Quickly

Quickly, before sleep, I write this.

I've a cold and am sitting on the couch with a blanket and a towel-as-handkerchief because I'm using too many tissues. Not the most sterile thing to do, but I kept thinking, "a penny a tissue," and had to stop even though we just spent many pennies on you-know-what passes, the DVD of M's upcoming ballet recital, portraits of our little ballerina and her fellow ballerinas, her big costume, and a rose bouquet to give her at the end of the recital, even though I know she'll be falling all over herself with shyness.

Had a long conversation with J's doctor at $250 per hour to talk about anti-psychotics (Abilify) to ease his vocal tics that have become painfully disruptive at school. Kids tell him to be quiet which makes J angry which causes him to tell them to shut the fuck up which gets him in trouble with the teacher which upsets his father since his father teaches at the same school which upsets J and aggravates the tics even more so. He's breaking my heart when he says to me, as he walks past into the garage to get a soda, no, it's less a saying to me and more an agonized groan, "I hate these tics, Mom. Why do I have to have them?" The door slams shut because it's on a spring. The door slams shut and it breaks my heart because he's beyond my help. Tics can't be loved away, the moods can't be kissed away, there is nothing I as his mother can do to alleviate the actual, physical problem. The door has slammed shut and I cannot see him or hear him, just as it is in the morning when the car door slams shut and he walks onto campus where I cannot help.

So I talk anti-psychotics with his $250 per hour doctor that Blue Cross won't pay for since he's "off the plan," since the best doctors stay, "off the plan." I talk side effects that mimic Parkinson's disease which is why he'll not just have the Abilify but an anti-Parkinsonian medication to prevent any possible muscle reactions.

"The important point is that all of these rare possible side effects are completely treatable. The one that leads to death can be stopped immediately in any emergency room that is equipped to treat a heart attack."

My soap operas are boring today and I delete them off the DVR. Hey, I say to myself, I'm done with the semester at last. Dance a jig. Dance a fast, bouncy jig. Finished grades early and I'm glad for it. How funny that for three semesters in a row, the moment I'm done I get sick with a cold or flu or sinus-thing. No dancing tonight.

Still dealing with A's intense irritability. He's a different person, an unrecognizable child, not MY A that I KNOW when he stands at the sliding glass door, about to go outside, refusing to do one colum of spelling words, when he stands there and scowls ugly and says, "No, I won't do it and I guess you'll just have to take away everything first because I'm just so stupid, huh? HUH?" That angry sarcasm is not the child I've known for eight years. He's a different boy from the one who cuddles with me later on my bed as we both read a new fantasy book about dragons and kings and Shadow Lords, as he kisses my arm and asks me to give his arm a tickle. I wonder how to learn to love this new boy in my house.

"Increase the medication," the doctor says at $250 per hour because he's the best that's out there.

I sit on the couch thinking about food. Thinking the cereal with pecans was good, but a small dish of leftover Chinese food would be better as would a sweet pickle or maybe some chips and salsa with extra salt because why weigh just 145 when I could shoot for 160? Forget it, I'll just suck on a square of mint chocolate while I down a cup of Cold Alka Seltzer. Maybe I'll follow up with a banana and milk to get rid of the lemony taste.

Exercise? Yoga? I watch a recorded show from FIT TV, watch the man lift the weights and dance about the mat and watch the "easy" way, thinking I'll get up and exercise, but then I hit the mute button because M is calling out for me, no, no, it's not M, it's J and his tic has started now that he's awake. I put the TV back on and sink back into the couch to watch yoga being done by a pretty Island woman in scarves. It looks easy and I'm thinking the night cold medicine is kicking in as is my very last Vicodin, the one I've been saving for when I needed it most.

I'll have to call a doctor to get a new prescription to ease all those slamming doors and waiting food.