My life with the Sullivan boys

In AA the 4th step tells you to do a personal inventory. It is not pleasant or easy, it takes time and honesty. I've done more than one of these inventories in my nearly thirty years of sobriety. I've learned that unmet expectations is my downfall. Or perhaps having high expectations of others. Expecting people to show up, do what they say they are going to do and know that things will run smoothly, without surprises. Growing up my life was never predictable. I was a latch-key kid, parents divorced when I was in the third grade. My mom left. My dad drank. The television was my babysitter. My brother, older by two years was either my partner in crime or my worst enemy. I learned at a very early age to take care of myself. Mothers leave. Fathers disappoint you. We are on our own. If I took care of myself, then I wouldn't have to depend on anyone else, thus relieving me from the worry of being disappointed. This way of living worked well as a survival technique for a l...

I cut my finger tonight. I was chopping potatoes for the vegetable soup I didn't want to make for dinner. I didn't want to make anything for dinner. I cut my finger tonight and nobody cared. I cut my finger and I yelled, "god dammit". None of the other people in my house noticed. I left my potatoes on the counter, and ran upstairs to the band-aid bin. I bandaged my finger by myself and nobody noticed. I noticed, that nobody noticed. I returned to my potatoes and exploded. I yelled at all the boys in the room. I asked them why they didn't ask me if I was okay. I asked them why they didn't bother to see if I needed any help. .. .. I continued to yell. I continued to ask why no one cares for their caretaker. I'm the one that makes sure everyone else is okay. I put the band-aids on. I give the hugs when someone is sad. I listen when someone needs to talk. I fix things. I put things back together. I tell everyone that everything is going ...

The bag of urine sits at the end of his bed in the PICU. It's connected to the tube that flows up to the catheter inserted last night while I was at home and my husband was here. The thin foam pads are installed on his forehead and cheeks to stop skin breakdown from the ill-fitted bi-pap mask. The fourth one we've tried in the three days we've been here. The bi-pap is one reason why we are here in the PICU and not the regular ward, recovering. The two viruses and bacterial infection attacking his lungs is another. Just three days ago we were baseline. Suctioning occasionally to clear the harmless mucus that he coughs up regularly. But Tuesday this sickness came on with a vengeance. O2 levels in the high seventies, wheezing, grunting because he couldn't get a full breath, fever. Eight hours was enough. We had reached our maximum output of homecare. I called the ambulance mostly so I could get a break and have the professionals care for him until he recovered. I e...

I parked the jeep and began to walk to the park building when I immediately saw the blue minivan sprawled across all three disability parking spots near the front of the building. I immediately walked to the van, as I have done many other times before, it was occupied by a mother perhaps a few years younger than myself and most likely her mother in the passenger seat. I knocked on the driver’s side window, the driver startled and rolled down the window. “This is a handicapped spot; do you have a permit to park her?” I asked. “What?” the woman asked.  “This parking is reserved for people with disabilities, do you have a permit?” I repeated, more forcefully this time. “We’re just waiting for my kids.” She stated. “You need to move, you don’t have a permit and you aren’t allowed to park here” I demanded. “Why are you making such a big deal about this?” “Because you don’t have a right to park here” I explained, again. Silence “Why do you care? “...

Anxiety attacks present themselves in different ways. Mine appear to come out of nowhere. Seemingly I'm doing "fine" and then something happens and I'm running to the public restroom trying to hold myself together, while at my sons hockey game. A few saturday nights ago, I was the first of the parents to arrive for the third game in four game tournament. The lights go out, the players are being introduced, and I'm alone on the bleachers. The opposing team's parents give me a puzzled glance and I shrug my shoulders. The rest of the parents arrive early into the first period. I would say half were holding the drinks they brought along on the shuttle bus. No one was out of hand, but as  recovering alcoholic, I was quick to notice that a good majority had a subtle shift in their inhibitions. They quickly surrounded me apologetically on the bleachers. The volume was higher, the outrage for blown calls was greater, my heart started to beat louder. To my left...