Frankenfoot

YES

This has been an interesting week. Fortunately, I don't remember much of it. Between the Morphine every 6 hours and the agonizing post surgical pain I believe I entered into a dissociative fugue state that left me with partial amnesia for events experienced during the fugue state time frame.

That's my theory anyway.

I remember the first night after surgery when the nerve block wore off about 10 hours too early. I was not prepared for the intense pain. Didn't I breeze through back surgery? Didn't I have abdominal surgery? Didn't I give birth to two children both of whom had complicated deliveries? Didn't I break this foot not once but three times recently?

Walks in the park compared to Frankenfoot.

On the morning after surgery I remember nausea overtaking me so suddenly that I projectile spewed all over the dining room table (yes, you heard me correctly), floor and kitchen cabinets since I could not run (let alone hobble) to the bathroom in time. Instantly, after I cleaned the barf up with bleach those familiar words came drifting down the stairs which I had not yet been able to even think about navigating...

"I went POOOOOOOPIE?"

I remember calling up to The Teenager asking if she made it to the potty this time?

"Sort of."

Uh oh.

I don't remember going up or down those stairs hauling bleach but I do remember cleaning up the "pooooooopie."

On day two after I had pressure washed my kitchen with puke I remember someone delivering a big Thanksgiving dinner to my door that my friend BJ had so carefully arranged for us to receive. Unfortunately, it was all frozen, including the turkey which also needed to be cooked. BJ was livid.

"That's what you get when you leave a man in charge," she fussed.

Before I knew it she was banging on my door with a huge pot roast, potatoes, carrots, gravy, rolls and a giant ham with pineapple rings decorating it and still fuming about the "damned frozen turkey."

Two days after the surgery was Thanksgiving day and I felt well but not well enough to go to dinner at Mama Mia Maria's. I was able to make breakfast and lunch for the kids.

Around dinner time, however, agonizing ankle pain overtook me and i was unable to weight bear.

At all.

The teenager was crying because she was hungry. After all it had been nearly four hours since lunch.

Dear Lord.

I popped a Morphine, 600mg of Motrin and walker-hopped to the stove and made grilled cheese sandwiches for Thanksgiving dinner.

Around 7 pm neighbors delivered a real Thanksgiving dinner to our door which we were all too tired and too full of cheese to eat.

And the ankle pain was relentless. I figured I had a blood clot until BDDW called me and told me he had had a revelation regarding the ankle pain.

'It's the boot. Take it off. Ice and elevate your ankle and try as much range of motion as you can tolerate."

Scuba diving anyone?

I so love it when I have friends who practice medicine on the side. BDDW was 100% correct. Within 24 hours I could walk again.

Today I got my gross dressing changed and my first glimpse of Frankenfoot. The doctor was not pleased with the boot induced ankle pain story especially when he saw the flipper boot that I had been given pre-operatively.

I left the office with a boot that actually fit my size 6 1/2 foot and a nice, clean dressing.

WOOT!

In the past few days since I've been off the pain medicine and able to ambulate without agony I have passed the time by watching The Last Of The Mohicans, My Left Foot, Alice's Restaurant, The Constant Gardener, The Stand, and the first seasons of Storage Wars, Law and Order SVU and The Walking Dead. Yes, the first seasons in their entirety.

I'm beginning to relate to the zombies who are referred to in The Walking Dead show as, "the walkers." Not only do I have a Frankenfoot that would qualify me for the job I am also brainless after three days of Netflix.

Next week sutures come out. In the meantime, the foot specialist instructed me to move my toe as much as possible. I told him I could already move it up and down but not side to side.

The doctor nearly fell off of his stool laughing.

"Toes don't move side to side," he howled.

"I beg to differ! I'm certain I could move my toes side to side!" I informed him.

"Bwahahahaha." The man is choking with laughter now.

"It's been so long since you've had any movement in that foot you can't even remember how toes are supposed to move," he informs me.

Yeah well...I bet my zombie friends can move their toes from side to side.

Those who have toes, that is.

Daniel Boone Alive And Well In Florida

For those of us in the Tampa Bay and Miami areas of Florida we have a tendency to forget that we are, after all, still in the deep south.

Daniel Boone reminded me of this today.

Baby Sings The Blues

One of my neighbors who no one seems to know but me knocked on my door recently and asked If I would like their Play Station Rock Band. Her son has grown and moved away and no longer wanted it.

Seriously?

The Boy had received a Play Station from a friend years ago and it finally passed away this year. We've have no money to replace it so he's been without for quite some time.This week Curly T hooked up a few things for us and last night we were in Rock Band business.


I sat mesmerized for 2 hours watching The Boy drumming and The Baby singing. And even though it was horrifyingly loud and The Baby sounded like a cross between Aretha Franklin and a screaming Janis Joplin I couldn't help but be fascinated by her facial expressions. This child puts her heart and soul into music.


Since she was a 5lb infant she has been fascinated by all music which she simply calls "song."

Her favorite seems to be Nina Simone and she will sit and demand I replay Nina Simone videos over and over for her.

And is it just me or is there a resemblance?


Move over Nina. This Baby can sing the blues.

"... we do not take a trip, a trip takes us."

If there is one thing I've learned while being the mom of three special needs children it is that making plans for the future is as absurd as a staunch Republican at a MoveOn meeting.

Take this week for instance.

Iris/Virus is on a cruise. I can't remember exactly who is on the cruise with her besides The Beard (see Bio's) and a pack of metal bands who's names elude me. Being of the Jimi Hendrix/Led Zeppelin era I wouldn't know a Whitesnake from a Metallica.

So since I have no personal care assistant for The Teenager I had to take off of work this week. You know? The job with no benefits such as insurance coverage, sick time, vacation time, gas reimbursement, etc.

Yes, the older I get the more backwards my employment river seems to flow.

Then I found out I have to have surgery and the doctor wants me off work for at least 4 weeks. Home for the holidays only sounds charming in the movies.

Sing it Perry

Home for the holidays in the real world means no paycheck at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I'm hoping my recovery is swift and that I can return sooner than later to work. After all, I can't shake that feeling that I am safer at work than I am locked in this house with the three musketeers.


In the meantime this week was to have been a week to have fun with The Teenager and prepare for the surgery/holidays by getting as much done as humanly possible. Yesterday was a perfect example of why plans do not work well in my world.

After the pediatrician finished chewing me out for taking The Baby to the Emergency room after the face plant we scheduled a follow up appointment for a face plant re-check and flu vaccines for The Baby and The Boy. Unfortunately, the morning of the appointment The Teenager began vomiting.

When the Teenager vomits she stands firmly rooted to her current spot and simply let's the barf spill up and over. It doesn't matter if she is on her new purple carpet, sitting on the living room sofa, or in the middle of a department store. She barfs where she stands. And then she stick her fingers down her throat and barfs some more. And then she walks in it.

One hour before the pediatricians appointment clear across town I am mucking in the midst of the Woodstock of vomit festivals.

Obviously not able to drag the poor girl to the pediatricians office with us I searched frantically for a teensitter. My entire backup posse was either at work or ill themselves so I did something I've never done before. I called my 92 year old father and Pearl Harbor survivor, Popi, and asked him to teensit.

I'm sure you are all under the assumption that i hesitated because Popi is 92 soon to be 93. After all, we are all guilty of making assumptions regarding age and aging.

FYI: The man is in better shape than I am and only this year have I noticed him slowing down a little. By slowing down I mean he has slightly limited his tree climbing, brick laying, building and painting projects.

FYI: I hesitated because he is a hideous babysitter. This I've learned from my own child hood as a rather sickly child who missed a lot of school. Since my parents both worked he was occasionally left in charge of me.

I was lucky to get a sip of water or a baby aspirin out of the man during his 8 hour shift.

Popi and The Boy taking a break.

When I returned from the pediatricians Popi was out back sweeping the patio he constructed. In his defense the man did leave the sliding glass doors open while sweeping. I'm not sure why since the air conditioner was blasting and the man is as deaf as a tree stump from destroyer depth charges that exploded around his submarine during multiple World War 2 battles. The important thing was that the man made an effort to pretend he was observing The Teenager.

And when I returned home I was barely in the door when i heard those familiar words, "uh oh! I have diarrhea," wafting from up stairs along with a distinct odor. And did she ever.

Walls. Clothing. Floor. Rugs.

Yep.

Today hasn't gone much better, actually. The Boy is home for the second day in a row. He was not given the flu shot yesterday because, as it turns out, he was wheezing. Who would have known? He tells me nothing and shows no visible signs of illness. Am I supposed to be psychic? And let me just say that knowing what tomorrow would bring is about the last thing on my Christmas wish list. I'd probably die of fright.

Although projects have been altered this week to accommodate the usual insanity all has not been lost. I managed to get our 3 Christmas trees up and Friday night Curly T and I are planning a booze jam marathon.

Uh oh, did I say, planning? Perhaps I should rephrase that...

My favorite author of all times sums it up more succinctly than I ever could since I'm prone to run on sentences and flight of ideas:

A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. John Steinbeck

Thanks for the reminder, John. If you were here now I'd propose a toast to your wisdom with booze jam. Or at least give you a piece of toast with booze jam on it.

Face Plant

Photo Google Images

A man walks in to a bar. Stop me if you've heard this one...

I love the blog A Moon Worn As If It Had Been A Shell. I can't remember how I even stumbled upon it but have been an avid follower for a while now. A prolific poster and gifted writer and poet, Elizabeth has a feature she calls, How We Do It where she shares happenings of daily life which I should point out rarely happens to anyone else in daily life. Not only does it crack me up but it makes me feel soooo much better about my own life.

I thought of Elizabeth yesterday when The Baby did a face plant in her wheel chair on the ceramic tile floor.

As Montell Jordan said, "This is how we do it."

Here is the abbreviated version of our week in the nuthouse in a nutshell:

The morning starts when The Teenager walks down the stairs stating, " I know how it's done. Moses was NOT a slave. The people had to work."

No. I have no clue.

While she is bathing I run into the downstairs bathroom in a panic.

"Let me guess," she states. "You have to pee like a racehorse?"

I have a doctors appointment. Iris/Virus asks me twice, "who has the apportionment?" It suddenly dawns on her I have an appointment. She is stunned into silence primarily because I never have an appointment. I don't have time. Why I can't even remember my last pap smear. Was it this decade?

I go see my Thursday morning clients and then to the doctor.

He schedules surgery on my foot on November 22nd. I say happy Thanksgiving to me as this is the perfect excuse to eat more pie and stuffing which will aid in my recuperation. The foot is pretty terrible so I already knew I'd probably end up sliced and diced if I actually sought medical attention. What I didn't know is that it is also broken with a nice piece of bone poking around in there. Doesn't it hurt?

Yes.

Does it slow me down? No.

Fortunately, I have the pain tolerance of a yeti which all family members have except The Genius and The Teenager who I suspect may be the more normal members of the Yeti clan.

The Family

I get The Baby off the bus and the driver tells me I need to wash her hair because she is itching. I am highly offend and use all the self control I can muster not to smack this idiot into the gutter. The Baby has some pretty serious hormonal issues from the extensive neurological damage she sustained after being squeezed out of the birth canal on a hallway floor and then left for dead. This includes facial and scalp acne and some pretty potent adult sized body odor. Do I really need to explain this to the bus driver?

I make a mental note to speak with The Baby's teacher as now, in my paranoia, I am thinking they are discussing our personal hygiene behind my back.

I then go to Elizabeth's blog and read the note from her daughters teacher.

"please try to send Sophie in with a proper coat since it's freezing out and we want to take her for a walk."

I like the comment from Birdie regarding the coat:

Do these teachers not take courses in communication?

"Please try to send Sophie in with a proper coat since it's freezing out and we want to take her for a walk."

How about,

"We are really looking forward to taking Sophie for a walk. It is getting cold and the leaves are beautiful! Sophie looked so warm and cozy today but could you send her coat along tomorrow just in case the temperature drops?"

If only sweet Birdie were our children's teacher! Because it doesn't end there.

I call a friend to discuss my hair humiliation and she informs me she had just received a nasty call from the school demanding she cut her autistic child's nails. One nail takes approximately an hour and creates a tremendous meltdown.

She suggests the teacher cut the nails herself.

And yet a third friend who just returned from a meeting with the middle school principal after a teacher told her daughter in front of the entire classroom, "Yes, you may go to the bathroom as I talked to your mother and she told me you have already wet yourself twice."

Bad enough to be humiliated in front of the peers when you are 13 but also lied to? The teacher never spoke with her mom.

Welcome to public schools where many of the employees received their sensitivity training from culturally corrosive comedy acts like Carlin and the school bus drivers moonlight as Endocrinologists.

Then the face plant occurs. The Teenager pushes The Baby's wheel chair in to the living room but The Baby slams on the brakes. The Teenager shoves and The Baby tips forward and lands face down, buckled in, on the ceramic tile, with the wheel chair on top of her. The Baby, who never cries, is hysterical clutching her head. I become hysterical. The Teenager becomes hysterical.

We are all hysterical.

And the weather is beautiful and all the windows are open. I expect the police to arrive at any moment.

I drop The Teenager off at the nail place where Iris/Virus is having her nails done and The Teenager walks in to the nail place and melts down as only The Teenager can do. Two black woman are glaring at me. The entire nail salon is upset, thinking I am an abusive white foster mother who has terrified this poor black child. Iris/Virus calms The Teenager down and the Vietnamese employees throw her in a massage chair which lulls her into compliance. I expect the police to arrive at any moment.

I rush Face Plant to the ER where she checks out fine and we are sent home in record time. The ER doctor hands me her phone as we are leaving informing me our pediatrician wants to speak with me. The pediatrician informs me I am not to go to the ER without calling her first unless it is life or death because of Medipass.

WT?

I tell the pediatrician I've dealt with Medipass for 18 years with dozens of foster kids and have never been questioned once since it is not an HMO.

As usual, I get no where. I expect the Medipass police to arrive at any moment.

I pick up The Boy from Mrs. M's who simply picked him up from school without any explanation on my part other than my hysterical slobbering and screeching over the phone. I then drive to retrieve the Teenager from Iris. The Teenager begins to melt down again while walking to the car.

Mental note: Make appointment with the neurologist regarding the outbursts which have become worse with the onset of Epilepsy.

We make it home. I arrive to discover that my adult neighbor across the street has confiscated The Boy's go-kart from my garage and is allowing every kid in the neighborhood to speed up and down the busy street between cars. Without helmets or parental permission.

Law suit anyone?

I march over to the neighbor and informs him it is now HIS go-kart as I will not be sued when someone cracks their head open or worse.

Bye Bye Go-Kart

This morning Mama Mia Maria and I were going to hang out, have lunch and go fabric shopping. By ourselves. I've been looking forward to this for two weeks.

Instead I had to keep The Baby home from school since she was awake, blabbering total nonsense and singing from 1 am to 5 am non-stop. Concussion anyone?

Nonsensical blabbering is fairly common in our home but generally it's origin is me. And a darned good thing I kept her home to observe her closely as The Baby had explosive diarrhea down to her ankles and up to her neck requiring a change of clothing before I could walk out of the front door to pick up Mama Mia Maria.

Twice.

In my paranoid state I am certain the school would blame the diarrhea on me as well.

Hours later I still can't get the smell of poo out of my nose.

Elizabeth...my comrade...this is how we do it.

Osama. Obama. Fi. Fi. Fo. Mama.

Yesterday we were officially approved for Social Security disability!

Today we were officially approved for Social Security disability!

Yes. We are still the recipients of duplicate mailings. Ironically, not the recipients of duplicate checks.

No more R-o-s-e that spells G-r-a-c-e because they actually got the middle name correct!

No more Osama or Obama because they actually got the last name correct!

One teesny issue...

They spelled her first name incorrectly and in doing so her Medicaid was also changed to the incorrect first name.

Ever dealt with Medicaid? If not, let's just say that it is easier to elicit the current weather forecast from a local zoos lemur population than to find intelligent and efficient life forms in your local Medicaid office.

I need to rest up for this next battle. Perhaps a cruise first?

Anyone care to join me?