Now that my mom has been in memory care a while, I can write about getting her out of the hospital where I practically had to lose my shit to get her released.

The plan was, I’d leave for the three hour drive at eight to get there at eleven. That gave me plenty of time to make it back by four. The new facility wanted her there no later than four to start doing assessments and make her comfortable for her first night in a new place.

The plan was communicated by the new facility, who’d gotten records from her doctors and was talking to the social worker. Her sister, who was there the night before, told her doctors and nurses too, just in case.

I got to the hospital at about ten after eleven. I figured I’d have to sign some discharge papers but they’d be ready at least.

Wrong.

Nothing had been done. When I told the nurse’s desk I was there to transport my mom, the lady I spoke with said she didn’t have orders but she’d request them. I asked how long it would take. “Probably not too long but it will be lunch soon…”

I gave it a half hour and started packing Mom’s stuff. The only reason I didn’t really start to freak out was that I have a relative still living in the area who had just walked out of this hospital recently because he couldn’t get his doctor to discharge him. He’d waited all day and called his insurance to clear it with them, then he just bolted. Who even knows if they ever noticed?

I also texted my contact at Mom’s new place and told them what was going on. She validated my frustration by saying they’d told them to have Mom ready first thing, and this wasn’t just me picking her up – it was considered a medical transport. She told me she’d take Mom whenever, but that she’d also tell the hospital if we didn’t get her there by four we’d have to wait another day.

When I had a load of her stuff ready to go and could speak without swearing profusely at everyone, I stopped back at the desk and told them what I was planning. I said “I just drove three hours to get her, and she was supposed to be ready to go. The latest I’m leaving here is at one.”

One of them said she’d call Mom’s doctor. I took the stuff down and came back up. Called my husband to vent, went back in Mom’s room, and left the door open. Then I told her and her sister what was going on, that we were going one way or another, and (because they were all listening – her room was almost across from the desk) I had a little rant about “She wouldn’t even have been stuck here if the doctors and social worker hadn’t fkd up her placement and left it to us, and last week they were trying to dump her out of here with no place to go so they can get her paperwork ready and when they’re done with that they can all kiss both cheeks of my…”

Aunt B, pulling the door to: “They can hear you.”

Me: “That’s the point.”

The doctor I liked the best finally showed up – Mom was totally able to fool the other guy; he would come halfway into a memory loop and fall for it and tell me she was “almost back to normal!” – and the nurse who’d requested the discharge came in right behind him. When she asked me if we were making the follow-ups in WV I said “Hell no.” They got Mom a wheelchair and B. rolled her down while I practically sprinted to get the car.

When I got her in and buckled, B. knocked on the door twice like in a spy movie and said “Drive!”

I was afraid to stop anywhere that wasn’t dry. Back then she still got into the beer run loop and I had no idea what to do if she actually made a beeline toward the booze section at a gas station. Fighting an old lady in public would not go over well, especially my own mother – and according to the handful of neighbors and paramedics Mom threw down on when she woke up from her original seizure, I probably was not going to win, either. So I’d scouted out rest areas and McDonalds-es that weren’t close to gas stations, etc.

Luckily neither of us needed to stop. We did hit a giant storm, and Mom got pretty nervous during that. So did I, because a couple times she grabbed my arm – not going for the steering wheel, just for comfort, but I didn’t know that at first!

Mom is not used to traffic. The heaviest traffic she’s been in for a long time is the interstate in Southern WV. And I was driving her through downtown Columbus in a thunderstorm. She kept telling me to watch this car or that truck. And if she thought one was encroaching on my lane, up came THE FINGER!

The first time, this big rig was passing me down a hill on the right, because I had my cruise control on and was going a constant speed. So I passed him up the hill. Then he was about to roll by me going down it. But he was a little too close for her comfort.

“Watch this guy! He’s coming over here!”

“He’s fine, Ma.”

“I gave him THE FINGER for you!”

I looked over and not only was she giving him the finger. She was alternately waving it sideways and jabbing it upward like she wanted to stab the guy with her poky little tall man.

I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe, and when I finally could I said “THANKS MOM!”

I’m glad it was dark. If she does this on the wrong highway she’s going to get me shot.

I always felt like I only had one foot in reality, and being in charge of my mom isn’t helping, but it gives me hope in a strange way. Even when she was bitchy and trying to manipulate me into letting her go on a beer run from the hospital. Even when she asks the same questions over and over and calls me a dozen times a day. Mom hit rock bottom, and I was there for her. Still am. Maybe we all deserve that, even me.

My son is doing much better on his medication. I didn’t have to do much to convince the pediatrician he needed it. I was prepared to get letters of support from his teachers, the school guidance counselor, etc.

We were waiting in the office, and when the pediatrician came in, R. was pulling the bottom step out from the table (it’s the step stool for littler kids). As I was explaining to her what was going on with him, he started interrupting: “Is that stool clean? I touched the handle. Is it clean? Is there COVID on there? Can I wash my hands? Are my hands dirty?”

She just sorta blinked, asked a few questions, and said “Yeah I’ll send the Prozac to Kroger.”

For a while he still did some validation-seeking stuff: “did you see me get soap all over my hands?” We went between reminding him he doesn’t need us, to enabling him if he’s tired and it’s not worth the fight. Because for the love of all that’s holy…if you want an argument, try convincing an OCD person something’s not contaminated.

In October I had parent-teacher conferences for both kids. I’ve seen R’s teacher in the hall when I was over at the school volunteering, and she’s been telling me how well he’s doing on his medication. So when I talked to her on PTC night, I was surprised when she told me she had a new problem with R.

“I’m not sure exactly how to describe it so I’m going to tell you what I saw. He forgot his headphones for reading group so I sent him to get them. He went over there, looked around, and knocked four or five other pairs off the hooks. Then he did this little evil cackle.”

I’m sitting there with dread creeping up behind me and the overwhelming urge to laugh maniacally. Thinking “Sounds like a kid I used to know.”

She goes on to say she caught him shuffling some cards the kids use for library. She made him fix his messes both times, but she was asking what I thought.

“So it sounds like he’s…um, vandalizing your room?”

Then I heard from the music teacher that for a whole class, R did the exact opposite of what she told him.

We discussed how maybe R is pushing limits because he’s relaxed/comfortable enough at school to do so. Also that he hasn’t caught a clue yet that the adults at school do talk to me.

When I asked R. “what the heck,” first he told me he didn’t participate because the music teacher played a violent song about America.

Side note: He makes up stuff. I’m aware. Imaginary friends, teachers, situations…if all the kids really broke their arms this year whom R claims broke their arms on the playground so far, this school would be sued into bankruptcy already.

To verify this story, I asked, “Hmm. If I call her up will she tell me what that song was?”

He said “Don’t call her.” Then he confessed he was playing jokes on the teachers. “Pranks!”

*headdesk*

We had a chat about how hard teachers work, how nice Mrs. M is, and how we are not going to prank teachers.

Things have been fairly quiet since, at least with school. R. enjoys the first grade now, and his anxiety seems to be in a good place.

My daughter is still hating middle school, mostly because it starts too early. Her teachers told me at my meetings how smart she is, and that she draws nonstop in their classes, including during inappropriate times. I. says it helps her focus. The teachers pretty much agreed with her grades so far they can’t say much, except it distracts other kids.

Her English teacher said one day she told I. to put away her sketchbook and participate more, or she’d take it until the end of the day. She saw I. sneak it out later so she made good on her threat and took it. Then she saw I. nonchalantly pull out a spare one the next time she looked away. OCD kids come prepared.

The good thing about my kids is, even though they never run out of interesting and creative ways to get into trouble, they’re pretty good about shaping up once they do get into it. Until the next great idea hits. “Nobody ever told me I couldn’t ______ !”

In the middle of trying to collaborate with everyone on R, I got this workshop invitation from one of the schools about “2e kids.” I had never heard of 2e kids. But reading the flyer, I thought “How the hell have I never heard of 2e kids?”

2e means “twice exceptional,” and it’s a label for kids like mine (and me, and half my friends…) that are gifted with that extra learning or emotional or behavioral disorder flavor. I’ve had several psychologists and counselors mention offhand that gifted kids and anxiety disorders go together like peas and carrots (I don’t like either tbh, but you do always find them together). I didn’t know there’s a whole community of people with the double whammy – to the extent that there are workshops.

I also did not know that OCD is possibly considered to be neurodivergent. It seems to depend on which source you’re looking at.

Of course, when the kids got their first report cards, they both did fantastic.

That’s the funny thing with gifted people. On paper we look great! So it’s easy to pretend things are fine when they aren’t. Or almost fine when they’re horrendous. Sometimes it’s hard to ask for help. I don’t think I’ve done it in about twenty years.

Joking aside, I’ll do it for my kids. I want them to have an easier time with it than I did. I’m just glad there are so many resources I can tap into now, and that mental health is slowly (too. damn. slowly. – it’s one reason I talk about it.) becoming less of a risqué topic.

Like most parents, I wouldn’t trade my kids for anyone else’s. They’re hilarious, sweet, caring, creative as hell, and mostly well-behaved. They just don’t do boredom very well. Or rules…or structure…and I have a hard time saying anything about it because neither do I.

I’m ten times happier doing gig work than I ever was in an office. I liked production work for many years, because there was a lot of variety and daily problem-solving – not to mention I could just read the articles I was working on whenever I got bored. But having to follow arbitrary rules has always chafed my ass, and it shocks me zero percent that my kids aren’t fans, either.

So I often find myself bumbling around trying to explain to the kids why they have to do something the way they do, even though it doesn’t make sense, when I’m not even buying what I’m selling. I end up babbling something about the social contract and yes it sucks to get up at six am but if we all did what we wanted we’d be flinging poo at each other like zoo monkeys so get your shoes on for the love of all the gods and saints and tree sloths, it’s 7:39 already.

But anyway, we’re in a much better place than we were when school started. Still working on making middle school suck less for I., but we’ll get there. Me and the rest of our little 2e family circus.

“Are my hands clean Mom? Did you see me get soap on the backs? I can’t remember if I did or not. Are they clean?”

“I touched the seatbelt. Is it covered in COVID now?”

“Are my undies clean? Can you see anything? What’s that speck? Are you sure it’s just lint?”

My almost-six-year-old, R., has had symptoms of OCD for a while now. But I thought we could limp along and wait on treatment until he was older. That’s what we did with his sister, but it’s become apparent in the past six months or so that he has it worse than she did.

I’ve heard from four different people at his school, where he’s thriving except for the OCD. That he keeps seeing dirt that isn’t there, or obsessively washes and rinses his hands, or thinks there’s something in his underwear when it’s fine. Sometimes he goes to the nurse’s office and changes clothes.

I’m proud of him that he’s only had to actually come home once so far. We are very lucky that everyone at his school this year is understanding and patient with him.

My daughter’s main trigger was bugs. I thought that was hell, and some days it was, until the meds kicked in – screaming fits about a gnat in the bathroom. Or screaming right in my ear while I was driving because there was a gnat in the car; I nearly wrecked over that once. But bugs can be avoided a hell of a lot easier than invisible germs or miniscule specks.

My son’s OCD developed in the middle of COVID, when we were all talking about germs and how to avoid them. He also potty-trained late enough to remember us telling him over…and over…and over…to check his undies and wash his hands.

Even though I know that germs are a classic OCD trigger, my OCD tells me we programmed him.

I’m back to managing two people’s worth, mine and his. I’m trying to be patient but firm. I tell him things like:

“I’m only going to tell you this once, because you know the more we feed the OCD monster, the stronger it gets. Yes, your hands are clean. Now stop asking.”

“You know the answer to that.”

“How would poop even get there? Does that make any sense? No, that isn’t poop.”

“Soap is clear. You don’t have to see it for it to be on your hands.”

On and on. It gets exhausting.

Last night he had an OCD nightmare of some sort and came into our room screaming and crying about it. He had to wash his hands, and at whatever the hell o’clock it was (I went to bed at 1:30 so it was…between that and 6…), I just gave him whatever validation he needed. Yes, your hands are clean. Yes your undies are fine. Yes you washed that thumb. That one too.

He laid on my arm and we did alphabet animals to distract him. A is for Axolotl. B is for Bear. We did the whole thing (is there anything for X besides X-ray fish? That one seems like such a cop-out). He finally calmed down and went back to sleep.

I hid the fact that I was a complete mess the whole time. My own OCD was whispering “This is your fault. They both got it from you.”

I have a pediatrician appointment set up for him next week and we’re on the list for a call-back with my daughter’s former behavioral health provider. It’s gotten to the point where it’s negatively affecting him every day. I hate to put him on meds without therapy, but at this point, I’m asking the pediatrician if we can do that. We know meds work for my daughter (and me). I’ll do the therapy as soon as I can get set up with a provider, but that might take weeks or even months.

I just want him to feel better. He’s such a bright, funny, sweet little kid, and I hate that this is dragging him down.