It has been a while since we updated on my little monkey, and I'm all a-flutter with good news. First, though, I wanted to mention that it is Craniofacial awareness month. Also, NY Yankee catcher, Jorge Posada, and his phenomenal wife Laura, are writing a book about their son's experience with craniosynostosis. They are the founders of the Jorge Posada Foundation, which does many great things for kids with cranio. They're also co-sponsoring our Signing Time concert in Seattle, so please go check them out.
Anyway, we took the little dude in to Doernbecher to see the developmental pediatrician. Last time we were there, we were given the phrase "global developmental delays." It was a rough appointment. This time, he still didn't really want to play with them in their little room, but he did stack blocks, do the puzzle-thing and point to the kitty cat. Yeah, he can do that now. He also showed off this trick every time anyone said a number:
At 32 months of age, he functions at a 21 month old level, we're told, even with all of his signing and new skills. He's still behind, but at least he's making progress. And who knows, he may catch up. Rorysaurus did. This is her, at the same age, reading What's Wrong, Little Pookie? with me:
This is Little Monkey's take:
He's grown a pinch, too. He's 34 inches tall, which is half an inch up from last time, on track at 3rd percentile. He's also 28.5 lbs, so he's gained there, too, and is hovering around the 10th percentile. The head is the same. Now, we just have to find him a preschool!
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Two Years
What were you doing two years ago today? It was a Monday, so you might have been working, going to class, or enjoying a hard-earned day off. Perhaps you were playing with your kids, or on vacation? Maybe you don't even remember.
However, for my family, July 21, 2008 was the day that the whole world changed.
I had spent the day at home in Oakland, fretting about my 6-month-old son's newly scheduled neurosurgery date. My Little Monkey had been born with a skull condition that had required a complete craniectomy at 7 weeks of age, and we'd just found out he was going to need yet another surgery in September. When my husband came home from work, I needed a break, and took my little motor-scooter out to do some errands. What I returned to was a scene out of a horror film.
Right as I was coming home from doing some errands, I’d heard a crash, then these guttural noises coming from the back yard. I’d run to the gate, unlocked it, and was met by the sight of my nearly three-year old little girl, Rorysaurus, blood matting her curls and smeared all over her face. After realizing she wasn't hurt, I’d assumed something had happened to her brother, as all of my fears at that point centered on him, and was afraid she’d fallen on him while playing and had crushed his skull.
I raced around the corner of the house, and scanned the ground for my son’s body. My eyes swept over the grass, over towards the laundry room, then back. I couldn’t find him. "He’s over there," our neighbor had said, pointing to the cement in front of the basement where we all did our laundry. And there, on the ground, was a mass of red, blue, flesh and dirt. I stared for a minute before rushing over to the heap that was my brother, Needlenoggin. He was lying flat on his back, looking up towards the swinging wooden planks that had been our landing, nearly three stories above him.
Needlenoggin, then 22, had been taking Rorysaurus out the back door of our third story apartment, when the stairs had collapsed. They'd been holding hands, and then they were falling. In a split second, Needlenoggin pulled my little girl to his chest, rolling around her before they hit the support-beam midway through. His first thorasic vertebrae burst as they smashed through that 8 inch piece of wood, and then they finally slammed into the pavement and garden fencing 30 feet below my back door. He shattered two other T-level vertebra upon impact, fractured C-1 and C-2, sustained a traumatic brain injury and a compound fracture of one arm, and partially scalped himself.
Rorysaurus walked away with a few minor scratches.
After his fusion, and his 6 week stay in a rehab facility, my brother was sent home. We weren't provided with a nurse, a wheelchair, therapy or a doctor. We had to buy a wheelchair van, and my life became all about paraplegia, lawsuits, therapies, medications, bowel treatments and depression. Rorysaurus began treatment for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but a wheelchair is a more visible sign of an injury, and so my brother commanded a much larger share of our attention, energy, time and money. We were told he might never feed himself, and wouldn't sit up, stand or walk ever again, and I had to encourage him to fight to get as well as he could in spite of the grim prognosis.
What passed was easily the worst year of my life. I made new friends in the disability community, and learned important things (like not to say "wheelchair bound"). I gathered knowledge and pushed my naturally-lazy and now-depressed baby brother into working as hard as he could. MediCaid repossessed his wheelchair, refused to cover life-saving medications, and wouldn't provide for important Durable Medical equipment. I was forced to beg and borrow to keep him alive, all the while wondering what happens to people who don't have family, or who don't have tenacious family. One social worker answered bluntly. "They die." I felt myself losing my mind, as I didn't see an end to the constant care, and I couldn't see any chance to get help.
The lawsuit ended, we moved out of California, and my brother now lives independently, with minor household assistance from live-in help. Had the lawsuit not gone the way it had, he'd still be living with me, and I know I'd have lost my mind. I now see my brother a few times a week, when we go to visit or go see a movie with him, or when he has some friends drive him over. He's still battling some pretty severe depression, and doesn't have enough fine-motor control to drive.
However, this was our 2009 Christmas picture:
He's standing, unsupported, holding his 40lb dog. And, when the Oakland fire-department invited him to their big gala, and we couldn't afford to go, my brother practiced, and practiced and practiced to make them a video:
That is as far as he can walk, and, as you can see, he's a little unsteady. He wanted them to see how well he's doing, however, and for them to know he's grateful for everything they did for him, and for my daughter. (Full disclosure: the bike was a gift from the firefighters to my daughter, after they took her and Needlenoggin for a ride on a firetruck, and PJ is her favorite guy on the crew).
Needlenoggin still isn't healed, either physically or mentally. He functions like a 13 or 14 year-old boy, has lost most of his short-term memory, and has horrific anxiety attacks. He can shuffle a few feet without crutches, and needs to use a wheelchair to do anything more than get through a parking-lot, but to a degree, his disability has become far less visible, which makes it hard to deal with things like this:
The other day, I took Needlenoggin grocery shopping, and we took one of the blue reserved spots up front. I hopped out to get one of those little electric shopping carts, and he eased himself out of the passenger seat, a little unsteady on his feet, but upright, and shuffled over to meet me. A middle-aged woman, helping a spry elderly woman out of a sedan a few spaces down, looked at him, over at his placard, and then told him that being fat wasn't a disability. Needlenoggin I and just looked at one another in shock, and cracked up laughing, much to her dismay. When we'd settled, he turned to her and said, "One, neither is being old, and your mom seems to move much better than I ever will. And two, don't make assumptions. If you had taken the spot, we'd have parked that few feet away, and wouldn't have told you how you weren't "crippled enough" to use the space." Then, he summoned up all his dignity, sat down in the little cart, and pulled down the back of his T-shirt, exposing the foot-long, inch-wide fusion scar as he rode away at half-a-mile-an-hour.
So yeah, the young man they told us would have a hard time writing his name now keeps his wheelchair in his garage, only to be used for long excursions. He moves around most of the time on fore-arm crutches, and has more friends than he did before his accident. He won his lawsuit, and I don't have to take care of him for the rest of my life, and we now live in a state where, if he hadn't won the lawsuit, he wouldn't be nearly as abused and mistreated as he was in California. We've pretty much escaped what we were handed two years ago today, and we could just count our blessings, be thankful for the miracles we've had, and never look back.
But we don't. We protest, we write to our Senators, and to the ones who "served" us in California, we write articles and we agitate. We donate time, and what little money we can, to the charities that pick up the slack left by state programs, and we are some of those that continue to demand real universal health coverage. Because we were lucky, we feel compelled to do something to repair the non-existent safety-net for those who aren't so fortunate.
And, for those who will appreciate our family's sense of humor, I share with you his favorite picture of himself:
And the Spinal Fusion Cake I made for him (Note the injuries to multiple vertebra and the burst T1):
X-Posted at DailyKos
However, for my family, July 21, 2008 was the day that the whole world changed.
I had spent the day at home in Oakland, fretting about my 6-month-old son's newly scheduled neurosurgery date. My Little Monkey had been born with a skull condition that had required a complete craniectomy at 7 weeks of age, and we'd just found out he was going to need yet another surgery in September. When my husband came home from work, I needed a break, and took my little motor-scooter out to do some errands. What I returned to was a scene out of a horror film.
Right as I was coming home from doing some errands, I’d heard a crash, then these guttural noises coming from the back yard. I’d run to the gate, unlocked it, and was met by the sight of my nearly three-year old little girl, Rorysaurus, blood matting her curls and smeared all over her face. After realizing she wasn't hurt, I’d assumed something had happened to her brother, as all of my fears at that point centered on him, and was afraid she’d fallen on him while playing and had crushed his skull.
I raced around the corner of the house, and scanned the ground for my son’s body. My eyes swept over the grass, over towards the laundry room, then back. I couldn’t find him. "He’s over there," our neighbor had said, pointing to the cement in front of the basement where we all did our laundry. And there, on the ground, was a mass of red, blue, flesh and dirt. I stared for a minute before rushing over to the heap that was my brother, Needlenoggin. He was lying flat on his back, looking up towards the swinging wooden planks that had been our landing, nearly three stories above him.
Needlenoggin, then 22, had been taking Rorysaurus out the back door of our third story apartment, when the stairs had collapsed. They'd been holding hands, and then they were falling. In a split second, Needlenoggin pulled my little girl to his chest, rolling around her before they hit the support-beam midway through. His first thorasic vertebrae burst as they smashed through that 8 inch piece of wood, and then they finally slammed into the pavement and garden fencing 30 feet below my back door. He shattered two other T-level vertebra upon impact, fractured C-1 and C-2, sustained a traumatic brain injury and a compound fracture of one arm, and partially scalped himself.
Rorysaurus walked away with a few minor scratches.
After his fusion, and his 6 week stay in a rehab facility, my brother was sent home. We weren't provided with a nurse, a wheelchair, therapy or a doctor. We had to buy a wheelchair van, and my life became all about paraplegia, lawsuits, therapies, medications, bowel treatments and depression. Rorysaurus began treatment for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but a wheelchair is a more visible sign of an injury, and so my brother commanded a much larger share of our attention, energy, time and money. We were told he might never feed himself, and wouldn't sit up, stand or walk ever again, and I had to encourage him to fight to get as well as he could in spite of the grim prognosis.
What passed was easily the worst year of my life. I made new friends in the disability community, and learned important things (like not to say "wheelchair bound"). I gathered knowledge and pushed my naturally-lazy and now-depressed baby brother into working as hard as he could. MediCaid repossessed his wheelchair, refused to cover life-saving medications, and wouldn't provide for important Durable Medical equipment. I was forced to beg and borrow to keep him alive, all the while wondering what happens to people who don't have family, or who don't have tenacious family. One social worker answered bluntly. "They die." I felt myself losing my mind, as I didn't see an end to the constant care, and I couldn't see any chance to get help.
The lawsuit ended, we moved out of California, and my brother now lives independently, with minor household assistance from live-in help. Had the lawsuit not gone the way it had, he'd still be living with me, and I know I'd have lost my mind. I now see my brother a few times a week, when we go to visit or go see a movie with him, or when he has some friends drive him over. He's still battling some pretty severe depression, and doesn't have enough fine-motor control to drive.
However, this was our 2009 Christmas picture:
He's standing, unsupported, holding his 40lb dog. And, when the Oakland fire-department invited him to their big gala, and we couldn't afford to go, my brother practiced, and practiced and practiced to make them a video:
That is as far as he can walk, and, as you can see, he's a little unsteady. He wanted them to see how well he's doing, however, and for them to know he's grateful for everything they did for him, and for my daughter. (Full disclosure: the bike was a gift from the firefighters to my daughter, after they took her and Needlenoggin for a ride on a firetruck, and PJ is her favorite guy on the crew).
Needlenoggin still isn't healed, either physically or mentally. He functions like a 13 or 14 year-old boy, has lost most of his short-term memory, and has horrific anxiety attacks. He can shuffle a few feet without crutches, and needs to use a wheelchair to do anything more than get through a parking-lot, but to a degree, his disability has become far less visible, which makes it hard to deal with things like this:
The other day, I took Needlenoggin grocery shopping, and we took one of the blue reserved spots up front. I hopped out to get one of those little electric shopping carts, and he eased himself out of the passenger seat, a little unsteady on his feet, but upright, and shuffled over to meet me. A middle-aged woman, helping a spry elderly woman out of a sedan a few spaces down, looked at him, over at his placard, and then told him that being fat wasn't a disability. Needlenoggin I and just looked at one another in shock, and cracked up laughing, much to her dismay. When we'd settled, he turned to her and said, "One, neither is being old, and your mom seems to move much better than I ever will. And two, don't make assumptions. If you had taken the spot, we'd have parked that few feet away, and wouldn't have told you how you weren't "crippled enough" to use the space." Then, he summoned up all his dignity, sat down in the little cart, and pulled down the back of his T-shirt, exposing the foot-long, inch-wide fusion scar as he rode away at half-a-mile-an-hour.
So yeah, the young man they told us would have a hard time writing his name now keeps his wheelchair in his garage, only to be used for long excursions. He moves around most of the time on fore-arm crutches, and has more friends than he did before his accident. He won his lawsuit, and I don't have to take care of him for the rest of my life, and we now live in a state where, if he hadn't won the lawsuit, he wouldn't be nearly as abused and mistreated as he was in California. We've pretty much escaped what we were handed two years ago today, and we could just count our blessings, be thankful for the miracles we've had, and never look back.
But we don't. We protest, we write to our Senators, and to the ones who "served" us in California, we write articles and we agitate. We donate time, and what little money we can, to the charities that pick up the slack left by state programs, and we are some of those that continue to demand real universal health coverage. Because we were lucky, we feel compelled to do something to repair the non-existent safety-net for those who aren't so fortunate.
And, for those who will appreciate our family's sense of humor, I share with you his favorite picture of himself:
And the Spinal Fusion Cake I made for him (Note the injuries to multiple vertebra and the burst T1):
X-Posted at DailyKos
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Growth!
Alright, don't get too excited, but young Mr. monkey has gained .75 lbs and and 1.5 inches since his December visit with the endocrinologist! She'd put him on a low dose of thyroid supplement, and he's now growing only slightly less quickly than any other kid his age (in short, he's not catching up, but he's not getting left behind so quickly, either).
Yay! Let's hope the progress continues.
Yay! Let's hope the progress continues.
Oakland Fire Random Acts Ball, part deux
We really wanted to be able to go down and share this event with the C-shift crew, but were unable to due to finances and minor medical issues. However, we sent this down in our stead:
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Well, after another round of specialists
a brain scan and a heart-ultrasound for my son, along with various blood tests and questionnaires, we are...
...still at square one. ::sigh::
He's small, a little slow, and no one knows why. Poor baby. He's got some new endocrine panels coming up (to check his levels after we started the thyroid pill), another appointment with the geneticist, and he gets to see a new opthamologist as well.
At least he is doing well with his speech pathologist. She's got us doing some website work with him at Starfall, and he's very good with his repetition. Also, his signing is getting better, as he can now ask for Signing Time:
...still at square one. ::sigh::
He's small, a little slow, and no one knows why. Poor baby. He's got some new endocrine panels coming up (to check his levels after we started the thyroid pill), another appointment with the geneticist, and he gets to see a new opthamologist as well.
At least he is doing well with his speech pathologist. She's got us doing some website work with him at Starfall, and he's very good with his repetition. Also, his signing is getting better, as he can now ask for Signing Time:
Monday, February 15, 2010
One Paralyzed Man Helps Another
You all remember how my baby brother gave money to the C16 crew of the Oakland Fire Dept during the big ice cream event? He wanted them to be able to do something good for someone who needed help in the future, and left it at that. Little did he know he'd be helping another paralyzed hero and the man's two little girls.
In October, some gunmen stabbed a man they were mugging in Oakland. Salvador Recinos Mendez intervened, pulling the victim into his car and driving off. The men then shot into his vehicle, hitting him in the back. The bullet ripped through his spinal cord, nearly killing him. He had no insurance, and he was the sole breadwinner for his family, including his two little girls. Word of his heroism spread, until it reached the Oakland Firefighters and the Oakland Tribune, who sprang into action in their own ways.
The Trib published this wonderful article and collected nearly $10,000 for the family. It was this sentence that caught my eye, however. "The fire crew that responded to Mendez's shooting also delivered holiday gifts to his daughters and will present the Oakland Fire Department Citizen Hero Award to Mendez after his release from the hospital. Firefighters also earmarked $1,000 for furnishings for the family once they relocate to a home that is wheelchair-accessible. " That sounds like the Random Acts folks to me.
Turns out, it was. That $1000 went straight from my baby brother to the family of this man, pausing only long enough for the phenomenal people at Random Acts to direct it. We love you, fire guys!
In October, some gunmen stabbed a man they were mugging in Oakland. Salvador Recinos Mendez intervened, pulling the victim into his car and driving off. The men then shot into his vehicle, hitting him in the back. The bullet ripped through his spinal cord, nearly killing him. He had no insurance, and he was the sole breadwinner for his family, including his two little girls. Word of his heroism spread, until it reached the Oakland Firefighters and the Oakland Tribune, who sprang into action in their own ways.
The Trib published this wonderful article and collected nearly $10,000 for the family. It was this sentence that caught my eye, however. "The fire crew that responded to Mendez's shooting also delivered holiday gifts to his daughters and will present the Oakland Fire Department Citizen Hero Award to Mendez after his release from the hospital. Firefighters also earmarked $1,000 for furnishings for the family once they relocate to a home that is wheelchair-accessible. " That sounds like the Random Acts folks to me.
Turns out, it was. That $1000 went straight from my baby brother to the family of this man, pausing only long enough for the phenomenal people at Random Acts to direct it. We love you, fire guys!
Saturday, January 2, 2010
My son has turned two!
Especially since he still looks just like he did at one, I have such a hard time seeing him as a two year old. He still seems like such a baby to me.
HOWEVER, my "baby" can now eat just about anything you put in front of him (excepting meat, which he chokes on). He regularly eats two bananas and two granola bars and half an apple at breakfast. He even stole the apple I got in my stocking, and tore into it on Christmas morning:
He also has taken to Signing Time, a program designed to teach children American Sign Language vocabulary so that they can better communicate with their parents and caregivers. He now has signs for MILK, MORE, FOOD, SIGNING, APPLE, PLEASE and BABY, and he can say our names, "mas", "banana", "night-night", "good job" and "uh-oh!" I can't stress enough how effective Signing Time has been for our kids (it has been enough that I have actually registered to teach a few classes of it).
So much good news. We even got in to see an endocrinologist at Doernbecher Children's Hospital in SW Portland, and we should be getting his hormone levels back in a week or so. However, a few days ago we went to Doernbecher's via the aerial tram (sky buckets!!!) up the hill to the hospital, and it was much better than trying to park up there. No joke, you park at the waterfront, hop in this thing, and can head up the mountain for cheap (roundtrip is $4):
My monkey-son loved the tram, yelping "Whee!" the whole way across. Then, we waited nearly 2 hours to be seen.
The cardiology group didn't have his records from Oakland, but I very nicely explained that he had a bicuspid aortic valve and a systolic murmur. They were very nice, and very surprised that I knew all of that, and all the nurses and docs fell in love with my rosy-cheeked angel boy. One tech did his EKG, and we were ready to head on out the door to come back again in 6 months for an Echo. "Ummm," the doctor started...
"I know that face," I thought. "I hate this part". Long story short, they're doing that "Well, it doesn't NECESSARILY mean anything, but could you come in for more tests?" stuff. They did not like something in his EKG, didn't tell me what, but he's going in for a heart ultrasound in early January. They'll let us just do it in clinic when we get his endocrinology results, but they're going to sedate him to do it this time (which bodes badly, since that generally means a much, much longer Echo). No idea hen that will be, but I have a feeling we'll be getting to know Doernbecher as well as we know CHoO!
Can't this kid EVER catch a break?
HOWEVER, my "baby" can now eat just about anything you put in front of him (excepting meat, which he chokes on). He regularly eats two bananas and two granola bars and half an apple at breakfast. He even stole the apple I got in my stocking, and tore into it on Christmas morning:
He also has taken to Signing Time, a program designed to teach children American Sign Language vocabulary so that they can better communicate with their parents and caregivers. He now has signs for MILK, MORE, FOOD, SIGNING, APPLE, PLEASE and BABY, and he can say our names, "mas", "banana", "night-night", "good job" and "uh-oh!" I can't stress enough how effective Signing Time has been for our kids (it has been enough that I have actually registered to teach a few classes of it).
So much good news. We even got in to see an endocrinologist at Doernbecher Children's Hospital in SW Portland, and we should be getting his hormone levels back in a week or so. However, a few days ago we went to Doernbecher's via the aerial tram (sky buckets!!!) up the hill to the hospital, and it was much better than trying to park up there. No joke, you park at the waterfront, hop in this thing, and can head up the mountain for cheap (roundtrip is $4):
My monkey-son loved the tram, yelping "Whee!" the whole way across. Then, we waited nearly 2 hours to be seen.
The cardiology group didn't have his records from Oakland, but I very nicely explained that he had a bicuspid aortic valve and a systolic murmur. They were very nice, and very surprised that I knew all of that, and all the nurses and docs fell in love with my rosy-cheeked angel boy. One tech did his EKG, and we were ready to head on out the door to come back again in 6 months for an Echo. "Ummm," the doctor started...
"I know that face," I thought. "I hate this part". Long story short, they're doing that "Well, it doesn't NECESSARILY mean anything, but could you come in for more tests?" stuff. They did not like something in his EKG, didn't tell me what, but he's going in for a heart ultrasound in early January. They'll let us just do it in clinic when we get his endocrinology results, but they're going to sedate him to do it this time (which bodes badly, since that generally means a much, much longer Echo). No idea hen that will be, but I have a feeling we'll be getting to know Doernbecher as well as we know CHoO!
Can't this kid EVER catch a break?
Christmas in Portland
So, given the stresses of the last few years, we decided to try and make the holidays as low key as possible. This, in part, meant having no big family celebrations for Christmas. Instead, my folks came up in early December, and we did a small, low-key gift exchange. My in-laws will be coming up in early January for a weekend as well.
Here's the Christmas picture we all took:
Yes, that IS my brother holding his 45 lb dog and STANDING. Isn't it miraculous? He's lost so much weight (and has a new nurse who is on him about his practice and exercise all the time). Coupled with prayer and luck, he's continued to make progress. He can even walk from his bedroom to his bathroom WITHOUT crutches now! (Any further and he is likely to fall down. He's sprained his ankle twice since we've been in Oregon). Even his new doctors are wowed.
Mentally and emotionally, he's not recovering as well or as fast (still very addled hen it comes to time, his short term memory is shot, and he has break-down fall-into-the-fetal-position-on-the-floor anxiety attacks over things as small as leaving the house, sometimes), but there is some movement toward health and away from the fog of terror and confusion he lives in. Please continue to keep him in your prayers!
Here's the Christmas picture we all took:
Yes, that IS my brother holding his 45 lb dog and STANDING. Isn't it miraculous? He's lost so much weight (and has a new nurse who is on him about his practice and exercise all the time). Coupled with prayer and luck, he's continued to make progress. He can even walk from his bedroom to his bathroom WITHOUT crutches now! (Any further and he is likely to fall down. He's sprained his ankle twice since we've been in Oregon). Even his new doctors are wowed.
Mentally and emotionally, he's not recovering as well or as fast (still very addled hen it comes to time, his short term memory is shot, and he has break-down fall-into-the-fetal-position-on-the-floor anxiety attacks over things as small as leaving the house, sometimes), but there is some movement toward health and away from the fog of terror and confusion he lives in. Please continue to keep him in your prayers!
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Flu
So, the kiddos have had their shots, but I don't have a doctor up in Oregon yet, so I haven't What does that mean? That means my Friday night was spent in bed, with a 101 fever, and puking my brains out. Ick.
What the real problem is though, is that we don't have a community of friends up here like we did in the Bay, which means when I couldn't get upstairs to get my monkey when he woke from his nap, he had to stay, crying, in his room for 2 hours. It took that long for the nausea to pass (and the tylenol to bring the fever down), and I felt (and feel) awful about it. We really need to get Tuffy, Miss Manhattan, and Little Bit up here so that we have a functional family (and can help each other when one of us is sick).
I get so panicked thinking about the "what if something happens to me" scenarios up here, and it is really, really scary. ::sigh:: Hopefully we'll all get reunited soon.
What the real problem is though, is that we don't have a community of friends up here like we did in the Bay, which means when I couldn't get upstairs to get my monkey when he woke from his nap, he had to stay, crying, in his room for 2 hours. It took that long for the nausea to pass (and the tylenol to bring the fever down), and I felt (and feel) awful about it. We really need to get Tuffy, Miss Manhattan, and Little Bit up here so that we have a functional family (and can help each other when one of us is sick).
I get so panicked thinking about the "what if something happens to me" scenarios up here, and it is really, really scary. ::sigh:: Hopefully we'll all get reunited soon.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
I need your help. I want to build something.
Some of you may recall the post I put up a short while back about the passing of my dear friend Tony. Well, as always happens when a loved one passes, I've been dwelling on it a lot. It's funny how the image of his hands with their surprisingly thin skin seems to hit me with more force than his face sometimes, or how I'll spend two hours unable to stop reliving a 10 minute conversation. I don't think I ever once drank rum with him, but he was known for his taste for it, and every once in a while, I take some time to just sit and slowly absorb a small glass, sip by melancholy sip, fancying myself closer to him somehow.
Tony was a marine biologist by training and spent a lot of his time volunteering at the Cal State Long Beach Science Learning Center and with their Mobile Science Museum, which went around to elementary and middle schools and showed off lots of little educational and fun demonstrations to get kids interested in science. Tony loved the sea, and his favorite portion of the display was the tanks that held the sea life. There was a loop playing at the funeral which included video of him showing sea stars to kids and playing to a crowd.
My wife still can't think about Tony without remembering the visit to his home when she opened a cooler looking for a drink and was attacked by the many tentacles of the octopi Tony was caring for in anticipation of bringing the Science Learning Center some new specimens. Even as a kid he loved the sea, and he volunteered at the Science Learning Center because he wanted to bring his passion to other youngsters. I have a very clear picture in my head of that exact image you see above, but with him as a boy, from when we were maybe 10 or 12 years old and we went to a local aquarium, that same amusement on his face as he reached into the touch tank. Here he is as a child, not too long after I first met him, I'm sure, with his beach-art of an anatomically correct shark (count the gills!).
Well, I recently got a very solid reminder that despite my feelings of loss, he isn't entirely gone from this world, and I decided I'd ask you all to help me keep another little piece of him with us. After his death, Tony's sister, Jane, and the director of the Science Learning Center, Jim McKibben, collaborated to set up the Anthony T. Liaw Memorial fund. I recently opened my email to see a notice from Tony's sister that the fund has until December 31, 2009 to hit the goal of $25,000. If we can meet this goal, that turns the fund into an endowment. That is, the funds would then be kept permanently and invested to provide income for continued support of the organization Tony spent so much time with. Currently, the fund is at around $17,000, which is certainly not too shabby. I'm writing this post in the hope that you all can help me push it over that line so it isn't just a one-time donation.
I also think it may be worthwhile to include a partial transcript of Jim McKibben's words at Tony's funeral, to give you someone else's perspective on why he was so special. After a brief introduction, Jim had the following to say.
He tutored many of his classmates. I would often walk into the Student Learning center to see Tony helping other students preparing for exams. From that point on, Tony became a regular part of the Science Learning Center. I would see him on an almost daily basis. Needless to say, through the years, Tony volunteered literally hundreds of hours of his time to make the program a success.
Because Tony had such a fondness for all animals, he took on the responsibility of helping to maintain the various animals in their enclosures. He took a great deal of delight in getting one of the snakes out for our presentations to our young visitors. He encouraged them to touch the snake, to overcome their fear of snakes. Tony was truly a natural when it came to helping people become comfortable around snakes and other animals. Tony mentioned to me on one occasion that he remembered when the mobile science museum had come to his school, and how it had made a lasting impression on him.
He was, without a doubt, the most reliable and dedicated volunteer the programs have ever seen. He was always punctual and I knew that I could count on him for his help whenever needed. Even after graduation, when Tony began working for California Department of Fish and Game, he told me to call him whenever we had an upcoming trip with the Mobile Science Museum, and if it was at all possible, he would be there. There were some special occasions when Tony was able to change his work schedule to help out with the Mobile Science Museum....Tony could always be seen at the touch tank, encouraging people to explore and touch the sea creatures that he found so fascinating. Tony was more than just a student volunteer, he became a close friend.
We talked about a whole range of topics as we rode in the mobile science museum to our visitation sites. ... Today, I can't help but walk by the Science Learning center and expect to see Tony sitting at a computer, looking up with his beaming smile and saying, "hi, Jim!" He will be forever missed, but he will be never forgotten.
The official announcement establishing the memorial fund included the above two photos and the following text.
The Anthony T. Liaw Memorial Fund has been established in his memory to support the Cal State University Long Beach Science Learning Center and Mobile Science Museum, a wonderful opportunity for children to learn about science and marine biology first-hand. The CSULB Foundation is a 501 C3 non-profit charity, and tax-deductible gifts may be made out to:
Tony was a marine biologist by training and spent a lot of his time volunteering at the Cal State Long Beach Science Learning Center and with their Mobile Science Museum, which went around to elementary and middle schools and showed off lots of little educational and fun demonstrations to get kids interested in science. Tony loved the sea, and his favorite portion of the display was the tanks that held the sea life. There was a loop playing at the funeral which included video of him showing sea stars to kids and playing to a crowd.
My wife still can't think about Tony without remembering the visit to his home when she opened a cooler looking for a drink and was attacked by the many tentacles of the octopi Tony was caring for in anticipation of bringing the Science Learning Center some new specimens. Even as a kid he loved the sea, and he volunteered at the Science Learning Center because he wanted to bring his passion to other youngsters. I have a very clear picture in my head of that exact image you see above, but with him as a boy, from when we were maybe 10 or 12 years old and we went to a local aquarium, that same amusement on his face as he reached into the touch tank. Here he is as a child, not too long after I first met him, I'm sure, with his beach-art of an anatomically correct shark (count the gills!).
Well, I recently got a very solid reminder that despite my feelings of loss, he isn't entirely gone from this world, and I decided I'd ask you all to help me keep another little piece of him with us. After his death, Tony's sister, Jane, and the director of the Science Learning Center, Jim McKibben, collaborated to set up the Anthony T. Liaw Memorial fund. I recently opened my email to see a notice from Tony's sister that the fund has until December 31, 2009 to hit the goal of $25,000. If we can meet this goal, that turns the fund into an endowment. That is, the funds would then be kept permanently and invested to provide income for continued support of the organization Tony spent so much time with. Currently, the fund is at around $17,000, which is certainly not too shabby. I'm writing this post in the hope that you all can help me push it over that line so it isn't just a one-time donation.
I also think it may be worthwhile to include a partial transcript of Jim McKibben's words at Tony's funeral, to give you someone else's perspective on why he was so special. After a brief introduction, Jim had the following to say.
He tutored many of his classmates. I would often walk into the Student Learning center to see Tony helping other students preparing for exams. From that point on, Tony became a regular part of the Science Learning Center. I would see him on an almost daily basis. Needless to say, through the years, Tony volunteered literally hundreds of hours of his time to make the program a success.
Because Tony had such a fondness for all animals, he took on the responsibility of helping to maintain the various animals in their enclosures. He took a great deal of delight in getting one of the snakes out for our presentations to our young visitors. He encouraged them to touch the snake, to overcome their fear of snakes. Tony was truly a natural when it came to helping people become comfortable around snakes and other animals. Tony mentioned to me on one occasion that he remembered when the mobile science museum had come to his school, and how it had made a lasting impression on him.
He was, without a doubt, the most reliable and dedicated volunteer the programs have ever seen. He was always punctual and I knew that I could count on him for his help whenever needed. Even after graduation, when Tony began working for California Department of Fish and Game, he told me to call him whenever we had an upcoming trip with the Mobile Science Museum, and if it was at all possible, he would be there. There were some special occasions when Tony was able to change his work schedule to help out with the Mobile Science Museum....Tony could always be seen at the touch tank, encouraging people to explore and touch the sea creatures that he found so fascinating. Tony was more than just a student volunteer, he became a close friend.
We talked about a whole range of topics as we rode in the mobile science museum to our visitation sites. ... Today, I can't help but walk by the Science Learning center and expect to see Tony sitting at a computer, looking up with his beaming smile and saying, "hi, Jim!" He will be forever missed, but he will be never forgotten.
The official announcement establishing the memorial fund included the above two photos and the following text.
The Anthony T. Liaw Memorial Fund has been established in his memory to support the Cal State University Long Beach Science Learning Center and Mobile Science Museum, a wonderful opportunity for children to learn about science and marine biology first-hand. The CSULB Foundation is a 501 C3 non-profit charity, and tax-deductible gifts may be made out to:
CSULB Foundation
c/o Jim McKibben, MS
Director, Science Learning Center/Mobile Science Museum
College of Natural Sciences & Mathematics
1250 Bellflower Blvd, FO5-104
Long Beach, CA 90840-4501
mckibben@csulb.edu (562) 985-4841
The Science Learning Center/Mobile Science Museum program website is under development at: www.beach-science.org.
Please help us establish this endowment, to let Tony's legacy continue to bring joy and education to thousands of kids in and around the Long Beach area, so that he may never be forgotten. Please help me do this last thing for my friend.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
We Need House
No, not a home...we have one of those. We need House, M.D., to help all the pediatricians, lab folks, and surgeons figure out what is wrong with my son. Because no one, and I mean no one, knows what is going on in his tiny little body.
So, about five months ago I wrote a post about my son's refusal to grow. Well, guess what? Over a year after his second surgery, he is the in the second percentile...still the exact same size as he was at 10 months of age. The good news is that it means he doesn't have to have anymore surgery for a while, because his brain isn't outgrowing his skull. This was confirmed with a check of his optical nerve, and there's no pressure, so he doesn't need to come back and see the surgeons for a whole year (barring any big changes or a problem at his eye check-up in 6 months).
The bad news is he isn't growing, period, and no one knows why.
He's been tested for CF, and when I go to his appointment on Tuesday with his new ped group, we'll have to get a referral to a pediatric endocrinologist to check his pituitary and thyroid, I suppose, but I'm just afraid he'll stay this way forever (and don't tell me that doesn't happen, because it does). I'm just afraid he'll stay this size or at this developmental level, or both, and that isn't the life I want for my son.
More appointments this coming week (regular pediatrics and another OT appointment), and hopefully we'll find a good endocrinologist for him. :/ Keep the little guy in your thoughts and prayers, please.
So, about five months ago I wrote a post about my son's refusal to grow. Well, guess what? Over a year after his second surgery, he is the in the second percentile...still the exact same size as he was at 10 months of age. The good news is that it means he doesn't have to have anymore surgery for a while, because his brain isn't outgrowing his skull. This was confirmed with a check of his optical nerve, and there's no pressure, so he doesn't need to come back and see the surgeons for a whole year (barring any big changes or a problem at his eye check-up in 6 months).
The bad news is he isn't growing, period, and no one knows why.
He's been tested for CF, and when I go to his appointment on Tuesday with his new ped group, we'll have to get a referral to a pediatric endocrinologist to check his pituitary and thyroid, I suppose, but I'm just afraid he'll stay this way forever (and don't tell me that doesn't happen, because it does). I'm just afraid he'll stay this size or at this developmental level, or both, and that isn't the life I want for my son.
More appointments this coming week (regular pediatrics and another OT appointment), and hopefully we'll find a good endocrinologist for him. :/ Keep the little guy in your thoughts and prayers, please.
Little Monkey's diagnosis
Remember Little Monkey? The sweet little angel baby with the skull problem who, 30 months ago we thought was going to be the big medical challenge for our family? He's almost 2 now, and still a sweet little love.
His beautiful wispy curls hide the scar very well, and he's fiercely happy, which is great. He climbs well, can carry a ball upstairs (in order to throw it down, chase it, and bring it back up) and signs for "milk," "more" and "food." I couldn't have asked for a more easy-going and laid-back kid.
Which, it turns out, is sort of a problem. On Tuesday, he and I trekked out to SW Portland for his evaluation by an occupational therapist. I know you're all wondering what could possibly be wrong with him, right?
Well, to start out, he doesn't talk, not really. When we first moved to Portland, he had NO words, no signs, and could communicate at all. Now he has "che-che" (leche, or "milk" in Spanish), "up!" and "Papa!" that actually mean something. He parrots a little now, too, which is awesome (before he would just sit in contented silence). Still, at 23 months of age, he's speech delayed.
We're still trying to schedule an evaluation with a speech pathologist, but the OT planned to check on the speech thing.
He's also not eating, like at all. He still guzzles Pedia-sure like he's afraid we're going to run out of it. For days at a time he'll refuse any solids, and then he'll be willing to eat some banana or bread (crackers, bread, chex, cheerios). However, he doesn't chew, he only sucks, so if he gets too much in his mouth at once, he gags and either throws up or aspirates. Apparently, he doesn't chew because his jaw-muscles aren't strong enough. He can bite you, and hard, but prolonged chewing is hard, and hurts, so he doesn't do it. This may have something to do with his lack of speech as well, I'd guess. We were given a little tube-toy to try and teach him to chew, and encouraged to work on it with him, since the very concept seems to elude him.
Then, as the lady was looking through her list, she realized that he has a few indicators of an autism spectrum disorder (mainly his fascination with ceiling fans/wheels and his silence). The boy does LOVE things that spin, and he is super quiet, so I had known they would be looking for this. Still, when the therapist was showing him one of those hit-the-ball-with-a-hammer toys, he copied her on the first try and then looked up at her to make sure he'd done it right, inquisition all over his face.
"Well, he's NOT autistic," she exclaimed, laughing. "Good," I thought. "So what is he?"
Turns out, the answer is "complacent." I mean, he is delayed, but that's sort of expected after his surgeries, but he should be catching up. The reason he isn't? It's hard, requires a lot of effort, and he's quite happy how he is, thank you very much. "Do you know any second-born boys?" she asked me, and I laughed, thinking of Needlenoggin and Tuffy. "Do you see a difference between them and their older siblings, especially sisters?" Again, I laughed. Tuffy's sister is very driven and accomplished, with a doctorate degree and she's going to law school. While not quite as impressive, *I* am Needlenoggin's sister, and have 2 kids, work, write, do art, am a wife and a full-time grad student. I went to Berkeley.
"Yeah, us older girls are a bit more driven," I admitted. She went on to explain that he chooses the path of least resistance (like spinning toys or bouncing a ball) because he can't make a mistake with them, and they make him happy. Stacking, drawing, whatever else, all take more effort, and he can fail at them, so he chooses things he's comfortable with instead.
"He'll work if there's something he really wants" she went on, which explains how and why he gets all worked up when I won't let him open or shut a door he wants to play with, but he works for happiness; either for him or for Tuffy and I. He'll do his "besos" trick (kissing us) because we laugh and squeal and smile and say "good job", and if we're happy, he's happy. So, we have to make sure he knows how happy we are when he stacks blocks, learns a new word or sign, or does something he's not comfortable with.
After discussing how well this complacency was going to work in school and being told he'll probably need external reinforcement, like praise and perks when he does well to motivate him, the OT said something really important:
"Crazy driven people, as adults, contribute a lot to society...medicine, law, what have you. In order to live whole and complete lives, to be truly fulfilled and happy, they need to LEARN to relax, and let go of perfectionism. Easygoing people on the other hand, are happier, but can end up lazy if they don't learn to work. Your son NEEDS to learn to chew, eat, talk, etc, but he'll do it if it makes him happy, or you or your husband or your daughter happy. So make it a game, and show him that doing these things makes life better for him."
I liked that, and we scheduled my boy for every week for the next couple months. He'll be going in for a speech eval as well, probably in November, and then we came home and packed up for his neurosurgical/plastic surgery/eye appointment on Thursday.
Sitting at the dinner table, I was telling Tuffy all about the chewing games we're supposed to work on, and how worried I am. He reached into a box of crackers, stuck one half of a Wheat Thin into Little Monkey's mouth, and chucked him under the chin. "Bite," he said as the cracker snapped in half. A few more times, and my son will now bite crackers in half. In two hours, Tuffy taught him what biting was, if not that he should actually chew his food! Progress, right?
His beautiful wispy curls hide the scar very well, and he's fiercely happy, which is great. He climbs well, can carry a ball upstairs (in order to throw it down, chase it, and bring it back up) and signs for "milk," "more" and "food." I couldn't have asked for a more easy-going and laid-back kid.
Which, it turns out, is sort of a problem. On Tuesday, he and I trekked out to SW Portland for his evaluation by an occupational therapist. I know you're all wondering what could possibly be wrong with him, right?
Well, to start out, he doesn't talk, not really. When we first moved to Portland, he had NO words, no signs, and could communicate at all. Now he has "che-che" (leche, or "milk" in Spanish), "up!" and "Papa!" that actually mean something. He parrots a little now, too, which is awesome (before he would just sit in contented silence). Still, at 23 months of age, he's speech delayed.
We're still trying to schedule an evaluation with a speech pathologist, but the OT planned to check on the speech thing.
He's also not eating, like at all. He still guzzles Pedia-sure like he's afraid we're going to run out of it. For days at a time he'll refuse any solids, and then he'll be willing to eat some banana or bread (crackers, bread, chex, cheerios). However, he doesn't chew, he only sucks, so if he gets too much in his mouth at once, he gags and either throws up or aspirates. Apparently, he doesn't chew because his jaw-muscles aren't strong enough. He can bite you, and hard, but prolonged chewing is hard, and hurts, so he doesn't do it. This may have something to do with his lack of speech as well, I'd guess. We were given a little tube-toy to try and teach him to chew, and encouraged to work on it with him, since the very concept seems to elude him.
Then, as the lady was looking through her list, she realized that he has a few indicators of an autism spectrum disorder (mainly his fascination with ceiling fans/wheels and his silence). The boy does LOVE things that spin, and he is super quiet, so I had known they would be looking for this. Still, when the therapist was showing him one of those hit-the-ball-with-a-hammer toys, he copied her on the first try and then looked up at her to make sure he'd done it right, inquisition all over his face.
"Well, he's NOT autistic," she exclaimed, laughing. "Good," I thought. "So what is he?"
Turns out, the answer is "complacent." I mean, he is delayed, but that's sort of expected after his surgeries, but he should be catching up. The reason he isn't? It's hard, requires a lot of effort, and he's quite happy how he is, thank you very much. "Do you know any second-born boys?" she asked me, and I laughed, thinking of Needlenoggin and Tuffy. "Do you see a difference between them and their older siblings, especially sisters?" Again, I laughed. Tuffy's sister is very driven and accomplished, with a doctorate degree and she's going to law school. While not quite as impressive, *I* am Needlenoggin's sister, and have 2 kids, work, write, do art, am a wife and a full-time grad student. I went to Berkeley.
"Yeah, us older girls are a bit more driven," I admitted. She went on to explain that he chooses the path of least resistance (like spinning toys or bouncing a ball) because he can't make a mistake with them, and they make him happy. Stacking, drawing, whatever else, all take more effort, and he can fail at them, so he chooses things he's comfortable with instead.
"He'll work if there's something he really wants" she went on, which explains how and why he gets all worked up when I won't let him open or shut a door he wants to play with, but he works for happiness; either for him or for Tuffy and I. He'll do his "besos" trick (kissing us) because we laugh and squeal and smile and say "good job", and if we're happy, he's happy. So, we have to make sure he knows how happy we are when he stacks blocks, learns a new word or sign, or does something he's not comfortable with.
After discussing how well this complacency was going to work in school and being told he'll probably need external reinforcement, like praise and perks when he does well to motivate him, the OT said something really important:
"Crazy driven people, as adults, contribute a lot to society...medicine, law, what have you. In order to live whole and complete lives, to be truly fulfilled and happy, they need to LEARN to relax, and let go of perfectionism. Easygoing people on the other hand, are happier, but can end up lazy if they don't learn to work. Your son NEEDS to learn to chew, eat, talk, etc, but he'll do it if it makes him happy, or you or your husband or your daughter happy. So make it a game, and show him that doing these things makes life better for him."
I liked that, and we scheduled my boy for every week for the next couple months. He'll be going in for a speech eval as well, probably in November, and then we came home and packed up for his neurosurgical/plastic surgery/eye appointment on Thursday.
Sitting at the dinner table, I was telling Tuffy all about the chewing games we're supposed to work on, and how worried I am. He reached into a box of crackers, stuck one half of a Wheat Thin into Little Monkey's mouth, and chucked him under the chin. "Bite," he said as the cracker snapped in half. A few more times, and my son will now bite crackers in half. In two hours, Tuffy taught him what biting was, if not that he should actually chew his food! Progress, right?
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Rorysaurus Update
So, we moved. And Tuffy isn't here except on some (most) weekends because his job is in CA. And Needlenoggin has moved into his home. And Rorysaurus has started at a new (very good) school:
I sort of expected this to be a transition for her, but not an especially bad one. I mean, she's made friends with the neighbor kids (riding her bike with one and inviting two others over to play in the backyard on the swingset I built her). She loves her new school, with the exception of an awful little bully girl who intentionally excludes her from things. She even has a little girl with the same first name in her class. This was all good, I thought, and knew she'd settle in eventually.
Well, as always, my version of "eventually" didn't take into account the way her world went, and her PTSD. Poor baby has reverted to peeing in her bed every night, had a couple of accidents at school, and is generally a lot more panicky and clingy than she has been the last few months. This is also the first year she's been really exposed to Halloween, and she's been WAY too interested in the blood/skeletons/scary green women making bone soup.
She's been telling us that if you fall "too far" you explode (to be fair, her uncle did kind of explode on her), and crying a lot, which panics me, which causes her more anxiety...still I was hoping we could deal with the cycle on our own.
However, I realized that we were really going to need to go back into the whole therapy thing with her at a store the other day. We were ealing through the costume aisle, looking for red face make-up for Tuffy (he and Jules are going as devils, while Rorysaurus and I are going as angels. Yes, we do find this funny). Anyway, she found a plastic sword and picked it up to explain to me how she, as "girl-Batman/Spiderman" was going to fight "bad guys." Well, this sword had a red-pseudo-blood-liquid in it, so when she moved it, the "blood" splashed around inside the clear plastic of the sword.
I hate being the parent with the screaming child in a store. And here she is, acting like she's having a Vietnam flashback, just screaming and screaming about the blood and the owies. I tried to explain to her that it was fake, but she is a very literal little girl, so that didn't take. Then, she paused, looking at the costume rack, and got very, very quiet.
I looked to see what had caught her attention. Right in front of her was one of those "knife-through-the-head" gags:
and next to it was a child's doctor costume:
"Crap," I thought. "This is NOT going to go well."
"Mama...is that a doctor like my doctor or is that like Little Monkey's head doctor?"
I confirmed that it was, indeed, a surgeon, and waited. She looked down at the sword, and back at the gruesome prop. "Ohhh," she started, "this is a doctor sword."
What?
"And this person here," she said, pointing to the kid with a knife in his head, "is going to go as Little Monkey for Halloween." Sometimes, her connections do not make any sense, and sometimes, I never even know what she's thinking, but for her to think that this bloody sword and this impaled child were what was done to her brother gave me chills. I must have looked horrified, because she patted my arm and told me that the surgeon only cut the boy's head so he'd get better, and besides, it was pretend.
Smiling, I started to move us to a less terrifying aisle. She didn't want to give the sword up. "Can I have the doctor sword, Mama?" she begged. I told her no, and bought her some piece of cheap, plastic, princess Aurora crap instead. Seriously, whose kid does this stuff?
Reluctantly, I dragged her into a new doctors' office in a neighboring city to meet an NP and get a referral to therapy. I want her to be alright, and part of me wants to deny that she has any problems and thinks if we do just ignore it, the whole mess will go away. I know that it won't, though, so we're heading back to therapy.
On the other hand, I do get some really fun moments with how aware she is. When her Pre-K class all colored a little skeleton to bring home, hers was the only red one. I asked why it wasn't pink, like EVERYTHING ELSE she brings home. "Because bones are inside you, with your blood," she explained, as if I were the child. Fair enough. She was also at school when some little boy fell off a swing and started to cry. She ran over to him, looked him in the eyes after helping him to his feet and asked, "is there blood?" When he said no, her response was, "Oh. Well, then, man up." ::Sigh:: She's fun, sometimes.
I sort of expected this to be a transition for her, but not an especially bad one. I mean, she's made friends with the neighbor kids (riding her bike with one and inviting two others over to play in the backyard on the swingset I built her). She loves her new school, with the exception of an awful little bully girl who intentionally excludes her from things. She even has a little girl with the same first name in her class. This was all good, I thought, and knew she'd settle in eventually.
Well, as always, my version of "eventually" didn't take into account the way her world went, and her PTSD. Poor baby has reverted to peeing in her bed every night, had a couple of accidents at school, and is generally a lot more panicky and clingy than she has been the last few months. This is also the first year she's been really exposed to Halloween, and she's been WAY too interested in the blood/skeletons/scary green women making bone soup.
She's been telling us that if you fall "too far" you explode (to be fair, her uncle did kind of explode on her), and crying a lot, which panics me, which causes her more anxiety...still I was hoping we could deal with the cycle on our own.
However, I realized that we were really going to need to go back into the whole therapy thing with her at a store the other day. We were ealing through the costume aisle, looking for red face make-up for Tuffy (he and Jules are going as devils, while Rorysaurus and I are going as angels. Yes, we do find this funny). Anyway, she found a plastic sword and picked it up to explain to me how she, as "girl-Batman/Spiderman" was going to fight "bad guys." Well, this sword had a red-pseudo-blood-liquid in it, so when she moved it, the "blood" splashed around inside the clear plastic of the sword.
I hate being the parent with the screaming child in a store. And here she is, acting like she's having a Vietnam flashback, just screaming and screaming about the blood and the owies. I tried to explain to her that it was fake, but she is a very literal little girl, so that didn't take. Then, she paused, looking at the costume rack, and got very, very quiet.
I looked to see what had caught her attention. Right in front of her was one of those "knife-through-the-head" gags:
and next to it was a child's doctor costume:
"Crap," I thought. "This is NOT going to go well."
"Mama...is that a doctor like my doctor or is that like Little Monkey's head doctor?"
I confirmed that it was, indeed, a surgeon, and waited. She looked down at the sword, and back at the gruesome prop. "Ohhh," she started, "this is a doctor sword."
What?
"And this person here," she said, pointing to the kid with a knife in his head, "is going to go as Little Monkey for Halloween." Sometimes, her connections do not make any sense, and sometimes, I never even know what she's thinking, but for her to think that this bloody sword and this impaled child were what was done to her brother gave me chills. I must have looked horrified, because she patted my arm and told me that the surgeon only cut the boy's head so he'd get better, and besides, it was pretend.
Smiling, I started to move us to a less terrifying aisle. She didn't want to give the sword up. "Can I have the doctor sword, Mama?" she begged. I told her no, and bought her some piece of cheap, plastic, princess Aurora crap instead. Seriously, whose kid does this stuff?
Reluctantly, I dragged her into a new doctors' office in a neighboring city to meet an NP and get a referral to therapy. I want her to be alright, and part of me wants to deny that she has any problems and thinks if we do just ignore it, the whole mess will go away. I know that it won't, though, so we're heading back to therapy.
On the other hand, I do get some really fun moments with how aware she is. When her Pre-K class all colored a little skeleton to bring home, hers was the only red one. I asked why it wasn't pink, like EVERYTHING ELSE she brings home. "Because bones are inside you, with your blood," she explained, as if I were the child. Fair enough. She was also at school when some little boy fell off a swing and started to cry. She ran over to him, looked him in the eyes after helping him to his feet and asked, "is there blood?" When he said no, her response was, "Oh. Well, then, man up." ::Sigh:: She's fun, sometimes.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The BORP ride
Let me first say that what BORP does is amazing. I mean, really and truly, it is a fantastic organization that gives so much to so many people. Giving people with disabilites the chance to participate in sports like goalball, powersoccer and wheelchair basketball is so tremendous, and their cycling program is the best I've ever seen.
That said, one of their fundraisers every year is the Revolution. It is a few bike rides, from 10 miles to 100 miles, as well as an auction and a festival, that raises funds for BORP's program. There are volunteers who ride at the front of tandem bikes so that blind riders and do the ride. People ride handcycles, tricycles, and other adaptive bikes, so that people of all ability levels can participate, from all age groups. Just thinking about the people we saw at the Revolution makes my heart swell, as so many of them face much greater obstacles than you or I, and they were still out there raising money for such a great cause.
Of course, you know Needlenoggin, Tuffy and I signed up for this a few months ago. The plan had been for Tuffy, the kids and I to do the 25 miler, and for Needlenoggin and Miss Manhattan to do the 10 miler. However, the move to Oregon sort of changed out plans, and since Miss Manhattan was feeling ill, we decided to do the 10 miler with Needle ourselves. My mom wached the kids at our home in Portland. We flew down the night before, rested as well as we could, and then trekked up to Napa to ready for the ride.
We got all suited up and ready to go, and then the ride began. Now, please remember, as you read this, that ONE year ago, almost to the date, Needlenoggin came home in a power wheelchair. He had a chest stap to keep him from falling out of the chair because his abdominal muscles wouldn't hold him up. He couldn't get in and out of bed by himself, shower, use the bathroom, and he was 290lbs. His lower body only felt one sensation...neuropathic pain, and his spasms were so bad that they could, and did, throw him out of his bed to the floor.
Helmet on, feet strapped into the pedals of a borrowed adaptive Sun Tricycle, Needlenoggin paused for just a moment at the starting line, and then pushed his left leg with all of his might. The bike moved forward. His right leg hasn't quite got to where it moves in any kind of automatic function, so the pedal moved it around as his left leg pumped. Down the bike trail we rode, talking about the trees and the plans for the evening, and petty soon, his right leg was into the ride as well, pushing and pulling for all it was worth. Up a hill, up another. "Well, at least the first half is uphill," I said. "That'll make the ride back easy."
Around the next corner, we came to a downslope, onto a street with cars. Needle didn't pause. Down he went, flying past other riders, and clearly enjoying himself. We turned onto the next bike path entrance, and I panicked. There was a lovely, meandering stream, all green moss and clear water, and across it, about 5 feet over the riverbed, was a wooden bridge, about 10 feet long. Needle has adamantly refused to traverse any wooden structure since the accident, something that has made a few doctors hard to see, and the back decks of his new home a challenge.
He went right over it, talking the whole while. He did the same with the next three bridges, one easily 100 feet long, that rattled in a slightly unsettling manner. Even when we came to a not-well-marked section of the trail and got a little lost, he helped us find the path and zoomed down the trail (cutting a few people off as he went, of course). Down, down, down.
We hit the turnaround point, and Tuffy and I checked to make sure we'd brought the necessary equipment to help haul Needlenoggin back up the 5 mile hill. We rested at the bottom, drank some water, and then we went back. Up, up, we climbed. Slower than the woman power-walking up the hill, we pedaled. Needle, too. The woman was giving exasperated glances at the disabled riders coming up and down the hill, and Needle nuttered under his breath "You think you're better than me because you can walk?" and redoubled his efforts. We passed her on a straight way, and he got very smug.
A mile further, and the trikes right back wheel hit a ditch, dumping Needle off the side of the road. Tuffy and I pushed the trike back onto the asphalt, and away he went. That was the only physical assistance we gave him.
As we got to the home stretch, Needle started sweating, and pushing himself as hard as he could. I tried to come up on the side of him, and he'd cut to the middle of the road, keeping me behind him. I realized we were racing when he laughed across one of those wooden bridges. Tuffy caught up, and we crossed the finish line a few feet behind one another, Needlenoggin first.
In just over an hour, my 240lb paralyzed brother, who was supposed to be on a respirator and checking for bedsores on his totally useless legs, had biked 10 miles. I was thrilled.
He was exhausted.
We took pictures and headed him, but not before handing over the big check to BORP. With everyone's help, Needlenoggin raised $7250 AND was able to buy an adaptive trike of his very own. Last week, in Portland, he harnessed up Dingo and took her for a run, all by himself. Such things were supposed to be impossible, absolutely out of reach, but he's had a miraculous recovery, and as a family, I think we've done alright together.
Now, look, Needle isn't perfect. In some ways, he's a young, teenage kid again, and that can sometimes make him thoughtless and irresponsible. When Tuffy's back tire went flat, Needle pushed on, not even thinking about waiting for Tuffy, who was prepared to drag him up the whole 5 mile hill. This has been very hard for my husband, who has given so much of his time, effort and sleep over to Needle's care, and who feels like there isn't a real connection between them. Needle's behavior isn't meant as an insult, he just doesn't think, and I think the mental issues due to hitting his head as hard as he did are really going to be his biggest challenge. Still, it was hard for Tuffy, who felt sort of left out the entire ride.
As of mid-September, Needlenoggin no longer lives with us, though he is close by. He has two part-time attendants and lives on his own with Dingo, and comes to visit us weekly. He even climbs the front steps and up into the play room to watch TV with the kids. We've found him a doctor at Oregon Health Sciences University. His next appointment, where he'll get all of his neuro/physical therapy/whatever appointments is on 10/28. He has no health insurance, but that's what the settlement was for, and he's stable on his medications.
Thank you to everyone.
That said, one of their fundraisers every year is the Revolution. It is a few bike rides, from 10 miles to 100 miles, as well as an auction and a festival, that raises funds for BORP's program. There are volunteers who ride at the front of tandem bikes so that blind riders and do the ride. People ride handcycles, tricycles, and other adaptive bikes, so that people of all ability levels can participate, from all age groups. Just thinking about the people we saw at the Revolution makes my heart swell, as so many of them face much greater obstacles than you or I, and they were still out there raising money for such a great cause.
Of course, you know Needlenoggin, Tuffy and I signed up for this a few months ago. The plan had been for Tuffy, the kids and I to do the 25 miler, and for Needlenoggin and Miss Manhattan to do the 10 miler. However, the move to Oregon sort of changed out plans, and since Miss Manhattan was feeling ill, we decided to do the 10 miler with Needle ourselves. My mom wached the kids at our home in Portland. We flew down the night before, rested as well as we could, and then trekked up to Napa to ready for the ride.
We got all suited up and ready to go, and then the ride began. Now, please remember, as you read this, that ONE year ago, almost to the date, Needlenoggin came home in a power wheelchair. He had a chest stap to keep him from falling out of the chair because his abdominal muscles wouldn't hold him up. He couldn't get in and out of bed by himself, shower, use the bathroom, and he was 290lbs. His lower body only felt one sensation...neuropathic pain, and his spasms were so bad that they could, and did, throw him out of his bed to the floor.
Helmet on, feet strapped into the pedals of a borrowed adaptive Sun Tricycle, Needlenoggin paused for just a moment at the starting line, and then pushed his left leg with all of his might. The bike moved forward. His right leg hasn't quite got to where it moves in any kind of automatic function, so the pedal moved it around as his left leg pumped. Down the bike trail we rode, talking about the trees and the plans for the evening, and petty soon, his right leg was into the ride as well, pushing and pulling for all it was worth. Up a hill, up another. "Well, at least the first half is uphill," I said. "That'll make the ride back easy."
Around the next corner, we came to a downslope, onto a street with cars. Needle didn't pause. Down he went, flying past other riders, and clearly enjoying himself. We turned onto the next bike path entrance, and I panicked. There was a lovely, meandering stream, all green moss and clear water, and across it, about 5 feet over the riverbed, was a wooden bridge, about 10 feet long. Needle has adamantly refused to traverse any wooden structure since the accident, something that has made a few doctors hard to see, and the back decks of his new home a challenge.
He went right over it, talking the whole while. He did the same with the next three bridges, one easily 100 feet long, that rattled in a slightly unsettling manner. Even when we came to a not-well-marked section of the trail and got a little lost, he helped us find the path and zoomed down the trail (cutting a few people off as he went, of course). Down, down, down.
We hit the turnaround point, and Tuffy and I checked to make sure we'd brought the necessary equipment to help haul Needlenoggin back up the 5 mile hill. We rested at the bottom, drank some water, and then we went back. Up, up, we climbed. Slower than the woman power-walking up the hill, we pedaled. Needle, too. The woman was giving exasperated glances at the disabled riders coming up and down the hill, and Needle nuttered under his breath "You think you're better than me because you can walk?" and redoubled his efforts. We passed her on a straight way, and he got very smug.
A mile further, and the trikes right back wheel hit a ditch, dumping Needle off the side of the road. Tuffy and I pushed the trike back onto the asphalt, and away he went. That was the only physical assistance we gave him.
As we got to the home stretch, Needle started sweating, and pushing himself as hard as he could. I tried to come up on the side of him, and he'd cut to the middle of the road, keeping me behind him. I realized we were racing when he laughed across one of those wooden bridges. Tuffy caught up, and we crossed the finish line a few feet behind one another, Needlenoggin first.
In just over an hour, my 240lb paralyzed brother, who was supposed to be on a respirator and checking for bedsores on his totally useless legs, had biked 10 miles. I was thrilled.
He was exhausted.
We took pictures and headed him, but not before handing over the big check to BORP. With everyone's help, Needlenoggin raised $7250 AND was able to buy an adaptive trike of his very own. Last week, in Portland, he harnessed up Dingo and took her for a run, all by himself. Such things were supposed to be impossible, absolutely out of reach, but he's had a miraculous recovery, and as a family, I think we've done alright together.
Now, look, Needle isn't perfect. In some ways, he's a young, teenage kid again, and that can sometimes make him thoughtless and irresponsible. When Tuffy's back tire went flat, Needle pushed on, not even thinking about waiting for Tuffy, who was prepared to drag him up the whole 5 mile hill. This has been very hard for my husband, who has given so much of his time, effort and sleep over to Needle's care, and who feels like there isn't a real connection between them. Needle's behavior isn't meant as an insult, he just doesn't think, and I think the mental issues due to hitting his head as hard as he did are really going to be his biggest challenge. Still, it was hard for Tuffy, who felt sort of left out the entire ride.
As of mid-September, Needlenoggin no longer lives with us, though he is close by. He has two part-time attendants and lives on his own with Dingo, and comes to visit us weekly. He even climbs the front steps and up into the play room to watch TV with the kids. We've found him a doctor at Oregon Health Sciences University. His next appointment, where he'll get all of his neuro/physical therapy/whatever appointments is on 10/28. He has no health insurance, but that's what the settlement was for, and he's stable on his medications.
Thank you to everyone.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Firefighters and Ice Cream
So, the firefighters who saved Needlenoggin's life, and were so careful in their care of him that his nerve pathways weren't destroyed, told him that once he could climb the stairs on their parade-rig fire-engine, they'd take him and Rorysaurus out to ice cream at Fenton's Creamery (recently featured in Pixar's movie, Up.
Well, stairs when your legs don't work is sort of an unfair challenge, but he was determined to do it (and I was for him, on the days he wasn't too determined about anything) and we kept working with the Slone guys and working out at home, because he really, really wants to impress those firefighters.
So, on September 2nd, a week from the year anniversary of his release from the hospital, they came to pick him up at our apartment. We wheeled him out to the sidewalk, and he went up the stairs, crutch in hand, to see the fire guys.
Click here to read the Oakland Tribune article or here to see the KTVU video.
Very good ice cream in HUGE portions was consumed:
The firemen didn't forget Rorysaurus, though, don't you worry. :) This was a few days after her 4th birthday party, remember, and they brought her a brand-new two-wheeler.
She was very grateful, let me tell you::
She goes about riding around in our neighborhood with it now (when it isn't raining, that is):
Back to Needlenoggin, though. He presented the firemen with a check for $5000, in order that they might help the next family they ran across who needed a Random Act of Kindness. Lo, an behold, a few weeks later, an Oakland man with two young daughters was shot and paralyzed trying to save a man he didn't know. Random Acts used some of Needlenoggin's money to send toys to his girls and help the family out.
Thanks to all of you reading this, and know I'll update about the BORP ride soon. :)
Well, stairs when your legs don't work is sort of an unfair challenge, but he was determined to do it (and I was for him, on the days he wasn't too determined about anything) and we kept working with the Slone guys and working out at home, because he really, really wants to impress those firefighters.
So, on September 2nd, a week from the year anniversary of his release from the hospital, they came to pick him up at our apartment. We wheeled him out to the sidewalk, and he went up the stairs, crutch in hand, to see the fire guys.
Click here to read the Oakland Tribune article or here to see the KTVU video.
Very good ice cream in HUGE portions was consumed:
The firemen didn't forget Rorysaurus, though, don't you worry. :) This was a few days after her 4th birthday party, remember, and they brought her a brand-new two-wheeler.
She was very grateful, let me tell you::
She goes about riding around in our neighborhood with it now (when it isn't raining, that is):
Back to Needlenoggin, though. He presented the firemen with a check for $5000, in order that they might help the next family they ran across who needed a Random Act of Kindness. Lo, an behold, a few weeks later, an Oakland man with two young daughters was shot and paralyzed trying to save a man he didn't know. Random Acts used some of Needlenoggin's money to send toys to his girls and help the family out.
Thanks to all of you reading this, and know I'll update about the BORP ride soon. :)
Happy birthday, Rorysaurus!
well, Rorysaurus made it through this year! It hasn't been easy for her, at all, and I felt very bad for her that we were moving her out-of-state right as she'd found some stability. She was super excited to have Batman at her birthday (although she was a little afraid of his size this year).
However, even Batman got upstaged near the end of the party. It was cake time, and Tuffy came out bearing one of the two Batman cakes I'd baked.
Then, behind him, bringing out the other cake, came my little brother:
With one crutch, he came out, set down the cake, and sat down. It was a lot of work for him, but he loves to show off. :) How is this possible, you might ask?
Well, remember my mentioning the Slone brothers, the chiropractors? They'd sent him home with a little box that zapped one side of his body or the other with electricity while he did some neurologically strenuous exercises. Basically this current widens his neuro-pathways, and lets him move his lower body better than he normally could, which lets him build more muscle than he usually could, which increases blood flow to the areas, which widens the pathways permanently. :)
Anyway, hard to believe that during last year's party he was undergoing his second spinal surgery because fluid was collecting in his back and we thought he was going to lose the use of his hands. Crazy.
However, even Batman got upstaged near the end of the party. It was cake time, and Tuffy came out bearing one of the two Batman cakes I'd baked.
Then, behind him, bringing out the other cake, came my little brother:
With one crutch, he came out, set down the cake, and sat down. It was a lot of work for him, but he loves to show off. :) How is this possible, you might ask?
Well, remember my mentioning the Slone brothers, the chiropractors? They'd sent him home with a little box that zapped one side of his body or the other with electricity while he did some neurologically strenuous exercises. Basically this current widens his neuro-pathways, and lets him move his lower body better than he normally could, which lets him build more muscle than he usually could, which increases blood flow to the areas, which widens the pathways permanently. :)
Anyway, hard to believe that during last year's party he was undergoing his second spinal surgery because fluid was collecting in his back and we thought he was going to lose the use of his hands. Crazy.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Legal Wrangling Ends!
That's correct, ladies and gentlemen, Needlenoggin's suit against those responsible for his accident has come to a close. Thanks, in large part, to the great law firm we were referred to, the defendants settled out of court, and the spectre of never-ending-mountains of debt has finally passed.
Now, to answer your very pressing questions.
How much?
None of your business. :) Seriously, though, remember that whatever the amount, a third went to the lawyer AND MediCal demands payment back for his weeks of rehab, his wheelchair, his surgeries and all of his medications (the bill from them alone was hundreds of thousands of dollars). Then Needlenoggin owed over $70,000 in back rent, food, clothing, medical services, and now he'll have to pay for all of his medications and doctors out of pocket until the healthcare disaster in this country gets fixed... You get the idea.
Are you going to tell us anything?
Yes. The settlement bought a house in Portland, Oregon for Needlenoggin (pictured below):
3 bedrooms, and a space for a live-in-nurse to live on the premises, since he'll likely need assistance for the rest of his life. It also paid to have the home fenced and ramped, the carpet torn out and make it wheelchair accessible. Then he'll get a check every month that should cover his medical expenses, utilities and pharmaceuticals. It should even probably buy him food.
He still is unable to work, but we're hoping he'll be able to get up and around and start working at least part-time eventually. From his one lump sum he has a few charity donations he is planning on doing, as well as buying some furniture (moving out of the hospital bed!) and some random electronic crap, but he's been very cautious about how he's been spending his money, with (almost) no large amounts spent.
As for us, we're moving in 2 weeks, right along with Needlenoggin, into a home of our very own:
The new house is about 8 miles from where Needlenoggin will be living, and right off of a bus line so he can come visit any time he'd like. He chose to buy his home in Portland because he knew it was where we wanted to go live, and he gifted us money for the down payment on our home.
And, since we no longer need the wheelchair van, we are arranging to sell it, and Needlenoggin has given Tuffy the money to buy a car for our family, as a thank you for this last year. We found a very nice, used Toyota Highlander on Craigslist (still under warranty) and bought it. We were incredibly touched, as we've been the recipient of his two big checks.
Anyway, the cancer issue isn't resolving itself, and Dingo is still limping about, but she's alive, home, and we're packing for the MOVE! Here's the photo of us all out celebrating the end of the lawsuit at Skates On The Bay.
Now, to answer your very pressing questions.
How much?
None of your business. :) Seriously, though, remember that whatever the amount, a third went to the lawyer AND MediCal demands payment back for his weeks of rehab, his wheelchair, his surgeries and all of his medications (the bill from them alone was hundreds of thousands of dollars). Then Needlenoggin owed over $70,000 in back rent, food, clothing, medical services, and now he'll have to pay for all of his medications and doctors out of pocket until the healthcare disaster in this country gets fixed... You get the idea.
Are you going to tell us anything?
Yes. The settlement bought a house in Portland, Oregon for Needlenoggin (pictured below):
3 bedrooms, and a space for a live-in-nurse to live on the premises, since he'll likely need assistance for the rest of his life. It also paid to have the home fenced and ramped, the carpet torn out and make it wheelchair accessible. Then he'll get a check every month that should cover his medical expenses, utilities and pharmaceuticals. It should even probably buy him food.
He still is unable to work, but we're hoping he'll be able to get up and around and start working at least part-time eventually. From his one lump sum he has a few charity donations he is planning on doing, as well as buying some furniture (moving out of the hospital bed!) and some random electronic crap, but he's been very cautious about how he's been spending his money, with (almost) no large amounts spent.
As for us, we're moving in 2 weeks, right along with Needlenoggin, into a home of our very own:
The new house is about 8 miles from where Needlenoggin will be living, and right off of a bus line so he can come visit any time he'd like. He chose to buy his home in Portland because he knew it was where we wanted to go live, and he gifted us money for the down payment on our home.
And, since we no longer need the wheelchair van, we are arranging to sell it, and Needlenoggin has given Tuffy the money to buy a car for our family, as a thank you for this last year. We found a very nice, used Toyota Highlander on Craigslist (still under warranty) and bought it. We were incredibly touched, as we've been the recipient of his two big checks.
Anyway, the cancer issue isn't resolving itself, and Dingo is still limping about, but she's alive, home, and we're packing for the MOVE! Here's the photo of us all out celebrating the end of the lawsuit at Skates On The Bay.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Hit and Run
So, we have a wonderful German nurse who helps with Needlenoggin's care. He's wonderful, efficient, and we wouldn't have made it out of this without him. Anyway, one of the things he actually enjoys doing is walking Dingo, Needlenoggin's dog.
Well, last night at around 9 pm, they were walking through the parking lot in a building adjacent to ours (because it has little grass islands in it that Dingo loves to sniff), and a silver SUV came through the driveway and hit the dog. It was a slow-speed impact, but the driver kept moving. She got trapped by a piece on the bottom of the SUV , and the SUV began dragging her. The nurse jumped in front of the SUV and waved his hands, screaming for the guy to stop. Both the passenger and driver just stared at him, didn't roll down their windows or turn off their music, and drove off.
This is how far she got dragged:
And, just so you are aware, that beige line is 10 feet long and made out of fur and blood:
Eventually she got untangled from the bottom of the car and bolted down the street. the nurse chased her two blocks and saw her turn, and then the security guard at the end of another 2 blocks saw her turn again. Then the nurse ran upstairs to tell Needlenoggin what was going on, because Tuffy, Miss Manhattan and I had just left to drop cars off at the shop.
So there we are, two blocks away getting gas, when Tuffy's phone rings. Tuffy calls Emeryville PD, and alerts them to a hit and run (a felony) and that we're looking for a service dog. We pack back into the cars and head home, knowing that the nurse is out on a bicycle looking. When we get back to our complex, though, we saw the saddest sight I've ever laid eyes on, and coming from me...
Needlenoggin was outside, near our apartment office. Since his wheelchair had been loaded into one of the cars we were using in the drop off, he wasn't able to get in the chair and roll out to search, so he'd propped himself up on his walking sticks and dragged himself, semi-upright, nearly a block, screaming and crying for his dog. When we found him, his voice was already hoarse.
We packed him into the car and continued the search. Needlenoggin called Animal Control and the local emergency vet clinic. Half an hour passed. Then another, then another. I was terrified that she'd sustained internal injuries and had slunk off into the bushes to die somewhere, so I kept looking to the side of the road while he called out. "Please, God," I thought. "Just let it be a broken leg. Let her be alive and not dying and let us find her for him." Needlenoggin decided he needed to go back inside and rest, and so we got him upstairs.
The phone rang. Someone had alerted the cops that they'd seen an injured dog at the bottom of the pedestrian walkway that goes over the railroad tracks:
I started to head back out of the house with Jason and Miss Manhattan. The phone rang again. It was a different officer, and he was getting reports of an injured dog ON the pedestrian bridge. This meant she'd climbed multiple flights of stairs, and was heading into unfamiliar territory.
We got in the car, and the phone rang. Some good Samaritan had picked her up, put her in his car, and was holding her, waiting for instructions from the police. We agreed to meet them near the far side of the walkway, by Amtrak.
She'd traveled over a mile:
Jason and Miss Manhattan climbed into the back of the car, we picked up Tuffy, and came to get Dingo. She was shaking and terrified, with hair missing all over, and skin missing in a bunch of places. Then we say her rear-right leg, where all the skin had been torn away:
It looked pretty mangled, and so Tuffy held her in the passenger seat while we sped away to the all-night Pet ER. A few shots of morphine later, she was calm enough that we could go in and say goodnight, and pay for the xrays and check-up. We finally got home at around midnight, but not before snapping a few pictures with Needlenoggin's phone.
This morning, we went back over, where they told us she had a minor fracture and may require some minor surgery in a few weeks to close her leg wound, but is otherwise in great shape. We paid for the surgical exam and more overnight wound care, and she'll be transferred to a boarding hospital tomorrow where she'll get visits from Needlenoggin every day, but where they can change her bandages as often as she needs and keep her happily medicated.
So tomorrow we move her from the Berkeley ER to the regular hospital (there aren't pet ambulances), and Needlenoggin is going to hold her in his lap.
Cost of first night's visit in the pet ER:
$1600
Cost of second night in the pet ER:
$1000
Boarding at the hospital for the next 10 days, with meds:
$1500 (approx)
The look on Needlenoggin's face when we were able to tell him she was okay, and coming home?
Priceless.
There are some things money can't buy. For everything else, there's siblings.
Well, last night at around 9 pm, they were walking through the parking lot in a building adjacent to ours (because it has little grass islands in it that Dingo loves to sniff), and a silver SUV came through the driveway and hit the dog. It was a slow-speed impact, but the driver kept moving. She got trapped by a piece on the bottom of the SUV , and the SUV began dragging her. The nurse jumped in front of the SUV and waved his hands, screaming for the guy to stop. Both the passenger and driver just stared at him, didn't roll down their windows or turn off their music, and drove off.
This is how far she got dragged:
And, just so you are aware, that beige line is 10 feet long and made out of fur and blood:
Eventually she got untangled from the bottom of the car and bolted down the street. the nurse chased her two blocks and saw her turn, and then the security guard at the end of another 2 blocks saw her turn again. Then the nurse ran upstairs to tell Needlenoggin what was going on, because Tuffy, Miss Manhattan and I had just left to drop cars off at the shop.
So there we are, two blocks away getting gas, when Tuffy's phone rings. Tuffy calls Emeryville PD, and alerts them to a hit and run (a felony) and that we're looking for a service dog. We pack back into the cars and head home, knowing that the nurse is out on a bicycle looking. When we get back to our complex, though, we saw the saddest sight I've ever laid eyes on, and coming from me...
Needlenoggin was outside, near our apartment office. Since his wheelchair had been loaded into one of the cars we were using in the drop off, he wasn't able to get in the chair and roll out to search, so he'd propped himself up on his walking sticks and dragged himself, semi-upright, nearly a block, screaming and crying for his dog. When we found him, his voice was already hoarse.
We packed him into the car and continued the search. Needlenoggin called Animal Control and the local emergency vet clinic. Half an hour passed. Then another, then another. I was terrified that she'd sustained internal injuries and had slunk off into the bushes to die somewhere, so I kept looking to the side of the road while he called out. "Please, God," I thought. "Just let it be a broken leg. Let her be alive and not dying and let us find her for him." Needlenoggin decided he needed to go back inside and rest, and so we got him upstairs.
The phone rang. Someone had alerted the cops that they'd seen an injured dog at the bottom of the pedestrian walkway that goes over the railroad tracks:
I started to head back out of the house with Jason and Miss Manhattan. The phone rang again. It was a different officer, and he was getting reports of an injured dog ON the pedestrian bridge. This meant she'd climbed multiple flights of stairs, and was heading into unfamiliar territory.
We got in the car, and the phone rang. Some good Samaritan had picked her up, put her in his car, and was holding her, waiting for instructions from the police. We agreed to meet them near the far side of the walkway, by Amtrak.
She'd traveled over a mile:
Jason and Miss Manhattan climbed into the back of the car, we picked up Tuffy, and came to get Dingo. She was shaking and terrified, with hair missing all over, and skin missing in a bunch of places. Then we say her rear-right leg, where all the skin had been torn away:
It looked pretty mangled, and so Tuffy held her in the passenger seat while we sped away to the all-night Pet ER. A few shots of morphine later, she was calm enough that we could go in and say goodnight, and pay for the xrays and check-up. We finally got home at around midnight, but not before snapping a few pictures with Needlenoggin's phone.
This morning, we went back over, where they told us she had a minor fracture and may require some minor surgery in a few weeks to close her leg wound, but is otherwise in great shape. We paid for the surgical exam and more overnight wound care, and she'll be transferred to a boarding hospital tomorrow where she'll get visits from Needlenoggin every day, but where they can change her bandages as often as she needs and keep her happily medicated.
So tomorrow we move her from the Berkeley ER to the regular hospital (there aren't pet ambulances), and Needlenoggin is going to hold her in his lap.
Cost of first night's visit in the pet ER:
$1600
Cost of second night in the pet ER:
$1000
Boarding at the hospital for the next 10 days, with meds:
$1500 (approx)
The look on Needlenoggin's face when we were able to tell him she was okay, and coming home?
Priceless.
There are some things money can't buy. For everything else, there's siblings.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Cancer
No, not Tuffy or the kids, or Needlenoggin or I. But someone we're very close to, and it may change the course of our next 6-12 months. I'm concerned about that, but know it is a life changing event for our friend, which makes me feel guilty about how it effects me/Tuffy/Needle/the kids, and I am certainly grieving for our friend and hoping for a quick recovery.
The friend was told two weeks ago it was a small, operable tumor, and hadn't spread, but today was told it was starting to. They've scheduled the surgery for Monday.
The friend was told two weeks ago it was a small, operable tumor, and hadn't spread, but today was told it was starting to. They've scheduled the surgery for Monday.
Up through the end of July update
So, we were in SoCal twice this month, and decided to take Rorysaurus to Disneyland for the first (and second, and third) times. Needlenoggin had been telling us he wanted to take her on her first trip since the October before the accident when he moved in with us, so we decided (after clearing what rides he could do with his doctor) to head on out.
He gave her a ride on the wheelchair up to the castle, which she has recognizes as "Princess Aurora's Castle!!!!!!" Then we took the obligatory "first visit to D-land" photo.
Anyway, he took her on a couple of rides,
He's also been working more and more with Slone Chiropractic, and their nerve-stimulating machine. They even gave him one to use at home (basically it runs a current through your nerves to enlarge the electrical pathways and helps people with nerve damage move), and he's been getting more and more sensation and movement! Here's hoping the progress continues!
He gave her a ride on the wheelchair up to the castle, which she has recognizes as "Princess Aurora's Castle!!!!!!" Then we took the obligatory "first visit to D-land" photo.
Anyway, he took her on a couple of rides,
He's also been working more and more with Slone Chiropractic, and their nerve-stimulating machine. They even gave him one to use at home (basically it runs a current through your nerves to enlarge the electrical pathways and helps people with nerve damage move), and he's been getting more and more sensation and movement! Here's hoping the progress continues!
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