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Okay, I give up. This fiction stuff is way too hard and I just don't have the time or talent for it. Sorry to leave you guys hi and dri but, oh well, it's for the best. I hate warping young minds for nothing and I certainly hate boring people to tears, me included.
Frankly, I think I suck at this fiction stuff, but I'll try alittle longer to see if I get any better at all. Bear with me folks:
I recognize Alexis's sullen look through the window of the counselorr's office. How I've come to dread that stoney gaze. She's had it since she was a toddler. Her expression made her look like she was trapped in a box with one way mirror walls allowing others to see that soul crying out in pain but stopping her from seeing out at a world she saw as her harshest judge. I pause to take a deep breath and gather my wits, then I open the door and say, "What's up Alexis?" No response. "What the hell were you thinking, girl? I mean, how many times will it take before you learn that you can't keep breaking rules without getting caught?"
"Whatever. Just take me home and leave me alone," she responds, getting up and heading past me for the door.
I grab her by the arm and say, "Wait just a goddam minute. It's not gonna be that easy for you. You just had me yanked away from my rounds. I have some very sick patients to take care of on the ward. You just can't expect me not to be royally pissed at what's going on here."
She looks first at my hand on her arm and then at me, eyes stoney hard and bitter, lined with so much back eyeliner you'd think she was trying to use her makeup as a wall to shut out the world and the pain it brings her. "I said, whatever! I didn't ask you to come get me. Go back to your precious sickos for all I care. Hell, you can screw them all if that's what you want." She wrenches free and leaves the office without another word.
Embarrassed at having the whole interchange showcased in front of the entire office staff, I sign her name on the sign-out sheet and slink out behind her, avoiding eye contact with their disapporving stares.
The trip home is pure torture. The resentment thickes the air until it makes it hard to breathe. But I review what I plan to say in my mind and consider different punishments that are sure to endear me to her further. Once we get home, Alexis races upstairs and away from any confrontation that might force to to face what she's brought on herself. I'm too damn weary to deal with it any more than she is, but I know if I don't strike while the iron is hot, I'll forget everything I planned to say on the way home. Reluctantly, I trudge up the steps to her room.
Her door is plastered with all things negative. A mix of goth, heavy metal, drug paraphenalia, and the nostalgic immorality from my own day; Jimi Hendrix, Bob Marley and Che Guevarra. I knock on the door. No answer. "Goddamit, open the door. You know we have to talk! I shout." Still no answer. I get a flathead screw driver from the gameroom--that I keep for that very purpose--and flick open the lock with no problem. I open the door to see her draped face down on her unmade bed."
"Alright Alexis. We ARE going to discuss this whether you like it or not," I insist.
"I don't have to discuss shit," she counters.
Before she can finish her smart ass remark, I see, just below the hem of her shirt a tattoo in the small of her back. "What in the name of Christ do you have on your back?" I ask. Is that I tattoo?"
"So what if it is? It's none of your damn business," she answers sullenly.
"Bullshit. I'm your mom. It's definitely my business. I lift her shirt further to get a closer look. The tattoo is some Chinese symbol--probably translates to "My mother is a clueless bich." I pull down her shirt in disgust to cover it up and ask, "What else have you done to your body?"
"Nothing."
"I don't believe you for a minute. I'll give you five seconds to give me the inventory of all you've don't to permanently screw yourself up and if you don't or if I don't believe you, I'm checking for myself."
"The hell you are. You stay away from me, freak."
With that, I grab her jaw and say, "Open up right now."
At first she refuses but When I repeat my command in that Mommy voice that melts the paint from the walls she complies, if reluctantly and defiantly. Her tongue stud blinks like a beacon at the entrance to Hell.
"Shit, I can't believe this. What else have you done?" She stares back, exuding hatred from every pore. I touch her left nipple and find a nipple ring.
Then she goes ballistic, yelling, "Fuck you! You molester." Her right hand swings back wide and flings forward, hitting me so hard on the left ear, I lose my breath. My ear rings loudly. The pain is so unbearable it feels like someone is jabbing a red hot ice pick through my eardrum. Met by a flurry of kicks and slaps, I do all I can to grab her arms and legs in defense, and fling her against the bed. Straddling her, I pin her down and look into her eyes, widened with adrenaline. I can feel her chest heaving for air and her heart racing. She looks like a frightened rabbit facing certain death in the clutches of a mountain lion.
"Get off me, bitch. I'm calling the cops, you child molester," she hollers, voice trembling.
In a forced smile I say, "Be my guest, hon. But guess what? They're going to ask you how old you are and when you tell them you're sixteen, they're going to laugh in your face. They wouldn't give a flying rat's ass if I hang you up by your nipple rings from a tree in our front yard. You're a minor. And I'm your mother. Hell, i could charge you with assault if I want too, because you just perforated my damn eardrum." I can feel a trickle of blood rolling down the left side of my face from my ear canal.
With that she settles down enough for me to loosen my grip. But once my guard is down, she wrestles free and runs out of the room and down the stairs. I can hear the front door slam as she leaves.
Holy crap! What now? I excuse myself from Ms. Epstein, although I'm certain in five seconds she won't remember me being there and head for the phone at the nurses station. "Hello, this is Dr. Cramer," I say.
"Yes, Doctor. This is Brenda Dickson, Alexis's counselor at school. I sure hate to be the bearer of bad news all the time, especially knowing how busy you are, but it seems we have a problem with Alexis again. The grade level principal, Mrs. Howard, caught her smoking in the girl's bathroom," she says.
"Oh, Jesus, why can't that girl learn? So what now?" I say, with all the excitement of an eight eear old at Mozart concert.
"Well, we already gave her a warning last time. Now she has to go to AEP for six weeks," Ms. Dickson replied.
"AEP? What the heck is that?"
"It stands for alternative education program. Kind of a lock down away from the other students. She'll have to stay in one room with other kids who're in the same boat and take her classes off campus. It's in the old Wisford High School that was closed down three years ago. Now, the district uses it for it's AEP program. The buses don't run there so I'm afraid you'll have to provide the transportation yourself, somehow. I'll give you the number so you can find out the particulars like where exactly it is, what the uniform requirements are---"
"What? Uniforms? Ya mean I have to go out and by uniforms for the kid?"
"Well, yes, it's a requ--"
"And how the hell am i supposed to get her to shcool? I have rounds at 6:00 every morning. I have a hard enough time gettiing up before noon, for chrissakes!"
"I know how you feel, doctor, and I truly wich there was something I could do, but Alexis--"
"You don't understand!" I interrupt, "My plates already so full I'm at my breaking point! Can't we reconsider this and give her some other punishment? How about hanging her by her thumbs in the gym for 12 hours? Or you can relegate her to the school cafeteria kitchen so she'll have to see what the food there is really made from, now that would be sheer torture. Or you can make her scrub all the school toilets with a toothbrush, hell, I don't care what ya do with the kid, but I don't have time for all this!"
The pause that follows my tirade tells me Ms. Dickson is choosing her words carefully. I can almost hear her lips pursing and jaw stiffening. "There is nothing I can do to change the consequences your daughter has brought on herself," she replies, stressing the "brought on herself" part more than necessary. "We can't allow illegal activity on campus. And it's not like it's the first problem we've had with Alexis. I mean, there was that time when--"
"Okay, okay, Ms. Dickson, I read you loud and clear, " I interject, preferring anything to being reminded of Alexis's past, including having my tongue tied to a hot tailpipe and being driven over broken glass naked. "I'm sorry. It's just that I've had so much stress lately. I didn't mean to come across so hard. I'll see what I can do."
"I'm so sorry," she says, in a softer tone. "Kids. They can sure be a handful sometimes, huh?"
'You have no idea, lady,' I think to myself. "Yes, they sure can. But they're worth it," I add, not entirely convinced.
I hang up, thinking, 'Jesus, that's gotta be the most expensive cigarette in the world.'
NOTE TO ALL: THIS IS PURE FICTION. Although there are parallels in this story, consider its characters the evil twins of the real people (if any) they represent. This story will continue for as long as I can last. It will address the difficulties of being a parent, particularly a mom, raising children in today's world of many changes. Here goes:
PAGING DOCTOR MOM...REALITY CALLING
As I park my car in the "Doctor's Only" lot, I can barely make out the lights shining through the emergency room doors through the heavy drizzle. Of course it didn't hellp much that my eyes felt like they'd been unscrewed from their sockets, scuffed with steel wool, and replaced off-center. The bags under them made it seem like they were protesting this abuse by threatening to pack up and leave on a one-way trip to Slovenia. All because of another sleepless night trying to calm the chaos that has become my family. The whining. The begging. The fighting. The nagging I had to do just to get the trash taken out. The confronting Alexis about the cigarettes I found in her backpack. The dealing with her screaming protests about "invasion of privacy." By the time I went to bed, my nerves were scrubbed raw by the adrenaline coursing several liters a minute through every vein.
I shake my head, half in disbelief that the hellish night even happened, and half to shake the memories of it from my mind like a dog shaking water from its coat. God, I have to get things together. I have a shitload of patients to see, some of them pretty sick. "Put on your game face, girl," I tell myself. "They can't know you're falling apart at the seams. I mean, how professional is that?"
I kick open the car door and get out into the drizzle. Great. I forgot my damn umbrella again. Of course, most of the 47 umbrellas in various parts of my house and garage have been completely disabled by treacherous hands of my kids, spokes bent and missing, fabric torn. Umbrella murderers. So it's gonna be another bad hair day. Perfect. I'll be a Don King look alike by noon. I straighten out the wrinkles in my white coat, try to dismiss the coffee stain on the lapel and walk across the parking lot to the entrance with an artificial air of confidence in my stride. Now I can see the lights beaming through the doors more clearly: the searchlight for an open-all-night 24/7 human equivalent of a Roach Motel beckoning death to participate in seeing that some customers check in, but don't check out.
Well now that thought makes me feel a damn spot better. I make my way through the groans, complaints, and bloodly bandages, and antiseptic smell of the ER to the main elevators of the hospital. "Come on, Victoria Anne Cramer, you can do this. Just another day at the office. They'll never suspect you feel like hell" I reassure myself. The elevators, thankfully empty this early in the morning, open on the third floor, allowing the smells, sounds, sights, and tempo of the Internal Medicine ward to assault my sense and my soul. Mrs. Pickering, the charge nurse, scurries importantly toward me before I can even cross the threshold. She has a clipboard clutched to her chest and a worried expression on her wrinkled and rouge heavy face. "Oh, doctor, you're just in time!" she says. Ms. Epstein is off her rocker today. That medicine you started on her last night must have made her delirium is much worse." What the hell. Pickering, affectionately know as the Wicked Witch of the North Wing, is always trying to find fault with what I do. Must be one of those "I-could-have-been-a-wonderful-doctor-if-I -had-made-it-into-med-school" types that hold eternal grudges for everyone wearing a white coat over scrubs or street clothes. "Sir Yes Sir! I'll get right on it," I reply with a brisk salute, taking a stab at comic relief. The scowl on her face showed she was not amused. I brace myself with a cup of 48 hour old coffee from the nurses station while I peruse Ms. Epstein's chart. I admitted her three days ago in an acute delirium, worried that she had had a stroke. Although she's eighty two, she's had a fairly uneventful medical history in all the ten years that she's been my patient. Her MRI looks good. Electrolytes, fine. Hmm. Calcium up a bit. I scribbled an order to check her free-ionized calcium in case her dementia was the result of a hyperactive parathyroid gland. Too much calcium can cause all sorts of problems, including mental confusion. Below that order, I purposely write, "Continue Zyprexa 1.25 mg. q hs as ordered" in defiance of Pickering's subtle accusation. Time to check in on Alma. With her chart in hand, I go to Ms. Epstein's room fully expecting her to be babbling senselessly, begging every passerby to rescue her from her restraints. The night before, she got up thinking she was back home--in 1930, and ran smack dab into her IV pole knocking herself and it down flat. But she didn't live up to that expectation. Instead, I see a perfectly coiffed southern lady sitting up straight, tied to her chair by a sheet wrapped around her chest, breakfast tray before her. I notice the 4 inch gash in the wall where the IV pole had shishkabobed it as well as the bruise on her left temple. Okay. I don't know what Pickering is talking about. She looks tons better. Hmm. So she's stirring her oatmeal with her fingers, big deal. Maybe that's a wacky family custom handed down for generations. My delusions are quickly dashed when, in her thick Alabamian drawl, she announces, "Hello, Dear. So glad you could make the party. You can set the bar up in the corner and tell the caterers I don't want them using my linens like they did the last time. It took me a week to get the stains out." "Hi Alma," I answer, I'm Dr. Cramer, remember me? I've come to see how you're doing this morning."
"Oh, yes, Dr. Cramer. I'm so glad you could make it. Do me a favor, dear, and tell that silly clown standing in the corner that he has to go. This is not a children's party, for goodness sakes, and I'm not giving him one red cent to do whatever the hell it is clowns do to terrorize youngsters."
Rational conversation was not in the stars, it appeared. So I tell her I want to examine her and she consents, obviously highly suspicious of any invitee bold enough to lift the back of her gown and explore her back with a cold stethoscope.
"Did you bring the pastries, Dear?" She asks.
"Yes, ma'am. they're in the back of the catering truck. I'll get them in a moment," I respond, deciding to give in to her fantasy world.
I prepare to do a fundoscopic exam on both eyes with my ophthalmoscope, I notice her face looks different somehow. Brighter. More alive and enthusiastic. Jesus, she's put her eyebrow pencil on so that her painted on brows hoover two inches above the real ones. 'Now that's gotta be a new index of dementia' I tell myself. I make a mental note to follow the distance between the penciled and real brows and see if there's any correlation to her degree of dementia. Just for grins. Something to brighten up the overwhelm that is my life. I bite my tongue to sqelch an imminent giggle when Pickering bursts into the room and breathlessly shouts, "Quit, Doctor. One of your children's teachers is callling. There's some sort of emergency." Oh shit. What next?
What's up with Snoop Dogg that he has to make up his own language. I mean, isn't Pig Latin enough to shame all linguists the world over? Saying Fersizzle, nizzle sounds silly. In fact, it reminds me of how silly the word poodle sounds. Think about it. Better yet, say it out loud a few times. "Poodle" just sounds comical. Llike "My poodle piddles puddles." At the risk of offending poodle advocates everywhere, let me just say that the word makes me laugh. My advice to Snoop: it you're so keen on setting yourself apart from the masses, why not do so by finding a cure for cancer (or my wrinkles)? WHy not do so by championing children's rights? Why not do so by creating lyrics that provide a positive influence for kids? Hell, at least that way you'll be underrstood. Get it, Snoopizzle Doggizzle? Gotta gizzle. Bizzle nizzle.
Ya know, I pride myself on trying to test my limits and learn to do things that I'm not very good at. But I think it's backfired on me this time. I tried to repaint the side of my motorcycle myself--went on line to learn the steps, bought the perfect paint and other equipment and worked my butt off. Every time something went wrong, like when the paint gun clogged or I forgot to adjust the settings so that it poured over my bike like Niagara Falls vomiting, I'd have to start again. I musta spent 400 dollars on paint and other sundries. Still it looks like crap. I had it in pretty good shape after the final base coat, but the clear coat reacted with it and the whole thing looks like the aftermath of Krakatoa when the lava barely cooled down. My fingers are so soar from sanding and using chemicals to erase the mistakes, my brain has melted from whiffing god only knows what, and my back feels like a hundred baboons have been playing hopscotch on it. The sad thing, though, is that my husband foudn a place down the road that will fix the whole thing professionally for only 70 dollars!! Dammit all to Hell!!!!! I nevedr want to see a can of paint again for as long as I live!
I think kid's grow up faster than we do sometimes. I haven't seen my college aged daughter for soooo long, that my heart aches missing her. It's like my favorite blankie is lost, shredded into submolecular bits by the washing machine and dryer, devoured by the dog, or left on the playground. BUT SHE'S COMING HOME AT THE END OF THIS WEEK!!! YAY!!! I get to smother her with hugs and kisses, watch her roll her eyes in disgust and point her to the long list of problems that have collected for her to fix on the various computers in our house (at the hands of my 11 year old Gates-in-training, no doubt.)
Until then, I can enjoy the paint fumes, since we're getting various parts of our house retouched. All the grimy hand prints, the hole in the ceiling I caused by exploding a bottle of dry ice and water indoors a month or so ago, and, well, in general coveirng up the damgae that quickly accrues at the hands (and paws) of five kids and three dogs.) If only I could cover up the damage to my face and body so easily, %#@$#!
Try as I do, I can't understand why young people do some of the things they do. For instance, what's with the gold dinner plates hung around their necks on 2 inch thick chains? Are they meant to catch the drool that dribbles from their mouth when they actually have to think? Are they gongs to bang to assemble their friends to hang out at the mall? I know one thing for sure. In ten years, there's going to be a huge surge in chiropractor visits!
The silliest thing I see is the way kids move their hands and fingers when they talk. You know the way they fold in their two middle fingers and jerk their hands around in the air, or how they walk with theri fingers like that, arms slightly behind their backs as they lope around in that characteristic rapper's walk. You'd think they had some brain injry at birth and can't quite coordinate their limbs to move smoothly and in sync. Why can't kids just be who they are--form their own style, pick their own tastes and fashions? Why dfo they have to be sheep--especially when those sheep look ridiculous?
My kids and I were watching TV the other night (which we rarely do). What was the first thing I laid my eyes on? A 52 inch version of Donald Trump's head in the series, The Apprentice. And I have news for the guy. Um. Okay. YOU'RE GOING BALD!!! The comb-over look ain't foolin no one, Sweetie! You think for a moment that the millions of viewers are going to think: "Boy that Trump is one lucky son of a gun. He's got everything--money, beautiful women, his own show, and so much hair! You could use it to stuff 2 million pillows and send them to the entire population of homeless Afghanies and still be in urgent need of a hair cut. And that do. So avant-garde." I don't think so Donald. Word of advice, unless you intend to characterize your show as a comedy: be happy with yourself. Bald's okay. Some people think it's sexy. Anyway, who the Hell cares what anyone thinks, think about how your center of gravity will normalize if you dispense with the comb-over. Too bad about those Afghanies, though.
You're nosey if you:
Examine every lump of roadkill you pass, trying to categorize its genus and species
Scrutinize the toilet paper after you wipe
Spend more time looking at other drivers while they shave and pick their noses than at the road
Examine the Kleenex after blowing or digging into your nose
Slow to a crawl when passing an accident on the slight chance that you'll see a rescusitation in progress or a sheet covered body in the middle of the road
Ask your friends how much they weigh
Ask anyone their age or income
My daughter Michelle and I went through a grueling 16 hour weekend course to get our motorcycle licenses. We bought a scooter called a "Rukus." Cool looking thing with no clutch, shifting to worry about. But to get the license, we had to be proficient on REAL motorcycles. We were the onl;y two girls in the class and we were also the worst ones of all. The 8 guys had all had ample experience but just wanted to get their out of state licenses converted to Texas ones. All we added to the class was a regular infusion of estrogen to detoxify the testosterone fumes to tolerable levels. How I passed is beyond me. The teacher probably lived in fear that I'd have to repeat the course and he'd have to, once again, deal with my clumsiness. Damn those things are heavy. Swerving, sudden stops, tight U-turns, S turns--ARRRGGGGHHHH. SO hard. Actually, everyone thought the U turns were a bitch. They all did poorly, but at least they got better. I got it right just once and that was the practice run before the road test run. That time, I tottered through it crossing every red line I wasn't supposed to cross, moving so slowly my bike, my body and my nerves were shaking like a scared rabbit. But, I did pass, believe it or not! All this to ride my Rukus to Starbucks once in a while. Hmmm. Makes ya wonder.