I’m typing this out as I wait for S.O. to finish getting ready. We’re supposed to be at my dad’s around 7pm for a New Year’s Eve party. It’s now 7pm and he’s just now in the shower… but you know what? I’m not going to get irritated. This is going to be a lovely evening. Julien will take S.O. and I to my dad’s and he’ll pick us up when we are ready to go home. Thankfully my dad lives about 5 minutes away and the trip is all residential streets and whatnot.

So far it’s been a great New Year’s Eve. S.O. and I had a lovely afternoon… alone and if that isn’t the best way to send out a completely shit-tastic year, then I don’t know what is.

Tomorrow is Rowan’s 6th birthday and Monday we go back to our homeschool routine. I’m not looking forward to it and I know she isn’t either. Rowan and I have sort of resigned ourselves to the fact that we will never be Mrs. Susie Homeschooler and her daughter Jane Homeschooler. It just isn’t going to happen. We’ll get through, she’ll progress, she might even excel… but we aren’t going to be The Duggars or anything homeschool-wise close to that.

I turn 34 next month. Thirty-four.

I’m in my mid-thirties. I’m overweight. I have high blood pressure and so-so cholesterol. Things need to change because this ——> !!! <———- is not the way I want to live my life.

But, that’s a lot of pretty promises and year-end regrets that everyone has and come January 4th no one is keeping any more. I’m just as susceptible as everyone else and I’m not even going to begin to swear out any New Year’s Resolutions or how I’ve decided to change my wicked, fat ass ways.

I’d like to.

I might even try.

I might even succeed.

But I’m damn sure not making any promises.

The uh, shock or whatever the fuck it is wore out in my office chair. So, anytime ANYone (not just my fat ass) sits in it, it sinks. To the point that someone will sit down and in the other room you might hear them say, “fucking chair.” and that is how you will know they sat in my office chair. I’m old enough now that I actually say, I can’t believe the junk they pass off as quality these days.

This chair was not cheap!!!

And now I feel old.

I’m a mixed bag of stuff tonight. I remember when I was in my twenties and thought I had it alllll figured out. Then I hit thirty.

Mid-thirties.

Wow.

Where did the time go when I was busy being miserable?

Ha. Wow… I wasn’t always miserable.

I’ve been blissfully ignorant too.

Blissfully ignorant is better than… “I can’t believe I said that” and ashamed.

Am I the only one who feels a bit that way about my twenties?

Anyway… wow, look at that maudlin mess!!!

I wish you a very Happy New Year and a kick-ass 2010 and I sincerely hope that if you are reading this that you and I are both here this time next year to say, “whew! that was a GREAT one!!!”

xoxo,

Stella

My father-in-law passed away from cancer in 1999 for whatever reason there has always been a spiritual connection there. It’s probably no surprise to you, but I’m a big believer in the supernatural, I’ve seen and heard enough that I know there is more out there than this existence we live in.

When Pops died S.O. and I were fast asleep in bed. We both woke up and stared into the darkness of our bedroom. Quietly my husband said, “He’s gone” and I replied, “I know.” About ten minutes later the phone rang. Pops was gone.

His funeral was held outside. I don’t know if you are familiar with what a mountain wind sounds like. There is a certain sound the wind makes when it blows through a mountain canyon and through the trees. It almost sounds like a voice or a moaning. It’s really beautiful. Pops’ funeral was not in the mountains or anywhere close to them. At one point in the service things were very quiet and a mountain wind blew through the trees.

Over the last couple of years Pops has made his presence known.

Pops made his presence known on Christmas Eve.

The girls were asleep and Julien, S.O. and I were in the kitchen reminiscing. Funny how the holidays, especially Christmas do that to you. S.O. was telling some hilarious stories about his dad. We’d been going on for probably an hour and at 12:01am S.O.’s alarm clock upstairs next to our bed went off.

The alarm had not been turned on and it was actually set for somewhere between 5am and 6am from the last time S.O.had to be up and out of the house really early.

I went upstairs with both Julien and S.O. on my heels. When I got to the bedroom and turned the alarm off the room was icy, icy cold. When S.O. hit the doorway a cold wind blew, as he put it, “right through him” and continued down the stairs.

Merry Christmas, Pops!

Christmas brought an annoying forward from my mother. She sent it to everyone except S.O. of course. After all, throughout the course of the year she changed and switched who had caused her all this pain and misery depending on her mood or level of insanity at that moment.

No matter what you may think..we are family, I love you all and I wish you a very Merry Christmas. I will be thinking of you.

All My love,
Mom, Nana

It was the typical internet forward with all the lovely well-wishes and snowman/Christmas graphics and whatnot. Only one phrase really stood out for me, “I wish You a day of Peace, Happiness and Joy”

Really?

Then why write at all? Her email damaged the fragile “peace” “happiness” and “joy” that was already hard to come by and each and every one of us was doing our best to cultivate like the only flower a tornado left behind.

Most of all, it upset Deirdre. Deirdre is my quiet, steadfast, rock. Yes, she cracks from time to time, yes, she has typical teenager quirks. But, she truly has a heart of gold and she loves her family with every ounce of her being. Imagine her surprise to check her email and find a message from my mother. In all the emails sent over the last YEAR not a single one was sent to Deirdre. At no time was Deirdre acknowledged. I’ve mentioned this several times but it didn’t hit Deirdre until she opened up her email Christmas Eve morning and saw the message from her grandmother.

It meant what we all knew and didn’t speak aloud where Deirdre could hear. It confirmed that all this time she had blamed Deirdre. She blamed her for going home with her father December 5th, 2008. She blamed her for complaining to us when my mother harassed her at school and then enlisted her two best friends to do the same. And, it meant that even when the apology came to me from my mother last summer, that the apology didn’t extend to anyone else except me. That isn’t to say that anyone else was held without blame, certainly S.O. is at the forefront. This is what made my mother most angry, I believe, the fact that she had to face that S.O. is Deirdre’s father and they have a strong bond, one that Deirdre was not about to break for my mother’s insanity and manipulation.

To my mother, Deirdre chose a side and it wasn’t hers. In short, the ultimate betrayal.

And then another email on Christmas morning. The second Christmas we had not spent or had anything to do with my mother. Last Christmas she didn’t acknowledge our existence as she was still well entrenched in her anger and feeling wholly justified.

MERRY CHRISTMAS morning. I love you and miss you more than you can possibly know

She sent that message individually, one to Julien, one to Deirdre, and one to me. As if the week prior didn’t even exist, as if my brother had not been harassing people in traffic. As if her anger and resentment didn’t exist, as if we were just that stupid to not see other indications of it regardless of what she undoubtedly pounded out and sent over email.

I won’t say it didn’t affect our holiday at all. It certainly affected my mood. Not completely, but a little for sure.

Christmas was not the vibrant holiday of years past. It didn’t even match last year’s which, in spite of events, was wonderful. The main downside from last year is that Julien doesn’t remember it at all. Between the multiple surgeries and loads and loads of vicodin, he has very little recollection of everything between Halloween and New Year’s of 2008.

Christmas was just Christmas this year. The wrapping paper has been thrown away, as have the boxes. The tree is still up but the skirt is really askew since my cat has decided it’s her favorite place to nap.

Today S.O. is back at work, the kids (Julien, Deirdre, Rowan, Scarlet and one of Deirdre’s friends) are in the family room playing the Wii (a Santa present) under the still twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. It’s all bittersweet and I still feel the near-desperate need for a vacation and a massage.

I keep looking for that moment of happiness, the joy, the peace but I’ve yet to find it completely. It’s not that I don’t recognize the positives. My current theory is that the year is going out as lackluster as it has been miserable throughout the last twelve months; that way there is no yearning or longing for the past and by finally hitting rock bottom perhaps it will guarantee that the year to come will be that much better.

I’ve spent the weekend in the icebox again.

S.O. came home Friday, I attempted to talk to him as if nothing had happened hoping that for the sake of the weekend and the upcoming holiday, and certainly considering how stressful the week had been that he would just cooperate.

He was cold and shitty. He said he was going for a bike (bicycle) ride and he didn’t take his cell phone. This was around 6… he didn’t come home until after 11pm. I went out looking for him, my dad went out looking for him.

Saturday he didn’t speak to any of us except Scarlet and one of Deirdre’s old friends who is over for the weekend. And, of course, Rowan.

Today has been much more of the same. Except he sent me two emails asking me to place orders for Christmas presents… nothing I love better than placing an order for my own Christmas gift. It’s just that extra touch that means so fucking much. I replied to his email with, “Is your ATM card broken?”

She’s raging again.

My mother, that is.

Yesterday on the way home from school my brother flipped off both Scarlet AND her MOTHER. Funny, because if I had pulled that garbage under my parent’s roof I’d have had my ass beaten from here to next Tuesday.

But, it goes to show what is really going on. She can send me all sorts of pretty worded apologies (barely) but when they don’t get the response she wanted, she goes back to raging. It leaves me with little doubt as to her sincerity. Especially when my brother acts like a little chickenshit, punkass bitch.

Today after school, Julien was driving Scarlet home and they happened to run across my brother’s path. Granted, this is petty and silly, but Julien got behind him (a block behind him) and followed him. He didn’t have to go out of his way to do it because he takes the same streets home to our house as well. Plus, my dad is literally right on the way there as well. My brother sped through two stop signs and broke the speed limit when he realized Julien was behind him.

In short, it put a bit of a scare on him, as well it should have. Goes to show you the mentality in their house, doesn’t it?

S.O. wasn’t as understanding. He told Julien he was antagonizing and not to do it again. He wasn’t all that nice about it and it pissed Julien off. I can’t blame him much, not that I think it’s a good idea to antagonize them either – I mean, at this rate they are looking like a bunch of assholes and if we do anything in response we look just as bad. That doesn’t mean I don’t understand my son having enough, he’s fed up. Meanwhile, my brother skates through his senior year unblemished and enjoying himself. I’d be pissed too. Hell, I am pissed.

I asked S.O. to make it clear to Julien that he wasn’t angry and that he understood where Julien was coming from, just that it wasn’t a good idea to do and that I’d prefer that Julien not think his father was pissed at him for it. S.O. refused. In fact, he made it clear that he was calling to INFORM ME that I was NOT to support that kind of behavior out of Julien. When I didn’t swoon and go all “yes, massa” on him he accused me of picking a fight.

It’s funny because it’s perfectly fine for him to insist I apologize to Rowan… to the point of embarrassing me in front of people… but in a private conversation on the phone he can’t give me the same consideration.

Instead I got, “That’s fine, you guys just do what you want. I’m sick of the hypersensitivity that runs rampant in that house.”

More than once I told him he was making this a big problem and he should be focusing on smoothing it over not making it worse. He blew me off. And, once again, it’s up to me to smooth it over or sit with ice treatment a week before Christmas with an assload of shit to finish up.

There are times that man makes me nearly hate him.

My firstborn is eighteen. Eighteen years old. I don’t know how I feel about it. Somewhere between the concussion when he was 3 to the broken arm when he was 5, the dislocated finger at the beach, the ankle sprained running track, and oh yeah, cancer, my son managed to grow up. He’s six feet tall and weighs far less than he would like and he’s eighteen.

Julien can buy cigarettes, lighters, cold medicine, he can vote, die for his country, and enter a smoke shop. Sure, he’s home, he’s under my roof, living by my rules, still in high school, not much has changed except a number and that I can finally send him to the store for cold medicine the next time I get into a jam.

He’s been my little man, my longest relationship, and I barely remember a time when I didn’t look into brown eyes that were identical to mine. We grew up together and I would have given my life for him at any point along the way. But, there is something about this birthday that has me already fearing an empty nest. That there will come a Christmas when he doesn’t come downstairs to my Christmas tree. That there will be a time when he’s in his own home, with his own children, starting his own traditions away from me.

It’s bittersweet but the alternative is far worse, I know, because I’ve looked that in the eyes too.

He’s looking at rings, too. Specifically, a promise ring for Scarlet. A promise to one day ask her to marry him. Let’s be honest, in just 4 months he and she could run off to the courthouse and get married if they wanted to. He doesn’t. He’s not ready yet and he happily admits such things. She’s much the same, to her it’s eventual but in the meantime there is just so much to do. The senior prom, finals, and colleges…

She’s not shmoopy, crazy in love, happily doodling her name with his last name in the place of her own. She loves him, she helps him with his statistics and physics homework, they study and crack jokes at each others expense. She’s creative and artistic and so is he, when one might expect to find them making out in the garage it’s surprising to find them instead happily working on a new art project.

But, most importantly, she makes him happy and it’s wonderful to witness.

I never knew what I wanted for my children beyond knowing that I wanted them to have their every hope and ambition fulfilled. I wanted for them to do better than myself, have more, do more, experience more, and love life far more than I have – even if I have the most wonderful life on the planet, I still want them to have more.

One of my idols is Katharine Hepburn. I have the book, Kate Remembered, and one of the things that struck me was when her friend came to see her for what was the last time she asked him, “are you loved?”

“Are you loved?”

I’ve taken to asking my children this from time to time. I don’t have to ask Julien. I know, I can see it, and I believe with every fiber of my being that he would not be in as wonderful shape as he is were it not for the love of a very special girl.

I never quite knew what I wanted for my son. What I wanted him to become other than a compassionate, loving human being. Sometimes the not knowing turns out to be more than you could have ever hoped for and that has certainly been the case with Julien.

Well, well, well, my mother was WRONG. I don’t think you could pay someone to get me into an psych ward!

The “therapy appointment” turned out to be a consultation with a psychiatric intern. I filled out a brief questionnaire, she asked me about it and asked about any health problems I had.

I told her my cholesterol was great but I had high blood pressure (hello! Stress much?) so she asked me how I deal with stress.

I said, “I implode.”

She asked me about my husband, kids, and what I do… when I mentioned that I blog she was literally impressed. I mean, IMPRESSED. She said, “Oh, I’m very intrigued by blogging, so you write as an outlet?”

“Sure, you could say that.”

She was probably in her mid-twenties. She highly recommended Jessica Lancaster who has written such tomes as, “Bitter is the New Black” and “Bright Lights, Big Ass” the latter of which she assured me is hysterical.

Don’t get me wrong. She was nice, but it was obvious that she was probably an underpaid filtering system for the great HMO plan I am a member of. She assured me that I did not need therapy because I blog. Oh, and because I am married and have children at home. Blogging is a therapeutic outlet and having a husband and kids means I have a support system.

I’m sure the big “no go” flag for her was that my intentions are to get OFF of the anti-depressants whereas she explained to me that most of the people she sees are there to either get on them or to have their meds changed.

Also, single people or people with kids who are grown and out of the house are generally a bigger cause for concern…

Huh, here I thought my life would be far more simpler if I were single or if my kids were grown up and on their own. Heh.

Ultimately, she decided I would be better off with a psychiatric consultation so that a psychiatrist could explain to me how to wean off the anti-depressants.

*sigh*

I’ve been in therapy before, I know this is all corporate, HMO bullshit. I just can’t believe I paid $15 and wasted half a morning with that garbage!

We’re finally getting our Christmas tree today. I usually have it up Thanksgiving weekend but it just didn’t work out that way this year. I’m excited, ready to see a big tree in the family room.

The kids really wanted it to snow last night. The weather forecast predicted it, but we got screwed. There are more storms this weekend, maybe we’ll get lucky.

I’ve been up since 5am, just fretting, worrying, etc. I’m canceling my therapy appointment today. I was looking forward to it, but a big storm came in yesterday, it’s maybe 30 degrees, there is ice everywhere, I don’t have anyone to watch Rowan at 10am… and I’m just not ready to start therapy. I admit it, there. Maybe after the holidays.

I know, therapy will be good for me, I’m just not ready to go there yet. I thought I was… but I’m just not. Not today.

I like Julien’s new doctor. He’s nice, seems to listen, and was probably the first health care professional that was interested in working with our urologist at UCLA if necessary.

That being said, he’s referring Julien to a oncologist here in town. He’s being thorough, heard the “c” word and wanted to make sure that the pain isn’t related to that. More blood work ensued. Might have more scans. The thing is? This is an abdominal wall problem… it’s a strangulated nerve… it’s damage done to the muscle tissue when Julien was sliced from stem to stern.

Even the new doctor seemed to think so.

But, we can’t take chances, of course.

Of course.

And, so back on the scans, screens, markers, testing treadmill for who knows how long!

Meanwhile? Julien was sent home with a fat bottle of Vicodin.

I’m fine with Vicodin for those who need it. Does Julien? Sure, he’s in pain, A LOT of pain.

I would just prefer the problem be repaired rather than masked with high powered painkiller containing addictive properties!!!

The good news is that he doesn’t have a hernia. Yay.

The bad news is that I don’t know how long we’ll have to wait or what we’ll have to deal with until someone comes to the obvious conclusion and decides to fix the actual problem.

I so wanted to be off this merry-go-round. It’s probably a good thing that I start therapy next week.

Sad to say that my blog is more decorated than the inside of my house at the moment. Not to say that I don’t have decorations up, but there are still a couple of totes left to go through and, of course, have to buy the tree in the next couple of days.

Julien has a doctor’s appointment today. We believe he either has a hernia behind his incision from the surgery last year or he has damage to his abdominal wall (scar tissue, nerve damage, etc.) from the surgery last year. Either way, no one should have to be in this much pain constantly. He’ll double over once or twice a day and laying flat on his back is about the only thing that keeps him out of pain completely. Either way, it’s very obvious that it’s a muscle issue not an internal organ issue, etc. That means it should be simple to correct either with surgery or some injections or something.

My small peace of mind comes only from the numerous CT scans he has had over the past 6 months. Everything looked normal on them, they, umm, re-attached his lymph nodes correctly, there was nothing left inside of him after the surgery, it’s nearly impossible that cancer has returned and after hours of researching on the internet it appears that complications arising post-op where abdominal surgeries are concerned aren’t as uncommon as one might think.

That pisses me off because his surgeon last December told him in January that he could resume his normal activities. That surgeon knew Julien was a runner and knew that meant he would attempt to return to running 10 – 12 miles a night less than 6 weeks after major abdominal surgery. He didn’t tell him to take it slow or easy, didn’t warn him he was prone to hernias, bowel obstructions, excessive scar tissue, nerve damage, etc. etc.

And he damn well should have, because his office wasn’t at ALL surprised when I told them that Julien had a bowel obstruction and was hospitalized last August.

Needless to say, I’m a nervous wreck about this appointment today. It doesn’t matter how simple I believe it is or how common place and easy hernia operations are… it’s one more doctor determining, even in a minor respect, my son’s fate. It’s one more wait and see, one more give us the news, doc.

A little over a year ago I sat in a doctor’s office feeling the world swirl around me as our doctor explained that Julien had cancer. A year ago this very day I was sitting next to his hospital bed as he recovered from surgery.

And, here I am again, full circle… it’s hard NOT to stress.

Julien is very… quiet today. I actually think he’s kind of relieved to be doing this he’s tired of being in pain and I’m seriously concerned over what chronic pain is doing to him. He’s terrified of needles and would almost prefer a hernia surgery. Both of us are unsure what to expect as it’s a new doctor. We don’t know whether to prepare for a fight or if this guy will know what to do straight off. My biggest fear is my son being in pain while some dipshit decides to run all sorts of possibly unnecessary tests. Some of the things I’ve read online (in medical journal/articles) seem to imply that issues with the abdominal wall are usually the last place doctors look.

My hope is that an over foot long scar running up and down my son’s abdomen will be the ginormous red flag. Especially since the problems seem centered around the incisions, all three of them. The lower one that removed the tumor and testicle, the one just slightly higher than that that allowed for the placement of a prosthetic, and then the ginormous one that allowed for removal of 26 lymph nodes.

S.O. is going to the appointment with us. I don’t know that I could handle it without him. Co-dependent… and terribly so, I know this. A part of me feels like it should be natural after so much time together and having happened, but my happiness shouldn’t rely so heavily on another human being. Wow, that’s a whole other Oprah, as a friend of mine is fond of saying.