2013, The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Year (so far).

I'm not a superstitious person. Most people consider the number 13 unlucky. Some buildings don't have a 13th floor, there's a movie franchise based on Friday the 13th; in Western Culture, we've been taught to fear 13. Me, 13 was my lucky number. It's always been good to me. So as people rung in the new year and Facebook lit up with comments like "I hope this year isn't going to be full of bad luck," I was sitting at home, snug as a bug in front of my fireplace, looking forward to what, for all intents and purposes should have been MY year.

 

And for the first couple of days, it really was starting to seem that way. For the first time, I made it through January 2nd without a complete breakdown. Gregory would have been 15, and I finally found a sliver of peace for the first time. On the 4th we had dinner with my mom, grandmother and brother for his birthday and to send him off for job training in Iowa. My fibro was actually behaving, I wasn't experiencing too many flare-ups. Then I called my mom on January 10th to update her on how my brother was doing at his job training. The conversation was, for all of the millions of conversations we've had in my 35-years, perfectly normal. Until she told me that she had fallen the day before and she doesn't remember how she fell, exactly, but she said her ankle really hurt and that she was going to go to the doctor the next day because she thought she broke it or sprained it at the least. By this point, it was the end of the conversation and she sounded tired and in hindsight, maybe a little confused. I asked her if she hit her head and she said that she didn't, that she just landed on her leg and ankle wrong. I was concerned, but the conversation I had with her was, like I said, normal. I told her good night and that I'd check on her tomorrow.

 

I didn't get a chance to call her the next day. She had been getting sick over night and slept downstairs. By morning, she was acting confused, was very uncoordinated and was upsetting to my grandmother. By the afternoon, my grandmother had called 911 as my mom became completely unable to communicate coherently, was getting sick and was unable to move without help. As soon as my husband got the call (my poor grandmother didn't want to upset me), we rushed to the hospital. While in the ER, my mother needed to be intubated and after an emergency CT Scan, she was rushed to the Neuro Trauma unit where they put a bore hole into her head. They found massive bleeding and swelling in the regular CT Scan and deemed the borehole and drain to remove the ever-building pressure as well as monitor it. It wasn't until a CT Scan with contrast did we find that my mother had not only just one but two aneurysms. One very small, "benign" aneurysm at the base of her neck that would need monitoring for the rest of her life, if she survived the one very large big bad aneurysm in her prefrontal cortex.

Surgery was scheduled and we sat a quiet vigil at my mom's bedside as she was highly sedated. We sat through the purgatory that is the surgery waiting room all day, to find that the aneurysm was not the normal aneurysm on a branch of a vein, ballooning out. It was at the brain vessel that goes between the left and right parts of the brain, where the branches form. Not only that, but it had connected between the right and the left of the Y. It was the biggest baddie of the big bad. During the month she spent in the Neuro Trauma Unit, we nearly lost my mom several times. Between blood clots, deflated lungs, seizures and strokes, kidney shutdown and near complete organ shutdown. They could not ween her from the ventilator so they put a tracheotomy in, saying that they were easier to ween than a regular ventilator. After over a month-and-a-half in the Neuro-Trauma unit, she was transferred to a LTAC facility (Long Term Acute Care) to be weened off of the ventilator. While they were able to accomplish that, mom still was in a coma and still required the tracheotomy to breath with humidified air with moderate pressure. Having accomplished what they set out to do, they gave us two days to find an Skilled Care Facility for daily care and recovery.

Upon arrival to the skilled care facility, my mother had woken up. She recognized us, we could tell, through her eye expressions. We finally were able to get her to point to yes/no questions. It was a terribly slow and agonizing process (for her, I'm certain) and for us as well. We had her in two places close to me. I would spend 6-8 hours a day by mom's bed because I couldn't stand to leave her alone. Most times she was sleeping and those times I wanted nothing more than to get into bed with her and sleep, too. But she was hooked up to room air through the tracheotomy. After 2ish months, I had my mom transferred to a traumatic brain injury rehab where she would receive 6 hours of strenuous therapy as opposed to the 3 hours at the facility she started at.

It was at the TBI Rehab that we started to see mom start to come back to us. Perhaps not 100%, but her short-term memory was getting better. Her sense of humor was returning. Her interests were returning and she was starting to gain strength. As for that tracheotomy, it was gone her 2nd day there. She was walking (short distances) and learning ways to take care of herself with the aide of a caregiver. All signs pointing to her coming home, with some assistance required. Six months to the day that she was admitted to the hospital, she was discharged from rehab to her home under the care of a live-in caregiver.

Living back at home was an adjustment. For everyone. My grandmother's small sitting room downstairs was converted to my mother's bedroom. We now had a live-in caretaker with us and a string of therapists as well as nurses coming and going throughout the weeks; all the while Brad was juggling work and evening responsibilities, it was summer break so Eddie and I would take mom to her appointments during the day as well as help keep an eye on my grandmother. For the first two weeks or so, things were going really well. Then mom started to regress a little. She lost interest in things. She couldn't keep her medicines down and it was becoming difficult for her caretaker to help her with transfers.

At her follow-up appointment with her Neurosurgeon, after getting a new CT scan we found the BIG reason why. Where the aneurysm once sat and the swelling once was, was fluid. Typical, said her surgeon, in these types of scenarios. They would surgically implant a shunt that would drain the fluid and hopefully she would start to get back to mom's new normal, and perhaps we might even see some new improvements as well. So surgery was scheduled for the end of July with the assurance that of the Neuro Surgeries, these were the easiest, quickest and had the easiest recovery.

On the morning of July 26th, we all met at the hospital's admissions area. Brad and I went back with my mom to pre-op while she waited to go back. Everything went smoothly there, and in a timely manner. When they took her back, we went to the purgatory that is the surgical waiting room. No matter how routine the surgeon tells you a surgery will be, when you hear a code called in one of the surgical suites, your heart can't help but jump a beat as you beg and plead with the Universe that it isn't your loved one. I do the only thing I can when I need comfort or to calm down, and that was to take comfort in the pages of a book and just wait until mom's surgeon came out. He took a little longer than we anticipated, but when he came out he assured us that everything went well and that mom was recovering, we could wait in purgatory until they took her up to her room in the Neuro Trauma ICU (where we were reunited with some friendly faces of the nursing staff that cared for my mom earlier in the year and were happy to see her awake and talking!).

Getting discharged took a little bit of trouble as she had her surgery on a Friday, so she didn't get home until Tuesday. And again, she was doing well for a few days. Then she started to get sick. She started acting extremely out of it, and when she had a fever over 101d, I finally said to my brother to get her to the ER immediately. She ended up spending all of August in the hospital. It turns out that she had 3 very bad infections that you can only get from the hospital. In addition to that, her surgeon conveniently realized that the shunt and vent had been recalled for over three months! During the course of treatment, mom had 4 brain surgeries in two weeks to remove the recalled pieces, put an external shunt in, put a pressure monitor in, and finally, when the infection cleared, put a new and non-recalled fully functioning shunt back. The infectious disease team had indicated that my mother was not the only one of her surgeon's patients who were being treated for post-op infections. Which makes sense when the recalled pieces were removed, her surgeon was trying to talk us out of suing the manufacturer/himself/the hospital and we didn't quite understand why that was the first thing out of his mouth.

Once mom was well enough to leave the hospital, she was too weak to come home, so she was discharged to a Skilled Care Facility where she has been getting PT/OT and Speech Therapy so that she might be able to return home. However, we are realists and understand that she may not be able to return home in her current condition. For now, we just keep hoping that we can get additional outside help through Neuropsychology, Art and Music Therapy as well as the memory care she's receiving now that she might be able to unlock parts of her brain that aren't being used and be able to train them to compensate for at least some of the trouble she's having. It may not be a couple of months. It may take a year, or two. We'll be here waiting and cheering her on. And if she has made all of the progress she can make, then these extra services will only enrich her life. Regardless, we have our mom. We will take her any way we can get her, and are aware of how extremely fortunate we are that she even survived.

This year has certainly been difficult, excruciating, agonizing and not anything I would wish on my worst enemy. There's a blog post about that coming up. But first, I needed to explain how I/we got here.





To Every Season

I wish that I had some exciting news that kept me from blogging since May. Some fantastic story of being whisked away on an amazing whirlwind of a romantic vacation to far off destinations. Alas, twas not meant to be. To be honest, I spent the summer sleeping with long bouts of insomnia. Pretty boring. Being awake all night when the house is quiet and the critters (Eddie included) are all sleeping led to some introspection. When faced with nothing you have nothing but looking inside yourself to occupy the hours until you drift to sleep. I've found that I have some issues that I have been able to let go and some that I didn't even know existed. It's hard facing yourself, the truth that is easily hidden, when you have other things to focus on in life.

I came to revelations that I'm much stronger than I give myself credit for. That I'm much smarter, funnier and a person worthy of more than I give myself credit for. I also learned that I have some things, insecurities and flaws that I have to work on as well. Things that until now I wasn't ready to see. It's a lot and deserving of more than one post. But I think that I've started to take some steps towards becoming an even better Ally. On days that I have full faculty of my mind, when the pain and fog have cleared enough, I think I can start to work towards sorting myself out.

How fitting. In fall the earth sheds it's skin in preparation for the cleansing cold of winter. And in spring, life beings new again and in summer life prospers. I believe that I have embarked on a similar journey myself. I can only look forward with anticipation for what is to come with these realizations and the work that is ahead of me. One way or another, I'm hunkered down and ready.  I'm ready to work through fall and winter and leave it behind for a better me.

I know, I know, I know. . .

Tuesday can't get here fast enough. After being told by my last counselor, that she didn't want to talk about the issues I'm having with fibromyalgia; I called my fibro doc and he recommended someone who specializes in pain, fatigue and fibromyalgia. I really need to talk to someone who understands this life-changing experience who understands what I'm going through. After a little over a month, I finally have my first appointment. I have to admit, it's been tough hanging in this long. I keep promising myself that I won't make this blog a woe is me pity party. But right now, this is my life. The good, bad, ugly and scary.

There is a very real possibility that Eddie is going to either have his classes cut by 50% or be furloughed because of the (evil) Genius Gov. Corbett's funding cuts to education. I'm not working because of the fibromyalgia. Both Eddie and I have pre-existing conditions so we NEED his insurance benefits. He already wants to get a 2nd part-time job until the disability situation is taken care of. He says, just in case. I can see the worry on his face. He tries to hide it because he knows that stress can aggravate the fibro. I hide my stress because he's already taken on so much responsibility. We're both trying to hold things together for the sake of each other, but we can't keep it up much longer. I know we're both close to running on empty.

I have this internal battle that I should just suck it up and get a job and when things calm down, I can stop working. Except, that's what led to everything falling apart in 9/09. Eddie, our family and my doctors don't think that's the best idea. I don't think I can be working while I file a claim for disability. So it's a double-edged sword. But what else can I do? I don't like the idea of Eddie working himself to the point of exhaustion. He can't, because he needs to take care of himself too. He volunteers this without hesitation; all the while, I feel like a horrible person for being the cause of all this. How can I do this to him?

So Tuesday can't get here fast enough. In my head the answers are there, it's just getting to them. I'm like a deer in the headlights and I need someone to help guide me in the right direction rather than focus on issues that have been hashed out and taken care of (at least for now.) And I promise, I'll get away from the morose posts once I'm back to myself.

Identity Theft

As children, we dream about who we would be when we grow up. Doctor, Lawyer, Teacher, Super Hero, Princess. We go through life planning and preparing for our future, course correcting when needed but still keeping that childhood vision. Me, I wanted to be a dolphin trainer/teacher/doctor/lawyer/musician. By college, I honed in on exactly what it is I wanted to be and started the journey to realizing the grownup me.

What I didn't count on, what I didn't prepare for, was that at 33, I would find myself filling out paperwork for disability. This isn't me, this isn't the life I dreamed of. Someone Something has hijacked my life and taken over. This surely can't be my life, it can't be me. I have spent nearly two years going to doctors, trying therapies, taking more medicine than I have ever taken in my entire life until this point. All with the hopes that I would find a way to return back to work. I'll get better, I'll learn how to deal with it, put it behind me.

The problem with that is your brain may say go, go, go. Your body, on the other hand, will stop you cold in your tracks. My body did just that. It shut down and in a big way. I no longer had control over what was happening. In my head, I watched as I spun out of control, a slow burn that exploded on impact. It was unexpected, inevitable and horrifying. I barely recognize myself and I don't remember nearly an entire year of my life.

I've been told that fibromyalgia typically shows up this way. Mostly because after countless doctors appointments, tests, medicines and therapies you still feel no relief. So you begin to think it's all in your head, that it will go away. So I pushed myself to do better. I worked harder, more hours to overcome the sinking feeling of the world crumbling around you. I could have asked for help or said I was overwhelmed. I tried to not let it isolate me from the life that is happening around me. But over 5 years of no answers and more symptoms at some point you just. . . give up.

It was easier to not make plans. If you don't interact with people, you can't let them down by not being able to do something as simple as go to dinner. I allowed this thing to hold me hostage. I confided in virtual strangers because it was easier than letting someone close watch my downward spiral. Strangers can't hurt you the way the betrayal of a close friend can. It was minimizing the debris field of my life.

No,this is not me. Not who I planned to be. That's ok, because this doesn't have to stay me. Only I can determine who I really am and I refuse to let this be the deciding factor in my life.

Atlas

A heart of gold, he loves me, flaws and all. Without him I'd be lost. Never complaining, always worrying but never letting on.  I love him more than he knows, more than I can describe in words. He is Atlas, holding the weight of our wold on his shoulders.

An Exercise in Healing

At my last head shrink session (yes, I'm in therapy), I was asked to make a list. To put down my thoughts about why I have low self esteem and why I devalue myself. I could have taken the easy route and just scratched the surface. Some superficial boilerplate responses. As I started down that path, I realized that easy won't get me anywhere. You can't come to peace if you aren't truthful and honest about yourself. If that were the case, big pharma would take a huge hit to their business in anti-depression and anti-anxiety medications.

It's hard, really, to pinpoint exactly when it all started. I remember being a very precocious child. Very curious about life and the world around me. Never satisifed, much to my parents exacerbation, with a 'because I said so' response to my numerous questions. At 4 years, I walked up to strangers on the beach exclaiming "I'm 4-years-old and I'm smart."

By 8, I was hustling the watch sellers in New York City. My spoils, 4 watches for the price of one. I was confident, self aware and in some ways, mature for my age.I talked at an early age, and as my mother has reminded me, I have not shut up since. Fascinated by books, I read at an even earlier age and as my grandmother tells me, I could always be found tucked away reading. Where I was, a book was not far behind (a fact that has not changed to this day).

I read above my grade level. I knew words beyond my age. In so many ways, I felt ages older than my classmates and by 5th grade this difference became socially unacceptable behavior for a pre-teen looking for acceptance. Not only did I feel older than my contemporaries, but I felt empathetic for people around me. I became a fixer, seeking out other outcasts and yet unable to help or fix myself.

By Junior High and High School, I settled into a niche of friends, most of whom were in grades above my own. I was comfortable speaking with adults and yet so unable to relate to those my own age. I didn't understand how people children who did not know me could be so mean and spiteful. I didn't understand why or how people were mean to other humans for no reason other than because they could. At times, I felt crushed and consumed by the thought of such unabashed and unnecissary meanness.

I survived High School mostly because of a very small group of close friends. I survived because I had music as an outlet. I survived because my parents and brother told me they loved me. I survived because I knew in college I would be away from the small-minded, small-time and small-town people.

I did not walk away without battle scars, without parts of me irevocably changed. The fixer in me compartmentalized the 'broken' and 'hurt' me. If I helped others I didn't have to think about my own pain. That unconcious act snowballed into part of who I am today. A giver who gave until there was nothing left. It worked for a long time. Except it didn't really work, because if it did we would not be here talking about this today.

We've only just begun to unravel and untangle this one part of who I am today. As I look at my 'homework' and see the life-altering events and reasons that shaped my sense of self, I'm satisfied knowing that I am starting to head in the right direction. I know, when this is all said and done, that this journey towards healing is worth it, I am worth it. I am loved.

Fuck You Fibro

It's funny, I've attempted to update this blog for several weeks now. It's not for lack of things happening in my life that has kept me from blogging. In fact, I've started and stopped several times to write something. The words are just stuck in my head. A result, no doubt, of fibrofog that seems to be coming around more often these days.

It's the same routine, change in meds, change in dosages. A slippery slope that we keep teetering on each visit. Too much of one medicine makes my nerves hyper aware, too little and I have no relief. I think this would be so much more manageable if I knew what makes the fibro flare up. It's not like I know that a+b = flareup. It's not so concrete.

Really though, I just want my life back. I'm normally extroverted but lately I haven't felt so social outside of my own house. It's just easier that way. Getting out sometimes is a chore and I can't always predict when I'll have a good day. They're few and far-between and that can lead to not being such a good friend.

Just started Aqua therapy. Being in the warm water is less stressful on my nerves and takes some of the strain off of my muscles. Who knows, this aqua therapy thing could really help. It at least offers some relief from pain. There's nothing like getting into 90+ degree water to ease these nerves of mine. The temporary relief is worth it though.

G

I miss you more than I can bear some days. What I wouldn't give to have those five months one more time. Five weeks, five days, five minutes, just one more time to tell you how much I love you. I see you, every night, in my dreams. I wake, arms heavy but empty. I'm sorry you did not have the life that you deserved; but I have been forever changed by the brief time you were here with me.

My sweet boy, I never thought that I would love something so unconditionally, so purely. I loved you the moment I saw you, the moment you first cried, the first time I held you and the last time even more. I'm sorry that I was not there for your last breath. I would give everything to have been there, so you would know that I was there, so you could feel my love as you left this life.

I take comfort in knowing that I will see you someday. I write this now, the words forever imprinted on my heart. I love you more than words, more than the universe my beautiful boy.

Teenage Wasteland

I grew up in a very small town, in what most people called the armpit of Pennsylvania, where the state meets Maryland and Delaware. The bucolic farm fields and lazy 3-light town left little to do by means of entertainment. In fact, when cow-tipping and loitering became tiresome, one found themselves on a 45-minute car ride to greater things like movie-theatres and shopping malls.

In fact, one often found themselves crossing state lines twice in pursuit of something other than what O-Town (the place I lived, not the very bad boy-band) had to offer. Small-town meant limited opportunity for employment. Teens often found that the three major employers were 2 fast-food joints and a grocery store. Wanting more and at the suggestion of a friend; I found myself on a daily commute to Amish-Country. Smack dab in the middle, in fact.

What better, to educate the masses on the lives of the Amish, was ironically a theme-park. Yes, the Amish, who shunned all forms of modern life and technology were represented by a roller-coaster, game-filled 'amusement' park for children. While most people chose to work in the park as a ride operator or in the games or food booths; I chose to work in the Gift Shop thinking that of the employment positions, Gift Shop would require the least effort and would be the least likely to put me in with the throngs of crying, hyper, temper-tantrum throwing children. BIG MISTAKE.

The Gift Shop was located in the Castle (yes, Dutch Wonderland, an Amish Theme Park had a castle, moat, dragon and 'roller coaster' named Sky Princess). The Castle was the ONLY entrance into the park. So while the quiet, polite children entered the park in the morning; they were replaced with screaming, spitting, demon-children at the end of the day. These spawns of Satan would descend on a recently stocked and straightened display like locusts and in a matter of seconds have it destroyed and the nearest Gift Shop employee in near mental-breakdown.

Parents, whose cherubic children turned demon, were haggard and tired after a day in the sun riding dated theme park rides. Strollers that once carried happy children were now filled with the spoils of the carnival games. These strollers that now turned the already tight quarters of the gift shop into mazes booby trapped with sticky, dirty children. Displays meant to attract children became death traps for the poor souls working in the Gift Shop.

I routinely found myself dodging bouncy super balls, weaving through a gauntlet of hula hoops and jumping to avoid the snap of bull-whips and pop guns at the cowboy stand. Keeping a well-stocked and orderly gift shop was a near Sisyphean attempt once the park closed. The last-minute park goers were shuffled into the Gift Shop, which conveniently was open an hour later than the park.

Considered Ambassadors to the park we often fielded questions that most times bordered on pure idiocy. 'What time do the Amish go home?' They don't, that is actually how they live. 'Why don't they have televisions?' 'How do you audition to be an Amish?'. 'Where do I get an Amish Costume?' 'Where is the beach in PA, the one by Ocean City Maryland?' Yeah, I looked at him the same way too. PA, the land-locked state with Oceanfront beaches.

This job that left me exhausted, that tested my patience, was not without perks. My name badge afforded me something invaluable to a teenager living in the middle of nowhere. In addition to free entrance to the very park that I worked, I payed half-price at the movie theatre that was adjacent to the park. Most importantly though, my name badge awarded me and one lucky friend half-priced tickets to Hershey Park and Dorney Park. The grown-up versions of Dutch Wonderland.

As the beginning of the summer-season approached I would question my sanity as I signed up for 3 months of torture, the long and windy back road trip filled with molasses slow horse and buggies, closing shifts only to come back the next day to open. Each time, I agreed. Dug out the pleated-front blue khaki pants and blue and white striped shirt. I laced my white and blue sneakers and attached my name tag and prepared to enter the insanity. All in the name of a boredom free summer.

Crazier

To give an apartment complex a sense of community, it's often the role of the leasing staff and property manager to schedule and plan events that will bring the residents together. I've done events from cookie exchanges around the holidays, pot-luck BBQs in the summer, pizza night, movie night at the pool and monthly breakfasts. It allows residents who might not meet otherwise to get to know each other. Plus, who doesn't like free food? In fact, one resident liked free food so much he earned himself a nickname among staff.

Tater Salad
Most of the picnics, BBQs and Pot-Lucks that I hosted over the summers had a basic menu with variations based on what looked interesting at the store. However, I always had potato salad. The area the apartment community was located in was primarily Pennsylvania Dutch. The PA Dutch eat potato salad with everything. To prepare, I would always go to the local Bulk Foods store and get 2 1-gallon containers of Potato Salad.

Tater Salad always showed up to events at least 15 minutes before they started. Which meant that he would plop himself down right in the middle of things while we were trying to set up. As soon as the potato salad hit the table he would ask if he could start eating. Before any other resident arrived, Tater Salad would have had at least two plates filled with potato salad. I'm not talking about small party plates either. He'd wolf down at least a half-gallon before anyone else had the chance to arrive.

Not only was tater salad the first to arrive but he was the last to leave. He commandeered every conversation at the parties. He was loud, borderline obnoxious and pretty much clueless to those around him. As we would clean up at the end of the party, Tater Salad made sure to stick around long enough to beg for the leftovers. So, any cooked and uneaten burgers and hotdogs went home with him. As did any food that would spoil between the end of the party and the weekend. He always made out like a bandit so much so that other residents were left with little to take home with them.

Tater Salad wasn't just obsessed with Potato Salad. Any food that we had he wanted his share and then some. Here are some classics:

Discount Pizza Night: For resident appreciation week, I negotiated a discounted price for large pizzas for the residents of the community with a local chain pizza company. So rather than $8 per large cheese pizza, I got them for $5 and charged the residents $2. Residents had to call in their reservation and pay the day before the delivery. (It was quite impressive to have 50+ pizzas sitting in my office waiting for delivery) We, the staff, personally delivered the pizzas. You can't beat $4 for 2 large pizzas! Tater Salad, wanting as much as he could get ordered 4. Thinking he was having guests over, I didn't make a big deal about it. However, when I delivered his pizzas it was just him. He proudly told me that this was his breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next month.

Breakfast to Go Another resident appreciation event, the office staff put together brown-bag breakfasts with pastries, granola bars, fruit and juice. We gave notice to the residents that we would be at the entrance to the communities between 6am and 8am passing out breakfast as they leave for work. The idea was that we would catch them as they were in their cars leaving for work. With 5 minutes to go, we were packing up the breakfasts that weren't delivered. Through the morning fog we see someone walking. As the figure gets closer and closer, we see that it's Tater Salad. He knows that time is up and that there will be extras. I prepare his breakfast and as I pass it to him he asks 'Is that all?'

A little stunned, I say that there is quite a bit in the bag. He says, 'no, where's my leftovers? You've got to have extras.' I tell him, yes there are some extras but I planned on keeping some in the office for those leaving for work a little bit later than we would be out at the entrance. He asks me how long I was keeping them after that. I say 11:00, then we'll see what's left.

Sure enough, at 11:00 on the dot, in walks Tater Salad holding a canvas bag open waiting for his goodies.

Tater Salad also showed up in the office at least once a day to browse the snacks and beverages I had sitting out for prospects. Every day he'd come in and announce 'I'm here to do my daily shopping'. One of the maintenance staff asked him one day, why it was that he always insisted on taking home leftovers and more than others normally took (often times he decimated entire foods so that others didn't have any or only had very little.) His response was that if we didn't want him to eat it, we shouldn't offer it. When asked why he didn't share with others he said that he didn't like anyone else enough to share.

So as it turns out, we were not only his grocery store but his personal caterers and everyone else was just there for his entertainment purposes. That attitude was not shocking, especially after an incident where his rent check bounced. He stormed into the office and screamed at me because his check bounced telling me that it was the responsibility of the company to make sure that the check didn't bounce. He demanded to speak to someone over my head and that he'd have me fired. Not only that but I was taking advantage of a poor old man.

Puh-lease. Not only did I have proof in his lease that it was the residents responsibility to pay rent and assure that all funds were accessible (in other words common sense); but I also told him that if he didn't have the money to pay rent, he shouldn't write me a bad check. Because not only would it result in the start of the eviction process but that he could be reported to the police. He stormed out of the office saying he was going to sue and have my job. The next morning I found a money order for his rental payment and fees in the lock box.

I'm not sure what happened to Tater Salad after I left that position. If I recall correctly, he bounced yet another check and pulled the same antics. A week later the eviction process was started. So, whoever out there has the pleasure of calling Tater Salad a resident, do I feel sorry for you!


**on a side note, if I had a penny for every time a resident has threatened to
call my boss, have my job, sue me or question whether or not I have a soul (true story, by the way) I'd be a very rich person! It's amazing who the blame gets passed to when a resident is at fault for something. this itself is worthy of it's own post.

Crazy

What they don't tell you when you get in the leasing industry is that not only do you have to perform the administrative duties of leasing a property; but you have to be an (unwilling) confidante, sometimes friend, mediator, referee, counselor and babysitter. When you put 100+ adults in a small area all common sense seems to go out the window and people start acting like children. They also don't tell you that for every 3 normal residents you have there is 1 not operating on a full deck.

I've Got I.D.
When you fill out an application to live in an apartment you have to identify whether or not you have a pet. When you do that you have to list the type of pet (bird, cat, dog) and the breed of the pet. We also want to know how old, how tall and how heavy your pet is. It's not to be mean. We just know that your downstairs neighbor will appreciate you much more if you don't have a Great Dane running around your apartment in the middle of the night. We also want to know identifying features of your pet. That's so if your beloved dog Ruffles gets loose that we'll know who to return him to.

The company I was working for at the time had recently purchased a new property. We were two weeks from the official takeover so I was at a property close by auditing the files of the applicants waiting to move in as well as the current residents. If someone was a chronic late-payer I made sure to make a note so these things could be brought up when we met with the old company before the purchase.

I came across one apartment that had a rather thick file. Not only were they habitually late payers but they had a very aggressive dog that made working on maintenance requests difficult as the dog had to be removed from the apartment or double-caged to keep it from getting out and attacking the maintenance team. I was looking over the pet rider (a rider is any amendment or addition to a standard lease that can change during the residency. ie: owner no longer has pet, we simply note it on the rider rather than having them sign a new lease.)

As I was reading this rider, I'm noting that the dog is a pitbull mix. As I skim to the physical markings part of the rider I notice: 5'3", brunette, tattoo on left breast, wrist and ankle. Yes dear reader, the resident described themselves and NOT the dog. Good to know, because if she ever got loose on the property, I was sure to know what apartment to send her back to!
We'll see a lot of this particular resident in the future.

Ed McMann
In order to rent an apartment, you have to have money. Not only do you have to have money but you have to have proof of having money. I mean, we're not going to give you your apartment for free. That would be just silly.

I had a prospective resident who would call every month to ask about availability and pricing. The prices never changed but she would always say that she was waiting until the price was low enough for her to move in. Over the course of a year, I got to know her well as she would always tell me about her troubles. And because I have nothing better to do (I mean, seriously, managing a multi-million dollar property is a cakewalk.) she liked to keep me on the phone for as long as she could. One day, I receive a call from her. She was so excited and happy.

Caller: You'll never guess what happened to me. I finally have my money. I am so excited, I came upon a windfall of money. I can finally move in! And I'll pay for my for a year right away. I'm so happy!

Me: Oh, that's so wonderful! I'm very happy for you. When would you like to come in and pick out your new apartment?

Caller: Well, my letter said that I just won $10million and that I have some paperwork to fill out before I can claim my money. But I think I'll have it within the month.

Me: (starting to get suspicious). That's. . . great. So, do you want to schedule an appointment?

Caller: Well, in order to claim my money, I just have to order some magazines. Why don't I call you once I get everything set up.

Me: Did your letter happen to come from Ed McMann?

Caller: How did you know?! Oh this is such a wonderful day.

Me: (shaking my head). How about this, why don't you call the number on the letter. I think this is from Publishers Clearing House. Why don't you call me back when you get all of this sorted out and set up an appointment when you know when you'll be receiving the money and we'll make our plans from there.

Caller: That sounds great! I can't wait to come in. I'll be talking to you soon!

Really, I couldn't burst her bubble. I'm not a monster. I figured that she would realize the truth when she called the 1-800 number on the letter. As much as she kept me on the phone when she called other times, I just couldn't rain on her parade. She was so happy and it was kinda cute.


I Want What He's Having!
Sometimes the crazy doesn't come from the residents. Sometimes it comes from the people that pop in to the office. Sometimes they want information on the property, or are inquiring about employment opportunities, some are looking for their friend's apartment or just want directions. I had made a habit of making sure the leasing office was as welcoming as possible. We had snacks, free coffee, tea or hot chocolate and sodas in the fridge. I'd bake cookies or have popcorn just popped ready and waiting. It was about the experience for not only residents but people who may be interested in renting an apartment.

One spring morning, I was refreshing the snacks. Office hours didn't officially start but I had the door unlocked because I was bringing things in from my car. I look up and standing in the doorway is a gentleman. There wasn't anything remarkable about his appearance but he looked a little lost. I asked him if there's anything I could help him with.

Man: What's going on over there? (nods towards the pool that is covered in a green tarp)

Me: Oh, we're in the process of uncovering the pool so we can drain it and get it ready for the summer.

Man: Yeah, but what's going on. They're setting up all that stuff.

Me: Oh the tools. Yes, they are rather unusual, aren't they? (Our pool cover attached with a complicated bolt mechanism that required large wrenches).

Man: No, no, the concert they're setting up.

Me: Excuse me?

Man: Yeah, see all the speakers? Do you know who is playing?

Me: No, sorry, I. . . don't?!

Man: Oh well, looks pretty rad. Can I have a muffin?

And with that, as quickly as appeared, he was gone. Muffin in hand happily walking out of the complex.

Coming Soon! Crazier and Craziest!

Tales From a Property Manager

I've accumulated quite a few stories over the years I spent working in the property management field. I figured I shouldn't be the only one to benefit from the strange but true stories.

Annie Oakley
Annie got her name because she liked to carry a rifle in a bag wherever she went. Like taking her trash out or paying her rent, this rifle went everywhere with her. One day, I get a call in the office from Annie. She was requesting that we remove the unused outlets from her apartment. Curious, I asked why. Her response:

Annie: Well, Sirhan Sirhan and Hitler use my outlets to communicate with eachother. They're plotting something bad and I don't want to be responsible for their trouble.

Me: I'm sorry, we can't remove the electrical outlets, but I will send a maintenance tech over to your apartment to have a look.

About a half-hour the maintenance guy returns to the office laughing. I asked him how things went. He said that Annie became even more adamant about having the outlets removed. After a good 10 minutes of back and forth he finally compromised by placing electrical tape over the unused outlets. He told her that it was special CIA approved tape and it would stop them from communicating with eachother.

Laundry Thief
It was the end of my work day and I was at a property my company just took over. I was sitting at the desk in the leasing area going over the application with a couple who were looking at renting a two bedroom apartment. As I was going through the paperwork, in walks C with two large trash bags.

C demands that she speak with me now. Seeing that she was clearly upset, I excused myself from the couple, telling them to read over the paperwork and that I would be back with them in a few minutes to answer any questions. I walk over to C and ask her if I could help her.

C: Here (she thrusts the bags at me). Someone stole my laundry basket. I know who it is, it's the damn kids upstairs. I took their laundry out of the dryer and put them in these bags.

Me: What do you want me to do with this?

C: I want you to call them and demand that they give me my laundry basket.

At this point, she's starting to yell. The couple reviewing the paperwork can clearly hear what is going on.

C: This is clearly an issue of theft. I demand that you stop these people from stealing. It's unacceptable and disgusting and if you don't do something about it I'm going to move.

I calmly look at C:
Me:I will most certainly look into the situation. What number can I call you back at? I'm currently helping this couple but I will look into it when I'm through with them.

C: (yelling now) This is absurd. You need to handle this RIGHT NOW. Theft is unacceptable.

Me: (almost nearling my level for no longer being calm) I will absoultely deal with this when I am done with this couple and I will call you when I am through.

C: No, I will wait here. People can't walk around stealing things. I don't want them to get their clothes until I get my basket back.

Me: (up until this point, I was willing to just give her money from petty cash for a new basket, just to get her to leave. But now she's taken it too far and the couple that is sitting close by could be considering whether they want to move into a community with people like her. Then it hits me.)C, you need to leave the office now. Besides, what do you think you just did by bringing me their laundry. You stole it from them and now you want me to ransom their clothing for a $1 basket?

C storms out of the office in a huff. I apologize profusely to the couple and assure them that things like this do not happen here on a regular basis and that we don't tolerate behavior like that and that I will be dealing with the disturbance. Fortunately they had a good attitude about it and were able to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Once the couple left, I called the residents who were missing their laundry. They come down to the office with the laundry basket and tell me that the basket was actually theirs and that it was stolen from them. He then proceeds to show me the bottom of his basket. In faded and scratched sharpie was the residents name and his dorm room # from college. Thankfully HE had a good sense of humor and took his clothes back of him.

I never heard back from C, but from what I understand she left the couple alone from then on out.

Coming Soon: More Tales of the Crazy, Crazier and Craziest Residents

We survived the TSA

Remember a couple of posts ago, I was worried about what I was going to tell my 90 year old grandmother about the new TSA process? Well, we had a bit of an issue getting to and from Key West. Let me start by saying that I appreciate the efforts to make flying safe and I understand that these screening efforts are in place because there are people trying to do very bad things. However, I believe that *if* you find something suspicious that you explain the process as you go.

We were flying out of Harrisburg International. One, because it's a smaller airport and two because we only had one stop between there and key west. We arrived at the airport nice and early with the understanding that we'll be flying on one of the busiest days for travel. There really wasn't a huge crowd so we thought getting through security would be a breeze.

As we zig-zagged through the cattle chutes people were being split between the X-Ray machines and the one full body scanner. Mom and Mom Mom went through X-Ray without problem. Brad, Eddie and I were put in the full body scanner line. Brad and I went through without incident. Eddie was pulled to the side. We figured his insulin pump gave them cause to do a pat-down and he was prepared in advance and provided medical documentation stating that he had the pump and vials of insulin.

What we weren't prepared for was after the pat-down when they pulled him into an opaque room and told me I couldn't follow him. I was told to go to my gate or wait at the seating area outside of the security area. This was AFTER I told them I was his wife and after they refused to tell me what was going on. For well over 15 minutes (that felt like hours) Eddie emerges. It seems that something set off the scanner and indicated that there was some kind of chemical that was on the 'list' of potential dangers.

For 15 minutes they went through his backpack that had our camera and computer. They ran gloved hands all over him and tested them. All the while not telling him why they were doing it. When it was all said and done, they told him that it was probably the gasoline from the gas station we stopped at on the way to the airport that triggered this extra treatment. They never once told him that he had the right to have someone with him or that he had a right to refuse this extra attention. They made him sign a piece of paper that stated something along the lines of being pleased with the treatment he received. At this time, they were calling for the pre-boarding of our flight. So what was he to do? Miss the flight and potentially not be permitted to fly? Of course he signed it.

Not to mention the fact that I was told nothing and watched 3 different security personnel go into the opaque room that held my husband. Uncertain as to what was going on. As he was being escorted to the seating area where I was anxiously waiting, the security escort told him that he was really sorry and that most of them didn't have a whole lot of training and what training they did have didn't include how to treat the people they were essentially groping.

Since we were leaving for what was going to be a very nice and relaxing trip to warmer weather, we boarded our plane. Thinking that this was just a once and done occurrence, we put this incident out of the way with the intent to voice our concern when we returned. Knowing that Eddie wouldn't be pumping gas on the return flight home, we didn't really think we'd experience the same incident again.

Key West was great. The weather was warm and we had beautiful weather. Mom Mom really enjoyed seeing all of the cats, chickens and houses. We ate fresh seafood, saw stunning sunsets and many ships large and small. Because we were constantly going, Mom Mom's joints were bothering her so she was using quite a bit of ben-gay and horse lineament. And not just a little bit either. We could feel it on our skin just by pushing her in the wheel chair.

The day we left, Mom Mom applied her standard quarter of a tube of ben-gay and horse lineament, packed her bags and waited til it was time to leave the house for the air port. Key West doesn't have the body scanners so we really didn't think we would run into any issues in security. Mom walked through ok, Brad and I walked through ok and Eddie walked through without incident. Mom Mom made it through fine but they had to inspect her wheel chair.

As we are sitting on the other side of security putting our shoes back on and helping Mom Mom, a TSA agent tells Mom Mom that they need to do further screening. THIS was what I was worried about. The agent was very nice and explained exactly what she was doing. She was even a little less gropey when performing the pat-down. She explained that the wheel chair tested positive for chemical traces. They noticed that Mom Mom was older and likely not a terrorist but protocol indicated that they had to test their gloves after the pat-down just in case.

We anxiously waited, praying that Mom Mom wouldn't have to go through the same indignity that Eddie had to. After a minute or so the agent walks up to Mom Mom and asks her if she takes any medication as that was what the machine indicated. So Mom Mom rattled off the booklet of medication she takes on a daily basis. The TSA agent asks if any of them are liquid to which Mom Mom replied no.

This confused the TSA agent, who then mentioned that they will more than likely have to do further screening. As she was walking to get an airport wheel chair to transport Mom Mom to locations unknown, my brilliant brother says 'wait! Does ben-gay count?' The TSA agent said of course, the chemicals could very easily have set off the machines. We all look at each other and laugh. The near entire tube that Mom Mom applied the past week had seeped into the wheelchair, coating it in the chemicals and lotion.

Satisfied with our revelation, the TSA agent released us and let us continue on to our gate. It's amazing what sets off these machines. It's also amazing that most agents have little to no training on how to deal with the people they are 'investigating' and how far they are willing to go based on appearance. So lesson learned, be extremely careful before going through security. Hope that you get someone who has good interpersonal skills and who has been properly trained. And for gods sake, don't coat yourself in ben-gay!!!

Travel Drama

I'm leaving tomorrow for Key West. I'm really looking forward to the trip and to sun and warm weather. However, I have a raging panic attack that's been here for the last three days. I haven't always been a good flyer. Planes used to scare the crap out of me. In 2007 I was forced to overcome my fear when my job required travel to Texas and Germany and a family trip to Jamaica all occurred within a little over one month.

Since then I have enjoyed travel and flying. Until March of this year. I went on a cruise for my birthday. The cruise itself was fine. The flight home was what terrifying. The east coast was being hammered by storms the day we flew home. In the airport, we sat and watched as flight after flight was delayed. Our flight was not.

The start of the flight home was great, rather unremarkable. But as we got closer to LaGuardia airport we hit terrible turbulence. The plane was shaken left, right, up and down. The winds were so strong that you could feel the plane being pushed backwards. We circled the airport for what felt like an eternity (at least an hour) in this awful turbulence. The plane sounded like it was going to come apart at the scenes. People were getting sick, screaming and crying. I turned my phone and texted Eddie and said that I thought we were going to crash and that I loved him.

The pilot attempted to land several times, we heard the landing gear come down but we saw nothing but clouds and fog out the window. Not even the blink of the runway lights. LaGuardia kept giving the clear for us to land (we had an amazing flight crew who kept us up-to-date on what was going on.) After being pushed back on the last attempt to land, the pilot came over the speaker system and told us that despite LaGuardia's insistence that we land he was taking us to Philly International (which was closer to home for me than NYC, but was not an option as the airline we flew did not have a gate at PHL.)

Our crew was wonderful. But the stress of our experience caused one flight attendant to have a heart attack. One of the girls I was traveling with passed out from a panic attack brought on by extreme pressure from the experience. They made the call over the system asking for all doctors and nurses to report to the back of the plane. An off-duty attendant who was flying home on the airline took over her duties. Helped find alternate transportation, got everyone free drinks and did what he could to calm everyone down.

I thought I was going to die. It wasn't until we touched down on the tarmac at the airport that I felt relieved. And it wasn't until Eddie got home (he was in NYC waiting to pick us up so he had to drive back to our house while my father-in-law picked me up at the police station in the Philly airport) that it hit me exactly how terrified I was. All I said for a half-an-hour, between the sobs, was 'I never thought I was going to see you again.'

I know that the experience was unique and that it was a result of the weather and not the very capable flight crew. There were other flights that had similar issues and all airports in or around New York were redirected. I know that tomorrow, when I get on the plane that I'll have a safe journey. I know that. That flight should not be what I base all future travel on. So tomorrow, I'll just remind myself that I'm going to have a wonderful vacation with my family and that everything is going to be just fine.

Please Mr(Ms?) Post Man!

I'm a celebrity gossip whore. I'll admit it. I'm really trying to get better. I completely stopped visiting websites by a certain Queen of All Media when I started to find his posts less about gossip and more about relentless bullying of, well. . .just about anybody. I occasionally find myself wandering over to Pink Is the New Blog as I find his gossip refreshing and not bullying at all. Plus, Trent blogs about his life which I find interesting and he is extremely gracious and real; something that is often lost in LaLa Land.

I used to, every Thursday at lunch, make my way to Target to pick up the Triumvirate of weekly magazines (US Weekly, People and InTouch) when it dawned on me that I could save a LOT of money if I just subscribed to the blasted magazines. Who was I kidding, I was hooked. For the longest time, it was perfect. I'd arrive home on Thursday, snuggle in after dinner and read all the celebrity news fit to print.

Then a strange thing started to happen. I'd get two magazines on Thursday and one on Friday, maybe Saturday. Then one week I'd get People on Monday, US Weekly on Saturday and then nothing. Worried that maybe my magazine slipped between boxes or accidentally went to a neighbor (it's happened before), I'd find myself in Target or the grocery store picking up InTouch. But then on Wednesday the prior weeks InTouch would end up in my mailbox.

I found it odd though, that I was getting my magazines (and really, it rotated each week) nearly a week after publication date and the day before the next issue would hit the news stands. I pay for a subscription to save money and to get them on or before the date they hit the news stands. And now, I'm spending more money to replace the missing magazine. So out of curiosity I called Customer Service of each magazine. Each time, I was told the same story. They try their best to ship their issues as close to newsstand date as possible and that a one to two day delay can be expected but a week was completely out of the ordinary and should not be happening. Because, really, who wants to read week old news?

I suspected that perhaps my mail carrier or someone in the sorting line was perusing reading my magazines. Looking back, I've lost complete issues of monthly magazines and had to buy from the news stand or gotten copies that were so tattered and had complete pages missing or even pages dogeared.

Today, I found what I suspected, that I was in fact not the first reader of my magazines. As I was reading US Weekly, addressed to me, I happened upon a phone number written in red pen on one of the pages. At first I thought maybe this was something that is printed as part of the article. As I looked closer you could see the indentation from writing on the page behind it. I am LIVID.

Who the fuck do they think they are, stealing my mail?! If you're too cheap to buy the damn magazines - go to the fucking library. Hell, you can even have mine on Friday - AFTER I've read them first. Yes, in the end I get my magazines. But they're MINE, I don't want to read them a week late after you've gone through them. If you're doing that to my magazines, what else are you looking at?

So, added to my Monday To-Do List includes a call to the Post Master. Do I think they'll actually do something? Probably not, since there's no way to tell where in the process this borrowing theft occurs. But maybe this complaint will at least result in a little bit more monitoring and the timely delivery of my mail.

Friday Flip Off 11/19/10

A couple of blogs I follow Ash and MommaKiss do this, I figured why the hell not. I'm such a lemming, and a late follower. So, without further ado. . .

A big flip off to the man behind me in the theatre earlier this evening. Eddie decided it would be nice to come home with tickets to see Harry Potter before the crowds of people show up, so on his way home from school he picked up our tickets for the 4pm show. We hardly go to the theatre (I have difficulty sitting comfortably in one spot for long periods of time)so I was looking forward to the evening. I'm pretty tolerant of kids talking during movies, getting up and running to the bathroom and all that other stuff. I mean, they're kids, they're not doing it intentionally. What I don't like is adults who are inconsiderate. Every 5 minutes throughout the movie I hear what can only be described as Snuffulupagus with a runny nose. Look. I know it's cold and flu season and sometimes we get runny noses. But seriously, bring tissues if you're nose is running like a faucet or go grab some napkins or something. Nobody wants to hear your nasal juices being forcibly sucked back into your body. Even better, do us healthy people a favor and stay home til you feel better. Harry Potter will still be there when you're able to contain your snot inside your body. Nobody wants to get what you have.

A big flip off to seat kickers. Yeah, Snot Man is also a seat kicker. There is nothing more aggravating than sitting in front of someone who can't sit still. If you are too tall to cram yourself into the row of chairs you need to sit on the aisle. There's nothing like watching a movie and being pushed back and forth by your fidgety feet.

Pretty trivial flip offs for a pretty boring week. But, it was enough to piss me off. No Friday Flip Off next week, I'll be in Sunny Key West. Hopefully with my feet in the sand a drink in my hand and the sun on my face. Or just drunk. I'll settle for that, too.

If you're gonna Flip, make sure you link!

Public Grope

Next Wednesday morning, way earlier than I'd like to be awake, I'll be going through security so I can board a plane and go on our family vacation. I'm prepared for the TSA 'Gate Rape' should they require to do one. What I'm NOT prepared for, the challenge I have now, is explaining what is going to happen to my 90-year-old grandmother who has difficulty standing and walking. Which will pretty much assure that she get the special treatment by TSA.

My 90-year-old grandmother who is the furthest thing from a terrorist. Who grew up in an age where touching someone meant so much more than it does now. She worries needlessly so my mom and I are purposefully not commenting on the news reports. But we're going to have to say something to her at some point. I don't want to wheel her right up and say 'surprise MM, you're getting groped for Thanksgiving.

It will get better. . .

At least, that's what Eddie tells me. I wish I was able to spring back like he did all these years ago. I guess the loss of a child is different for each parent. Eddie, who is so stoic can even come across as unphased. Me, broken into a million shards still not put back together correctly. I'm not getting any younger, as I've been told by family.

So I agree with Eddie. A compromise. We'll try. But we'll consider adoption as well. . . just in case. I worry that though I agree to try my body, or I suppose my mind, is still protesting. Something stressful as starting a family is one million times harder when you couldn't do it right the first time. (I know. . .knock it off, I have to quit blaming myself.)The more I think about it the more objections I come up with.

There's probably going to be some future posts because lets face it, I've got to get rid of these thoughts somehow. I'm trying so hard to be zen about this. I really don't want to make this entire blog about this sudden about face (though I suppose in my head it's not so sudden.) But there will probably be an occasional post, you know, just to keep my sanity. And please, feel free to derail those negative/scared posts if you catch them. Letting go is sometimes the hardest thing to do. I've done a good job of not letting go for many many years. Letting go doesn't mean not loving and I have to remind myself of that every day.

Where do I start?

This post has been sitting here for the better part of two weeks. Unpublished, waiting. I have dreams about it when I'm not online. I know it's here, it knows that it's here. And yet, I find myself unable to push the publish post button. I've 'written' what I want in my head but my fingers seem like phantom limbs as I attempt to type the words seem to be an alien language and nothing seems right. Because admitting this terrifies me to no end. And I've done so well (or maybe not?) by telling people 'not yet.'

I guess you could say that I'm a member of the club that no person ever really wants to be a part of. I'm the mother of a child who was not meant for this earth. My son, born early and with a diaphragmatic hernia, a genetic anomaly that would cost him his life. My son, who never came home in the short 5 months of his life. Whose only cry came the second he came into this earth and who was only ever able to be held 3 short times. My son, Gregory.

A mother by definition and yet not. Did it change the day he left this earth? I see children his age and wonder what he would be like. Would he be playing soccer like his mom or run like his dad? Would he be tearing apart our electronics with Eddie or reading a book like me? And yet it feels like my world stopped with his. Time stood still around me while it has progressed for everyone around me.

The cold steel grasp of fear grips me and I can't shake it. The rational part of my brain knows that the it is very unlikely that another child would have the same genetic anomaly. The logical part of my brain knows that everything will be fine. The emotional part won't move. It's loud and it's screaming over the parts of my brain that tell me it will be ok. I can't move forward and yet I want to.

fibrohaiku

fall has arrived
cold and rain bring changes
the pain will not cease