Home Alone

My girls are spending 10 days with my mom in Arkansas.
I'm the one who planned this time for them; a chance to have time with their grandma and company for my mom.
What I didn't anticipate, and should have, is the aimless drift of my days without them here. I don't know quite what to do with myself, which seems somewhat pathetic. As a 44-year-old, shouldn't I have tons of activities, hobbies, etc., to keep myself busy?
Granted, I could be cleaning my house, but I tend to avoid that at all costs anyway. I have done a bunch of cooking, and spent an afternoon freezing blueberries and strawberries. My husband and I have watched more movies than we usually do.
I can read, I can crochet - I have several books started and scads of crocheting projects to work on.
But I can't shake that feeling of purposelessness.
It reminds me of the first day of preschool for my youngest daughter. I felt so alone and didn't quite know what to do with myself for those two long hours.
I think what scares me about this is the knowledge that I don't know what I want to be when I grow up. What will I do when my youngest leaves home in 7 or so years? I'm a worrier, and once I get started on this track, I can work up quite a lot of anxiety.
So, I start to look at graduate programs in the area; master's of education at Drake University, a master's of social work from the University of Iowa. But I don't yet feel prepared to dedicate myself to something so potentially all-encompassing as a graduate degree when my youngest is still unschooling at home.
So, I surf the internet (a lot), make a couple of pies, and bemoan the state of my house.
I miss my girls.
A lot.

Local in Kansas City

We are traveling this week, visiting my mom in Springdale, Arkansas. I didn't think I'd be able to post a local meal this week, but while staying a couple of days in Kansas City, Missouri, I came upon a locavore's dream: Blue Bird Bistro.
This small restaurant is nestled in an old Kansas City neighborhood, making its home in a converted 1900-ish house. We made reservations for brunch on Sunday, June 15. Although it was Father's Day and the restaurant was bustling, our service was knowledgeable, friendly and efficient. We climbed the old stairway to a former upstairs bedroom where we were seated next to a large, old-fashoned window. Our entertainment for the meal included a family celebrating Father's Day at a nearby table, complete with children and grandchildren; and watching a mother and father bird bring insects to their nestlings in the branches of a tree outside.
The restaurant caught my eye by advertising itself as "organic, all natural, sustainable, local." Along with the brunch menu, which featured more than a dozen entres and a thorough appetizer list, was an insert that listed the local produce, meats and dairy products that were delivered that week. This list included potatoes, carrots, oregano, mixed greens, spinach, chard, white and wheat flours, tomatoes, butter, oyster mushrooms, tofu, pecans, milk, goat cheese, cheddar and garlic colby, grass fed bison, free range chicken and eggs, and local pork chops and beef.
Whew! What I wouldn't give for a restaurant like this is Des Moines!
I asked the waitress which of two options I was considering had the greatest proportion of local ingredients and she readily shared with me her knowledge of the menu and its ingredients.


Above was my entree: Vegetable Egg Napoleon, featuring local Beau Solais oyster mushrooms, organic fresh vegetables, caramelized onions and parmesan cheese layered between chives and egg white crepes with roasted red bell pepper coulis and fresh parsley. It was absolutely fabulous and affordable, too, at $13.00.

My husband had the Blue Bird Salm San: House-cured sustainable salmon and local herbed goat cheese open-faced on a toasted English muffin with sliced tomato, capers, onion and mixed greens.

Both my daughters had the pancakes, made with local organic white wheat flour studded with house-made granola and organic blueberries served with pure maple syrup and local butter.

It was a purely delightful meal: affordable, flavorful and local.

One Local Summer - Week 2

Actually, this might only be week 1, but this is my second week of One Local Summer.

This week's meal included eggplant parmegiana, salad and red wine.

Dessert was strawberries and cream. A little bit of heaven!

Local ingredients included the eggplant from Maharishi Organic Vegetables in Fairfield, Ia.; local tomatoes, basil and oregano; fresh mozarella cheese from Gateway Market in Des Moines; lettuce and spring onions from our garden and CSA; edible flowers from our garden; local strawberries from a vendor at The Des Moines Farmer's Market; Iowa-made red wine; and cream from Picket Fence Creamery, in Woodward, Iowa.

The only non-local ingredients were salt, pepper, salad dressing, and a sprinkling of sugar on the strawberries.

One Local Summer

Well, in an earlier post I declared my plan to try to eat locally as much as possible, including ice cream. I promptly discovered how difficult this actually is. There are so many food items my family and I have come to rely on that are not local, including pop and carbonated water, salad dressings, nitrite-free lunch meats, ketchup, orange juice, bananas, grapes, lemons, etc.
Fortunately I stumbled upon One Local Summer, a challenge to prepare one local meal each week for the summer. Now this I can do!
Tonight was our first local meal, and boy was it a good one!


Tonight's meal included roasted rosemary chicken, roasted asparagus and spring onions parmesan, local tomatoes, homemade butter biscuits, Iowa white wine, and a salad of lettuce from our CSA, radishes and tomatoes from the farmer's market, radish sprouts from thinning our garden and edible flowers from our garden, including violas and pansies.
We bought the chicken last fall from a local farmer; the parmesan cheese was from a local artisan goat cheese farm; the wheat was from Paul's Grains, about an hour or so from Des Moines; the white wine was from Iowa winery White Oak Vineyards.

Then came dessert:

Rhubarb pie!

So, what wasn't local? Baking powder, salt, black pepper; I didn't make my own salad dressings and the sugar was from Minnesota.

Not bad, huh?

Oh, and what's this?


I just thought it looked like PacMan wanted to eat local, too!

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.