Numbers: a Thursday Thirteen.

Me, at six

Dear Diaries,

1. SIX. Does anyone being six? I have a vague recollection of being given a Barbie, which was boring and stupid and was immediately put in all manner of peril for me and my friends to rescue. I wore Sears Tuffskin jeans, which made climbing trees easier. I was loved. The world was a safe, predictable place. That was pretty much my world.

I ask you to hold onto the idea of being six for a moment while I share a little about where I work.

2. FOUR. In the state of New Mexico, there are four acute-care hospital units where children under 18 go when they are out of control, psychotic, or suicidal. There used to be more, but nothing is more non-profit than children’s behavioral health, so they’ve all shut down, until just four are left, for a state of over a million people, a state with the seventh highest youth suicide rate in the United States.

3. TWO. In New Mexico, only two of the four acute units are non-profit. Both in Albuquerque, each takes patients from Albuquerque and most of the rest of the state.

4. TWELVE. We have twelve beds total, on the unit.

5. SIXTEEN. We would like to have sixteen beds, but that requires remodeling. Re: above and non-profitability of children’s behavioral health. We make enough to pay the bills. Nothing's left over. Every corner than can be cut has been cut. Most of the children we see live well below the poverty level--New Mexico has the second highest child poverty rate in the nation. Many are in state custody, having been abused, and many have mental retardation, or autism, or both. Every staff member in the unit has bought toys or other supplies out of the their own pockets.

6. ONE. We are the only private non-profit acute psychiatric unit for children in the state. The other non-profit, a university medical sciences center, sends us kids they don't feel they can handle.

7. ONE. I used to be puzzled as to why a major state university health sciences center couldn’t handle a pediatric behavioral patient. Then, one day as we were considering whether to take a patient who required one-to-one staffing, I realized that we needed only to consult one suoervisor, and then a staff member is called in, usually within one day. I suspect that at this other, university-affiliated hospital it requires several requisitions, forms, and an act of the state senate to get more staff.

8. EIGHT. The entire hospital system I work for is run by a foundation. They use extra money to build other hospitals, and now there are eight.

9. EIGHT. I have an ER list set up on my computer that gives me the ages and reasons for being in the ER. No names—just age and reason for being in the ER. It keeps me prepared for possible admissions, because I alone on the unit am the therapist, social worker, and insurance reviewer.

10. ELEVEN. Eleven people are on the board of trustees. Every year they hold a major fundraiser, which benefits some part of the hospital. This year, they chose our unit. The benefit is held in August of every year, and includes a fancy sit-down dinner, comedian, silent auctions, and raffle. Here’s a link.

11. SIX. Remember six? Last week I received a call from a local therapist asking me if I could do a suicide assessment on a six-year-old who is in child protective custody. This child is in treatment foster care and had been hoarding knives and threatening to kill himself. I told the therapist to take him to our emergency room for an evaluation.

12. SIX. Before I left for the day, I consulted the ER list to see if any six-year-olds had been brought in. There was, indeed, a six-year-old who was in the ER for a suicide assessment.

13. In fact, there were TWO.

...

 

 

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Friday 14 - The Seattle Travel Edition.

Dear Diary,

The Zensah Ankle sleeve.

14.  I am back home where, predictably, I was missed at work.  It's good to be missed.  The 20-something who lives 2 offices down, for instance, bounced by my office yesterday and said, Oh,Misty,I'mSoGladYou'reBack. ImissedYourEnergy!!!

13. This whole ankle thing has gotten old. It's on average about twice a year that I sprain my right anke. But there's nothing and buying eqUipment won't fix, right?



Stupid ankle.

Nemo?  Where are you nemo?

12. Meanwhile, the ankle is still swollen. Ooo, and ug-lay. Behold. This is day four, after wearing a sock all day. I spent most of the day sitting, too.

It's a Port, After all.

Himself.

11. But I can walk on it just fine. Up stairs, down stairs. I wore heels. No problem. But I can't touch it. Owie.  Stupid ankle.

10. Seattle was beautiful. Despite a forecast of rain for five days out of seven, it sprinled lightly early one morning and then never rained again.

On day one, we ate Indian buffet for lunch out with Baboo's Dad, who is also a psychologist and was in town for a DBT conference.

9. Day 2, we went to Pike Street Market, and had coffee at the original Starbucks. Then went to the REI flagship store. Then I had a stragith shot of espresso. Then we went running trails at Cougar Mountain. Then Had dinner with Dad Baboo at the cheesecake factory.

One of the many musicians along the waterfront.
We saw banjos, a capellasin ging, guitars,
and this guy, to name a few.

8. Day 3, we got up early and deove along the Olympic Peninsula. Baboo ran a 10k through the Hoh rain forest, and I hiked about four miles. It was so cool, mossy and dark. We drove back along the Pacific, stopping to look for shells. There weren't any. Mostly, there were rocks and driftwood,

7. Being fit is awesome. Loud tourists near you? No problem: run away.  Big-assed hills?  So what?  I was at sea level, practically swimming in oxygen.  Until day 4, I felt like I could run forever.

Best sandwich ever IN MY LIFE.  Shrimp and bacon club,
with sweet potatoe fries, at the Cheesecake Factory.
This was two meals for me.

6. Day 4 was the race. Stupid ankle. I would have been at least fourth, possibly third, in my division of my ankle hadn't given out.

Well. There is always next year.

Stupid ankle.

5. Day 5, drove to Vancouver, which is beautiful, expensive, and doesn't "do" iced tea. We went on a suspension bridge. We avoided buying gas there which was, apparenly, 140.8. I have to assume that is cents, per liter. On the way bome, we stopped in Bellingham, and ate at Anthony's on the waterfront. I had crab and a small steak.

I discovered that the persistant queasiness I'd had on and off was because of the outgassing from the leather seats in the rental car.

Peroshky, Peroshky!!
Mine was smoked salmon

Red velvet cheesecake, finished with white chocolate.
I finished this over 3 days.

It occurs to me that most of
my travel pictures are about food.
That seems wrong, somehow.
(Top Pot Donuts)

4. Day 6, we slept in, then drove into town and ate at Top Pot donuts, which had the best coffee on the trip. Oh, and donuts. We cruised through the market on Pike Street again, particularly an antique store and a place that sold old ads and magazines. We walked through Olympic Park. WHERE MY ANKLE WAS JUST FINE.

Stupid ankle.

We ate dinner at Paolo's in Kent.  It was great.  The food was wonderful.

Suspension bridge in Vancouver.
Can you find the Baboo?

"We don't do iced tea."

I can see Alaska from my porch.

Van Burien Press' fairly uninspiring menu board.

Olympic Park

3. Day 7, we slept in, and had coffee at the Van Burien Press, despite our Nuvi's attempts to keep us in Seattle.  Really, Nuvi had some kind of nervous breakdown in Seattle, where everything is a freeway.  Like, we would be sitting at a red light, not moving, not even in very heavy traffic, and suddenly out of the silence Nuvi would say, "RECALCULATING". uM, what?  recalculating what?  We're not even moving!

Anyway.  The Coffee at Van Burien press was so so. The barista seemed somewhat uninspired.  We were subjected to a very, very loud conversation between three high caffeinated new-agers that were going on, ad nausea, and youknowthere'saforceintheuniversethatformsbetweenusandthemoonandthesunreallyscientistshaveactuallymeasureditandicanFEELit.Ican.Imantrathatshit,youknow.

Aussie!  Aussie!  Aussie!  I had a chicken and asparagus
pie.

We sat around for a few hours, and then had lunch at Aussie Pies. Then, we flew home.

2. Now, somehow out of all of this, I gained 10 lbs.  Not sure how that's possible, that would involve something like an extra 25000 calories eaten, added to the face that we were up on our feet moving around most of the time, when usually we are each of us sitting in an office chair.  I mean, I enjoyed myself, but not 25000 calories worth.

I'm assuming that because we ate out so much, I took in lots of sodium.  My clothes aren't tighter, by the way, so I don't know where it all is.  If it isn't gone by this weekend, well, I'll have to revise my ticker up at the top of the page and do the special K challenge, I guess.  Meanwhile, I'm taking in lots of green tea and water.

1. So, back in Albuquerque, where we only have two freeways.  I loved Seattle, and will probably go back, really, since I still don't have a Washington marathon.
I was scheduled to do the Duke City in about 2 days, but, um, probably not.  Tomorrow morning I"m hoping to go out and see how the ankle holds up to walking around the block.  I'll work my way up from there.

Next up: THe Rock and Roll San Antonio marathon, November 12th.

...

OMG. Who ARE these people?

"...the grief that has enveloped me, and it's amazing. I'm sitting here with tears streaming down my cheeks, and I need someone somewhere that could tell me this is normal..."

The subject of my rant today is people "struggling" with the empty nest. I'm talking about deep, anguished writings by women who are trying to build a life outside of their children. Stuff like this (above) and throughout, which I've edited so that the original authors can't be identified.

OMG, WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? I started raising children at 19, and if you don't count a couple of my ex husbands, and the hundreds of students I've taught, I've raised three of them. Three children, who have by and large kept me hostage while they took everything I ever tried to have for myself: my favorite flavors of special K -I found three empty boxes in Mini's room while cleaning out the old house, and I've spent the weekend scrubbing boot black off stairs. This would be from JROTC combat boots.

"...I find myself wandering to his room, where I sit on the edge of his bed and thoughts of him run through my mind..."

I also found candy wrappers and old socks behind nearly every piece of furniture in his room...and also throughout the house. (And do we condone this? We do not.) Then, I packed up the car and drove to our new house, where I have cereal that will stay UNTIL I EAT IT and where, when I go to get something, it will be exactly where I left it. The only messes to clean are the ones that I myself have created.

Which carries its own challenges. But, anyway.

Am I a terrible mother who hates kids? I don't think so. I used to think I was - I tried apologizing to my grown children for their inconsistent upbringing and for being so crazy, but they've both assured me that I wasn't a bad mother, e.b., You should see some of the mothers my friends have, and they call and email me often enough to where I feel pretty assured that they don't have "issues." At least not yet.

I'll just say it: I feel like I've been let out of PRISON. Maybe I put too much into motherhood; I don't know. I felt like my job was to raise kids to be healthy, responsible individuals who could take care of themself and not need me and move on to live their lives. I stopped trying to get some meaning or reward out of parenthood long ago. I was my job, and when I enjoyed it, that was a bonus. But now I'm done.

"...As my son packed his things, my heart ached. Only a mother could know the anguish of saying goodbye, giving him wings so that the struggling baby bird can soar. I want to grab his little beak and say 'come back to your safe, loving, nest'..."

Good lord. To my children: I love you, but if you're coming for a visit, I want to see a return ticket before I let you in the door.

I come home at night, pour a glass of wine or a cup of coffee, sit on a clean couch, and look out at the foothills. Sometimes I go for a walk. I enjoy a quiet supper with Sweet Baboo. I'm in awe that life can be this good, even, and calm--devoid of any drama except that which I care to add.

There is nobody for me to ferry to an event. There is nobody to shove several pieces of paper at me at 6:45 am for my signature and/or checks to write, nobody to drop dirty clothes and books on the floor or tell me tearfully at 8 pm that they have to have 2 pieces of white posterboard RIGHT NOW or they will FAIL.

I bet this is the part where she says she misses all that.

I have a plaster cast of someone's handprint (I can't remember who) with a little poem attached that has a line or two about how much I'll miss their dirty handprints some day. I don't. Maybe that makes me a bad mom, but, that's something I'll have to live with, I guess, while sipping my chocolate wine and planning my next vacation.

I sit in my living room , watch a movie with the man I love, and there are no interruptions. The stereo has not been blown, the TV doesn't have smudgy smears on it, the cats are calm, because nobody has chased them with a paper sword that day or tried to stuff them into a box. There is low-fat ranch for my salad because nobody drank it straight from the bottle. There is chocolate milk for my mocha lattes because nobody drank the entire carton while sitting in front of the TV WHERE THEY ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE EATING followed by putting the empty carton back into the refrigerator.

"...I miss having teenagers around...I would hear newest jokes and newest music. That has been the hardest....

The phone almost never rings, but when it does, it's for me, and it's not teachers or ex-spouses calling to let me know that my son or daughter is in trouble, failing a grade, or mouthing off to them. When the TV isn't on, I sit quietly and listen to music, or read.

I'm 44. Now my life begins.

"I guess I knew that it would be here sooner or later, like the terrible twos and the teenage years. Everybody goes through it, so why do I feel like my guts have been ripped out, thrown on the road, and run over by a truck?"

OMG, woman. Go for a run, or to spin class.

...

Putty face.

I have a particular problem that used to be bad all the time but now, it only affects me at certain times of the month or when I can't run. It has a name. Every flaw. Every asymmetry, that is normal for a person to have, is magnified, far and beyond the usual issues people have with their appearance.

I look at myself and a recent picture and just before I can express my horror of how awful I look in the picture, Sweet Baboo says, "Hey, that's a good picture of you!" My closest best friend, when I lived in South Dakota, thought that I was vain because I checked the mirror so much. She just didn't get i that I was checking, the same way someone with an eating disorder might check their weight.

I blame my mom. And maybe, some chemical stuff that I probably inherited from my father's side. LOTS of depression and self loathing runs deep in both sides of my family. But anyway, Mom was a professional artist and so I have more than a healthy knowledge of "proper" proportion and symmetry and am acutely aware that I have neither of those things and frankly neither does anyone else but remember, a good neurosis is all about me Me, and my inability to stop fixating on how much I often wish I looked like something other than how I looked.

In bad times, I see the chicken pock scar from when I was ten, and the mole that I've tried to freeze off 3 times despite most people not even noticing that it's there, and the groove that's deepening between my eyebrows, and the nose that I've had altered, and lines that are just starting on my forehead. I feel the insecurity rising in me, the desperation, as I look at a face that looks like I've had a stroke. My face misshapen. I look like a face made of putty that's been stretched unevenly.

But then.
But then I say, Screw it. And I go out for a run. And then it fades away. I come back all sassy and sweaty and don't care how I look. I see myself, and I see strong and healthy. I'm a strong healthy slightly assymetrical nearsighted forty-something woman and I don't notice the lines after the run. I just notice the glow, and the smile.

Except that right now, I can't run. Erg. I've gotten better about this problem that I have with my appearance, but I want to stay ahead of it. I used to take meds that helped with various things, but nothing ever helped with this, until I started running.

So. But. I'm not writing this for validation of how non-ugly I am. I know, intellectually, that I'm not ugly. But when putty face strikes, it's not intellectual. It's emotional, and it's chemical. I'm telling you because maybe you know what it's like. I'm telling you that it's not you. It's emotional, and it's chemical. You just have to keep searching to find the solution, which for me, was running. Sometimes, for some people, it's meds, or therapy. For me, it was running.

Running, for me, is magical. I stop picking at my skin. I stop staring in the mirror. Sometimes I go by reflective surfaces and I even forget to check. I run, and I'm fabulous, and beautiful, and strong.

So I run. ALOT. Except that right now I can't. Soooo, I guess this afternoon I'll try aqua-jogging. Running is my new drug, my new addiction that makes the ugly putty face go away.

I'll do anything to keep it from coming back.

...