So we live on this cute little place with an acre and a half (or so) to just enjoy country living. Which, by the way, is sometimes more enjoyable than others. Two nights in a row there's been a skunk that has no doubt been up close and personal with our front yard. Thankfully the dogs were inside. But when it is so gag me strong, I know he's close. Maybe even on the porch. ugh. That's the not-so-fun part.
Here we are with circumstances, some beyond our control more than others, but circumstances they are. Hitting a parked car when your mom is broke and your insurance has lapsed. circumstance. that one was a domino. And fast forward to today and (we) are facing up to two years of no driver's license. This isn't really my story to tell. But when you live with me.... lol. Also, there's the part where we are this team and we are Hippie Chick Farm, not me, but we. So today, I am going to get into the story of Jadyn a little bit. Or Jadyn's story. Or some such matter.
I've known for a very long time that my baby has a compromised immune system. That first croupy cough at 10 days old that sent me into an emotional tear-filled panic was just the beginning. From a three day hospital stay at two years old thanks to a bout with pneumonia to the constant/consistent aches and pains and hearing your pre-schooler say things that sounded like an 80 year old.... "oh... my knees...." To the Munchausen syndrome/hypochondriac remarks and thinly veiled accusations from Doctors and pastors and daycare providers and parents (and the list here is long....). Finally, as a 4th grader, she was tested for asthma and got a diagnosis. Why didn't anyone care enough to order this before the age of 9?! Why did advocating for my child's health get us labeled and not assisted? These are questions we will never know the answer to. But if you ask questions about why we don't get medical attention right away when some new illness develops, this is part of it.
Migraines. Migraines were also diagnosed this same year. Chronic migraine syndrome or whatever it's officially called. Fourth grade is also when we decided to see what happened if we eliminated gluten. This is when the depression started to show itself. With suicidal thoughts coming along in the 5th grade.
Fast forward. 8th grade. The need for interventions for my kid were at a level that I thought (silly me) I could work this out with the school without the legal backbone of an Individual Education Plan or 504. But they were necessary and I didn't realize that I needed the law on my side to keep my kid from being bulldozed by a system that does not give a flying fuck about the success of my child. And in the grand scheme of things, that system, that doesn't give a fuck about success of students, that translates into not giving a fuck if they live or die. Because it's really that serious when your kid is in the 8th grade. This is when I knew I had to get my kid out of public school in order to save her life. And you know what? I'm grateful that someone else's kid was the casualty of that school's administration and not my kid. Because, yes, a boy in that 8th grade committed suicide that year. I'm glad I got my kid out. You can back pedal all you want school district, but I had a kid in the 8th grade, I know the crucial role that school plays in the life of these kids. All that trauma training that school send teachers to, that isn't really for the upper-middle class students from well-adjusted two parent households. It's for the kids of parents in recovery and active addiction, the kids in poverty, the kids who has one or both parents incarcerated, the ones whose family is uncertain or on the mend. And selfishly speaking, I'm just grateful that statistic was filled by someone else's precious child. Do I grieve for that family? Yes. Do I think teachers on a larger scale, from K-12, all have an obligation to see that no one's 8th grader ever feels this alone again? Yes. Do I think that parental circumstances are out of the realm of control of the schools? Yes. Is this a tragedy that an entire district should learn from? Yes. But I'm still glad it wasn't my kid. It totally could have been.
Fast forward again.... those illnesses? Yeah. They are always biting us in the butt. So once the Punky reaches a certain level of truancy, then there's pressure.... just send her to school sick. Ummmm..... okay. But I can't come get her. You can't call me to come pick her up.
Let's just suffice it to say that she's legit sick often enough that it's a problem every single year. And that whether or not I SAY I won't/can't pick her up, I will and it will affect my job as well. Every. single. year.
And that it's draining. Drains the finances, the hope, the physical well-being, the emotional well-being and zaps that part of you were you balance everything in life and determine that life is good and worth living through all the crap. It damages this.
Knowing this and KNOWING this are two different things. Not getting invited back to jobs is hard. It's sad, and it hurts. Having the realization that it is impossible to be a teacher on the level I want to and need to in order to insure the tiny humans succeed, and to be there for my kid who suffers with asthma and literally every respiratory illness that makes the rounds every season, depression, unmanaged mysterious pain and brain fog and more is a tough realization. I am not superwoman even I play a super hero in my own mind.
Stay tuned as I jump into this more this week. There is another side. There is more than just hopelessness. But let's walk through this part together first. And just know, the writing thus far has been draining and scary and delicious. All at once. I hate letting you all in. On some deeper level, I am scared of the vulnerability, but the writer in me knows that it's so cathartic and the wise soul buried within knows that by letting you all in, you gain understanding and I take away some of the power that the infamous system has over the lives of us hamsters running the wheel.
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