Happy New Year!

It's New Year's Eve and I've just ordered a pizza.  Two of my four kids are at a relative's house, the other two have started the countdown to bedtime.  It may not sound glamorous but I can only sit here and appreciate how blessed I am.

I'll finish my associate's degree this year.  I'll sell houses and travel.  I'll write the second draft of a novel and cook lots of delicious meals and see movies and plays and have the time of my life.

Because that's the secret.  I've discovered this in the last, I don't know, week?  The best way to enjoy life is to travel lightly.  I let go of a lot of baggage and worries that were weighing me down...that had weighed me down...for years, and I feel so much better.  Lighter.  The secret to life is to enjoy it.  Every minute, every second, because they all count.  Bad times may come, but better times are ahead.  I've been blessed with fabulous friends, old and new, and a wonderful family.  I can't wait to get started on 2015!

Breaking Chains

One of the most liberating things is realizing that you don't have to make excuses anymore for people who hurt you or make you feel bad about yourself. You're not responsible for fixing someone else's broken soul, nor are you responsible for ensuring their happiness on a daily basis.  It's not your job to take the blame for their disenchantment with life.

Sometimes, when we love someone, we make a lot of excuses for poor treatment.  We love them and want them to be happy, so we tell ourselves that the way they speak to us and the way they treat us is justified.

It's amazing when you realize that no, it's not okay.

It's even more amazing when you start to realize that putting up with it is a choice, not a life sentence.

So It Begins

Yesterday, I took Logan to his appointment at our local mhmr.  Why do we go to an mhmr?  Because, every door we've knocked on to try and get Logan psychiatric care has been closed in our faces.  If you want psychiatric help for a child, you either need to be a private pay patient (which can cost thousands of dollars), or go through months of waiting lists.  We went to several different places that either told us they could not help us or that we needed to take Logan to the ER if he had an episode.  So, when the mhmr said they had a pediatric psychiatrist that would see Logan, I was thrilled.

This is how the first meeting went:  An elderly gentlemen came in to the office and sat down.  Spread out on his desk and open for all the world to see was another patient's case file, which referred to that patient as an "incompetent person".  The man had a thick file folder, which belonged to my son.  He asked me to "fill him in" because he hadn't read through the file at all.  (We'd been waiting to see this man for about three months. He had plenty of time to familiarize himself with my son's case),  So, I filled him in.  While we were in there, my son rocked back and forth, making lots of noise, asking constantly to go home, hitting himself on the head because he was anxious and frustrated.  When my older son took Logan out of the room, the doctor looked up from skimming over my son's file and said, "Thank you."  Not once did he look at my son, try to speak with him, reassure him, or anything of that nature.

Meanwhile, my two year old daughter was yelling because she was tired of being in her stroller and didn't understand why she couldn't run around and get into everything.  The good doctor looked at her, and told me "That's not normal."  "It's not?" I asked.  "No, all that yelling and noise, that's not normal, is it?"  

He went on to inform me that I could put my son in a home if he became too hard to handle.  He said he could not help us beyond providing medication management for Logan.  The session was over.

The second time we went to see this crackpot (because Logan does need medication, that is a fact), we were led into a large conference room with a tv.  We were told he would be visiting with us via Telemed.  In other words, it would be a video conference call. Unfortunately, the clinic could not bring him up on the screen and the internet was down.  This was after they took Logan's vital signs at the same time they were taking another lady's.  (HIPAA violation number 2).

Disgusted with the entire procedure, I informed the nurse (or whatever she was), that we were not told this would be a telemed appointment, and that we would be leaving.  I later found out from the mhmr rights officer that they have had numerous complaints regarding the telemed system.

I was also informed by the rights officer that Pecan Valley MH/MR does not have an autism division, and that the "director wants to start one, but the funding just isn't there".  

Now, let me tell you what is absolutely, completely WRONG with this entire scenario.  You have a pediatric psychiatrist who has admitted openly that he "cannot help".  By his very words and actions, he has displayed an uncaring attitude towards his patient, my son.  You have staff that fail to inform patients that they will not be seeing a doctor in person, they will be communicating via a tv screen, which, in my humble opinion, is a completely ineffective method for treating autistic individuals.  You have medical staff taking the vital signs (weight, blood pressure) of two patients at the same time.  (Hey, maybe the lady next to us didn't want to do that in the company of strangers!)  You have an mhmr in the state of Texas who is supposed to provide services to an autistic individual under the general revenue fund, saying that they can't because there are no funds.

The system is so completely broken it's a nightmare.  I sat there while those people fiddled with the tv screen, watching my son lay his head down on his arm, and just got angry. Why should he have to put up with this because no one knows what they're doing or they're unwilling to help?  He deserves better.  All people with mental health issues do!  

I can only say that this is the beginning of a long fight.  If I can make a difference for one person, even if that person is just my kid, then it's a start.

What I don't have Patience For

I hardly ever get sick.  That's one of the perks of having four kids...you develop an immunity to the world's bugs that's akin to Wonderwoman.  But at least once a year, and it's usually around Thanksgiving or Christmas, I do get sick.  I hate it.  And I don't have the patience for it.

I'm a terrible patient and will avoid going to the doctor at all costs.  Some kind of bug has been going around town for weeks now and it had the audacity to pay a visit to my house.  I can honestly say that today is the day I have felt the most human in a while, even if I do sound like a cigar-smoking eighty year old with emphysema.

This has been, however, a gentle reminder to me that I should be exercising more and perhaps taking it a bit easy.  A reminder I will take under consideration.

It also begs the question, How can I tell if my autistic child is sick?  The answer is, sometimes you can't.  With my own son, he starts to act real squirrely when he feels bad.  More yelling, more stimming.  Last night he coughed a lot in  his sleep and was so congested that it sounded like a foghorn. When I informed him he would be staying home from school today, he could hardly believe it.  "Logan go to school?" he asked me, over and over.  And I reassured him that no, he did not have to go today.  He has been uncharacteristically quiet today. I'm praying we have the energy to at least put up our tree the week of Christmas, and look forward to bedtime.  Maybe when I wake up, our resident superbug will have seen its happy behind out the door.

My Hidden Addiction

This evening I found myself doing it again.  Losing hours gazing at digital images of old rooms, turrets, and wide, open porches.  Hi, My name is Rachel Stogner, and I am an old house addict.

It's been a forever addiction.  But they need so much work! They're a money pit!  What would you do with all that space!  There's no heat or air!  The paint is peeling!

I've heard all of it and I have one thing to say:  I don't care.

There's something about an old house, an antique house, that speaks to me.  There's a soul there.  You can walk in to any of them and feel the people that have gone before.  Walls that bore witness to countless conversations, rooms that saw dinner parties, quiet family evenings, heated arguments, love and affection...it's all there, and I love it.

So I found a few websites that cater to one of  my, ahem, favorite pastimes, which is perusing these places.  You would not believe how many cast iron stoves, mosaic fireplaces, and tin ceilings I've glanced at. If I believed in past lives I would think I had many, because I feel such an affinity for these old places.  Perhaps it's the potential that they have to become beautiful again, perhaps it's the presence of so much history, but there's something alluring and attractive about an old beauty that's become a fixer-upper.

The image at the top of this page is one of my favorite old houses.  It's Varina Plantation, and one of my earliest ancestors lived there after buying it from John Rolfe, husband of Pocahontas.  Sadly, today, there are many places like this in the Deep South that are falling into ruin.  They are unconventional homes for our time...a time when many people are turning to a minimalistic lifestyle and shunning the excesses of square footage and elevated ceilings that so many of these gorgeous homes have.  It makes me sad to see these places forgotten or turned into condos or apartments, but what's even sadder is looking at one of my favorite sites and noting that one of these beauties was demolished.

So I spend some of my spare time looking through these antique gems, imagining what it would be like to own a mid-century Modern in Tennessee or a Queen Anne in Georgia.  The truth is, though, my favorite type of home is the Craftsman or Prairie style home, which is so prevalent in Texas.  It happens to be my favorite style, which is a good thing, because I really can't imagine living anywhere but here.  There's no place like home.  It's ironic that someone like me lives in a 1970's ranch, but maybe one day I'll achieve my dream of restoring a place like that.

As a realtor I can say that some houses like this get passed up because people automatically assume it comes with a host of problems that they don't want to deal with.  This may be true, or it may not, or it may be worth it.  I urge you, the next time you're house shopping, even if you're "just looking", stop for a moment. Imagine it in its glory days and consider the potential.  You just might fall in love.

The Dark Side

I am posting a link to this article, in the hopes that many will read it and have their eyes opened.  I love my own Logan so much.  He is sweet and funny and kind and smart.  He also has days where he is overwhelmed with frustration, cannot control himself, and screams and is in general difficult to deal with.  It's not his fault, and it's not his choice.  It's how he's wired.

I do not condone what this woman did.  But I can completely and  unequivocally understand her desperation and frustration.  I'm sure that in her head, she felt like what she was doing was the only option left to her.  I wish someone had reached out to her, held her hand, told her she wasn't alone.  The fact of the matter is that sometimes autism is violent.  It's painful and physically taxing for the caregiver and the individual being cared for.  Logan has come such a long way in being able to communicate and do things that other kids do. When he was younger, things didn't look so rosy. He would climb on my back and  hit me.  He would try to harm himself.  I have a cracked rib that healed improperly from one of his temper tantrums years ago.  He was laying on the couch and as I bent down to him he kicked me.  There are still times when his frustration is incredibly great, and he tries to harm himself.  It's scary.  It's heartbreaking.  And it's incredibly difficult to make people understand how exhausted you are, how much of an adjustment you've had to make in your life in order to deal with this.

The other issue is also how difficult it is for the person who has autism.  Logan cannot maintain control over himself all the time.  He knows this.  It angers him and it makes him sad.  He cannot express adequately to me, or to anyone, why he is screaming, what he needs, or that he is sorry for a certain behavior.  It's frustrating for everyone. When you add to that the dearth of services available for autistic individuals in the state of Texas, it becomes a problem that will soon overwhelm many aspects of our society and educational system.  There are many, many families like the Stapleton family.  Families who do not live normal lives, and who exhaust every avenue available to them in hopes of finding some sort of relief or help for their troubled children.  I hope that when you read this, you will be made more aware of the people around you...not just the ones struggling with a disability, but anyone in your life who may need a little extra love and support.

For myself, I can only be thankful.  I have a wonderful family who loves Logan and helps us out as much as they can.  Logan has excellent teachers at school, and we have a great support system within our own church of people who have taken the time to get to know us and Logan, and who have made a concerted effort to educate themselves on his disability.  I have many friends through social media who reach out to me often, with articles or listening ears or simple affection.  I know I am loved and I know my family, including Logan, is loved.

My prayers and thoughts go out to this family in Michigan.

http://www.nbcnews.com/health/health-news/desperate-act-mom-accused-trying-kill-autistic-daughter-n155816

Driven

My thoughts turned to my grandparents again today.  I wasn't close to either one of my grandfathers.  Both very different men.  My mom's dad was named simply "R" by his mother.  He signed most things "R.B."  for "R.  Boliver".  When he joined the army as a cook, he was forced to take a name, as they couldn't accept an initial on his paperwork, so he began to refer to himself as "Roy".  He worked for the Santa Fe Railroad.  He was a math wizard who would dupe his coworkers out of money with bets on whether or not they could solve specific equations.  He was a musician.  He was mean and depressed but never this way around me.  He smoked and cussed and drank and worked and worked and worked his entire life, including his childhood.  You might say his demons drove him.

My father's father was a different sort of man.  He was highly intelligent and smooth-talking. One of my earliest memories of him was going out to his ranch with my father and looking across a pasture.  A line of Fotomat booths sat out in that pasture, because he had bought a Fotomat franchise.  I remember cattle everywhere.  A miniature horse named Little Bit.  A dairy that he owned.  In his seventies he got his real estate license and stuck his fingers in the property pie.  He traveled.  I can count on one hand the number of memorable interactions I had with him, but I do know this...he could never sit still.  He was also a very driven person, and I think that when he finally passed away, it was very grudgingly.

I think about these two men that I'm related to and maybe I can understand the circumstances in my life at this point from what they went through.  I live a very stressful life.  Raising children is, in and of itself, challenging.  When you throw autism in the mix, it gets that much more dynamic.  You really do have to become used to a new normal.  And then there are other things that add to it...your interactions with other people, for example, can become supercharged, and some people can have a profound effect on your life.  This summer I found myself growing more and more restive and depressed.  My husband thought it was because I was tired of taking care of kids around the clock...but that wasn't really it.  It was true that they were getting bored and that I needed them to go back to school and be busy just as much as they needed it, but that wasn't really what was nagging at me.  What was bothering me, what was turning my restlessness into full blown depression, was the fact that I wasn't doing anything.

Increasingly over the last year I have found that staying as busy as possible works wonders for me.  The more stuff I can pile on myself, the more ambitions and goals I can make, the more I can focus and manage my life. In spite of this, I made a conscious decision this year to tone it down a little.  I decided to focus on my children, and on trying not to kill myself with overwork.  And I feel strangely lighter.  Still busy, and still very obligated to succeed...but not overworked to the point where I might want to rent a rubber room.