My Sons, My Sons and the Makeshift Playroom

I have two sons. 

It was in the late 90s when a childless friend asked me during a hectic, weekday lunch, out of the blueish of blue, "Do you think I missed anything by not having kids?"

I answered him directly, "You love to travel. You went to places I didn't know exist. Travel with kids isn't always a possibility." 

But to myself, I silently shouted, "Hell, yes!" 

When my boys were young--one 7 and the other 2--I built them a playroom in our dingy basement with exposed pipes and a low ceiling, albeit high enough for them. Earl, my handyman, bought fluorescent lights and hangers that suspended them (that made the ceiling a teensy-bit lower). 

He bought a used television (he knew a guy) from which they would play video games. He installed a solid shelf for the television because boys will be boys. (If you don't know what that means, ask someone with two or more sons). 

He installed a heater/air conditioner unit because my thought process was it will be a 12-month to do. (And it was). He paneled part of it (my idea) and painted the rest (his idea) a soft yellow. And last, he installed a rug bought as a remnant but covered the whole floor because he made it fit. (The rug had 5 seams and Earl was good at math).

When it was finished, I brought the kids downstairs to see the outcome. It might have been put together cheaply, but it was the "playroom" and they loved it. 

Soon after, I built a 4x6 train set with fast-moving trains and railroad crossings and tiny people waiting on the platform in the playroom. Even though the planks of wood were wobbly (upper arm strength isn't my forte), it satisfied my sons.

I catered parties down in the playroom. Birthday parties, half-birthday parties, graduation parties starting with preschool. And more parties just for the sake of parties, many of them sleepovers. 

And then one by one, they left for college and stayed there after graduation in two respective different cities, both 6 hours from the house. That playroom existed as a monument to great, great times. 

It was followed by my bouts of depression and I asked the biggest question over and over again: Is that all there is? Sullen moods went on for a bunch of years until the youngest one graduated from college. And then a miracle happened a few years later. 

Both boys invited me, in the same year, as a guest visitor to see what they did for work. The older son, a Senior Programmer, showed me his workspace and explained in detail what he did to make things work and do what they did. My younger son, a Systems Administrator, showed me his workspace and what he did for networks, the lines of communication, to exist.

It was then I stopped thinking of them as children and moved on. 

My two sons were making a contribution and were self-sufficient. Isn't that what every parent wants? 

My stroke happened shortly after, and I knew, in all that despair, that my sons were going to be fine. Every time I thought that way, it led me to smile. 

Oxycodone and Me, a Failing (and Falling) Relationship

I last wrote the blog around Thanksgiving. And then I stopped altogether. Not because my ideas ran out. This post is now written and published, taking me 5 days in the process because of the pain when I sit too long. 

Let me give you the timeline and you'll see the consequences rather quickly, I imagine.

November 28: I had ear surgery because my eardrum had a hole in it caused by increasingly larger tubes to hear. The surgery was successful and the Oxycodone was effective to avoid the ear pain. 

November 28-December 5: I have a low tolerance for pain and took 7 to 9 Oxy tablets the first week to maintain my level of comfort. 

December 6-13: Then the second week 6 to 8. I wasn't a drug addict yet but on my way because, truth be told, because Oxycodone is a narcotic, and the rate of people taking taking too much narcotic(s) and dying is at epidemic proportions across all populations--the rich and poor, the professionals and the unemployed, the brain trusts and the brainless. Thus, I always asked myself, Am I in pain pain or is the pain tolerable? But I always opted for the Oxy because I had become chemically addicted. 

December 18: I was in the beginning of my third week taking Oxy as much as the second week when I fell to the floor around 1am and hit the end table next to my bed. I called my son to bring the key over to let the paramedics in on my iPhone, or what I call my lifeline. Then I called the paramedics and soon realized, in the post-surgery, perpetual state of Oxy-controlled haze, that I should go the hospital because I hit my head from a standing position and my ribs ached.

The ambulance, with sirens flashing, brought me to the hospital and while there, the ER doc ordered a CT scan of my head and X-rays. He gave me Tramadol and then Dilaudid to ease the pain. Then he gave me Oxycodone, the drug I had been taking following the ear surgery. The results of the tests showed my head wasn't affected, but 2, maybe 3 of my ribs were broken. The ribs take roughly 8 weeks to heal in a young person. Mine will take longer.

December 18-January 23: I ended up in the rehab facility across from the hospital. By the time I left the facility, I was down to 2 Oxycodones daily. Now I avoid them sometime because the pain is less and it is tolerable. I was chemically addicted and now 2 or less a day. I consider myself lucky, addicted-to-narcotics wise. 

January 23 to present: I returned home. My doc ordered 60 more Oxy just in case I still had ongoing pain. They're still waiting at the pharmacy. 

Of course, it was the Oxy that made me lose my balance and fall. I should have taken my time instead of going at my normal pace. But the Oxy operates differently. It makes the brain think it's invulnerable. 

Bottom line: I didn't read the brochure from the pharmacy that came with Oxycodone explaining the side effects like dizziness and the falling risk, but I should have. Oh, yeah. Lesson learned too late.