You know how there's always some asshole that insists on taking someone else's tragedy and making it all about themselves? Yeah, that's me with Hurricane Harvey. I've been a walking mess (more than usual) despite having zero skin in the game. I know families who were affected, but I do not personally know anyone who died, nor, of course, did I personally lose my home. But I'm acting like I did, crying nonstop, having more panic attacks than usual, being just torn to pieces thinking of all these thousands of people who are displaced.
I have so much to say and feel like I'm under so much pressure (from myself) to post a "good" blog entry since it's been so long. So I don't say anything at all, and more time goes on, and more pressure builds up. This "never-good-enough syndrome" was one of my main focuses in therapy, Before. It's on the back (way back) burner now, obviously. But it's still there and some days I'm sick of it.
After my previous blog entry about the cruelty of Farmers Insurance caught the eye of someone at Farmers (not really sure what her position was, but probably something in PR), I got a phone call saying my adjuster would be calling to schedule a meeting that day, instead of calling after he got back from vacation. And, like Charlie Brown seeing Lucy holding a football, I felt hopeful. The people who care about me (and thank you all so very, very, very much) had kicked up enough of a storm for me to be worthy of action.
Would you cause someone intense emotional pain for no other reason than financial gain?
If you answered yes, then you should work for Farmers Insurance.
Imagine a woman. Here is what you know about this woman:
Her amazing, wonderful, brave, hilarious, irreplaceable almost-5-year-old son died unexpectedly less than a week ago. This has nothing to do with you or your job, but she cannot stop talking about, as it has shaped her whole world.
Here is what else you know: Due to faulty wiring, a breaker probably not tripping, and a very cold day, this woman has now also lost her pets. Her entire home. All of her son's baby things. His baby footprints, the book where she recorded all of his milestones and wrote him letters, all the physical proof that this child existed.
I have been extremely pissed off about an article I read more than two weeks ago, and so I'm just going to write it out.
It's this interview with Billy Bush. I can't stand it. I'll start with his "I'm the victim" mentality. He is upset that he wasn't given a chance to apologize on air, on the Today Show, after the story broke. I mean, that he thinks he should (get to keep) a national platform to speak up for himself is just gross.
We'll be getting on an airplane on Friday night. It's something I was never quite sure we'd do as a family. Atticus had his accessories, as I thought of them. He had fewer and fewer as he aged (oh god, how is it that he never saw age 5?). He had gotten rid of his PICC line, which had two lumens--one for lipids and one for TPN, and they each came with an IV pump and a chorus of beeps. And we had returned his suction machine, whose sound Atticus always hated, even though it was his life-saver those first few months.
When my children were little, I used to wear or carry them around, talking or singing non-stop. I was so tired, always so tired, that I rarely had anything interesting to say. A typical monologue went like this: "And now we're in the kitchen. Look at the light! Do you like that light? I like that light. Your daddy hits it with his head, though. Eric used to always hit his head on the light at Nana's house. You don't know Eric. He was very tall.
To say I have been struggling is an understatement. Every evening, I have a mental list of Tomorrow I Will. "Tomorrow, I will wash my hair, get Damien to school on time, do an art project with Everett, keep the house presentable, and do something for my business." Very, very basic things. "Tomorrow, I will do the bare minimum", essentially. And yet, there have only been two or three days when I have actually completed my Tomorrow list.
At two weeks old, my twins were separated: Damien came home and Atticus was transferred to Primary Children's Hospital. Primary's doesn't allow child visitors under age 12 into any of the ICUs, or at all during cold/flu season. They were apart for 47 days, and then I brought Atticus home. 10 days later, Atticus was back in the ICU. A week later, he was home.
If you have a child with special needs, at least three well-meaning individuals will give you a copy of the insipid piece of prose called "Welcome to Holland". I personally stared at it for 20-30 min every 3 hours in the broom closet of the PICU, while pumping breast milk. This tiny room contained a stool, a bedside table, a non-functional sink, and a copy of this tale-of-two-countries taped to the wall. To what? Encourage let-down? Hardly the thing mothers whose children are fighting for their lives need to see, but I felt like tearing it down would be impolite