Faith, Hope and Charity - Thy Name is Mykishia

It only took a couple of months after we brought Eli home from the hospital for us to realize that taking care of him was going to be HUGE.  It took hours to give him a bed bath, get him dressed and in his chair, and monitor the feeding tube he had at the time.  He had to be weight-shifted every 30 minutes, the laundry was epic, nurse and therapist visits seemed constant, the guilt was never-ending that we weren’t doing enough, and it didn’t take long for us to reach the breaking point.  

One day the Visiting Nurse found me standing on the ledge waiting for a strong wind and asked how we were doing.  I told her.  Graphically.  Emotionally.  With gestures, tears and my Loud Voice.   

And she very sweetly said, “Honey, you all need some help.  You need a social worker.”  I mentally recoiled at the idea of a SOCIAL WORKER (DUN da dunnnn) and envisioned every melodramatic movie-of-the-week where a wicked social worker pried a crying child out of a distraught mother’s arms (although I was briefly tempted by the idea that they might remove some of mine…it would definitely cut the work load), but I let her make the call.

God bless that nurse and the social worker she sent.  He happened to be a guy and I vividly remember sitting in my basement when he said, “There are all kinds of programs to help you.  Would you like to have an aide come in during the day for a few hours?”   

WOULD I?   

Would I like to sleep more than 3 hours a night again?   

Would I like to only have to do 14 loads of laundry a day?   

Would I like to interact with the other three children I have?   

YES, I WOULD.  

So the Social Worker/FairyGodfather twinkled his magic wand and an agency began to send an aide in 7 days a week.  There have been ups and down…we’ve had aides young and old, bossy and meek, one who dressed as if she just came from her exotic dancer job, some that became part of the family, and some that prompted even Eli (who has a brain injury, mind you) to make the universal finger-twirling sign at the head symbol for “she’s a little loopy,” but overall we've been ridonculously blessed by these unselfish people who do a job most people would find difficult.

 

And then came Mykishia.   Mykishia worked for us briefly and we loved her, but she eventually had to quit, as we were one of her many jobs and she needed to cut back.  Several months and another turnover went by, and the agency asked if we’d like to have Mykishia back.  YES PLEASE. 

Mykishia does my dishes, even though I tell her not to.   

Mykishia brings Eli breakfast from McDonald’s.   

Mykishia does my laundry and folds my underwear into perfect little packets (which I, personally, have never managed to do.) 

Mykishia reminds me when Eli is out of shampoo and body wash and deodorant, and then she reminds me again because I constantly forget. (I’m researching my theory that brain injuries are contagious.) I'm sure she thinks "it's hard to get good help" about me.

 
Mykishia sweeps my floors and takes Eli to Steak n Shake and sneaks him Diet Coke and gum when Mom has cut him off.

Because Mykishia comes, I was able to go to school, write papers and sleep late in the morning after studying all night.   

Because Mykishia comes, there are five hours in the day where I don’t have to think about changing diapers, finding the remote, playing UNO, feeding the cat (which he worries about 59 times a day) charging his chair or what’s for breakfast.

And while it’s awesome to wake up and find my dirty dishes washed, or have my underwear unfold in a cute little accordion when I pull them out of the drawer, here’s the best thing about Mykishia:

She loves Eli.  She really does.

She nagged us to make a therapy table for him, so we did.  She told us he needs to be doing more for himself, so she makes him brush his teeth and clean up his sink.  She spends hours making him pull himself up on his chin-up bar, do bed exercises and encouraging him to try harder.   

She began pulling him out of his wheelchair to a standing position and transferring him to a kitchen chair so he could practice sitting at the table.  Initially, he could support his weight while standing (with Mykishia holding him steady) for 10 seconds.  Then it was 20, weeks later 30, and one day when I timed them he held himself up for one whole minute.  I know it doesn’t seem like much, but in brain-injury time (rather like dog-years) it’s BIG.

Or it was big, until Pete and Mykishia called me upstairs the other day to see this:

And it’s all because Mykishia comes.

Goin' to the Garage

 I spent a couple days last week cleaning and organizing our garage and here are three discoveries I made: 

1. One wet, mildewed pillow wadded up inside a tent, crammed into a cooler. Not salvageable.
2. A suction machine left over from when Eli came home from the hospital.  Might be salvageable but I really don’t want to try and find things to suction. 
3. The mess I was cleaning and organizing was entirely my husband’s fault and I’m not sure he’s salvageable…and he’s obviously not trainable.

As soon as I graduated, I began making lists of all the projects I had put off while I finished school, and when Christmas was over, I started on the list; repainting my daughter’s bedroom, catching up on laundry, sorting through my son’s outgrown clothing and making daily trips to Goodwill as I jettisoned months (if not years) of accumulation.

And then I started on the garage… (please imagine the ominous thundering drums that should accompany that statement.)

Once upon a time we had a 2-car garage that was stuffed to capacity and rarely able to accommodate an actual car.  After Eli’s accident, we converted one side of the garage into a bedroom and bathroom for him.  This left us with a 1-car garage that was NEVER going to accommodate an actual car.

The second fridge and an upright freezer are in the far corner of the garage and procuring an extra gallon of milk or a carton of eggs has lately turned into an Olympic event, involving balletic leaps over the table saw and contortionist-style limbo-ing under the pressure washer.  Something had to be done and I would have to be the one to do it.  Why is that, you ask?  Sit down, relax and I’ll rant tell you about it.

Whether by osmosis, genetics or example, my mother taught me to be organized.  I love nothing more than sorting, organizing and labeling STUFF.  My label maker and I have a close, personal relationship.

Here is my pantry.  It’s not alphabetized, but its close.

Here are some of my scrapbooking stamps…I assigned them a numerical/alphabetic code, then cross- referenced them in a binder by category.  Yeah… I know it’s over the top, but it’s what passes for fun for me.

My husband is missing this sickness gene.  He thinks he tries, but he’s not even close to playing in the big league.  Here is the credenza in his office.

I will now share with you his method of being organized in his office.  Are you ready?   

It’s LEGAL PADS.  He buys them by the dozen and jots down unintelligible gibberish on them while he’s on the phone.  An important part of his process is to only use the first few pages of the legal pad, and then get a fresh one.  This ensures that when he really needs that important purchase order number, or change of address, he will have to fan through stack after stack of legal pads scattered over his desk.  But here’s the best part; when he needs to “get organized”?  He PUTS THEM IN A STACK.  That’s it.  That’s his system.  You can see how divorce is the only option, right?

So the garage.   Pete and I spent one day and a substantial sum of money to make a therapy table for Eli so he could do strengthening exercises.   The table had to be large enough for him to lay down on and practice rolling over, etc. so it’s approximately 8 x 4 feet.   

We built it this past summer, Eli used it for about two weeks,  and then my husband proceeded to pile up a mountain of junk on it while working on some project and that was the end of that.  Eli’s aide, Mykeshia, bemoaned the fact that she couldn’t get him in there anymore and everyday one of us vowed to get it cleaned up, but I was busy with school and Pete is clearly organizationally handicapped, so fast forward to my “clean all the things” rampage.

I began by putting away all his tools that were scattered around the house and garage.  It took me a full day.  I labeled his tool chest drawers and put the corresponding tool in the labeled drawer.   

That seems like a simple concept, doesn’t it?  I kid you not, he came out for a moment to help me with something and when he needed a screwdriver, he said, “Where are the screwdrivers?”     

It was at this moment that I sensed the enormity of his organizational deficit. 

Speaking of screwdrivers, guess how many are in this drawer?  87.   

Guess what he asked for at Christmas?  Screwdrivers.   

Guess what he got?  Screwdrivers.   

Can YOU guess where they are located?  Well, even if YOU can, HE apparently CANNOT.

I found six containers of zip-tie thingies, because every time he’s in Home Depot, he says, “Hey, we can use some of these” and he buys another package.  I don't think there is anything in our home that has a zip-tie around it.  What exactly does one zip-tie, other than bail-jumping criminals?…and I suspect they probably take the large size, which doesn't come in our assorted pack.

I discovered at least six tents.  I have never been camping in a tent.  To my knowledge, the last time my husband accompanied one of the boys on a scout campout, he slept in the van.  Yet out of six tents, we were only able to compile two complete tents that had tension rods and stakes and the little handkerchief screen thing that goes on top.  To be fair, I don’t think he lost the tent parts, but it does make me wonder who in our household is camping irresponsibly.

I banished him from the Great Garage Cleanup in the beginning because I knew if he were involved I would never be able to purge anything.  (At one point I posted on Facebook for anyone interested in various items to come grab them before he found out, and true friends that they are, my driveway was a beehive of activity as people carted off shelving and golf clubs and life vests while he obliviously worked in his office…no doubt scribbling on his legal pads.)   

But periodically, his nosiness would get the best of him and he would mosey out to see what was happening and I swear it was like Christmas for him.  (In fact, maybe next year I’ll just lead him to the garage for a guided tour.)  

He randomly opened drawers or noticed items on the newly cleaned shelves and said things like, “Hey, I forgot I had a router - that’s awesome!” or “Would you look at that?  I knew I bought some of those once…”

This experience has taught me three things:

1. Should I need to hide anything, the screwdriver drawer is now my go-to spot.
2. I can label the drawers, but I can’t make him read. 
3. In the event I divorce him, I’m making him KEEP ALL THE STUFF.  That should be punishment enough.