Mancation: A celebration of testosterone, filth, sports and libations. Once a year my husband and several other accomplished men willingly relinquish their intellectual faculties and personal hygiene for four days and gather at random football stadiums around the country in celebration of their third eye, The Sports Oracle, and their inner child–who is, at best, an early 13. It’s a small sacrifice and it makes my husband very happy, so it is one I willingly make. Not in the passive-aggressive way we wives have, “Yeah. Whatever. Go ahead, it’s fine.” In a genuine way. “Go, have the most fun you can possibly have without ending up in jail, getting in a fight, or costing us any more money than already budgeted. Come back ready to wipe rears and fold laundry.”
(My brother-in-law Joe, personifying the spirit of mancation)
Now my husband travels frequently, so this is usually not a huge shock to the system. However weekends are always a challenge even with both of us home. I should mention, we have three small children: Mads, seven; Liam, four; and Noah, our special-needs kiddo who is six, and has severe mitochondrial disease, intestinal dysbiosis and iatrogenic brain and central nervous system damage. I guess I could have titled this, “What the Moms of Special-Needs Kids Do While Their Men Are Away,” but with over 50% of kids diagnosed with chronic illness or obesity in America we hardly feel special any longer.
So here’s the play by play…
Thursday a.m. Husband does morning duty. I do all the cooking; he does all the squeezing, loving, book bag packing, diaper changing and dressing for our son with iatrogenic autism (brain and central nervous system damage and autoimmune compromise). Everyone heads off to school, and I get a big appreciative hug and a sloppy kiss from the positively giddy hub. Niiiiice. I’m a good wife (pats self on the back and notes that shaving legs would be a good idea this weekend).
Thursday noon. Husband on flight to random stadium — somewhere in the south is the best I can come up with when asked.
Thursday pm. Children home. Our behaviorist, Kelly, arrives to help with our son Noah at 6:00. Dinner finishes, bath starts, two neurotypical children who are a bit whiny and quarrelsome fed, but other than that just another night at casa de Goes. Applaud myself on the clean kitchen. Prepared, indeed.
Friday. Much like Thursday, except, our Noah is very distracted. Stimmy. Quick to scream. Kelly gives him a ride home from school and he clocks her in the dome with his shoes. He screams the entire ride, which is 20 minutes on a good, low traffic day. He is very agitated. Emotionally extreme. Very little impulse control. Kelly and I fret. Mads and Liam retreat into my bedroom and shut the door, saying, “Mom his screaming is making us CRAZY!” Kelly and I try to get Noah to assign his feelings and needs to the words he is learning. He is stimming hard on fans something we have not seen in months. Now, Kelly is truly amazing. Her career in bringing children out of the haze of autism has just begun, and I have no doubt many children will shed their labels under her compassionate tutelage. She loves my son and she is changing his life. But she has to leave. I am on my own. I got this. I put the kids to bed with a prayer that all goes smoothly. Noah is still not himself, but I am hopeful. I check in with the Thinking Moms, enjoy some side-splitting banter, grab a glass of wine and retire with a historical novel about the Arapahos. I love wine and I love American-Indian history (the real kind, not the winner’s version). I’ve had this book for four years and so far I have averaged a page a year. Still, ever the Thinking Mom… I am hopeful.
Noah finally settled down. A side effect of his iatrogenic brain damage, central nervous system damage and autoimmune compromise is a horrible skin condition that many doctors have had a very hard time diagnosing accurately. While certain steroids bring it under control, the brevity of relief is almost not worth the side effects of the steroid. This night the condition worsened. I waited until he fell asleep to apply some salve to relieve it, something I normally do. When he’s out I cut his hair, his nails, wash his feet, put on his medicines, wipe the biofilm off his rear end and every other thing that he does not tolerate during his waking hours. But, tonight, within two minutes of applying the salve he woke screaming and ran into my room. He was delirious jumping on the bed, the moisture from the cream in his hands shouting, “Why! Why? Mama! It hurts, WHY!?!?!” He hugged me hard, and I paced carrying his 60-lb kicking frame, trying to figure out what I’d done differently or wrong. “Let me see buddy! Please, let me see.” The gaping sores were slimy wounds, heat emanating off of them. Noah tends to develop sensitivity to any medicine or food he imbibes regularly. It is a comorbid condition of his iatrogenic autism (brain, central nervous system and immune system compromise). We are currently trying to determine if he is allergic to his own histamine. Something his own body produces. Our life is an ongoing quest to provide this boy with relief, so the fierce intellect we see burning beneath his sickness can emerge. An hour later I was able to calm him until he awoke coughing to the point of dry-heaving at 3:00 am. He went back to sleep until 7:00.
Saturday. Ready! “Okay kids… we are getting dressed, going to Starbucks, picking up Ms. Shannon, our lovely behaviorist of the day, and heading to Whole Foods! (Shannon runs our home program.) Then, we are going to come home, put away the groceries, do the laundry, clean out the pantry and take Mads to her friend’s birthday party.” Kids dressed in no time. Breakfast downed. Mads is suddenly crying and asked to talk to me in my closet — where all meaningful girl talk happens. “Mom… does Ms. Shannon have to come to the party?” “No, silly, she is just helping us on our outing with Noah, why?” “Because I don’t want people to know we need to have people with us to go out.” “What do you mean?” I asked. She knotted her skirt and looked away.
“Because … I’m nervous people will make fun of him.”
Is this Fight Club? The sudden impact of her words left me feeling like I’d been sucker punched. I wanted to slap her and hug her at the same time. “I know I shouldn’t feel this way!” Now she was angry at herself. She’s seven. Her brother hits her sometimes, screams at her, and pees on her pink princess bed.
“Are you really nervous for Noah or more afraid of what people think? “ She reflected and replied, “You know **** at school?” “Yes.” I responded. “I know she would say something. She can be mean. She can be so mean.” She went on to give me examples of the meanness. It was more show-off stuff and bad manners than mean. “You know she has tight underwear and that’s why she’s so crabby—nana told you, remember?” She laughed and softened, so I could deliver the blow. “Mads, Noah is your brother. I know you love him with all you are. Just like Daddy and I love each of you the same and with our whole hearts. Whatever anyone ever says about the way Noah is, or who we have helping him… that’s their problem. I know it can hurt. I know it’s wrong. But, it’s their problem. Maybe **** doesn’t know how to make right choices yet. But, you should pray for her, okay?” She was still concerned but nodded skyward and rolled her eyes as she dried them. Nowhere near resolved, but we had to go. “Mooooooom!” Liam yelled. I emerged to find him hovering over Noah who’d just dumped over all four loads of clean laundry I’d just folded. He sat on a pile of towels throwing underwear and mated socks into the air.
FOCUS.
Two minutes later everyone was brushed, coiffed and buckled. While they may not love Whole Foods, they do love Ms. Shannon, so they were ready. I picked her up and we were our way. Some moaning and itching from Noah, but mostly a peaceful ride. I told Ms. Shannon all about what Mads had said and she said **** should come to our house for a playdate so she could see how amazing Noah really is. This is why we love Ms. Shannon. Arrived at Whole Foods at approximately 10:00 a.m. ready to shop. The tension of the morning’s conversation had all but dissolved. Noah was a champ. Mads and Liam were… dare I say, delightful? At one point, Noah goosed a lovely African-American woman. She turned around and said, “Bet you got a handful son!” “He enthusiastically smiled and said, “Hi, you!” Shannon notated it on her clipboard and informed this patient woman that he does not bestow his affection so easily, so she must be special. This beautiful woman reminded me a sense of humor not only makes life livable, it makes it Holy.
We passed the meat counter with nary an incident. Even forgot reusable bags in the car and had to go back for them. No issues. Forgot something in dairy. Had to go back. No issues. Checked out to the tune of $359.86. No issues (except the obscene cost of non-poisonous food). Ride home, bliss. Parting ways with Ms. Shannon proved a challenge, but nothing a little iPhone time couldn’t fix. Fed them lunch, unloaded groceries, took Mads to the party. Everything was moving right along.
I set the boys up with some fruit and It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown! While I tackled our discombobulated pantry. Stacking water bottles, archiving spices, I started to feel tightness in my chest. But, the doorbell rang, so I didn’t grab my inhaler just then. I answered the door. My friend breezed in and picked up the bag of groceries I’d gotten for her. Locking the door behind her I wondered where my inhaler was. The phone rang. Answered it. Now for that inhaler…
“Moooooom!” Liam screamed from the top of the stairs while I was digging through my purse. “Noah is eating all the toothpaste!” I ran up the stairs and wrestled the two tubes from his hands. He laughed and ran into his room, smelling of poop. It was then that I noticed he’d gotten a bag of rice chips (verboten) and he’d also sneaked a few water bottles from the pantry. Several bottles were overturned and emptied near his bed and on the catwalk. I was so preoccupied with the messes, I quite literally forgot to breathe. But, now, I had no choice. The tightness was only allowing me to take big strangled gulps of air in without really exhaling. The wheeze had all but taken over.
I hobbled down the stairs to my purse, finally finding the inhaler. Two drags and nothing. I crawled up the steps and to my bathroom to find my prednisone. Popped two and left them on the counter while I rooted around in the linen closet for my nebulizer. I brought it down to the kitchen so I could be near the boys as I gave myself a treatment. One treatment. Still not better. Two treatments? Worse.
I convinced myself in just a few moments everything will kick in. I tracked Noah down and changed his diaper. He had stripped off all his clothes. Liam was watching Charlie Brown and flipping all the couch cushions over. “Buddy, put those back.” I whispered. He looked at me mischievously. Liam is our intuitive child. “Come and get me!” He smiled so nervously, it broke my heart. He was willing me to be okay. “Buddy, listen to mama, okay?” “I’ll put the cushions back.” He said through his eyebrows.
I sat on the steps and assessed the situation: husband gone, brother-in-law gone, my mom-in-law at a retreat, my father-in-law speaking at a church function. My friend who just left? On her way to Indiana. My other friends live clear across town. Neighbors at a hockey game. I had to pick up Mads in an hour. Why was my medicine not working!? I have had asthma since I was one. I know how to manage it. I know how to calm myself. But, Noah, sensing the shift in power and energy, became a whirling dervish. Lunch plates tossed in the air, the remains of their meals, shredded. Eating rice chips. Stripping beds. Running throughout the home flicking all the ceiling fans on and off. Spitting out food. Tearing apart paper and styrofoam. Spilling and walking through Epsom salt. His frantic destruction and my inability to do anything about it began to set Liam off. “Mom! He’s on your dresser! Mom, he flipped over my toy chest! Mom he’s in the bathroom!” Now, this one scared me and to death. Prednisone on the counter. I lurched forward to retrieve him but for the first time in my career as a mom, I simply could not mother. I could not move, having to use every resource to concentrate on preserving my breath. But there didn’t seem to be any left. I was starting to see those weird spots in my vision as my neck muscles tightened. Liam was pacing around me, pretending to play, watching me like a hawk. I pretended to breathe, smiled for his benefit, while I prayed to hear Noah’s footsteps or verbal stims, and reached for the phone.
Sidenote: When you have a child with iatrogenic autism there is not one moment they can be left unattended. Not. one. moment. There is no, “Oh, he’s playing in his room,” or “They’re fine, they’re just playing a game or watching a movie, or in the yard, or in the basement.” Every minute that child is in your presence you must be active, trailing, guiding, walking alongside, running after, blocking or monitoring him or her. Please understand this when you go in for your next well-baby visit. It is very much like the vigilance you had over your newborn. Constant attachment. Constant care. Only babies who fall victim to iatrogenic autism grow, learn to walk and sometimes talk, but still have ZERO regard for their own safety.
Within moments of me dialing 911 paramedics arrived. Finally an albuterol treatment that was working. “Please find my son.” I said finally. They were calm as they ordered me to take deep breaths. Neither one of them moved, though. “Oh is he in the house? Does he have a favorite hiding place?”
“I think he is in my bathroom upstairs and that’s where my prednisone is. I left it on the counter.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. Just try to hold the medicine in and take deep breaths.” I have had so many of my legitimate health concerns for this child dismissed by doctors with the phrase, “I’m sure he’s fine,” that, I felt the burning physical reaction to the words. My heart pounded furiously from the albuterol and the ignorance.
“He has autism. He’s in a diaper. He has no clothes on. He’s six.” A tear ran down my face, as I spoke to their backs. I heard them talking to each other, “Not in the bedrooms. Not in the basement. Not in the garage.” Now the paramedics were starting to wonder. Maybe mom’s not overreacting after all. I heard them singsong his name. “No—ahh! Where are you buddy?” God, is all the world ignorant to this affliction that is devouring the brains of so many of our sick, sick children? “He has AUTISM! He will not respond to his name.” Full deep breathing was restored and accompanied by a maternal adrenaline surge. All the machines I was hooked up to trailed behind me as I grabbed the tank supplying air and padded through the house to find my son.
Instinct told me the garage, and that’s where I found him–in the trunk of my car, with poop cascading down his bare legs. The rice chips. Immediate fall out. Gluten free. Dairy free. Not soy, or “natural flavors” free. Treats for the other kids. Treats he knew how to find, because he knew I was weak. My guard was down. I looked away. Constant vigilance. Constant. Like a soldier in a bunker. Without it, you lose every time. I picked him up along with the albuterol mask and carried him into the bathroom. I knelt on the floor to change his diaper, still dragging puffs of medicine while the two paramedics stood by watching. Copious amounts of yellow bile flowing out of this child, his legs bloodied and pussed from toxicity. No questions, just confounding comments. “Wow, how’d we miss him?”
The same way 98% of our medical community misses vaccine injury, you jackasses. You’re not REALLY looking!
The mainstream still calls the state of Noah’s bowels “toddler diarrhea.” Since they don’t count kids under 12 in the current autism statistic of 1 in 88, maybe that means they can be toddlers until they are 12 by the Center for Disease Control’s standards? So it will clear up in another six years. I can’t wait.
One of the EMTs looked at my prescription for albuterol and noted it wasn’t albuterol at all, it was ipratropium bromide. He questioned why a doctor would prescribe that for me, given my medical history of severe asthma. I wish I knew. I wish I paid more attention to myself to be perfectly honest. I thought the commitment to shave my legs was a big self-indulgent treat. I spend so much time checking rechecking, testing retesting and monitoring Noah’s doctors, since doctors made him sick in the first place. Do I really have to do it for my doctors too? Maddening.
I signed that I didn’t need to go to the hospital. Rounded up my boys and headed to pick up Mads at the party. I was literally high from the miasma of albuterol, black coffee, and prednisone. I talked a mile a minute, apologizing right and left for my tardiness, and shuffled my pink prima donna into the car. She prattled on about the party: how cool her friend’s room is because she has bunk beds and they have a homework chart on their fridge – why don’t we do that? Why don’t we do any number of the hundreds of things “normal” families do? “I don’t know babe, I don’t know…”
We settled in for movie night and cleaned up. The side effects of the medicine had me wide awake until 4:00 a.m.
Sunday a.m. “Good morning, kiddos! Time to get dressed and eat breakfast! Today we are going to the Immediate Care Clinic so mom can get the right medicine for her nebulizer!” Not the easiest sell, but—what choice did they have?
Once Noah saw the building he panicked. While he walked in without fleeing (huge progress!), he screamed repeatedly, “NO! No blood today! No, mama!” A nurse took pity on me and offered to let the kids sit in the lobby while I was seen by the doctor. He screamed the entire 15 minutes we were there. After checking my pulse, the nurse said asthma and allergies are terrible now, her daughter suffers greatly and nothing seems to help her. The doctor told me the same thing about her brother. Of course, I know why this happening. If you are reading this and you are a thinking parent, you know why, too. But, don’t ya sometimes get sick of educating the people you pay to heal you? I decided I’d been through too much this weekend to bother with them. They’ll come around. Or not.
I walked out with the prescription I told them to give me. It’s been my experience, with the medical profession, paying customers get exactly what prescription they want. Whether it’s what they need or not.
My mother-in-law stopped in for a glass of wine and my husband followed shortly after. I told them the sordid story of our adventures, and we did what our family does. We laughed. I was so grateful to see the whites of adult eyes nothing could have ruined my mood.
Epilogue…
Since I have been writing in this manner, telling my family’s very real truths, I receive many kind messages of loving support. I appreciate that, but, what I appreciate more is people going out into the world and telling my story. Because, it is not just my story—it is the story of many American families. Trust me. I am in your neighborhood if you would just open your eyes. Some of these families do not have husbands coming home. For some, it is the wives who give up and walk out. The rigors of iatrogenic autism can crush the most substantial souls. Often these families do not have in-laws and friends checking in on them. They do not have $359.86 to spend on clean food. They don’t have a house to search because they live with autoimmune compromised and ailing children in a one-bedroom apartment. They, more often than not, are without the means to pay for a Kelly or a Shannon. My weekend crisis is their daily life. Some of them, because they receive government aid, are forced to vaccinate their sick children, when they know very well the harm and in some cases DEATH, it may cause. Instead of writing me, please go out into your communities and find these families. Serve them. LISTEN to them. Represent them. DEFEND THEM. Recently an acquaintance said to me, “I have a friend who should talk to you. Since her son got diagnosed with autism she cancels plans and forgets playdates. It’s like her head is in the clouds.”
Quite the contrary. She is wide awake. She is learning the medical system we so willingly surrender our children to is actually harming an incredibly large subset of them. She is drowning in an ocean of medical terms, learning about biofilm, nagalese, cytokines, mito cocktails, intestinal bugs, IVIG, antibodies, mast cells, and vaccine clears. She is reading Evidence of Harm, the Eli Lilly Rider and the Simpsonwood transcripts. She’s learning the truth about our country—that the most heavily vaccinated populations have the most dead and neurologically ill children to explain away. Every time her kid drinks a glass of milk he gets spacey and has weird bowel movements. But, how is that possible—it’s just milk? In her world, nothing is just anything anymore. She is trying to keep her head above water and save her child. She doesn’t sleep. She doesn’t plan anything besides his healing. She does not mean to offend you. She doesn’t even think about you. Do not judge her. Offer to help and support her. Please.
~ The Rev
To read more blogs by The Rev, Click Here.
My first time posting.
You rock, momma! Please keep sharing – some people think autism is just a brain difference, and that we should just accept it. these people hear the word “autism” and think of Sheldon on Big Bang or Abed on community. They have no clue. Thanks for telling it like it is.
I completely agree it is shameful how little most people know about autism. Paramedics should know about autism- good grief.
okay….My official stalking of you starts now. It’s out of my control. Autism made me do it 🙂
Wow! That was some story!! I know, only one of many though.
Rooting for Noah’s progress & that he moves another step up the ladder, even if one foot at a time and in our world, one toe at a time! Lol I’d love to write a longer comment but I am actually in my car and I gotta drive home now to give my son the rest of his supplements for today. 🙂
Much love to you, Rev. You Thinkers keep me going!
Praying alongside you, too. Good thing there’s no autism in heaven. <3
I too saw the teaser on Facebook and have to say despite some GREAT news at our IEP Friday, I cannot for the life of me, forget your sons “why”. I worry that there are countless other children in constant pain with no one trying to help us. Every night since I read this, I have thought about your son, our plight, and how our children are ill and need help. We read so much at our guys diagnosis trying, struggling to understand what was happening, not able to comprehend the fact that no one wanted to help TREAT our children. The research all pointed to Immune issues that mimicked autism. There is no way this is autism. Our kids are suffering from a barrage of environmental insults eating away at an already compromised immune system. We found a doctor, Dr. Michael Goldberg, that decided to treat kids immune issues in simple, straightforward medical applications, with little risk to the child. He gave it a name Neuro Immune Dysfunction Syndrome (NIDS) and began treating our kids as though they were ill. Guess what…it got results. One year, he said, until our child would begin thriving again. He was right. Our gut issues are gone…completely (wth?…yeah!). He is healthier than he has been since this all began. I swear I am not a zealot, but there are people out there that are trying to genuinely help without just putting a band-aid on it or putting our kids at risk by trying things that are potentially causing more harm. Please check his Youtube video out. I’m sure you’ve already scanned every bit of research out there and will find that it supports his theories (dad/dh has a bio-chem B.S. and scrutinized it for weeks before we had to accept that it was sound). I would love to have a chat with anyone who is interested in knowing about our journey and know many other moms who are treating their kids in the same way and would be more than willing to talk with anyone who is interested. We hear you momma’s and feel your pain. More importantly, we wan’t to help. Feel free to contact me at any time. Sending you all warm wishes and healing thoughts. :0)
I’m speechless and so moved… love to you and to all the families that deal with this on a daily basis.
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Wow!!! My sister told me when I first learned I was pregnant there would be no blue ribbons. If I gained the right amount of weight, had natural childbirth, losing the weight, getting your child potty trained, getting your child to eat healthy, having a polite kid……. NONE!! I hate that she was so right. If only there were, you would have many coming!! God bless you and your family.
Talk about a reality check! I read this harrowing column just after hearing Marie McCormick’s remarks in a videotaped Nov. 2 presentation at the Harvard School of Public Health.
http://theforum.sph.harvard.edu/events/trust-vaccines
McCormick stated today, “There is no evidence I know of that immunization alters anything in the expression of autism…. What I think IS important is that the evidence clearly suggests that these children are far more vulnerable to infectious diseases than children who do not have neurodevelopmental disabilities.”
It’s appalling how these pedant dinosaurs gather and reinforce each others’ comfort statements, quoting compromised and irrelevant studies, unaware they’re revealing their utter disconnect from countless families’ empirical evidence of vaccine injuries. At least these videos exist for posterity when they are replaced by a newer generation less invested in profitable lies.
Wow, I suffer from panic attacks so I know the feeling of not being able to breathe perfectly well 🙁 Thank you for sharing, Rev
I am stunned.
And I will share this.
Amen Rev!
I was in Pittsburgh with the boys a couple years ago when I got my first kidney stone attack. I didn’t know it was a kidney stone at the time –never had one before. And being a medical person I went for the worst case, right? I was thinking bowel obstruction… surgery… *maybe* appendix –after all, my brothers was in the wrong place. I tried to sleep and ignore the pain –b/c it will go away right?
Finally at 11 p.m. I called my mom –2 hours away. “You have to come down here, I had to call an ambulance, I don’t know what is wrong.”
I have cousins down there who were 30 minutes away. I could not wait one more minute. The morphine they gave me wasn’t working.
So my cousin was on his way but that would be 30 minutes. He did NOT know my kids well. He had about zero autism experience. My parents would make it about 2 hours after him. So for 30 minutes I was leaving my kids with the security guard at the hotel. –You have to know how much pain I was in to do that, right? To leave Gavin with a stranger?
I gave that guy a look that said, “I WILL CUT YOU” I explained in a few words that Gavin is autistic, that he is NOT culpable if he does anything “bad”. That this experience might make him agitated and violent. To please “just deal with it”.
He did great with Gavin and Liam –thankfully Liam was there to “translate” for his brother. Liam was 5 at the time. In charge.
My cousin managed. My parents finally got there.
I do like to take the boys on road trips. NOW I only go places where I know other people!! lol And I have lots of phone numbers of friends along the way.
Feel better Mama! And Hang in there.
<3
My heart is pounding and my eyes are welled. My heart goes out to you and all families dealing with these issues. Committed to sharing your story as you requested. America needs to know we are sickening our kids and it’s got to stop! Thank you for sharing your story. ~ Michelle Ford
Again left breathless with your ability to share your life, experience and wisdom.
I will definitely share this post.
Ana
I tell your story. I tell my story. Sometimes people listen and ask questions. More often than not, they think I’m nuts. Vaccines could not possibly hurt children. They are safe… the doctors, pharma, government say so. I know you get more flies with honey, but there isn’t time to sugar coat this. I just want to scream over and over , “Wake the fuck up people!” Your message is always amazing. I wish I could put you on prime time TV so everyone can see the life of autism.
This makes me so sad (and angry!). Childhood should be a special time filled with adventures and fun and learning, not a world filled with endless tortures. Every day I question why more people can’t see the truth of what is going on. When did it become normal and acceptable for nearly every person we know to be suffering from chronic and often severely debilitating illnesses, especially the youngest among us? THIS IS NOT NORMAL. IT IS NOT ACCEPTABLE. It has happened within my short lifetime. I’m only 43 years old, and it was not this way when I was a child. For crying out loud, peanut butter sandwiches were served in my elementary school cafeteria twice a week, and back then not even one child that I knew had so much as a peanut allergy. Americans are obligingly being poisoned to death. It is happening quickly. And most people are clueless. I don’t know how to stop it, and when I talk about what I know to be true, my colleagues and friends think I’m crazy. I can see it in their eyes.
Love your post. Glad you got the right medicine. Hard to take care of our kiddos when we are so rundown. Got out of the shower last week and found my son on top of the car in the garage. Have you tried calmoseptine? You have to ask a pharmacist for it, but it does not require a prescription. It is a thick pink smelly cream, but it works incredible wonders where the skin has burned off from “toddler diarrhea.” Found out about it from a relative with Crohn’s disease. Our son was eventually diagnosed with Crohn’s via his autism GI given the twelve ulcerative lesions that showed up via pill cam only.
Thanks for posting! Concerning the skin condition: in our case, the OTC cream Cera-Ve, recommended by a good dermatologist, helps better than steroid creams. And also, can I translate your post into Russian and post on my webpage, so that Russian moms can also read it?
Please hang on there! (hugs)
This one is so totally getting linked over from my blog today. And people wonder why i’m always so tired adn don’t do social crap anymore.
L.J. I got to the paragraph where you were sitting on the steps and assessing the situation, and I literally fell apart. God help us all. I am so thankful for you and for this amazing gift that you have- the ability to write about your life and and make us feel as though we are right there in the house with you. That gift is so valuable in our community, because when you read it, you cannot help but WAKE UP. I’m going to need a few moments to recover from this one today. I am praying for you, for Noah, for Mads, for Liam…and FOR US ALL. Love you so much!!!
Thanks for all you do. This is a reality. Most people have no clue. Please keep sharing.
I was supposed to be working but, lured in by the Facebook teaser, I clicked on this link and read it to the end. And. Now. I. Am. Breathless. Too. Aside from powerful writing, you have an extraordinary gift of personhood, a saint-like stamina that makes it hard for anyone who’s not in a situation like this to comprehend. Only I know from reading other great works by you that you don’t consider yourself a saint–which is the case of saints. They don’t see themselves that way. They just keep going. They just keep fighting for what’s right because they have to. They have to because something inside them tells them they can’t stop while others suffer.
I’m going to paste the link to this on my own wall in hopes that others will read it. AND THINK TOO. Think about all our sick children. Think about how lucky they are that their own kids are only allergic to cats, or milk, or ragweed rather than, than, you know, what mothers like you are going through. Sure, they know allergies and autoimmune diseases are on the rise. They see the incredible epidemics of ALS, GBS, and adult and childhood cancers in their own families, neighborhoods, schools, and among their friends. But THEY DON’T CONNECT THE DOTS. They just keep getting their vaccines and accepting that fevers and seizures are normal, and diarrhea is too, and allergies and asthma and, aw shucks, cancer and ALS and GBS. You know. All that stuff that just happens for no reason.
Part of my job involves helping people connect the dots. Every day I search through the Internet dungeons of medical literature archives, digging up more and more and more evidence that those who are supposed to help us are actually doing more harm than good. But why? Why are they doing this? Why do they keep telling us the Emperor has clothes on when they know he doesn’t? WHY? as Noah so aptly put it. WHY? I. Don’t. Know. All I know is not enough people are questioning why, because if everybody wanted to know why, I’m positive a lot of this would stop in its tracks.
I’m now on my own inhaler, Advair. I have to take it every day, as well as keep my emergency inhaler close by. Thank God I won’t be using the emergency inhaler this month as much as I have been because the farmer across the road, who grows GM soybeans and corn, is done harvesting. I always know without looking when he’s started harvesting because my husband and I cough and wheeze the entire time he’s doing it, the whole time asking, why? Why? Why do we have to go through this every harvest season? It didn’t used to be this way. It only started when he started planting GM seeds. How do we know he’s gone GM? He puts out those little signs informing you so, that’s how. But now he’s done with the harvest, and he’s finished tilling over the pesticide/herbicide-laced roughage, and he’s planted rye for the winter. He’s also put away his equipment–the machinery he flies a skull-and-crossbones flag from–no kidding–during every harvest season. One year I actually a photo of it, too show in full living color the satire in the midst of my coughing and wheezing.
But the important thing is, for the winter, I won’t need my emergency inhaler as much. Let me say that again: as much. I have to qualify it because, as I write this, the beautiful morning I woke up to has just turned to clouds. Why? as Noah would say. Let’s just put it this way: I work from home. In my own little office. Unlike other office workers, I get to see the weather from my window. It’s weather that changes constantly, often in a minute. Yes, a minute, like now, as I watch snow-white clouds turn pinkish-salmon, then gray, then dark as the chemtrails crisscross the sky above.
And I want to know WHY. Why do they get away with this? Why do I have to sit below this stuff and breathe whatever it is they’re spraying up there? Why do I have to go through this again and again and again, especially since I was a victim of the government’s cadmium drops in Fort Wayne, Indiana when I was a little girl in the early 1960s? WHY?
I know I don’t live very far from Noah, and the Thinking Mom who wrote the incredible piece above, and, as I grab for my inhaler–I’m going to need it pretty quickly here– I can’t help thinking that her asthma is probably as tied to these chemtrails as mine is because they’re probably floating over and Noah right now, too.
And I just can’t help thinking WHY? Thanks for posting, LJ. I’d almost forgotten why God put me on this Earth. I’m in a position to help you tell Noah’s story, and to not only help him demand an answer to his WHY, but demand that others begin asking WHY too. There’s no legitimate excuse for this, none whatsoever. No explanation on Earth, no “for the greater good” reason is good enough for all these sick children, all the sick people that are growing sicker by the day. I personally know too many vaccine-injured people. I’m one of them. I also know too many people who have succumbed to ALS. And I’m mad. Just. Plain. Mad. Why? Because I’m upset that a little boy I’ve never even met has to even ask WHY he’s so sick, and WHY it won’t stop.
C’mon folks. Noah’s WHY needs to be screamed from the rooftops of every single household in this country, in this world. Now back to work I go, with renewed energy because I need to help a little boy not only understand why, but to make it stop.
LJ,You. Are. Amazing! Thank you. I am that mom, doing it by myself. Disabled, myself. On government assistance and fighting not to vaccinate my children. It has been difficult, to say the least, to try to take care of my heart, when my focus is trying to get LoRenzo to come out and LaRie to feel like she’s not invisible. Guilt is a mainstay. I feel guilt about my son’s illness, that I held him down to receive. Guilt that I cannot afford anything to recover him which leads to guilt that I neglect my daughter because my tool of recovery is me every minute, a teachable moment with my son, hoping with my whole heart he retains what’s been learned. I’m exhausted, everyday and I’m reclusive so I won’t be judged on my appearance or my home. My kids are clean and happy no matter what my state is and the last thing I need is judgment on what I should be doing to further my son’s recovery and what lengths I should go to cuz believe me, if I was 20 yrs younger and 50 lbs thinner, a stripper pole and sugar daddy would totally be acceptable ways to boost my income. I’m doing what I can with what I have and prayfully it’s enough til we get our miracle.
Hugs, Diane
♥!
Much love to you Diane! I love reading your updates on your boy, and you’re on my prayer list.
Thank you! And I gladly accept all prayers!!! ♥