Will the struggles ever end?

I have spent the last few days ecstatic because my seventeen year old daughter now has her own car.  The endless trips back and forth to the umpteen million things that she does have ceased to exist.  I was trying to take a few days to relish in my freedom and get some much needed rest.  I was just about asleep at 2:00 in the afternoon when the phone rings, "This is the Vice-Principal and Sam has been kicked off the bus."

"What!  Ok, what happened?"

"He got on the bus and had a meltdown and the bus driver told him to get off the bus.  He is sitting here with us."

I am not very proud to say that I started yelling.  That is how I deal with disappointments.  High pitched angry words came out of my mouth saying that I refused to pick him up and they were to call the transportation department and get a bus out there immediately.  A return phone call informed me that the transportation refused to send out another bus. 

This would not have been a big deal if Sam went to our school district.  Sam has an hour long bus ride to and from school every day because they have the expertise to handle his needs.  I also have the sixty minute round trip car rides to drop off medications, CSE meetings, team meetings and all the times I pick him up to take him to appointments.  My gas bill is in the hundreds for a month worth of driving.

The phone call woke me up to my reality.  I told the school that I had to help Mina get her car inspected at 3:30 and I would arrive after that.  I informed them that this was the best I could do. 

I called my local advocacy center and asked what my rights were.  I still don't really know.  What would have happened if I didn't have a car?  Would I lose a job if I was working?  Would Child Protective Services be called or even the police if I refused to pick him up?  I will always pick him up but I am sure that there have been the parents that have been so worn out that they refuse to bail out their child.  I had to laugh when the Vice-Principal asked me if there was someone I could call.  No, there is nobody.  It is just me.

I call out to Mina because it is time to go to get her car inspected.  She follows me to the Inspection Garage and I leave to pick up Sam.  On the way the CSE Chair calls me.  For anyone that doesn't know, the CSE Chair basically is the CEO of your child's education.  Again I start yelling.  I am screaming away my anger on how my district can't handle my child.  My frustrations spew out like a volcanic eruption.  The result of my tantrum was me gulping for air as the sobs took over.  The CSE Chair wanted to meet the next day to make sure that I was going to be ok.  I was invited to lunch.

I arrived at the school with my forlorn face with a group of people wondering what my reaction was going to be.  I sit down next to Sam and he tells his story about how he was teased in the morning and he was scared to get on the bus to go home.  I explain to him that he is getting older and it is now time for him to work on his reactions to his peers.  I can't remember what my exact words were but I did my best to explain that I could only do so much and it was his turn to regulate his emotions.  A light bulb went off as I realize that I was sitting next to my adolescent child compared to the younger child I had always thought him to be.  There is so much work to do with his private counselor that he visits every other week.  I feel overwhelmed.

Sam and I leave and head out to his Music Therapy appointment.  I get him something to eat while the conversation continues that there will be consequences if I have to drive out again to get him.  The Music Therapy lesson went well as Sam processed the events that occurred in the last seven hours. Together we all make a plan that the stars earned if he does well for the rest of the week on the bus will be toward knew goggles to replace his old ones that broke. He is in full agreement as we head home.

I spent the night replaying everything in my head over and over.  I feel remorse as I recall my angry words.  E-mails are sent with my apologies and a note saying that I know that it was not the school’s fault.  Thoughts revolve over the main theme of me having to stop going over the top with my reactions.  Isn't that what I am trying to teach Sam?  I make a plan that when I see my therapist I will ask her to enroll me into the Dialectical Behavior Therapy program.  I have to learn how to do better.

The next day I meet the CSE Chair for lunch.  I apologize for using her for a punching bag.  I admit that I have issues around the time when Sam was kicked out of the district.  Further explanation described my hurts surrounding the time when three people were pinning Sam to the floor waiting for the police to make a mental hygiene arrest.  Sam was six years old and in first grade.  He spent sixteen days in the hospital and he still recalls that event as the time he was bad.  There is no explaining to him that he is not bad.  He just won't accept the words saying it was not his fault.  My heart aches as I wait for the day when his light bulb will go off with the realization that he is a good kid.

For now I will stop writing because it just hurts.  It is time to think about happier events.  Christmas is coming and there is much to be thankful for.  Thank you for reading my stories.

The next time that Sam has a sever anxiety attach and gets kicked off the bus, the district is responsible for getting another bus to pick him up.  This is the promise that was made to me by my son's CSE Chair.

Will the struggles ever end?  No, but without struggles there would not be estatic joy with the successes. 


Definition of Mental

1.a: of, relating to, or being intellectual as contrasted with overt physical activity.

2.a: of, relating to, or affected by a psychiatric disorder <mental patient>.

b: mentally disordered, mad, crazy.

I choose being an intellectual as my definition of being mental.

*The photo that I use for my background was taken by Sam.

The Best Kind of Different

I started this blog because I love to write.  I have great fun writing and saying words such as serendipity and luminous.

I also have words that I dislike.  I think of the word through.  It looks all jagged and rough to me.  Unfortunately, this word is in the title of my other blog.  I am weird like that.

As much as I love to write, it is equaled by my love of the written word by others.  There are countless hours that I spend reading while waiting for appointments or sitting at a play place.  During the summer Sam fishes for hours and books keep me company.  Memoirs are my favorite and I devour them.  Human behavior fascinates me.  My favorite subject is Autism.

On my last trip to the library I was appalled by the lack of books about Autism. 

"We are changing and updating our inventory to stay current," was the response I got while asking where all the books went.

My thoughts ranged from "What?" to "No! You can't do that!"  How are we going to learn about Autism as a culture if you throw out the history?  I think of the very famous book, The Siege, written by a Mom educating the masses of what Autism is.  The Siege is the book that educated me on the term "refrigerator mother".  In 1949 Leo Kanner, who wrote about Autism, was calling attention to what he saw as a lack of parental warmth and attachment to their children diagnosed with Autism.  Apparently he thought the fault was on the mother.  I can only hope that history doesn't repeat itself.  Totally bummed I settled on two books.

The first book is Cowboy & Wills: A Love Story by Monica Holloway.  It is a true story about a boy and his dog.  The writer eloquently wrote where the words pressed me forward to read more.  I finished the book in one day.  I can't critique this book because I don't want to spoil the experience of reading it.  I can say that it is one of the best books on Autism that I have read. 

The next book is The Best Kind of Different written by Shonda Schelling.  The book was at first a disappointment.  The Schillings are a baseball family with a bank account in the millions.  My initial thought while reading was that I can't relate to wealth.  My OCD tendencies will not let me quit reading a book because of an obsessive fear that I might miss something so I continued reading.  

I stopped dead when she received her son's diagnosis with the Doctor advising her to not put the diagnosis in the school file.  I just couldn't believe that a professional would say that.  I have chosen to educate my son about his Autism and he doesn't feel any different.  He accepts his diagnosis as part of himself.  I remember the time when Mina, Sam and I were walking and I was talking about her being a neurotypical teen. She asked me what it was and told her that it means she doesn't have Autism.  My statement was immediatly followed by Sam's cheerful response, "I have Autism!" 

I read on to learn that the writer chose to educate her son on what Autism was and how to adapt to the diagnosis.  I know parents that choose to not tell their child about their Autism diagnosis and that is ok.  All of the reading that I have done by writers diagnosed with Autism say that they are happy that they know of their diagnosis.  This is the reason why I told Sam.  There is nothing wrong with having an Autism diagnosis is my philosophy.

The confusing part to me was her words, " A diagnosis of straight Autism had seemed off.  The profile of kids with Asperger’s fit Grant perfectly."  She talked about the inability to understand social cues and sensory issues.  She continued talking about wandering and being fearless.  The list goes on with my thoughts drifting to, "That's my kid and he isn't diagnosed with Asperger’s."  My understanding of Aspergers is an early acquisition of language and a high IQ with all the other things that go along with an Autism Spectrum Disorder.  I have read that some want to get rid of Aspergers, PDD, NOS, Autism and have everything under Autism Spectrum Disorder.  It is all very confusing and professionals that I have met say that the Asperger population will lose out on much needed assistance because they will have too high of an IQ.  Some say that they are changing the criteria to save money.  I don't really know.  I just wonder if a millionaire raises money for Asperger's does the money go to the rest of the population of people diagnosed with an Autism Spectrum Disorder?  I probably think too much.

Shonda writes about her strategies of raising her son.  She used the 0 to 5 reaction scale with five being a call to 911.  If her son was screaming she would ask him to rate his response.  I thought that was interesting.  She also talked about the "social consequence map"  where there are four columns (1) my action, (2) how I felt, (3) how others felt, and (4) consequences.  I really think that her ideas in the book could be useful for Sam.

The last part of her book she describes her depression.  She was totally honest on how she dealt with her frustration of raising her son while not knowing that an illness was attacking her ability to cope.  I am now a fan of Shonda Schilling.  Not only is she a fighter for Autism, she is a fighter for Mental Health.  She is my kind of lady.  Besides, I am in full agreement that my son, diagnosed with a Autism Spectrum Disorder like her son, is the best kind of different.

Definition of Mental

1.a: of, relating to, or being intellectual as contrasted with overt physical activity.

2.a: of, relating to, or affected by a psychiatric disorder <mental patient>.

b: mentally disordered, mad, crazy.

I choose being an intellectual as my definition of being mental.

*The photo that I use for my background was taken by Sam.

Total Relief

I woke up today with the realization that my oncologist appointment had finally arrived.  I was scheduled for a mammogram and ultrasound to check out my scar that had drastically changed in the last four months.  In the last few days my Bipolar had swung me in a downslide and I was patiently waiting for life to give me a break.

I got dressed, treated myself to McDonalds and went to my appointment.  I arrived at Strong Hospital at 10:00.  I walked the familiar path to the Wilmont Cancer Center.  I checked in and waited.                  

"Ms. Bellare?"

"Yes?"

"Come with me."

I followed the girl to the dressing room as she continued saying her practiced speech while she put on the hospital bracelet, "This is your gown. Did you put deodorant on today?"  Darn.  I took the wipes and got ready.

I could go on an on about getting squeezed and all that but it really isn't that bad.  No big deal.  The technicians took four pictures total and told me to wait while the radiologist looked at the pictures.  I knew that if he wanted more pictures I was in trouble. 

"Ms. Bellare, you are all set.  I will show you to the ultrasound room."  So far so good.  I sat on the ultrasound table and read my book.  This really nice woman came in and explained the procedure.  Again, no big deal.  I couldn't look at the ultrasound screen because it all looked like lumps to me.  She left the room to talk to the radiologist and came back, "You are all set.  The radiologist said that if you are concerned about the blotches on the scar you can go see a dermatologist."  My reply as I smile, "That’s ok.  Nobody is going to see it anyway."

Next on my list was my Autism support group.  I was a few minutes late so I sat down during introductions.  I got to tell everybody that my daughter was accepted to Philadelphia University.  I continued with the success of my son on the bus.  I was all smiles as I talked about Sam's photography.  I was very chatty and I continued with my story of how Sam came home yesterday to talk about how much he likes his assistive tech device at school.  I never mentioned that I have been desperately trying to get my medications filled for the past few days.  It wasn't necessary.

After the group was finished I was off to see the Psychiatrist.  I knew I was in for an earful because I cancelled my last appointment because I chose to work.  I had waited all day yesterday to hear from the Psychiatrist.  Hour after hour passed until 3:00 when I answered the phone to hear the Psychiatrist tell me he refused to fill my prescription.  I immediately called my General Practitioner and the nurse explained to me that she was doubtful that she would fill it.

I was yelling at this point with the nurse trying to stay calm, "I don't appreciate you yelling at me."

"I'm not yelling!  I am pleading with you please someone has got to help me!"

I hung up and called back the psychiatrist office to yell at the receptionist.  He put me on hold.  A woman came on the line, "Hello, this is the Doctor's receptionist.  He can see you at 3:00 tomorrow."  Not my proudest moment.

So today I stood in front of the receptionist.  "I am sorry I yelled at you."  He shrugged.  "No. Seriously I am really sorry.  Please accept my apology."  He shrugged.  "Please I'm begging you.  I will not forgive myself unless you forgive me."  His reply, "I really appreciate that."  Good enough for me.

I sat down to wait for the inevitable.  "Ms. Bellare?"  I walked down the hall with the Psychiatrist.

"So Ms. Bellare, What is more important?  Money or your drugs to keep you well?"  I just looked at him.  Are you kidding me?  What kind of question is that?  The answer is both.  How do you choose? 

I sat in his office and told him about my life while thinking that this guy saw me every month for two years while I was in a semi-catatonic state trying to get well from a debilitating bout of depression after my cancer treatment.  He has seen me climb out of the depths of hell to become a functioning person in society.  All I wanted was for him to give me some credit for trying to work.  I didn't get the credit.  I make an appointment for six months with the reminder that next time he will not be so kind.  I quietly answered, "Got it.  I promise."

My day rounded out with Mina and I looking at a car for her to get around..  Mina and I stood out in the freezing cold while I was trying to end the conversation.  I didn't care.  For now, I am cancer free.

The best part?  I GOT MY MEDS!

Definition of Mental

1.a: of, relating to, or being intellectual as contrasted with overt physical activity.

2.a: of, relating to, or affected by a psychiatric disorder <mental patient>.

b: mentally disordered, mad, crazy.

I choose being an intellectual as my definition of being mental.

*The photo that I use for my background was taken by Sam.

What Now?

I made the decision a couple of weeks ago to go to work instead of seeing my Psychiatrist.  Now I have no meds so what do I do now?  Common sense would tell you to go see the Psychiatrist.  Well, I did that and was told, "I'm sorry, the next available appointment is in January."  While sitting there feeling totally helpless I asked, "I need meds, can I get them?"  The response I got was, "We will give this to the Doctor."  That was two days ago.

I went to the pharmacy to ask if Sam's meds were ready and there I was told, "I'm sorry, we are still waiting for the Doctor to contact us, maybe you should call them tomorrow."  What the heck!  I told the doctor four days ago that Sam needed his meds and they told me to contact the pharmacists to have the pharmacy contact them.  I did that!  I want to scream, "Are you serious!" Now Sam is out of his meds.  I asked the pharmacy if my meds were ready to be told no.  I walked away feeling totally crushed.  Is there anybody who cares about my family's well being? 

I have been in a downward spiral for a couple of days now.  This latest news was just too much.  I walked away from the Wegman's pharmacy in tears.  All the woman could do was say, "I'm sorry."  It is not her fault.  It is mine. 

I needed ice cream for Sam.  He wanted his night time snack.  A woman's cart was in the way and I tearfully said, "Umm, I need to get some ice cream."  Feeling totally awkward in my tears I went to get his other favorite snack of pistachios.  I ran into a marching band mom who is a breast cancer survivor.  She looked at me and I totally collapsed into her arms.  I just sobbed and wailed, "I can't do this!"  She asked me what was wrong and I explained that I just felt like I didn't have any strength left.  We talked about breast cancer and I told her about my worries and how I had an oncology appointment coming up.  We talked about depression and how people don't want to be involved with someone that just isn't feeling well.  I won't have any friends coming over to my house saying, "What can we do?" 

Why am I talking about this?  I am all about education and why not educate in the midst of feeling like I can't take another step.  I think about the guy that pushed the woman into the tracks in NYC while trying desperately to find help.  I think of people shouting, "I need help!" only to get none.  Does this really happen?  Yes it does, I read about it all the time.  After a tragedy the first response is, "What could we have done to prevent this?"

I am not going to go on a shooting spree or any other seemingly ridiculous way to shout to the world that I am hurting.  I will just wake up in the morning full of fear to work as hard as I can to get through the day.  That is how my depression works.  How does one describe what this fear feels like?  All I can say that it is debilitating.  I tearfully talk myself into getting dressed and getting outside.  That is what I did this morning.  I made it and now it is night.  Yes, I fell apart in the store and yes, I am afraid to go to bed in fear of what I will feel like tomorrow.  Again, this is how my depression plays out. 

Tomorrow I will call the Psychiatrist and if he won't help me I will call my General Practioner.  If my General Practitioner won't help me I will go to the Emergency Room.  If they won't help me I will be out of luck.  I feel like a child who has made a bad choice.  I shouldn't have chose money over drugs to keep me well. 

I will be alright because I always make it.  I will smile when people say hello.  I will somehow get my medication so the depression will not dip to the point where I will be admitted into the local R-Wing.  I will wait for the upswing even though it feels like it won't arrive.  I will be ok.

Definition of Mental

1.a: of, relating to, or being intellectual as contrasted with overt physical activity.

2.a: of, relating to, or affected by a psychiatric disorder <mental patient>.

b: mentally disordered, mad, crazy.

I choose being an intellectual as my definition of being mental.

*The photo that I use for my background was taken by Sam.

 

Should I be tested for drugs?

I have seen a few posts on facebook stating that people on welfare are drug abusers.  Is this true?  I found an interesting article that states that in the first round of testing in Florida it was found that two percent of the welfare population tested positive for drugs.

I am not a political person and I could go on and on about how our country wastes money on this and that.  I am just not in the mood for people to get mad at me.  Because of my disability it is hard enough to make and keep friends as it is.  My diagnosis coupled with Sam's doesn't really lead to an active social life. I often talk about isolation because I do my best to keep it real. 

Sam and I are recipients of SSI and SSD.  I am also a recipient of food stamps.  My family gets a grand total of $70 a month for a family of three. The total number of dollars that we receive a month just does not cover the amount of money I spend on additional therapies and special autism clubs for Sam.  People in our community have been so generous in scholarships so Sam can attend these special functions.  It is a full time job to find the money so Sam can benefit along side the families that can afford it. 

There are times when Sam gets extremely angry because there isn't enough food to eat.  I can only get food shelf assistance every three months.  There is a missionary near us that is helpful but then I get the phone calls where I need to take time away to stay on the phone with a volunteer to pray.  Prayer is good but sometimes not helpful when I am driving to the next appointment for Sam.  I graciously stay on the phone and say thank you and hang up.   

I don't like being on assistance at all.  It is a very hard life to have.  The paper work alone is mind numbing.  On my desk is a 10 page report to fill out to get assistance for Sam to have an Ipad.  This report has now been sitting on my table for over a week.  I am trying so desperately hard to become organized so I can think straight.  I look at it and cry.  I am not eligible to get a case manager because they say I am too high functioning.  I don't feel very high functioning at the moment.

I have a part-time job where sometimes I work 3-6 hours a week.  I had an opportunity to go to a five day training to learn about Therapeutic Crisis Intervention.  I made it through four days.  It was a fantastic training for the first 3 days.  By the fourth day exhaustion set in and my social anxiety went through the roof.  This training wasn't mandatory so on the fifth day I didn't go in to work.  I literally couldn't do it.  I am still down and out with the fact that I couldn't make it.  By the fifth day I was paralyzed. 

The next question is, "Do I make money while I work?"  I have to factor in that with work the food stamps will go down.  I am on section 8 and my rent increased with every dollar I report.  With SSI half of my paycheck will go to them after I have earned $85 for that month.  Where is the benefit of working?

Still being on the subject of work, I have a work incentive counselor.  That is one more appointment I must keep to find out where the assistance is to help me and my family.  This is just more paperwork.  I have to take the time to go down to Social Security Office to report my earnings.  I have to fill out more paperwork for food stamps.  Excluding my Work Incentive Counselor, these people that work at these establishments are not the nicest people that I have encountered.

One last question, "I am a single mom and if I had a full time job, where would I find the time for my appointments and Sam's?"  These appointments are made on their schedule, not mine.  I had a therapist that I loved and he left leaving me with a counselor that doesn't match my personality.  I have tried multiple times to change this person and the clinic just won't let me.  I missed my last appointment with the Psychiatrist because I chose to work.  I now have no meds and no appointment to get any.

I hope this sheds some light on how I don't have a Cadillac and eating steak for dinner every night.  My house isn't filled with drug deals and plotting on how I can fool the government.  My house is filled with me doing my best to provide for my family.  I don't have a problem with the drug test, I have a problem with people thinking I don't deserve the assistance.

Sorry for the depressing post.  It is just where I am at.

Definition of Mental

1.a: of, relating to, or being intellectual as contrasted with overt physical activity.

2.a: of, relating to, or affected by a psychiatric disorder <mental patient>.

b: mentally disordered, mad, crazy.

I choose being an intellectual as my definition of being mental.

*The photo that I use for my background was taken by Sam.

 

Am I Autistic?

Well no, I am not Autistic but I do have a diagnosis of Bipolar.  So why am I thinking about this?  I was planning on attending an event and I became very sad because I was afraid to go because I felt like I had nothing to talk about.

As many of you are probably aware, failure to develop peer relationships appropriate to developmental level is one of the requirements that are kids, and adults, must have in order to have a diagnosis of Autism.  Many people who have been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder also suffer from Social Anxiety Disorder.  Is this one in the same?

When it comes to conversing with people, I am a meat and potatoes kind of talker.  I lack in the ability to talk fluff.  Sometimes I stand around and listen to people talk about their new furniture or their recent trip to the Bahamas.  That is all good but my life doesn’t fit in the category of husband, having a steady job, owning a home and being invited to parties on a Friday or Saturday night.  I grew up watching my parents being invited to parties and reciprocating with their own gallant affairs.  I sincerely thought that my life would be having my kids grow up with aromas of good food and electric conversations.  I know that I am not alone and that there are unimaginable amounts of people that have unbelievable amounts of challenges.  It bothers me when I am sitting alone in my house and the feeling of lonliness creeps in. 

There have been times when my memories of my childhood keep me company.  Back in the day we could drink at 18.  We started at 16.  My friends and I would buy beer, or have someone else do it, and we would roll the beer cans down the theatre while watching a movie. We used to drive for hours on the back country roads singing songs.  I chuckle as I remember walking up the stream plastered and getting to the cow field only to have a cow come up to me and sniff me.  I literally peed my pants.  All I could see was the Olean Times Herald announcing that, “Girl from Franklinville was killed by a cow.” 

The parties were legendary and even then I had a hard time staying for the entire scheduled event.  The joke was, “It is 10 O’clock, time for Deb to have a glass of milk and go home!”  I don’t know why I craved milk.  I guess I was low on Calcium.  And then there were my parties.  The halls in our high school would ring with, “Party at Pierces!”  I felt more in control when it was my environment with all my familiar surroundings.

So where was I, oh yeah, Autism.   I have read that people on the Spectrum are more comfortable communicating with people over the internet.  Machines feel more compatible than people.  I definitely feel the same way.  I never imagined that Sam’s photography would open the door to be communicating with so many awesome individuals with the same interests. Writing this blog is freeing and lets me connect with the outside world.   I get to think, process and put down what I want to say.  The best part is the conversations that I am having with my friends from back home.  Twenty five plus years doesn’t stand in the way of solid friends that were always there for me.

One of the biggest misconceptions that people have about Autism is that people don’t want to connect with others.  I have read multiple books where people discuss how they want the opportunities to thrive in the social world.  The problem is that they just don’t know how.  Again, I struggle everyday with feelings of inadequacy as I am swarmed with multiple people as I network for a successful life for Sam.  Sam is the reason why I put myself out there and will continually put myself out there no matter how uncomfortable I become.  It is not all bad but sometimes I do find myself going home and having a good cry.

I do have friends that I absolutely cherish.  The night I was supposed to go to the event a friend called me and we talked for a very long time.  She is also a meat and potatoes kind of talker.  Once in a while I also meet with others where the conversations are delightful.  I could not survive without the support of these individuals that find the time for me.  The little things that others do for me can hold me for a long time.

As a side note, I did go to Maine to see my sister and her family.  It was one of the best trips I have every taken. 

Definition of Mental

1.a: of, relating to, or being intellectual as contrasted with overt physical activity.

2.a: of, relating to, or affected by a psychiatric disorder <mental patient>.

b: mentally disordered, mad, crazy.

I choose being an intellectual as my definition of being mental.

*The photo that I use for my background was taken by Sam.

 

Being Scared

Being a Breast Cancer Survivor I am always worried that the cancer will come back.  It is just the nature of the beast.  I have talked with some people that just assume that it will come back.  I suffer from severe hot flashes from the medicine that I take to lower the chances that the cancer will come back.  Because my body temperature feels 10 degrees above normal, I have a pair of pajamas that I wear and the top doesn't fully cover my scar.  My scar is huge and it is hard to miss. Trying to stay positive I have told myself that my scar is a mark of survival.  It represents my strength and my ability to persevere.  My scar is my new beauty.

About a month ago I was walking by a mirror.  I had to step back to get a closer look.  "Hmm, has my scar changed?"  I yell for Mina, "Mina, I think my scar has changed.  It looks all puckery and it is all blotchy!" Nobody in my house goes up or down the stairs to talk so she yells back, "Yeah, I noticed that the other day!"

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't want you to worry," was her response.

Too late.  I am worried.

I take a closer look.  My thoughts turn to, "This is hideous."  Trying to remind myself that this isn't positive self talk, I really couldn't come up with anything better.  I feel sad because I don't see myself being intimate with another person because I don't feel attractive.  I shake it off and move on with my day. 

During this time Mina was busy with Marching Band and Volleyball which left me with trying to organize my time so that maybe I could possibly do something for myself.  I have to be honest and say that I was getting angry as to why I am the only one that has to take care of everything.  I became so busy that my house was a mess and the water pump wasn't working.  The landlord had to come over which resulted in a letter telling me that I better clean up the house.  "I AM DOING MY BEST AND THAT IS THE BEST I CAN DO," is screaming in my head. 

During this time I sent an email to a friend telling her my concerns to find out that I sent the message to over 900 people from the Autism Parent Message Board.  OOPS, my bad.  I told all of my friends on facebook and a dear friend told me that I now have over 900 people that are praying for me.  Another friend offered to take me to my appointment. Gotta love facebook.

With raising a child with Autism, my life will never slow down.  The added pressure of all the extra activities was getting to me.  Marching Band and Volleyball ended and I got a reprieve.  Don't get me wrong, I love my daughter's activities and I wouldn't change a thing.  For a short period of time it just got to be a little too much.

During this reprieve, I picked up the house and called the Oncologist.  I told them about the change and I was hoping they would say something like, "Probably no big deal but we want to check it out anyway."  Instead I heard, "We want you to come in and have and ultrasound and a mammogram."

Why am I so afraid?  Maybe because I have no clue how I could go through that awful experience again.  I know that if the cancer returns I will have a double Mastectomy.  The two things that I liked most about myself were my boobs and my hair.  Both will be gone. Yes my hair will grow back.  The boobs will not.

I am fortunate that I live near a YMCA that has an incredible Live Strong Program.  It is an exercise program for individuals going through cancer treatments.  I was part of this program three years ago.  I stopped by the director's office and told him my worries.  "Well," he said, "Don't worry until you have something to worry about." 

I am also fortunate to be part of a group of woman called "The Brown Baggers".  We meet for lunch on Fridays and different topics are discussed.  I had the opportunity to voice my concerns with all the ladies chiming in saying they would be there to take me to my appointment.

I am no longer alone.

I am a big snoop and I found my daughter's college essay.  Her words are a reminder that for every bad there is an opposite good.  I would like to share the last paragraph. 

Slowly my mother’s hair began to grow back but she still wasn’t getting any better. It came to the point where I never thought that she would be happy again. Then one day I came home to her cleaning the entire house and I knew that she was finally going to be okay. My family is now part of a new society filled with other survivors, opening my eyes to how powerful cancer can be. Most importantly though, it has showed me how limited it really is. Our house is now filled with pink ribbons, which are no longer reminders of the sickness but a symbol of our strength. My mother going through cancer has made me a braver person but it has also changed my perspective on life. I have overcome the fear of death itself and can focus on what really matters in life. I have the courage that I didn’t have before to take the challenges that life gives me and to make the best of them.  My mother has been in remission for three years now and I cherish every moment I have with her.

I am one blessed Mom.

Definition of Mental

1.a: of, relating to, or being intellectual as contrasted with overt physical activity.

2.a: of, relating to, or affected by a psychiatric disorder <mental patient>.

b: mentally disordered, mad, crazy.

I choose being an intellectual as my definition of being mental.

*The photo that I use for my background was taken by Sam.