Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Some thoughts...

I'm on a roll - 4th post in one day:)

While I was working through my mid life crisis and researching adoption, something occurred to me.

Adoption is becoming quite the thing. Everyone is doing it. Even celebrities - look at Angelina Jolie and Meg Ryan.

But people - including celebrities - are paying thousands of dollars ($10,000 - $30,000) to adopt a child from a foreign country.

Of course, there are also people who adopt American children - including celebrities like Delilah (who I think has adopted something like 4 or 5 older children - besides the children she had herself).

The reality is there are approximately 120,000 children in the United States who are adoptable. And many hundreds of thousands more who are in foster care, and who will become adoptable at some point. Some are older, some are part of a sibling group, and some are handicapped. All need love.

There are so many people out there who COULD adopt, and I'm thinking there are people out there with the love to give, who - for one reason or another - just haven't considered the possibility. People who could swing the extra monthly expense. People with room in their homes. People with love in their hearts.

What if every family who COULD, chose 1 child, or 1 sibling group, to adopt? There wouldn't be enough adoptable kids in the U.S. to fill all the applications. Because 120,000 is a LOT of children. But when compared to all the families out there, it's not that many.

I understand that adoption - especially of older children - is a major life choice.

After my research, I guarantee there is a child out there who could suit every family's abilities. Like I said, there are kids who've just had it rough who need a family to call their own, some with few or no major emotional issues. For the more adventurous adoptive parents, there are the sibling groups. For the more patient, there are the kids who've been hurt by adults, physically or emotionally, who need not only love, but more understanding and patience than most kids. And for people who are truly angels, there are the children who have disabilities, who would thrive with a family willing and able to make the commitment to them.

Take a look at these kids - they will steal your heart. http://photolisting.adoption.com/

Mid Life Crisis: Part 2

All right. So we've established some of the motivators for my mid life crisis, the greatest being a bad case of empty nest syndrome, even though the nest is still full.

A few times over the last month, I was looking at adoption websites, where you can see photos of children who are available. If you've never done this, trust me, it's a thoroughly moving experience.

Actually, I have visited these photo listing websites periodically over the last 7 years, give or take. And sadly, there were always plenty of children to choose from - from handicapped children to children with no real problems beyond really needing a family.

On my recent visits, I found lots of children I could just fall in love with, all of them tugged at my heart. There were children whose parents may have died or simply not been suitable parents, and then there were the children who, like Shane, had been sexually abused, and then there were the children with severe handicaps, like Downs or even more serious problems, who were simply given away because their parents couldn't - or wouldn't - deal with a handicapped child.

If any of my children had been born handicapped, I would have done what I needed to do to raise them with everything they needed. Adopting a handicapped child is something entirely different, and it takes a very special person.

I know that I am not in a position to take on child with a serious handicap or severe behavioral and emotional problems. It's not that I couldn't love such a child, because in truth, they would be easiest to love because they would need me most. It's that I *know* I am not equipped with the time, energy or money necessary to give these children the kind of help they deserve. These children need a lot more than just love and a normally dysfunctional family to call their own.

I also know that I want a baby - or at least a very young child. But I am open to sibling groups of 2 or 3.

But I quit looking at the websites around the first week of February, because I don't want to rush into anything. Adoption is a lifetime commitment - it's not like when Jacob turned 4 and I went through the "OMG, I'll never have a baby again" phase and raced out and got the smallest dog I could find without giving myself that 24 hour "think it over" period. THAT was a mistake. I love dogs, but I'm not really a dog person. And I love Riley, but he has been my trial (he's a toy fox terrier).

But the baby bug has been biting regularly, even though I'm trying to ignore it. Like I said in my earlier post, I see a little kid on TV with little chubby hands, and I want to hold those baby hands, and kiss those pouty lips, and rock them to sleep. And I dozed off Saturday afternoon while watching a movie with the kids, and I dreamed about a baby - a little girl, about 8 months old, and she was mine. And the dream was so good, I didn't want to wake up.

On Sunday, I sat down at the computer, and went to a photo listing site, and started looking at children. I found 2 sibling groups. The first was a 1, 2 and 6 year old (2 boys, the oldest a girl), and all were healthy, and the oldest had apparently missed a lot of school and needed special education to catch up - but other than that, this was 3 little kids who needed love and a family, and these things I have. The second was a 1, 3 and 7 year old (1 boy, and the oldest and youngest are girls) - very much like the first group, except that the baby had shaken baby syndrome, and they weren't sure of the extent of her injuries (though I'm guessing she wasn't blind or deaf or mentally retarded as a result of the injuries, because they would have been able to tell these things right away - so that leaves learning disabilities, possible seizures, and some other problems that might turn up as she gets older. Or, if she's lucky, she might end up OK).

It's a good thing these kids were on the other side of the country, because they are the kind of kids who you could fall in love with from their stories and their pictures alone.

I've been telling my mother some of what is going on with this mid life crisis, and she 1) admitted she went through it, too, and 2) thinks I'm out of my mind for even considering getting another child(ren).

My son just shook his head and said, "Mom, I'm going to have kids in a few years, so you'll have grandkids." (yeah, but they won't live close enough to visit too often as long as he's in the military.)

My daughter went through the whole range of emotions - first she was excited ("I want Rachel" - the baby with shaken baby syndrome), then she was jealous ("but you're OUR mother"), then she was logical ("you can't afford more kids"), then she was selfish ("I suppose this means I'm going to have to babysit them all?"), and then she was accepting ("Well, if we're going to do this, I hope you choose Rachel and her brother and sister"). BTW, this was all within the space of an hour that she experienced a range of emotions that should have taken her months.

My youngest liked the idea of having more kids in the family. He's the only "baby" of the family (who has been babied a little, to boot) that I've ever encountered that is so extremely gentle with younger children, and has never experienced jealousy when it comes to adult attention (I'm sure other kids like this exist, I just haven't met them). But after an afternoon of being excited about the possibility of getting more siblings, he looked at me, and very seriously said, "Well, Mom, before you do this, you need to think about it." I thought I was in for a lecture like my daughter had given me, but then Jacob said, "Before you get a baby, you need to make sure you have baby oil, diapers and the other things a baby will need." Yes, that's my Jake.

Fortunately, adoption is not as easy as picking out a child and picking it up and taking it home. There are home studies that take time, there are applications, and there are other things that take time. So I canNOT really rush into this.

Then there's the fact that my house is a work in progress (the things the previous owners did to it should be a crime), and though no one is going to take my kids away from me because it needs so much work (I've been remodeling and fixing it forever it seems), I do not know that I could pass the portion of the home study that included the condition of my house because there is just so much that needs done for it to be the home I've envisioned it *could* be! Right now, it's absolutely in a state of ongoing renovation.

I'm not worried about the monthly expenses of raising 1, 2 or 3 additional children. That I know I can do. However, the school clothes and supplies each year would be a major expense, my Christmas expenses would double, as would Easter, birthdays, etc. But I don't doubt that I could swing all this.

Probably the greatest difficulty would be increased medical expenses if the children did not qualify for the state insurance (but if I'm understanding it correctly, both these groups of children would), and the initial expenses - of the adoption itself, including legal fees, and what I'd have to do to get ready for more children who were young.

Yes, I've already thought that over. I'd need beds and possibly a crib. I wouldn't need to buy 100% of the clothes that they would need because I still have lots of beautiful clothes for boys and girls - but I would definitely still need a lot of clothes. And some toy boxes, and some new toys (though I think I have enough toys in my house right now - for all ages - to satisfy most kids).

See, I do all this thinking (obsessing) and planning (obsessing), and 1) I don't know if my home would pass inspection because the renovation is far from complete, and 2) I don't know if I have too many animals (I've unintentionally become a cat rescuer, and I've got a bunch of them - fixed, declawed and clean, but Heaven forbid any child have allergies), and 3) there's still the question of whether I'm mentally stable - after all, I'm considering this all to begin with.

I'm kind of hoping on one hand that if I actually write it all out, it will knock some sense into me. On the other hand, I figure if it doesn't, perhaps it's the right thing to do.

I Tried to Adopt Once

When my father had his first heart attack, I was a senior in high school. The ICU was on the same floor as pediatrics, so while we waited for those periodic 15 minute visiting times with Dad, I would pass the time in the children's ward.

There were 2 little boys there, Shane and Dan. Shane was 2, Dan was 3. They were in for pneumonia, and their mother never came to visit them. So they never got out of their crib cages. Against all the rules, the nurses started letting me take the boys out and play with them.

It was just before Christmas. Since we weren't having a Christmas that year, I played Santa, and got the boys both tons of Christmas presents. Shortly after Christmas, Dan went home, but Shane had to stay. Even after my father came home to await his heart surgery, I continued to go back to the hospital to visit Shane.

I got very attached to Shane. I would leave school at lunch, run up to the hospital, feed Shane, rock him to sleep and then go back to school.

He could have been released earlier, but his mother couldn't get around to coming to pick him up. Finally, she came and got him. And the nurses, against all the rules, gave me enough information that I could find him.

Now you're probably thinking I'm obsessive (I can be), and the nurses were nuts. But check this out. I find the house Shane and Dan live in, knock on the door, the mother answers, I tell her simply that I played with the boys while they were in the hospital (I didn't even give her my name), and ask if I can take the boys to McDonalds. And she lets me.

This began a regular routine of me coming to get the boys - but it was usually just Shane, because Dan was in preschool or with his grandparents most of the time. I hated how they lived. They lived in a duplex, but the bedroom was in the cement block basement - and it was just one bedroom (where the boys, the mother, and her boyfriend slept). Their clothes were scummy (white socks were totally gray). And even at 18, I thought her parenting skills were non-existent.

But I knew they were poor, so beyond really not liking the mother, I told myself that I had to be the sort of person who did not judge just because someone was poor and had seemingly been raised without morals.

I bought the boys clothes. And I bonded with Shane even more. He was 3 now, and I visited him about once a week. His mother still didn't know anything about me - not my name, not where I lived. Nothing.

It was the following July. I took Shane to the lake, and we spent the afternoon eating chip-chop ham sandwiches, chips, and animal crackers (he dipped everything in mayo), and watching sail boats. When I took him home that night he didn't want me to leave him. That was normal. But this time he cried. And begged me to stay.

I reasoned that Shane wanted me to stay with him because I paid attention to him, I bought him things, I fed him good stuff and let him slather it all with mayo. I was more fun than his mother, and did things that she didn't.

And I told myself it was not fair for me to introduce him to all these things that his mother couldn't give him, or didn't know how to give him. It wasn't fair to her or to him.

And I also knew that I was on the verge of doing something really stupid - because I did not want to leave him there. Not with her. And not in that house.

That was the last time I saw Shane. For both our sakes.

That doesn't mean I didn't think about him all the time.

I knew the family had been involved with children's services (the nurses told me:)). And I had reported the sleeping situation. Not that I had issues with a mother sleeping in the same room as her children, but I did have a problem with a mother and her boyfriend sleeping in the same room as a 3 and 4 year old, because of what the kids might see or hear (inappropriate). Of course, no one told me why children's services was involved with the family, so I assumed it was because the mother was an idiot and needed parenting training.

A few years later, I was married, and I called Children's services to check up on Shane and Dan. I just wanted to know they were OK. I found out then that they had been taken away from their mother and that Dan had already been adopted. I immediately said I wanted to adopt Shane. I was so determined, that the caseworker told me things they usually would not tell someone who hadn't at least filled out an application or had a home study.

I learned that Shane and Dan had both been sexually abused. Not only by their mother's boyfriend, but their mother. And that Dan had not been in the home much, and had therefore not been as hurt. But Shane had been hurt terribly, and as a result, he was not available to me.

I was young and didn't understand this. If he had been hurt, and I loved him, why would they keep him in a children's home, rather than letting him have a family? I returned home for the holidays and learned more about what Shane had lived through. It broke my heart. Not just because of what he'd endured, but because that monster of a woman and the men she allowed near her children had destroyed the beautiful little boy that I'd known. He was so damaged at his young age, that even then, it was unlikely that he'd ever be adoptable. And the ONLY people they would consider would be people with no children at home, who had no intention of having children in the future. Both for Shane's sake, and the safety of the other children.

I lived for a long time with the guilt - I live with it even today. Common sense tells me that I was too young, and too unaware of what some of the harsher realities of the world were, to have any idea of what was going on with Shane. He never said anything to me that would have given me a clue - he just wanted to stay with me. And I never saw anything that was inappropriate sexually. I simply thought his mother was stupid. I had no idea she was evil.

And Children's Services was actively involved with the family. So I had no reason to believe that if anything was seriously wrong that they wouldn't step in and prevent it.

I could have taken him that last night. I WANTED to take him. And that's why I cut off the contact - for fear I'd hurt him, or do something stupid that would land me in all kinds of hot water.

I wish I had taken him. I wish I had realized what was going on when I was not around.

I wish I had saved him.

I still call Children's Services periodically to ask about Shane. And of course, Children's Services won't give me any information. It's been 18 years since I tried to adopt Shane, and by now he's a grown man, in his twenties. Just from what *little* I could pry out of CS, I don't think Shane ever was adopted.

That breaks my heart.

My Midlife Crisis

Apparently, when people reach their mid 30s to mid 40s, they experience a mid life crisis. I knew a lot of men had a mid life crisis, because you hear about men in this age range having affairs and marrying barely legals as a way of recapturing their youth. However, I was not aware I, as a woman, would experience any sort of crisis, beyond the dreaded change of life (which, knock on wood, I'm not having to deal with).

Now I know that women, too, lose their minds as they approach mid life, and after the last week, I'm almost certain mine is lost forever.

I'm one of those people who tends to self-analyze (I can't afford a real therapist). A lot. So I am pretty sure I know what brought on my mid life crisis.

I've traced it back to last summer, when Jared, my oldest, joined the Marines. Jared is a senior in high school, and will graduate in June 2006. In July, he goes to Paris Island for boot camp, and then on to Virginia where he will be trained in Marine Intelligence. I'm totally proud of him, and I know the growing up he'll do in the Marines will be good for him.

But Jared's still my baby (in my eyes, not his. HE thinks he's a man). Jared and I went through everything together (even if he was often too young to know he was going through it). When he was a baby, we did a lot of traveling - just Jared and me. We were (are) extremely close, because for a long time, he was all I had, and I was all he had. We talked about everything, and it was this closeness that helped us both get through his father's suicide, as well as everything we lived through prior to that, and since.

And once he joined the Marines, I got hit with the reality that he was pretty much all grown up, and he was going to leave me and start his own life.

That's normal. All mom's experience this.

I waivered between extreme pride (he is my greatest accomplishment in life so far), and bouts of weeping and wailing.

Then in December, I got one of those DVD recorders, and the first thing I did was dig up all the old home movies on VHS and turn them into DVDs as Christmas presents for my mother. I had intended to pop in a VHS and blank DVD, hit record and leave the room to do something productive. The first video, however, featured my father (who passed away in May 1992), my ex husband (who passed away in May 2002), and Jared (who was only almost 3 months old at the time).

Long story short, I watched the entire video, experiencing every possible emotion, and crying through it all. I cried for my father and Andy - I miss them both. And I cried for the baby that I loved so much, and who was now a man.

And I. Was. Not. Ready. For. Him. To. Be. A. Man. Damnit.

I ended up watching every video as I recorded it onto DVD. Not only did I remember all the good times I had with my children when they were little, but I was reminded of all the things I wanted to do with my children, that I never got around to doing - all the times I put off going outside to build a snowman because I had work to do, or all the picnics we didn't have time to take, all the cookies I didn't bake, etc. And now, it was too late for me to do those things with Jared (and quickly getting there with the other two, who are 14 and 11).

I wanted to go back in time, and hold that sweet cherub-faced little baby, and relive the entire 18 years. And do everything right; be the perfect mom this time around.

You see, the one thing I learned over the last 18 years is that parents are not perfect, even though we want to be. But if I could do it all over again, I could fix some of the mistakes I made.

Jared walked in on me at one point, and saw me sobbing. Being the sweet kid that he is, he asked what was wrong. And I told him. And I apologized for all those snowmen we didn't build and all the cookies I didn't bake. And he hugged me and said, "Gee, Mom, don't cry about it. You did a lot of other things with us." (I'm guessing he was probably rolling his eyes, thinking I was crazy, too:))

Christmas was hard. I had to work so much during December, that I didn't get to do all the things I wanted to do for Jared's last Christmas at home (for clarification - his last Christmas as my baby).

Then after Christmas, I started this bizarre "sorting" thing. I was sorting everything. Trying to make order of the house - probably to feel like I was in control of something. I got to the clothes sorting. Years and years of kids clothes. I washed them, I folded them. I intended to set them aside for a garage sale. But I found myself putting the really pretty clothes, or the special clothes, in a pile for... my grandchildren.

What grandchildren? Jared didn't even have a girlfriend at the time. Now, he's the kind of young man who will almost certainly meet a girl, fall in love and decide to get married, without any thoughts of losing his freedom or any of that other stuff some men go through, because that's just the way he is. He wants a wife and family. So I know he'll probably be married within a couple years and have kids reasonably soon thereafter.

But I was not only stocking up clothes for my future grandchildren - I was getting downright excited about having them.

Did I mention I'm too young to be a grandmother? :)

That was all in January.

In February, I had a revelation. It wasn't really grandchildren I wanted, because my thoughts were all about setting up MY house for a baby. I wanted my own baby.

Definite WTF moment there. I was a single mother to 3 children, and it's a hard, stressful road to raise them from infancy or toddler-dom on your own. There's never enough money, never enough time.

I spent 12 years of my life with little kids at home, and most of that time, I worked from my home so I could be with them, do the homeroom mother thing, be there for them when they were sick, etc. By the time my youngest, Jacob, went to school full time (Fall 1999) for kindergarten, I was absolutely thrilled. I NEEDED those few hours a day to myself - for work, for my mental stability.

So here I am, 6 years later, wanting more kids?

Mind you, I do not want to physically give birth to any more children. Been there, done that, hated being pregnant, and especially disliked the whole natural birth, no drugs aspect of it. Loved my kids, wouldn't have changed having them, but can admit pregnancy, for me, was awful.

So I'm thinking adoption.

Let's rewind many, many years, to my own birth.

My parents got me when I was 6 days old. I came straight from the hospital.

Around the age of 2, I was convinced I was the baby Jesus. Even confided it to the neighbor lady. A 2 year old's understanding of the immaculate conception, combined with her grasp on adoption, was that she must be Jesus.

By 3, I realized I was not Jesus, because I got a brother, who came to my parents the same way I did. And he certainly was no Jesus.

By then, my understanding of adoption was a lot better. But still not quite full. In my mind, babies were born to people who could not afford them or who did not want them. These babies were taken to orphanages, and the lucky ones were adopted by people like my mom and dad. The unlucky ones were left without families in orphanages for the rest of their lives.

That is, of course, how it is basically - but I thought MOST babies were left to live in orphanages, and the lucky ones to get parents were few and far between.

So by 4 years old, I was determined to adopt some of those kids who weren't as lucky as me when I grew up. The older kids.

I never really stopped wanting to adopt, but life had a way of dealing me hands that made it impossible - a husband that didn't want to adopt an older child, being a single mom to 3 small children, a youngest child with a variety of mild or moderate developmental delays, etc.

But here I am now, experiencing a mid life crisis from hell; wanting a baby, dreaming about babies, seeing little chubby hands on television and bursting into tears. I'm getting positively ridiculous.

And I don't know whether to take myself seriously, or have myself committed.

Monday, October 03, 2005

I asked, life answered

Last week, I believed the previous three Mondays had been about as bad as Mondays could go, and I made the mistake of wondering aloud what sort of fun this Monday would bring. Well, life heard me, and answered.

Last Monday, I'd come down with a bug of one sort or another. By Sunday, it felt like someone was standing on my chest and I had a terrible and very dry cough, which prevented me from getting even 1 minute of sleep Sunday night. By the time the kids woke up for school, my voice had begun to go and my throat felt like someone had a death grip on it and was holding it closed.

Yeah, these days my Mondays start off with a bang.

Francis Ray was my featured guest, but I knew early on I wouldn't have enough of a voice to do much talking, so the rest of the show I had planned needed changed. I got on the horn and called author Kate Collins and asked her if she would come on the show, and made sure Betty Jo Tucker could do a movie review, and then I called Metsy Hingle to see if she would do the news report this week and be there to fill in if my voice gave out altogether.

Actually, all things considered, Monday wasn't turning out so bad.

I picked my daughter up from school at 3:05pm and ran her 15 miles to dance and baton (she's going to try out for majorette next spring), stopped at the drug store and bought lots of drugs - the strongest cough medicine sold over the counter, the strongest Hall's cough drops (of course, they were out of the Cherry, so I was stuck with that nasty mentholyptus stuff), and some Clariton 24 hours medicine. I took the cough medicine and Clariton on the spot, then I raced home and got in the house with 5 minutes to spare before air time.

My throat still felt terrible, so I took another dose of the cough medicine while on hold with the studio. Then the producer tells me Betty Jo and Francis had been on the line, but had been cut off. And it was time to start the show. And without the guests, I couldn't do the show.

I hung up from the studio and called Kate to see if she could go on first (she was scheduled for the last spot), and her husband said she hadn't gotten home yet from the speech she was giving that afternoon. "Please tell her to call the studio the moment she gets in!" I pleaded.

I called the studio line again. Betty Jo and Francis still hadn't gotten back through. Apparently, the studio lines were having as many issues as I was. We were about 3 minutes into show time, and they were playing lots of commercials to fill the space. While I panicked.

"Wait!" I said excitedly. "Lemme see who's on my buddy list." I scrolled through the AOL buddy list, which has about 100 people on it, many of them authors, but not many people were online, except... Cheryl St. John. Yeah!

I quickly IM'd Cheryl...

LMALCOTT: hey, want to do a brief radio interview?
LMALCOTT: like, NOW?
Cheryl SaintJohn: I'm not sure...
Cheryl SaintJohn: like NOW?
LMALCOTT: yes, right now
Cheryl SaintJohn: wow
LMALCOTT: please?
LMALCOTT: short
Cheryl SaintJohn: tell me how
Cheryl SaintJohn: :-)
LMALCOTT: title of your book
Cheryl SaintJohn: THE BOUNTY HUNTER - most recent - September

At that very moment, I got the word that Kate had just called in to the studio. (And Cheryl was glad she didn't have to go on without any preparation. But I appreciated her willingness to pinch hit on a moment's notice, so I scheduled her for next week, along with Jane Toombs.)

The production crew patched me through a second later, and I barely had time to take a breath until I had to start... talking. And my script was... somewhere, but not in front of me.

I winged it, while rifling through the papers on my desk. And did I mention a double dose of this cough medicine made me feel like I'd drank 3 Cherry Bombs back-to-back? (that's 1 part Triple Cherry Vodka and 1 part Red Bull for those who don't know). And did I mention whatever this hideous illness I have is, it leaves me very short of breath?

I gasped my way through the opening, scriptless, and introduced Kate just as I located the script.

By the grace of God, somehow, the rest of the show went well. The guests were wonderful. And when it came time to stumble and gasp my way through the closing segment (I'd somehow forgotten to script that), I finally admitted I was having difficulty talking because of the medication I'd taken to get through the show.

All in all, it all turned out remarkably well when you consider all the little glitches that kept popping up.

The way I see it now, Mondays are my test. And the broadcasting gods are throwing all the Monday madness at me they can. But eventually, they are going to give up - because I won't. And once they do, maybe Mondays and I will be friends again.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

It's true what they say about Mondays...

I've never had a particular issue with Monday. I've heard people gripe about it being Monday, feeling like Monday, etc, but I really never related. Mondays, for me, were pretty much like any other day of the week. If anything, I liked Mondays, because that meant the kids were going back to school and I could actually maintain a thought longer than 3 seconds without being interrupted.

That all changed this month. Now I think I hate Monday. And if Monday doesn't shape up soon, I might just kick her out of my schedule altogether.

Mondays began causing me trouble on Monday, September 12th. It was the premier day of my radio show, and I was a little on edge. After all, the last time I'd hosted any sort of radio show was when I was a teenager and I hosted a weekly entertainment feature on a local AM station called "Country Greats", where I'd talk about a country music artist and play some of their music. It's been a long time since then, and, well, it's a lot harder when you're a grown up.

So on Monday, September 12th, we had the little situation with the exploding fuse and the water dripping from the light socket, and more than half my house being without electricity. I did the first show with a strained voice from calling back and forth to my son while working on the electric/water problem, without any run through or practice.

But I survived it, Carly Phillips and Tina Leonard survived it, and overall, the show went pretty well.

Then on Monday, September 19th, I bought a name brand telephone with a cord, in the hope that using that to do the show--instead of a cell phone, like I'd used the previous week--would make my voice a bit clearer. Apparently the water damaged more than my electric, and using my telephone instead of my cell phone actually sounded much worse.

Sandra Brown and Lucy Monroe, my guests this week, sounded great. But there was so much static on my phone line that I'm surprised they could even hear my questions.

So I'm all set to do the September 26th show. I've decided to use the cell phone until I can get my phone line replaced. Got my guests lined up. Sent out the promo to the email lists. Had the outline done in advance. Third show was going to be the charm.

NOT.

I got nailed by some kind of bug, or maybe it's just allergy season or something. In any event, by Monday afternoon I was sick as a dog. You know... sinuses, fever, sore throat, hacky cough.

Have you ever felt like you were being tested?

I could hardly cancel the show, so an hour before we were scheduled to go on, I took a dose of Tylenol Cold medicine, drank a double dose of cough medicine, and had a supply of Halls Max on my desk, along with a fresh pot of hot coffee.

There I sat at my desk, cell phone charged, show outline in front of me, alternating between sweating and the chills, and higher than a kite.

Heather Graham joined me as our special guest book news reporter, and my two guest authors, Karen Rose Smith and Stephanie Bond, were awesome. I have to say the show went pretty smooth, all things considered. So smooth, in fact, that the show was technically done, and I still had 4 minutes to fill (ack!)

Had I not been under the influence of an entire medicine cabinet, I might have been able to pull that last 4 minutes off with something brilliant, but at that point, I confessed--live, on the air--that I had absolutely nothing else to say.

Fortunately, Stephanie Bond was still on the line and was willing to talk a bit more about her books.

I owe ya, Steph.

I now sit here wondering what sort of fun next Monday will bring. For author Francis Ray's sake, I'm hoping Monday decides to be kind.

Monday, September 12, 2005

Long time, no blog

It's official. I'm not a good blogger, as proven by the fact that this is my first blog post in... months.

Today I have something to blog about.

Today was the first episode of MUCH ADO ABOUT BOOKS, the book talk radio show I host.

Did I mention I'm not a public speaker? Anyone who bore witness to my humiliation in Toronto during the last day of the Romantic Times Booklovers Convention in 1999 can attest to that. Kathryn Falk dragged me on the stage to talk about the romance calendar we'd published for the convention, even though I'd begged her not to. "Oh, you'll do fine!" she said, in that ever-optimistic way she has of saying things.

Yeah, I did fine. About three words into my schpeal, I literally broke down in tears.

But I have been psyching myself up for this first day of the LIVE show for weeks. I was ready when I went to sleep last night.

The plan:

I would wake up this morning, take my youngest to school, then come back home and write the script for the show, tweak the website, tie up any loose ends, get the kids settled after school, and then do the show.

The reality:

I woke up when my two oldest children were scrambling around trying to get ready because the alarm hadn't gone off and they'd missed the bus. $#!&

But only half the house was without power, so it wasn't a problem with the electric company. I just needed to change one of the fuses. I could do that, take the kids to school, and proceed with my plan.

I went to the basement, armed with my box of fuses. Found the blown fuse, unscrewed it, then screwed in a new fuse.

POW! It literally exploded in my hand. To my left, a flash of light and a pop. I turn, and see water dripping from a light blub!

$#!&

Long story short, a leak in my plumbing resulted in water mixing with electric. I called the plumber, and I called my insurance company, because I think I might well have done something fatal to my electric at this point, because I can't get that one fuse to work at all (even replaced the 60 amp fuses at $20.00 each). Then I call my mother. Sobbing.

The plumber came out, checked out the plumbing, then left. Haven't seen or heard from him since. He was supposed to send someone out to fix it. Guess they weren't in the hurry that I was. Fortunately, I turned off the water supply to that part of the house. And I'm sure my kids won't mind getting all their water from the bathtub (since the bathroom sink supply is off, too).

Didn't hear anything at all from the insurance adjuster (but, you know, it's not half of his house that's experiencing a black out, so...)

That's is the mess I spent my morning trying to clean up, in between bouts of weeping. And I got to thinking that in the scheme of things, yes, my house might end up burning to the ground as a result of the bad mix water and electric make, but there are lots of people who have gone through a hell of a lot more than this. I have no right to cry (all right, yes I do have a right to cry, but remembering the plight of the victims of the hurricane really puts it in perspective).

One positive thing - my computer and the television are on the side of the house that's still got electric. At least that's something!

By about 1pm, I had enough done on the electric/water problem that I could start doing what needed done for the show. And a bad case of nerves set in. And my voice was hoarse from yelling upstairs to my son while working on the electric and plumbling.

By 3:50pm, I was a basket case. But I had my questions, my coffee, and my nicotine free cigarettes (yes, I'm trying to quit - but in a moment of high stress, "nicotine free" isn't nearly as soothing as "nicotine loaded" would have been!)

I'm happy to say, I survived the premier episode of MUCH ADO ABOUT BOOKS. Sure, I sounded more like "Larry Mills-Alcott" than Laura Mills-Alcott, thanks to the abuse my vocal chords endured today, and I hadn't had a run through with the network, so this was done on the fly and by the seat of my proverbial pants, so I know I need to get a bit better at the transitions and network breaks - but other than that, things went swimmingly!

My guests were Tina Leonard (COWBOYS BY THE DOZEN) and Carly Phillips (SUMMER LOVIN') and they were terrific (and really glad that I didn't pass out, because they would have been entirely on their own at that point!)

Tina's new book (hot off the presses) is CROCKETT'S SEDUCTION (you can read excerpts of her COWBOYS BY THE DOZEN books at http://www.theromanceclub.com/authors/tinaleonard)

Carly's book is SUMMER LOVIN' (read the excerpt for this book and other Carly Phillips books at http://www.theromanceclub.com/authors/carlyphillips)

Both Tina and Carly sponsored contests for the show, so be sure to listen to the archived edition if you missed the live show, so you can find out how to enter.

Next week, my guest is Lucy Monroe. You don't want to miss her book TOUCH ME http://www.theromanceclub.com/authors/lucymonroe

Hopefully by then my kitchen plumbing will be fixed, and electricity will be restored to my entire house!

Sunday, May 15, 2005

Remember Me: Pt 1

Remember Me: Part 1

This is part of the READER INVITATION. Read more...

One thing to remember before you begin reading: these are NOT polished works. These excerpts are "first draft". So please focus on the story and the characters ONLY (spelling, phrasing and other technical aspects may be rough, but will get "fixed" and "polished" when I do the edits -- which comes after the 1st draft is complete).

When you have finished reading the excerpt, please leave your comments in my blog.

Prologue

Thrushdown Abbey, June, 1809

“Ah-ha! Got you!”

“Let me go!” Victoria shrieked, her arms and legs flailing as someone lifted her from behind by the back of her dress from her hiding place in the brush. “Let me go, I tell you!”

“Not until you tell me who you are and why you are sneaking around in the weeds.”

It was him.

Victoria had never heard him speak before, but she was certain the lovely voice belonged to the lovely dark-haired boy she'd been watching in secret for the last two weeks. Her heart thumped madly and her mind was all a-muddle. This was hardly the scene she'd envisioned of their first meeting!

“I will not speak a solitary word until you let me go and behave like a gentleman!”

A sudden nudge sent her off balance and she fell to the ground with a thud. Scampering out of his reach and to her feet, Victoria glared angrily as she turned to face the boy. Her bum was surely bruised, and there he stood, grinning.

“Of all the arrogant—”

“Watch your tongue,” he scolded, shaking a finger under her nose, as though she were a mere child. “Now, what is a little girl like you doing on her own, sneaking around my estate?”

Oh! How could she have possibly thought the pretty boy would have a personality to match his fair face? She should never have been so silly and wasted so many afternoons these last weeks gazing at him from afar!

“I'll have you know I am not a little girl! I am nine years old,” she insisted, stomping her foot rather like a child, before she could stop herself. Instantly, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

The boy's blue eyes twinkled in the summer sun. “All of nine, are you?” Then his voice grew serious. “My, my, you aren't a little girl, are you?”

“I'm nearly ten.”

“I see.” He held his chin with one hand, in a fashion that made him seem quite grown up. “But that still does not explain why you have been hiding and watching me all this time.”

“Y-you knew?”

His laughter rang out around them. “Of course I knew. You’re my new governess’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Read more...



Reader Invitation

There's one thing about fiction writers that almost always holds true, and that is that they have story ideas constantly flooding their minds. In fact, most writers (barring Nora, who can write a book a day) will never be able to write a book for each story idea they have.

For those who've visited my website since my last update, you know the next month will find me devoting most of my time to the kidlings, the yard, and fixing up my house (aka the "money pit"), in the hope that by mid-June I will be able to focus almost solely on my writing so that I will have another completed book by the end of the summer.

Sounds simple enough, but it's really not. See, here's the deal. Remember those story ideas I mentioned earlier? The way I handle them is that I will write the story idea down. Not an outline, not a paragraph, but a few hours worth of writing (translated, starting a new book) so that I can preserve the "feel" and "mood" I have at that electric moment, as well as getting the characters and the beginning of their story from my imagination and onto paper.

Then, during periods that I need a break from my WIP (work in progress) but still find a need to write, I fiddle with one of my "story ideas" (translated, I work on one of those new books I started).

So now what I have before more are 3 different books, in various degrees of progress, and I cannot decide which of these should be my "next book".

This is where the invitation to readers comes in.

I am going to post the beginnings of each of these 3 books - a little at a time - and ask for reader input. Basically, I want to know what readers like about each excerpt and don't like about each excerpt (ie "comments"). Then, after all three of the books have been showcased, I'd like readers to tell me which of these books they enjoyed reading most and why.

In other words, I want to see these books through readers' eyes - something exceedingly difficult for a writer to do when it comes to her own works.

One thing to remember before you begin reading: these are NOT polished works. These excerpts are "first draft". So please focus on the story and the characters ONLY (spelling, phrasing and other technical aspects may be rough, but will get "fixed" and "polished" when I do the edits -- which comes after the 1st draft is complete).

I'm going to try to post an excerpt every day over the course of the next month, and hopefully, by mid-June, with readers' help, I'll know exactly which book will be my "next book".

I'm looking forward to what readers have to say:)

Friday, May 13, 2005

My first blog...

I've been trying to come up with something really brilliant for my first entry into my blog, because I wanted the first entry to be, well, brilliant (first impressions and all that). And while I did come up with some good book-related topics for future blogs, none seemed quite brilliant enough to be my first.

So I've decided to not to wax literary for the first blog, but write about a social/political/moral issue that, frankly, makes me wonder if we have finally lost our minds, our hearts and even our souls.

In March, we all heard about Terry Shiavo. The case polarized the nation. When Terri finally died of starvation and dehydration, those of us who saw it as a murder by an adulterous, greedy husband, mourned. And for the last month and a half, as the news of Terri's life and death faded from the news, I tried not to think about Terri, because, for me, it was a reminder of how very little some in our society value life.

Other than the court battles I expected to see on behalf of other brain-injured patients across the nation that would come as a result of the Florida judicial system's unilateral declaration that an adulterous husband with much to gain from the death of his wife can deprive her of the only thing she needed to survive (food and water - which, btw, is what we all need to survive), I thought it was over. After all, Terri was gone, and there was nothing more we could do or say. Right? I mean, we all had our opinion, but the bottom line was, it was over.

Then in the wee hours of this morning, I came across a news headline that brought it all back: "Brain Injured Woman Speaks After Two Years".

Here's an excerpt of the piece:

ARKANSAS CITY, Kan. (May 12) - A woman who couldn't talk or feed herself after suffering head trauma in a traffic accident has spoken her first words in more than two years.

Tracy Gaskill, 30, began speaking and swallowing about three weeks ago, family members and medical personnel said. She had suffered internal injuries and head trauma when her pickup truck rolled over on a highway in September 2002.

"I have never seen this happen in my career," Dr. David Schmeidler said. "I've read about it happening, the severely brain damaged recovering suddenly, but never seen it until now."

Gaskill's family believes the care she has received and their daily visits and prayers helped her recovery.

It's important to note that Tracy received the therapy she needed and regular visits from a loving family. Terri did not, because Michael Shiavo denied her therapy and forbid her family from visiting her regularly (and let's face it, with a mistress and two illegitimate children by his mistress, he simply didn't have time to visit her much, himself).

Some might say that Tracy was only in her condition for 2 years, whereas Terri's condition had lasted 15 years. But there are others who have been severely brain damaged and who went longer than Terri without responding.

Sarah Scantlin of Kansas was struck by a drunk driver in 1984, and left bedridden and unable to communicate. UNTIL THIS YEAR - 20 years after the accident, she uttered her first word. And she continues her recovery! Will she ever be the same as before the accident? Probably not. But by God, she's got a chance.

Nearly 10 years ago, firefighter Donald Herbert was injured in the line of duty and experienced head trauma and approximately 10 minutes without oxygen (btw, this is the same amount of time Terri went without oxygen). He spent the first two months in a coma, and the next nearly 10 years basically unresponsive, did not recognize his family - in fact, he could not even see his family (blind), and had little or no memory of his past.

Over the years, his physician, Dr. Ahmed, says Herbert was in a "near persistent vegetative state" (remember, that's what they called Terri's state, minus the "near", but then again, unfortunately for Terri, she didn't have physicians like Dr. Ahmed once Michael decided it was time to move on with his life).

In April 2005, Donald Herbert made a miraculous recovery. Very suddenly, he literally seemed to snap awake. His vision came back, and he began talking. Not just talking, but laughing and joking around, asking questions. He recognized everyone - often by their voice, before he saw them.

He had no idea he'd been "gone" for almost 10 years, so he was shocked that his youngest son, 3 years old at the time of the accident, was now 13.

After such an exciting day, Herbert fell into an exhausted 30 hour sleep. And while he hasn't repeated that amazing first day of awareness, he has continued to improve, and his doctors expect him to be able to speak, walk and eat on his own.

Not only did Herbert receive physical therapy at his wife's command, but he was visited regularly by family, and his wife was willing to try anything that might help her husband, including experimental drugs that help with brain stimulation.

Note also that Terri Shiavo, between 1990 and 1992, received therapy. Her responsiveness had markedly improved, she could swallow on her own, she recognized family, she spoke (granted, simple words like "Mama" or "help me" or "no", but that's still speech and indicates awareness), and she could move her head toward noises and her arm on command.

At this time, the opinion of Terri's doctors was that she should receive - and would respond to - therapy.

Dr. W. Campbell Walker, M.D. did a bone scan of Terri on September 5, 1991, and found "compression fractures" throughout her body, and he stated, "The patient has a history of trauma." (suspect: physical abuse by Michael, as these injuries were not from her childhood).

In 1992, Michael Shiavo went to court on his behalf and Terri's behalf. Terri was awarded $1,650,000.00 that was to be used for her therapy, treatment and medical bills, and Michael Shiavo was awarded $600,000.00 for loss of companionship in the medical malpractice suit. (It was also in 1992 that Michael admitted in court that he'd had Terri's wedding rings melted down and made into a ring for himself).

In court, Michael testified that Terri had painful menstrual cramps and could convey that she needed Midol (this is important because it shows, by his own testimony, that Terri was aware and responsive prior to Michael's command that all therapy should cease).

In 1993, immediately after receiving the monetary awards for himself and Terri, Michael Shiavo denied the continuation of any further therapy for Terri - not even range of motion exercises or a simple towel to clutch within her hands to prevent her hands from stiffening into a tight fist. When she got an infection, he instructed nursing home staff that it was not to be treated (the nursing home stepped in on Terri's behalf, Michael relented to treatment, and promptly moved Terri to a different nursing home where the staff was more obedient).



In 1993, Michael also decided to put Terri's 2 cats to sleep - even though Terri's mother had offered to take them (but by this time, the fact that Terri's parents had objected the discontinuation of her therapy was enough justification for Michael to kill the cats rather than let someone else care for them - sort of like he would feel about his wife 5 years later).

Once Michael had ceased all therapy for Terri (even though she had been improving), he got himself a mistress - though it's unclear if this was the first or the second (he admitted to at least 2 adulterous affairs in 1998)

Now, at this point, she was NOT in a persistent vegetative state. That came later, after years of having therapy denied her, when all the progress she'd achieved had been lost, and she continued to decline because of lack of exercise and stimulation.



Everyone knows that a baby will fail to thrive without love and attention and excercise and physical and mental stimulation. And that's what happened to Terri - all at Michael's express order.



Michael Shiavo had $600k for his own use, thanks to Terri's accident. And he spent it, not only on himself, but on his mistress. And then on the children these two would have together. While his WIFE lay in a bed, withering away, stripped of everything by Michael Shiavo, from therapy that might have enabled her to make a recovery right down to her wedding ring.

Many of Terri's nurses testified that Terri was responsive, that Michael had said in frustration "When is this bitch going to die!", that Terri would cry and ask for help.

Terri's parents loved their daughter. They begged Michael to reinstate therapy. He refused.

Terri's condition gradually worsened. Her parents tried to have the therapy started again. Michael banned Terri's parents from seeing her.

Finally, Terri's parents pleaded with Michael to divorce Terri - he could be free and they could care for their daughter until she died of natural causes. He still refused.



It could be that Florida is a community property state and as such, Terri's parents could still have taken - on her behalf - half of all they'd acquired during their marriage (and Michael had acquired quite a bit since getting his share of the malpractice award).

It could also be that Michael feared that, once in her parents' care, Terri would be given intensive therapy, and if she somehow managed to regain all she'd lost since his denial of therapy, and continue to improve, perhaps she might be able to say something he did not want anyone else to know - like her condition was brought on by his violence, not bulemia (note that there were medical questions as to certain injuries Terri had at the time she was initially brought to the hospital, and whether she had been physically abused by Michael).

Terri's friends had spoken of Terri not being happy in the marriage and that she'd been contemplating leaving Michael prior to the accident.

Terri clung to life, and when she hadn't died on her own by 1998, Michael suddenly remembered that Terri had specifically said - many times according to him - that she wouldn't want to live in such a state (though in court in 1992, he'd attempted to get $20 million to care for Terri for the rest of her life, because, supposedly, she would have wanted to live and make every attempt to recover, and though he was given a much lower award than $20 million, it was based on the amount needed to care for Terri for the rest of her life - NOTE: her life expectancy at that point was considered to be another 20 years, give or take, even if she did not fully recover).

In 1998, he petitioned the court to take Terri off "life support" (food and water). Apparently, Terri not only told Michael, but his brother AND his sister that she would rather die than live like that. Funny she never told her parents or HER brother or HER sister, all of whom she was very close to. But don't we all casually discuss our wish to die in a case like this with our inlaws, rather than our immediate family? (ahem)

Richard L. Pearse, court appointed guardian ad litem, stated that Michael Shiavo had a conflict of interests, that he stood to gain over $700,000.00 immediately following Terri's death, that the fact that his ceasing of all therapy immediately upon receiving the monetary settlements made his motivations suspect, and that the court should NOT grant Michael Shiavo his request to have Terri's feeding tube removed.

Michael Shiavo, undeterred, kept fighting for the right to end his wife's life.

In 2003, with a new motion for the removal, Terri's feeding tube was removed by court order. Governor Jeb Bush (FL) stepped in and the feeding tube was reinserted.

Michael Shiavo continued his battle to end Terri's life. By now, no doubt, his babies' mama (the mistress) was getting a bit impatient, and apparently, so was he. This time around, the courts struck down "Terri's Law", giving Michael what he wanted - the right to deny his wife food and water (the only "extreme measures" used to maintain her life, btw - no heart, lung or other assistance). She needed no more "life support" than you or I.

Michael refused to allow certain tests to be done that would have proven conclusively that Terri was either in a vegetative state or not. His "right to die" attorney and his "right to die" doctors (all who obviously believe they know better than the rest of us when our lives are no longer worth living), managed to convince the courts that Terri was in a PVS, even without the tests necessary to prove this conclusively. But of course, Michael (and his brother and sister) were the only witnesses to Terri's supposed claim that she'd rather die, and that was enough for the court - well, that and the fact that he was still married to her, so he held all POA.

Terri was a devout Catholic, yet Michael wouldn't allow the priest to give her a last communion (because it would constitute sustinence - you know, that mouthful of the fruit of the vine might extend her life longer than necessary).

Morphine was given to Terri because she cried and moaned during the 13 days she starved to death (though Micheal swears she was too brain damaged to feel anything).

At the end, Michael was still so mad at Terri's family for trying to save their daughter's life that he refused to allow them to be with her and hold her hand at the moment of her death.

And when it came time to bury her - as a Catholic would wish to be - he decided to have her cremated instead ('cause, you know, it's about 1/5 of the price of a pauper's burial without cremation). Not only did he disrespect Terri's religious convictions, but the prick bastard refused to even allow Terri's family to take part in a memorial service or tell them where she was buried after the fact.

When all was said and done, Michael Shiavo had more to gain from Terri's death than her life. More to gain from remaining married to her until her death, rather than just giving her back to her parents and going on with his own life (with all her money, which he could have had). He was nothing short of a spiteful, hateful, control freak S.O.B., greedy and vengeful to the bitter end.

Now why have I rehashed the Terri Shiavo case?

Right after she died, I consoled myself by telling myself that perhaps she was better off - perhaps she really didn't have a chance to get better, and if nothing else, at least she was in a better place now. But after reading about Donald Herbert, Tracy Gaskill and Sarah Scantlin - all people whose medical conditions were either similar or worse than Terri's initial condition (before Michael Shiavo won the settlements and then cut off all therapy that might improve her condition) - I realize I was wrong.

I guess I was warring with myself over believing that our judges and society would allow a woman to be starved to death for the sake of an adulterous husband's convenience alone. But when you consider that Terri was NOT brain dead, and that Herbert, Gaskill and Scantlin - people who were very much like Terri - made remarkable recoveries against the medical odds, who are we to say that Terri couldn't?

When all is said and done, none of us know for sure. Even medial experts don't know all there is to know about the brain and its ability to heal.

It's one thing to remove the life support from someone with no brain activity. In this case, almost everyone would agree that keeping someone with no brain activity on life support is futile, and there's no chance of any sort of recovery.


But to allow a woman to be starved to death when there is brain activity, when she did respond well to therapy and her condition improved, and when none of the tests were done that could prove conclusively that she was in a PVS, sends human civilization back a thousand years, to a time when the weak and defenseless were considered a blight and were abandoned in the wild, to starve and die alone.

Is this really what we've become?

As I was searching for various information on Terri Shiavo, I came across some very insightful and thoughtful blog entries by author Holly Lisle: The Value of a Bed (rated R for profanity) , Killing Grandma for Fun and Profit.

You can also read the opinion of Terri's guardian ad litem, Richard L. Pearse, Jr, appointed by the court in 1998.