Parenting On The Draw

Larry and I were upstairs relaxing(otherwise known as "adult swim"), when Zane came racing upstairs. He looked nervous. He had his tablet in his hands.

"I feel like I am not alone downstairs," my boy said. I put down my book and sat up. We have been trying to work on Zane being alone on a different floor(hence the "adult swim"), but my child does not like to be alone, period.  I asked the obvious question.

"Who else do you think is down there with you?" 

"A ghost," Zane tried to climb up in my lap, which already contained a large dog. 

"Have you been watching creepy YouTube videos, like you are not supposed to?"  That was the next obvious question. The boy's latest thing was some "3AM challenge" where you post a video of yourself doing stupid things like cleaning the bathroom or something.  Lots of jump scares.  Or something.  I nodded off during the one I saw.  MY generation grew up with The Exorcist, for cryin' out loud.  And that was way before CGI effects.  

"Maybe,"  came the answer. 

Okay, I said. I could have just started yelling at him that this is the 438th time I have told him NOT to watch scary videos, but there would be no point. He gets that behavior from me, the person who likes to watch creepy videos while she is eating lunch.  At work.  During the summer.  When no one else is in the building. 

"There are no ghosts in this house right now, honey," I told him. I have not seen a single one this year."  To distract Zane from a meltdown many moons ago, I had blurted out that I could see ghosts.  I thought that if I said that, and I told him there were no ghosts, he would believe me and not be scared. It seemed okay at the time. It stopped the behavior, but the legend remains. 

Zane started to argue with me. I held up a hand, and he stopped.

"What was Zena doing while you were down there feeling not alone?" 

"Sleeping," came the answer.  I then explained that if there had been a ghost, the cat would have jumped up to chase the ghost off.   Cats are reported to be able to see this sort of thing, according to some book I read or movie that I saw. Zena would not allow any ghosts in the house, 

"There are no ghosts in this house, honey," concluding, I patted his head.  I tried to pick up my book.

My boy would not be soothed, no matter what. Fairy tales did not comfort him. Religious medals did not comfort him. Prayer did not comfort him.  Calling Grandpa did not comfort him. An explanation of the neurological processes involved in seeing ghosts did not zilch. Then I had an idea.

"What do the Winchesters do when the ghosts show up, Zane?"  Supernatural has been on longer than Zane has been alive, and with some gory episode exceptions, we allow him to watch. Usually, Zane just glances at the TV every now and then while he is playing.  But never underestimate a kid.  Despite our impression of inattentiveness, Zane knew the right answer. 

"The Winchesters use salt!"  He and I high-fived.  I told him that there was some salt packets down stairs in the pantry, and Zane ran down stairs.  I picked up my book, and praised myself for quick thinking. Until I heard the boy rumbling up the steps.

"Hey mom, do we have a shotgun?" 

The Big C

Finding out that you have cancer is a shock.  It's a smack upside the head with a two by four that you never see coming.  I've had "pre-cancer", those moles that have to be removed because they could become cancer, but that was the extent of my personal experiences with the disease.  

Sitting in my car, alone, and finding out I have cancer was a hard slap.  I decided it was time to immediately start bawling my fool head off.  I called my husband to deliver the news, sobbing uncontrollably.  Then I got smart and texted my parents and my brother instead of trying to talk to them, all the while crying hysterically and loudly in my car, in the parking lot of an elementary school.  I was just a complete hot mess, and I didn't care who knew it.

I hate crying.  It makes me look all puffy and bloodshot and not quite right in the head.

I finally calmed down enough to drive, and I followed my usual routine of picking up my son from school. Routine usually helps me calm down.  I was even able to call the surgeon, once I was at my son's school, and make an appointment to see him. Except I never really stopped crying completely, so the poor receptionist had to ask me to repeat myself several times. 

I had difficulty talking to the school secretary to let them know who I was there to pick up, and I mumbled something about getting some bad news.  The secretary was kind enough not to pry, and she gave me some tissues.

Zane, being a six year old boy, took awhile to notice that his mother was leaking.  We made it home before he finally started asking questions.  How do you explain cancer to a six year old?  I finally sobbed out that I had something growing in me that wasn't supposed to be there, and it was making me sick.

"Why don't you get someone to take it out?" That's my boy--a problem solver. I was still crying.  I made Zane and his dad keep their soccer practice appointment, while I continued to cry at home by myself.  I certainly didn't want to have to explain anything to the other soccer moms.  Not yet.

I was still bawling when my brother called to tell me that we would get through this, and I would be all right. I had a shot of Jack Daniels, reserved only for serious stuff, and that calmed me down a bit. I had had enough of bawling, but the tears kept coming.

And then my parents came over. 

My parents never come over, because my house is always too messy for my mom's OCD.  But there they were, at the door.  That wasn't the worst part.  The worst part was that my mother voluntarily hugged me.  My mother never hugs anybody. 

So of course I kept bawling. I probably bawled in my sleep, because my pillow was damp the next morning.

I thought that going to work would be the best thing for me.  Work doesn't have anything to do with cancer! I'd be fine.  I wouldn't think about cancer at all, because I'd be thinking about other people.  That's what I've done with other past traumas.  Keep moving, focus on helping others, one step at a time.

Except that I kept crying. I was typing a report, and I was crying.  I was answering an email, and I was crying. I started to worry about shorting out my laptop. I went through almost an entire box of tissues.

I called my doctor's office.  He was still on vacation, so I talked to the "have a nice day" guy.

"I want some Xanax,"  I said.  I had to repeat myself, because I was crying.  Of course.

"How about some nice antidepressants? Xanax isn't really indicated in these situations, blah, blah, blah."  He went on for several minutes about the antidepressants.  I'm sure that he's a very good doctor, but I wanted the punch him in the nose.  I gave him the benefit of the doubt, because he hasn't known me for 20 years. But really, my doctor should have at least left a note for the poor man, a note that read "JUST DO WHAT SHE SAYS AND NOBODY GETS HURT."  If a crying woman is on the phone demanding Xanax, just give it to her!

"No," I was very firm, if blubbery.  "I want Xanax.  I am not waiting the two weeks it will take for an antidepressant to start working.  I want Xanax.  I don't want more than ten, and I don't want any refills.  I just need something to get me through the next few days without the waterworks."  My tone must have finally got through to him; he said that he would take care of it. 

Not that I planned to actually take the Xanax; I just needed the idea of it being there. Still bawling.  I start to think that maybe my tears could solve the drought problem, while simultaneously starting a tissue shortage. 

I finally just randomly started thinking about the show Supernatural, and one of my favorite characters, Dean Winchester.  In an effort to distract myself I started reading quotes from the show.  That's when I found it, the quote that finally slowed the waterworks. I even remembered the episode where the quote was said.  Somehow the words about dealing with trauma got through that part of my brain that needed to hear it:

"Decide to be fine until the end of the week.  Make yourself smile because you're alive and that's your job.  Then do it again the next week.  Do it right with a smile or don't do it at all."

So that's what I'm going to do.  I don't have any answers, I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, but I'm going to do it right with a smile.

And maybe one of these days I won't be crying when I do.