Polished

My meeting at the church went well. The two ladies were already there when I arrived, and the one I am less than comfortable with took Erik by the hand and left me alone with Marla, the woman who volunteered to assist our family on Sunday mornings. She was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and blond hair that threatened to touch her shoulders but flipped up at the ends instead. She listened to all that I had to say about my concerns and frustrations, looking at me thoughtfully through her glasses and nodding when appropriate. I told her that I would like Erik to attend the class with the other children his age if possible. My new author-friend Barbara told me to share the 60 Minutes DVD on Williams syndrome with others to explain our situation, so I produced it from my purse and handed it to her. I expressed our desire to attend church just every other week to start, and she instructed me to call her on Saturday nights to make arrangements. After our meeting, the three of us walked Erik down to the nursery, which was empty, and Erik played with some toys, placing his hands over his ears from time to time when encountering something unfamiliar that could potentially emit a loud noise. When it was time to go, he melted down in the hallway once the ladies rounded the corner. I was forced to carry my kicking, protesting boy out the front doors over a sheet of ice to the car.

I would be lying if I said Erik's behavior was improving. His tolerance for frustration or being told no is virtually nonexistent. Toilet training is practically impossible, as he refuses almost everything I offer him or suggest. By Friday of this week, I was millimeters from tears all day. Brian and I have talked about our reaction to his actions, and we both agree that using time outs and/or ignoring inappropriate behaviors, depending on the situation, seems to work best, as he is simply seeking attention. The time I spent with him Friday consisted of mostly one consecutive tantrum. He has even begun slapping himself when he is frustrated, and watching him do this saddens me beyond belief. Telling him to stop, of course, only intensifies the behavior, as he wants a reaction from me.

This morning I awoke with a headache. I called Lisa, my neighbor, and took her up on a previous offer to visit a nearby salon for a pedicure and eyebrow waxing, even though my heart wasn't completely in it. By the time I prepared to leave, I found myself more enthusiastic about our outing. We arrived as the place opened. This was a pleasant turn of events, as wearing flip flops in 40-degree weather is not one of my favorite pastimes. We ordered deluxe pedicures with leg massage, choice of aromatherapy, and hot towel wrap, although I was concerned that going from such an incredibly tense state to one of pure relaxation could potentially cause me to wet my pants in a public setting. Unfortunately, I am so horribly tense that I didn't come close to achieving the level of relaxation I was anticipating. It was quite pleasant, however. I chose orange-scented bath salts for my feet, as the scent of citrus always lifts my spirits. We turned our massage chairs on high, and the short man with bulldog-like features waiting on me began massaging my feet. I enjoyed his friendly banter but was horrified by his complete and total honesty. My pedicure ended up costing an additional five dollars because he strongly suggested some sort of acid peel for the calluses on my feet. When he saw my fingernails, which I eventually forgot about hiding, he recoiled, suggested a manicure, and then changed his mind, stating that perhaps acrylic nails were the way to go for me. I told him I would let him take care of my hands at a later date, as the top of my thumb is currently missing as the result of an unfortunate onion slicing accident. This is what happens when one is half tomboy, half girly-girl, I suppose. Lisa, of course, giggled with glee at his observations about me. I received a minor chemical burn from acid splatter on the back of my right calf, but my feet are now softer than a baby's buttocks. I requested the usual crimson polish for my toes, and he carefully slid my flip flops back onto my feet over my glossy nails.

We were then escorted by a tiny woman wearing pink sweatpants and plastic, leopard print heels into a very messy back room in which there was a massage table with some less than clean towels lying across it. Lisa, a veteran at this particular establishment, stretched out on the table, and I stood behind the woman in the tiny space while she applied wax, pressed on strips of muslin, and ripped them off with glee. In fact, she turned to display what she had removed from Lisa's face and said, "OOOOOH! So hairy!" Lisa, not a quiet woman by any means, huffed and said that half of what was smeared across the strip was eye makeup, not hair. The woman giggled and shook her head. I laughed loudly. Revenge is sweet. When my turn came, the woman went to work, efficiently ripping the excess hair from above my eyebrows. I was thankful I had taken Excedrin for my headache before leaving the house, as the last time I had my eyebrows done, I looked like Rocky Balboa after a nasty fight within an hour of leaving another salon. We finished the afternoon at a seafood restaurant. I sat in front of a plate of fish and chips, not caring how many points I was consuming because my pounding head demanded something greasy tout de suite, and a cold, sweating glass of chardonnay poured from a box behind the bar.

Tomorrow's adventure: Church.

The Basic Principles of Wound Healing

Healing from any wound isn't a pretty process, and it certainly doesn't happen overnight. After the initial insult, a good cut usually bleeds for a time. Hemostasis, or ceasing the flow of blood, is best achieved by directing attention to the wound and applying direct pressure. Most of us would then apply a clean bandage to a cut until it heals, not giving a second thought to the miraculous process occurring underneath the sterile dressing.

In my own opinion, my grieving has been similar. There was the initial wound afflicted by a panel of genetic experts in a stuffy examination room filled with ancient toys at a children's hospital. There were some tears that found their way through a thick fog of shock on the drive home, and I pretty much bled saltwater for months after that. I learned to care for my wound, hiding it from the outside world and keeping it protected from words or situations that would inflame or reopen it, disrupting the healing. Slowly but surely, healing occurred, but I had to care for my wound daily. Ignoring it only made it more infected eventually, even if it seemed fine for a few days. It is still a little tender at times, and, although my skin is much thicker than it used to be, I still avoid situations that may cause irritation. Am I afraid of pain? No. Taking a detour now and then to avoid it just makes life easier for me, and I choose not to torture myself by doing something that causes me more stress. As time passes, I find myself more able and ready to attempt things I once avoided.

I knew the initial stage of the healing process was complete the day I came out of early intervention parent group without tears on my face or acid in my stomach. Instead, I found myself walking calmly out into the fresh air holding two phone numbers -- one for a local salon that did pedicures and one for a spa where I could get my eyebrows waxed.

Oh, yes. I was going to be just fine.

I have always been half tomboy, half girly-girl. The tomboy half of me likes to have dirty, scarred hands for practical purposes and shrinks from the thought of having my ivory flesh kneaded like bread dough on a massage table or having my toenails painted with high-gloss polish. The girly-girl half of me desperately desires these things but has settled for whatever she can sneak by the tomboy half, which isn't much. My fingernails are painted occasionally, and I now almost always wear crimson toenail polish. Since I had Erik, I was coaxed into having my very first full-body massage, which was a little disturbing but something I would definitely do again. I take more bubble baths now in the giant, jetted tub that sat collecting dust for months after we moved into this house. The tomboy half of me has been my boot camp instructor. She has screamed at me to get up and face my fears when I felt like lying down and giving up. Now that I have gotten up, it's the girly-girl half who is just as persistent, telling me it's time to shine. She was the one who applied my lipstick every day, despite the fact the rest of me looked like death, as my tomboy half shoved me out the door to appointments with a basket full of unhappy baby. I need both halves, but these days, the tomboy side of me has relaxed a bit and let girly-girl take over.

This month I suddenly decided my eyebrows make me resemble Abe Vigoda. I dug the phone number I had scored from parent group out of the bowels of my purse and set up an appointment with Judy, another special needs mother who has her own business at her home. If my memory serves me correctly, I was told in parent group that her 16-year-old daughter has lissencephaly, a malformation of the brain that causes its surface to be smooth instead of convoluted. This often results in severe mental retardation, seizures, and poor control of movement. Her daughter lives in a hospital facility almost three hours away and apparently will be there for the remainder of her life. Judy spends half of her time in a rented room in the city near her daughter and half of her time here in town, tending to her son and her flourishing waxing/facial business.

The day of my appointment I dropped Erik at school, ran home to print out some correspondence I had transcribed for the ophthalmology offices, and printed out directions to find this little salon. It ended up being located in one of my favorite older neighborhoods in town filled with beautiful ranch-style homes and towering pine trees with ancient, fat trunks. I located the house but was early, so I drove to a nearby park, sat in my Jeep, and watched the leaves fall from the trees, spiraling through the morning sunlight. They were as big as my hand and slapped wetly against the hood of my vehicle. The ones that fell to the asphalt became almost transparent, like damp tissue paper. I glanced at my cell phone for the time and drove slowly back to the house, finding my way up the long driveway and parking in front of the garage. I followed a politely-worded sign and walked around the corner to find a tiny cottage with filmy, white curtains covering windows and French doors. Judy was making her way to the door at the same time, and we introduced ourselves. She ushered me in and showed me where to set my things on a wooden chair in the corner. She already knew I was a special needs mother, and she asked me about Erik's condition. She was familiar with WS but was surprised to learn about the intense anxiety that often accompanies it and Erik's own difficulties being in groups of other children. Most people tend to assume that kids with WS are always friendly and unafraid, as the social aspect of the syndrome is the focus of most articles. From what I understand, the social needs of people with WS stem from anxiety and the need to connect with others to calm themselves and gain acceptance.

She placed a thick towel at the foot of the bed in the small room for my feet and instructed me to lie down. The bed was heated and seemed to hug the contours of my back, and I instantly felt my muscles relax. There was only the sound of our voices in the small room. I was surrounded by the light filtering through the sheer curtains and romantic decor, including vases of dried flowers and shelves of skin treatments in pretty packaging. She began to talk about her daughter, and it was apparent to me that although she was open to voicing her opinion on this subject, she was likely being more honest than usual with me. She told me of women who couldn't understand why she tortured herself by spending time at the hospital every other week and how it would be best to "let go" of her daughter, as if she had passed away. I sensed the anger in her voice as she explained these same woman had children and were in the middle of activities such as happily carting them off to soccer practice at the same time they gave her this advice. Another mother once responded to her fears that people would never accept from her daughter by telling her that her child would always be accepted in her surroundings if she was dressed in cute clothing and was clean. As this was something she could control, she made it her mission to travel to the hospital, lay out her clothing for the days she was not there to dress her, and assured that her hygiene was taken care of. She explained that this was something she could do as a mother and felt it was important. I marveled out loud at how strong she was. Growing up here, I knew how limited services must have been at the time that she and her daughter needed them. She sat in parent group, too, but it was much smaller, as there were only seven families enrolled in early intervention just over 10 years ago.

She painted smurf-colored wax around my brows and began the hair removal process. I was told to shut my eyes to prevent my eyelashes from becoming trapped in the hardening goo. I listened to her voice as the anger in it subsided. I heard a hint of exhaustion take its place, and I caught the faint scent of nicotine on her breath. She affixed strips of muslin to my brow over the wax and efficiently yanked them off. The girly-girl half of me nodded knowingly and smiled while the tomboy half of me yelled "Hoorah!" I was allowed to grip a hand-held mirror to inspect the beautiful damage. Instead of Abe Vigoda, I saw myself--only with movie star eyebrows. She then took a tiny, plastic comb that looked like something Barbie would use on her glossy nylon locks and combed my brows straight up.

Oh. My. Gawd.

It was at this point I squealed out loud. Abe Vigoda was back. Please, lady, DO SOMETHING! After marveling at how thick and luscious my facial hair was, something I hope to never hear again, she expertly trimmed my long-neglected brows and I was back to looking like a movie star again (and not of the Planet of the Apes variety).

She told me to sit up slowly and fluff my hair back into its usual style. She called me gorgeous, and I tipped her, telling her I'd see her again in a couple of months.

Unfortunately, by the time Brian got home from work, both of my eyelids were bruised, and I resembled George Foreman after a nasty fight. However, by the next morning, I was back to looking more like Marlene Dietrich again. Although I'll probably stick to mostly pedicures from here on out, I have no doubt girly-girl will lead me back to that little cottage for some tender, loving hair removal from time to time.

Why not?

At this point, I'm a freaking healing expert.

Pedi-Cure All

This week was a hormonal roller coaster for me. For the most part, I am feeling wonderful physically and emotionally, but this week I just felt off. I was disturbed to hear about WWE wrestler Chris Benoit killing his wife and son before hanging himself, and when I found out his beautiful son had fragile X syndrome, it stuck with me all week. Mr. Benoit and his wife Nancy apparently fought about the care of their son before they died. She was feeling overwhelmed, and he snapped. Remind me never to do anabolic steroids.

I am feeling overwhelmed. My friend Shaena witnessed most of a now rare but especially snotty sobbing episode on Thursday and decided it would be best if we did something fun this weekend, so we did.

This concludes the depressing part of my note.

Saturday I put on some going out clothes: A pair of ridiculously expensive, flared jeans I never wear, a baby-pink top that shows I actually have a waist, and cotton-candy colored mules with completely impractical kitten heels that push me to six feet tall. My Barbie outfit. Without the extra 12 pounds I have been carrying around with me, things fit much better. I was very pleased. I drove out to one of our brand new shopping villages and met Shaena in the parking lot. We walked over to get a pedicure at a little nail salon.

I am not normally a fan of the strip mall-type nail place.

Sharp nail implements + Surfaces teeming with invisible bacteria = Horrible infections, the likes of which not seen since the Civil War.

One of my friends has titled each of these establishments here YOU PICK COLOR! in the past, as that is often what is screeched at patrons as they enter these shops. The last time I received any sort of nail treatment was years ago, and they were borderline verbally abusive. However, this experience was quite different.

We walked into a huge room crammed with women of all ages in various stages of nail care. There was dusky peach paint on the walls and no real ceiling. There were just hanging fluorescent tubes for lighting. It was obvious the place was new, as there were only two faded wall hangings on the far wall -- one picture of a pair of gorgeous feet and ankles draped along the length of a piano keyboard (how random) and one picture of hands holding a rose above the caption "French Manicure." A petite woman smiled at us and her mouth moved, but I was unable to understand much of what she said. I assumed it was a much more polite version of YOU PICK COLOR. We stepped over women's outstretched limbs to reach a clear plastic display on the back wall to select our toenail polish. I chose to depart from my favorite 1950s style bright red toes and selected a deep purple. Shaena chose a rich shade of orchid. We made our way to two empty spa chairs in the back of the shop and waited our turn. I found the remote on my chair and could not resist pushing the button labeled "thigh massage." Oh my. I was not disappointed. As we giggled and watched the goings on in the salon, Fox News silently loomed over all of us in the corner on the television by the front door, where there was a continuous loop of a flaming Jeep Cherokee lodged in a terminal at the Glasgow airport after a terrorist attack. The television was largely ignored by the women in the salon.

A man roughly half my size came out and began filling the glossy spa tub built into my chair at my feet. The water was scalding hot, and he gently but firmly pushed my feet off the rest into the tub. I bit my lip to prevent myself from screaming. He then turned on the air jets, which gurgled delightfully against the sides of my feet, and I soon forgot about my blistering skin and impending visit to our friendly neighborhood burn center. Soon I found myself to be extremely comfortable indeed. I looked over at Shaena. She seemed to be enjoying the button on her chair labeled "kneading action." She rocked back and forth as the chair worked her over and looked a little like like she was atop a horse on a trail ride. A woman came out to wait on her, and scoops of some sort of bath salts were sprinkled at our feet, turning the water bright blue. Soon we were being expertly buffed and filed. The man at my feet did not speak except once to ask if I was okay, causing me to wonder if anyone had previously freaked out and fled the shop, leaving a trail of wet footprints past the Lane Bryant store to the parking lot. My two smallest toes are shaped like question marks, and I would be lying if I said I enjoyed having them tweaked or touched in any way. My feet are generally very sensitive. His small, dark hands expertly slid over my calves and feet, slippery from lotion scented like orange blossoms. I'm not sure if I was more afraid of losing control of my relaxing bladder from the sensation of the swirling warm water around my feet or accidentally reaching some sort of horribly timed, socially inappropriate climax from the massage I was receiving. Either way, I whispered to Shaena, it was a recipe for being 86'ed from my our new favorite nail salon. The technicians chattered in Vietnamese, their seemingly serious conversation punctuated by sharp bouts of laughter. The man working on me tapped my foot when he wanted me to move it, and I felt a little like an elephant at the circus being prodded to with a cane to perform for an audience. Soon our feet were being dried in fluffy, white towels and our toes began receiving layers of lacquer. My toes began to gleam, looking a lot like like the paint on the side of a carnival ride on a bright summer day. The technician at Shaena's feet admired the flowers in the tattoo on her lower leg and hand painted matching flowers on her big toes. We were then very quietly and efficiently led to sit with our feet under drying lamps in front of a mountain of dog-eared People magazines. What fun!

From there, we said our thank yous and took our happy feet back to the car, where I exchanged the rubber flip flops I had brought for my pink mules, and we walked across the parking lot to the Italian restaurant to enjoy some crusty bread and hot crab dip with tall glasses of blush-colored sangria poured over ice. Our evening had just begun.

Ah, the healing properties of girlfriends.

Earth Day Getaway

Whenever I need to "get away," I just get away in my mind. I go to my imaginary spot, where the beach is perfect and the weather is perfect. There's only one bad thing there: The flies! They're terrible!

-- From "Deep Thoughts" by Jack Handey (Saturday Night Live)

Last week my mother's friend Susan offered me a gift certificate for a lengthy treatment at an expensive resort spa, including a 50-minute massage and a 50-minute facial. She was kind enough to transfer this offer to me before the certificate expired in May for some much-needed stress relief. Quite honestly, the thought of being at a spa makes me more than slightly uncomfortable. It's not normally my cup of tea. However, since Brian and I have vowed to have more fun and step out a bit more, I dared myself to schedule an appointment for Sunday. It's at a resort 20 minutes away, and, frankly, the drive through the rain was even relaxing.

Since traffic was light, I arrived earlier than I expected. I flipped through the brochure in the car, which told me I could utilize the spa bath if I arrived early. I walked through a dark, cave-like lobby to a glossy counter, where a stout woman with a deep voice greeted me enthusiastically and asked if I had visited the spa before. I told her I had not, and she answered, "Well, you're in for a real treat." She held up a key card and a gold locker key on a stretchy red and white wrist band and asked me to follow her into a small locker room. Lockers of dark wood surrounded a simple bench, and there were gorgeous twin sinks fashioned from cobalt bowls of bubbly glass sunk halfway into black granite countertops under a generous mirror. A wicker basket held a hair dryer and curling iron, and various lotions and sprays lined the vanity. She explained that the main locker room was just beyond another wooden door down a short, carpeted hallway past stacks of fluffy, white towels, and that is where I would find toilets, showers, and spa tubs. I opened my locker and found a thin, silky robe with a fluffy terrycloth lining and black spa slippers. I shed everything I was wearing and slipped into the provided attire. I padded down the hallway and slid my key card through the slot on the door, which opened with a clunk. I stepped into a softly lit hallway with a hard floor like black rock. Frosted doors opened into single glass showers, and a row of wooden doors opened to reveal toilets. There were more dark rooms of lockers at the end of the hallway, and I saw only a few women milling about in robes like mine, silent. Their obviously normally perfectly coiffed hair was swirled into fantastic, gravity-defying bed head sculptures from lying on tables and receiving various body treatments involving oils and sprays. I passed a glossy, black panel of glass with a metal handle and identified it as the entrance to the steam room. No thanks. My icy Scandinavian genes won't allow me to enter anything that resembles an oven in any fashion. Further down the hallway I found a metal gate, over which I could see a large, dark room with an empty sea foam green tub glowing in the center. I hurried back into the locker room to retrieve my swimming suit. I was in no rush to be nude in front of God and country. Next time. I returned to unlatch the gate, let myself in, and slipped on my suit. I located a dial on the wall in the darkness and twisted it, sending a loud rush of bubbles from hidden jets shooting into the water. I slowly descended the stairs into the large tub and faced the back wall of the room, letting the hot water envelop my body to my chin. The room was designed to look like a desert setting. A wall of rocks jutted up above me as if I sat at the bottom of a canyon, above which the wall was painted as if it was twilight in soft blues, purples, and finally black. Pinpoints of light twinkled in the dark ceiling like stars. Well, half of them did, anyway. Soft music played above the sound of the dissolving foam on the surface of the water. I thought of Erik at therapy, and I kicked my feet in his honor. I pierced the foamy surface with my freshly-painted scarlet toenails and smiled to myself. Time to let it all go now. No more therapy. No more stress. No more work. Usually after five minutes of hot water, I'm done, but I tiptoed out of the tub twice to reset the timer for more bubbles. When the clock in the hallway above the gate told me I had 10 minutes before my appointment, I searched for an empty glass booth across the hallway and quickly peeled my wet suit off and rinsed chlorine off my skin. I let myself back into the private locker room and ventured out the front door, across another frighteningly public hallway, and through a set of giant frosted glass doors to the spa, where light came through the majority of the ceiling. The girl at the desk verified my identity and directed me through another set of frosted glass doors into the relaxation room, a spacious but more intimate-feeling place decorated in shades of taupe. A cabinet on one end of the room held two types of natural teas and ice water. I poured some light amber tea into a thick glass cup without a handle. I sank into a chunky, soft armchair and put my feet up on an ottoman. I relaxed with my tea for maybe five minutes before I retrieved the slightly outdated copy of Newsweek by my feet. I began reading an article on Ken Kesey and J.D. Salinger but was interrupted by a man who looked remarkably like a member of the janitorial staff. His hair was disheveled, and he wore a taupe-colored jumpsuit that reminded me of a lion tamer. He said, "Nancy?" The woman at the other end of the room silently sipping her tea stood with me. He said, "Massage and facial Nancy?" I nodded, and she sat back down, looking slightly irritated. I win. He placed a hand firmly on my back, guiding me out of the room down yet another hallway lined with small rooms full of soft lighting, tables, and towels. He demonstrated a horribly pronounced limp. We entered one of the rooms with a massage table in the center. He turned down the lights and left me to slip off my robe and slippers. I climbed onto the table and slid under a crisp sheet and a thin blanket. To be completely honest, I am not one-hundred percent comfortable with a stranger touching me, let alone one of the male variety while I'm completely naked. He returned, and I took a deep breath. We chatted briefly before he massaged every part of me that was legal in this particular setting, starting with my toes and ending up with his fingers in my hair. I was jiggled violently, stretched, and poked. He successfully popped my back by contorting my body into a pretzel. It was fabulous. My favorite part was the work he did on my hands and wrists. I voiced my approval, and he smiled.

After the massage, I slipped back into my robe and slippers and met my masseur in the hallway. He offered me a clear plastic cup of water. We said our goodbyes, and I again made myself at home in my chair in the relaxation room before my next treatment. I was soon greeted by a 30-year-old woman named Melissa. She was petite, adorable, and soft-spoken. Her eyebrows were impeccable arches, making her look a little surprised at all times. And no creepy jumpsuit. She offered her miniature hand to me with a purposefully limp wrist and made me feel instantly very large and masculine looking down at her. I suddenly felt like her prom date. She led me into a room identical to the one where I had my massage. There was a rock slab on the wall covered in a silent sheen of slowly descending water. She left me to undress, don a taupe terrycloth coverup, and slip into bed again. She returned and began examining my skin, asking me what my concerns were. I laughed. I may hate everything else about me, but I'll never hate my porcelain skin. I do nothing to it except apply a moisturizer with sunscreen each morning and avoid the sun like the plague. I don't even wash my makeup off until the next morning. Bad girl! Of course, I didn't admit to that degree of neglect. She assessed my pores and epidermis and began applying essential oils to my face, neck, and chest. She named them all as she went. Geranium. Rosemary. Eucalyptus. The eucalyptus brought back a flood of childhood memories of having a cold and being tucked into bed with Vicks VapoRub in a shiny smear under my nose. As the floral scents wafted to me, I imagined myself standing in a bright garden breathing warm, humid air scented with green, living things. The Native American music gave way to more New Age sounds, and I scolded myself for letting my relaxation break long enough to allow my brain to begin its usual barrage of ridiculous and silent comments. As the sound of distant harps and flutes washed over me, I could hear one of my synapses whisper, "And now for Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey." I ignored this rudeness and pretended I was an adult with one single, sane personality for the lovely Melissa's benefit. She applied a mild skin peel and yet more oils, massaging me without a break. After I was good and greasy, she applied a mud mask with a wide paintbrush. I felt like a glorious work of art. Every part of my body, whether I liked it or not, felt cared for and honored. No room for modesty here. If the masseur had forgotten to caress anything, Melissa had it covered. Even my earlobes were tended to. I heard the door to some sort of warming appliance open, and hot, scented towels were applied to acres of my exposed skin, after which heated obsidian rocks were gently but firmly dragged over my slick face in a mysterious ritual.

After two and one-half nonstop hours of having people tend to me, I was ready to collapse. It was exhausting in a way, yet my body felt wonderful. My face, freed of those extra pesky few outer layers of skin, glowed as if I had been slapped. Every muscle sighed with relief, and my hands, which formerly ached from hours of work, were loose again.

Would I go to a spa again? Most definitely.

Is it still slightly outside of my comfort zone? Absolutely.

However, there's just no denying it was the most fun I ever had in public without my underwear.