I thought I was feeling better.
I got up, did a few loads of laundry, messed around on the computer. When it came time to take the boys back to school, I got up before dawn – as I always did before – and made breakfasts and lunches, and shuttled the boys to their desired locations.
Shane complained of a sore throat on his way to school. Since he’d spent two days at an indoor water park, I blamed the overload of chlorine on his little system. Then I forgot all about it.
I didn’t feel great while they were at school. I slept for a few hours. But I didn’t have a fever, and while I canceled my substitute teaching job and my dentist appointment, I was thinking that maybe I was on the upswing.
I picked up Shane after school for his orthodontist appointment. I waited in the parking lot, and then he climbed into the car.
Well, he fell into the car.
“Are you still sick?” I nearly shrieked.
He nodded, too exhausted to speak.
“We have to go to the orthodontist!” I nearly shrieked again. “Why didn’t you call me to come and get you?”
“I didn’t feel that bad until sixth period,” he said.
“What kind of sick are you?” I asked. If Shane had what I have, he would miss two weeks of school – at minimum.
“What do you mean, ‘what kind of sick’?” he asked.
“I mean, is it your stomach? A cold? Do you think you have a fever?” I reached into the back seat to feel his forehead. It was warm, but not hot. His cheeks were cool.
“I don’t know,” Shane said.
Long story short, we went to the orthodontist. But by the time we got home, after my first hour-long outing in 12 days, I was exhausted. Shane and I both curled up on the couch, and started watching TV.
Bill had volunteered to pick up Dylan from play practice, so I took a nap.
Shane – whose sore throat is still bothering him – did not take a nap.
But suddenly, I was as sick as ever. I felt drained, achy, fatigued. My “feeling better” was over, and I was sick again.
Except, I don’t know if I am as sick as ever. I wonder how much of it is psychological. I would have thought I’d have risen to the occasion – be the well mom, taking care of my sick child. Instead, I curled into a fetal position and gave up.
It just feels like this thing is never going to go away.
Dylan is a singer.
As such, his voice coach advised him to do an audition for a local competition. In the audition requirements it says, “Participants MUST be available to perform” in the Young Artists Awards Show.
When signing up for the audition (which costs $30), I realized that the Young Artists Awards Show was the same weekend as the high school musical. In other words, if Dylan were accepted into the finals and had a role in the musical, Dylan wouldn’t be able to perform in two places on the same night.
I mentioned this to the voice coach.
“It doesn’t matter,” the coach said. “It’ll be good practice for him to audition.” So we acquired an accompanist and paid the $30 for the “practice” audition.
This took place before we even knew if Dylan would try out for the school musical.
Then Dylan got the lead in the school musical. And the audition is in a few weeks.
This morning, after mentioning the upcoming audition to the voice coach, I got a long and detailed text: “Dylan can work with the accompanist during our lessons, and you can work out payment for that with the accompanist. Also, I recommend longer lessons during this time, while he is preparing for the audition.”
The audition cost me $30. And I knew we would have to pay the accompanist (something) for playing piano during Dylan’s audition.
But the text this morning had me seeing nothing but dollar signs: four longer lessons ($$$) with the accompanist ($$$) before the audition ($$$) – for absolutely NO REASON.
Dylan won’t even be able to perform if he succeeds at the audition.
So I mentioned my concerns to the voice coach. I said I didn’t know how much to pay an accompanist, let alone during voice lessons, and that the audition was just for practice anyway and that paying for a longer lesson was also going to be tough, especially since this was just for practice.
The voice coach – oddly and immediately – backed off.
“Okay, just a regular lesson with me then,” he said.
“Should I pull him out of the audition?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “He’ll have plenty of other opportunities to audition.”
Sigh.
So maybe I ate the $30 for the audition. But I sure learned a valuable lesson.
When I think Dylan should not audition, then Dylan should not audition.
Sitting around waiting to get well gives one plenty of time to think. And with the holiday season ending (without me being a part of it) and 2016 coming to a close, I have lost my ability to do anything but think.
I’m astounded at the amount of time I waste.
I’ve been relegated to the couch for so long that I recognize commercials before they start. The charities are out in full force, grasping for last-minute donors, and I am lying on a couch.
This means that I am not only a captive audience, but I must donate.
I wonder why it costs 66 cents a day to save a child with cancer, but it costs 65 cents a day to save a dog that’s been left chained to a frozen doghouse. After six days, I leapt up from the couch, raced to the computer, and became a member of the ASPCA. It was my last chance for a 150-year celebratory t-shirt. The dying children will have to find help elsewhere.
I don’t take this action lightly. I am seriously offended by the issues in the world. But while these commercials play when I am not watching, spending a full week watching has made me aware that there is probably more that I could be doing. Maybe I could be donating my time to a local rescue. Why have I not done this?
When I am well, I don’t contemplate donating my time – because I don’t have any. I am too busy with the kids.
But maybe I have more time than I think.
I spend a lot of time worrying. I spend a lot of time planning for things that haven’t happened yet, and worrying about things that might happen during the time for which I am planning.
I rarely live in the moment.
Meanwhile, as I’ve been staring at the television, George Michael’s life ended. Like most 80’s children, I adored George Michael. Then Carrie Fisher died, whose books and stand-up comedy I thoroughly enjoyed. Like most Baby Boomers, I lump these two together in the “horrific tragedies” and “much too young” categories, along with Prince and David Bowie and Glenn Frey – who also died this year. I try not to think about their families, or it will remind me of my own family, my own mortality, and how incredibly, ridiculously, absurdly SHORT is this time on Earth. I prefer to remember these abstract people, these people I never met, these larger-than-life personas.
It is easier to dwell on that.
I don’t think about my kids during this time, because I miss them so obsessively, so painfully, while I sit alone and they play together elsewhere.
I don’t think about them, how old they are, how old I am, how sick I am, how fragile life is.
I don’t think about it, the way a dog doesn’t think about the bone he just buried, in the dirt right under his nose, directly in front of him. I don’t think about it the way the dog doesn’t think about it, even as his stomach yowls and he starts digging.
Instead I think about what to do when I’m better. I think about the family videos I haven’t seen in a decade, the videos I swear, every year, that I’ll transfer to DVD.
I think about spending less time on the computer and more time with my kids, who are already too old for me.
I think about resolutions.
Even as I plan to live in the moment, I am planning.
The day Dylan got the flu, he blamed it on the caffeine pill he took that morning.
He took 200 milligrams of caffeine (the equivalent of two cups of coffee) at 7 a.m. He was fine all day. At 2 p.m., he felt sick.
I went to pick him up at school.
“I think it’s the caffeine pill,” he said. “I’ve been shaky and I have a headache. I didn’t even want to eat my sandwich today.”
“Did you drink the coffee from your lunchbox?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I drank a little bit of it in seventh period. And that’s when I started to feel sick.”
“Maybe the coffee interacted with the pill,” I said, not knowing. Until that day, he’d only had unsweetened iced tea in his lunchbox. Maybe the additional coffee “kicker” was too strong.
I took Dylan home.
Later – much later – we realized that Dylan had the flu, complete with vomiting and fever. The pill had nothing to do with his illness.
Yet three days later, when he was feeling better and we’d cleared the caffeine pill from any wrongdoing, Dylan didn’t want to take his usual dose in the morning.
“You’re going to need it next week,” I told him. “It will help you make up the work you missed while you were sick.”
“Okay,” he said. But next week came and went, and he still refused to take a caffeine pill.
Dylan got further and further behind in his work. He got sick again and missed more school.
“Why don’t you take a caffeine pill today?” I asked him one random morning, weeks after the flu.
“No!” he shrieked. “I don’t like it! It makes me anxious and shaky and it makes everything worse!”
None of those things are true, I thought. In fact, he had no side effects whatsoever, except for being able to actually finish his work in class.
I think he’s confusing the caffeine pill with the ADHD medication he took years ago.
Dylan, however, doesn’t think that. He thinks he gets anxious and nervous and shaky on the caffeine pill. But when he drinks caffeine in coffee or tea, he has no side effects – except that it helps him focus.
So now I give him coffee in the morning. And I give him coffee or unsweetened tea in his lunchbox. It helps him to get through school.
Heaven forbid he gets the flu again. Who knows what he’ll blame then?
So I kind of missed Christmas.
I came home from substitute teaching on Thursday with a fever. As I had for the prior three days, I immediately took a nap.
Days followed – and I felt worse. And worse, and worse. The fever never disappeared, except for a few minutes – hours? – at a time. On the night before Christmas Eve, I was still somewhat upright. But by Christmas Eve, I was bedridden.
By Christmas morning, the fever was gone – or so I thought. I watched the kids open their presents, feeling bad but not awful. I honestly believe God gave me a reprieve so that I could enjoy the moment.
I had a very merry Christmas morning.
Except the fever came back again.
Over the course of the holiday, Bill did everything. The man is a complete saint.
The dog never left my side. Unfortunately, that also meant she vomited on my bed, straight through two comforters that then required washing – so Bill just added that to his list of things to do.
I wasn’t any help. I didn’t go anywhere, or do anything. I still got to see family, and when the kids were home, I was well enough to enjoy their presence.
But I slept a lot.
And by this morning, I needed a doctor.
So, I went to a doctor. He claimed that I may have an upper respiratory infection, since I am not getting better. (I didn’t really make a deal of the fact that I was progressively getting worse.) Although they didn’t come until December 26, I got antibiotics for Christmas.
Hopefully, soon I will be well enough to enjoy the rest of the break with my family. It was a different kind of Christmas, but I got what I wanted most: a relatively happy family.
Oh, and the antibiotics.
I got an email about another missing assignment for Dylan.
“When are you going to do this, Dylan?” I asked. He only had two days of school left before the holiday break.
“I guess I’ll do it at school tomorrow,” he said.
“You still have two tests to make up in school, and eight missing assignments in Spanish. You need to do this tonight.”
“I can’t do it tonight.”
“You can,” I said. “And you will. I will be here at 8:35 and you can get it done tonight.”
“I can’t do it tonight,” he said. “My brain is just fried.”
“I’ll see you at 8:35,” I said.
At 8:40, I went up to his room.
“Let’s go, Dylan,” I said. “You’ve got to get this done.”
“I have like two whole days to get it done. I’m not going to do it now.”
“You are going to do it now,” I said. I rarely put my foot down on such things, since it’s his right to fail, but he had been begging to keep his role in the play, which he can’t do if his GPA drops is below a 2.0.
He stomped downstairs.
I sat with him for half an hour while he stared at the computer. Then he typed some crap about hating school. Then he had a major temper tantrum and stormed upstairs raging. Then he left the house (in the freezing cold) and didn’t come back for half an hour. Then he came back, still screaming about how he simply couldn’t possibly do this work tonight.
Dylan had a major meltdown.
Frustrated, I asked Bill to sit with Dylan and make sure he got the work done. So Bill sat with him until almost midnight.
But Bill didn’t “make” Dylan do his work. In fact, Bill sat there and philosophized instead. So Bill got points for being Savior of the Day and Kind Soul, while I was branded Wicked Witch of the Schoolwork.
So now I know – beyond a shadow of a doubt – that I can’t trust Bill to do any disciplining – which, quite honestly, I already knew. I know Bill would rather avoid conflict than stand his ground.
It’s why I have to be in charge, tired as I am of being in charge. I feel like Alpha Dog with only three legs.
The next day, Dylan texted about how evil I am. He said I need to stay out of his life and that my “love” feels like “hate.”
Later in the day, he told Shane that the reason Dylan gets bad grades is because I stress him out.
And Shane believed him.
If I weren’t so awful, Dylan would be getting wonderful grades. He would surely be turning in all of his work on time. He would absolutely be doing fine without any interference from me.
So I stopped interfering. Again.
Because it’s been proven, time and again, that Dylan has no trouble at all handling his schoolwork all by himself. (Note the sarcasm dripping from this sentiment.)
Dylan thinks he’s going to fly through the rest of the quarter, getting everything done without talking to any teachers or checking his grades online. He thinks he’s going to miraculously figure out what’s due, and turn it in on time, for the first time in the history of the world, without changing any of his behaviors.
He thinks he’s going to keep his lead role in the play.
But he will not.
And somehow, that will be my fault, too.
Merry Christmas to me.
When Shane finished his vision therapy – after 18 months and $20,000 – the doctor gave us two things: instructions about how to sit when reading, and $300 glasses with no discernable prescription in the lenses. He was instructed to wear these glasses at all times.
Shane never sat the right way when reading. He sits all hunched over, too close to the book, with the world’s worst posture. In other words, he reads like I do.
About six months later, I learned that Shane’s friend was reading small print for him because Shane couldn’t see it.
So we went to a vision specialist, and got Shane a prescription for lenses that would help him read. Shane wore his glasses for more than a year – well into fourth grade – before he suddenly decided he didn’t need them anymore. Later, we found out that his eyesight had corrected itself.
But then there was this test, where he didn’t make his goal. And suddenly I’m panicked because – what if? What if Shane’s posture caused him to have trouble again? What if he should have worn his prescription-free lenses longer? What if all that therapy suddenly reversed itself and Shane reverted back to being unable to read?
So I’ve been watching Shane, looking for signs of vision processing relapse.
I’ve paid close attention to how he reads. I’ve asked him to read things out loud that, normally, I would know he knew. I’ve checked and double-checked that he’s not flipping numbers when he does his math homework. And I’ve really listened when he talked about any struggles – although none of them seem to be related, except for the standardized test.
Shane came to me one day and said, “Mom, maybe my vision processing is coming back.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I was reading the word ‘brain’ on somebody’s shirt, and I thought it said, ‘Brian.'”
“I can see why you would think that,” I said, “but that is perfectly normal.” I realized that I – and most people – have done similar word flips throughout their lives, without any harsh repurcussions.
In fact, now that his test is over, there don’t seem to be any signs of relapse at all. Perhaps he just didn’t do well on his test. I always tested better in math than I did in English, especially in vocabulary, all the way up to the SATs. I hate math, and I love words. But my test scores sure didn’t show that.
So I don’t think Shane’s having a relapse of vision processing disorder.
I am thrilled and relieved, and I also feel a bit stupid.
But mostly I’m just thrilled and relieved.
When I discovered the plummeting of Dylan’s grades, I texted Dylan. I won’t go into the details about which grades had tanked and why, but the gist – as always – was that he hadn’t finished a whole slew of stuff. And some of the stuff that he thought he’d finished, he’d never turned in.
We texted for 20 minutes back and forth. Dylan was down on himself. I was trying to remain positive. I had recently come to the conclusion – again – that we needed to focus more on his brilliance and less on his disability. (It’s just that his disability is so darn prevalent!)
Dylan met with his case manager on Friday, and didn’t text me again after that. But when he came home, he was full of resolve.
“I spent today at lunchtime getting caught up on Algebra. Then basically, Monday is NSL day,” he said, referring to all the missing Work he had in U.S. Government class. “On Tuesday, I’m going to finish my Algebra test and my Computer Science test because now I only have like three questions on each of those.”
“What are you going to do this weekend?”
“Spanish,” he said, almost laughing. “I have a lot to do to get caught up in Spanish.”
“What about English?” I asked. Somehow Dylan, who really doesn’t want to write, always procrastinates worst with English.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “This weekend I’m going to do the 21 questions that I somehow missed in English, too.”
Then he trotted upstairs. About twenty minutes later, he came downstairs.
“And Gretchen helped me make a plan,” he said. (I had never heard of Gretchen before and, quite honestly, I can’t remember who actually helped him make the plan.)
“What kind of plan?” I asked.
“We had a sub, so she said she was really organized and would help me make a list of all the stuff I needed to do. So we spent all of third period going over all the stuff.”
“You have a list?” I asked, incredulous. I’ve been telling him to make a list since …. well, forever.
“Yeah,” he said. “And it’s all prioritized with what I should do first and stuff.”
“Great,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s really nice having friends.”
Then he trotted upstairs again.
Dylan’s birthday was this weekend, so we tried to make it a nice one. But then we forced him to do some work on Sunday.
“It’s only going to take 20 minutes!” he said.
An hour later, we told him he needed to finish up.
“I’m almost done!” he said.
After that hour, he didn’t do a single thing. He swears that everything needs to be done during school, and that his GPA is going to skyrocket just as soon as these next few days pass.
We shall see.
Dylan was out of school – sick – for three days in as many weeks. And he’s had two choral field trips.
He’s never recovered – although physically, he is well.
At school, he can’t catch up.
He’s been behind before. In fact, he is almost always behind. He started off the quarter going full-force. He came home with work, announced it, went and did it. He worked during lunches and after school. He caught up in everything. He swore he was aiming for straight A’s this quarter.
And then he just … stopped.
He doesn’t talk to his teachers. He doesn’t make up his tests. He doesn’t show up when he says he will, to finish work that needs to be finished.
Then – after a choral field trip or a play rehearsal lasting several hours – Dylan comes home claiming that he has no homework. He doesn’t study for anything. He doesn’t complete classwork that’s missing.
In fact, he doesn’t do anything at all at home.
“Dylan,” I say. “Don’t you have anything at all you can do for school? You have three D’s and a C.”
“There’s nothing I can do at home,” he says. “I have to do all that stuff at school.”
“Let’s look online together,” I say. “Let’s see what you have.”
He rolls his eyes and huffs. We look online together.
“I did ALL of that,” he tells me. “Just because it says it’s not done on the computer doesn’t mean it’s really not turned in.”
Then he goes up to his keyboard and sits and plays music. He does this for hours.
Meanwhile, his grades plummet. He failed a unit test in computer science – again. This is the second unit test he’s failed (of two) and there is no way to bring up those grades. He can’t “retake” a test like he did in middle school. Meanwhile, he’s not getting his work turned in, either, so all of his grades are dropping.
And I am just watching the landslide.
Again.
And just when we all thought the auditions were finally over….
Dylan, as you may recall from my last blog post, was very sick and missed school again on Monday.
I got a call early on Monday morning from Dylan’s drama director. First, I thought she was the school’s automated system, calling me for a substitute teaching job. Thinking she was an automated robot, I hung up on her.
When the phone rang again, I answered the phone and waited for the robot to start talking.
After a long pause and no robot, I said, “Hello?”
Dylan’s director introduced herself and said, “I’ve had a lot of people drop out of the play over the weekend, and I’ve had to do some recasting. Would Dylan be interested in playing the role of Willy Wonka instead of Grandpa Joe?”
My heart leaped for him. WOULD he! He would be delighted! He would be over the moon! Yes! Yes! He would LOVE that!
But Dylan was asleep, with a 101-degree fever, and it wasn’t my decision to make. I knew he’d like to play Willy Wonka, but I didn’t feel right accepting the role for him.
But … I’m his mom. At that exact moment, my main job was to let him sleep, hopefully to get over his fever and get plenty of much-needed rest.
“Um, well, Dylan’s sick,” I sputtered.
“I heard he was sick,” she said. “That’s why I’m calling him at home.”
I had to do something – fast. I couldn’t wake him up. I just couldn’t. Still, she needed an answer, so she could move forward.
“Yes, sure,” I said. “He could do that. He would love to play Willy Wonka.”
“Okay, thanks,” she said, and hung up, presumably to go and cast the rest of the play.
I printed out a Congratulations Mr. Wonka note, complete with a picture from the book by Roald Dahl, and put it in front of Dylan’s door.
Two hours later, Dylan woke up and came downstairs.
“Really?” he croaked, hair askew and barely awake.
“Really,” I said.
He smiled a huge smile. “That’s awesome,” he said.
Then we had a long talk about the expectations of the directors, and what his commitment means to the cast. I reminded Dylan to treat this role like a job. Dylan is excellent at jobs. He works hardest when he knows people are depending on him. He never lets up, not even for a moment, and he gives it everything he’s got.
Dylan is not as good at school, and it is a school play. But in this case, I think he can transfer his professionalism to where it’s needed most.
Because people sure are depending on him.
