Vision Quest

So, last night after washing my face and I picked up my glasses to put them back on. As I raised them to my face, the left lens fell out onto the floor and I saw that my nearly new (only 6 months!) glasses frame had broken.
For me, this is a bit of a disaster as I can't see to do anything without my glasses. I've worn glasses since I was two years old. My vision is pretty crappy - I don't use my left eye at all, despite years of patch wearing - man, I hated that patch over my right eye. I couldn't even watch tv and enjoy it when the patch was on.
So, last night - around 11 - dearest husband went out to Walgreens to buy crazy glue. While he was gone, I couldn't do anything! Couldn't read, couldn't watch tv, nothing. So I put on a video to listen to (strange habit of mine, I'll have to write about that another time) and went to bed.
This morning dh let me know he'd had to glue the lens to the frame, as there was no way to secure the frame and then pop the lens in.
I went to the original place of purchase and the glasses are still under warranty, but the salesperson wasn't sure whether the same frames are still available. She'll get back to me, but it still likely will be 10-14 days.
I then traipsed to Lenscrafters, planning to secure a new pair in one hour, but yet again my hopes were dashed. My particular type of lens isn't kept in stock, so I left in about an hour, less about $352 and still wearing my crazy-glued pair. My new glasses should be ready in about 9 days.
The sales clerk at Lenscrafters was impressed with my husband's glue job.
As my youngest said, "Hey, Mom, it's better than duct tape."

Memorial Day

Atomic Blast, Bikini Atoll, 1946

When I was a child, I don't remember my family being especially patriotic. We didn't make a point of attending parades and we marked July 4th merely with a few sparklers and some watermelon.
I didn't even realize until I was nearly an adult that my dad had been in the navy. He probably missed being considered part of Tom Brokaw's "The Greatest Generation" by a few years - or maybe even months.
When my dad was in high school in rural Iowa, WWII was in full swing. Like most other young men of the time, he knew the draft awaited him as soon as he graduated. He went ahead and enlisted in the Navy before graduation, figuring the Navy would be a better place to serve than the army.
Fortunately, by the time basic training was finished, the war was over, so my dad never saw combat. Instead, he was a radio operator on a support ship in the Bikini Atoll for Operation Crossroads. In the summer of 1946, the U.S. Navy decided to test the effects of atomic weapons on various types of naval vessels by detonating atomic bombs over the chosen ships and underwater.
My dad remembered being present for the blasts, with the crews of the ships, supposedly at "safe" distances from ground zero, remaining on deck and merely closing their eyes and covering their heads during the explosions. When the blasts were over and the ships were brought closer to the targets to investigate the damage, my dad remembered seeing huge cannons simply wilted over like flower stalks too long out of water.
During the operation, the crews of the various naval vessels swam in the lagoon, ate fish from the lagoon and showered in water from the lagoon. All of this was considered safe at the time.
Fast forward 50-some years and it is 2004 and my dad, who has had increasing respiratory problems over the past several years, comes down with a massive infection. The doctor sends him to a hematologist, who diagnoses my dad with myelodysplastic syndrome, a blood disorder resulting from mutations in the bone marrow that causes the red blood cells that are produced to be ineffective.
Now, my dad was 77, a typical age for those who receive this diagnosis. But his hematologist remarked that he had never seen so many different types of mutations as were in my dad's bone marrow. The only explanation, he said, was an exposure to radiation at some point in my dad's life.
My dad was a farm boy who later became a horticulturist, teacher, lecturer and newspaper columnist. The only radiation exposure he ever had was at Operation Crossroads.
He was diagnosed in May 2004 and died on July 3 of the same year. The progression of the disease was devastating and fast. A misguided surgery attempt to find internal abdominal bleeding left him to spend his final two weeks in intensive care, suffering from intensive care psychosis and unable to make his own medical decisions or say his final farewells.
Basically, my father bled to death before my eyes and those of my sisters and his wife of more than 50 years.
Shortly after his death, I did a little internet investigating and came across the website of the Atomic Veterans. This is an organization of veterans of all branches of the military who were present during various atomic events in the 1940s, '50s and even '60s. Through the site I came across information about the Radiation Exposure Compensation Act passed in 1990. My husband and I helped my mom gather together all the necessary documents, proving their marriage, that my dad had in fact been in the navy and was present at Operation Crossroads, his diagnosis and a letter from his doctor.
Unfortunately, our case wasn't strong enough and the government denied my mother's claim for compensation. You see, myelodyplastic syndrome wasn't listed under the "acceptable" diseases known to be caused by radiation exposure. Though myelodysplasia is considered a pre-leukemic condition - in other words, over time, the patient will develop leukemia - my dad did not, in fact, have leukemia.
The government refused to acknowledge its role in my father's death.
I suppose I should be glad that my dad lived a full life, that my sisters and I suffer from no birth defects, and that, though horrible, my dad's death did not drag on for months or years - and I am.
But it was so hard to lose him earlier than we should have. Other than arthritis, my dad was healthy as a horse before the diagnosis, and longevity runs in his family.
So my dad's death joins those of so many others for whom the government refuses to acknowledge any level of responsibility. I can't help but think of the current crop of injured veterans from our latest war in Iraq and Afghanistan and the reports of inadequate care, poor living conditions and the financial suffering of their families.
I am glad I live in the United States. I wouldn't give up my freedoms and I take the responsibilities inherent in living in democracy seriously.
But I would be much prouder of my government - of any government - if it would admit mistakes and take care of its own.
Maybe someday.

Graduation

Today my youngest son graduates from high school.

As I sit here writing this, it seems I can remember every moment of his 18 years. The baby who scared me our first night home from the hospital because he slept through the night; I, however, didn’t, because I had to keep making sure he was still breathing! The first time he and his older brother actually played together; we had just gotten home from the grocery store and I was in the kitchen putting things away. Zach was about 6 months old. I heard this hysterical laughing in the next room as Stephen, 2 ½, and he were playing a version of peek-a-boo and chase around our swiveling chair.

The toddler who was glued to my side; the little boy with an insatiable appetite for being read to. He especially loved tales of King Arthur, Robin Hood and Peter Pan; later this would switch to Shakespeare and Terry Pratchett.

His comment after being left in the toddler room at church one Sunday: “Mommy, there are crazy people in there!”

His unquenchable appetite for fruit of any kind; the only one of my children who truly loves and has loved every single pie I have ever made.

After his older brother boarded the bus for 1^st grade, Zachary saw me crying. “Don’t worry, Mommy, I’ll take care of you.”

Ah, all those moments and the years flew by.

They aren’t all sweet memories, however.

There was a time when I didn't know whether he would ever be able to live an independent life; whether he would ever be able to leave home.

Zachary’s graduation from high school is a triumph of the will and spirit of this extraordinary boy. Hindsight is 20/20, as they say, and when I look back now with my current knowledge and experience, I can see the beginnings of Zachary’s anxiety disorder back before he was 3. But his problems intensified with each passing year, making his elementary school years full of torment and heartache,

Mental illness runs in my family. The tendrils reach back generations on both my husband’s and my sides. My mother has struggled with low level depression most of her life; my father’s brother undoubtedly suffered from OCD/hoarding, my dad had a certain type of obsessive personality with hoarding tendencies, though he would have vehemently denied this. My husband’s great, great aunt apparently threw herself down a well! Several of my husband’s uncles also committed suicide, with several of my sister’s-in-law in recent years being diagnosed with depression. A nephew on each side of the family struggles with anxiety, another with bipolar disorder. I believe one of my sisters has OCD and another has fought minor depression. My oldest son has severe OCD and major depressive disorder, I have major depressive disorder with anxiety and my older daughter has OCD with generalized anxiety disorder.

Whew! What a bunch of loonies, huh?

The thing about all the above-mentioned people, including myself, is that none of them had yet been diagnosed when my children were struggling, and many of the older people never would seek treatment. There was little support for what my children were going through, especially from family.

Nothing is quite as isolating as a fight with mental illness, except perhaps leprosy or the plague.

By the time Zach was 9, I was telling his brother’s therapist of my other son, who couldn’t stop worrying, mostly about school, but pretty much about anything and everything. He couldn’t sleep, because the litany of worries, both real and imagined, would scroll through his mind all night long. If he could get them to stop, then he would worry about not getting enough sleep.

His worries about school were unfounded – he was an A student, was well-liked, never got into trouble. Yet, these were just the things he worried about, day-in and day-out, week after week, year after year.

That’s the thing about mental illness; your thoughts and troubles are often irrational and operate without your consent.

Why didn’t I just bring him home? Why didn’t we alter his environment instead of “labeling” him? These are questions I’ve seen asked of other parents who are concerned about their children’s mental health. As for my family, I did want to bring Zach home, but he didn’t want to leave school. I spent nearly every moment of every day working for him and with him to minimize his anxiety as much as I could.

As for the “label” – would I worry about “labeling” my child if he had a heart problem, diabetes or cancer? I tried everything to help him, literally for years, but realized I couldn’t ameliorate his suffering. He needed professional help.

My son has a mental illness. Saying that is no more of a label than any other biochemically-based disease or disorder of the body. Those who are concerned about a mental illness diagnosis need to examine their own prejudices and stereotypes regarding the mentally ill. I know I’ve had to confront mine over the past 10 years.

By the time he was 10, Zach was in treatment and on medication. It took several tries to find the right meds, though fortunately he never had issues with side effects. Yet, the anxiety continued to control Zach, not the other way around.

He began to have full-blown panic attacks. Shaking, crying uncontrollably, feeling as if he was going to suffocate or his heart was going to burst out of his chest. I’ve never felt as helpless in my life as during these attacks. All I could do was hold him, help him visualize calming scenarios. Sometimes, the only thing that would help the attacks subside my husband helping him take a cold shower.

I’ll never forget my little boy crying in my arms, saying “Mom, if this is what it’s going to be like, I don’t think I want to go on.”

Gradually, the severe panic attacks subsided, yet the anxiety lived on, crushing his every day. The only thing that made 6^th grade bearable for him was a fabulous teacher who worked diligently to help him handle his worries, and alterations we had made via a 504 plan at school.

Yet, despite the medication and the therapy, he really wasn’t making any progress. 7^th grade rolled around, and I could see he was in for yet another year of misery. Finally, I couldn’t take it any more, and my husband and I decided to take him out of school. Perhaps with a break from the unrelenting anxiety, he would learn to use the tools he’d been given to take control if his illness.

This was the best decision I ever made for him.

Zach still suffered from anxiety, as he always will, but the year and half he spent out of school gave him enough of a break from the worst of his anxiety that he could work on implementing coping strategies and come to terms with the fact that there was no “magic bullet” that would make it all go away. During this time he still suffered from unusually high anxiety. Public school did not cause his anxiety disorder and taking him out of school did not make disappear.

He chose to take 3 classes: band, creative writing and Spanish, at a nearby high school in what would have been his 8^th grade year in school so he could keep fighting to conquer his illness.

It was his decision to go to high school full-time his freshman year. He wanted to know that he could handle the anxiety and work through it during the four years of high school. He feared staying home for high school and perhaps merely putting off having to deal with the anxiety until college. It was a wise and mature decision on his part, though I must admit I was a bit of wreck at the thought that his suffering might return in the extreme.

We also sent him to a high school in Des Moines, rather than in the affluent suburb in which we used to live. We discovered the Des Moines public schools were much more willing to work with us and in our son’s best interests than we’d ever before experienced. We carried over the accommodations from his 504 plan, which included lots of communication between us and his teachers, his being given the schedule for the week regarding homework/tests from each teacher, extra time for tests as needed, etc.

We found that as the year went by, his need to use the accommodations decreased as his confidence and control of his illness increased. This would be the pattern throughout the following three years.

So, this evening I will attend his high school graduation, my heart full of love and admiration for this young man who never gave up. He fought so hard to be in control of his own life and won the battle. He has learned to live with this lifelong illness. He plans to study psychology and Spanish in college, so he can embark on a career as a therapist.

He plans a lifetime of giving; of sharing his compassion and first-hand knowledge of what it is like to suffer from a mental illness one’s whole life, while helping others deal with their own mental illnesses.

He is an inspiration to everyone.

Lilac Loveliness

Lilacs are in full bloom now in central Iowa. These were a mother's day gift from Michael. I also got to order two lilac bushes to plant in our front yard.


Sarah and Melissa at a Lilac Arboretum nearby. There was large home school gathering there yesterday, but Melissa and I decided to visit an equally socially-reclusive friend instead of braving the crowd, and Sarah, of course, was in school.


So how did we get these pictures, you ask?
Well, I often worry that my social issues will unduly influence Melissa and cause her to miss out on activities that she might otherwise enjoy. Although, she hates large groups and park outings, and has since she was little. So, it really isn't my fault.


No, it isn't my fault. Really.

But, just in case, we went the evening before and had a lovely time amongst the gorgeous lilacs.
Now, I don't have to feel guilty.
Or maybe, only a little bit.

Monday, Monday

Monday was a really productive day for me. I found a whole wheat bagel recipe. It was easy and fast to make them - and lots of fun to watch them pop-up in the boiling water stage!


I know they look burned, but it was just the poppy seeds I used for topping. I also dipped them in sesame seeds and a little garlic salt.

Melissa arranged all the foods and took these and all the following food pictures.

I had bought a lot of rhubarb at the farmer's markets here in the last couple of weeks. I intended to freeze some, but am short of freezing containers. So, I used up some rhubarb by making a whole grain quick bread.


I also made these rhubarb custard pies.

The rhubarb custard pie was my mother-in-law's recipe. It was the first pie she ever made as a little girl, probably some time in the 1930s. The recipe is easy as, well, pie.


Hilde's Rhubarb Pie

1 cup rhubarb
1 cup cream
1 cup sugar
a little white flour for thickening.

Bake at 350 degrees for 45-50 minutes, or until done.

It is absolutely sinfully delicious! Years ago I tried making it with whole milk or even half and half instead of cream, but neither one approached the incredible decadence of the original.

Go ahead, make one.
You know you want to.

Look what I found...

I pulled out an old bread-making cookbook this morning to search for a whole grain bagel recipe. I remember that this book came with the hearth oven insert I got for Christmas 6 or 7 years ago and I haven't ever really used it. (The book, not the insert).
I opened the book and out fell another Christmas present I received that year from Stephen, who was 12 or 13 at the time.

A Sonnet for Mommy

You are the rock I build upon,
You are my substitute for earthly brawn,
You are the master up to which I run,
You are the source of all my heavenly fun.
You are the shade that helps to dim the glare,
That keeps the sun off my precious lair.
You are the mace that keeps away the bear.

You are my lantern in the dark of night,
You are the shelter where I hide in fright.
You are the book I read each day with care
To find the path to trod on, if I dare.
You are my harbor on a stormy sea,
You give me the strength to get up and be,
The strength I need to stand up and be me.

Merry Christmas, Mom. I love you, Stephen.

I love you, too, Stephen!!

Every day is Mother's Day...

Stephen

There just aren't words to describe how much I love my children.
So today, on Mother's Day, I want to thank them each for making me a mother.
I also want to thank my husband, who has made it possible for me to be the best mom I can be.

Zachary

Today was a great day, full of love for each other. It started with blueberry buckle, the newspaper and coffee; followed by a delightful walk in Brown's Woods, a little mushroom-gathering and garden-planting. Now, we're soon to finish the day with homemade pizza and salad, shared together with much laughter at the dinner table.

Sarah


As time passes, love only grows deeper.

Melissa

I love you guys!

You make every day Mother's Day.

Joys of Spring

Today we got up early to hit the first Downtown Des Moines Farmer's Market of the season. DH, Melissa and I arose at about 6, leaving enough time to take the dog out, make a pot of coffee and drink a cup, and snuggle on the couch a bit before leaving.

Farmer's markets usually create a fair amount of anxiety for me - what if there's something good and I miss it? What if I'm not there early enough to get the best selection? This can make a trip to the market with me a bit, well, unpleasant. But today was different, somehow. Either I'm conquering this particular anxiety (yeah, right) or it's because there's not much besides greens, rhubarb and asparagus this time of year.

Except for the rain, we had a fun time, the three of us. I'm thrilled with the produce I got as well: salad mix, spinach, asparagus, ramps, garlic and leeks. We found some fantastic locally produced whole grain bread (dried cherry walnut was incredible!) and an array of cheeses from a local dairy.

Oh, and this is what happens when you ask your dh to take picture of the produce you bought at the market and he decides to get all artsy:




This is actually the third farmer's market Melissa and I have been to so far this season. There is another market on Thursdays in West Des Moines, where we've stocked up on tomatoes (greenhouse grown, but at least locally), salsa, rhubarb and morel mushrooms.

I've decided to set a goal for myself: to attempt to shop only at farmer's markets or buy locally grown essentials (milk, flours, etc.) for the season. I don't know if I'll be able to accomplish this, but it will be fun to try.

I've already thought of a couple of exemptions, such as sugar (I'll use honey as much as possible for a substitute) and items such as baking powder, baking soda, vanilla and certain herbs and other seasonings.

Hmm, maybe I should only try this for a month??

And, no Zachary, if we want ice cream that means we have to make it ourselves from local cream. It does not mean that I send you or dad out to buy it instead of me!!

Yesterday, when they were young...

Stephen, 1988

Saturday evening was my second oldest son's senior prom. He will graduate later this month. Next week, my oldest son finishes his sophomore year in college. My oldest daughter is finishing her freshman year in high school and my youngest daughter is now 11.

It seems like only yesterday when I was a mom of four children under the age of 10. I can remember exactly how it felt to hold each of them in my arms, inhaling that wonderful baby smell and feeling their soft, fuzzy heads against my cheek. I remember their first words (hi, truck, dada, and mama, respectively), when they each first walked, their favorite baby foods, their triumphs and their sadnesses.

Zachary, 1990

The years have simply flown by, as every grandmother will tell you. Even when you know this and work to cherish every moment, it still is startling to one day be holding your little boy's hand while crossing the street and the next day have to crane your neck to look up at him.

Sarah, 1993

I am so incredibly proud of my children. They each are such good people; kind, caring, considerate, funny, responsible, witty... I could go on. I feel fortunate that, so far, they have decided to attend colleges close to home, so I am as yet spared the separation of a child living far away.Melissa, 1997

So it is with melancholy that I greet this spring. My children are becoming independent adults with lives that are more separate from mine than ever before. So, while I am, of course, proud and happy, I also cry a little as I let them go.

Melissa's Magic

Melissa has turned into a fearless crocheter this year! We discovered the wonders of felting and she has really gone to town, turning out purses galore and now watch this:




With just two cycles in the washing machine, she's created a basket! This one is for one of her dear friends whose birthday is in a week or so.



Cool, huh?