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Back to school is a mixed bag. Gratitude experiment: day 6

Should I feel guilty for being grateful that school starts tomorrow? Everyone I have seen all month has lamented the end of summer.  My guilt is kind of a mute point since my mother was Catholic before she married my dad and 100% of her Catholic guilt was passed directly down to me.  If there is something to feel guilty about, I probably do.  So that’s settled.

On one hand, I am sad that summer flew by so quickly which means the kids are growing up far too fast.  And that our Florida trip was foiled by tropical storm Debbie.  And that we weren’t able to make our summer pilgrimage to Oklahoma to see family and the lake.  But on the other hand I am just plain relieved to get back to a regular schedule and routine.  And to get things back to some semblance of normal, whatever that is.

It has been a hectic and rough summer for our family.  Strike that – it has been an exhausting summer. Post concussion months for my oldest son were peppered with bad choices resulting from low self esteem and depression after being pulled from his sport in April and not released to play any sports all summer.  I’ve never seen him so down on himself  as these past months and felt so helpless at the same time.  The thought of it rattled in my head like a diesel engine many of these summer nights.

My younger son seemed to know it was best to take cover as the various storms erupted in our household these past few months, the poor guy.  I’m sure he’ll be in therapy over it when he is an adult.  Maybe we can get a family discount.  I wasn’t able to help out with my mom (who has Alzheimer’s in a big way) nearly as much as usual.  And my husband has had a less than fun summer at work.  All of this has helped fuel the idling diesel in my mind.

I have been the lifeguard of the group, throwing life preservers hither and yawn, only to quickly reel them back for relaunch.   But even as a weary lifeguard, I am starting to see past the rough waters.  I am grateful that these last couple of weeks have seemed more like our old life.  And that my oldest son’s sly smile is making a return, which sends a ripple effect of relief throughout the house.

So there you have it, I am ready for the close of summer and to move on to smoother sailing.  In fact, hot damn and hallelujah, let the school bell ring.

Hoarding, buried alive — or in my lamps

There they were again, or maybe there she was.  Staring me down as I pulled into my garage this morning.

These two lamps were given to me by my late sister probably 20 years ago, just seven years or so before she died in a car accident at 36.  She gave them to me when her budget allowed her to upgrade her lamp status and when my budget was in need of free lamps.

I probably thought they were way attractive at the time, but they’re really not.  Or at least not now after years of use and an inexpensive foundation to begin with.  My sister would almost suredly agree.  They’ve served us well as bedside lamps for many years.  I have wanted to change them out more times than I can count.  In the last few years in particular they’ve seemed a tad sketchy electrically speaking.  The one by my side of the bed even had a habit of turning on in the middle of the night sometimes.  Was it electrical?  Hmmmm.

I have just enough belief in what’s out there in the spiritual world to be swayed  by a psychic I once saw in an effort to communicate with my sister.  She told me that my sister tries to communicate with me through lights and at night, in my dreams.   I know you’re thinking – well sure, that’s a classic easy reach that anyone desperate to believe might make a connection with.  I even thought so.  Or did I?

As a true skeptic who even tries to set psychic types up to fail,  I also yearn to believe that maybe — just maybe — they really can help me talk to her.  There are just so many things I would ask her.  There are so many memories from my childhood when I lived with my mom and my sister (the Three Musketeers)  where  I can’t quite recall all of the details.  Who would have imagined my sister would be gone and my mother would end up with Alzheimer’s so advanced that she hardly even speaks?  Who would have thought I should have been taking notes for goodness sakes?   They say it is this kind of love — and love lost — that flames our endless desire to communicate with those who have passed on before us.  Especially those that weren’t supposed to.

Back to the lamps.  So, I religiously watch the Hoarding, Buried Alive television show, which to my family’s amusement is what causes me to go on mad purging binges – clothes, furniture, you name it.  My unneeded hoard finds its way to my donate bins and designated areas at least twice a month.  Afterall, it’s just stuff.  And if I’m not using it, someone could.  Plus, from what I witnessed in the homes of  my late grandparents on both sides,  I’m afraid I  just might have a tad bit of a hoarding gene in me somewhere.

So, finally I decided it was time to donate these lamps and get real “grownup” bedside lamps.  My husband appeased me and accompanied me to many stores in search of the perfect bedside lamps, which we found.  I still don’t feel like a grownup, but that’s beside the point.

But what to do with the lamps? I  regularly give most of my donation worthy items to my housekeepers – furniture and all.  They strike gold at my house at least monthly.  Or I like to think they do. I just wish I could understand what they were saying to each other whenever they bag up my donate bin that I keep next to the vacuum.  For all I know it could be “Look at this crap this lady thinks we want…”  But I like to think it’s not, especially since they take it enthusiastically. At any rate, I didn’t want to give them these lamps in case they really did have electrical problems.  That would keep me up worrying for sure.  And I knew that Goodwill probably has to test everything before they sell it.  Or that’s what I tell myself.

So, on three different occasions I have loaded these lamps in the back of my car to take them to the Goodwill donation center along with my other purge-fest prizes. It’s always right at the moment when the guys helping me unload my Hoarding Buried Alive load of treasures point to the lamps and say “these too?” when I freeze.  I tell them not to take the lamps, just everything else.  Then I carefully drive the lamps back to my house and set them at the front of my garage again until I can figure out what to do with them.

I also have a purse my sister gave me that I will never carry again because it’s such a bad luxury brand knock-off.  But I vividly remember how proud she was to buy it for me and how excited I was to have it (same spot in my budget timeline as the lamps).  I remember how much she smiled as I modeled it.  I will never donate it, even after a hoarding series marathon.  I also have a cheesy belt that she gave me that I will never wear, but that reminds me of us going through each other’s closets and making fun of clothes in need of purging. Both items hang inside my closet where I can see them and just know they are there.

Maybe these lamps are my sister’s way of staying in my busy life when I try so hard to keep her memory alive but life gets in the way. And for that I’m grateful.  I think I’ll find a place for them afterall.

Gratitude Experiment Day: 2

I am thankful for my dear niece.  The one positive thing that resulted from losing my sister suddenly 13 years ago is the fact that I have the most wonderful relationship with my niece one could ever imagine.  She is not only my niece, but also my sister, my best friend and a daughter all rolled up into one human being.  Oh, and my doctor (she’s a med student who gets some wacky medical questions from her Aunt), my therapist and parenting counselor.

She is truly a treasure.  I am grateful that my sister gave birth to her and made me an Aunt in 1987.  I still vividly remember shouting to my friends that spring morning in my high school parking lot…. “I’m an Aunt! I’m an Aunt!”  My sister would be so proud of the woman she has become.

All clear on the concussion front

Gratitude experiment day 1 continues:

My oldest son was officially released to play sports after four months of concussion recovery!  Glad to have this chapter complete.

A few things about concussions I wish I had known:

Myth: A concussion only occurs as a result of a direct blow to the head. (My son’s was the neck) Fact: A concussion may be caused by a direct blow to the head, face, neck, or elsewhere on the body if the blow is transmitted to the head.

Myth: Only athletes in aggressive contact sports like football, hockey and lacrosse suffer concussions. Fact: While football has the highest number of concussions, and concussions are common in hockey, lacrosse and wrestling, concussions also occur frequently in boys’ and girls’ basketball and soccer.

Myth: A concussion occurs only when an athlete experiences a loss of consciousness (LOC). (My son was never knocked out) Fact: Concussions can occur with or without LOC. In fact, the vast majority of concussions (more than 95% in a recent study of concussion among high school athletes)5 do not result in LOC.

Myth:The signs and symptoms of concussion are always apparent immediately after injury. (In my son’s case it was two days later) Fact: While signs of concussion (those characteristics that can be observed by people other than the athlete) and symptoms (experienced by the athlete him or herself) are often present or observable at the time of injury, they may not appear until several hours later. In fact, delayed onset of signs and symptoms is more likely in younger athletes.
5. Meehan W, d’Hemecourt P, Comstock D, High School Concussions in the 2008-2009 Academic Year: Mechanism, Symptoms, and Management. Am. J. Sports. Med. 2010;38(12):2405-2409 (accessed December 2, 2010 at http://ajs.sagepub.com/content/38/12/2405.abstract?etoc).
11. Mickalide AD, Hansen LM. Coaching Our Kids to Fewer Injuries: A Report on Youth Sports Safety. Washington, DC: Safe Kids Worldwide, April 2012
Read more: http://www.momsteam.com/health-safety/debunking-common-sports-concussion-myths?page=0%2C1#ixzz23Y4D6Pb4

Thrown to the wolves by his mother

So thank goodness there are really nice moms out there. My faith in humanity is temporarily restored. My post-concussion former lacrosse playing son is now officially involved with his high school tennis team.  But he’s going in bruised and battered.

Once I realized his symptoms had ceased,  I researched and reached out to a very involved tennis Mom I knew from lacrosse.  Here’s the humanity part – she then took the time to talk to one of the main coaches about my son and his concussion situation and what a great athlete he is. In turn, that coach took the time to call me personally about getting him involved at this late date. This I am certainly not used to as it seems many high school coaches are not into parent conversations, to say the least.

After asking about his tennis background (he played team tennis a few summers back and was one of the fastest, though skinniest, kids in lacrosse), the coach suggested I bring him to the camp that was that very day in a few hours.  They had been running morning and afternoon training camps for two weeks.  Wow, I was thrilled, this was happening. He warned that these kids were pretty good but suggested my son ‘give it a shot’ and then come to the next day’s camps as well. It wasn’t too late.

Foreshadowing note:  these are the LAST two days of a two week intensive training camp. And my son’s only sport activity has been three private tennis sessions after a 4 month concussion sport hiatus from a lacrosse injury.

To my amazement, I talked my son into going.  We got there and my stomach began to sink.  These tennis kids looked beyond HARD CORE and I tried not to let the fear for my son’s very life show in my eyes before I left. I drove off afraid for his already fragile post-concussion ego.

At pickup, he was wrecked, both physically and mentally.  I felt horrible.  He felt he did not measure up to these kids’ skills and had no business playing tennis.  I think a few curse words were used, his head hung incredibly low, you get the point.  It was bad.  Fast forward a few hours –  I learned that the coach had failed to mention that the afternoon camps were for area CHAMPIONSHIP tennis players – some college aged.  These kids were lifers, had been playing since birth.  Some even had sponsors and everything. For real. What a great entry for my broken son.  I could not have felt worse.

Thank goodness the coach called that night (again, the humanity) to check on him and encouraged him to come to the less intense session the next morning.  The next day went beyond well (no comparison) and I now can see a glimmer of my son’s former swagger in his eyes, bruises and all.

Tennis to the rescue

Okay, so finally my son’s concussion symptoms have ceased, after four months. He’s not getting headaches whenever he runs anymore. Thank God. All I need now is the final official doctor release.

Not that I blame him (I’m actually secretly thrilled ), but he doesn’t want to play fall lacrosse. I can only imagine how scary it would be getting back on the field after having a concussion wreak so much havoc on your life as a teenager. So we are going to give tennis a try.  He played team tennis a few years ago and was pretty good, but gave it up for lacrosse since the schedules conflicted.

Unfortunately, signing up for tennis at his large high school where 160 other kids play tennis on six teams is no easy task.  Who would have thought starting the process in early August would be late?

 

Concussions be damned

We all have heard countless stories on the news about the scary “concussion.”  Heightened awareness has been great for all involved – and scary for me.

My son, a fifteen year old, got a concussion like no other last spring, on April 6, to be precise.  He got “slashed” in the neck with a lacrosse stick on the back of his neck, the one place he had no protection or pads (note: other player was kicked out of the game as this is a no-no).

Fast forward four months.  I am rescheduling probably the 18th appointment related to this concussion.  And we are several months past the episode.  The concussion has wreaked havoc not only for my son’s life, but for our whole family’s.

Few news stories mention the personality changes, the depression and the bad choices that can enter a successful athlete’s life when pulled from his sport.  His speed and agility on the field were a source of needed self esteem which was already touch and go as a freshman at a huge high school.  This was the tipping point we didn’t need.

My hopes are that more become aware – not only of the damage to the brain a concussion can cause – but also of these more silent symptoms, and how to treat them.

Best Laid Plants

This morning after carpool drop-off as I drove through my winding suburban neighborhood streets I noticed an annual sighting. Not annual because annual flowers were involved, but annual in that each and every spring since I have lived in this neighborhood, it happens.

The same well -intended neighbor goes hog wild at the nursery at the first promising sight of spring and covers her yard with gallon and half gallon containers of roses, geraniums and petunias – all placed precisely where she intends to plant them. If history serves, these poor plants will begin withering by late tomorrow and continue to yearn for a permanent home or some hydration at least – until their death by early July – when they will be baked to perfection – as crunchy as Lay’s potato chips.

They will then sit, posthumously, for another week or two until a neighbor, or possibly even the well intended would-be future planter of such plantings decides to throw in the towel, admitting that sometimes the best laid plants simply don’t happen.

Here we go, as Oprah says.

Months later, after much pondering over the idea for this blog, I’ve decided the common theme of this blog will be the wryness of it all – life as a normal person peering out from the boundaries of suburbia, life as a mother of teenagers, life as a freelance working writer, life with a Mother who has Alzheimer’s.

My blog about my life as a sandwich generation x’er, complete with full-on irony each and every day.

wry http://img.tfd.com/m/sound.swf (r)

adj. wri·er (rr) or wry·er, wri·est (rst) or wry·est

1. Dryly humorous, often with a touch of irony.
2. Temporarily twisted in an expression of distaste or displeasure: made a wry face.
3. Abnormally twisted or bent to one side; crooked: a wry nose.
4. Being at variance with what is right, proper, or suitable; perverse.