Well, it's been about 18 months since my daughter, Tate, was diagnosed with ADHD. We've had her on the drug Strattera, which is not a stimulant, and it seemed to work well for a while. Over the past couple of months, we've noticed some changes. Tate's still struggling with reading directions and finishing assignments in school. The big thing looming overhead these days is the end of grade testing. Her teacher is really worried she will be able to successfully endure a 3-hour standardized test. And if she doesn't pass the test, she doesn't go to 4th grade. She's incredibly defiant about everything at home, which results in her feeling like we are coming down on her all the time. It feels awful knowing she is unhappy and not knowing what to do about it.

She is still insanely picky when it comes to food and clothing. She has tried a couple of new foods over the past week, so that has been inspiring. But the clothes situation just seems to get worse and worse. It doesn't help that Spring has sprung and she really could use some new clothes. Tate got new shoes last week and it was one of the most excruciating experiences. She tried on EVERYTHING Payless and Target had to offer, but ended up settling on moccasins she didn't like the look of, but she did like the feel of.

So, today her Dr. told us that he thinks we should try to find her an occupational therapist to work with the "sensory integration dysfunction." This would include the sensitivity to tactile things, textures of food, etc. This is good news because we were thinking she still needed a therapist, even though we were uncertain what good a therapist would be when it came to the issues that could make everyday life easier. At least now I have a direction to go in!

We also decided on a patch called Daytana for Tate. It is a stimulant, but unlike Ritalin, there are no extreme highs, then lows once the meds wear off. She puts it on the AM and we take it off before dinner. Odds are, she won't even need them on weekends. This seems more favorable since she would fight taking the Strattera. Of course, we are going to monitor everything and make sure she is doing well. If any problems arise, we will contact her Dr. This wasn't an easy decision, but we are really desperate for "normalcy."

So, how am I, you ask?

I'm still suffering from depression. I still haven't totally unpacked from moving home. It's difficult that my husband works crazy hours and I have to do a lot of the parenting by myself. I have a hard time sleeping. And then I find myself crashing out on the sofa until lunchtime. I feel guilty and horrible about that.

I'm back on the dieting thing. I'm using a cool website called MyFitnessPal.com. They have a app for the iPhone and it's really easy to track your exercise and caloric intake. I'm doing alright on the calories. But I know I could exercise more. I am just stifled by this depression and have the hardest time getting motivated. Then today I discovered I have gained weight and that was just like a punch to the gut. I know muscle weighs more and I have gone to the gym some, but it's still a letdown and I feel like I could do more. I just HAVE to make myself. I'm not sure how I will do it, but I will. My parents and Dom have all commented on how my face and mid-section have changed and that helps some. I think I'd be more motivated if I saw more changes.

I'm a work in progress...what can I say?

Toes are something we really take for granted. We wake up with ten little piggies, we go to bed with ten little piggies. Occasionally they can provide amusement when you pick something up off the floor with your feet. You can decorate them all silly at the nail salon. But what do you do when your little pig went to market and never returned? I don't know. But this is a reality my father is facing tomorrow morning.

If you don't know me so well, then you may not know that my dad has diabetes which has been treated off and on for quite a few years now. There have been varying degrees of seriousness when it comes to his condition. He went through spells where his eyesight was never quite right. Then he developed a wound, then later an ulcer on his big toe. This was about 3 years ago. He spent some time with a podiatrist, but without insurance, he couldn't keep it up for long. Then in November of 2009, he was in the hospital for a week seeking treatment for his toe.

Two weeks ago, my dad told my mom that his toe smelled. Then he told us not to worry, he figured out the source, which was a big pus ball. But he refused to admit it was infected. We all know what pus is right? White blood cells...trying to fight off infection! We tried to get him to go to the ER, but he had excuses against that. We tried to get him to set up an appointment with a doctor but he had excuses against that. Living life without health insurance does that to you.

In any event, his toe become so worrisome that he came to see a doctor he saw a couple of times after his last hospital stay. Fortunately, they set up an appointment for him to get into a wound care clinic today. While he was there and they were cleaning out the ulcer, a piece of bone came out. Yeah, I know...freaky.

And before he could get too far on the road back to his house, the clinic called my mom looking for him and explained it was urgent. My mom got ahold of him and told him to call. The next time she spoke to him, she asked what was up? He said, "They are going to amputate my toe." My father always likes to mess with your head so my mom didn't believe him at first. But no, I only wish it was a sick joke. Tomorrow, they are going to amputate his toe.

I suppose what's even more disturbing is that they are going to leave the wound open for a few days and see how the infection does. If it dwindles away, great. But if it lingers, something else is infected. Something else may have to go. My father has already said that he will not consent for anything else to be taken and that he refuses to be wheelchair bound. I'm upset that he would be so selfish and short-sighted...and while I understand his frustration(I felt suicidal when I was in the hospital in September), he has a family who loves him and needs him. My kids only have one granddad. And I don't want him taken away from them at such a young age, the way mine was. And the only thing that kept me going through my horrific hospital ordeal was my family. I did it for them...all of them. I cannot imagine life without my family, so it distresses me to see my dad speak so nonchalantly about leaving us all.

Even though there are some dents in the armor, he is still my super-hero. If he goes, who will I look to when I'm a damsel in distress and in need of her daddy? My time with him isn't up yet. We still have many Mel Brooks movies to watch and laugh at together. We still have so many things to see and do.

But I'm digressing...as for tomorrow...we will have to see what happens. Will he be able to walk? Yes. If it's just the toe, he can get an orthopedic shoe with a weighted prosthetic thing where his toe would be. This would help with his balance.
There's no reason why he couldn't go ahead and enjoy the rest of his years. I just really hope this doesn't completely break him. He was my first true love, but I think daddies are always that to their little girls.

Please keep us in your thoughts. I need positivity. I'm feeling pretty low and weak. Thank you.

**Please note, I wrote in November 2008. I recently felt the need to dig it out , dust it off and put it on display again. Cancer has crossed my path yet again and it infuriates me.**

Let me preface this with: anyone who is around me knows I have a foul mouth, sorry if my "sentence enhancers" offend and yes, it is indeed silly to rant in the form of an open letter to a disease...but I'm doing it anyway. Here goes...



Fuck you, Cancer,



You have touched my life in so many ways over the past few years or so and I have had it. In fact, I don't know anyone you haven't touched in one way or another. You are sneaky, you are relentless and your sole purpose is to create damage. You don't care who or what you damage...that doesn't matter at all. You do not discriminate...old, young, poor, wealthy, fit, not fit...it doesn't matter to you, you'll take what you can get...you fucking leech.



A friend of mine's Dad is having surgery for prostate cancer tomorrow. As I sit here, I am waiting to hear the results of the biopsy my sister had last week. You took my father-in-law from his family. You have danced in and out of my mother's life multiple times, taunting and teasing her to the point where she lives in fear that she will some day succumb to you in some way or another. She's had two scares from her doctor about you in the past year and even the simple thought of you has driven us all to distraction. You've robbed a friend of mine of his speaking voice. You tortured my cat who used to cry all night in pain from a tumor that we couldn't afford to treat. You killed my favorite postal clerk. Last, but not least, you ravaged Tate's friend's Mom and left her going for one reconstructive surgery after another in an attempt to restore her to the way she was before you fucked her up.



I despise you. I despise what you do. You create fear and panic, sorrow and dismay. Sometimes you're quick...too quick...you take people away before anyone can be prepared for it. My Mom's cousin was a sheriff in Caldwell county, but once he found out about you, he had less than a month to live. And sometimes you take your time and work your magic ever so slowly. You change, sometimes you feel like a little of this...but then you change your damn mind and decide to go for something else. Another one of my Mom's cousins just gave into her battle with you after having breast cancer and then battling other areas you decided to attack...until you set your sights on her brain, you son-of-a-bitch...how the hell was she supposed to contend with that?



I don't know what it is about you that I hate the most. Is it the fact that you are sneaky and almost always different...making you an impossible disease to eradicate? Is it that you destroy a person's sense of self? Is it that you rob children of their innocence and childhoods? Is it that you cut lives, that have so much left to be lived, short? Is it that you create a hysteria that makes us constantly search for ways to prevent you from entering our lives? Is it that people are so afraid of you that some go to such extremes as double mastectomies in the hope of never having to deal with you? People are willing to lop off any parts that you may be contaminating. They are willing to poison themselves, in ways no one on Earth would ever consider doing otherwise, in the hope that you will retreat. But are the people you've touched, and lived to tell about it, ever really free of you?



You don't care, you're a disease, what the fuck is it to you anyway? You doing your job and that's all you care about...everything else be damned. I swear, if you were a person, I'd get a posse together and we would kick your fucking ass...stomp you into a greasy spot. If only it were that simple. But since the dawn of modern medicine, you've stumped us all. I know that we'll cross paths again...since you're all over the place. But I can guarantee that my animosity for you will never wane.



Fuck you, Cancer!

There is a new epidemic I find when I am out on the roads these days and it has prompted me to ask the question: when you are sitting at the steering wheel do you ever wonder what that stick that sticks out from the left side of the steering column does?

If you've never really noticed it, you should try it out. Go ahead, give it a shot. If you flick it up, a little arrow points right. Flick it down and a little arrow points left. What does this all mean? It's a TURN SIGNAL. The idea behind this nifty little gadget is to alert people who are driving behind you to any turns you may be making. Since the majority of drivers are not psychic and cannot anticipate your every move, it's really a worthwhile invention.

Usually, you want to signal as you are approaching the intersection where you are turning. If you turn the signal on mid-turn, it does no good for the poor driver behind you.

BUT the turn signal isn't just for turns!! You can also use it for passing. It's a safety measure to let the people around you know your intentions. And with more and more people passing on the right, which is another rant in and of itself, a turn signal may draw attention to you and keep someone from pulling over into your lane.

This brings me to my second point, in the US, there aren't that many roundabouts. There are some in the larger, older cities but in suburban America they are few and far between. Well, until now, that is. I am finding more and more roundabouts in the area I live in.

Roundabouts are designed to keep traffic flowing at intersections. Unlike the four-way stop, drivers can just merge into the flow of traffic and go about their merry way. I go to England, the land of the roundabouts, once a year and have been exposed to some crazy roundabouts that consist of like 8 interchanging circles. But they work because drivers there know how to use them.

When you approach a roundabout you turn on your right turn signal and yield to any oncoming traffic. Once you enter the roundabout, do not yield to traffic waiting to enter. As you approach the "spoke" where you are going to exit, turn your right signal. It lets the other drivers waiting to enter the roundabout know where you are turning off. That makes the difference between a stop and a yield and improves the efficiency of the roundabout and traffic flow. I know this all seems like common sense, but apparently it is not, gauging from how some of the bumpkins around here drive.

I'm debating which irksome topic I want to tackle next...if you have any suggestions, feel free to give me a shout!



Holy Stoltz, it's been a long time since I last blogged. It's not that I've been lazy, I can assure you of all that.

A couple of months ago, I developed a pain in my back that was higher up and between my shoulder blades. It was like a twisting knife in my spine. I chalked it up to stress, heaven knows there's no shortage of that around here. I had a few Facebook friends recommend that I get my gallbladder checked out. I put it off for a little bit because I thought that was something that happened to older people. Bear in mind, my only prior experience with gallstones was when my aunt had them when I was a kid...and everyone seemed OLDER then!

I went to my regular doctor. He was worried it may be a massive kidney infection. But then decided it might be viral. He pushed around and found a tender spot on my belly. He knew I had the localized back pain. But he sent me to get my kidneys x-rayed.

Well. Everything came back fine. His nurse called me on a Friday to let me know the cultures came back clear. I explained that I was still hurting, but she told me if I had any problems to call Urgent Care. Way to go making your patients feel like you care about them! I decided that was my last dealing with this doctor. He had treated me like a hypochondriac for a couple of years now and I simply got tired of it.

I went to another doctor on the recommendation of another good friend of mine. He concluded it may be musculoskeletal (sp?) and sent me on my way with anti-inflammatory meds and pain pills. But the pain never really went away. I saw him the next day and finally suggested that he check out my gallbladder. I had all of the textbook symptoms. So he sent me to get a scan of my gallbladder.

It was so bad, that I was immediately admitted into the hospital. Once I got into the room, it took 4 nurses to get my IV in because I was so dehydrated from not having any water for about 36 hours. I had two of them tell me my skin is particularly tough and hard to get through. What could I say? I'm an artist, I'm rough on them. I just knew that as long as the IV wasn't in, nothing was happening, so I tried hard not to panic.

The surgery was on the second day. I really do like my surgeon, Dr. Ipapo. I trusted him implicitly. I can remember an injection in my IV, then it was lights out. When I came to, I felt really bad. I reached down and immediately knew that the surgery was not laproscopic, I could feel the big wound left across my abdomen. (And imagine my surprise when one of my nurses asked if I had had a mastectomy! It's like, "Woman, did you READ my chart!?!")

From there it got worse. I realized that had stuck a tube in me to drain bile. Ick. Not fun. Then I was told that because there was so much infection and inflammation, that I would need a stint to make sure the bile goes where it should. The only problem was that it was a bank holiday weekend and no one was around to put in a stint. I was complaining to a nurse about it and she brought this gastrointestinal Dr in to talk (chastise). This Dr explained that my surgeon had called her late the night before trying to set up this stint thingy and that I should be glad that someone who isn't even on call would come in and do it. Yes, thank my lucky stars...and I'm so sorry to inconvenience you. You're a doctor, you save lives, you get calls at all hours...deal with it. She walked out while I was yelling at her.

Around midnight that same night, I got the call that they were ready to put in the stint. I can remember being wheeled down to the ground floor and seeing the stint Dr. As I was wheeled into the operating room, the nurse asked the anesthesiologist how he was. In a very rude manner, he replied that he was tired because he had been there since the morning, blah blah blah. Made me feel like shit. So I told him that I had been trying to think of a way to thank everyone who had helped me, because I had been in so much pain before, then I started crying. He changed his tune then and explained that he was here for me...blah blah.

The bitch about stints is that they have to be removed at some point too.

That procedure went well. And almost every day I was sent to get a CT scan or X-ray. Turns out that I had a LOT of fluid building up on the right side of my body. My diaphragm apparently got punctured during the surgery and I had fluid above it and below it. Guess what, I needed a new drainage tube and bag coming out of me. Wooo. Not. This one was placed while I was in a CT machine and it hurt SO much...like lots of pins and needles. I was convinced when it was over that I had needles in me...it felt so bad.

I can't remember when, but sometime, I got a PICC (peripherally inserted central catheter) in my upper left arm. It had to be done by a cardiologist and it's like a super-IV that goes straight to your heart, but would actually reduce the number of times I'd have to be stuck if I had blood drawn. Blood could be taken directly from the PICC. Meds can also be injected into it like a regular IV. At one point it was scary, I had two IV stands with stuff and sooooo many lines leading into the PICC that I my arm looked like a keychain with too many keys hanging off.

Then there was the fateful night that I had a massive amount of pain that took my breath and jump-started respiratory distress. I was moved to another floor to an intensive care kinda ward. I was there for a week. Had more scans, more x-rays...then it was decided that I needed a lung puncture to drain some fluid out of my right lung. It's called sympathetic fluid, but there's nothing sympathetic about it.

The day that was scheduled, my nurse had a student nurse at her side the entire shift. The student was so nice that she offered to go with me for the puncture, if it was allowed. She walked by me as I was wheeled to the room where it's done and she stood in front of me as I had to sit upright and held onto me so I wouldn't freak out too much.

At this point I'd like to take a minute to say that I was terrified of having anything done to my lung. I had cartoonish/nightmarish ideas of what could happen and it really messed with me.

They did the puncture on my back and through my ribs. It was kinda high, up towards my shoulder. He injected lidocaine first to numb the area...which is really a joke since it only numbs the surface and does absolutely nothing about the feeling of a foreign object entering your lung. Then the liquid was essentially vacuumed out. Pretty gross. But my student nurse rocked and I don't think it would have gone as smoothly without her.

I kept having spasms around the area where the tube/drain on my side was. It hurt so much and was toe-curling.

After about a week, I was moved back up to the floor I was on before. That was a good sign of improvement. I was on a million antibiotics, IV nutrients, treatment for what may have been a fungal infection, potassium and I had to take meds to try to restore the "good" bacteria that is in the digestive system. It was all so odd and seemed contradictory.

Then there was this horrible day. My Dr told me that there was more fluid in my lung and this time, I needed a chest tube. And it was going to be done right then and there, in my room. I freaked. I was like a wild animal backed into a corner. They ended up giving me 14 units of morphine, but honestly, I didn't feel a bit of the morphine. Adrenaline is powerful stuff.

My bed got raised up very high. I had two nurses at my left side, two at my feet and my surgeon at my right side. There was nothing I could do. Again, wimpy lidocaine was injected to help, but of course it didn't. It was a pain that was like anything I have never experienced before. And then the tube has to be pushed in more...more. Then stitches to keep it there. And this tube is not small...about and inch wide. All I can remember is primal screaming and nurses trying to talk to me and get me to breathe properly. Like I'm going to chit chat after I've been shanked...really?

The chest tube was a whole new beast. I couldn't really walk anywhere because the box the fluid drained into was taped to the floor. Quite handicapping. I guess the tube was in for 2 or 3 days. Then it was time to take it out. Surely it couldn't be worse than putting it in...right? WRONG!! I was told to breathe in...then when I exhaled they yanked it out quite forcefully and threw it on the floor. Then they yanked the drainage tube that was in my belly. That was particularly gross because I could feel it...it was like a worm or a snake was wiggling through my guts. Ick.

I made sure not to look at the stuff they left in my room, including the chest tube. I told a nurse all that stuff had to be gone by the time I got back from getting an x-ray. I just can't believe they left stuff all over.

I am amazed that with technology and all of the advancements in medicine, so many procedures are still so barbaric and brutal.

My days and nights were spent watching CNN and Bravo. I rotted my brain cells on every Housewives show there is. I had to be careful about what I ate and as you can imagine, hospital food isn't always the best. I was in almost constant pain. And about 2 weeks in, I just couldn't get comfortable in those hospital beds. I had many restless nights.

The only thing that ever helped were the shots of dilaudid. I would look forward to my shot every time it was ready. You get a nice fuzzy warm feeling and since it would be injected into my PICC, my heart would be one of the first things to get warm. There was a taste that came along with it, but I cannot describe it. I knew that once I had dilaudid, I would have about 2 hours of peace. Pain meds were administered every 4 hours though, so the pain always came back. But there was a little peace.

Slowly but surely, my Dr got me off my IVs. And then one day, I was deemed healthy enough to go home. Sure, I was going to still have to have a nurse at home...and we had the oxygen delivered in case I needed it, so it wasn't really the same as being at home.

I went through a period where I cried multiple times a day. I feel like I must have something similar to post-traumatic stress syndrome. And I don't know if I'll ever drink Coke, Sprite or ginger ale again.

My other drainage tube got removed about a week after I was released. That was a big relief. Nothing to make you feel like an old fart like a bag of your bodily fluids velcroed to you.

Now, my scars are healing. I can breathe alright...have to slow down a lot if I get winded. But I still have a lot of pain at the chest tube site. It's right at the side of my breast, so my ribs are sore, there is sore breast tissue...my side feels like it's been kicked. I was taken off narcotics, but the new meds don't do anything. I'm picking up something new tonight, so I hope that helps.

So, if you've wondered where I've been or what I've been up to...I spent 3 weeks in the hospital and have been at home, recuperating ever since.

Not a whole lot has happened. I am still having sweats and chills. The place where my back hurts still hurts. (Feels like trapped gas or a place that needs popped but won't pop.) While I am not sore all over from the vomiting anymore, my stomach feels like I've eaten glass since I've eaten so little lately.

I have decided I'm not very thrilled with the response from my Dr. yesterday. A while back he started treating me like a hypochondriac and apparently hasn't stopped. My Mom suggested I come back and the woman I see up here later this week, because she has gone to Africa for some program to help others abroad. I may do that. I really like her, she is no nonsense.

This all really stinks. I need to be at the top of my game this week with Tate starting school. I've had to cancel a couple of business meetings I am trying to reschedule. It's all just very frustrating.