I saw the karate mom, yesterday. She was with the other twin. Usually so well-groomed, she looked like she hadn't showered or changed clothes in days. Like she hadn't slept or eaten in a month. "I'm so glad you're home. And I am so sorry about all of this," I told her feeling my eyes get moist, "I am just so sorry...."
"It's been hard," she told me, "but he's a trooper. He had a spinal tap today.... He can't tell me how he's feeling, I don't know what he understands.... It's... hard."
I once fainted and banged my head on a trash can when I watched Belac have several vials of blood taken from him. I am a lightweight when it comes to this kind of stuff. But tonight I'm going to have a huge dinner before going to the blood drive for this boy. This poor child.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
my room
Our movers were crappy this time. There were supposed to be 4 guys, not just the 3 that showed up. They broke things and lost hardware to furniture. The movers dropped the treadmill and it died. They offered 150 dollars to take care of it, but since the repair charge starts at 350 we've spent hours trying to fix it ourselves. Until we figure this out, my husband has been running in the dark at 5:45 every morning.
We've also been unpacking everything in hopes of finding the screws to our bed. We've been sleeping with our mattress on the floor. It's like being in college again! But would I have allowed my kids to sleep like this for 4 weeks in their new home I wondered as I showed a friend around. Doesn't it say something, how the priority rooms were all the others and not my (our) own?
The boys' rooms were the first to be painted, unpacked and set up, with Belac getting my dresser and Jake getting our bookshelf. By the time the boys came home from the grandparents' on the Saturday before school began, their rooms were picture perfect and organized. Ready for sleeping, ready for studying, ready for just hanging out.
The living room was an immediate priority, too, because piano lessons were starting up and I'd soon have paying families trekking through the area. The room was painted, pianos tuned, things set up, and an ac - hard to find so late in the season - was purchased and installed during the early September heat wave. Over the past weeks, the kitchen, other parts of the house and the exterior have also taken shape. But there's been no real progress on our bedroom.
The dresser I bought off of craigslist 2 months ago, still sits in the garage and needs to be cleaned and painted. If my husband needed this dresser and didn't have built in shelves for his clothes, I would have gotten to it by now. But since we're talking about my clothes and not anyone else's, it's not been a priority and my things remain in stacks on the floor. Our mattress is on the floor, too, which doesn't bother me, except that recently when I have been falling into bed at night, I feel a dull ache in my lower back. I've been trying to ignore it. Of course, the bed on the floor has nothing to do with it. I've been on my hands and knees scrubbing, lugging books and boxes around, bent over a bathtub washing windows and screens... If anything, hopefully, it's a reminder to me that I need to take care of myself! It's really okay to make my needs a priority. So, tonight, instead of telling my husband 'we'll do it tomorrow' when he comes home after a long work day and offers - for the 31st time - to help lug the dresser out of the garage, I'll tell him,"Okay! Let's do it!"
We've also been unpacking everything in hopes of finding the screws to our bed. We've been sleeping with our mattress on the floor. It's like being in college again! But would I have allowed my kids to sleep like this for 4 weeks in their new home I wondered as I showed a friend around. Doesn't it say something, how the priority rooms were all the others and not my (our) own?
The boys' rooms were the first to be painted, unpacked and set up, with Belac getting my dresser and Jake getting our bookshelf. By the time the boys came home from the grandparents' on the Saturday before school began, their rooms were picture perfect and organized. Ready for sleeping, ready for studying, ready for just hanging out.
The living room was an immediate priority, too, because piano lessons were starting up and I'd soon have paying families trekking through the area. The room was painted, pianos tuned, things set up, and an ac - hard to find so late in the season - was purchased and installed during the early September heat wave. Over the past weeks, the kitchen, other parts of the house and the exterior have also taken shape. But there's been no real progress on our bedroom.
The dresser I bought off of craigslist 2 months ago, still sits in the garage and needs to be cleaned and painted. If my husband needed this dresser and didn't have built in shelves for his clothes, I would have gotten to it by now. But since we're talking about my clothes and not anyone else's, it's not been a priority and my things remain in stacks on the floor. Our mattress is on the floor, too, which doesn't bother me, except that recently when I have been falling into bed at night, I feel a dull ache in my lower back. I've been trying to ignore it. Of course, the bed on the floor has nothing to do with it. I've been on my hands and knees scrubbing, lugging books and boxes around, bent over a bathtub washing windows and screens... If anything, hopefully, it's a reminder to me that I need to take care of myself! It's really okay to make my needs a priority. So, tonight, instead of telling my husband 'we'll do it tomorrow' when he comes home after a long work day and offers - for the 31st time - to help lug the dresser out of the garage, I'll tell him,"Okay! Let's do it!"
Monday, September 27, 2010
Getting comfortable
When I get up at night to use the bathroom, I still end up in the closet. The layout of the new place is not very intuitive and it's going to take some getting used to. This house also has so many doors. And the weird thing is, every door opens into a room from the wrong side. Every single one! There are doors that won't shut and others that - when shut - won't open without brute force or the help of a person on the other side.
More remarkable, however, have been the layers of dirt everywhere. I didn't fully notice until the house was stripped empty. Every window, wiped from the inside, blackened towels on a first pass. Power washing the exterior revealed that the house was - in fact - white and not grey and green. Rotting shingles were hauled to the curb. 4 guys came to just weed and dig up loads of poison ivy for two days. The past 3 weeks have been all about cleaning up 10 years of overgrowth and neglect. It's been an enormous job.
Yesterday, my husband bumped into Chris on the street. She was immediately defensive and began unprompted with an awkward "I know I should have taken care of that tree...." (There had been a dying spruce, 100 feet tall, leaning and swaying towards the house.) There was no hiding that the house and property had been drastically transformed by a massive clean up and my husband felt apologetic. He explained in as friendly a way as possible, "we were advised to have it removed."
"Should I have invited her over?" he asked me later.
"No," I told him. "Maybe after a year when she's settled into her new place (an apartment down the street). It has to be upsetting for her to see the house all cleaned up and I think it would only make it worse up close...."
I pinch myself that we've landed here, this kooky, sweet house. It's lovely! But I know full well that it was at the expense of Chris' misfortune that we're here in these 4 walls. We recently lived on the brink ourselves when autism showed up and wouldn't go away. It wreaked havoc on every part of our lives. Of course autism is still here, but now 5 years later we're managing it better and emotionally stronger. Hopefully and over time, Chris - too - will find relative peace.
Nothing is certain, that I have learned. Enjoy the good when it comes your way!
More remarkable, however, have been the layers of dirt everywhere. I didn't fully notice until the house was stripped empty. Every window, wiped from the inside, blackened towels on a first pass. Power washing the exterior revealed that the house was - in fact - white and not grey and green. Rotting shingles were hauled to the curb. 4 guys came to just weed and dig up loads of poison ivy for two days. The past 3 weeks have been all about cleaning up 10 years of overgrowth and neglect. It's been an enormous job.
Yesterday, my husband bumped into Chris on the street. She was immediately defensive and began unprompted with an awkward "I know I should have taken care of that tree...." (There had been a dying spruce, 100 feet tall, leaning and swaying towards the house.) There was no hiding that the house and property had been drastically transformed by a massive clean up and my husband felt apologetic. He explained in as friendly a way as possible, "we were advised to have it removed."
"Should I have invited her over?" he asked me later.
"No," I told him. "Maybe after a year when she's settled into her new place (an apartment down the street). It has to be upsetting for her to see the house all cleaned up and I think it would only make it worse up close...."
I pinch myself that we've landed here, this kooky, sweet house. It's lovely! But I know full well that it was at the expense of Chris' misfortune that we're here in these 4 walls. We recently lived on the brink ourselves when autism showed up and wouldn't go away. It wreaked havoc on every part of our lives. Of course autism is still here, but now 5 years later we're managing it better and emotionally stronger. Hopefully and over time, Chris - too - will find relative peace.
Nothing is certain, that I have learned. Enjoy the good when it comes your way!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Fingers out of ears
A 7-year old boy stood by the door with his fingers in his ears as his classmates got settled in their seats. No amount of encouraging from his teacher could get him to sit. I decided to start with an interactive song I call "Stand Right Up." Maybe I could get him to sit and participate. I sang absurd scenarios as the kids stood or sat down accordingly. The kids giggled throughout and busily moved up and down, faster and slower. The boy simply continued to stand.
We later did a marching-singing game. The boy stood to the side. I then gave a little lesson on quarter and eighth notes (walking and running notes) and everyone played rhythms on their drums. All of the other kids wanted to come to the front and take turns playing solo, but the boy did not budge from his spot.
Then I took out my violin. I showed them all of its parts. We counted the strings, I asked them how many there were and who knew what they were made of? I pulled the bow apart. "Does anyone know what this is made of?" String, said a few. "Hair," said the boy with his fingers out of his ears, who was suddenly standing next to me. "Excellent!" I exclaimed, "it's made from the hair of a.... HORSE!" The kids were amazed. "Did someone kill the horse?" someone asked. "No!" I assured them, "the horse got a haircut, just like you or me!" Everyone had a turn to strum the violin strings and the boy was the first to try. He brushed his fingers against all four strings and then plucked every single one delicately but firmly. It was magical. We made eye contact for the first time. "Thank you for playing my violin," I told him before going onto the next child.
After spending the morning at the school, I walked up Columbus to meet Ella, who was just finishing up a rehearsal with our chamber group at 79th street. The violinist of the group told me "You know, it's not much money once the taxes eat it up. The commute is so much trouble! Why do you want this? I think you just want to go to work everyday!" How does one even begin to respond to such a comment? Ella stepped in with a hint of exasperation. "It's not about the money, it's about teaching this particular group. She has something to offer and she's compelled! Who's to say it's not going to lead to something else? Maybe she'll start a school one day or work in Westchester closer to home. But she wants and needs the experience."
Ella! She knows it's not a stepping stone thing for me, but was just trying to convey the bigger picture to this woman. Ella gets it. It's an amazing feeling to see a kid take his fingers out of his ears and engage. To see a girl with apraxia and other difficulties drumming her heart out. Today I held the hand of a visually impaired girl as we jumped to a song and I saw she was smiling. I struggled to know what to do with an Aspergersy kid who kept interrupting me with comments and questions and just couldn't let things 'go.' I don't know why, but I find the challenge thrilling and I was so content to be there, figuring it out. I feel like this is what I should be doing.
We later did a marching-singing game. The boy stood to the side. I then gave a little lesson on quarter and eighth notes (walking and running notes) and everyone played rhythms on their drums. All of the other kids wanted to come to the front and take turns playing solo, but the boy did not budge from his spot.
Then I took out my violin. I showed them all of its parts. We counted the strings, I asked them how many there were and who knew what they were made of? I pulled the bow apart. "Does anyone know what this is made of?" String, said a few. "Hair," said the boy with his fingers out of his ears, who was suddenly standing next to me. "Excellent!" I exclaimed, "it's made from the hair of a.... HORSE!" The kids were amazed. "Did someone kill the horse?" someone asked. "No!" I assured them, "the horse got a haircut, just like you or me!" Everyone had a turn to strum the violin strings and the boy was the first to try. He brushed his fingers against all four strings and then plucked every single one delicately but firmly. It was magical. We made eye contact for the first time. "Thank you for playing my violin," I told him before going onto the next child.
After spending the morning at the school, I walked up Columbus to meet Ella, who was just finishing up a rehearsal with our chamber group at 79th street. The violinist of the group told me "You know, it's not much money once the taxes eat it up. The commute is so much trouble! Why do you want this? I think you just want to go to work everyday!" How does one even begin to respond to such a comment? Ella stepped in with a hint of exasperation. "It's not about the money, it's about teaching this particular group. She has something to offer and she's compelled! Who's to say it's not going to lead to something else? Maybe she'll start a school one day or work in Westchester closer to home. But she wants and needs the experience."
Ella! She knows it's not a stepping stone thing for me, but was just trying to convey the bigger picture to this woman. Ella gets it. It's an amazing feeling to see a kid take his fingers out of his ears and engage. To see a girl with apraxia and other difficulties drumming her heart out. Today I held the hand of a visually impaired girl as we jumped to a song and I saw she was smiling. I struggled to know what to do with an Aspergersy kid who kept interrupting me with comments and questions and just couldn't let things 'go.' I don't know why, but I find the challenge thrilling and I was so content to be there, figuring it out. I feel like this is what I should be doing.
Monday, September 20, 2010
A new year
Got up at 7am and nudged the kids out of bed. Went down to make coffee and lunches, every now and then hollering upstairs to move things along. My husband helped Belac get dressed. Boiled some eggs as the boys eventually came down for breakfast. As usual, Jake headed to the sun porch to read in his little spot until it was time to leave, Belac dawdled over a bowl of cereal. By 7:55, I kissed both boys and we headed out the door, with me assuming my position 10 steps behind. By 8am the kids were in school and I exchanged niceties with the Vice Principal.
As I walked the dog around the block on this sunny, breezy morning, I felt light and happy. How did this happen? We never had an easy school routine before. There were mornings we could barely get through the parking lot to Belac's nursery school because he had to read every license plate and car icon (back and front, wheels and steering wheel) on the way to the door. There were tantrums over other rituals if they didn't unfold just as he wanted, and the 40 minute drive through traffic to the boys' previous private school, over an hour round trip for me, was a colossal waste of time for all.
If I were to take this job in the city, there wouldn't be more mornings like today. Instead, I would be out the door by 6:45am, when the kids would still be sleeping. I might have to hire a sitter and a dog walker, the kids would have to be in after school almost everyday. I'd definitely have to upgrade my attire, too. All this for a teacher's salary that we don't really need. Do I really want this?
Last Friday, I had an interview at an elementary school for kids with language based learning disabilities. I arrived to the Upper West Side in 30 minutes, a snap without the usual early morning traffic. I passed Fairway, my favorite grocery store and the half way point between Juilliard and my old apartment. In driving around the block looking for parking, I noticed that Housing Works was already open. The high end thrift shop that furnished my apartment and clothes at one time. I found a parking space just a block from school. While waiting for my appointment, I viewed Columbus Ave. and the facade of the school from a cafe window.
Once upon a time, I walked these 20 blocks thousands and thousands of times. It feels like home to me here. Kind of strange that the job I'm interviewing for is right here. Never in a million years could I have imagined back then that I'd be applying to teach at this school for this group of children, right here.
I spent 2 hours with the director, touring the school and meeting some teachers and kids. I will return on Wednesday morning to teach. As we said our goodbyes, the director told me that the position had been vacant for quite some time and they were looking for just the right teacher. She continued hesitantly, "you are the first candidate to come interview with so much passion and enthusiasm." I smiled for lack of words.
There must have been a time before autism that I was more carefree, right? Instead, I'm scared of loosening my grip on the boys, Belac in particular. I don't really remember how to effortlessly hope and believe that my kids are going to be okay, at least enough to do something like this. But before I get ahead of myself, let's just see how Wednesday goes.
As I walked the dog around the block on this sunny, breezy morning, I felt light and happy. How did this happen? We never had an easy school routine before. There were mornings we could barely get through the parking lot to Belac's nursery school because he had to read every license plate and car icon (back and front, wheels and steering wheel) on the way to the door. There were tantrums over other rituals if they didn't unfold just as he wanted, and the 40 minute drive through traffic to the boys' previous private school, over an hour round trip for me, was a colossal waste of time for all.
If I were to take this job in the city, there wouldn't be more mornings like today. Instead, I would be out the door by 6:45am, when the kids would still be sleeping. I might have to hire a sitter and a dog walker, the kids would have to be in after school almost everyday. I'd definitely have to upgrade my attire, too. All this for a teacher's salary that we don't really need. Do I really want this?
Last Friday, I had an interview at an elementary school for kids with language based learning disabilities. I arrived to the Upper West Side in 30 minutes, a snap without the usual early morning traffic. I passed Fairway, my favorite grocery store and the half way point between Juilliard and my old apartment. In driving around the block looking for parking, I noticed that Housing Works was already open. The high end thrift shop that furnished my apartment and clothes at one time. I found a parking space just a block from school. While waiting for my appointment, I viewed Columbus Ave. and the facade of the school from a cafe window.
Once upon a time, I walked these 20 blocks thousands and thousands of times. It feels like home to me here. Kind of strange that the job I'm interviewing for is right here. Never in a million years could I have imagined back then that I'd be applying to teach at this school for this group of children, right here.
I spent 2 hours with the director, touring the school and meeting some teachers and kids. I will return on Wednesday morning to teach. As we said our goodbyes, the director told me that the position had been vacant for quite some time and they were looking for just the right teacher. She continued hesitantly, "you are the first candidate to come interview with so much passion and enthusiasm." I smiled for lack of words.
There must have been a time before autism that I was more carefree, right? Instead, I'm scared of loosening my grip on the boys, Belac in particular. I don't really remember how to effortlessly hope and believe that my kids are going to be okay, at least enough to do something like this. But before I get ahead of myself, let's just see how Wednesday goes.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Mrs. Abramsohn
Last June, a few days after moving to Sunny Patch, I went back to the house with the hill to check on things. I was astonished to pull up and find my porch piled high with boxes. The deal with our renter had fallen through and our house was empty. Did someone think they were moving in? Was this some sort of joke? The mailing labels showed a return address for an attorney in Michigan. It suddenly dawned on me. I took a key to the tape of one box and slowly opened the flaps. I saw some Beethoven scores in hardcover. My dear piano teacher had died the previous September and she had left her entire music library to me.
Having just moved to a much smaller rental, I had no choice but to send the boxes right to storage, unopened. Now we have been in the awkwardly charming house for almost 3 weeks. Tonight, my husband and I put together the biggest bookcase we could buy for the living room wall and then he proceeded to bring her books from the basement. They kept coming. "Is this the last box? But how could there possibly be more...?" I kept asking. "I'm not sure we're going to have space for all of this," my husband agreed.
I poured myself a big glass of wine and my husband let me be.
The first few boxes were anthologies, great for teaching. Then there was a box of just Chopin, about 25 different scores, Beethoven Sonatas in every edition that exists, at least 50 books of piano duets, most of which were familiar to me... Every book had her little label with her address. Most of the books had her fingerings and markings in them. And then I just had to stop, not even a quarter way through. I was overwhelmed by the memories. Overwhelmed by this gift.
I studied piano with Mrs. Abramsohn from age 5 to 18. She helped me find my way through some complicated times and to music school. She heard some of my concerts in NY and wrote to me when I was working and studying in Germany. She met some of my boyfriends, she came to my wedding. She was an important figure in my life.
In August of 2009, my mom called to tell me to come home. Mrs. Abramsohn was really sick this time and my mom thought the end was near. I dropped everything and went back to Michigan. I found Mrs. Abramsohn in a hospital bed in her living room. I smiled and spoke through tears, hoping she would not notice. She was frail and weak and slept a lot. The tv was always on, which completely depressed me, no doubt it was the hospice's doing to keep Mrs. Abramsohn 'occupied'. Her beautiful pianos were downstairs. There was no chance at all to play for her and I didn't have my violin. And so all I could do was hold her hand and talk to her. She was 97 years old, widowed, and had no children. She seemed so alone.
On the second day, I had a plane to catch. I couldn't hold out any longer. "Mrs. Abramsohn...? I just want to tell you that I love you."
"Why?" she turned to me and asked, the most engaged she was in those 2 days.
"Because you were always there for me," I stammered, unprepared for that question and trying hard not to cry. "You always believed in me and wanted the best for me. I could always depend on you. I don't know where I'd be if it weren't for you and the piano. I'm so thankful to have you in my life."
She died a few days later and that was the last conversation we ever had.
Having just moved to a much smaller rental, I had no choice but to send the boxes right to storage, unopened. Now we have been in the awkwardly charming house for almost 3 weeks. Tonight, my husband and I put together the biggest bookcase we could buy for the living room wall and then he proceeded to bring her books from the basement. They kept coming. "Is this the last box? But how could there possibly be more...?" I kept asking. "I'm not sure we're going to have space for all of this," my husband agreed.
I poured myself a big glass of wine and my husband let me be.
The first few boxes were anthologies, great for teaching. Then there was a box of just Chopin, about 25 different scores, Beethoven Sonatas in every edition that exists, at least 50 books of piano duets, most of which were familiar to me... Every book had her little label with her address. Most of the books had her fingerings and markings in them. And then I just had to stop, not even a quarter way through. I was overwhelmed by the memories. Overwhelmed by this gift.
I studied piano with Mrs. Abramsohn from age 5 to 18. She helped me find my way through some complicated times and to music school. She heard some of my concerts in NY and wrote to me when I was working and studying in Germany. She met some of my boyfriends, she came to my wedding. She was an important figure in my life.
In August of 2009, my mom called to tell me to come home. Mrs. Abramsohn was really sick this time and my mom thought the end was near. I dropped everything and went back to Michigan. I found Mrs. Abramsohn in a hospital bed in her living room. I smiled and spoke through tears, hoping she would not notice. She was frail and weak and slept a lot. The tv was always on, which completely depressed me, no doubt it was the hospice's doing to keep Mrs. Abramsohn 'occupied'. Her beautiful pianos were downstairs. There was no chance at all to play for her and I didn't have my violin. And so all I could do was hold her hand and talk to her. She was 97 years old, widowed, and had no children. She seemed so alone.
On the second day, I had a plane to catch. I couldn't hold out any longer. "Mrs. Abramsohn...? I just want to tell you that I love you."
"Why?" she turned to me and asked, the most engaged she was in those 2 days.
"Because you were always there for me," I stammered, unprepared for that question and trying hard not to cry. "You always believed in me and wanted the best for me. I could always depend on you. I don't know where I'd be if it weren't for you and the piano. I'm so thankful to have you in my life."
She died a few days later and that was the last conversation we ever had.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Going out there
I am all dressed up for an interview and will soon be off to the city. I am not nervous and haven't really been thinking very much about it. In fact, this morning, with my iron still packed somewhere in a sea of boxes, I had to choose an outfit based on the fewest wrinkles. I am now a little too dressed up. My slacks are fine but my shirt is too dressy and heavy for the warm weather, but it will have to do. And what I am doing here at blogspot when I have to leave in 20 minutes?
I did not get the teaching job I tried for in June. I wanted that job badly. I prepared for it, I dreamt about it. The job had the perfect hours, a lovely group of kids I felt comfortable with, an educational philosophy that I could relate to, and a co-teacher who I really respected and felt I could work with. They told me they "loved" me. I let myself think that maybe I got the job. This co-teacher also ended up being my prof at NYU this summer and she told me that it came down to me and another candidate and it was a 'really difficult choice.' Kind words, but I was still so disappointed. This same prof is now encouraging me to try for this job I'm interviewing with this morning.
Isn't it funny to think that I might walk in there with minimal prep, not even really wanting this job because the hours would really take me away from the kids, and then I get an offer? Or maybe my apathy will show and they simply won't want me. Boy, do I ever have to give myself a major pep talk on the way to the city! And on that note, I must run off and put myself out there. We'll see what happens.
I did not get the teaching job I tried for in June. I wanted that job badly. I prepared for it, I dreamt about it. The job had the perfect hours, a lovely group of kids I felt comfortable with, an educational philosophy that I could relate to, and a co-teacher who I really respected and felt I could work with. They told me they "loved" me. I let myself think that maybe I got the job. This co-teacher also ended up being my prof at NYU this summer and she told me that it came down to me and another candidate and it was a 'really difficult choice.' Kind words, but I was still so disappointed. This same prof is now encouraging me to try for this job I'm interviewing with this morning.
Isn't it funny to think that I might walk in there with minimal prep, not even really wanting this job because the hours would really take me away from the kids, and then I get an offer? Or maybe my apathy will show and they simply won't want me. Boy, do I ever have to give myself a major pep talk on the way to the city! And on that note, I must run off and put myself out there. We'll see what happens.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
And now this
The kids are asleep and my husband is away. The house is still and the night is dark, reminding me of dreamy evenings at the house with the hill. We're now living in the awkwardly charming house, dubbed "Anne of Green Gables house" by Olivia. It's nothing short of a miracle that we're here and I'm happy. But somewhere in me, I am preparing - or maybe even waiting - for the other shoe to drop.
The other day, I couldn't reach my husband on his longer than usual commute home and the thought crossed my mind that maybe something happened to him. That finally we were setting ourselves up in this sweet house and on much less precarious financial footing and suddenly, my husband wouldn't be around to enjoy it. Last week, while on my knees scrubbing an overwhelmingly filthy kitchen covered in 10 years of grease and grime, I had hours upon hours to think about Chris and how her life in this house did not turn out as she had hoped.
And at karate on Wednesday, I learned something else. Belac was in his usual special needs class. We hadn't been in awhile and one of the 2 regular boys was absent. (Remember? They were the sons of two fanatical moms.) Turns out, the absent child had been on an annual family trip to South Carolina in August. The boy was ill with a fever that just wouldn't go away and was taken to a pediatrician in SC. Blood tests determined that his platelets were dangerously low and more tests determined that he was sick with leukemia. He was too fragile to return to NY and not a day was to be lost. Chemo started immediately. During these weeks, he also had a 2 hour seizure that resulted in bleeding of the brain and now a dragging of his leg when he walks, permanent neurological damage yet to be determined. A week trip to SC has turned into over 30 days of a living nightmare. The family is stranded in South Carolina, the boy is fighting to get stronger so they can go home, the father has to work M-F in NY, the mother has quit her job, the boy's twin brother has been missing school....
As the karate mom filled me in, the mom who made me so angry months ago, I weeped. She told me "How much more can a family take? First there's autism. Now it's this." What more was there to meaningfully say? We sat in silence as we watched our boys do karate chops.
As the karate mom filled me in, the mom who made me so angry months ago, I weeped. She told me "How much more can a family take? First there's autism. Now it's this." What more was there to meaningfully say? We sat in silence as we watched our boys do karate chops.
No one can ultimately control anything or anyone but oneself. May we each go from strength to strength.
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