LIFE ON THE INSIDE

Momma’s Got Mad New Skillz

As I’m sitting here, trying to write this, I can feel my stomach twisting into a huge, hard knot and slowly turning over, like it’s a chicken on a spit. It’s reminding me that I don’t want to recall the week of Thanksgiving by reproducing the same stomach churning stress I started suffering seven days ago today.

As in last Wednesday.

Wednesday was the day we went to court for the continuance which was a big nothing but was preceded by our attorney arriving late on top of the hour long ride to get there. The sum of that equation? Older son at Def-Con 4 on the anxiety scale, and Mr. Rugby writhing in pain to the point of crying from sitting for so long.

Needless to say, Mr. Rugby did not make it to New Jersey for Thanksgiving. We left him, his pain killers, and a couple of steaks at home and hit the road. Just Rob, Mr. Get “Out of Jail Free for a Few Days”, me, and my brand new talent:

The ability to have my GERD race from my gut like it’s late for a shoe sale, pierce my chest, and have me projectile vomiting not three minutes later.

And here you thought my skills were limited to being unable to balance my checkbook or parallel park. The joke’s on you! I can now get horrific indigestion and be barfing on said checkbook in 180 seconds, to say nothing of how I roll when it happens in the car!

This happened last week and it happened again last night. Or maybe it was early this morning. I don’t know. I didn’t stop to check as I ran from the pullout sofa in the living room to the bathroom, hands clasped over my mouth, making what can only be described as serious hurling sounds.

Which, by the way, both boys heard and had something to say about:

“Sounded like you were forcing it, mom,” said Mr. Lucky to Be in His Own House and Not the Big House, nodding and going into tremendous detail about my guttural noises and pleas to die while communing with the commode. “What you needed to do was to stay calm and take deep breaths.”

What I needed to do was to mistake his bed for the bowl.

“Sounded pretty bad,” said Mr. Bad Back Rugby Dude, “and I wanted to help you, but barfing makes me, you know–”

“Barf?” I replied, as he pulled his covers back up over his head.

In that position, he couldn’t see me snatch his painkillers off his nightstand.

And put them back.

I couldn’t do it. The kid has no tolerance for pain. More than once in his life I’ve wished he could have a period. Then he’d know pain. And maybe buck the fuck up.

Both boys are working my last nerve (and quite possibly my esophagus). Since they’re going at it 50/50, it shouldn’t be long before I’m in a hospital and Bad Back’s in charge of Lucky to Be in His Own House and Not the Big House.

Now that’ll be something to write about. Guess I’d better get Bad Back set up on Medium and Substack.

Until next time….

This piece is part of series called “Life On The Inside: My Kid’s Under House Arrest. I’m the Warden. What Could Possibly Go Wrong?” You can find it all here and on Substack.

If you’d told me this is the route my life would take, I’d have jumped off a bridge. Luckily for my kids, no one clued me in and here we are. Mr. Rugby is home for a bit and Mr. House Arrest is here for the duration. As am I. If I’ve never said it before, let me say it now: Mr. House Arrest did nothing wrong. But the system doesn’t care and he’s not the only one caught up in it.

I realize that Giving Tuesday was weeks ago but if you’re so inclined, Decriminalize Developmental Disabilities (formerly Legal Reform for the Intellectually and Developmentally Disabled) could use your help.

As always, thank you for joining me on this journey and for all your notes and texts of support. If you know anyone who’d benefit from reading my work, I hope you’ll encourage them to check it out. Autism isn’t going anywhere, and those with it (and their families) need all the help they can get.

As for me, I’m getting an upper endoscopy. Good times, I tell ya.

Love,

Susan