Aging all around

Was hit full force this week with the reality that I am getting old and that my children are growing up.

Hubby took younger 2 beastly children off to see his parents, grandparents, and siblings. Trying to be a responsible parent, I set out to hire someone to come in and help me get Boo into bed for 7 nights. I was slightly more than halfway successful. After going through several nursing agencies who informed me in a slightly superior manner that they don't "do that kind of nursing", that they're a "private duty nursing agency", or that "there must be a medical necessity", I finally found an agency that had someone who could help me 4 of the 7 nights. Let me tell you, this woman is amazing. She just bops in, lines up the chair next to the bed, gives him a bear hug, and pivots him to a seated position on the bed in what has to be textbook fashion. Of course, she's a good 6" shorter than me and probably 100 pounds heavier, but darn... she makes it look so easy. Takes her 5 minutes, for which I'm paying 2 hours of the agency's rate, but it's worth every doggone cent. Wonder if that's tax deductible....

Anyway, the first of the 3 nights with no help, I tried it myself. It wasn't pretty but Boo sure was quite entertained, which of course made it that much harder. Trying to maneuver a highly amused severely spastic quad is like trying to ... gosh, I can't even describe what it's like. Let's just say it's interesting. At one point I was flat on my back on his bed, with him kind of sideways on me, arching like crazy, laughing like a hyena (so glad I still have some entertainment value). Had a split second of panic, thinking I was never going to get him off me and I was going to asphyxiate, with him laughing the whole while. Finally got him on his stomach instead of mine and was then faced with the challenge of getting him to roll. By this point, his muscles were just rock solid from all his laughing, not a smidge of flexibility. Guess those gazillion years in PT weren't a total waste because I remembered the strategy of getting one arm above his head and having him roll in that direction. Phew. Mission accomplished without any trauma to him, plus a good 30 minutes of belly laughs, but in the process I managed to really tick off those doggone herniated/bulging/torn disks.

Reality has hit. I simply am no longer physically capable of getting him into bed. It's quite sobering and scary and incredibly sad. What on earth do we do now? Fortunately hubby doesn't travel nearly as much as he used to, but there are still the obligatory training sessions a couple times a year in Houston. And what happens when He-Man of the Universe starts falling apart too? What do people do?

And you know, for a change, this really isn't all about me, at least not this part. It's so incredibly unfair to Boo. He's a vibrant 18 y/o man who wants to go out and do things and see things and be part of the world. It's hard to do when his only source of propulsion is sprawled out flat on the floor, popping ibuprofen like they're jelly beans, shoving all manner of frozen bags of veggies down the back of her pants to try to at the very least numb the entire lower back and right leg if not perhaps actually coax the darn nerve into quiescence. He deserves better.

I'm sure at this point I should get him on Medicaid, though I kinda think Medicaid wouldn't have been much help today. I've been avoiding getting too educated on alleged adult services and how all the funding crap works. Denial is a great thing - if I don't learn about it, I won't physically fall apart and we'll never have to address it. Ha. Not working so great anymore. I should probably also contact DHS/ORS, even though I already know the spewage we're in for. He "doesn't qualify" for DHS/ORS services because he's only 18 and is still in school. However, please do fill out this 18-page questionnaire (no kidding) that asks incredibly personal questions that are really none of our business because we have to have it on file just in case you ever do want to get services and he qualifies. Of course, we will have to update the questionnaire every year, even if we're not providing services, and filling out the questionnaire in no way, shape, or form is meant to imply you ever will receive services. And no, you can't just fill it out. You must trek into your nearest DHS office and sit still for however long it takes for one of our clerks to fill out the questionnaire because.... I don't know, they have to justify funding these clerical positions instead of actually providing services? Oh... and even though you live 1 block south of the Cook County Line and 5 miles from a Cook County office of DHS, you must schlep 40 miles to Joliet to fill out the questionnaire in the appropriate DHS office for *your* county.

Ewww, sorry, go lost in that particular sore point. Bottom line, DHS isn't going to do anything to help us care for Boo at home (Olmstead be damned) but I'm quite sure they'll be falling all over themselves to get Boo in an institution or "group home". Which, God forgive me, I actually contemplated this morning. I had seen an ad on TV about a year ago for group homes for "your special family member" (gag - condescend much?). Had made a note of the url, and looked it up at some point. Several placements very close to home, lots of happy testimonials from parents. In my emotional state this morning, I was thinking that maybe a group home would be a better place for him - not for me, I think it will darn near kill me to have him leave home and be cared by others - but for him? To have people who can consistently transfer and propel and provide opportunities for activities daily? Aw heck... I don't know. I could just be rationalizing it all at this point. The guilt is overwhelming, that I can't take care of him like I used to. And I'm tired, miss hubby, miss the littler 2 beasts, am in pain, and can't even have a real glass of wine to go with my whine.

I won't make any decisions or choices until hubby returns and I can get some sleep. But my denial needs to get toned down a bit... for Boo's sake.

So the beasts are off visiting hubby's family. They're a different kind of family. Wild. Loud. Hyper. Irreverent. Wonderful fun, the kind of family I would've loved to have grown up in. On night 2, Weeburt just couldn't be bothered to talk to me. Granted, he's 12. He's entering that dreaded teen stage where monosyllabic is about as good as it's going to get. Plus, his voice has dropped about 20 octaves and apparently my hearing is going the way of my back because I cannot for the life of me hear him anymore. I call him "earthworm" because they must be the only species that can hear him half the time. So he's mumbling barely-audible single syllables on the phone and I got irked. This is my baby boy! He's supposed to be all light and happiness and overjoyed to hear his mother's voice. He's supposed to miss me and be so glad to share the tiniest details of his day on vacation. He should be regaling me with stories of the craziness going down there, spending at least a half hour sharing. Uh... not so much. So I'm irked. Diva gets on the phone and even she didn't have much time for me - and she's only 9, my chatty Kathy.

Crushed, I was simply crushed. I said my good-byes and hung up. Sat here getting ready for a real sulk, when it hit me. This is so normal. This is what they're supposed to be doing. Spreading wings, enjoying themselves, not pining away for Mommy. I am getting old and they are growing up. Quite a devastating realization because my kids are just the cat's meow. They are my world (egads, just writing that makes me slightly nauseated because that's just so not how I ever thought I would feel - I was an independent woman, self-sufficient, now reduced to a puddle because my kids and husband have been gone for 5 days). But right after I got over feeling like I'd been sucker punched, I was hit with a sense of peace. We must be doing something right because the kids are doing what they're supposed to be doing. They are great kids, polite, respectful (for the most part), good, strong, solid little people growing really well into remarkable bigger people. I need to let them have their freedom and enjoy it, without spoiling it with mother-guilt because they're doing something without me.

BTW, Boo and I didn't go because I cannot imagine getting Boo safely on a plane - don't think they make seating systems big enough for him. I do not fly anymore. I've done the plane thing, I don't like it. I no longer feel the need to put myself through that experience. I lived in Hawaii for a couple of years, I've done my fair share of air miles, and I just do not see the need for doing something I don't want to do anymore. Not happening. With age comes the right to just say "no". Plus, I blew my vacation time when Boo was in the hospital. So I stayed home to work so we can pay for the vacation, and Boo is hanging with me, watching a gross amount of MTV fare and laughing his eyes out.

While the little ones were gone, I thought I'd monitor their email accounts. We just went wireless, which to me is just so much magic at this point. Done the internet safety lessons ad nauseum, I have access to every inch of what they do online, etc. Imagine my delight at finding an email in Wee's inbox with the subject line of "don't tell mom". Something's afoot. It's my 16 y/o, Tee.

Tee, bless his heart, is bipolar, or something. I don't even know anymore. It's been a long road with him. Meds and shrinks and hospitals, and 7 years of institutions. He's progressed to a step down placement now, working on learning how to live in an environment without locked doors and prn meds, hopefully without escalating into violence anymore. So far so good, but it's only been a month. Previous honeymoons after discharge from RTCs have lasted about 2.5 months so we're not quite halfway to breathing a cautious sigh of relief. Anyway, at some point along the way, Tee was introduced to Wicca. In and of itself, I don't have a problem with Wicca. A spiritual system that advises to do no harm, that teaches that whatever you do will return to you threefold (Golden Rule?), is just fine with me. It's just that Tee doesn't understand spirituality or moderation. It concerns me when my occasionally psychotic son tells me that he can't wait to do spells because then he will be able to "fix the world". His unusual thought process doesn't allow him to understand that if a spell that was all it took to fix the world, it would've been fixed a long time ago. Only he is special enough to fix things. He is so completely obsessed and consumed by it. At first, while not actively encouraging his fascination, I did learn enough to be okay with it. However, just as I would be (and have been) uncomfortable with Christians who couldn't make a simple decision like whether or not to buy an ice cream cone without praying about it (true example), I am equally uncomfortable with a wanna be Wiccan who cannot hold a cohesive conversation about much else, especially when it's my son. Also, heaven help me, while I like to think I'm fairly liberal and independent-thinking, I see Tee further making himself incredibly and noticeably "different", essentially ostracizing himself even further from anything approaching social norms. (Sheesh, does that sound conformist or what??) We've spent years trying to teach him the skills he needs to be able to function within a community and his in-your-face Wicca obsession just is not helping.

Uhh... where was I? Oh yeah, "don't tell mom". Tee sent Wee "educational materials" on Wicca. Which I had forbidden in my home due to Tee's obsessiveness. Which he knows. And I had very *specifically* told him that under no circumstances is he to share the wealth with his sibs. ARGH! OK, possibly typical teen crap, possibly the best effort he is able to make at forging some kind of relationship with his little brother, but... oh.my.gawd. Sometimes I feel like I'm just dancing on fires, here, there, everywhere. Thank goodness Tee is off camping with his program for the next few days. I will find my detached, unemotional voice again to point out to Tee the blatant violation of rules, the unfairness of putting Wee in the middle of it (Wee doesn't know I know), and to once again voice my very serious concern that he is not being a well rounded human being (I did sent him an email telling him he was majorly busted). But I also realize that at 16, I have very little control over the choices Tee makes. It scares the stuffing out of me because Tee doesn't always have much control (or at least doesn't exert much control) over his choices.

To top off my aged day, as I'm getting Boo ready for bed tonight, we were listening to the local alternative music station. Boo loves the music (Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Beasty Boys, STP, Alice in Chains, etc.) and I do too. But... there was a song playing as I'm hooking up the feeding tube and ... I'll be darned. It's a cover of an old Cyndi Lauper tune... "if you're lost, you can look, and you wil find me, time after time" (OK, so I'm sure I screwed the lyrics up but you know the song if you're over 30). And then, I swear to God, the very next song was a cover of an old Led Zepplin tune - my dementia is kicking in and I can't remember the lyrics. I just thought it was so fitting... I'm so old, I know the lyrics to the "new" songs now.

Off to find my ibuprofen and my refrozen spinach now. Midlife crisis #439 over.