Very, Very Dramatical
This past week has been quite exhausting. Exhausting in the way that it makes you feel as though you're incapable of doing anything other than laying on a couch and watching infomercials on the hula chair or other such nonsense only because the remote is four millimeters away from your fingers and that's simply too far to reach. But not exhausting in the way that you lay down and fall asleep instantly. At least not in my case. For the past two weeks now the only reason why I've gotten any sleep at all is because around 2:30 in the morning I'm chasing half a hydrocodone with wine straight from the bottle. So how is it I'm able to get up at my normal time of 5:30am? Well, I'm not, and we'll get to that in a minute.
Dealing with my ex has been one of the most emotionally and mentally exhausting things I've ever had to do in my life. The only thing that ranks higher is having to deal with all of The Smoodge's medical issues alone. This man that at one time I was completely in love with, who was my best friend in the entire world, has turned into a manipulative, deceitful piranha who seems to make it his life's goal to wreak havoc on my world in the limited moments I have to deal with him. For example, let's take one of his recent emails to me in regards to our daughter's doctor appointment this last Monday:
You will need to reschedule her appointments on Monday. No appointments should be scheduled on the days that I am with her unless it is emergent and she needs to be seen. You constantly deprive me time with The Smoodge with these unnecessary procedures being performed on the days that I'm to have her. You are very much aware of the days that I'm off. It's very evident what your intentions are. Please let me know when you have rescheduled these appointments.
This email is one of the nicer ones I have gotten from him. A few months ago, The Smoodge went to a gastroenterologist at the suggestion of her PCP regarding her constant vomiting. We, and by we, I mean myself and The Smoodge, went to the appointment, and the gastro thought it would be best to do an endoscopy and flex sigmoidoscopy. I let the ex know about it via email, dates, times, what the doc said, etc. Her surgery was scheduled for a Monday. Friday afternoon about an hour before everyone was closing for business, the ex called both the doctor and the surgery center to cancel the appointment. Fortunately one of the receptionist's called me to verify the cancellation and I was able to ensure that it was NOT cancelled, but would proceed as normal. Monday morning rolls around, he's aware that the surgery is still on, but doesn't show. She has the procedure, we go back in two weeks later and the gastro tells me (and the ex, he decided to show for this one), that The Smoodge as esophagitis caused by acid reflux, and that she'll need to take medication on a daily basis for it. You know what his response to this was? How did SHE (meaning me) cause this? Nice huh?
So a month or so later, we go to the geneticist for some more testing. And by we, once again I mean a certain someone who donated the sperm for the creation of my daughter was not present. About a month after that, we go in for her 18 month visit. The visit just happens to coincide with the ex's visitation. He drops her off at the appointment and leaves. Please understand I am leaving out a lot of detail about all this because if I were to leave it in, it would be July before you'd finish reading this post. If you feel as though I'm leaving something important out, then I'd be shocked as hell because how would you know what happened that day? For all you know, this is verbatim. Anyway, he leaves, we go in to see the doc, and she's got a fever. So the well baby visit turns into a sick baby visit. Which means no labs, no sonograms, and we'll need to reschedule for the next Monday. So I do. And when I emailed the ex informing him about the appointment, the email above is the response I receive. Now, I think we all learned what happened the last time Mr. Father of the Year tried to cancel appointments. But apparently his learning curve is that of a paper clip. Anyway, The Smoodge and I head to her appointments this last Monday, first for the sonogram. The sonogram reveals that she has gall stones. My 18 month old daughter has gall stones. For no reason what so freaking ever. Feel free to do your own research on that one. Her PCP tells me that in his twenty some odd years of being a doctor, he's never seen gall stones in a kid this young. Great. Note to self, have the Smoodge buy a lottery ticket, because if we're going to be beating odds, let's have it be the ones where I get paid an obscene amount of money every month for the next 25 years. After talking to the PCP about it for a bit (PCP is primary care physician, for those of you who are abbreviatedly challenged)(and yes, I know abbreviatedly is not a real word, back off), I realize he doesn't have any answers to my questions really, and it's a good thing that we have another follow up with the gastro already scheduled because the gastro is as puzzled as the rest of us. Do they need to be removed? Are the stones causing her acid reflux and her liver levels? Will she need to have her gall bladder removed entirely? Nobody knows, because nobody understands why they are there. And while I understand that the gall bladder is disposable in adults, for all I know when you're a toddler the gall bladder is all that holds your body together and by removing it you collapse like a Jenga tower after you take a piece off the outer bottom level. After the PCP leaves, the nurse comes in to give The Smoodge her 18 month shots, and after her comes the people going to take some of The Smoodge's blood for testing. Between the shots and the blood letting, I can guarantee you there had to be at least, AT LEAST, four people call 911 because SURELY they are killing a baby in there. And that was just from my crying.
That was Monday. TUESDAY rolls around, which is another day the ex has visitation, and The Smoodge (I'm just going to call her TS from now on) and I head to the local police station for the exchange. He's there already, and he asks me a question. Now I don't remember exactly what question it was, I think it was something like, why couldn't she have had this appointment LAST Monday or something equally stupid, but when I try to explain it, he cuts me off and starts throwing a fit and begins to stomp out. First, I've seen a two year old throw less of a fit over having candy taken away from them mid lick, and two, well, there is no two, just more of the first. I'm okay with him leaving. He neglects her while she's in his custody, and since she's running a fever on this day due to the shots, I know she'll be better off with someone else watching her. He gets out the door, comes back in, and starts yelling at me about interfering with his visitation. Are you tired yet? Shit, even telling this I'm tired. Blah, blah, blah get to the point where he walks to the desk and starts to file a police report for interfering with child visitation. Seriously. So I leave. My daughter is asleep in my arms, running a fever, I'm late for work, and it's just time to go. Once I get back in the car, I call and have an officer meet me at work so I can file my own report. Only this time, I'm not just filing because he's a son of bitch who is sucking my will to live. I'm filing harassment, child endangerment, child abandonment, whatever else I can possibly throw at him, and hopefully the charming officer who took my report will follow through with my requests. I know enough of the cop world to realistically know that he won't be able to, but at least I got it documented, and at some point there will be enough evidence.
WEDNESDAY (oh yeah baby there's more...because around here, it doesn't rain, but someone stands over your head after drinking three or four bottles of Jack Daniels and pisses on you), while the child exchange went without incident, much to my relief, I got a phone call early on in the day that put me right back on my ass. It was from the genetic counselor, and she was calling to tell me that while most of TS's tests came back normal, the test for her chromosome 10 came back with deletions. Large deletions. What this means? Don't know. Did I ask? Yes. It's going to take some more analysis, and the geneticist will be able to tell me more at our next appointment. Where they are going to want to take some of my blood.
Thursday went without child incident, but I've managed to put myself at war with the upstanding employees of the Houston union, and in doing so, have realized what a complete lack of support I have from those who are supposed to do just that at work. My supervisor is, well, let's just say the fact that she is my supervisor is a training ground for her. And after complaining to my real boss, which then leads to a meeting with the three of us, I get basically told we realize she's not management material, but she knows where the dead bodies are buried, so let's keep her happy, shall we? So I'm operating on my own until I cry for help. Which I don't do. Ever. Let's just hope that doesn't mean I accidentally launch a hypothetical nuke in the direction of area code 281.
Last night was another night that I was awake against my will. I should have been asleep early on. And by early, I mean by midnight. Instead, I'm laying in bed, watching Dogma for the fifteen gazillionth time, watching the clock slowly tick past 2:30, then 2:45. I don't like taking things to help me sleep. I really don't. I feel like taking something means admitting weakness, and I also am afraid that if TS were to wake up in the night and need me, I'd be too stoned to realize it. But as we honed in on 3:00am, I tapped out and went into the kitchen to cut up some muscle relaxers. My thought process is that if I only take half, then it will be enough to get me to sleep, but not so much I'm a vegetable for the next 10 hours. I was wrong. Evidently my thought process at 3 in the morning is for shit. Note to self, no major decisions while taking drugs. So at 10am when I manage to pull my eye lids open, I realize I'm two hours late for work. And while no one else probably cares, I hate being late.
Let's recap:
MONDAY: gallstones
TUESDAY: attack of the ex
WEDNESDAY: chromosome 10 deletions
THURSDAY: war of the work force
FRIDAY: late
So yeah. Sorry about not blogging. Things have been a little out of sorts at Casa de Flocci.
Dealing with my ex has been one of the most emotionally and mentally exhausting things I've ever had to do in my life. The only thing that ranks higher is having to deal with all of The Smoodge's medical issues alone. This man that at one time I was completely in love with, who was my best friend in the entire world, has turned into a manipulative, deceitful piranha who seems to make it his life's goal to wreak havoc on my world in the limited moments I have to deal with him. For example, let's take one of his recent emails to me in regards to our daughter's doctor appointment this last Monday:
You will need to reschedule her appointments on Monday. No appointments should be scheduled on the days that I am with her unless it is emergent and she needs to be seen. You constantly deprive me time with The Smoodge with these unnecessary procedures being performed on the days that I'm to have her. You are very much aware of the days that I'm off. It's very evident what your intentions are. Please let me know when you have rescheduled these appointments.
This email is one of the nicer ones I have gotten from him. A few months ago, The Smoodge went to a gastroenterologist at the suggestion of her PCP regarding her constant vomiting. We, and by we, I mean myself and The Smoodge, went to the appointment, and the gastro thought it would be best to do an endoscopy and flex sigmoidoscopy. I let the ex know about it via email, dates, times, what the doc said, etc. Her surgery was scheduled for a Monday. Friday afternoon about an hour before everyone was closing for business, the ex called both the doctor and the surgery center to cancel the appointment. Fortunately one of the receptionist's called me to verify the cancellation and I was able to ensure that it was NOT cancelled, but would proceed as normal. Monday morning rolls around, he's aware that the surgery is still on, but doesn't show. She has the procedure, we go back in two weeks later and the gastro tells me (and the ex, he decided to show for this one), that The Smoodge as esophagitis caused by acid reflux, and that she'll need to take medication on a daily basis for it. You know what his response to this was? How did SHE (meaning me) cause this? Nice huh?
So a month or so later, we go to the geneticist for some more testing. And by we, once again I mean a certain someone who donated the sperm for the creation of my daughter was not present. About a month after that, we go in for her 18 month visit. The visit just happens to coincide with the ex's visitation. He drops her off at the appointment and leaves. Please understand I am leaving out a lot of detail about all this because if I were to leave it in, it would be July before you'd finish reading this post. If you feel as though I'm leaving something important out, then I'd be shocked as hell because how would you know what happened that day? For all you know, this is verbatim. Anyway, he leaves, we go in to see the doc, and she's got a fever. So the well baby visit turns into a sick baby visit. Which means no labs, no sonograms, and we'll need to reschedule for the next Monday. So I do. And when I emailed the ex informing him about the appointment, the email above is the response I receive. Now, I think we all learned what happened the last time Mr. Father of the Year tried to cancel appointments. But apparently his learning curve is that of a paper clip. Anyway, The Smoodge and I head to her appointments this last Monday, first for the sonogram. The sonogram reveals that she has gall stones. My 18 month old daughter has gall stones. For no reason what so freaking ever. Feel free to do your own research on that one. Her PCP tells me that in his twenty some odd years of being a doctor, he's never seen gall stones in a kid this young. Great. Note to self, have the Smoodge buy a lottery ticket, because if we're going to be beating odds, let's have it be the ones where I get paid an obscene amount of money every month for the next 25 years. After talking to the PCP about it for a bit (PCP is primary care physician, for those of you who are abbreviatedly challenged)(and yes, I know abbreviatedly is not a real word, back off), I realize he doesn't have any answers to my questions really, and it's a good thing that we have another follow up with the gastro already scheduled because the gastro is as puzzled as the rest of us. Do they need to be removed? Are the stones causing her acid reflux and her liver levels? Will she need to have her gall bladder removed entirely? Nobody knows, because nobody understands why they are there. And while I understand that the gall bladder is disposable in adults, for all I know when you're a toddler the gall bladder is all that holds your body together and by removing it you collapse like a Jenga tower after you take a piece off the outer bottom level. After the PCP leaves, the nurse comes in to give The Smoodge her 18 month shots, and after her comes the people going to take some of The Smoodge's blood for testing. Between the shots and the blood letting, I can guarantee you there had to be at least, AT LEAST, four people call 911 because SURELY they are killing a baby in there. And that was just from my crying.
That was Monday. TUESDAY rolls around, which is another day the ex has visitation, and The Smoodge (I'm just going to call her TS from now on) and I head to the local police station for the exchange. He's there already, and he asks me a question. Now I don't remember exactly what question it was, I think it was something like, why couldn't she have had this appointment LAST Monday or something equally stupid, but when I try to explain it, he cuts me off and starts throwing a fit and begins to stomp out. First, I've seen a two year old throw less of a fit over having candy taken away from them mid lick, and two, well, there is no two, just more of the first. I'm okay with him leaving. He neglects her while she's in his custody, and since she's running a fever on this day due to the shots, I know she'll be better off with someone else watching her. He gets out the door, comes back in, and starts yelling at me about interfering with his visitation. Are you tired yet? Shit, even telling this I'm tired. Blah, blah, blah get to the point where he walks to the desk and starts to file a police report for interfering with child visitation. Seriously. So I leave. My daughter is asleep in my arms, running a fever, I'm late for work, and it's just time to go. Once I get back in the car, I call and have an officer meet me at work so I can file my own report. Only this time, I'm not just filing because he's a son of bitch who is sucking my will to live. I'm filing harassment, child endangerment, child abandonment, whatever else I can possibly throw at him, and hopefully the charming officer who took my report will follow through with my requests. I know enough of the cop world to realistically know that he won't be able to, but at least I got it documented, and at some point there will be enough evidence.
WEDNESDAY (oh yeah baby there's more...because around here, it doesn't rain, but someone stands over your head after drinking three or four bottles of Jack Daniels and pisses on you), while the child exchange went without incident, much to my relief, I got a phone call early on in the day that put me right back on my ass. It was from the genetic counselor, and she was calling to tell me that while most of TS's tests came back normal, the test for her chromosome 10 came back with deletions. Large deletions. What this means? Don't know. Did I ask? Yes. It's going to take some more analysis, and the geneticist will be able to tell me more at our next appointment. Where they are going to want to take some of my blood.
Thursday went without child incident, but I've managed to put myself at war with the upstanding employees of the Houston union, and in doing so, have realized what a complete lack of support I have from those who are supposed to do just that at work. My supervisor is, well, let's just say the fact that she is my supervisor is a training ground for her. And after complaining to my real boss, which then leads to a meeting with the three of us, I get basically told we realize she's not management material, but she knows where the dead bodies are buried, so let's keep her happy, shall we? So I'm operating on my own until I cry for help. Which I don't do. Ever. Let's just hope that doesn't mean I accidentally launch a hypothetical nuke in the direction of area code 281.
Last night was another night that I was awake against my will. I should have been asleep early on. And by early, I mean by midnight. Instead, I'm laying in bed, watching Dogma for the fifteen gazillionth time, watching the clock slowly tick past 2:30, then 2:45. I don't like taking things to help me sleep. I really don't. I feel like taking something means admitting weakness, and I also am afraid that if TS were to wake up in the night and need me, I'd be too stoned to realize it. But as we honed in on 3:00am, I tapped out and went into the kitchen to cut up some muscle relaxers. My thought process is that if I only take half, then it will be enough to get me to sleep, but not so much I'm a vegetable for the next 10 hours. I was wrong. Evidently my thought process at 3 in the morning is for shit. Note to self, no major decisions while taking drugs. So at 10am when I manage to pull my eye lids open, I realize I'm two hours late for work. And while no one else probably cares, I hate being late.
Let's recap:
MONDAY: gallstones
TUESDAY: attack of the ex
WEDNESDAY: chromosome 10 deletions
THURSDAY: war of the work force
FRIDAY: late
So yeah. Sorry about not blogging. Things have been a little out of sorts at Casa de Flocci.
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