ok so i decided to add another one since its been several days and i still dont have an answer to my garage load of unanswered questions. i used to work, i enjoyed my job, take that back i loved my job. i worked with blind and multi handicapped children and i enjoyed every minute. even with all the scratches, pinching, biting, and hitting. i had a kid come at me with a pair of scissors, ive had a brick thrown at my head, and had to deal with the whole politics and ethics of a state job. it was more politics and light on ethics when it came to the hierarchy of working for the state. i felt belittled, and unappriciated, but then again what boss do you know that actually listens to their employees who know a hell of a lot more than the stuffed shirt and tie of a jerk they put in the leadership role. these people had never been down in the trenches, the only time they ever dealt with one of the kids was when they were being recognized for something. the whole point being i loved my job. i actually went back to work after i had my first son. so i worked the second shift job which my spouse seems to forget. i was in charge of the cooking, the cleanings, the feedings the bathing and diaper changing. i rocked my boys to sleep and went without days of sleep when they were sick. i was the one that worried about their being raised by a mother and a father that put in about 10 percent of the relationship. he was there smiling for the christmas pictures which i had to drag him too, and had to fill him in on all the firsts the boys were going through. i could understand the point that he worked second shift, and i understod the point that he worked a factory job and was on his feet alot during the evening. i was thankful to my parents who let us move into their house when i had my first back surgury, and all hubby worried about was who was going to change the crapie diaper when my mom wasnt here and i was confined to the bed. i mired through it. several weeks after my surery i was back in charge much to his relief. he would make me feel bad because he had to take his vacation days when i had my surgery. on my moms days off he was out the door you could see the smoke coming from his heels. i had to go to rehab for my back about 2 months after the surgery 1 month into that while on the treadmill my leg went numb and i was flat down on my face, in total disbelief that i couldnt feel my leg. back to the neurosurgeon i went. this time it was worse. i had my vertabre fused with 2 long thick pieces of titanium screwed into my spine with 6 screws that looked like the drywall screws my dad used to hang board for a living. the rehab was 10 times worse, the pain was unbearable but as long as i could sit in a chair i could hold an infant and feed him. i also learned to change a diaper on my lap without moving any muscles from my shoulders down. i just pawned it off to paying pentance for him having to help take care of me while i was looped out of my mind on oxycontin. he was angry at me because of the pain meds but if i didnt take them i could not survive. i would actually fall asleep standing up and the next thing i know him and my mom were standing over me thinking i passed out. he wasso frustrated because he was having to do it all. couldnt i get a little bit of a break, i did it all before i knew i was gonna have to do it again. i was so scared that he would leave me and i knew how mad he was getting because he would come home from work to find me asleep outside in a chair burning a hole into my leg with the cigarette i was smoking. i was panicked and didnt know what to do. i was back to the doctor because i still had pain. the dose of oxy went up and added more meds onto that. i was sent to a pain specialist who put me through a series of epidural injections. i was petrified that he had just had too much i felt like such a burden but he would at least tell me, honey i meant every word of my vows in sickness and in health. i decided i needed to do something and it was gonna have to be drastic. i stopped taking my pain meds. days later i was rushed to the er because i swore i was dying, i was just withdrawl. something i would not wish upon any human being. but things seemed to just get worse. was i being punk'd or did i wrong someone in a former life...?
