Friday, May 31, 2013

Blood and suicide (but not really)

     How do I even explain today? It began with a trip to the hospital and ended with a suicide threat from a pre-teen.
     I took Happyboy to his primary care doctor to check him out for a myriad of symptoms.  He has a sniff that doesn't quit, and after 15 minutes you just want to rip your own ears off so you don't have to hear that repetitive sound.  He has pains in his legs and hips that come and go...he has a tightness in his chest...and he's been having bathroom issues.  A nice cocktail of random issues.
     I should have known we would have to go for bloodwork.  I should have guessed.  Instead I was totally shocked when she wrote me a note for the hospital lab, with no less than 7 different tests on it.  Of course once Happyboy heard the word tests he started freaking out about having his blood taken.  Having horrible veins myself, I couldn't really blame him, but I cursed the universe for making him think of it and causing him to freak out on the day I had to take him (Happyboy is notoriously fickle, so one day it's nbd and the next it's a life-altering tragedy.  I never know which response he's going to have, so I try to be prepared for either.) He cried the whole way to the hospital, and I tried to reassure him with calm words while simultaneously screaming in my head "why me?!!"  I had a painful blocked milk duct, I hadn't yet eaten, and pretty soon Rose was going to be hungry.
     I checked him in, after several sulking stops in the corridor, where I would not only get the death glare, but I would have to threaten grounding to get him moving again--making me the parental bully, of course, but it did get him going.  He sulked in the waiting room, he hid in the lab, but finally we got him in the seat.  He screamed through the whole thing, and while 80 percent of it was drama, I could see after a bit that the needle moved slightly (they had to take SIX vials), so I knew it really did hurt.  This meant that when the blood tech repeatedly told Happyboy "It doesn't even hurt, you're fine" I had to restrain myself from jabbing it in her jugular to see if she thought it hurt then.
     We made it through it, though, and after about ten minutes, Happyboy sheepishly apologized, then told me I was the best mom in the world. (Clearly Happyboy doesn't know I'm a suck-at-home mom, because this made me immediately wonder if they had taken so much blood that he was delirious.)
     As they took him in for his X-ray, Rose began to fuss, so of course I had to stop to breastfeed her.  Now, I am all for women being allowed to breastfeed wherever, but I do think it's the polite thing to be discreet.  Rose, however, is a very particular baby, and that coupled with a barely managed oversupply means that I have to feed her standing up, boob hanging out, with her body crosswise against me, and I have to pace back and forth.  I'm not really all for me breastfeeding in public for that reason...but a baby's gotta eat when she's gotta eat, so there we go.  I start pacing back in forth in the little X-ray changing room with her, trying not to scream as she latches on to the plugged duct nipple.  I persevere, pleased with myself that at least I've found a changing room--a little less open than the lobby! Too bad I didn't realize that the nice X-ray technician had brought Happyboy and me into the men's changing room.  You can imagine my surprise when I turned around to continue my pace and was faced with a large man, my breast hanging out of my clothing as Rose did one of her flailing "dance" moves and popped off my breast. 
     Now, as I mentioned...I have oversupply, so of course when she popped off some milk squirted.  I mean squirted.  I wanted to die, but instead I was busy trying to get the ladies settled back inside my bra at lightning speed.  I left the hospital red-faced and sweaty (and not just because it was 87 degrees out and I had no air conditioning in the car.)
     So, that was the beginning of the day.  Let's move on to the end.  I was exhausted.  I had made it through the doctor, the dishes, making dinner, handling Rose's several pukes and poops throughout the afternoon--and that painful blocked duct.  You know what the remedy for a blocked duct is? Rest and fluids.  What a joke...anyone with a blocked duct generally has it because they have a, really? Let's get real.  So I was ready to crash once Rose, Punkgirl, and Happyboy were finally in bed.
     That's when Punkgirl started hysterically crying.  Her friend, let's call her Jaye, had texted her that she was going to kill herself.  Now, Jaye is a self-proclaimed bisexual, so given the statistics on lgbt suicide I couldn't hesitate.  I don't have her mother's number, I don't have her address, but I do have Jaye's email, which sends a text to her phone.  I sent very quickly that I wanted her to give me her mother's number or call me right now...she texted that she was only kidding, that she shouldn't have joked like that etc.  I pressed for her mother's number, at which point she confided that she was bi and that her mother was not happy about it.
     Now, I don't know Jaye's mother from Eve, but I am betting that alive was better than "not bisexual."  I continued to press, at which point Jaye begged me to let her tell her mother, and at which point she swore she would not hurt herself.  Here I was in a bind; I didn't have her mother's number or address, hell, I didn't even know if her mother had the same last name, so even if I called the police (which I was very tempted to do), how could I send them to this kid? All I had was a gmail address!
     I used my suck at home mom techniques of emotional blackmail and lying, and told her that if she hurt herself she will hurt Shaelin, and her mother, and her brother and sister, and that if she didn't want me to call her mom (whose number I didn't have!) then she had to promise me she would talk to the guidance counselor (a surprisingly empathetic and intuitive woman at the middle school) first thing in the morning.  I also gave her the phone number and website for the Trevor Project, a hotline that is set up for gay youth to find help when they are feeling suicidal or just have no one to talk to.  It was the best I could do with no other information to find her family.  She promised, and swore up and down that it was just a stupid joke...but I know from experience that you joke about the truth.
     I haven't slept a wink all night...I am heading in to speak with the guidance counselor this morning to make sure it's addressed...
      I re-hashed and re-hashed the choice of not calling the police, and I can only pray that that decision doesn't have dire consequences.  So....Have any of you suck at home mom's ever felt so completely like you've failed a child who is not your own?

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