You have your mother's eyes!

Usually when someone tells me that I look like another family member, I smile politely. I'm usually glad for the comparisions to loved ones that make me "me".

But when a former neighbor said I have my mother's eyes--meant as a compliment--I got a little sick to my stomach.

I don't want her eyes, not the eyes I remember. Her eyes as I remember them were empty. Those were the eyes that convinced my sister and I that our brother has that dreaded gene on Chromosome 4. We told each other "his eyes are like mom's were." Empty, as if the soul was gone.

It's one of the nasty things about Huntington's disease. The empty eyes. I want my eyes to be full of life, full of light, full of sparkle. Like I hope hers were before.

She's been gone for 10 years, I've lived 10 years without a mother. She was showing earlier symptoms by my age. Signs that were obvious after the fact, but subtle and easy to miss if you didn't know what to look for. We didn't know what to look for.

My sister is five years older, and shows no signs of the disease. I've breathed a sigh of relief for her.

Some days, I'm tempted to sigh in relief for me too--but then I remember how easy those early signs were to miss. So I won't exhale quite yet. But the sparkle is still in my eyes.

Sorrow

Last week, a friend kissed her kids goodbye as they went to school. Three left, and only two came home. Her 7 year old was killed in a car accident that afternoon. How does one ever manage to go on after that? Yet, parents of dead children DO go on, but it takes my breath away thinking about it.

My grandparents lost a child tragically prior to having my father. A picture of their little girl hangs on my living room wall, because even after nearly 70 years, I want everyone to know that she existed. I think it would make them smile to know that her picture is in our home. This is a child I never knew, but from the time I knew of her very existance, she carved out a place in my mind, and I knew a piece of my grandparents' sorrow.

My friend buried her youngest son today. Initially, I thought that the funeral would be the worst part. Facing all those people...but those people are an outpouring of love, of people who are grieving too. Those people will go back to their lives tomorrow, and then my friend will be alone with her immediate family. With the fading echoes of her son in the house. A mom of three, but only two with her. The hard part starts tomorrow.

Often, people are afraid to call, afraid to ask how the grief-stricken are doing. We tend to ask "Let me know if there is anything I can do." Well, since we can't turn back time and can't bring her child back to life there is virtually nothing anyone can "do". So we say these things out of desire to want to help, and helplessness knowing that there is virtually nothing that will help. A meal, a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, and endless river of tears.

This is heartbreak beyond my understanding.

RAD Flashbacks

I recently found out that an old friend is also raising a RADish. As she is the legal guardian for her young niece, and single, she has been trying to go it alone. No one told her that she was raising a child with RAD. No one has ever identified this child has having RAD, but that does not change the fact that this child's behavior reveals her mental health problems. I recently sent her the Nancy Thomas DVDs that we had, and I know she's going to spend the next few months learning everything that she can to help her child.

The first time anyone told us that our child had RAD, I immediately got on line and started digging. Our son was just a few years younger than her niece. I wish I would have had an experienced friend at the time, and I wish I was closer to help her. Oh the help she is going to need! Remember the fatigue, the worry, the constant state of hyper vigilence...I can't imagine how stressed her life has been trying to do this without a partner. I did not have to work while I was learing about reactive attachment disorder--she does. I was fortunate that the people closest in our lives were understanding and respected our judgement. DH's family made no judgements. My family did, but they were far enough away that id didn't impact us. I ordered a stack of books from our local library, and a social worker once commented "That's pretty much a grad school course right there!"

I was eager to dig into the books and find the tools to have harmony in my home. It was an uphill battle, as our kiddos prefered the chaos. This in turn did two things: first, it pushed us into living in a high state of stress most of the time; second, it prepared both of us for our future careers. As a nurse, I'm told that I stay calm in situations that others find very stressful. These things are barely a blip on my radar due to the stress of the RADishes.

One negative side effect of living in that stressful state for so long is that when things are calm now, I'm a little uncomfortable. DH and I were talking about how we created stress by putting things off, waiting until things were urgent, and in general just creating a higher stress level than is good for us. We are both working on that. I'm working on not procrastinating, which creates more stress and anxiety for me. Strange, the things you can get used to even when they are not good for you.

Knowing what my friend is going to face these next few years makes me more grateful for the peace we have attained. Our household bills are much lower now that it's just the two of us again, far lower than I expected. I realized I no longer have to lock my keys or purse away in our bedroom closet--the one we had to put the keyless deadbolt on. It's strange to keep my purse handy in the laundry room or the coat closet again, but nice. I don't have to hide snacks anymore. When we had all the kids--and I realize that this is not just a RADish thing--I used to have to buy doubles for snacks, or else I'd have to hide things in our bedroom closet. If I didn't, it would disappear before I could get any of the treats. DS's biggest thing was cereal. Once, DH's blood sugar dropped and he at the rest of the cereal to bring it up again. The next morning, DS was very angry. He didn't care that DH had been sick with hypoglycemia and needed to sleep.

In the end, it's the hypervigilence that I remember the most. Going through my house in my head before I'd fall asleep, hoping that I'd RAD-proofed everything. Hoping that the kids wouldn't sneak out. I'll never miss having to call the local police for missing kids, for violent kids, or for crimes committed in the house. I won't miss the crazy making that kept us up at all hours. It's an exhausting way to live.

My heart hurts for my friend, and for the wounded child who is going to put them through hell. I hope and pray that this girl will heal, that she'll be able to work with a good therapist, and that she'll be able to find a way to make peace with her previous life, and herself.

The RADish Strikes Back

DS's biomom stopped over this weekend, in tears. She had a huge fight with him, and he wanted to be dropped off back in our hometown. She stopped over to warn us he's back in the area. Me? I want to yell "I told you so!" Her? Devastated and feeling rejected. Him? No clue where he actually is at the moment.

Just before Christmas, he moved back in with her. Fine by us. We had lowered our expectations dramatically and were happy that we got him to 18. He was alive, had a diploma coming, and was not in prison. This was enough for us. Did I want more for my child? Of course, but this was a RADish we were talking about. What I really want for him is a future that included being happy, having a job, and being a meaningful member of society. He does not want the same thing.

Several weeks ago, we received a message on FB "just so you know, the grass is not greener over here". It was from biomom, and we were not one bit surprised that he was unhappy with her. He had taken himself along, of course. While he spent years trying to convince himself that school, biofamily, and DH and I were the real problem, he was shocked to find out that life's issues did not disappear when he changed addresses.

DH spent a bit of time trying to convince biomom that she did the right thing. DS is going to have to bounce around for a while until he realizes that he has to be accountable for his actions. I wish he was the kind of kid who did not have to learn everything the hard way. DH and I learned early on though, that anytime DS did not work for things, they were meaningless. Unfortunately, he's also had times when this did not work either--usually in a fit of rage that resulted in 90% of his things broken, damage to walls, and sullen silence.

DH and I are considering changing all the locks in the house. We can't let him back in this house. I can't exchange the peace I have for the chaos he prefers.

Foster Parent Non-Support

DH was recently telling me that a new study shows that the biggest reason foster parents stop fostering is due to the lack of support. Between that and the lack of adequate respite care, retaining quality foster parents is nearly impossible.

Um, DUH? While there are tons of studies available on foster children, the "system", etc, but virtually no one has looked at foster parents. Easy to understand, as the focus should be on the the children and the system designed to help them, however, it also highlights the fact that foster parents are thought to be outside of this system, instead of a part of it.

Our own experiences highlight this, as social workers talked around us and over us. It was made clear that there was information that was being held from us, information that included details of the conditions of the environment 'our' children came from. This is information that we could have used to help answer the 6 year old's question of "Why did this happen to me." She had been so acclimated to her environment that she didn't know that her life was the norm, and as is typical of a 6 year old, assumed the fault must have been hers.

We could speak in generalities, as we'd been taught. We also were not blind. We saw that the 6 year old was the caretaker for her two siblings. She constantly butted heads with beloved, as he was a full time SAHD. The phrase "The grown ups are supposed to take care of the kids; your job is to go to school and play, and keep your room picked up."

Much of the progress we made was undermined at every home visit where she would again be in charge of the siblings. It also didn't help that parental guilt drove the purchase of Mountain Dew and one pound bags of M&Ms. Sunday night and Monday mornings were the worst, as they would come off of the sugar high. This is when I'd get the most complaints about home made meals.

After these kids left our home, we got the feel that we had been watched to see how we handled the situation. Imagine getting a phone call asking how your charges are doing, and then hearing "By the way, they are going home in 2 days." They were not even going to let the 6 year old finish the school year. We managed to convince them of that, and it seemed that we were labeled after that. The next placement that came our way was several months down the road, although we'd constantly heard from other foster parents that they were getting frequent calls for placements. Can we say "black balled?"

Had we be kept in the loop, we could have helped make the transition a lot easier on the kids, and we ourselves could have had more time to mentally prepare. The lack of services available to the children and parents that need it the most is appalling. With this in mind, minimal funds should be spent on foster parent support, but there should be adequate training available--paid for either out of pocket or by donations. I would hate to see a dime that could go towards helping a child be taking away in the name of "training" a foster parent. Support groups, on the other hand, are cheap.

All most foster parents need is respite for a few hours. In my opinion, that respite should also be provided by the social workers. I have actually made this suggestion--it was greeted by hysterical laughter on the part of the social workers.

The Art of Procrastination

I'm feeling very productive today, as usually happens when there is the one thing on my to do list that I hate to do: Pay bills.

Paying bills creates anxiety like nothing else in my life. It stems back to a time when I had to decide which bills to pay, instead of paying all of them. Thankfully, that time was short lived, but the anxiety has carried over. I would love to be able to turn the bill paying over to beloved, however, the thought of giving up the control creates even more anxiety.

My solution is to procrastinate. Which, of course, is not really a solution--except that I get so many other things done that at the very least, 1/2 dozen little things get crossed off of my to do list. Today's done list (to avoid bill paying) included:

-grocery shopping
-breakfast with beloved (unplanned, but necessary do to a low blood sugar episode)
-Picking up items needed for our handyman to finish our downstairs bathroom
-cleaning the kitchen, including the stove
-doing dishes
-finishing laundry
-finishing paperwork from my workweek
-collecting items needed to mail to friends and loved ones
-mopping floors
-scrubbing a toilet
-taking down my holiday window stickies

About halfway through the list, a new "to do list" started to form. Since I really, really don't want to go out and about again because it's just too darn cold, I finally made myself log onto the computer. Followed by checking my facebook page, my favorite blogs and forums, I pulled up the bank page. Luckily, I was saved a bit by hearing the washer stop, one of the few times I was grateful to switch laundry loads.

After 1/2 day of procrastinating, I logged onto the bank site, and was darn near giddy by the account balance. The dissappointment that quickly followed was to be expected, as the balance will quickly deteriorate judging by the thick stack of bills.

I'm trying to be grateful, my BIL just lost his job. I have several jobs, and am getting calls to fill in. I could pretty much work 7 days a week, and have been. Following the bill paying, I have enough money left to pay the handy man, have gas for next week, mail my packages, and also had enough to pay 50% of what I owe beloved's school account. This was due to a January shortage and poor planning on our part, and the extra anxiety carried over to this month. I even was able to finish paying a couple of big medical bills. Very exciting stuff, anxiety reducing despite the final balance of the account. There's a wee bit of a cushion, and payday is next Friday. The final bills will get paid and we will officially be "caught up." I hope.

I always feel relieved when the bills are done, but just can't help putting it off.

I still managed to leave the cat boxes for beloved.

Next big one on the list: Taxes.

December 2001: Day one as a foster parent

Our world had forever changed in September, yet a few miles away the lives of three young children were falling apart. These young children entered our life in December, our first adventures in fostering. Ages 1, 2, and 6, they came with no manual. The two year old looked us in the eye and said "Fuck" over and over. The one year old tried to pull the dining room lights down.

That night, we laid in bed and listened to their nightmares. The 1 year old screamed in his sleep, the two year old cried himself to sleep, and the 6 year old tried to chew her lip off because she was so scared and worried about how we were caring for her siblings. We stared at each other through our own awake-nightmare. It was horrifying. This was not what we thought it was going to be like.

When you make the decision to become a foster parent, you do so to help a child in need. It's a selfless proposition. It's never, ever what you expect it to be. Foster parents are told by social workers that they are a part of a team. In reality, we are expected to feed, clothe, and in general keep the kids clean. We are expected to answer the social worker's questions about the children's behavior and school grades. We are expected to keep our noses out of everything else, simply acting as a chauffeur when asked.

We are not to act like real parents--we are "just" the foster parents. Therefore, we should not try to provide emotional support, other than generic kindness, to our charges. We are not supposed to provide any sort of therpeutic support. If I had known this was what I was up against with "the system", I doubt I ever would have wanted foster in the first place.

The years that followed found us in a constant battle with "the system" as we tried to find the best services available to help the children in our care. Consistantly, we hit brick wall after brick wall. Workers would move on and take new jobs and we found ourselves going over the same ground with new workers. We encountered many, many bad therapists, a few bad psychiatrists, and many, many bad social workers. Amongst those, we also found a few gems, a very few gems.

Ultimately, it was not the children who pushed us out of fostering, it was the professionals.

Work Ramblings

I was talking to DH last night about the work vents I seem to have, virtually daily. I think I figured out that my problem is that a lot of my coworkers (most) do not have the same standards that I do. It's weird because virtually every nurse I know would say she/he's a perfectionist. But we all have our own definition of perfection, and there's the problem.

Second issue is all the green nurses we have. Per facility policy, new nurses have two days of orientation on each wing for a total of six days. There is also two days of corporate orientation, and usually a 1/2 day of computer training. The new nurse is handed a sheet of "skills" or items that need to be taught by the floor nurse doing the orientation. The nurse usually doesn't know she'll be training until she arrives for her shift.

Essentially, this means that the nurse has 7 1/2 hours to try and do her regular job and take the time to teach someone else how to do it. We are also expected to show the new nurse all of the policies and procedures, as well as teach them how to chart, report, follow up on issues.

Most new nurses in LTC, myself included, are worried about learning the medication pass. This takes a huge chunk of time in LTC--approximately 3-4 hours of the shift. The motto in nursing, however, is if it's not charted it's not done. I get really ticked off when I report off an issue with one of my residents, return the next day, and here "resident is okay" with absolutely no follow up done I want to have a fit and bitch at that nurse.

I've been making attempts to *NOT* freak out and instead try and mentor/teach the new nurses. I'll stay later and finish things myself. I've given out my phone number with a "just call me with any questions." They have yet to take me up on it. Today, the new nurse I reported off to looked confused, and when I asked her to make sure she did follow up charting, she asked

"What do you mean?" It gets tiring having the same conversation over and over again. I remember being that confused, feeling like I was missing the big picture, and having 10,000 questions every time I got to work, and feeling like everyone was sick of all those questions. So I'm trying hard to be patient. I'm struggling with it. I'm just not that patient.

It has to get better, right? Or half of them will quit? Doubtful, with today's economy.