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I passed the forty mark over seven years ago and recently i came to see that being this age is not picnic at least not for me.
But I'm only forty-seven. i don't want to shop in Chiccos like my mother, like my friend said it was time to do, i want to keep shopping in the junior departments, which is still the perfect fit for me too.
I'm only forty-seven, I don't want to give away eight inches of my red hair to Locks of Love, even if those PTA women say it's unbecoming past thrity-something I refused to be bullied or shoved.
I'm only forty-seven I thought this would be the perfect time to finally live out my dream. Now that the kids are older and no longer need me as much I could work on a magazine. But every job I came across made it plain as could be, if you weren't a recent college grad or college-aged intern there was no place for me.
But I'm only forty-seven isn't there anything "They" say I can still do?
I want to have fun and a life not just sit home all day and be angry and stew.
[Three times a day I had to clean the burns. Three times a day I had to scrub each burn on my face from right eye to my chin, from my upper neck to my breast and from my left thigh down to my knee with a soapy towel until they bled. Until they were red and raw just to make sure that no infection would form.
So morning, noon and night I would take 900 mg. of Advil (the doctor suggested I try this to relieve some of the pain) and then go into the bathroom and stand in front of the mirror and scrub and scrub and scrub. It was the worst pain I’d ever felt, with the exception of childbirth that is, and they had much better drugs to alleviate that. The burns on my neck being the most painful of all because according to the doctor the thin skin made it a much more sensitive area to rub. Alex would attach herself to my leg she didn’t want me to do it. I mean I tried to be good so I wouldn’t scare her. I tried not to cry or moan but every now I failed and I knew she could hear me suffering through the door. So I sang to help her and keep my mind off of the pain. I sang songs like “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” and “Old MacDonald Had Farm”. I sang them over and over again until all my burns were raw and red and bleeding. And then I slathered on this thick white antibiotic cream. Five hours later I had to do it all over again.
And in between scrubbing I went to classes, paid the bills, went food shopping, did laundries, took care of two small kids, made all the meals, bathed them, diapered them, put them to bed, shopped for everyone’s clothes, etc., etc.,etc.. I felt grotesque. I knew I looked like a monster everyone always staring wherever I went but I knew I had to keep doing everything but I was supposed to, because I always did what I was supposed to.
And when my professor at school lowered one of my grades significantly because I couldn’t make out of school night function because I had to go home and scrub my burns (which she knew and not just because I had told her but because who couldn’t see the open sores all over my face and neck) I was upset because I had been very proud of my high grades but I never said anything to her because I figured what would it matter anyway.
Two months later I was still scrubbing and people were still staring and the doctor began to talk about skin grafting…
When I came home I didn’t cry to my father. He didn’t believe in crying. At least not for me. But I did call up my husband and I cried to him. I cried because I thought I was going to lose the only thing other than my hair (I’m a redhead) that made me special (I was fairly decent looking). Though I’d never seen leprosy, the way the burns looked when the blisters opened, I imagined they couldn’t have been that far off. There was so little skin left. And it was most of the right side of my face.
My husband may not have gone to the doctor with me. He may not have been there when I got home but what he did do after that was get me a great plastic surgeon (a recommendation from a someone he knew).
The next day he sat with me in the plastic surgeon’s waiting room until I was called in. Also in the room was a little girl and her mother. She must have been about 4 or 5. She kept staring at me. Finally she spoke loud and clear. “Mommy, what’s wrong with that ladies face?” she asked. I felt like a freak. Like not only was the world going to judge me for being a bad mother and getting it wrong all the time but now they would all point and stare at my deformed face as well.
By the time the time I was taken into an exam room I knew I’d have to learn to live with it. Like everything else in my life that had not gone as I had hoped and dreamed I’d learn I had no other choice than to accept it. It is what it is. So when the doctor came in and immediately came over to exam me I knew he was going to tell me there was nothing he could do to make it better.
But I was wrong. And so was that other doctor. According to this plastic surgeon, burns to the skin on the face usually heal the best (not the worst like that other plastic surgeon said). I couldn’t help it, I had to cry. Happy tears. Then, like the other doctor he told me I’d have to scrub the wounds 3x a day until they bled to prevent additional scarring and bacteria. And yes it would be very painful, but no I didn’t have to be a complete hero about the pain. Take 900 mg. of Advil an hour before each scrubbing and that would help dull some if it.
Then he smiled, told me not to worry and to make a follow-up appointment. And this time I did.
The nurse took me into an examination room and told me to put on a paper gown. A few minutes later the doctor came in and started talking about his book. He didn’t even look at me or ask any questions all he did was go on and on about the book he’d written (and that was about to be published).
After about ten minutes I knew all about his book but he knew nothing about my burns. I could see the nurse rolling her eyes behind his back but as usual I said nothing. I never said one word to try to get him to notice me, not once as he went on and on and on about all his amazing credentials. All I did was sit there and listen like I was supposed to. Because who was I? Nothing but a housewife and mother. But he was a doctor who had all these letters after his name. And he was about to be published. So I sat there and felt like I always did. Like I counted less. And I acted impressed by him. Which I was. The truth was that anyone and everyone who wasn’t me was more impressive in my eyes. So I said nothing. And I waited to be noticed
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The day after the accident I was one open oozing mess from my right eye to my chin, from the left-side of my neck to my breast and from the middle of my left thigh to my knee. That morning my father came over to watch the kids (thank God) so I could go to the plastic surgeon to talk about my wound care without having to use all my energy to concentrate on their care (the hospital had told me this was very important to minimize serious infection). I would be going to the doctor alone since my husband didn’t offer to take off from work and I didn’t think I had the right to ask him to.
Anyway, to segue off the topic for a minute. I chose this particular group of plastic surgeons because a year before they had stitched up Josh after he slit his eyelid open. You see when he was less than two years old my sister mentioned that a well-respected nursery school in our area was looking to add a toddler program (age 2). And knowing how stressed out I was she had suggested I look into it. So I did. And despite the fact that Josh was two months shy of two years old they assured me he’d be a perfect fit for the program. And since he loved playing around (not with) kids and I needed a break from him, I said o.k. The thing I didn’t know – until it was too late- was that they placed him in this experimental class that was a mixture of ages 2,3 and 4 year olds. How did I finally find this out? Well one day I went to pick him up after school and his entire eyelid was slashed open. Apparently, he had fallen into a metal chair when no one was watching (and why would they when so many of the kids were older in the class and didn’t require as much attention as my not quite two year old
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On the way home from the hospital I had started to think about the emergency doctors words. Scarring? I hadn’t thought about scarring. But when I walked into the house I plastered on a smile and thanked my friend for going out of her way to watch the kids. I felt so guilty imposing on her even though she seemed more concerned about me (which in turn made me feel guilty for wasting her time).
Anyway, I told her I was O.K. and that I was still planning on going to class. She told me to give myself a break. But the truth was that the teachers in my program had made it clear that they would accept only one reason for missing a class…death. Besides while I wasn’t feeling a 100% (I’d started to feel a bit feverish at that point) I felt I was good enough to go. So I thanked her again and said good-bye
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On the way home from the hospital I had started to think about the emergency doctors words. Scarring? I hadn’t thought about scarring. But when I walked into the house I plastered on a smile and thanked my friend for going out of her way to watch the kids. I felt so guilty imposing on her even though she seemed more concerned about me (which in turn made me feel guilty for wasting her time).
Anyway, I told her I was O.K. and that I was still planning on going to class. She told me to give myself a break. But the truth was that the teachers in my program had made it clear that they would accept only one reason for missing a class…death. Besides while I wasn’t feeling a 100% (I’d started to feel a bit feverish at that point) I felt I was good enough to go. So I thanked her again and said good-bye
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It was Valentine’s Day and I’d been feeling very overwhelmed. Alex was always going, going, going and into everything. The other day I was at a friend’s house and in the second I turned my back she’d climbed onto the kitchen counter and had taken one single bite out of each of the twelve Dunkin’ Donuts that my friend was planning to bring with her to a function later that day. Talk about embarrassed. Even though my friend didn’t say anything, it was the tone of her voice and the change of her attitude that said it all… “as in, can’t you control your kids, you bad mother”?
And it wasn’t just that, it was a lot of things. Even though Josh was talking more and he was closing in on five, he still seemed to be in his own little world. When he was watching a T.V. show or video he liked or playing with his tiny toy trains or building with his Legos he could stay in one place and play and play or watch and watch for hours. But try and refocus his attention or pull him away. I would give him the ten minute warning, then the five minute, then the one minute, then I’d try to reason with him, then I’d try to scare him with a punishment and when all else failed I’d try to offer a reward if he came, but nothing worked. When he was involved with something that grabbed his attention, that was it. He could not be moved. Now picture a child who is in the 90th percentile height and weight trying to be pulled, pushed and/or moved by a mother who is 5’ nothing and weighs under 100 lbs. and dropping ( due to the anti-allergy diet I was on). Not a pretty picture. Complete frustration. Now try living that life when you have to make doctor appointments and classes or anything else that required you make it there before closing. Not good. Not good at all.
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Now that I was in school my husband let me spend some time alone in the downstairs den on Sundays. We’d put up the childproof gates so the kids couldn’t access the stairs to go down. This way I got to do my studying, write my papers, etc. for a few hours a week, all by myself. No interruptions. I didn’t have to play with anyone, or listen to anyone or feed anyone or diaper anyone or do anything for anyone other than me. For those few hours a week, it was all about me. And after back-to-back bedridden pregnancies and three years of nonstop sacrificing for everyone else’s needs, I felt as if I’d found Nirvana.
Of course it was me we were talking about. And doing something nice for myself and only myself, was not something I was used to, or had been encouraged at any point in my life to do. So what did that mean? Guilt. Lots and lots of guilt. I was being selfish. After all, my husband worked lots and lots of hours a week, didn’t he deserve this time alone more? And what about all those hours I was spending away from the kids when I was I school? Wouldn’t a good mother spend every other waking hour making up for this lost bonding time? But you know what, and this reaction baffled even me, I did it anyway
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Busy, busy, busy. So much to do. Always going, going, going. Which for me was usually a good thing. I liked to be busy. And even though I was still feeling depressed at home when I was at school I wasn’t.
During the week I was on the go from 5 A.M. until I sat down to eat dinner with my husband when he got home at 7:30 P.M. I took care of all the kid’s needs and all of the household needs, plus now I was going to school. I fed them, changed them, bathed them. In the morning I got them ready to take to the daycare center. Then I took them and went to class. Then I came home, some days in the afternoon, some days closer to 5 P.M. (depended on my class schedule). Then I made them dinner, got them changed for bed and then I spent more than an hour doing this bedtime ritual which I set up to make myself feel better about going to school and enjoying myself
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Comment by Donna
on To Be or Not To Be a Mother - Part Three
What a pick- me- upper of a comment that was. And I will be writing again. But I'm trying like the dickens to get published so I'm rewriting a book I wrote years ago so I can resend it to agents and publishers hoping that this time it'll be "the" time. I hope you keep checking back. Thank you again.
Donna