Fuck All Y'all.

37 people per day who insist on turning around in my fucking driveway;

I have kids who sometimes like to play in their driveway. One of them is fucking Deaf. He won't hear you coming. So I am not sorry that your friendly smile and wave is answered with a;

"Not cool! Not fucking cool!!!"

Spoken and angrily signed by me, while pointing at toddler and Deaf kid.

I am so going to Town Hall and requesting a "Deaf Child" sign. I will also request that the fucking thing be placed at the end of my driveway.


12 people who park in front of my house twice a day getting their kids on and off the fucking camp bus;

Believe me, I understand the necessity of summer camp. I don't know what I'd do if Owen's school didn't have a summer program.

I know that since I live on the corner where the bus picks up and drops off the camp kids, that you parents will need park somewhere. I also know that the only options are along the side of my house and across the street. I actually don't give a shit about the grass that you've ruined, and the daily traffic cluster fuck that you cause.

What I don't get is the ass hole who parked IN MY FUCKING DRIVEWAY last week.

How is this ok? And when I asked you to please move because Owen's bus is coming, how is it ok that you made me qualify my request that you NOT PARK IN MY FUCKING DRIVEWAY with your fucking pissy;

"What? Are they coming right.now??"

You are in MY fucking driveway douchebag. So sorry that you didn't get here early enough to get a good spot. Drive down the fucking road with your stupid fucking hearing kids, park your fucking minivan in front of someone else's fucking house and walk the fuck down the road.

And a quick fuck you to the idiot who was standing IN my driveway this afternoon when I got home from feeding therapy. I hope when I blared my horn, I woke up that baby in the fucking stroller.

And yes, I let the dog out on purpose. She loves to bark at you people. So if my horn didn't wake up your little troll, I'm sure Olive ruined any nappage.


Medical Supply Company;


Now I know why this New England based company moved it's re-ordering operations to Tennessee this year.

I haven't had many problems with you yet. But this week you royally screwed up.

I gathered up all my pissitude and dialed you up, ready for a fight.

Do you know how hard it is to tell someone off when they listen patiently to your tirade and answer you in the sweetest southern drawl;

"Oh Dear!!! Well bless your heart! I'll be delighted to go ahead and do my best and straighten out this little mess for you. Oh dear, I'm terribly sorry for all your trouble. You take care of that precious child of yours and let me take care of this. Have a good day now, hear??"

Oh. You people are good.

Evil, but good.

****

ETA: Bonus Fuck You to the ginormous fucking moth that was lurking in the kitchen trash. I swear the fucking thing was as big as my boob. No, BIGGER.  As big as my fucking FIST. It fucking flew in my face when I opened the lid causing me to scream like a fucking girl and piddle in my pants.

Idiot Montage

Since Owen was born, I've been subjected to unsolicited advice, insensitive remarks, and genreral idiocy.

Some of my favorite moments:

***********

Owen was around 2.5 years old and we were waiting at the pharmacy for a prescription. We were signing back and forth.

Our prescription was ready and the lady was checking us out.

Her: "I noticed you signing to your son."

Me: "Yeah".

Her: "Everyone is doing that nowadays. My daughter taught her son to sign when he was a baby, it was so cute".

Me: Pointing to his Bright Green Hearing Aids, "Actually, we're not doing it because it's trendy. He's Deaf."

Her:

**********

I was sitting at the nurses station at work next to a doctor who was grumpily writing in charts. Across from us was an adorable 3 year old little girl interviewing an elderly resident. It was insanely cute and I was thoroughly enjoying their conversation.

The irritated doctor humphed and said to me;

"Can you imagine having to listen to that all day?"

I smiled and said to him;

"Not really. My son is that age, but he's Deaf and doesn't talk nearly that much. So, no. I can't really imagine listening to it".

Doctor Mcjerkoff turned a lovely shade of purple as he buried his head in a chart scribbling away.

*********

I understand that Owen's feeding issues aren't easy for everyone to comprehend and I don't mind explaining why he's tube fed.

But, to all the people over the past 5 years who have said to me:

"Just don't give him any food in his tube. Once he's hungry enough, he'll eat":

How stupid have I been? The years of mouth exercises, swallow studies, desensitization, feeding therapy. All for nothing. All I had to do was starve the medically complex child and he would overcome his oral aversion, vocal chord paralysis, and aspiration risk and eat enough to sustain himself.

What a moron I've been.

And his poor feeding therapist, looks like she'll be out of a job.

I should call the feeding team at Children's and let them in on this breakthrough.

**********

And my all time favorite.

To the toothless hick in the scooter behind me in line at WalMart:

Thank you, oh toothless one, for making me aware of the technological wonder that is the "Cochlea". That's what you said it was right?  A new surgery that will restore my child's hearing? Why, I wonder, in the past 5 years of audiological evaluations, ORL exams, and contact with the Deaf Community, have I not heard of this miracle?

You are obviously a highly educated individual. I mean, you have figured out a way to avoid all those pesky dental bills.

I'm sure your medical knowledge is extensive as your dependence on the scooter is due to a metabolic disorder that causes you to weigh 400 pounds.

And your generosity extends beyond offering advice to mothers of 'special' children as evidenced by the Twinkies, Captain Crunch, and full sugar Coke in your cart that you are surely sending to the troops in Iraq.

I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't run into you today.  As soon as I get home I'm getting on the phone to schedule his surgery for... what was it again? A Cochlea?  I want to make sure I've got the name right.

I wouldn't want to sound stupid or anything.

The Mean Nurse And The Social Worker

Sitting in the waiting room at Children's today, seeing the Mommies of sick newborn babies, I wasn't surprised at the flood of memories that came.

I haven't been able to write about much of  Owen's first days, but I did manage to get a little something down.

I'm reposting this from last September. No one really knew about my blog then, so I don't know if anyone actually got to read it.


*******
Mean Nurse

The ambulance guys dropped me off in the ER of the hospital. Owen was in the ambulance right behind us. I was in the hall on a stretcher waiting for someone to bring me to my room. There was some confusion over where I was supposed to be.

I heard a radio, a voice said, "Babyboy Mylastname’; and that instant Owen was wheeled right by me, six people running, holding onto the isolette, and more running behind. Running. I saw this alone, I wanted Al with me.

Since I had just given birth, I had to be admitted to the maternity wing of this hospital in northern Vermont; I wouldn’t recommend the place to a dead cat. The room was teensy, white cinder block walls, no decor to speak of, a sink, a bed, a chair. I looked for the toilet.

On the maternity ward of this large hospital, there was no toilet in the room. Hours after giving birth, I was expected to ring for help, wait for help, and be escorted down the hall to the bathroom. Insanity.

I was admitted by a worn out looking, middle aged, heavy nurse. She moved slow, she looked lazy. She looked like she was just tired of being a nurse. She made a lame attempt at sympathy but gave up quick; it took too much time and there is lots of paperwork involved in admitting a patient. She actually sat on the bed while she asked me all her questions. She barely made eye contact with me. She was abrupt and cold. She infuriated me.

When she was done with all her questions, she needed me to pee. I wasn’t afraid to, I just didn’t have to. She demanded that I try to go, so I took my little water bottle to squirt on myself, ( I was told I’d need it), and she followed me down the hall. I'd refused the wheelchair.

Peeing hurt more than I'd expected, but I didn’t really care, the squirt bottle was wonderful. Not much pee, plenty of blood. The nurse seemed annoyed by what I had produced. It made me happy that she was annoyed. Maybe she sensed this because when we got back to the room she insisted on checking me for hemorrhoids. I told her over and over;

"No, I’d never had them, I’m a nurse, I think I’d know if I’d had them". She insisted that it was the rules, I couldn’t waste any energy arguing with her.

If there was ever a time in my life that I'd wanted to fart, it was this moment. I dropped my pants and bent over;

Kiss my nasty ass, mean nurse.


*************



Social Worker

 The Social Worker had called after we found out we found out we were going to Boston. It would be a few hours. She called from her home; she’d been paged.


I can imagine her just jumping to attention, feeling so needed, so important. Her big chance to make a difference in some poor people’s lives.

I'd told her on the phone that we didn’t need her help, we were basically going home, lots of family, tons of support, we’re all set, kthanksbye.

She was persistent, insisting that she should come to the hospital to make sure we were ok. I’m sure I was rude, I wanted to tell her to fuck off but I don’t think I did.

A couple hours later we were told to get to the NICU; the plane had arrived and we needed to sign papers and say goodbye to Owen.

We’d just left the room, were almost to the elevator, Al was pushing me in the wheelchair. I heard footsteps behind us, lady footsteps, quick, sharp, Social Worker footsteps.

I knew without looking up that it was her. I never looked up, I never saw her face.

She followed us to the NICU. At first she wouldn’t shut up. I have know idea what she said, I’m pretty sure it was "blahblahblahblah". I was so irritated by her presence, even after she finally shut up. I said over and over again to her in my head, Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

She was hovering over us as we touched Owen and said goodbye. Owen was blue by now, I peeked at the oximeter, 62%, not good at all; I knew enough to make it quick. He was hard to look at anyway, barely alive.

She looked on as the flight nurse told us that he might not make it to Boston; I knew that just from looking at him.

We signed the papers and headed out of the NICU.  She was still on us.

I felt so intruded upon. She started talking again. This time I can’t believe I didn’t swear at her, I told her calmly and firmly without looking up; "Go away and leave. us. alone".

I hope she went home feeling like a shitty person for invading our lives during such a difficult and private moment.

She’s a funny memory to have, she has no face, no hairdo, no style of dress. I never looked at her, not once.

I think of her and she’s just footsteps, a voice saying ‘blahblahblahblah’, and her air of self importance.

She gave me the cringes.

I like to change my memory of that evening, where I really do tell her; "Fuck You Fuck You Fuck You", over and over and over until she's gone.

Just So Ya Know,

When your child gawks at Owen's hearing aids and asks you;

"Why does he have things in his ears"?

Staring blankly at the child and yanking him away from Owen as if he'd done something wrong, is NOT an appropriate response to his natural curiosity.

Kids stare. Kids ask questions. I'm so totally cool with that.

This happened at the zoo today. It happens all the time. My reaction largely depends on my mood. Lots of times I'll tell the kid that they help him hear, just like glasses help people see.

Today I thought I'd let the kid's mommy handle it.

She blew it. It annoyed me.

How badly did I want to say,

"He has monsters in his ears and if he didn't plug them up, they'd jump out and EAT you!"