Week Eight....

We took the dog to the vet this week. Turns out she needs to lose about 30% of her bodyweight.  Her arthritis is getting bad and any weight we can get off her would be advantageous. Apparently, her Royal Canin is ultra packed with calories, so we've cut back to about half of the norm, and substituting her meds wrapped in pill pockets instead of cookies for treats. We learn how to give her injectable meds tomorrow.  Good times, really.

My recovery is going slow. All told, I had about 1/3 of my colon and some other bits removed, but I am recuperating as expected. The doctor said that on a 1-5 scale, one being what they normally see/do, and five being all heck breaking lose, I was a four. My body, now having an entirely different road map on the insides, just feels weird.  My appetite is blah, and my system is still quirky, trying to determine the rate in which it should be processing what little I am eating. I'm down over ten pounds in eight days. 

Emotionally, however, things have been horrendous.  Youngest, also recouping and struggling with his life's choices, constantly texted me about how bad it was at home, how unhappy he was, and how it was all my fault, being a terrible person and all. He ended up coming to see me for 3 hours, I talked him down as usual, he left levelheaded, and ended up heading to a friend's house, returning home and sleeping in his car in the driveway. I was discharged two days early, explaining to the doctor that it was far more stressful being away from home than at home, and that I'd follow the protocol. That was Friday.

Saturday night at 2:30 am, Youngest called that he had broken down.  He called AAA, and I headed down to get him as he was only about 20 minutes away. His car has been in the shop since, and at 5:30 Friday evening we were informed that it would need to go to the dealer to be fixed. So, all week I have towed him around, appointment to appointment, running errands, putting out fires, talking him off the ledge.  While I am happy to do this, it's exhausting.

Gut wrenchingly, mind numbingly, exhausting.

I love that he's finally down to only socially smoking pot 3 times a week, and that he left all of those "friends" behind. He rid himself of his social media accounts so he could start over. He's working hard to find a new path, self-teaching what he needs to pass the first of many certifications he needs for personal training, and well as getting CPR/AED certified. 

But he's depressed.  He's always five seconds away from a full-on panic attack. Today I found him trying to book tickets to anywhere because someone he has never met got pulled over and arrested for their own stupidity, and someone else texted him that his name was being thrown around in connection to it. So somehow, he was involved with a guy he's never met, who's in trouble for something Youngest's never been involved with, at a time when he was at home sleeping because he has no car, which could all be verified with cameras if necessary. It took over an hour to get him calmed down enough to think clearly and stop pacing the kitchen.

And this pacing, this irrational spiraling down the rabbit hole, happens every day. Every. Stinking. Day.

I heard the term Forever Mother the other day, and while it was in regard to children with special needs, I thought the term fit the dance Youngest and I do quite well. He has the ability to be independent, to live on his own, but mentally he just can't. It's like he's stuck behind this giant wall and without my help and guidance to go around or over it, he'll just bang his head against it.  As if he already knows how to get past the obstacle, but gets so overwhelmed once he's faced with it, he just shuts down, regardless of how capable he is of dealing with it independently, he just can't seem do anything until he's coached from the sideline. 

I spent an hour tonight talking him though his plans. Explaining that, while he has trauma from his childhood, it's time to move forward and stop destroying the few people who are still supporting him.  Reminding him that while he may feel his life has been terrible, it has not. That starting over takes time.  That he won't be alone forever.  That someone will love him for him. That it's okay to trust people. That loyalty is a good thing.  That while you may not be proud of your choices or ethics, you can always change the rules in which you live by so you can be proud.

That there is tremendous merit in falling down and getting back up.

The circle of conversation was endless, and had I not needed another dose of meds, I'd likely still be down there, forever mothering.

Until next week my friends....

Week Seven....

 He kisses me softly before leaving to walk the dog. 

You're going to be fine. I've been praying to my mother.

Yeah? But you don't believe in any of that stuff.

No.  But I believe in my mother.

Since week seven is hugely taken up buy my surgery, I have scheduled this to post shortly after I go in.  I am as prepared as I can be, work was overly organized and ready for my two-month absence since Saturday. I've updated the will, added beneficiaries to the necessary bank accounts, and ordered a pre-need cremation certificate as well as the footer at the gravesite I purchased a year and a half ago. I prefer to think of it as prepared versus morbid. I have, if nothing else, always taken care of everything, for everybody. 

I'm not sure why I'm so nervous about this surgery.  While big, it should go as planned.  My surgeon is excellent and has done countless ones over the last 20 some odd years. Maybe it's the unrest at home, the stress of Youngest's turmoil, or being away for four days. But there's no going back now, right?  A necessary evil of getting older, you can't just let things go forever. My condition is triggered by stress, so I have had a few touch and go days, one of which was excruciating.

But life goes on, and the dog still needs to be walked. So regardless of how slow I was moving, the dog and I meandered around the pond, a blessing for her I suppose as her arthritis is sneaking up on all of us. I took several deep breaths, soaking in the nature around me, the silence, trying to feel some semblance of comfort with everything going on. As she sniffed what had to be her hundredth pile of leaves, I looked down and saw something weird.  

What kind of rabbit poops in perfect circles?

Upon closer inspection, it was not in fact rabbit poop, but a long-forgotten bracelet, most likely from the summer. 

A sign, maybe? A fortuitous find in my moment of emptiness, maybe. Just a cast off of carelessness? Who knows. 

How long have you been praying to your mother that I'll be okay?

The past three days.

Maybe Mae made sure I found this to give me comfort. Maybe I have angels watching me.  Maybe I'm just in good hands. Maybe the plan is still unfolding, and it is bigger than I can imagine right now.

Maybe I'll just count down from ten, fall deep into the anesthesia, and let it be what it will be. 

Week Six...

 Saturday was the coldest day in 137 years here. Wind chill values were -23 ish. I was, of course, out delivering mail, in a truck that had no heat. The Hubs texted me to see if I needed anything, to which I replied hand warmers, since the truck 's heat was broken again.  I took the time to text management as well, noting that when it got bad, I would switch to package delivery and come back. 

Then my phone died from the cold.

Hubs, God love him, drove around for well over half hour to give me the hand warmers.  You'd think it would be easy finding a loud white truck with flashing lights, but no. And thankfully, by the time he found me, my heat had kicked on. Once back at the office, I reported that it was so cold that while opening a mailbox, the weld actually came off clean from the front of the box, leaving the handle in my semi frozen hand. If they called to complain about it, I didn't care.

Once home and did my taxes and the hits kept coming. The combined stupidity of BOTH the Trump and Biden regimes has resulted in NONE of the middle-income tax breaks being reinstated and we owe again this year. It seems that claiming withholdings of the actual filing status, PLUS an extra ten bucks a week is not actually enough. *sigh* So yeah, I changed our withholdings again, and have saved the actual filing of the taxes until I can figure out where the cash is coming from. 

Monday, I went to the big city to see Oldest for lunch. It was a beautiful day, despite having to pay $23 for parking, but I didn't lose the car in the massive garage so that's a plus.  It was also convenient because Youngest had his consult with the surgeon in the morning, so I was already halfway there. 

There was a cancellation in the surgeon's schedule so Tuesday brought us right back in at 8 am for the reconstruction of Youngest's right index finger. His detox from pot left him with an enormously different reaction to waking up from anesthesia than the last time. He's had several panic attacks and is managing the best he can on Advil and Tylenol.  He got himself properly toasted before bed which he felt would be a better option than the oxycodone they prescribed. A decision I was in agreement with. It will be tough, learning how to do everything with one hand, left-handed.  To add insult to injury, the new electric long board he ordered back in December finally arrived an hour after we got home.  Poor kid can't even outfit it himself with the special accessories without help. *sigh* Baby steps... Wednesday we were back in for his permanent splint, he's still in a ton of pain, but found things to do all day. He did some grocery shopping, and then headed to the big city for what I think was a date, he was kind of vague. Thursday morning, he was supposed to start PT to get the tendons moving, except the woman was out sick.  Knowing that the surgeon was VERY specific about him getting seen before Friday I franticly made back up appointments to ensure that he would be seen. It was crazy, difficult, and Youngest was less than happy about all of the switching.  Thankfully a hand therapist came in on her day off just to do his evaluation, he was seen, and he can move forward with his original PT program. His physical rehab and his mental rehab and not going so well, so I think he's going to step back from his therapy sessions until he's at least out of extreme pain and the stitches are out. It's not ideal, but clearly something has to give.

My surgery is Wednesday. I am struggling mentally and physically.  While I know I will be fine the stress of everything is all closing in. 

*sigh* 

It's weeks like this I wish I had a crystal ball.

Week Five (2.0)

 I had a home on my route with two dogs that loved to be outside.  The lab loved to bark.  The Golden loved to bark through her muzzle. They'd get all excited when I came close to the house, I'd talk some baby hooman talk to them, cautiously leave the package a safe distance away from the door and return to the route. I delivered the Lab's ashes the day they came to the house. After that the Golden would still bark and be crazy through the gate, but the muzzle was gone.

People don't usually muzzle their dogs unless there's an issue for safety.  One day not long after, I caught the owner out mowing the lawn and asked if she was muzzled because she and the other dog used to fight. He laughed and said, "No, she's muzzled when we're not out because she's eating rocks.  She had to have a thousand-dollar surgery to remove them from her stomach."

I decided to archive my last post. I shared this story instead to remind us all that no matter how it looks on the outside, there's still room for misinterpretation. From the outside, written only from my prospective in a raw, unfiltered media, I can see why my post stirred concern.  I assure you all that I am not blind to who my son is, or what could happen. I am watching carefully. His drug of choice is not alcohol, it is pot, which typically doesn't provoke violence.  In his endeavors to get healthy he has cut way back on both his nicotine and marijuana vices. He also has come back to eating healthy and gluten free. I mention this because he has a neurological condition in which the gluten leaches into his brain and acts as a dopamine.  When it is removed (typically for three weeks after) the brain misfires like crazy until the pathways reestablish. Since he's removed the gluten obstruction as well as the pot haze, while his logical frontal lobe is functioning better, his rear lobe that controls impulse its firing off like a jack rabbit running from a wolf.

In addition, he is still going through therapy several times a week, similar to his own specialized outpatient treatment. He can, if he chooses, get access to the correct medications through her. As the band aids are ripped off, he internalizes things, picks away at the wounds, and is struggling to heal. He's going on his own to these appointments, despite them not being convenient.  He's reached out to his mentor despite his frustration and angst. He is still not associating with people that should not be in his life. And he has not, thus far, fallen back into old habits. Change is hard, and he is still struggling to face it.  I believe he wants to feel better, his brain is just a mess of impulse and logic. And, at only twenty years old, it's a lot to manage.

On the other note, the Hubs and I have talked, loudly, and logically, and his target date is November first.  After speaking with the retirement advisor, I do feel a tiny bit more comfortable with his decision. We are going to sit down and see where we can save money on his bills, as he carries many of the variable expenses like food, dog care, car insurance, etc. Provided we have accounted for the yearly costs of some bigger bills being tucked safely in the bank, we should be okay. We're giving up the vacation this year, which I am fine with, and are looking into banking some of his vacation time to be paid out as an after-retirement bonus check.

So, I'm going to give it some time to work itself out focusing on the next 13 days before my surgery. I cannot control everything, nor do I want to. Until then, I'm going to go get myself a cookie, and I'll see y'all in week six.