daisies and unicorns in my wake in 2019, but despite my, shall we call it “malaise,” it matters that I acknowledge the supporting cast and crew who make life a little sweeter and the spirit of Thanksgiving ring a little more true.  If I fail to offer up thanks to the enormous army of good friends, family, and even strangers who showed my family and me kindness and goodwill this year, I’ll regret it.  As I reviewed previous Thanksgiving posts, I was tickled to notice that many in my “I’m thankful for you” crew have stuck with me for years.  Boy, I thought 2015 was going to crush me, but 2019 makes 2015 seem like amateur hour.  I was less tickled to notice I was a better writer in each of 2016, 2017, and 2018.  I thought you’re supposed to get better with practice, right??  Lies.  I’ll just chalk this little slide up to 2019 too.

If you even so much as thought about me or my family in a positive light this year–thank you.  If you didn’t verbally express it or text it, email it, or snail mail it, but you so much as thought about us for one poof of an instant and wished us well–thank you.  I do believe my husband’s miraculous physical recovery is based in his own indomitable spirit bolstered by this type of support.

If you provided dinner for us or if you sent us a gift card for food after the accident, if you brought pie or ice cream–thank you.  You helped nourish our bellies and souls.

If you sent us or handed us money to help cover our bases this summer–thank you.  Prior to our life-altering May, I hadn’t really understood the tradition of slipping cash into a get well card or sympathy card.  Oh, terrifically humbled, I get it NOW, and we wouldn’t have bridged the summer gap without you.  It’s balance enough not getting paid all summer, but to have been docked several days’ pay while Tom’s income took something of a hit, felt insurmountable.  But you helped us climb and summit that hill.

If you visited Tom in the hospital or in our home at any point, and visiting us isn’t something you’d have otherwise normally done–thank you.  I vividly recall him propped up in that complex, behemoth hospital bed, affirming over and over to his visitors that he just wanted to get back to the old Tom Weir.  Before May, I was the type of person who believed that one’s hospital stay was an intensely private affair, and visiting was an intrusion beyond good grace.  My husband loved those brief though exhausting visits.

If you donated to our Muscular Dystrophy Association Muscle Walk this year–thank you.  I was unable to attend the event last June myself, but Team Greater Than Gravity pulled in almost $2700 to support kids like mine and adults with muscle disease.

If you offered assistance for household chores or if you maintained our yard all spring and summer long–thank you!  Yeah, that one’s a little specific, but short of monetary remuneration, how do you thank someone for landscape maintenance?

If you dedicated your band’s performance to my husband’s survival–thank you.  Sure, a little specific on this one too.

If you encountered a very sullen, scatter-brained, ornery, or quiet me and granted me a wide berth–thank you.

Another term I tossed in the text exchange with that same friend is “functional depression.”  I’m not sure I have that, or that functional depression is even a DSM-5 diagnostic code, but here’s my working definition: keeping your shit together in public and for work, because work, and seeking little company beyond the 9-to-5.  I’ve socialized little since the accident, almost none.  At first it was because my husband needed round-the-clock support and I quite literally couldn’t leave his side, and now it’s by my own design.  I participate in the mandatory–jury duty, work, my kids’ school activities, concerts, and games–and I look and mostly behave like a human, but I am not seeking company.  And right now I’m OK with that even if you’re not.  It’s not personal.  Actually, I suppose it is personal, but it’s truly an “it’s not you, it’s me” kind of deal.  It’s me.

Sure, my brain and my Thanksgiving table resemble a work from Pollock more than one of Rockwell’s slices of Americana, but we’re still here.  Messy and frazzled, but rolling out of bed to face each day.  Some days getting up and at ’em is the greatest victory.  Happy Thanksgiving, all!  May you find yourself surrounded by good food and great people!  And if you’re like me, shying away from the spotlight for now, may you be surrounded by good food and great people who accept your laying low.

 

Just Say No

The actions we take to demonstrate love for our children sometimes seem contrary to the very children we love. Sometimes saying no to a child when they want or want to do something a parent knows will be bad or unhealthy or just not possible for whatever reason can make a child angry. “It’s not fair!” is a familiar cry heard by parents worldwide from about the time a child learns to talk until adolescence. OK, through adolescence and even into adulthood.

Saying no to a child doesn’t make a parent mean or abusive or unreasonable. Any early childhood developmental text will teach you at that children crave boundaries. Children need limits, and test those limits in pursuit of their development of sound decision making.

I was selected and sworn as a member of a jury this week.  Being a licensed driver meant that I became part of a group of average citizens hearing testimony on, deliberating, reaching unanimously, and delivering a verdict on a serious case.  I wish not to go into detail because it feels sensational and in poor form even to discuss someone else’s business.  Not being able to talk about my day, and being made to absorb sad and even shocking details took a toll on my well-being this week.  If you believe jury duty to be a free pass or a joke, allow me to disabuse you of that notion.  There was no humor in our case.

Of the many, the testimony of one witness in particular stuck with me.  The lesson that I took away from that heartbreaking Q&A is that love isn’t enough. Giving a child everything he wants because you are afraid saying no to him will make him think you don’t love him isn’t love. Or maybe that’s what love is/was to her; who am I to judge another?  Yeah, I get the irony in my asking the judging question. . .  But never saying no, then enduring a life of abuse and fear from the child you claim to love isn’t a life.  Never saying no is granting another human being tacit permission to wreak hell and havoc without fear of consequence, or even knowing what a consequence might be.

I came home from court that night wrecked, and I immediately ran up to my sophomore’s bedroom.  Once I pried the headphones off, I sat on the side of his bed with him, telling him that sometimes I have to deny things or exert consequences for the stupid shit he does, not because I’m mean but rather because I love him.  I want him to know right from wrong.  I want him to see that his actions are the stone causing ripples in the pond around it.  I want him to understand he is not the sun of the entire universe.  I believe it’s something I’ve been doing his entire life, but after court Tuesday, it was imperative I spelled it out again.  To him this “give your mom a hug moment” had to be an utter non-sequitur.  He played along, agreeable boy that he is, and I was able to sorta vent in some weird way in order to keep my tenuous grip on my sanity that day.

Even when I want to throttle either or both of my boys (see Mom’s Exhibit 1 below), I believe I have done my best to help them understand that being a good citizen matters, and it started early.  When Number One Son did or said things requiring parental intervention, we used to make him “sit on the stairs” for period of time in punishment.  The child, even at ages 2, 3, 4 years old would inquire about the length of his stint on the stairs before committing his “crimes.”  I’d instruct him to pick up his toys.  He’d retort, “What if I don’t?”  I’d say, “You will!”  He’d come back again with, “What if I don’t?  How long will I have to sit on the steps?”  I used to remark then that he’d grow up to be a politician or litigator–funny how my stint in court recalled these exchanges to mind.  I remember fits of “it’s not fair!,” and responding (and I quote): Life is full of disappointment, son.  Get used to it.

It really couldn’t be simpler:  The hole in the wall is a magical portal to the basement laundry area, kids.  Open the door, slide your dirty socks down the hatch, and the socks get returned to you a few days post-insertion, clean.  

Despite the dirty sock evidence here, he’s a decent human being.  They both are.  Even when I take a tone or roll my eyes or make them go to bed early or prohibit the purchase of inappropriate video games or ground one of them for falling asleep in class (!?!?!!!!), they know I love them.  They’ve been told “no” more than once, and they’ve survived the disappointment.  They’re good decision makers in terms of keeping themselves out of trouble, achieving academically, and being good friends.   They’re far from perfect, but who is perfect?  You??  Not me.  

For what it’s worth, the trial and jury process wasn’t TV-shiny Law & Order perfect, but it worked as intended.  It was taxing human drama, and I believe we arrived at the correct verdict.  We obeyed all of the judge’s orders and instructions, upholding the integrity of the jury process.  I’ll never see the other eleven again, and I wish we hadn’t been called to spend a week together, but I’m better for having met them.  I learned a great deal about how courts operate, and learned that even among people with terrific differences of opinion, opinions can be shared and arguments made in a civilized, solutions-based manner.  There’s a lesson in this, and now that I’ve led you here, I’ll leave it to you to figure that lesson out.

I’ve worked in education nearly three decades, my North Star the belief that improving the communication skills of our city’s youngest and most in need will lead to better outcomes for them, improved academics and problem-solving skills are a surer path to success in and out of school.  NOTHING I teach or impart in a therapy session to any kid is going to make a damn bit of difference if he or she lives a free-for-all everywhere else.  Case closed. 

That’s What She Said

That’s What She Said is a party game of twisted innuendoes, so says Amazon, a little up-and-comer retailer you may have heard about.  I think they’re gonna be big, y’all.  Amazon’s description continues on to say the game is an “outrageous party in a box, perfect for your next get-together or adult game night. It’s the board game equivalent of spiking the punch.”  They’re underselling it.

For his big 5-0, my husband wanted not a big party, but a little get-together game night with his family, and that is what went down Saturday night.  Since the accident and the hearing loss it caused, hearing in noise is difficult and sometimes stressful for him.  For that and a few other post-accident reasons, the big party I wanted was nixed.  I mean, what kind of wife would I be to throw a party that would be potentially traumatizing??

After the food, after the outdoor component–a family walkabout to the Pumpkin Pavilion, where hundreds of jack-o-lanterns are stacked and illuminated at the park near our home, after the photos, but before the cake: game time.  The game is similar to Cards Against Humanity in terms of play and inappropriateness, but for whatever reason, That’s What She Said, shines more brightly than Cards.  And by shines, I mean brings you down to your most base, most explicit and suggestive, most “Hi, I’m 12” sense of humor.

I don’t know that I’ve ever experienced laughter like that in my life.  Tears ran down our collective faces!  The readers could barely even read the responses thrown down for consideration so intense, hysterical, and MY CHEEKS HURT deep we were into the awkward hilarity.  I’m no prude, and am comfortable around the f-bomb and other assorted profanities, but I wasn’t quite certain my kids should play. . .   OK, they did.  I don’t know that my teenagers understood every card that got played, but they played some beauts and laughed as hard and long as anyone.  Long and hard.  That’s what she said!  *ba-dum-tsssss*

Game night was perfection.  The right-size celebration with the right-size crowd. Thank you family for traveling here to mark the event.

That my husband is still here to celebrate the big 5-0  milestone birthday today is as much a miracle as anything that can be experienced here on earth.  Happy birthday, Tom.  Thanks for not dying.  Thanks for fighting and clawing your way through rehab to come back to me and the boys.  Thanks for being a model of strength, hard work, integrity, and decency for our boys.  It’s your birthday, but we’ve gotten the gift.  Raise a glass to the guy who survived!  The guy whose doctors told him that people with skull fractures as massive as his were don’t usually make it. He made it.

Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho

For the whole of my entire life, I heard the lyrics to the work tune sung by Snow White’s cadre of little friends as, “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go,” like they were super excited to head off to the mines.  For a few weeks now, I’ve been singing “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work he goes” only to learn that the Seven Dwarves sang not a cheery dirge (oxymoron, sure) so much as an anthem of relief as they skedaddled at quitting time, “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s HOME from work we go.”

Context?  OK, yeah, sorry.

About five months post-accident, my husband was sent back to work.  Off to work he went, heigh-ho, heigh-ho.  I am not making this up.

A quick survey of current events suggests that even to the uninitiated, NOTHING these days may be considered beyond belief.  No display of human behavior or “decision-making” is off-limits anymore it would seem.  Where once we had shame Where once we demonstrated integrity (and kept our loony little rants in our thought bubbles and not on social media), we now find ourselves in a world of anything goes.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when the medical professionals reported bones no longer to be broken, organs no longer to be lacerated, and paralysis no longer to be, well nevermind about that one because the paralysis–while much improved–lingers.  When the docs could check all the boxes, they could declare him fit for returning to work.  Utterly and completely beyond my belief anyway, he’s back at work. Holy.  Crap.

Now me?  I can’t even drive past the site where the accident occurred.  I have a school assignment whose most direct route from Point A to Point B involves driving right by the accident site.  Nope.  No way.  I am taking the scenic route, y’all.  But my husband, warrior that he is, has returned to the scene (no, not THE scene, the scene of the world of work).  His triumphant return hasn’t been completely without incident–some sensible safety restrictions remain, so it’s a ramping up.  But he’s on the ramp.  It’s beyond my belief.

This card and sweet, sweet message of support was left on my desk today by my coworker and friend, Nicole.  Just because, for no special reason.

It’s good to have friends. Thank you, Nicole.

I’m a lot of work at work myself, and can’t imagine having survived these last five months without Nicole and the rest of our gang at my side.  I’m not lucky that this happened, but I’m so lucky to have the people I do helping me through.  If I’m repeating myself, I know I am.

I don’t know what it’s like not to worry anymore.  Every second I’m awake, some piece of my brain is dedicated to wonder about what he is doing, where he is working, with whom he is speaking, about what he is speaking, all of it, everything, all the time.  But the broken bones have healed as have the internal organs.  Mostly.  He’s up, he’s out of the house, and he’s back to work.  If you’d seen him lying in that hospital bed, you’d never believe he’d EVER be back to work, let alone be returning within months of the big bad day.  His coworkers are stunned like I am–many of the guys, upon hearing of the accident, wrote him off for dead.  I assume they’re happy to see him haunting the shop now, but what must it be like for someone to say to your face they assumed you’d die?  I hope I never know.  I hope you never know.

His birthday is coming soon.  I’d wanted to throw a gala “YOU DIDN’T DIE and YOU’RE TURNING 50!” extravaganza.  Tom turning 50 wasn’t a guarantee, you know, and I wanted to mark the occasion in a big way.  But my guy isn’t a center of attention, celebrate in a big way kind of guy.  You didn’t die.  You’re turning 50.  Can we at least have tacos??

PS–I know this post lacks a thread to knit my misfiring neurons-induced prose together, but James Joyce wrote Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man more than a century ago, and college professors are torturing freshman English students with that ridiculous stream-of-consciousness garbage STILL, and his husband wasn’t injured like mine was.  I mean, not that Joyce had a husband because he died in the 1940s, which was a considerably less progressive time and was married to his muse, who was female and all that.  And not that I’m comparing my writing to Joyce’s (how is it a classic?) classic, but you catch my meaning, right?

Believe

As I scrolled through Facebook this past week, I discovered a new (new to me anyway) celebration: National Daughters Day.  I don’t have daughters, bud I “liked” the posts my friends put up extolling the beauty, brains, and virtue of their daughters.  It’s fun for parents to brag on and celebrate their children, and I enjoy reading how my friends love their children.  Love begets love.

I’d closed that tiny portal in my brain when I closed my web browser, but then this:  Not to be outdone by their XX-chromosomal counterparts, National Sons Day, according to Facebook posts, arrived a day or two later.  Is this really a thing?  Google’s top hit revealed something different.

Once, behaving like the petulant pre-teen I was, I had asked my mom when “KIDS” day was, seeing as she got Mother’s Day.  I recall a distinct tone as she responded that “every damn day is kids’ day,” and being no dummy, I shut my sassy mouth.  But now there’s actually a daughter and sons day??  It does not compute.  At this point, I find myself mostly bowing out of social media, in a corner, waving a little white kerchief in surrender.

I’d intended to write today about my husband’s return to work.  Yes, you read that correctly: My husband was sent back to work last week.  Four months after nearly bleeding out on a city street, doctors determined him to be in physical form strong enough to return to work.  However vehemently opposed I am to this series of what-the-actual-F medical decisions matters not.  Off he went.  I’ll save this for another blog post.

Today I’m going to write not about my husband’s terrible accident and miracle recovery, and not about my number one son’s muscular dystrophy, but about my number two son.

My little one (“Little,” HA!!  He’s thirteen and stands 6′ 1″) is the nicest boy you’ll meet.  He’s a quiet child.  He’s hilarious, but you might not know that about him because he doesn’t seek the spotlight.  He’s a deep thinker with a deep voice you don’t hear often enough.  He isn’t a crack-up laughing kind of kid, but when he lets loose, his laughter is the most joyful of music to my ears.  He’s thoughtful, writing me birthday messages expressing how proud he is to be my son.  He’s kind, always lining up at the end to let everyone else get in line for the first crack at whatever is up for grabs.  He’s the kid who’ll rub your shoulder when he passes by or lean in to hug you just because.

He had to give a speech in English Language Arts class about a person he valued as an effective leader.  He chose to write and speak about his math teacher, who also happens to be his flag football and basketball coach.  I was surprised initially and just a touch hurt that he did not select his father, given what his dad has overcome in 2019, but the presentation wasn’t about love so much as leadership and inspiration he said.  What’s that about still waters running deep?  I did not get to hear his speech–I asked!  And try as I might have (I may have visited his room more often than usual while he studied his notes in rehearsal), I didn’t actually find out which qualities he ascribed to his teacher/coach.

My kid has a natural athletic build, works his butt off, and swear to the stars, he is almost two feet taller than many other kids his age, but he doesn’t have a killer instinct–it’s just not in his makeup.  I’ve said it before about him, and it’s likely going to hold true: what makes him a terrific human being will likely prevent him from being a next-level athlete.  And that’s OK.  Not that some elite athletes aren’t also nice humans, but it takes a certain intangible to become that athlete.

Sometimes all a kid needs is someone to believe in him, or for that kid to believe that someone believes in him.  And right now I believe that his teacher/coach is that person for my younger son.  Sure, my kid’s size is a gift–you can’t coach height, they say–but size doesn’t magically equal ability or confidence as we learned in baseball.  Baseball season was a total loss.  With my husband’s accident, hospitalization, and rehab, neither of us was present to support our boy like had always been the case prior.  I was a damn dumpster fire of a mess, my husband was incapacitated and/or rehabbing hard to recover what the accident had stolen from him, and my poor kid. . .  he floundered.  Floundered would be generous, actually.  And when it was clear that those around him had lost faith in him, he lost faith in himself.

But this coach believes in him, and if he doesn’t, my kid believes that he does anyway.  Between the sidelines, my baby is a go-to guy, and as much as he says baseball is his favorite sport, he’s better suited for football.  How I love watching their games!  Yesterday morning he scored two offensive touchdowns, and for him, the holy grail of football accomplishments–the pick-six (an interception run back for a touchdown).  He probably snagged 7-8 flags (tackles in flag football) too.  But you’ll never hear him talk about it to anyone else.  It’s just not in his nature, but clearly it IS in mine to brag about him a bit.

If National Sons Day is a thing and not just a Facebook posting prompt, I’d proudly overshare what I love about this kid (well, both of them, but today, just the “little” one). But then I have this little blog, where unlike Facebook, I can write on and on and on.  And on. . .   There’s more to life than sports, there’s also good citizenship, take this for example–

Think back to your formative years.  Who believed in you, who had your back?  Was it a family member?  A coach, a friend, a teacher?  It’s really something, the feeling you get when someone believes in you.  Like love, belief begets belief.

No joke.  Take action.  For the kid or friend or relative or neighbor who needs to know someone has their back–be the one.  Be their believer.  Maybe someone will write a speech about you.  Maybe they won’t, but you can rest happily knowing you’ve made a difference, which is a king’s ransom of a reward in itself.

His And Hers And Hamilton

One Of Us Is Definitely Recovering Better Than The Other: A Tale of Two Recoveries and Some Dangerous Musical Juju

His

Against all odds, and in continued miraculous fashion, my husband has bested every expectation and prognosis his twenty-eight diagnoses handed him starting in May.  He (I believe) overestimates his stamina, so (in my estimation) works just a bit too hard at everything he does.  Naps are no luxury item; they’re necessary.  You will never hear Tom complain–it’s just not in his nature, I guess–so when the “You Have to Go Back to Work” bell rings much sooner than certainly I am ready for, he’ll go.  Without complaint. Therapy, exercise (his physical therapist cleared him to volley tennis balls, y’all!), returning to activities under the terms of his restrictions–he’s on it.  He’s the most drama-free dude you’ll ever meet, but that doesn’t render him “cured” quite as quickly as (I believe) is being demanded.

Hers

Have I mentioned that he is amazing?  He is amazing.  But this looming return to work thing is freaking me right out.  I’m feeling total “mama bear” mode, except the protective instinct covers my husband, so is more like “spousal bear,” but “spousal bear” lacks the imagery and verbal panache “mama bear” carries.

Four months ago, my husband was knocked down and wedged under the truck that backed over him.  Slammed to the pavement, he can remember three distinct thuds of his head on the concrete, matching the stories the long crack from his eye up past the crown of his head and two crushing injuries tell.  He describes watching blood pour out of his head, thinking “this might be it” as in IT, the end.  The day after, he told me he never wanted me to have to know what happened to him, that it was so terrible he didn’t want me ever to have to envision it.  A few days after that, fuzzy from IV meds and brain injury, he related to a team of doctors and those of us in the room the complete, gruesome chronology as he remembered it.  It broke me.  OK, it buckled me.

I haven’t recovered from the crash near as well as my husband has.  I remember a thousand different details he can’t.  I don’t know what it’s like anymore not to worry about him every second he’s alive.

We do this thing at our monthly meetings at work, where we acknowledge good deeds and kind words, a public thank you to colleagues who’ve helped others in the spirit of collegiality and professionalism.  Our supervisor reads them to the department when we assemble as one; we don’t get pay raises or bonuses, so it’s a small way we can recognize each other and give verbal pats on the back.  I’d written a bouquet to thank our department for the wonderful messages of concern and support during the early days post-accident and since then for my supervisor to share.  Instead of her reading those few lines, she asked if I wanted to get up and say something myself.  I did not want to get up and say something myself.  I’m much clearer in writing, and I cry less easily and frequently behind the keyboard, but what do you do when put on the spot?  You get up and you say something.  In the maybe fifteen seconds it took me to reach the microphone, everything flooded back.  I could picture myself talking to the police in the waiting room before seeing him the first time, convinced the lack of information meant he had to be paralyzed.  I could envision the Emergency Department treatment area, hearing him barely able to utter “There’s so much pain.”  I could see the stitches and staples holding his swollen face and head together.  I could picture myself standing in the hallway outside the family center, calling my mom asking for help with the kids and late that first night, getting the late-night text from my best friend asking if everything was OK because I’d called her twice–late–without leaving a message.

I don’t even know what I said at our meeting last week, but I know that 184 people were silent as I stood there rambling.  I am not recovering as well as my husband is, but with weeks of practice now, I can pass as a mostly functional person.  Really, I should be short-listed for outstanding female lead performance in a human drama.

And Hamilton

Today’s my birthday, and as per tradition in our house, my birthday “surprise” was outed long before the actual day.  My husband is hands-down the absolute worst secret keeper on the planet.  He had promised me Hamilton tickets for Christmas last year, then didn’t buy them because his cheap-o wife suggested waiting until after the holiday rush, hoping ticket prices would return to not-Christmas-purchase-frenzy prices.  Then he forgot, which I don’t know how possibly he could, me all performing My Shot 100% accurately and pouting over not going pretty much on the daily. Eventually I bought tickets for the May 10 show, with the plan we’d each take off work that Friday, our wedding anniversary, spending the day with our Founding Fathers and maybe a nice dinner in Chicago.  The universe had other plans for us, and the accident canceled that itinerary.

Sorry about my ridiculous add, but my husband has been cleared to volley tennis balls, you guys!  The fact that he’s alive is a miracle.

So we’re hopping the Amtrak to see Hamilton today (happy birthday to me)! I feel like the universe has already asserted itself, telling me in no uncertain terms I am not meant to see this show though.  Like something bad is going to happen when we spit in the face of the pre-ordained plan–I mean we have been warned!  What if I actually find myself in the room where it happens (sing it with me)? Superstitious weirdo stuff from me? Maybe.  Yes.  I mean, it’s super unlikely my husband will get run over again, but who knows what else the universe has up its sleeve?? I shouldn’t be going, and we are spitting in its face. But it’s time for us to move forward, universe. Be kind to us, will ya?  It’s my birthday after all.

He Survived

You get these moments–so sudden and exceptional that you’re uncertain your senses are telling you the truth.  You could not possibly be hearing and seeing the tableau unfolding the way it is right in front of you on an actual, literal stage in your actual life.  Could you?

It’s been three weeks back to work already, and I’ve graduated from looking down at my feet, barely making eye contact to appearing maybe 68% life-like.  I was panicked at the thought of returning to work.  But over the course of the most recent three weeks, my husband’s progress has marched forward on the same rocket-fire trajectory he began by not dying in the first place.

Since my return, Tom’s been cleared from his Aspen collar neck brace, and from a distance resembles his pre-injury self.  The scars and paralysis are visible up close, but from afar, only those acquainted with him before would notice that his one shoulder is sloped and his neck rests at an offset, asymmetrical angle.  Passersby notice (read: stare at) the eye patch, but from across the table, the contour of the ear that was reattached passes enough for the original, and doesn’t every guy have some kind of scar on his forehead?  Sure, Tom’s suture line is longer than the distance I can cover stretching my thumb and forefinger, but the take-away here is that his skull was fractured along an eight-inch fault line and was crushed in two other spots, but the man is walking and talking.  He is a medical marvel.

Besides caring for and transporting my husband, I did nothing over the summer months.  Literally nothing.  For my entertainment over summer break, I got my hair cut and colored (I mean, nature really meant for me to be mostly blonde, so a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do, even when the chips are waaaaaaaay down!).  I went out to lunch twice and breakfast once without my husband.  Those four events are the sum total of what I did for fun between home ADLs and our near daily commute to the hospital and clinics for the constant stream of therapy appointments and physician follow-ups.  The thought of something fun was strictly off-limits.

The notion of attending a concert was laughable.  How was I ever going to be able to A) Leave my husband all night long after I’d already been gone at work the full day?, or B) Take my husband to a concert at a 37,000 seat outdoor venue known for public drunkenness and debauchery?  And you don’t need to ask me how I know about public drunkenness and debauchery at Alpine Valley because I grew up ten miles from there and may have “heard a thing or two” many a Friday or Saturday night in my teens and early twenties.  Anyway.

I’d been down the rabbit hole, slogging through some down days when Barenaked Ladies announced this tour last winter.  I just wasn’t supposed to be there–couldn’t make the Ladies Ladies reunion road trip, couldn’t get to the local show.  But an eleventh hour opportunity arose, so I asked Tom if he wanted to go to Friday’s BNL show. To my delight, he said he’d be excited to go.  Yes, he said excited.  If you’ve paid attention here at all these last several years, you’ve noticed I’m rather a fan of the band.  Some cast the term obsessed in my direction, which really?  Obsessed suggests unhinged and unhealthy, which is definitely not accurate; my friends and I prefer “concentrated hobby” in describing our commitment to the band.  Semantics, you guys.

It may sound weird to hear a woman my age fawn all over a band, but I do love them and the music.  Genuinely.  They’re good humans, talented and kind men who take the time with their monster (and casual) fans.  I’ve stumbled awkwardly in conversation with and verbally tripped all over them, and in return they’ve been total rock stars, which technically is redundant.  Even when I’ve said some galactically stupid shit, and oh but I have!, they’ve been total pros in return.  I love them.

At the close of a Barenaked Ladies show, Ed and Tyler switch places, Ed moves behind the drums and Tyler takes over lead vocals. “Actually seriously good,” in fact, according to the review in our daily paper!

 

Dad-style dance moves?

 

At the close of last Friday night’s show, Tyler did what he does–entertains and amuses the fans who understand that the show is almost over.  For us concert weirdos, the opening of the Big Bang Theory signals the beginning of the end, but the Tyler show is the end-end.  He’s fun and funny up there, and the last thing he does is introduce the members of the band, himself last, usually with some goof of a name or title.  But he threw in a little surprise Friday night.

After introducing the guys, and before shutting it down for good, Tyler told the crowd about some guy in the audience who they were happy to see there, this guy who had survived: Tom Weir.  And while maybe three other people in the crowd knew who he was (it was at least three because they each texted me OMG emojis with lots of exclamation marks!!! within minutes), thousands “wooooo-ed” while my husband and I stood there in stunned silence as Ty dedicated their performance that night to my husband.  I wish I’d known he was talking about Tom because I would have tried to commit every word to memory, but honestly, neither Tom nor I remember it exactly.  Afterward, Tom told me that as Ty kept talking, he thought it sounded a little like he could possibly maybe be talking about him, but of course, that’s ridiculous! No.  Though it surely has to have been a dream, it was for reals. A dream I didn’t even know I had came true (and not the dream of my husband not dying because while, yes, that’s a super good dream, I never really thought he would die until receiving “the call,” so it wasn’t on my “dream” radar).

Tom’s modesty is genuine–he didn’t do anything to earn the shout-out, although not being dead? Really, Honey, is like the top thing you can do.  I can’t explain why I’ve felt kinda quiet since Friday, when after every concert it’s ALL I CAN TALK ABOUT!  Maybe I’m afraid this bubble of a magical spell will shatter, become real the more I talk about it.  I’ll never find the right words, and as it can, a simple “thank you” feels flat.  It’s absurd to want to keep this close when tens of thousands of people heard it Friday night too.

The world has continued to show our family unbelievable good when we’ve been at our unbelievable worst.  Thank you all.  Maybe soon I’ll even stop writing about Tom’s injuries and return to the good old days when muscular dystrophy was my toughest row to hoe.

Not everyone complied, but most let me have my Facebook moment anyway.

See, this is why my favorite band is better than your favorite band.

Closed for debate. If only they’d have found that hoodie though.

The Train Has Left The Station

At the very moment my husband was in surgery having his vertebrae fused, my coworkers who are also my friends materialized in the hospital’s family waiting center. So many people wanted to help, they said, and Rebecca organized a meal train to facilitate that. Since the accident, friends have brought or bought our family a meal twice a week, and that is in addition to many others who left behind their 9×13 pans of love. I heard the meal train filled so quickly that people were denied. Those lovely people shut out of the official list sent us restaurant or grocery gift cards. We will not go hungry anytime soon!

The train has left the station for good. Just now, I was washing out the cooler that sat outside our door for almost three months to prepare it for its return to Rebecca’s house. I was reminded again that the accident–a wife and mom’s worst nightmare realized–has also shown me the absolute best in generosity and support from those who surround us.

Thank you. I’ll never be able to repay you—and I hope you NEVER need a meal train. But if you do, I hope you have remarkable people in your lives the way we do.

How do I begin to thank the people who gave us life?  Friends, family, and neighbors showed up and stepped up to do what I either couldn’t literally or “couldn’t” figuratively.  I want every single one of you who sent us even one positive or kind thought to know that it mattered.  I truly believe that those messages were what helped pull my husband through those early days of intensive and acute trauma care.

My sister- and brother-in-law picked up the kids to bring them to the hospital that first terrible, terrible night. My parents dropped everything to arrive at our house before the kids got home from school the day after. My best friend booked a flight and spent “vacation” days here.

Our friend P.J. showed up with a huge, still warm! pan of food for us on the Wednesday after the accident.  I can recall holding that Rubbermaid container against my belly, with tears in my eyes gushing that it was still warm.  How do you thank someone for showing up with sustenance at a time like this? I recall that I lapped it up almost animal-like, barely taking the time even to taste that savory Alfredo sauce as I turned back around to pack up an overnight bag.  Tom had asked me to sleep at the hospital that night before the surgery, and there was nowhere else I could possibly be.  Not that I slept, of course, but semantics, you understand.

Our neighbor Neil brought over the absolute best lasagna I’ve eaten ever in my entire life a day or two later.  I’d thought to ask him for the recipe, but nothing will ever taste as good as that lasagna did to me that week.  I’d never duplicate the taste or supreme satisfaction I derived from every slice.  Since the accident, Neil has taken care of our lawn.  How do I ever repay him for that?  How could he ever possibly know how much it’s meant to me??  I can cut the lawn, and so could have the boys, but Neil did it every time.  Even when I’d mentally say, “OK, tomorrow is grass-cutting day,” I swear he’d be up and running laps in our yard before I could get out there myself.  The weekend prior to the accident, my husband had reseeded the entire yard, and it would have broken me for it to have failed without the care it needed.  Now, thanks to Neil, the green, green lawn will be a lasting testament this “period of time” (The Accident) and the growth that can occur under expert guidance and tender care.  There might be some kind of metaphor there, I don’t know.

Jane picked up my boys so they could just hang out with her boys on a Sunday afternoon, like they did before. And let me tell ya about the garlic bread!

Paul and His Crew of Dudes came over to take our patio set out of winter storage. Sitting on my patio drinking AM coffee or reading under the sun is a slice of happy place for me.  I was elated to be able to sit outside once Tom was released from the hospital.  Even when the breaks I got were brief, sitting outside in the happy place was a break I cherished. 

My Speech cluster colleagues, my former coworkers at Grant, teachers from my son’s school, my husband’s coworkers, neighbors, my son’s baseball team, even strangers! sent gifts for our family.

To the people who sent us those restaurant gift cards, I’m forever in your debt.  Not having to cook in the immediate, with the added bonus of not having to purchase groceries has meant a world of difference this summer.  To the people who sent us money. . .  At first I didn’t get it–I felt like a thief.  Prior to the accident, I didn’t fully understand why people enclosed cash with get-well or sympathy cards.  Oh, but I do now!  To be able to give the kids a couple bucks to run to the store or to buy some goodies at a baseball tournament and not have to hit up an ATM or count the pennies? A gift. I’ve been crabbing about getting docked 7+ days of pay, and while I’m real ornery about that, we have been so fortunate not to have fallen into desperate financial straits.

I almost want to publish a list of names, like an honor roll, but how inadequate and lame is that? I’ve been pretty good about thank you notes and messages via social media, but I know I’m forgetful. I’m sorry to anyone I’ve missed, but know that some form of written thanks is getting there.

I’m back at work, but I don’t know how to “be” now that I’m thrust back into a social arena. Staring at my feet is OK for now, but it won’t work for the long haul. My husband has been released from the neck brace, so the bone breaks are recovering, which couldn’t have come at a better time now that Wendy’s summer Uber project has to be placed on hold. But I never don’t worry. Sometimes I feel that because he has achieved the gains he’s fought for so far, people believe he’s “back to normal.” He’s not. He’s healing, present progressive. Healing to a degree I’d never have dreamt three short (but really long!) months ago. Still it’s been only three months. You bet I worry.

I know there’ve been an abundance of quotation marks in this post. Sorry, but there’s still no font for my tone of voice. If you know me, you know how to “read” me. And if you don’t, I bet what you imagine isn’t too far from my heavily-inflected, maybe a bit quieter these days though vocal tone reality. Anyway.

Thank you.

What Doesn’t Kill You Sometimes Does Anyway

I remember thinking it would kill me when the economy tanked in 2008 and my husband was laid off. Not too long thereafter, I thought it would kill me when my husband got re-hired during that recession, but worked a mandatory ten hours-per-day six or seven days a week while my older son was in K4 and my baby was still in day care.

I thought it would kill me when the benefits and pay structure along with the respect once enjoyed by educators were upended in early attempts to dismantle public education here. I felt similarly when my boss and my four close colleagues retired on the same day leaving the cheese to stand temporarily alone.

I thought it would kill me when our son’s neurologist told us he had muscular dystrophy.

I thought it would kill me when I arrived in the emergency department, but was not allowed to see my husband for hours, being told only that he knew my name and phone number which was a “good sign.” It nearly did kill me when I finally was let in the ED, my husband lying in that massive hospital bed, barely coherent using 1-2 word phrases to communicate how much pain he felt. I didn’t know where I could even touch him so broken was he.

I thought it would kill me to rifle through the bags of his bloody, cut-up clothing searching for his car keys upon returning home that horrible night.

I thought it would kill me when Nurse Jen wheeled Tom away to surgery, knowing it could be the last time I ever saw him alive.

I thought it would kill me when my husband’s brain injury erased the man I knew and loved for a few days.

I thought it would kill me to leave my children in the dust, in a distant, distant second place to their father with his myriad needs when I practically moved into the hospital just when they needed me practically more than ever in their lives.

I thought it would kill me when I changed his neck brace in preparation for when they entrusted his post-discharge care to me. Then I had to change the brace daily. I was undone when I helped him shave for the first time.

I thought it would kill me when I randomly discovered that my wages had been docked, and that I owed my employer another week of pay despite the more than 1,300 sick hours I’ve accrued over a nearly three-decade career.  You’d think someone would’ve, at the very least, had the decency and professionalism to tell me.  Being forced to make any significant life decision while hovering around the surgical ICU is not going to yield the most sound results.

---

It’s gonna kill me when I have to break my baby’s heart later today delivering what will be bitterly disappointing news.

I can’t bear the thought of returning to work tomorrow, leaving my husband’s side for the first time since May 7, forcing my sons into the caregiver role.

It will kill me.  And it won’t.

For myself, I’ve done and accomplished exactly nothing this summer. There is, I hope for my sons, one takeaway: that I tried.  I tried to do everything I could for the people I love most in this world.  It was messy, it involved a lot of uncertainty and tears (but never a major meltdown), but when life deals you a superbly lousy hand, you’ve no choice but to play it. I hope one day they remember not my tears and our fears, but that I cared for their dad when his life depended on it.  I hope against hope neither of them ever again have to endure another trauma such as they’ve faced as adolescents with their dad’s accident and its aftermath. But if they do, I hope they remember seeing how their mom took every hit and kept getting up.  I hope they’ve learned to be grateful and say thanks to those who offer and step in to help.  I’ve tried.

People say I’m strong.  I don’t know about that, but I know I keep doing what I have to do.  Is that what strong is?