Be there or be dead to Thomas

Cleaning the Pond

"Cleaning out the Pond" is something that has been on my list of Things To Do for about six years. I'm not sure what possessed me this May, but I made a firm decision that this was the summer that it was really going to happen. And then I landed in the hospital, and now day time temps have skyrocketed to the 90s with matching humidity levels--perfect weather to dig out duck shit and leaf rot. This is actually quite far along in the process. I started by dragging out our wet/dry vac and removing the top 12" or so of slimy water. Below that was solid sludge that wouldn't move. So, Simon set to work with a shovel, flinging the sewage willy nilly all around. Here is after two days of such removal:

The process required alternating between shoveling out the solid mass of slime, sticks and various debris and hosing down the sides to soften up the hardened shit mass on the bottom.

By now things are getting exciting.  We removed about 5 bricks, at least 20 large stones (Frederick really did love to fling stones into the pond), a small plastic elephant, a small plastic lion, a small school bus, a very large cement snail (which I only vaguely remember Thomas buying me for a Mother's Day present many years ago, but I may be imagining that), a trampoline spring and several very, very rotten duck eggs.  Still no sign of Simon's missing car keys.

There's hardly any left, now.

This is a small sampling of what we pulled out.  I did spray down the wall of the building next to us, but I think it's stained permanently.

And here they are, with the pond about half full of clean water and here are the ducks enjoying a swim and crapping copiously.

Now the plan is to do this every Spring so that rather than 3' of sludge we will only have to deal with a few inches...or so we hope.

Thomas Graduates!

Thursday Thomas had to get up at the crack of dawn to go to school ONE LAST TIME for what they call a "senior breakfast". (He said he had pancakes.) After they were sufficiently stuffed with carbs, all the graduating seniors were loaded onto a bus and carted off to the Detroit Opera House, where (combined with the graduating students from the other two IB campuses--Okma and East) the students were taught how to wear a robe, balance a silly hat on their heads, enter an auditorium in a stately manner, walk up on stage to collect the fake diploma (the real one will be mailed home after it is verified that the student actually passed all their IB exams), and then to go back to their seats in the auditorium, and THEN... to move the tassel from the right side of their hat to the left. Ta da! (Thomas's only comment was that, once confronted with the students from the other campuses, he is convinced he was sent to the wrong school as they were a lot sassier and more fun than his classmates who are, he has always lamented, a boring collection of uptight ass wads.) He got back home about 3, and then about an hour later, we piled into the car to confront rush hour traffic to drive to Detroit so that we could watch his graduation. It was absolutely madness at the Opera House. We got there exactly on time, at 6 (losing only about 20 minutes to bumper to bumper traffic) and the line of people waiting to get into the hall snaked around the block. The line moved quickly as everyone was crushing their way into the building (like we were going to see The Beatles). By the time we got in most people had already gotten seats and so we were being funneled up to the 3rd floor, as the main floor and 2nd floor were already full. The term "nose bleed seats" was coined to describe our seats. The people stuck 40 rows behind us probably had no idea they were in the right building. It was a strange ceremony. Faculty from all three campuses marched onto the stage and sat there, looking bored. The students filed into the auditorium but we couldn't see them. (Dozens of parents rushed to the balcony edge to hang over, desperate to get a glimpse of their child, and the octogenarian ushers had a helluva time pushing the angry crowd back to their seats.) It was so tedious, I was genuinely conflicted about the possibility of seeing someone fall to the floor below: sure, it would be horrific, but it would also be something to remember forever. No one fell, and the speeches went on...and on...and on. Truly (we were told) we are sitting among the best and brightest [a phrase I heard at least 12 times that night], a room of blank canvasses, geniuses, the world's future leaders and the saviors of generations to come...I now fully appreciate why, after attending this school for four years, Thomas was transformed from an eager, earnest, joyful young lad into the cynical, sneering, contemptuous outsider that he is. I certainly would have been much, much worse if I had to suffer anything like that. Ugh.

Finally, the moment every bored 3rd floor parent was waiting for, the handing out of the "diplomas". Weirdly, they did not simply organize all the kids into alphabetical order, nor did they separated the kids into the three campus groups, but instead by the school district the kid was a part of. And, since there are 10 or so school districts that contribute to the 3 campuses, they had the kids separated into the 10 districts, some of which had a hundred kids at least, some only four. Things that make you go, "Hmmm." Thomas was, it seems, part of the Huron Valley School district which had about 80 kids.

Sounds like the announcer had some doubts about how to pronounce "Cushing". I am impressed that Thomas managed to keep his little hat on so well. After the graduation, Grandma and I left Thomas on the sidewalk outside the Detroit Opera House. (It was like after a Packer game--the street was stuffed with people milling around, taking group pictures. For god's sake--they just graduated from high school--they weren't sworn in to the U.S. Supreme Court!) They were supposed to stand there, reveling, until about 11 when all the kids were to board one of three buses--rented by the school--which took them to Wonderland Lanes in in Commerce, MI.

Wonderland Lanes is a 100 lane bowling alley that the school rented (so no one but the IB kids and chaperons were there) from 11 pm to 3 am. Thomas resisted committing to going until earlier that day--thus avoiding the $65 registration fee (well done, Thomas!) when some parent organizer gave him hell during his pancake breakfast for being a wiener and not going bowling. Astonishingly, this tactic worked on Thomas so he went. Simon volunteered to pick him up at 3 (after getting lost and then successfully convincing a cop to not give him a ticket for having a broken headlight). Thomas cheerfully piled into the car, arms stacked 4 feet tall with prizes he had won for bowling*, including a $200 Keurig coffee maker**, a giant sack of coffee cups and coffee pods, a tote full of miscellaneous dorm necessities (a blanket, and various computer accessories). Indeed Thomas was so happy, he agreed to drive home and chatted happily the whole way. Perhaps our mistake has always been trying to talk to Thomas during daylight hours? Truly, the craziest graduation event I ever heard about but Thomas seemed to enjoy himself. Now, his days are filled with: getting ready for his senior recital, playing some dumb game on his computer, and gadding about from one "open house" to the next (that's the Michigander term for "graduation party"; his is scheduled for June 12th). After that, it's off to England for 3 weeks, and then, it's off to college. As Simon is fond of saying, "It's all go for Thomas!"***

*Readers may or may not realize that this is the same child who cried some years ago because he was so bad at bowling (his then school, Valley School, always had a bowling party on Halloween day) and vowed he would "NEVER BOWL AGAIN!").**Thomas was blase about the coffee maker, stating that he would have preferred the microwave.
***Not to Simon's knowledge.

Isn't That Just Like a Thomas

Thomas is a master procrastinator, putting off addressing all important obligations to the last minute--or, just as often, not doing any prep work at all--EXCEPT for a few projects which are dear to him. One such vitally important project (in Thomas's mind) is preparing the picture and bio for his senior recital program flyer.  This has been preoccupying him for weeks, perhaps months. Here is a photo I took recently of him that I quite like, but Thomas deemed it wholly unacceptable. Why? The shadows, the frizz, the lighting, the angle, the colors...So, back to square 1. I guess it is safe to assume THIS picture will never feature on a mug.

UPDATE (5/30/2016):  Exhausted from all the graduation parties and late night marimba practicing, Thomas agreed that he simply couldn't be bothered to organize another photo session, and so this photo 'would have to do.'  I insisted that it is a perfectly good photo, but clearly it doesn't come close to his "vision."  Maybe it will end up on a coffee mug after all.

Two Recitals in One Night

Although there are 365 days in a year, Thomas ended up being obligated to perform in two recitals on the same night at the same time.  I suppose we should be grateful that both were in the same building, just about 100 yards apart.  At 7, he performed his last (sniff!!) bassoon recital.  Here Thomas is, with a piano accompanist who is playing too loudly in my opinion, performing Mozart's Concerto in B Flat Major Allegro.  (Before the concert started, I heard the kid who played before Thomas tell a friend that he was hugely relieved to be playing the Rondo portion of this Mozart concerto.  He said that this piece, Thomas's portion, is "impossible!".)  Yet, Thomas manages it with verve:

While this is not something I would repeat to Thomas's bassoon teacher Dean, I can't help but point out that the last time I heard Thomas practice the bassoon was about 3 1/2 years ago.  So, how does he do it?

The minute he was done with Mozart, he raced out the room, ran to the auditorium, and prepped for his marimba piece.  I'm way in the back and so it's difficult to hear what Rob is saying, but he was introducing all his senior (graduating) students (Thomas is one of three) and wanted to tell the audience of Thomas's future plans, only Thomas wouldn't tell Rob what they are (he won't tell any of us what they are) so Rob's intro was short, emphasizing instead the many, MANY years, Rob has been lumped with Thomas (literally since Rob's Day 1 since Thomas began his studies at the FIM about 5 years before Rob started working there).  Here is Thomas playing Two Mexican Dances Part 1: Allegro by Gordon Stout:

Thomas is clearly relieved to put this stressful evening behind him. Only one more performance to go, his hour long senior recital in early June.

Thomas's last Honors Percussion Quartet Recital, May 16th

As Simon likes to say four or five times a day, "it's all go for Thomas."  Rob went all out to put together a very "minimalist" (his word) show, with a theme on primitive/"earthy" motifs.  This first number confused some members of the audience (who shall remain nameless).  The idea, according to Rob, is that a percussion instrument--the oldest kind of musical humans have had--is more than a drum.  It concerns anything that requires rhythm.

This piece features small ceramic drums and the classic African style call and response rhythms.

A crowd-pleaser featuring Thomas on the vibraphone, one of his favorite instruments.  (Why, oh why, don't we buy one for him?)

Another snappy piece:

Here the kids are doing another African style call and response with Rob.  Here they are all playing finger "pianos", amplified on the ceramic drum heads used earlier.  According to Rob, finger pianos are not, typically, concert performance instruments and so are not designed to be heard in large spaces, hence the need for amplification.  I never heard Thomas practice this (though, if he did at 3 in the morning, how would I know?) but I did notice the appearance of this small finger piano in his percussion tote a few months ago and did wonder.  I didn't bother asking as I knew he wouldn't tell me, so I am glad I saw this as all my questions were answered.

Last piece, a nice number featuring all the boys on a large variety of percussion instruments, some playing two or three different instruments all at the same time.

HPQ has been such a great opportunity for Thomas, I am so glad Rob created the group four years ago so that Thomas could perform every year for the past four years.  It was a ton of extra work, on top of his usual private lesson obligations and his obligations for the wind ensemble and the orchestra.  Finding time slots when all could meet was next to impossible, but Rob managed it and I think the results are just amazing.

And just like that it was over...

Everything went by in such a blur, but apparently it has been ten days since G & P arrived, and now they are probably arriving in England as I type this. Here are some of the pictures I remembered to take.
 


Here're Thomas, Granny and Peter enjoying a meal in Downtown Flint.  Thomas was annoyed that I forgot to get the special "Flint Restaurant Week" punchcard.  But then Thomas is easily annoyed.

Peter found this exhausting.

 Yesterday was the last day so as a treat we got out of the hellhole that is Flint and went to the Nice Michigan City, Ann Arbor.  Of course there was a yarn store.

 See how happy this made Granny?

 Where are we?

What's happening?

And just like that, it was over.  From sleeting to 80 degree weather in one short visit.  They left us with just a fridge full of leftovers, some sourdough in the freezer, a whole hell of a lot of tea bags and a wistful feeling..

Granny and Peter come to visit!

Here they are in their natural habitat. (We have actually DONE things with them too, but I keep forgetting to take pictures of that.)

Live! From Inside Hurley

I wish I had better narrative skills, and a better attention span...and wasn't so lazy....because, other than those issues, I have been witness to amazing insight into ordinary people who, of course, are so strange, they are surly insane, and I could simply sit here, while recovering, and transform these experiences into the next Great American Novel.  As it is, you'll just have to take my word for it: human beings really are the limit.

That five hour waiting room experience was so horrific that you'd have to live through it to believe it, but even I hardly believe it.  What I learned is that I can now survive something that terrible but, it isn't worth it: it would have been better to put up greater resistance and have avoided the whole ordeal.  I spent the time walking between a plastic couch (I now know why all the furniture in the ER is plastic!) and the toilet, sitting on the toilet while heaving spittle into a garbage can, and then walking back.  They called my name three times--each time my heart raced with joy, thinking "Yes!  Finally, they picked ME!" but it was always to simply process insurance payment.  They want to make sure someone is going to pick up the tab before I get one toe full in the door and they have armed security guards at the doorway to leverage their authority.  As Simon mentioned, one surly gent did threaten to soil himself (using more common language) if he didn't get to see someone right away and, when he didn't, he did.  Everyone knew him there by name so I got the feeling he was a "regular."  The place was filled with families, all loaded up with pizzas and buckets of fried chicken, there to make a day of it while they waited for their family member to get called back.  Although certainly in need of medical attention, I suspect most people had fairly simply issues--ear infections, a torn ligament, whiplash, as these people got checked in, processed and left all while I was still waiting.  I informed the woman at the front desk each time I vomited, but she didn't seem impressed.  There were also at least 6 women about to give birth.  All of them got taken up to Ob-gyn pretty quickly.

I did eventually get in, only to be plopped into a small room and left alone for another hour or so.  People did drift in an out, asked the same damn questions over, and over.  Each one prodded me, squeezing my abdomen and asking, "Does it hurt here?"  "What about here?"  Yes, it hurt.  Everywhere.  I had lab work done, an EKG and an ultrasound.  The doctor came back with a very grave look on her face and said, "Your lab work is..." Oh, shit, I thought.  Stomach cancer.  I knew that would get me in the end.  "GREAT!" she added.  "Simply amazing, in fact!"  Like the grade grubber I have always been, I took that as a well deserved compliment.  And although that should have been heartening, in fact, that was my downfall.  Because rather than take all other stats seriously (my increasing body temperature, my screams of pain, my nausea turning to projectile vomiting...) they held onto those labs and said, "But it can't be X, because the lab work wouldn't be so GREAT!"  The EKG was also awesome ("Well, you didn't have a heart attack!") and the ultra sound showed small gall pebbles, apparently just to serve as a peek into a future abdominal drama waiting down the road for me...so, they came to the obvious conclusion that since the pain lessened if given morphine, I should be sent home.  What they didn't tell me was that they wouldn't continue the morphine once I left...so it took until about the time I got home to realize that I was much, much worse, not only in how I felt but looked.  I dared a brief peek and lets just say "deathly pale with a greenish hue" doesn't quite capture how grotesque I was---and don't forget the anxiety sweat and vomit I was coated with.   Simon suggested I go back to the hospital and I just thought of that ER waiting room and absolutely refused.  But within about 30 minutes I knew he was right so, as he wrote, we bet on the middle of the night to be optimal and chanced it then.  It was a smart move to getting checked in quickly, but by then my appendix had long ago given up the ghost and was seeping Death Juice throughout my abdomen.  It took many more hours before I got correctly diagnosed (this required a cat scan, which required me swallowing--and keeping down--cat scan dye for a full hour.  That, I couldn't manage and vomited up every bit every time.  One nurse got very peevish about it, and explained in very plain language that we CAN'T DO THE TEST IF YOU DON'T KEEP DOWN THE FLUID FOR AN HOUR.  OH!  Now, I get it.  So, then they decided I did NOT need to keep down 2 liters of dye, they could do a dye IV during the cat scan, which worked a treat.  The cat scan took only a few minutes, 2 minutes tops, and was simple and painless.  The results came back--an appendix rotten to the core--and I had a date with destiny.  I was then moved to pre-op, and a 2 hour long struggle with IVs began.

I met my surgeon, a Dr. Farhan, a very no-nonsense Middle Easterner who talked with me and heard a brief version of my epic adventure.  He was very indignant.  He put his hands on his hips and said, "Pain that starts here [points to my middle region] and moves to HERE [points to my right side] is Appendicitis 101.  You do NOT send a patient home who has these symptoms!  Yes, [he sneered,] "The blood work!".  I saw the blood work!  I do not want to hear about the blood work!!"  What a performance!  Imagine Ben Hur turned into a medical drama!  That guy should be a Hollywood star!

It has always been my lifelong dream to be a junkie, but my wimpy veins have prevented me from realizing that.  They collapse if you look at them, let alone try to get a needle in them.  Since Tuesday, I had had five different IV sites started up, and each one worked for a while and then quit spectacularly, causing swelling and pain.  So, right before surgery, my IV upped and quit, my arm exploded and the anesthesia refused to go in.  So, one nurse and one anesthesiologist set to work on me, one one each arm, each looking for a site.  Each attempted at least three times before the decided it would be easier to "struggle along" with what they had, get me to sleep, and then "deal with it [read: do something really, really painful] to me after I was asleep.  So, next thing I know, I am waking up in my hospital room and I have no idea where I am, or what happened to me.

Since then I have learned that my abdomen was inflated with carbon dioxide so that every organ was fully separated (I imagine each floating freely, in darkness, like Major Tom floating loose in outer space), then two small holes cut into my side: one to let in a flashlight (like the opening scene of Alien) and the other to let in a scope.  The scope, carrying a small fishing net, found the naughty appendix, cut it lose, caught it in the bag, and then pulled it out of the body.  Then the whole cavity was flushed with antibiotic slosh (here, I imagine one of those touch free car washes) and then suctioned clean.  Then, the air pumped out, two holes band-aided shut and a small tube connected to a small suction bottle dangles loose from me, to collect any remaining fluid.  Apparently the worry is that appendix, as a last venal act, squirted a drop--and only one small drop is needed!--of toxic waste into my abdomen before leaving me, and that drop is festering and creating a small Evil Empire, only to start this whole franchise all over again.  So, I am on an antibiotic IV drip going in with clear, non-topic liquid going out, so things are looking good.  The surgeon just stopped by a few minutes ago, gave my abdomen a healthy squeeze (when I flinched he said, "Yes, that is to be expected.") and said that, if all continues to go well, they will remove the drain and IV tomorrow and then discharge me late tomorrow or early the next day.

So, there you go.  Now I can get back to listening to the woman next door gripe to all her friends about how useless her son is, and how awful her pain is.

Jami's appendectomy!

So: Tuesday was Thomas's last concert with the Philharmonia, and as Jami had seen the same programme a couple of times, it was my turn to go and watch.  But as the hour drew nearer, Jami started complaining of a stomach ache.  "I'll be okay" she said, encouraging me to go, but as she was immobile and doubled-over by this point, I thought it unwise.  In fact, in short order we decided she should go to the emergency room.  This she did, at the time still able to drive herself, and will regale readers with tales of what she witnessed in the FIVE HOURS she waited to be admitted.  (Like the randomly shouting man who threatened to soil himself... and then did so.)  They kept her in overnight, giving her morphine, and ran every test known to them, but could only report that she seemed in remarkably fine fettle.  So, emboldened with false morphine-confidence, she came home at about 8 AM, turfing me out of bed with instructions to go and get the various prescriptions they'd given her.  So I did, and she scarfed down the various pain-killers and anti-nausea drugs and attempted to sleep off whatever it was.

Didn't work.  Flash forward to Thursday and the pain is only worse and she hasn't eaten anything since the first visit and can barely hold down water.  We decide that another emergency room visit is probably in order, and this time we'll do it at 1:30 AM (this morning, although it doesn't seem like it) so that (a) it would be a lot quieter, and (b) both kids would be asleep and I could drive her, as she was totally incapable of driving by now.  Well, the emergency waiting room was indeed blessedly empty and she got admitted immediately and they could set about hydrating her and pumping her full of blissful narcotics.  I left about 3 AM satisfied that they wouldn't let her go until they knew what it was and had done something about it.  When I left, the prevailing theory was that it was her gall bladder.  (The only positive test the first time was for gallstones, but minor, non-inflamed ones, not enough to be causing this much pain.)

So, 10 AM rolls around and I get a text from Jami: it's appendicitis and she's being prepped for surgery!  Joanne (her mother) went to sit with her and texted me an hour or so ago that she'd finally come out of surgery and the doctors informed her (Joanne) that the appendix had already turned gangrenous!  So, if we'd actually waited, as we were planning, and gone to the Gastro-Intestinal expert they told us to go to on Monday, she probably wouldn't've made it.  Yikes.  Currently she is sleeping it off and isn't supposed to be awake until tomorrow morning.  Note to self: take Jami's "stomachaches" seriously...

 Update: Jami called from her room at about 7:50 PM saying where the hell was all her stuff?  For some reason Joanne had removed everything - clothes and, more importantly, 'phone  and dropped it off here.  So I took it to back to her (along with several books and the puzzles from today's paper).  She's pretty heavily sedated and there's a big hole in her midriff with a cup attached that collects various oozes, so I don't think she'll be doing much reading for a while.  All the lights were off in her room, and I doubt she wants to be photographed for a while, so here's a picture taken from her floor of the hospital (the same one Frederick was born in).

New stove

We use our oven every day because Frederick has a regular diet of (GF) pizza for lunch and (baked) french fries at supper.  And it keeps breaking down.  Last winter it was taking longer and longer to light (it's gas - oddly the burners work in a power cut, which is great, but the oven doesn't, because it has an electric sensor that won't even allow gas to flow unless an electric element is glowing) so Jami grumbled about getting a new stove then.  But me, being of the thrifty sort (on my mother's side) pointed out that you could just have the "igniter" replaced, and they cost about $20.  So we did, and it worked fine... until this winter.  It finally died totally a few weeks ago, so Jami went to Lowe's and picked out a new one, which finally got delivered.  Drumroll:

As I said, Jami picked it out, and her rationale was "it was on sale!"  It's otherwise a much fancier model than we could afford.  The guys who delivered it said they mostly installed them in restaurants and small businesses.  I can report that it makes GF pizza and french fries perfectly!