Defeating Goliath...with Crackers?

I'm tired. Normally I'd laugh it off and say, "well duh! Being such a hottie is exhausting!", but it's not funny anymore. A two hour trip to the grocery store can leave me drained, empty, like my gas tank after my son takes my van out joyriding with me screaming in the passenger seat.

I think that is part of the exhaustion - parenting two teenagers, one of whom is on the edge of adulthood and the other who is in the whiny, emotional stage of adolescence. They eat....a lot. A bag of Doritos has no hope of surviving longer than two hours after I buy them. I have to hide things I want to eat or they will devour them like hyenas devouring a zebra carcass on the Serengeti. Sometimes I even swear I hear them growl if I get too close to them while they are gorging on a box of Chicken in a Biskit crackers. I envy them a bit. If I tried to eat Chicken in a Biskit crackers, which have enough salt in them to make the Dead Sea feel jealous, my ankles would swell up until they poured over the top of my socks like twin rogue blobs trying to slink off under my feet.

The fatigue has been a constant companion for years now. I awake with it each morning, it rides on my back all day, settling in behind my eyes by late morning, slowly sliding down through the rest of my body as the day progresses. By the time it's time to make dinner, my arms feel like they are encased in concrete, my head like a bowling ball lolling around atop my toothpick neck. I try to fix easy meals, things that I can toss in the crock-pot in the morning or things I can throw on the George Foreman grill and serve after 4 minutes. Or I'll make a lasagna or a casserole that I can serve up as leftovers for another meal for the kids and for lunches for me throughout the week. But lately, just making tacos seems like trying to run a marathon with a bag of bricks strapped to my back.  My kids love tacos in a bag. I buy the single-serving sized bags of Doritos and shovel the seasoned meat in the bags on top of the chips, toss in some cheese, sour cream, hot sauce, and rice, and dinner is done. I don't eat with my kids anymore. I'm too tired by the time I serve them their plates to actually eat. Instead, I listen to them go over their school day, their homework, their social encounters as I wash the pots and pans, put away the leftovers, and wipe down the counters. By the time they hand me their empty plates, I have just enough energy left to rinse them off and put them in the dishwasher before I roll down the hallway and drag my exhausted carcass into my bed, still in my clothes from the day, too tired to put on my pajamas. I often doze off, face down across my bed, legs dangling off the edge, too tired to pull my legs onto the bed and turn myself so I am laying properly with my head on my pillow. When my eyelids flutter open, several hours have passed, and I have to take my medications, give my son his, and get into my pajamas. Every movement is like moving through syrup.

The fatigue is accompanied by a pernicious little fellow called "fear". With the elections coming up next week, it's frightening to think what could happen if one party gains total control over the whole shebang. Every day, I read stories like that told in the link below, where governors pandering to their wealthy benefactors steal services from the most vulnerable people they serve in order to give massive tax cuts to their elitist buddies. And it's happening across the nation, in states, in cities, in Washington. It's hard not to feel a sense of defeat, and harder still to quell the roiling shadow of doom that hovers over my head. 

http://thinkprogress.org/election/2014/10/27/3584600/kansas-governor-tax-cuts-disabled/

Do any of us really stand a chance when we are facing Goliath? Are we strong enough to step into David's shoes and fight back? I fear we are not, but if I am going to have to go fight Goliath, I'm going to need a nap first, and a big box of Chickin in a Biskit to nibble on the way - maybe my swollen ankles would be enough to scare the monster to death. 

Sharknados and Zombie Apocalypses 

I'm not sure why the world has become obsessed with zombies. I'm far more concerned that I'll never find Heath Bar Crunch ice cream again. Zombies are just brain-eating dead people. I don't see what's so scary about that, other than the fact that there are a large number of people who are severely short of brains out there, which increases the risk for those of us with full-sized brains. The best way to get rid of a zombie is to carry a flamethrower, and I'm lucky that I travel with a set of wheels and a backpack everywhere I go - I can roll away while burning those flesh-deficient brain-suckers.

Sharknados are no big deal. You just go to the ladies room on the first floor of a 30-story building. No windows, and the extra protection of a steel cage around you.

So now you know. You're welcome!

But what is even more terrifying than a zombie apocalypse or a sharknado? Yes, planting a vegetable garden without owning even a postage stamp-sized plot of dirt. Burning down your apartment or hiding in the bathroom will not solve this issue. Instead, you only have to read the following instructions and you will be eating fresh vegetables in no time (well, that's not true - you'll have to wait about six weeks).

Here is a step-by-step guide for growing a vegetable garden in containers right on your patio or balcony.

What you'll need:

Enough 30 gallon rubber containers for the vegetables you want to plant
A drill
6 8-foot 1x2 wood planks, cut in half
High-quality organic potting soil
Bamboo garden stakes
Garden tape
Watering can filled with water

Step 1

Turn the rubber containers upside down and drill 12 to 15 holes in the bottom of each

Step 2

Line 2 of the 1x2 boards parallel to one another and set the first container lengthwise on them.

Step 3

Fill the container nearly to the top with soil

Step 4

Plant one type of vegetables in each container

Step 5

Place bamboo stakes beside each plant (for climbing or large plants only) and use garden tape to secure the plants to the stakes.

Step 6

Water thoroughly, and then just water regularly and watch your vegetables grow!


Having fresh vegetables readily available will give you the freedom to eat healthy, delicious foods, and now you know it's as easy as 1..2..3!

Baskets and Buggies

Grocery shopping. No two words elicit more dread than those. Normally, I take my daughter with me to go grocery shopping, but after a trip to physical therapy resulted in an aggravated nerve that sent a searing pain through my eye that lasted for over a week, I didn't feel up to going until after she had gone to her dad's for his custodial week.

The result of this laziness was an empty pantry and a refrigerator that held only the desiccated remains of a couple of plums and a nearly empty bottle of ketchup, I knew I had no choice but to don my gladiator suit and fire up my steed, errr, van for the drive into town.

After circling the parking lot six times, a spotted a woman preparing to vacate one of the coveted van-accessible parking spaces - and the ramp access was on the correct side. I raced to that aisle, stared down a woman who may have been Holly Hobby - her car was a patchwork of different colored doors and bumpers, and attempted to leap over a tall building in a single bound. Thankfully, I remembered that I had forgotten to stitch a large letter 'S' to my shirt, which meant my powers were impotent, and instead I chose to activate my turn signal  to notify all those who might have been thinking of taking that space that, if they did, they would face a swift and justified early death. As soon as the woman who had been keeping the space warm for me backed out, I slipped into the space, said a Hail Mary, blew a kiss to the grocery fairies, and headed into battle.

Grocery shopping alone must be done in carefully orchestrated steps. They go as follows:

1)  Take a red hand basket by the doors leading into the store and place it on my lap.
2)   Stop at coupon counter to get weekly ads and chat with random strangers about random things and get invited for coffee and quilting with a wonderful woman whose name I never got. I also don't drink coffee or quilt, but it was so sweet to be invited.
3)   Head to produce section.
4)   Find someone to help me acquire 10 produce bags, which are on rollers set too high for me to reach. Once I have obtained the bags, I move to step 5.
5)    Fill produce bags with produce, chat with the store employees and other shoppers while shucking corn- on-the-cob at the shucking station.
6)    Move on to condiment aisle. Now, I have enough condiments in the pantry to last my little family through a zombie apocalypse, an alien takeover, and an ape incursion, but I must go through this aisle to get to the front of the store for step 7.
7)    Ask someone at checkout to set a buggy at the front of the store for me and label it so no one takes it or moves it or uses it to play out scenes from any number of teen romantic comedies where a boy runs through a store pushing a laughing girl in a buggy. I empty my handbasket into it and head back into battle.
8)    Soup aisle. One must always have two cans of chicken noodle soup on hand for emergencies, like stomach bugs, broken hearts, and chicken noodle soup cravings.
9)     International Foods aisle. Taco Bell and Ortega feel their taco kits are, apparently, international foods. I only need the seasoning, some refried beans (a.k.a. international vomit in a jar), and enchilada sauce (I buy the real stuff, which means, naturally, that it was imported from China).
10)    Cracker aisle. I'm no longer going to eat crackers, even though that is the go-to food for when I take my medications. I'm going to keep plums on hand for that purpose instead. But I procured the plums during step 4. For some reason, my grocery store doesn't keep multi-packs of individual-sized bags of chips in the chip aisle. They keep them in the cracker aisle. So I acquire the individual-sized multi-pack of Doritos I want for tacos-in-a-bag, which my kids love, though I find the entire concept to be too foreign to even consider eating (which is, I suppose, a bit ironic). Then I get a box of Triscuits.

 They only have 3 ingredients in them. Seriously, and I can pronounce all 3 ingredients.

So Triscuits make the cut and go in the basket. On to the next aisle.
11) I go to the next two aisles and then head back up to the front to empty the handbasket into the buggy, and then head back for more.
12) It takes 8 trips to complete my grocery list. I empty the last basketful of food into the buggy and wipe the sweat from my brow. Shopping is thirsty work.
13)  I ask a girl overseeing the self-checkout lanes to help me get my full buggy behind the checkout lanes so I can get in line to pay like everyone else. She does.
14)  I pay and the clerk asks if I would like some help bagging my groceries and getting them to my car. Why yes, that would be lovely, thank you.
15)  A young, kind man comes to help me bag my groceries. I quickly determined he had never bagged groceries in his life. Chicken was thrown in with strawberries, ice cream with boxed cereal, milk with soup cans. But he pushed that heavy beast of a buggy out to my van and proceeded to help me load every bag into the back seat before wishing me a great evening. I tipped him a few dollars, and bid him farewell.

Now, you might think that I would be relieved that my grocery shopping was done. But you would be wrong.

Unloading and putting away is, by far, the hardest part of grocery shopping.

But perhaps I'll save that part for a future instructional video. I'm sure my readers will find it very amusing when I roll over the bananas while maneuvering to put the cheese in the fridge, and then fall out of my chair when I try to cram the ice cream into the very stuffed freezer, ice cream adorning the top of my head like a crown of caramel glory. On second thought, maybe I'll just keep the video camera tucked safely away. Far, far away.

Chronic illness, and it's evil stepsister, chronic pain, take a toll on the body, yes, but they also take a tremendous toll on the mind. This is something only those who struggle with chronic pain can understand. As a result, relationships can suffer. I find myself getting angry with the fact that my life is so stymied, a life that was, not very long ago, still stuffed full with activities and work and joy and fulfillment. Now, the view I enjoy ninety per cent of the time is this: 

The other ten per cent of my life is spent in doctors' offices or in physical therapy. My feet are so puffy they don't fit into my shoes unless I pull out the laces. I take medication to control the edema (fluid retention), but that drives my blood pressure down, requiring more trips to the doctor to monitor it. I take medication for the pain, but that is addictive, and dangerous, so I only take it on the worst days, and only at bedtime. The rest of the time, I use techniques for pain management that I learned at the venerable Mayo Clinic, techniques that don't do a thing to actually get rid of the pain, but just help me channel my thoughts into things other than the pain. 

My nightstand is a mini pharmacy: 

And these are just the ones that don't fit in the drawer. 

So when I hear people are saying I seem angry. Bitter. Combative. 

They're right. 

I AM angry. I AM bitter. I AM combative. I don't want to listen to people telling me how I SHOULD be. I don't want to listen to people telling me I can't be envious when others' lives are so full of fun and interesting places and stimulating jobs and time spent doing things with their kids and their friends. I CAN be envious!! Does that mean I'm not happy for them? Of course not. I can be envious of their abilities and happy for their joys. If the only obstacle I faced was not being able to walk, hell I'd be out there rolling circles around everyone else. That's how I always was. "Never sit still or moss will grow on your buns. Never stop working or moss will grow on your brain". That was my motto. I have to say that I am glad I can't see my buns at the moment - as I'm sure they are covered in 31 months' worth of moss. There might even be lichen back there. I don't want to know. I do know that my brain has turned to mush. Use it or lose it, isn't that the expression? Using a brain requires a means to an end. A job. A project. A purpose. Now I feel like I've accomplished a lot if I manage to get out of my pajamas by noon. Most days I fail. 

Having friends who understand what I am going through because they are also going through it is important. I have them, they are precious to me. Those who don't suffer from illness or pain, I have those too. They are also precious. But of the second group, some stay the long haul, some can't understand and leave, and some I push away because they become demanding. When you live in constant pain, when every movement is crushed glass under your skin, searing stabs of molten agony, you can't abide by the demands of others. Your body's demands are the only ones you can answer. Sleep!!! Lay flat on the floor!!! Take deep breaths until it passes!!! Lay perfectly still until 9:00!!! (9:00 is the time I take my night meds). You can't hear anything else above the din of constant commands being barked by the pain center of your brain. 

I always feel a different kind of pain when a friend leaves, because of me or because of them, the pain is the same. It's a squeezing in my chest, a pricking behind my eyes, hot tears spilling over my lids, rolling down my cheeks, the draining of grief from my soul. 

Making room for the joy I know will someday rush back in. 

Someday. 

Wiping....Oh, Never Mind

I love to drive. Spoiler alert: I'm going to whine a little bit. My previous van was a Honda Odyssey. It had a ghostly check engine light that never went out, even after I spent thousands of dollars trying to figure out why it was on. But other than that, it was a great van. It was aerodynamic, had a moonroof, and cradled my buns in heated luxury all winter long. 

Ghostly check engine light

But that van has passed on to the big van cemetery in the sky after a very unfortunate Christmas Eve smashup that wasn't nearly as fun as the musical variety. I'm hopeful her organs were donated to assist other vans that were struggling with various ailments. I would feel better knowing Berta was living on and helping others. 

The remains of Berta. May she rest in peace.

My new van, a 2009 Chrysler Town and Country, doesn't have a moonroof.This should not be a major issue, but it is. Instead of smelling the first fresh breezes of Spring flowing through the van, I get a faceful of gravel spit up through my lowered driver's window by the duelly pickup racing by on its way, apparently, to hunt beavers from atop a child's swingset, as made evident by the rack of guns in the rear window and the entire tree sliced up in the bed with a rusty swingset holding the wood down. 

My Odyssey was properly set up for a person driving with hand controls. This is something that auto manufacturers don't spend much time considering, since disabled drivers are a tiny fraction of a fraction of their customers, but it matters to me - a lot. 

When I realized my sweet Berta was dead, I realized, too, that I would never be able to get another Odyssey. And I was right. The insurance property settlement gave me a pittance that could only get me into a lesser vehicle ("our job, as an insurer, is to put you back in the same condition you were in one second before the accident" said the insurance adjuster. "Oh yeah?" I replied, "well, in that case, one second before the accident I was driving a fully loaded Honda Odyssey with heated leather seats and a moonroof". He grew very quiet). 

So here I am with my Chrysler Town and Country with 150,000 miles on it, which was all I could afford given the amount the insurer was willing to pay for it. I had my dear friend, Mary, test drive it for me. She test drove two vans for me on a day so frigidly cold our snotcicles could have won awards. But she was there, despite the cold, to help me at a difficult time. Friends like Mary are rare, priceless, and precious, and should be treated as such. I cannot wait for the day when I can give back for all the wonderful help she provided for me. I know someday she will need my help, and I will be there, front and center, no questions asked. Mary helped me into each van, and then climbed into the driver's seat and gave me honest feedback on both. But the one thing I didn't think to ask (because I haven't had enough vehicles since being in a chair to ever have had this problem) was, "what side are the lights and wiper controls on?". I now know that this is a very important question to ask. 

                                                  Hand control lever

The picture above shows my hand control. To drive, I must constantly pull this lever downward. To stop, I must push it forward. I cannot take my left hand off the hand control when the vehicle is in motion (unless cruise control is activated). 

                                            arm with windshield wipers -front and rear

The picture above shows how far the wiper controls are from the hand control (the black bar behind the cruise control bar to the forefront). To activate the wiper blades, I have to let go of the hand control. What happens when I release the hand control? The same thing that happens when you take your foot off the gas pedal - rapid deceleration, which is very bad on a highway, byway, tollway, sidewalk, bike trail, turnpike, county road, trunk highway, gravel road, or even the driveway. If it starts to rain, I have to pull over, stop, turn on my wipers and rear wipers, and then continue on my way. 

                                                  Knob to control lights

That knob back there is the headlights. Look how far they are from the hand controls. 

Now, if I wanted to take up a job as the getaway car for bank robbers, then I wouldn't worry so much about not being able to turn on headlights when it gets dark. I tried the opposite - just leaving them on all the time, but that didn't work out very well. It seems that when you leave your lights on all the time, your van doesn't run at all. Seems a little silly. But I acquiesced and went back to turning my lights off when I wasn't in the van, and turning them on as soon as I turned the van on - that way if it gets dark, my lights are already on. It's a simple compromise but that button still taunts me...it says to me in a gritty whisper, "look at meeeee, don't you just want to reach out and turn me onnnnn?". And the very disturbing answer is, yes! I do, I do, I really really do!! 

My Chrysler has DVD players in the ceiling (that I'm sure we will never, ever use), a bluetooth feature I can't figure out how to use, a back up camera that has such glare I feel like I'm going into the light every time I back up the van. "Stay awaaaay from the light!!! Don't go into it, don't even LOOK at it!!" (sorry, I got distracted by memories of my favorite scary movie, Poltergeist, but I digress). It has buttons out the wazoo. I can't change the radio station by just turning a knob - I have to use arrow keys and push them repeatedly until it finally lands on the station I want. The previous owners pre-set every country station between Minnesota and Arizona. One of these days, when I have the Chrysler back in the driveway, I'll have to spend a weekend trying to figure out how to change the pre-selects on the radio. I only need two: MPR 88.9FM and KOOL98. Yes, I am an old fart. I sit with an afghan and a cat on my lap all day, what did you expect?

For the time being, I'm driving a Dodge Grand Caravan. It's fully modified with a ramp and a fancy swivel base on the driver's seat so I can spin in circles and, if I ever have some left over pea soup, I can play "Exorcist" and turn in circles while sitting in the parking lot at Walgreens. The reason I'm driving this Dodge is that my Chrysler is being modified the same way. I hope to get it back in the next week or so. It needs an oil change and a wash and I lose sleep over these things. Plus I really want to give that "Exorcist" plan a try. That would be a fun way to spend a Tuesday afternoon. 

Next week, I'll post a video of how the van modification works. It's nifty! 

In the meantime, I appeal to Chrysler and Dodge to change the position of the wiper bar and the lights and to put the cruise on the steering wheel. For now, I'll do some of my own modifications using some yarn, a few paper clips, some gorilla glue, a little duct tape, two magnets, a jar of rubber cement (not because I need it for the project, but because it smells so good!) and nine eye bolts. 

So if you see me out during a rainstorm driving without lights or wipers, I will claim to be a ghost rider and drive away really fast. You won't even know what just happened. I'm sneaky like that. 

Putting on the Ritz

Being a mom with disabilities isn't much different than being a mom without disabilities. My kids argue, talk back, and complain about doing their chores. I have to be their taxi for school, voice lessons, outings with friends, and to cart them back and forth to their dad's house to get things they've forgotten. I have to plan for and prepare meals, take care of them when they are sick, comfort them when they are sad, and advise them on everything from love and dating to how to handle a fight with a friend. I wash their clothes and pick up wet towels, keep the bathroom stocked with their favorite toiletries and bring them warm towels on freezing winter mornings. I serve as their alarm clock and help them with homework. I attend conferences and arrange meetings with teachers. I keep up with therapy appointments (for my son, who has an autism spectrum disorder) and make sure he takes his medicine. I am the maid and the mentor. The nurse and the warden. The dictator and the joker. We laugh loud and hard and often. We watch movies together, tease the cat, enjoy a meal out once a month, and share quiet moments of reflection and conversation. Life is hectic and crazy and frenetic and usually messy. There is never enough food in the pantry or toilet paper in the bathroom. There is always more laundry to be done. The garage is often stacked high with garbage that I won't make the kids take out in subzero weather. Every time I open my garage door, I worry my neighbors must think I'm a hoarder. I have a son preparing to take his driver's test and a daughter preparing to go to prep school. Even on the weeks when they are with their dad, my days are filled with mom things that must be done. And I wouldn't change it, not for anything.

My daughter was just accepted to a prestigious college preparatory school we are lucky to have near our home. She can go on the school bus each day and be home for dinner every night, but get a world-class education that will open doors for her that a public school education may not. I worry about her emotional maturity. Is she mature enough to handle the intense academic pressure she will face at this new school? Is she strong enough to leave behind her friends at her current school? Will she make friends easily at her new school? How am I going to pay for this?

Living on disability is not easy. It requires tight budgets, eliminating frills, and, sometimes, eating Ramen noodles for dinner five nights in a row at the end of the month. To add a $15,000 bill to that is mind-numbing in its impossibility. I am always optimistic that I will find a way. No matter the situation, I always find myself saying, "it will be okay. I will figure this out".

And I will. Because a kid shouldn't have to have rich parents to have access to a top-notch education. We don't live at the Ritz, but we are going to be putting on like we do, because my daughter wants this, and I want this for her. So, no matter what sacrifices must be made, no matter how hard I have to work, her funny, sassy, sweet, strong-willed, smart little butt is going to be sitting at a desk at the school she wants to attend next fall.

And I won't rest until it happens.