Part Sixty-Two: You Know What Burns My Ass?

Life On The Inside is an email newsletter about life with my son who has autism and who has been under house arrest since April 2023. You can sign up here:

Photo by Ricardo Gomez Angel on Unsplash

The payoff to that joke, “You know what burns my ass?” is “A flame, about this high.”

This morning the payoff is, “Mr. Lucky.”

First thing this morning, as soon as I’ve had half a cup of coffee and can sort of think straight, I call the ENT to see if they can take him sooner than 12:30. Shockingly, to me anyway, they answer the phone (it’s like 7:15 a.m.) and put me on a call list. Even more shocking, they call back pronto and say they can take him at 8:30. 8:30! This is good. He needs to be checked. Decisions need to be made. Oh happy day!!

Quickly, or as quickly as a 62 year-old who’s been up half the night with her other son whose back decided to flare up at 3 a.m. can move, I dash into his room to deliver the news.

“They can see you in half an hour!” I say joyfully but whisperingly as he is, after all, still asleep. “You need to wake up, now, my love.”

Am I greeted with, “Thanks, mom.”? Am I greeted with even an, “Ok.”? Oh no. No to the Hell no.

I’m greeted with “What??? Call back!!! Say we’ll be there at 12:30!!! Can’t you see I’m sleeping???”

Can’t you see I’m ready and willing to beat you to within an inch of your life, you ungrateful brat?

To be quite honest, I actually did say that. Yes. I am that mom. And I am tired. Very tired.

Mr. Rugby’s back flared up at 3 a.m. The pain running down his left leg was incredible. For the first thirty minutes, he wanted to “tough it out” while I begged him to take the pain medication he was prescribed.

Begged.

Begged, while he cried and cried out so hard and loud that Mr. Lucky emerged from his lair, cats in tow, to assess the situation.

“He needs a doctor.”

No shit, Sherlock. Go back to bed.

Finally I convinced Mr. Rugby that this was no time to be tough. It was not the time to power through. It was not the time to be a fucking martyr, for God’s sake. It was time to TAKE THE PILL!!!!!!

He relents. It takes awhile to kick in. He’s still crying and suffering and I, who was never good at getting up with either son for 3 a.m. feedings, am basically delirious with exhaustion.

I crawl in next to him. Finally, he falls asleep. I crawl back to my luxurious spot on the pullout sofa, and sleep for … half an hour? … before I hear him crying. In his sleep. I check on him. He is indeed asleep. And he is indeed crying.

And I’m awake.

Somehow I fall asleep and awaken at 7 a.m. It’s like I’m drunk. I make coffee and take it out on the deck. As I said, I called the ENT. Scored the earlier appointment. And start dealing with Mr. Lucky, all the while feeling like there’s cotton in my head.

But obviously not in my mouth.

Oh yes. I nearly killed him two and a half hours ago.

It’s going to be a long day.

BUT he’s fine!! We can go to Quest!!

Mr. Rugby’s gonna have to get himself to his cat scan tomorrow and the doctor the next day. I will not be here. I will be in Orlando. And, even though it’s early, I might just leave Mr. Lucky there.

Is it too early to start drinking?

---

Thank you for taking this long, strange trip with me. I appreciate you and your many comments and emails. If you’d like to read parts 1-61, you can do so here.