Posts Tagged ‘help’

i’m goina go out on a limb here and just say it flat out… i’m struggling. BIG TIME. the aftermath of loss, grieving, shock, denial, confusion… it’s sent my anxiety through the goddamn roof.

i want so badly to continue on with my life here. i was hoping to get some sense of normalcy once coming home and getting back into a routine with the magoo. instead, i find myself experiencing multiple panic attacks a day and battling insomnia.

i know healing takes time. i’ve grieved before.

but i have never grieved as a parent before.

and grieving the loss of a child, an 18 year old girl, has hit me like a brick wall. i did not just grieve for my former roommate last week when we buried her sister. i did not just grieve as a friend.

i grieved with her mother, for her mother… because now i am a mother.

certain parts of the beautiful eulogy from the memorial service resonated with me differently than it did with others who are not yet parents. and certain parts of her death have been more difficult to accept because i am a parent.

i read a post a few days ago from heather armstrong of dooce.com and found myself nodding my head because as she described her panic attack, i knew EXACTLY what she was talking about.

i experienced it just this morning. the shortness of breath, the tingling limbs, wondering if i go to the ER or not. and it sucks. i don’t want to be feeling the way that i’m feeling right now. i would love to close my mind off to certain things and not think about other things and watch tv at night with paul and just enjoy a show without my mind racing a million miles a minute. i would love to sleep.

but i’m struggling right now. so i’m going to my doctor in 2 weeks and figuring out how to start climbing this hurdle.

and today, i’m going to get a massage.

As I sit and write this post, 24 hours after this event took place, my hands still shake… with rage and with terror.

I woke up this morning to my husband’s alarm clock, sat straight up in bed and thought “Where’s Jackson?” with fear paralyzing me.

My worst nightmare took place yesterday. Worse than events that have taken place and that I have survived in my short 28 years of living. Worse than my wildest of dreams could conjure.

My son was taken from me.

Taken.

My son was taken from me by the TSA agents at Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson airport yesterday.

He was taken away from me and OUT OF MY SIGHT because his pacifier clip went off when I carried him through the metal detector.

According to the Transportation Security Administration website, “We will not ask you to do anything that will separate you from your child or children.”

Bullshit TSA.

You took my son. MY SON.

Here’s what took place… minute by terrifying minute…

I had Jackson in his stroller, his diaper bag, and a duffle bag which contained my mac book as I entered security. I placed all of these items on the conveyor belt to go through the metal detector. Jackson was in my arms, and in the midst of getting all of our gear on the conveyor belt, my mistake was neglecting to take off my son’s pacifier clip that hangs from his shirt, which is metal.

The instant I walked through the metal detector with Jackson in my arms, we beeped. I knew exactly why.

I told the TSA agent, who asked me to back up and walk through again, “It’s my son’s pacifier clip, can I put it on the conveyor belt?”

“Ma’am turn around and come back please,” I was told.

Of course Jackson’s clip went off again. Both Jackson and I were then escorted to a 6 ft tall plastic holding box because I was forced to wait for a female TSA agent to search me.

At this point in time, all of my belongings were sitting at the opposite end of the conveyor belt, thereby backing up every other passengers belongings because I was not there to gather mine.

A woman out of the kindness of her heart (and if you are out there somewhere reading this, THANK YOU) saw me just standing and waiting in my 6 ft plastic box and gathered my belongings for me. She waited with my stroller, my diaper bag, my duffle bag and my mac book. This woman motioned to me that everything (including my flip flops) was all together and then she left.

She must be a mother.

She understood.

I was so grateful.

4 female TSA agents stood at the end of 2 conveyor belts, gloves on their hands, none of them searching anyone, none of them doing anything but watching luggage pass through the conveyor belts.

It was at this point in time that I realized my flight was leaving in less than 45 minutes. I had not even been searched yet. I began to panic.

Through the 6 holes in the plastic box that contained Jackson and I, I began asking for help. I waved to all 4 female TSA agents, each of them looked at me and then looked away. Then I started speaking through the 6 holes, and said, “Can someone please search me? My flight leaves in less than 45 minutes.”

Each of the 4 women answered me using the same exact phrase…

“Ma’am you need to wait. I don’t care about your departure time.”

Eventually one of the four female TSA agents opened the door and let Jackson and I out of our plastic containment box. We were escorted to a chair that was opposite from where my belongings were. I asked if I could bring my belongings over or take a seat closer to where they were. I was told no and to take my seat.

At this point in time, my heart began to race, thinking we would miss our flight and I would be stuck in the Atlanta airport with Jackson for who knows how long until there was another flight to Baltimore.

The female TSA agent stood in front of me while I sat with Jackson and she continued to watch luggage come through the conveyor belt.

“Ma’am, can someone please just search me so we can be on our way? We are going to miss our flight,” I said.

The female agent then called an older gentleman, also a TSA agent over. The male TSA agent stood in front of me and said “I’m going to have to pat down your son.”

With Jackson still sitting in my lap (he was being so good despite all of this chaos) I said ok and continued to hold on to my son, expecting the male TSA agent to start touching Jackson.

He then told me, “I’m going to have to pick him up to inspect him.”

I rolled my eyes and sternly told him “It’s his pacifier clip that went off, can’t you just run that back through the belt and let us go. We are going to miss our flight.”

The female TSA agent, who had been standing there the entire time said to me, “You need to adjust your attitude and do as you are told.”

The male TSA agent repeated, “I’m going to have to pick him up to inspect him.”

I handed him my son.

I handed him my son and he walked away with my child.

My eyes welled up with tears, I stood up from my chair and I asked the female TSA agent, “Where is he going? Where is he taking my child? Why is he leaving?”

Jackson, while being whisked away looked at the male TSA agent awkwardly and repeated “no no no no.”

I started crying.

The female TSA agent did not answer me.

Panic set in. My hands began to shake. My body was sweating. My breath was short and my heart was racing.

They had taken my child and not told me.

Jackson was out of my eye sight.

I could not see my son.

Now sobbing, I repeated my questions to the female TSA agent.

She told me “Ma’am, we’re trying to be nice to you. We don’t know which one of you went off in the metal detector. Stay here so I can search you.”

“But my son… where is my son?” I asked over and over again.

The female TSA agent called a second female TSA agent over as she began to search me. Apparently the second female TSA agent could hear me protesting and asking for my son.

“Ma’am you need to calm down or I’m going to have to involve the authorities,” she told me.

Now I was pissed.

Horrified. Terrified. Enraged.

“You fucking get the authorities,” I told the female TSA agent while the other continued to wand me and forced me to unbutton my jeans because the button beeped when she went over my abdomen with her wand.

“You get the goddamn authorities right the fuck now and tell them to GIVE ME MY SON,” I said.

I began to black out. I knew I was having a full on panic attack. I feared passing out.

I was told to take my seat again, after being searched, but I was not allowed to collect my belongings.

My cell phone was within reach and I grabbed it without being seen by the TSA agents.

I called my husband. I do not remember what I told him on the phone in terms of Jackson and what took place.

I do recall asking him to calm me down because I could not breathe. As a father, he couldn’t. I imagine any father would do the same. Paul had questions, tons of questions. Questions that I was not capable of answering because I literally was losing my breath and on the verge of blacking out.

I hung up and called my mother.

“Jackson’s gone,” I remember telling her. I do not remember what she said in return, but she instantly could tell I was having a panic attack. She began breathing with me on the phone in an attempt to calm me down.

She told me, “Nic, you’re going to have to stop crying. You need to be strong for Jackson. He’s going to be that much more scared if he sees mommy so upset. In through your nose… out through your mouth…” I think she may have counted, or had me count, I don’t know.

Jackson was still gone.

My guess is that all of this took place within a period of 10 minutes or less.

It felt like hours… days even.

My son was gone.

Sobbing and seated, I watched both female TSA agents walk away from me and go back to monitoring luggage come through the conveyor belt.

Finally the male TSA agent who took Jackson brought him back.

Jackson was in my sight and immediately started yelling, “Mommy!”

I was hysterical.

Running to my son and grabbing him from the male TSA agent’s arms, I sobbed and yelled obscenities at every single TSA agent who stood guard at the end of the conveyor belts.

One of them asked me if I wanted to speak to a supervisor.

Through tears I told him (or her, I don’t remember) that I had a flight I was about to miss.

With Jackson in my arms, I gathered our belongings, through him in the stroller and ran to the elevator that took us down to the tram to take us to our concourse where our plane waited.

B-25.

Sobbing as we traveled down the elevator, then during the tram ride, and up the next elevator to our concourse, I began running to our gate. I approached two female Delta agents at the desk of gate B-25.

“How much time do I have before this flight leaves?” I asked, knowing I needed to get to a bathroom due to my panic attack.

Looking at me concerned, I was told I had 5 minutes.

I ran to the bathroom. I placed Jackson on the diaper changing station with his juice and then I hit the floor. I could not see. I had no peripheral vision.

Channeling my mother, thinking of my phone call with her, I began to calm down.

I had an emergency Xanax in my jeans pocket. I always carry an emergency Xanax in my pocket. The result of severe anxiety.

I took the pill, but it did very little. I was so traumatized that it would’ve taken probably 4 Xanax to get my blood pressure back down to a normal level.

Splashing my face with cold water, then grabbing Jackson, I ran back to gate B-25.

Both female Delta agents looked at me and asked how they could help. I told them that my ticket had me at an aisle seat and if I could switch to a window (Jackson LOVES the window).

They told me that if I didn’t mind sitting at the back of the plane, they could give me an entire row to myself.

I started crying again. I told them a shortened version of what had just taken place and how grateful I was for their kindness.

One of the female Delta agents walked me down the jetway, helping me with the stroller and getting it a gate-claim ticket.

I hugged her. I thanked her. I got on the plane.

I had my son and we were on the plane.

I called my mother again, telling her briefly that I was on and to please call Paul. I didn’t remember that I had spoken to Paul earlier, and thought he did not know any of what had taken place.

Mom said she would call Paul and tell him everything. She reminded me that I had my son and we were on our way home.

Both Jackson and I slept during the flight. I held him so close that when he woke up, his head was drenched in sweat.

Our nightmare ended once the plane landed in Baltimore. Jackson and I exited, walked out of the concourse and Jackson demanded to get out of the stroller.

He ran to his daddy.

We were home.

**********

I’m unsure how to end this post. I do not know what my story will lead to (if anything) but I needed to do more than file a complaint or write a letter. My hope is that this post of mine will be read by mothers and fathers, passed along to parents traveling with their children… most of all, my hope is that NO PARENT HAS THEIR CHILD TAKEN FROM THEM.

TSA TOOK MY SON IN ATLANTA HARTSFIELD-JACKSON AIRPORT.

THIS SHOULD NEVER HAPPEN TO ANY PARENT. EVER.

tuesday… right? today is tuesday?

yes, ok… the 6th. right? the 6th?

paul’s birthday is friday.

cards. can’t forget the cards. mine, jackson’s, and the dog’s.

THE BIG GIFT. must NOT forget THE BIG GIFT.

my knee resembles the balloon jackson got at trader joe’s.

even the reddish tinge. nice.

got an orthopod to see me today at 2 thanks to a cancelation.

someone must love me.

mother-in-law arrives tonight so i can be off my feet for the next 3 days.

magoo and i head to atlanta saturday.

sunday i go help with the twins. THE TWINS.

shit, my knee.

fuckin baby gate.

crap, i cussed twice in two sentences. mom will be mad.

i want my mommy.

new ottomans come today.

yes, ottomanS, plural… we got two.

our couch is 9 feet long.

we are big people. we need big furniture.

i hope this orthopod gives me better drugs than vicodin.

if i have to go in an MRI tube, i will lose my shit.

whatever, my shit is already lost.

i should start packing for seattle/portland trip.

returning from THE TWINS trip with 24 hours to repack and head out west for 10 days.

10 days no magoo.

cue tears.

but yay, cuz i’m getting this tattoo!!!

dad will not like that i’m putting it on my arm.

“rut ro reorge.”

i’m an inked mom.

i LOOOOOOOVE being an inked mom.

no, i don’t see myself going back to teaching.

my master’s degree will not serve a purpose in the future.

i’m a writer.

i have 4 book proposals going.

i just started writing fiction!!!

holy crap, can’t believe i just wrote that.

I’M WRITING FICTION!!!

i’m stoked.

i’m a mom.

i’m a writer.

i’m a gimp.

dammit i better not need surgery on my knee.

*big sigh*

how do people do this with more than one child?

honestly?

how?

oh, and how do people do this with their placenta???

tom… katie… suri… scientology… whut???

no, i didn’t just say that.

eyebrow wax thursday.

CANNOT forget that.

i need an agent.

really need to get on that and make that a priority.

need to call in some favors…

need to have my fuckin knee not make me want to drive an ice pick through my eye cuz maybe that would hurt less.

don’t trip over baby gates.

don’t get your foot caught on the handle of the baby gate as you step over it.

just take the damn thing down to walk into the next room.

sure, it might be more of an effort… but heed my words you parents of not-yet-toddlers.

don’t trip over baby gates.

seattle/portland bloggers, i will be out there oct. 17-27th.

let’s hang.

i think i’m running out of last minute favors to ask of my mother-in-law.

seriously. she should start running a tab on me.

i’ll have to be bed-ridden the next three days in order to help with THE TWINS come sunday.

oh i can’t wait to see my rach.

nana will have three straight days of magoo… and then return with pops to have 10 (yes, TEN) straight days of magoo while i’m out west with paul.

i’m a spoiled bitch.

can i ask for percocet?

can you ask for stuff like that? just out right ask for it?

i mean all they can do is say “no,” right? and then look at you like you’re a pill-popping-mom-junkie.

awesome.

yup… at 2:45 in the afternoon.

if you’re judging me already after just reading the title and first sentence of this post…  STOP READING.

magoo should’ve been sleeping for the last hour and 15 minutes.  instead, he has decided to scream.  i cannot for the life of me figure out why, but that’s what he is doing.  screaming as though i am an axe murderer about to wail on him (which quite honestly, i’m considering.)

so i wait a while… cuz i honestly do have work that needs to get done.  jackson’s nap times are when i can get that work done unless i stay up all hours of the night, which in turn makes me pretty worthless the following day in terms of care-taking for the magoo.  i was for a while.  i tweet some funny ha-ha anecdotes like this…  and then this…

which of course leads to responses like this… this… and this.

the magoo continues to wail.  so i go in.  i do the obligatory poop diaper check.  all clear.  i reattach the pacifier leash to his onesie that he pulled off in his mad fury of anger.  pop in the pacifier, and he collapses on my shoulder.

for a moment…  just a moment… i think to myself, “phew… ok, we’re good.”

i lay the magoo down and AS SOON as this belly hits the mattress of his crib, he pops up like jackie chan, begins banging on the crib rails, SCREAMING like a non-hot chick in a horror film, and stomping his feet up and down.

and up and down.

and up and down.

so i leave.  i walk out.

i am that mom.

and now i sit on my couch, with purple earplugs stuffed into my ears (as though the harder i push them in my ears, the less i’ll hear jackson scream), a glass of wine, and my computer, twittering to other moms who get me.

really get me.

cuz, ya know…  not all of them do.

*sigh*  so… back to that book review….

i failed my son today.  he fell out of a playhouse outside on the playground, and i didn’t catch him.  i was looking the other direction, talking to a friend… and for the briefest of seconds, i looked away.  and he fell.

on his head.

he’s 14 months and climbing everything he can possibly attempt to climb whether it’s the couch or the gate we have up to keep him out of the kitchen.  he climbs it all.  and today, when i wasn’t looking, he climbed out of the foot-and-a-half-tall window of one of those stupid-ass plastic fisher-price playhouses and fell on his head and onto a concrete curb.

other moms were there…  other kids…  it was embarrassing to be “that mom” with the injured child who was screaming at the top of his lungs, to the point of not breathing.  but for me, being embarrassed, was the farthest thing from my mind.

my son was hurt.

my heart stopped.

i scooped him up, fighting back tears myself, and soothed my son.  after about a minute and a half, he calmed down.  he was quiet, a little more so than usual.  but ok…  i guess.  after consulting some terrific mom-friends who were outside with me, i brought jackson inside, cleaned the scrape that was on his head and called paul at work.

he was coming home for lunch anyways, but the urgency in my voice brought him home that much faster.

we took jackson to the ER… (for the umpteenth time).  i was on the phone with jackson’s pediatric nurse (and on hold) as we drove to the ER with the magoo.  they went through head-trauma protocol with me over the phone…

“is he unconscious?”

“no.”

“is he vomiting?”

“no.”

“did he cry for longer than 20 minutes after the fall?”

“no. more like 20 seconds.”

“is there an active bleed.”

“well yeah, but it’s more of a scrape than an open wound.”

“ok… bring him to the ER and have him looked at really just to make you feel better, and follow up with Dr. ____ next week.”

“ok.”

so we park.  paul and i are silent.  i’m holding jackson as close to my body as possible (like that will do anything).  we go through triage, get his umpteenth ankle band for his hospital ID and wait.  we don’t wait for long because with a little one who has a head injury, i guess that puts you up at the top of the list.

BONUS!

the nurse was sweet…  a little too sweet.  i didn’t want her cooing at my son, trying to get him to smile.  i wanted her to do her job, get the info she needed, and pass it on to the dr.  LIKE RIGHT NOW.  but whatever, she had a good bedside manner i suppose.

while we wait, jackson acts just like the pistol that he is…  he crawls all over the hospital bed… pulls the sheet off and on… “vroom vrooms” his trucks all over it and then throws them on the floor.  he acts “fine,” seems “fine,” but…  in the back of my mind…  i know that sometimes things that seem fine are not fine.

so i’m scared.  and i twitter about it as we wait…

the response is overwhelming, and it really is a testament to the awesome community that exists out in this techy-world of our’s that we live in.  strangers friends message me stories of their kids… acknowledging my fears but comforting me at the same time… the tweets got me through the ER.  so THANK YOU.  from the bottom of my heart.  you know who you are.

the doctor was great.  he was prompt, personable, acknowledged the fact that i was ready to vomit on his shoes… totally sweet.  he thoroughly examined jackson and diagnosed him with a “closed head injury” basically meaning there was no internal bleeding.

apparently it’s a good sign if your kid develops a goose-egg post head fall.  it means all the blood vessels are moving towards the outer direction (obviously causing a bruise) and not inward.  he checked his eyes, ears, etc…  no broken bones, no internal bleeding and told us that he really did not want to subject jackson to the radiation involved in a cat-scan because he didn’t find it necessary to do so.

((((sigh))))

this is where i waver back and forth… and i imagine any mother would.  there was part of me that said, “are you kidding me?!  did you not see natasha richardson die post brain bleed?!”  and then there was part of me that saw this doctor as a father, and listened to him as he said, “my daughter had this same exact closed head injury and it’s ok.  this hurts you more than it hurts jackson.”  (which is so true because i was seriously wanting to down a xanax with a glass of wine at that moment because it hurt me that bad).

we trusted the doctor.  came home.  jackson had a bottle and took (sort of) an afternoon nap… he’s been a little more fussy than usual, but shit, if i went face first into a slab of concrete, i’d be fussy too!

so here we are…  it’s 7:51 pm and jackson is asleep.  my fantastic husband came home with a bottle of my favorite wine (amongst many other bottles just for kicks) to calm me down… and we’ll hang.  supposedly the 24 hours post- head trauma are the more critical.

will i sleep tonight?  i dunno…  would you?

am i over-reacting?  probably…  i have a tendency to do that?

will i drink a lot of wine to “soothe my nerves”?

absolutely.  tonight, my bottle is definitely UP!

i’ve been feeling really overwhelmed lately.  just lots going on all at once… and ALL NEEDING MY IMMEDIATE ATTENTION.  and it gets piled on and piled on and then the pile gets higher and higher…  and at this very moment, my pile is too high.  so typically i would prioritize and just work my way down the list of things to get done.  except this time is different; i have multiple lists…  in fact, i have lists reminding myself to list something on my list.  

parenting lately is overwhelming me.  jackson, right now, is overwhelming me.  juggling married life with a baby is overwhelming me.  money issues are overwhelming me.  we leave saturday for a week at the beach for a family reunion, and just preparing for the travel is overwhelming me.   

i’m overwhelmed.  yet still trying to breathe.

i promise, i’m going somewhere with this…

so i was talking with a friend of mine the other day about how i am feeling overwhelmed.  eventually our conversation turned to medication, and it dawned on me that no matter who i have discussions with regarding stress or feeling overwhelmed,9 times out of 10 medication creeps into the conversation.  more specifically, anti-anxiety medication.

so my next step was to go twitter with it…  that’s right, i went all out there and had KILLER conversations this morning with strangers friends about meds, anti-anxiety meds, why, why not, and everything in between.  the responses i have gotten today have been overwhelming (damnit there’s that word again) and the candor is remarkable.  

my first thought was to go about this post all researchy about it…  anti-anxiety meds.  what one’s options are… side effects… stats on who uses them (particularly parents and new parents)… etc.

screw that.

so, i’m going open forum on y’all… i’m putting this post out in the hopes of continuing some incredible conversation, gaining insight and perspective and support, because apparently this whole parenting thing is really hard.

so, post a comment if you so desire with your story, with info, with links, anonymously if you prefer, layin’ it all out there if you prefer.  if you want to stay anonymous, please feel free to do, or you can always email me.

are you pro-meds? anti-meds? why/why not? what’s your experience like with/without? do you think you should be taking something but don’t for whatever reason?

consider the forum open…  it’s all you!  and it’s all appreciated.  one thing i am learning about all of this is that it’s something that is perhaps not discussed enough.  of course please be respectful.  there are some incredible people out there with incredible things to say.    

so….  ”twalk amongst yoselves…”

one would think that i’d be stoked to be weaning jackson from his bottles now that he is 13 months old… and i think i am.  yes, yes, i am.  wait!  jackson just started enjoying his bottles.  shit!  that throws a wrench into everything.

given our history with breast, bottle, and everything in between, i think back now and remember counting down the months, weeks, days until jackson’s 1st birthday when i could “officially” say PEACE OUT to the bottle.  

i envisioned myself throwing the bottles at a wall while screaming out in the most animalistic cry.  i imagined myself emptying drawers of bottles, bottle systems, nipples, etc, into garbage bags and yelling “FREE AT LAST!  FREE AT LAST!”  

i have been so ready to get rid of jackson’s bottle for so long.

and now he has begun to enjoy them.  seriously.  how do i take that away?

paul and i discussed weaning and we’re currently reading different methods, etc… but ultimately it’ll come down to us making a decision in the hopes that we’re making the “right” decision for our child.  

a few weeks ago, jackson was taking 4 bottles a day.  

i never thought i’d be able to say that.

he’s now weaned down to 3 bottles a day… and my goal this week is to work my way down to 2 bottles a day by friday.

i don’t want to be the meanie weanie when it comes to this process.  i am terrified to go “cold turkey” with this bottle thing, but some books suggest it.  

for some reason, i feel like these books weren’t written for children like mine…

so if you have suggestions, please send them my way.  at the moment, jackson is taking 3 bottles a day, each one with 8 ounces of whole milk.

shit, i never thought i’d be able to say that either.

the first bottle is given to him before he goes down for his morning nap at 9:30, the second bottle before his afternoon nap at 2, and the final bottle before he goes down for bed at 7 pm.  so yes, there is an obvious relationship that has been made between nice, warm bottle and sleepy time.

he’s doing well with eating throughout the day, though i’m finding he is a definite snacker, like his mama.  (i eat two lunches a day just to give you an idea…  the first is at 10 am the second is usually after jackson goes down for his afternoon nap.  i eat constantly.  no lie.)  and jackson pretty  much eats when i eat and what i eat.  so that’s good.  really good.  i’m proud of him.

but this bottle weaning stuff has my head spinning… i don’t want to traumatize my child anymore than he already has been in terms of feedings.  

suggestions… advice… weaning stories… i welcome them all.