Bottom Left-Jimmy, Top Left-Matthew, Right-Jason

I don’t mention our first born son, Jimmy, very often, yet I should. Especially today, September 16th, as he would have been 36 years old. Hard to believe that one isn’t it? Jimmy was born mentally retarded, a genetic disposition I wouldn’t find out until years later that was on my side of the family. (Thank you Beth) My pregnancy was uneventful and the labor swift for a first child. Turns out I would be able to deliver quick with all my kids. It wasn’t until Jimmy was about 3 months old and during a well baby check up visit that it was noticed he might be behind in his development. We were referred to UCLA where he would be further evaluated. That whole time seems so very long ago. Even though I outwardly feel fine about living through his whole life experience, inside I turn to a place of great sadness.

UCLA is a big campus and we visited it a lot, for his diagnosis, and for his physical therapy. I knew in my heart all along that the therapy was to appease others, for Jimmy would stay the same no matter what we agreed or felt we had to agree to do in hopes of helping him develop further than his approximate 5-6 months physical age. That in itself made and still makes me sad.

At the age of 2 Jerry and I decided to put him in a home, South Bay, for special needs children. It was a small home and I was able to visit often, even helping out with more physical therapy for him. I met wonderful people along the way and came to realize that in some ways my young son was helping me grow up and learn through these life experiences some good can come. As years passed his health declined, and he would often get sick, a common occurence in a nursing home. Close to the end I talked to the nursing home doctor and we decided on instituting a DNR (do not resuscitate) for him.

Jimmy was almost 8 when he passed away from pneumonia. Such a young guy. Finally now he would be at peace. Jerry and I had him cremated and enlisting the services of a sea burial took him out at Kings Harbor in Redondo Beach. It had been raining the day before yet the sun chose to shine that morning and all throughout our ride out. It was very strange for me personally to see the box and then ashes as we spread them 3 miles out at sea and know this was all that physically remained of our son. His ashes, like sea shells fell on the moving water. Goodbye my son. I’ll always love you.

Many people know very little about Fibromyalgia, and even fewer probably know that it has a long list of symptoms. I am among the many I am sure who have this horrid disease, to have a lot of those annoying symptoms. One of the most frustrating symptoms is being hypersensitive and startling easily (jumpiness). If you google Fibromyalgia you will find this symptom along with a few more that seem to go along with it, such as hypersensitive to light and sound. After years of doctor visits with many different specialists, being poked, prodded, and tested until my hair stood on it’s end all over my body and screamed “hell no more”, I have been told that I have probably had Fibromyalgia since I was very young, just never diagnosed earlier. Upon further digging on the net you might find that some sites claim that hypersensitivity can be linked to stress, trauma, post stress disorder and so on. I suppose also, if you knew my complete history, you might think the later would fit. Or at least add to it.

My most wonderful husband Jerry, can attest to this very annoying symptom, that of being hypersensitive. Over the years he has had to put up with me screaming out of fear just because we met in the hallway. Ear piercing loud screams if I didn’t hear the pitter pat of his feet on the carpet or tap tap on the wood floor before hand. Last night was no exception.

I’d like to add also that I believe in ghosts. Now that makes it interesting, doesn’t it? I think my most wonderful husband thinks I might be a bit crazy when I admit to that. Oh well. Can’t win them all. I’m not sure of my earliest encounter with a ghost, but I will share with you that when Jerry and I went out to sea to sprinkle Jimmy, our first son’s ashes, at sea, Jimmy spoke to me loud and clear. I came right home and wrote a poem about it. That very day. I’m telling you all this because it adds to the whole hypersensitivity issue. See what I mean? Want more?

About a month ago “someone” was flitting around the house while my most wonderful husband and I were watching TV. I never knew who it was, and I usually do know. At first I was scared, then I calmed down when I realized they weren’t out to harm me. And, my dear sweet deceased brother Richard came by for a visit a few weeks ago. But I digress. That will be for another day. Another blog.

So, as often happens, and as I have gotten older and can’t hear as well, Jerry can unintentionally “sneak up on me”. He’s tried many a tactics over the years. Sometimes he’ll say “boog-a-boo” as he enters a room, alerting me he’s nearby. Other times he’ll start talking before he actually is in the same room as me. He tries all sorts of things to make it be known he is nearby, probably so I won’t scream. Loud. Like I did last night!

I was entranced in writing a blog. Not this one. The night air was hot, so we had our big industrial fan blowing the cool night air in through the open patio screen door, making it hard to hear anyone, anywhere. Afterwards Jerry said I was looking sort of in the direction of the doorway, not that I was aware of doing that. Then without seeing him, I looked the other way. It was then that he said to himself “Oh boy, I am screwed.” I am not sure why at that point with that thought running through his head, he decided to lean in close to my left side and patiently stare at me. All the while I was unaware that he was even in the room. See where this is going? Ready? Wait….wait….

YUP! I screamed so loud and long that my voice hurt! And Jerry’s ear drums were pierced with the awful sound that echoed out the screen door into the night. Blood ran down the side of his whiskered face. (Ok, I am exagerating) Our neighbors probably thought I was being murdered. Maybe they thought about calling 911. It was that kind of scream. Long, loud and meaningfull. And embarrassing.

After an “episode” like that happens I am usually so embarrassed. At the time I am truly scared. My heart is racing as if I spent 30 minutes chasing Tom Cruise. I’m breaking out in a sweat like an old menopausal lady, and I have the look of true fear written in every wrinkle. Charming right? Oh well.

There is usually lots of apologies said, then some laughter, and hugging. My most wonderful husband is like that. Very understanding. Well, except about the ghost thing. But we don’t want to go there again. Do we?

ps The photo at the top of this blog is of Neil’s Mercantile in Standish, CA. My husband and I grew up about 1/2 mile from this now boarded up building. We used to wait for the school bus at the corner, not a lot of fun on a cold winter morning. I added this photo because it is said to be haunted. Cool. Google it. You’ll see. Or go here:

http://www.ghostweb.com/standish1.html