Christmas

It was an overwhelming surprise. I opened the card that came from lifetime friends expecting the usual Christmas greetings. Instead there was a check. My initial thought was we could provide Christmas for the kids. I held onto the card like a secret. I cataloged the possible expenses that always lurk in a family with kids, pets and old cars. Eye exams were coming up and it was possible we 'd need to take care of that. So I waited. Sure enough, the cost of the expensive new prescription for me was only partially covered by insurance. The money would go to making sure I could continue to read for a living, and there would be no Christmas presents.

Its part of stepping back -- providing only for your most urgent needs instead of lesser needs and wants.

I didn't turn down my sister when she asked for the kids' Christmas lists, explaining she wanted to give them gifts of necessities -- socks and underwear, a coat and boots for the one who needed them, pants and shirts for the child who grows at a dizzying rate.

Only one child voiced mild disappointment at not getting something fun. They've learned to hold their hopes and desires to themselves after overhearing conversations with words like mortgage, foreclosure and doctor bills.

And so, the holiday passes with as little fanfare as we can muster. Tired of the holiday long before it got here, I'm ready to pack away the ornaments and tree and return to the simpler worries of daily survival.

The holidays are here

Its the Monday after Thanksgiving, and I do have a lot to be thankful for.  We've managed another year in poverty. With medical insurance from my job I manage to control the pain in my knee a little better. The kids are still fed and we still have water and electricity. We have a vehicle that fits us well enough to get us around town and one that I can use for work.

Our lives are still so very small.  I suppose they will be from now on, and I have accepted that.  No more trips to see family or friends. No improvements to the house, no improvements to the vehicles, or anything else.  We live small and are thankful that nothing big has come up to make things worse.

Christmas is approaching and this year I managed to buy a used Christmas tree ahead of time so we could put one up. I also borrowed a ladder and tested the strength of my knees by hanging the lights on the front of the house. My intention was to be prepared for one last Christmas in the house.

The paperwork sits in the counter waiting for us to fill it out. It will prove that once again we can't afford to continue to live here, but this time we won't have the luxury of the hardship forbearance to help us stay in our home. I make enough money to pay most of the bills with the forbearance but I don't make enough to pay the full payment. From the paperwork its clear that we will lose the house, unless a miracle happens.

So I've decorated.  I don't want the weight of reality to completely destroy the magic of the season. And yet the reality is there will be no gifts for the kids this year, and we will walk through the motions to preserve certain traditions.  The frantic fear of last year is replaced with sad acceptance that we continue to fail.

Reprieve

The surgery on my knee helped relieve enough of the pain that I could reduce my use of crutches and get by with a walking stick for the most part. Two weeks ago, I had a cortisone shot to help with the pain that still plagues me. After the initial reaction to the shot in which I felt terrible, I found significant relief. I started sleeping through the night. I was finally warm, something that I have struggled with since I got hurt. I was able to walk, and it was as though a fog had lifted and I could do more than just get by. 

We went out on a date.  I went to the grocery store. I cooked. I went for walks. I walked up stairs. I could do so many of the things that I hadn't been able to do. Life reawakened for me. I started to make plans for the future.

So imagine the disappointment of the shot wearing off quickly. I followed through with my plans to cook and bake over the weekend, but the price was high. I miss being able to enjoy life so much.

I'd like to adapt my home, yard and life to better accommodate what I now know is going to be a lifetime problem. The short break from the pain made me realize that if I'm going to have any sort of quality of life I need to change things. 

So how do I do that? How do I make everything more accessible when I teeter on the brink of losing everything? How do I afford the supplies to make my yard and garden more workable and productive, when I can't afford household supplies? How do I make things change when I can't physically do as much?

I don't know the answers. I don't know how to make everything better. 

1929

I once asked my grandmother what her family thought when they heard about the stock market crash of 1929, and how the Great Depression affected her. She told me that it didn't really seem to matter because when you are poor, things like that just don't matter as much. 

I waver on what the meaning of Trump's presidential victory will mean for my family. We are just so poor, I wonder how much it will really matter.  The system of checks and balances has fallen out of alignment and will swing to the right now, too.  The Affordable Care Act will most likely be repealed. There won't be any relief for those in the Medicaid gap, but since we fell into that gap it won't really matter to my family.  We may not qualify for the minimal food stamps we get now. Then again, the Health and Welfare office aggressively argues that we should be making more money then we do. I agree.  I think we should be making more money, but that doesn't mean we do. Health and Welfare cut the amount of food stamps we receive because they didn't think our family could survive on what we make, so we must have other income. We don't. I can't make people pay me more, just like I can't make people actually honor their contracts to pay my husband and his partner for the work they do.

We live day to day, not paycheck to paycheck. I worry that once the forbearance has run its course for our house we won't be able to afford to refinance via modification.  Homelessness is a very scary, real concern for us. The government can't guarantee that my family has a home, but it never has. My grandmother's family had that going for them -- they owned their farm.

So we continue to struggle. We look at the upcoming holidays with chagrin knowing that this year we can't even afford the food to put on the table. But we aren't the only family and we won't be the last.

Stress explained

I enjoy my job but its just shy of enough money to support my family on. But tell that to the government that continuously tries to tell me that we make more money than we do and therefore they want to take away any small help we ask for.

This year, we will make $19,000 and a little change. Health and Welfare has decided that this is a fantastic amount of income to support a family of 5 with, and that we really don't need nearly as much help as before so they generously cut the food stamps we use in half.  But that was only after I called them and told them that they needed to stop assuming that we were magically earning $16,000 more than we were.  Somewhere along the way, someone decided that we should be making more so *poof* we were.  If only life worked that way.  Instead, someone altered our income in the paperwork, and *poof* we lost our food stamps. It wasn't us.  We have done everything to be honest and truthful in what we report. 

So again, the fight to just survive increases. Just when we were getting to the point where we weren't terrified of losing everything, we take a step back.  A step back to lying awake at night in fear that our children will be homeless. A step back to wondering how we're going to afford enough food to get through the month. A step back to cutting expenses... but what expenses are left to be cut?

Technically, its not my birthday

Its well into the small hours of the 19th so my birthday is over. I can't say it was all that much better than last year. Just like I can't say things are all that much better than last year.

I'm not sure where it went wrong. I suppose it was the evening as tasks piled up at work. Or maybe it went wrong before that. Maybe it was over the weekend or even before then. I spent so much time trying to make it good for everyone else. I wished I could take them all away to the city where we could eat German food and do all sorts of fun things together. Lately, I've realized even more how much they miss out on because of me. If I couldn't take them off on an adventure, maybe I could at least bring a little adventure to them.

I started planning a week ago. I wanted a black forest cake. From there, I planned out a dinner of schnitzel, potatoes, red cabbage and bread rolls. I wanted homemade food. I wanted a nice birthday breakfast as well, so cinnamon rolls were planned. It was all the things I would have loved for someone to do for me.

So I cooked my own birthday dinner. The family kept up on dishes, which I was grateful for but it came with the price of listening to people as they told me over and over how many times they loaded the dishwasher. I would have been happy to do my own dishes and did a fair share of them, just to getaway from the complaining that I was using so many dishes. I baked my cake with some help from my oldest. The price of the ingredients suffocating my conscience.

Twinges of annoyance abound. Constant reminders of how I fail, and reminders of how little I matter otherwise.
The phone call when I've gone to work, "I couldn't remember if you went to work at 2:30 or 3:30."
"Oh, well, its 4:30 now, so I can't really talk."
The passive-aggressive remark from someone I didn't post a birthday message to earlier in the year, but they were posting one to me. I actually don't post birthday messages.

Finding out halfway through the night that my work load doubled.

It builds, you know. Those small grievances build to where I want to burst into tears. So, as the sounds of snoring rumble through the room, I get up.  Angry because I have to be the one to leave, and although its technically not my birthday, it still is because I haven't gone to sleep yet. Angry because we live in a culture that builds up your birth into some sort of frantic day to prove you are loved and worthy enough to take up space on the earth. And angry because I obviously have failed at something so simple as that.

Where are the bootstraps?

All of this is conflicting: the daily lifestyle of pain that never actually ends, the struggle to pay bills on a wage that isn't designed to support a family and the growing pains of continual change versus stagnancy.  Some days I really don't think that we will rise out of this and be better people for it.  

Isn't that the rub?  Isn't that the goal? To learn some great truth in life and be better for the struggle?  That ties into the feel good, sweep-it-away mantras of people who don't actually get it. The platitude that this too shall pass.  I want to ask when.  When people who live in giant homes and consider their stock options tell me that they understand, they had car troubles once, I want to ask exactly how did they remedy car troubles if they never made enough money to buy food and pay for housing. I don't ask.  I say thank and move on. How do you leave if you are stranded?

This is the thing: there is no money for that second opinion, or even the first one if we are responsible.  We aren't, and so in addition to the crippling pain, we have crippling bills. With "birthday month" upon us and Christmas barreling down on us, we grasp at straws to pull things together. 

I'm in a stupor of disbelief, wondering just why on earth we haven't been able to find the bootstraps to pull ourselves out of this disaster of a life.

Day 452

When you spend over a year depending on crutches or a walking stick to support you, rehabilitation isn't easy. Every time I arrive home from physical therapy shaking and exhausted, needing ice to soothe my knee and coffee for my nerves, I wonder if I can do this.

Every block in the neighborhood or sometimes every sidewalk square walked is either a challenge or a victory.

The physical therapist assures me that I'm doing better than I think, but I only see what I lost 452 days ago. If I push for that extra sidewalk square before turning around, its only a 3 foot square. Its not the mile.  If I push to conquer walking a block, its only a block not a 5k. If I push to walk across the room, or building, its not enough -- its not grocery shopping, or being able to walk across the parking lot, into the church and through the sanctuary. If I push to balance for 15 seconds, its still not cooking, or to stand waiting.

I'm left wondering, how long will my life be on hold because of this?

There are too many sides to the question. As working poor, I wouldn't be in this position if we had insurance coverage when I got hurt. I wouldn't have given up so much life to this injury simply if I had been able to treat it when it happened. We wouldn't be facing an increasing debt load that we won't be able to handle.

The burden this has placed on my children has taken its toll and it will continue to.

The burden on my husband is huge.  Without him, everything would have collapsed a long time ago.  He does all of those tasks I can't. Forty is so young to become a caretaker for your spouse.  It was the time we planned to enjoy our lives together, instead of him looking after me knowing that simple things aren't simple because I'm physically broken.

So day 452 finds me struggling to rebuild and rehabilitate something that has gotten so weak and worn that I my only hope is in getting strong enough to replace what is broken.

Post surgery update

I'm tired.  Its been over two weeks since surgery, and I can safely say I'm exhausted. The first week post-op was spent in a medicated haze, unable to focus on the words that I wasn't able to type. I returned to work the second week.

I didn't want to process what my husband said about his conversation with the surgeon on the day of surgery. I had hoped he had misheard and was wrong.  I had hoped so much that he was wrong. Otherwise, how do you continue with bad news? How do you continue to suffer in pain that ranges not in numbers but in stress? How do you enumerate "anxious" and "frantic" pain levels? How do you wake up every single morning knowing that you will never be free of the pain?

The post-op appointment was scheduled for Wednesday. My husband went with me and held my hand through the pull and sting of having sutures removed. Its nice to have a hand to hold through those small pains, as silly as it sounds.  I'd prefer to be a wimp and not have to tough everything out all of the time.

I like the surgeon.  He worked on my knee before in an attempt to alleviate the problems that arise from patellar-femoral syndrome. I felt that surgery was successful and that I was happily able to maintain a life that I could enjoy. He wasn't as jovial as usual this appointment. He flipped quickly through the glossy images of the interior of my knee, his face becoming more grim.

The surgeon told me he didn't think he had helped me. Arthritis looks like fur in the photos, and the interior of my knee showed much of it, except in the areas where the cartilage was completely gone and where the bones were worn down. In those areas, there was nothing he could do. The furry areas, he smoothed down as much as possible to ease the joint's movement until that cartilage wears away too.

He won't do a knee replacement at this point.  I promise him that genetically I'm predisposed to die before I'm 60 anyway, so why not be able to enjoy these twenty years now? He writes the orders for physical therapy, explaining that I need to strengthen the muscles as much as possible before he can even consider a partial replacement.  He says we'll do injections to manage the pain.  Maybe we can get a little more time out of the knee and I can get stronger. Otherwise a replacement won't even work.

This knee won't return to pre-injury strength, and I won't return to my pre-injury lifestyle. Those dreams of wandering through ancient European castles or taking the kids to the hidden lakes my father took me to are nothing more than that--dreams. The best we can hope for now is to stave off the crippling effects of this injury as long as possible.

My husband asked the question at the end of the appointment: Would the outcome have been different if she had gotten her knee looked at when she hurt it last year?

The surgeon's face dropped, "Yes."

Tomorrow

Tonight, I will wrap up my work week early. I will do my best to help my coworkers who are so graciously covering my position for me while I am away. I will make sure that everything is left in the best possible ways, a little difficult in a world where we deal with changing information by the minute. I will worry that I have forgotten something when I get into my little, yellow truck to drive home.

Tonight, I will trust that my family has everything under control, but I will also wish I could provide a better plan to help them. They don't realize how little I do, but it seems like they are all very worried about the upcoming days. I wish they had more help, and I regret scheduling a surgery that will affect their extra-curricular activities. But what's done is done, and they will manage.

Tomorrow, I will wake much too soon from my short night of sleep. I will follow my directions and I will be ready.

Excitement has been building as I consider what we might find. Perhaps its an easy fix and in a short amount of time I'll be back to who I was more than a year ago. Or maybe its not an easy fix but we'll have answers and a plan.

I'm not nervous so much as excited. I'm not afraid or worried about the actual surgery. I trust my doctor and I know he'll do everything he can to help me be more mobile.

Tomorrow, I hope I will sleep. For so long I've lived with this constant, exhausting pain, I can't help but hope that we can find a way to end it. The thought of sleeping without the pain is what I look forward to. Even if its just for a few weeks of drug induced sleep, I am excited that I will sleep.

In less 24 hours I hope to be back home and in my bed. I hope that my knee is on its way to healing and I come home with new goals. Goals that will make this adventure a little less of a struggle.

Restarting

We've been broke before, but not broken.  

We had a disastrous winter of 2001 well into summer of 2002, in which we had family die, job loss, a major move, a huge income decrease, and a complete change of lifestyle.  It was hard.  We struggled through a pregnancy with our families and friends far away after we had accepted that children were not in the plan for us. And while our lives had been turned upside down, we weren't broken.  Maybe it was the hubris of youth, maybe it was the ignorance of life, but we never doubted that we would recover.  It took a number of years, but we managed to eventually overcome most of the challenges. Scarred, but not broken.

This particular adventure though, this one has broken us. Our entire lives have burned down around us and only a few precious things are left in the rubble. From every angle, it looks like almost everything is broken and destroyed.  We've choked on the acrid smoke of losing nearly everything we've wanted and worked for. Our lives have been reduced to garbage. I'd love to say its time to rebuild, but its not quite over, like a fire, the hotspots threaten to reignite and consume what is left.

We worry, of course. How can we not? We've been broken with worry, fear, pain and anger. It seems as though every step forward is followed by a step backward. Every success is countered with another failure. And yet we resolve to not just to manage the challenges, but to figure out how to gain purchase in the rubble. When every single step is challenged, its hard to climb out of the ashes and trash.

Its been over a year since we stood in awe at the disaster our lives had become--when we no longer could figure out how to make things better, or which way to go. It was like watching the inferno start with no way to stop it. 

Now we breathe and wait and protect tiny glints of hope. We are learning to accept that our lives are restarting. We are learning that we aren't who we once were.  These are painful lessons to learn. We feel like our age, experiences and former status should mean something, somehow.  They don't. 

So we are restarting. Again. 

Day 407

I've started to hope for freedom from the never-ending pain that I've endured for 407 days. Even as I turned down another invitation to socialize, I realized that the time may soon come where I won't have to. I might not have to consider the steps it will take in order to go into a place.  I may not have to consider the amount of space I need to walk with crutches, or consider how I will carry an open-top drink or a fast food tray. Very soon, I might be able to carry my things without needing to have extra pockets and bags.

I do not take for granted the amount of work I will need to put into recovery, but I am not afraid of it. I am afraid of forever being bound to home and work alone. The idea of going to the store when I need something--without having to consider parking, or if there will be an electric cart, or if I will be able to carry items if there isn't--is appealing. I hope I am liberated from the crutches.

It will be 60 weeks when I go into surgery. I wonder how many more weeks it will be before I can fully sleep again, and wake without pain. I set lofty goals of ice-skating this winter, riding my bike this fall, fishing next spring and camping next summer, but really, the ideas of sleeping without pain, walking without crutches and not relying on my husband and kids for so many little things are more valuable goals.

In nine days, we find out what has caused over a year's worth of suffering and humiliation. Its a powerful thought to consider the freedom I might actually find.

Value

As deal after deal falls through, the partners are learning what they need to do differently.  It seems like every time they find a promising project there isn't funding or when they find funding there is no promising project. Its frustrating, but sometimes there's enough interest in one thing or another that the desperation is actually hopeful. This job, these lifetimes of training, these careers that has fallen flat in the face of global turmoil and markets feel wasted and the partners question daily, sometimes hourly what they should be doing differently.

We talk about this--my husband and I.  We talk about what kind of changes he needs to make, what kind of career he'd want to change to. He's angry, disappointed, sad and frightened. The role changes in our family has hit him harder than it has me. My contribution is measurable. I have a monetary value. For a long time my value wasn't measurable as I stayed home to educate and raise the children. For a long time, I had to rely on my gut instinct that I wasn't completely failing. My successes were never measured in cash. And for a long time he had measurable value. From the time he was 13, he could know the value of his actions and time in dollar amounts.

Its still poverty.  We're still too poor for even ACA insurance for him. We still need the government to help us keep our kids healthy. We can't afford to fix our family vehicle, and we can't afford to replace it. We grimace that it has a full tank of gas. We talk about upcoming expenses and wonder how we'll manage to deal with them.

I've forgotten again to ask if I have vacation time accrued to cover the time I need off for surgery. I've forgotten to see how many sick days or personal days I have available. So when I come down ill with a summer stomach virus, I go to work. Feverish, taking breaks between tasks to vomit, I can only hope that I haven't missed something huge. What if I did let something major through? On the other side of the computer screen is a designer who is more than happy to work sloppy. I don't look at the paper the next morning. I know. I know I didn't catch every mistake. I can only hope I caught the big ones. And I worry that I've lowered my measurable value for the company and thus jeopardized my measurable value for my family.

Don't say you'll pray for me

I have a surgery date. And now that I do, I wrestle with what it means. I agonize over the financial implications--missing work, taking on an enormous debt that could be spent to better the family.

See, I can fulfill a purpose without the surgery. I can drag myself to work on my crutches everyday and it doesn't matter.  I don't have to stand for 8 hours a day. I work at a desk, and I get up to take care of a few things occasionally. I don't carry anything beyond a few sheets of paper at a time, or whatever fits into the denim pocket attached to my crutch. So I don't need to be able to walk well in my job. Would it be nice to be able to run out for a quick errand without considering the entire process and if its achievable? Yes. Is it necessary for me to do my job? No.

I posted on Facebook about this date. I got a few praying for you comments. I wish people wouldn't say that. I know for some people its a way to express that they care about us from across long distances. These are the same people who would actually help us if we lived closer than 250 miles away.

But there are the people who live nearby and who don't actually care beyond the gossip factor of the news. It doesn't change how they act and it doesn't change what they think. It doesn't change how they judge my family. And their offer of prayers certainly don't mean that they care enough to offer anything more than meaningless words.

This doesn't mean that I don't believe in prayer or God. It means that I don't believe in people who use meaningless church words to make themselves feel better. It means that fake words don't provide comfort to anyone but the person who says them.

So don't say you'll pray for me unless you truly intend to. Don't say that you'll commit to sacrificing time and energy to God on my behalf if you won't follow through. Because those words mean as much as an 8-year-old forced to say grace by rote at the dinner table when he's really hungry. Don't make a fake commitment to pray for someone when you don't know what else to say.

Day 387

I have set a date for arthroscopic surgery on my knee, and it will be August 25th. There is that skip of doubt that hangs over the date, and I'm sure as it approaches I will become less sure of the course of action. The MRI I had at the beginning of July showed that I did not have a torn meniscus, instead there is other damage to the knee. The purpose of the scope is to identify and possibly repair any damage that the MRI did not identify. While MRIs are the gold standard in medical imaging for most knee problems, my doctor explained they do not show where ligaments attach to the bone 80 percent of the time.

We have so many things going wrong on a regular basis, and I know that the drawback of pursuing a diagnosis and plan to fix my knee is expensive.  The money that goes to this surgery and all of the costs associated with it should be spent on a reliable vehicle that fits our family.  No amount of considering that walking without the use of crutches or pain somehow benefits my family will convince me that my knee is more valuable than having a family car. Knowing that I might be jeopardizing us financially to the point that we will still lose our home weighs on every thought that goes into this decision. Fearing that my ability to work well will be compromised or that I will miss too much time too soon after being hired is reason enough to pause before committing to surgery. 

Yet my husband urges me to keep the date and to try not to worry. Perhaps this will be the change we need in order to rise out of the despair that blankets us. 

Betty Crocker silverware

I don't often talk about the sweetness of being poor, but there is a sort of happiness in small things.  My husband brought home a wooden box of flatware that was his grandmother's.  There were two different sets of obviously "the good silverware".  It reminded me of my own grandparents with the special wooden box that only made an appearance at Christmas and Easter dinners.  My husband said that this was the same for him, and this box of good silverware was only opened for big family dinners.

The sweetness of our grandparent's good flatware is that it was most likely bought with coupons clipped from General Mills boxes and bought one fork or spoon at a time through the mail. Betty Crocker catalogs offered a chance for everyday housewives to collect Oneida Community flatware at a price that was affordable, often at deep discounts when the coupons were used.  The catalog offered a cash price as well. Very few would have used the cash price offers, since the items would cost more than if bought at a department store.

A little research uncovered that one of the flatware patterns was popular in the late 1970s and discontinued in 1982.  The other pattern was produced from 1983-1988, with its height of popularity in 1983 and 1984. This falls into line with my husband's memories of family dinners with his grandparents and using the good silverware.

Both contain complete place settings for 12, with an assortment of accompanying hostess utensils, including strange, flat, pierced ovals that we later identified as solid jelly spoons. I have no clue what that means but they are adorably weird and apparently quite necessary in the 1970s and 80s.

I think about my own impatience of waiting, wanting and wishing and I am humbled to realize that even at this stage in my life I don't truly understand what our grandparents went through during depression era childhoods.  We aren't compelled to rinse out our paper towels and hang them to dry, and we don't pull foil out of the trash to wash and reuse. We don't clip coupons to collect our good silverware one piece at a time over months and possibly years.

It appears that I'm still learning lessons from our grandparents even though they've been gone for quite a while. And while I can't bring myself to rinse out the paper towels, perhaps I can stop worrying on what we've given up in this drastic lifestyle change and start looking forward to the little things--like our grandmothers looked forward to mail order forks bought with coupons.

Its a small step.

How can I help?

The news has been blood-soaked this week with killings of black men by police officers and killings of police officers by the mentally unstable seeking retaliation.  It was just shy of a month ago that a home-grown terrorist gunned down over 100 people, killing 49.

Mourn quickly -- death and terror do not stop often enough to let us process the horror of our world.

So much blood. So much grief. So much pain. So much fear. The cares of the world are so much they threaten to overwhelm us all.  I sit stunned, reading, watching, absorbing the news as I hold it in my hands, as it rolls across my computer, and buzzes updates to my phone. I lay awake at night trying to understand and make sense of it all, trying to figure out how to explain this violence to my children, how to explain it to myself.

I've read the commentaries on #blacklivesmatter, #bluelivesmatter, #alllivesmatter. The battle lines are clearly drawn, and we stand at the dawn of a day when we don't need foreign terrorists to inspire our fears or spill the blood of our countrymen.  We are managing to destroy American lives just fine.

Yet, the ideas behind all of the movements boil down to one simple, age-old idea: treat others how you want to be treated.  But considering how we have problems with the Golden Rule in church parking lots, supermarket lines and McDonald's drive-thru lanes, and its hard to imagine that we'll see an end to the killing that is destroying men, women and families--leaving us haunted with the images of their children sobbing in ragged grief.

So how can I help?  What do I do to ensure that even one young man is allowed to behave like a normal teenager, and not get shot?  What do I do to ensure that one less father is killed in front of his child? What do I do to protect the new dad who puts on a uniform everyday in an attempt to protect me?

How, in my corner of Idaho, do I make a difference?

Day 367

Its been 367 days since I hurt myself while helping my husband with some chores.

That day was a perfect storm waiting to happen. Emotions ran high as we worked in grief, frustration and anger. All of these building and with no outlet but to grouse to each other, my husband and I continued to work in and out of the small metal shed super-heated in the oppressive July sun. We needed to sort and determine what to keep, donate or sell out of his father's belongings that were stored in the shed. A difficult job in preparation of finding space to store other items that would need to fit into the shed at a later date.

Like the summer forest, one spark destroyed everything. Tripping while sharing the load of a heavy, awkward box on that hot July day left me with crippling pain -- unable to walk without the use of crutches or canes. For over a year I've wished things were different on that day.

This year, I don't go with my family to help finish the chores that screeched to a halt last year in the aftermath of my injury. At home, I hobble around to take care of myself and the pets. A little cooking, a little cleaning up, and a trip to the garden that grows just outside the dining room door is as much as I expect of myself this morning. Later, I'll do the daily chores, but for now I enjoy the peace.

I talk to my husband who is tired from a long trip yesterday and worn to the brink of exhaustion by the cares of trying to help maintain something that he doesn't have the support or resources to deal with. I feel guilty that I'm at home, with only work, our home, yard and pets to care for. My husband has given up on asking his brother to help him, even though his help is needed. Brother refuses to help with the simplest of tasks and he refuses to see the problems that he heaps upon his own family.

Somedays, the resentment of the entire situation bears down on me.  If only, if only, if only. Days like today, when I tie my shoes and prepare to crutch through the neighborhood with the dogs, knowing exactly this task will require all my strength and ability and will leave me with excruciating pain and swelling, I resent everything about July 4, 2015. What was once a hobby and enjoyable highlight of my day--walking and working dogs, training them to become the best possible companions--has become a chore filled with trepidation that will always end in horrible pain and frustration.

How do you overcome something that has changed your life so much?

Standing on the Edge of Freedom

I was excited to move forward and fix my knee.  The idea of living without pain was so appealing and so lovely. I laid out the plans in my head.  The doctor appointments, the required x-rays and MRI, the surgery, recovery, rehabilitation.  I considered the impact to my family and my work. I knew I could make this more than plans and dreams. I knew I could get back to the life I had before I got hurt.

Reality has set in.  I cannot recover my life.  The stark, painful truth is that there won't be bike rides with the family, there won't be walks and hikes.  I won't ever get to run one of the dogs in agility. Camping won't happen again.  I'll never use a hunting license after the girls and I worked to pass the hunter's safety class together. I won't travel.

I am grateful to have a job that I enjoy and that offers benefits.  The insurance is reasonable, if you aren't already living in poverty.

I recently started on the plan for my grand life restoration.  It was when I was told the MRI would be $2400 that I balked.  Perhaps I could shop around.  I was given a quote for $800, which was exciting, until I realized that even $800 is incredibly prohibitive.

While I have insurance, I don't have the money for the deductible or out-of-pocket expenses. Not having a great deal of experience at my job means it will be next year before I get vacation or qualify for unpaid leave, which is still a hardship.

When you live paycheck to paycheck, when you don't have a washer and dryer that work, when the transmission on the minivan slips and falters, there is no way in good conscience you can justify spending so much money on yourself.  Not when the family you adore and live for, needs so much.

I guess it is time to step back from the edge of freedom.

Vunerable

Its a fact of life that I live in a constant state of worsening pain.  Accompanying that pain is the ever present fear that comes from the vulnerability of being hurt and financially unstable. Sometimes, its hard to accept that this is my life.

I sit next to the Boy and coach him through his math test. I remind him of strategies to succeed when testing, all while wishing I weren't sitting at the kitchen table. I would rather sit in a recliner, ice packs on knees to help numb the pain. I would rather take a nap and try to catch a bit of the ever elusive sleep.  Frankly, I would rather be anywhere other than at this table proctoring a 4th grade math test.

Nights like last night, when I get home late and frustrated by the mistakes I've made, coupled with that pain--that always and forever pain which supersedes all other concerns--makes for a sleepless and harsh night. The morning dawns and I drag myself into the day to be present in the lives of these children of mine.

I know that the Boy and I need this time together at the kitchen table, but I so badly want to abandon the test and abandon this moment I have with him and give up.  It breaks me to realize that this pain has destroyed so much of my life.

I make lunch knowing that each minute I'm closer to having to leave for work, and farther from being ready for it. But this time with him is so dearly important. He may grow up to remember the times that I sat with him, gently prodding him to stay focused on the task at hand.  Those memories may overshadow the times when I ask him to read to me as I rest in my bed gathering my willpower to get through another day.

A New Normal

In the two months since I hired on at a local newspaper my life has changed dramatically--not the kind of drama where I'm living in riches with all of my worries behind me. I would have to change my blog from adventures in poverty to my former adventures in poverty. And I haven't done that yet.

Six weeks after beginning my part-time position as an editorial assistant I was asked to move into a full-time position as a design liaison. I had zero newsroom experience before I went to work at the paper, so for the past two months I've been playing catch up on basic things that I'm sure high school journalism students know, as I try to learn everything possible without lowering the quality of the product we put out. I'm not very successful some days. Some mornings, I open the newspaper and proudly point out my favorite pages. Some mornings, I critically eye the paper--disappointed, noting what would make it better. I feel like I've been dropped into a foreign culture and I must learn by immersion.

I constantly struggle to meet the expectations of excellence. We have some of the best reporters in the state, so I don't want my work to detract from theirs.

I go to work in the afternoon and don't normally get home until after 11. I struggle everyday to get up and keep the kids on task during the week. The benefit of my work hours allow me to continue to homeschool the kids for now. Even as I struggle to get up in the mornings to keep them learning, I know that if they were in a brick and mortar school I would miss out on knowing them.

As for my knee, I try very hard to not rely on crutches for short distances since they are so cumbersome. By the end of the week, I usually have to revert to using them for everywhere but in my own small house. Plagued by constant and increasing pain, I spend the majority of my time off work housebound. The "at least," which is of little comfort when my eyes burn and threaten to overflow from frustration and pain, is that I am providing for my family.

With the move to full-time work I am eligible for health insurance. We are struggling to figure out the legalities of such a complicated insurance system. We have to know how much money we are going to make this year, in order to determine who in our family will be insured.

Its hard to know how much money we'll make if we don't know if my husband will continue as a consultant or if he will be hired by another company. If he can be covered by a different insurance, my company won't cover him. If we don't buy him insurance the government may penalize us for not buying on the exchange. But if our income is only mine and what he might bring in with similar consulting income as last year, he would be penalized for being poor. Or if he gets a big project that would help us get out of this hellish poverty, he'll get penalized for making too much money.

None of it matters right now. The HR department was so kind as to admit that they were"dragging their feet" in getting my changes into the system, two weeks after I accepted the new position. So now the race is on to figure out insurance and sign up before I hit my 30-day limit of eligibility, which started the day I took the new position.

Life is just as complicated and difficult as before. I think that's the biggest disappointment. I had hoped that a full-time job would simplify and better our lives. I still live in constant pain. I still lose sleep over the complexity of survival.

Everyday Disappointments of Living in the Medicaid Gap

There are myriad downfalls to having a long-term injury. There are big worries, like providing enough income to support my children, keep a roof over our heads, or pay the power bill. There are things like pain management and being so very, very careful with each and every single step and movement lest I destroy any progress I make in trying rehabilitate a knee with information gleaned from Dr. Internet. There are the little things too. Those activities that celebrate living and make life better. 

I bemoaned my complete, all-encompassing disappointment to my husband yesterday as I sat down to take a break after ironing my work clothes. This time it was the disappointment that ironing -- a chore I once enjoyed -- wore me out. The work of attending to laundry has exponentially expanded although the amount of clothing and the goal remains the same. Performing elaborate rituals with dysfunctional appliances while in constant pain is just frustrating. 

I read the stocking schedule for the local waters in the newspaper. I hobble as I wander to the garage to look over my collection of gear that has accumulated over several lifetimes -- the legacy of gone family members and friends, collected and waiting for me to pass the long-honored tradition to my children. Its a tradition I relish. Its a tradition I miss. The logistics of trying to get myself and gear to water's edge and fish are complicated, even for some of the simpler waters in the area. 

I wonder when I'll hear the swish of the rod whispering above my ear as I try to place a feathery fly in just the right place again. I wonder when I'll once again feel the solid click of the 30-year-old Mitchell reel that is a smooth as the day it was made. I take my husband's micro ugly stick off the wall and once again compare it to my own micro, thinking the thoughts of a person mildly obsessed, 'I really like the play in his, perhaps I should get one like it.' 

 I consider setting up a table and making sure all of the reels are oiled and the lures organized by species and colors. Or maybe I should ties some hooks and leader so when we take the kids fishing again we can quickly replace lost hooks at the swivel instead of wasting fishing time with it. 

I turn and go back into the house. I won't go fishing until I can walk again without worry. 

Camping -- no. Hiking, or even just a walk around the neighborhood -- no. Any changes to the yard -- no. Gardening -- maybe, if the family is willing to do the work all season long. But the senses of accomplishment, peace and pleasure in actually working and growing a garden won't be mine. I'll have to rely on others to do the majority of the work. It will become an unpleasant chore for them and one more thing to feel bad about nagging over for me.

So many things that depend on a strength and ability I no longer have. The familiar "if only..." starts in my head, but its a useless refrain and it won't change my life back to what it once was.

Cynic Shaming, or When Optimists Attack

It started with an article about cynicism in the church. I read it, then searched the source paired with the word cynical only to find that this outlet frequently publishes articles against cynicism and pessimism. I wonder about writers exhorting the reader to abandon cynicism and turn away from their pessimist attitudes. Do they understand what brings on such an outlook? There is so much that goes into becoming harshly cynical, that shaming articles and dire warnings that pessimism causes dementia mean nothing.

My husband and I have never been accused of being positive or optimists. We've bordered on cynical and pessimistic for as long as we've known one another and our particular brands of sarcasm drew us together so many years ago. As teenagers we honed our cynicism in church groups while discovering the world was kind only to the privileged and wealthy, unless you could offer something else valuable to the group. Sometimes the only thing you had to offer was the bad example, which we were. The long term relationship spanning high school was supposedly doomed to failure within a year of marriage.  Our near 22 years might be a disappointment to some. I'm guessing by now they've all easily forgotten their condemnation of us, but we haven't.  When church leaders condemn you, it leaves a lasting impression.

Don't get me wrong, we had optimistic times. There were times when we even had enough of our own hope to support others in their hard times. We had fellowship and support, and thus we could offer the same. We had enough to offer hospitality and encouragement. Because we had support, we could offer the same to others. But support and fellowship don't have long-lasting effects once they stop. When we moved to a different state we once again had to try to carve out a place in a harsh new town.

Its hard to maintain optimism in life when scant few friends remain by your side during difficult times. You fear draining any hope they might have with your own distress. Especially if you know that what you face isn't within their circle of understanding. These hard times are when you find out who cares enough to offer support and friendship and who is suddenly too busy to stand with you through the challenges. Its when you become more and more cynical as you see just how little you meant to your community.

I wonder if the people who condemn the pessimist and the cynic understand that they are part of the problem. Instead of condemnation, its time to offer something useful. Instead of shaming people into abandoning their cynical nature, perhaps its time to offer friendship and support. You can never undo what your friends have seen or experienced, but you can show that you care enough to stand by them.

Homeless or Pain

It's late, or maybe early depending on how you look at it. I lie in bed wishing the cocktail of NSAIDs would at least take the edge off the pain in my leg and back enough that I could win the fight for sleep. But like so many nights, pain is winning out over much needed sleep.

As I try to visualize pain receding, think positive thoughts and pray for relief, my mind replays the conversation I had with a friend earlier in the day. We talked about how the Medicaid gap affects my family. Now, many hours later, I wish I had told her the most simplified version: I have to choose between homelessness or pain. I have a family. I have no choice but to live in pain.

Our mortgage lender extended us a hardship forbearance that allows us to pay a minimal amount while we struggle to get back on our feet. In exchange, we must not modify the house or let it fall into disrepair.  We must live in the house and take care of it. We also may not authorize any liens against the property. If we fail to meet these conditions, the lender will fast track foreclosure proceedings and we will lose our home.

The county places a lien against any real property a person possesses if she receives help to pay for medical costs through indigent services. St. Luke's, the medical system in our area, also places a lien against property if a person applies for charity aid. This information is found on both the paperwork and the websites.

So on nights like tonight when the mix of medications doesn't make a difference, I get out of bed and sit in the dark living room of my home--miserable, but not homeless.

Putting Hope in its Place

You can't allow yourself too much hope or happiness when you live in poverty. The idea things might get better is ludicrous, and to forget this is dangerous. There is always something demanding your resources and reminding you that you are certainly no better than you ought to be. There is always something that makes sure you stay right where you belong.  If you live this life, then you belong at the bottom. If you dare forget, than you will be reminded.

Unfortunately, this isn't just an adult thing.  I see this in my kids' interactions with their acquaintances.  Any small spark of joy is quickly extinguished by kids who know that money does buy happiness and friends. Poor kids who work hard are derided by peers until they are securely left with no illusion of worth or value. To train or study hard, to invest time because they do not have the ability to invest money is nothing, because as kids living in poverty, they are nothing. They have no hope of winning friends because they have worked hard.  They can only see that their peers despise them all the more when a leader or teacher draws attention to the results of their efforts.

So we put little hopes and accomplishments away. There isn't room for them in the daily life of scrabbling to survive. We teach our children to do the same.  Because hope and happiness isn't for the poor.  And hard work just means we think we might deserve something more than what we have.

A Slow Start

As spring takes hold of southern Idaho, life is off to a slow start. We've been given a small pickup to help ease the strain of being a busy one car family.  The minivan has proven to be yet another poor option in our descent into poverty. Perhaps the gift-pickup will help us buy more time until we can afford to repair or replace the van.  Count it as another way businesses prey on the poor. If a car dealer can sell a faulty vehicle to someone who is desperate, he will. There is little recourse for an impoverished buyer in this case. We do not have the money to invest in repairs, nor do we have the money to replace the vehicle.

Now that we have a small, steady income, I am starting to set goals again.  We desperately need to replace the washer and dryer as neither appliance works. We cannot consider shopping for new, but the fear of buying yet another broken down, piece of trash discourages me. Dragging the red wagon filled with dripping wet laundry across the yard to the clothes line discourages me too.  I haven't decided which is worse: the possibility of wasting what little money we live on, or dealing with the incredibly dysfunctional, yet known, appliances. These sort of decisions annoy me in their bizarre complexity.  In the past, I would have bought new appliances, complained that my spring was ruined by the cost and inconvenience and paid someone to deliver and install new ones for me. Now I send text messages to craigslist people who never answer back, and wish for the days of the harvest gold Maytag set my, and everyone else's, mother used to have.

In the end, the reality of trying to climb out of this pit is still discouraging as another season arrives. We want to have hope and we continue to try to change our situation, but sometimes... its just so damn frustrating.

Attacked by Dogs

I am too wound up to sleep and I'm wasting hours of darkness replaying the day in my head.  I go over the events in my typical way, overthinking, but unable to stop myself. What should have gone differently? How do we prevent it from happening again?

My three children and two dogs were attacked by a pair of dogs. My oldest daughter sustained most of the damage with her hands bitten when she tried to get the most aggressive dog off of our collie. The collie has bite injuries too, but her massive, rough coat, just recently starting its spring blow, protected her from the worst. Both my sweet girl and her dog will be sore, and they have bites and bruises that will need to heal.  Its the mental parts for both of them that I worry about.

I worry about the two who were hurt, but I also worry about the three that weren't. My princess girl already harbors so much anxiety, born out of could-be-worse incidents and rehab'd dogs from sketchy backgrounds. Its a lot of work and tears to bring a dog out of a bad situation and turn it into something to be proud of. Will this ramp up her stress and anxiety levels to where she won't be able to enjoy her hard work? What about my boy, who himself has suffered several dog bites? Finally, can we deal with it if the big dog suffers a setback in his training and mental well-being? Large, neurotic dogs aren't fun, and I don't have the money to devote to more professional training.

The kids walk the dogs daily--its part of being responsible pet owners. Its getting increasingly harder to be a good pet owner though. In the past year and a half our dogs have been attacked twice by dogs that have broken through fences, four times by small dogs in various settings, and now today's two dogs which ran across a baseball field, large parking lot and street in order to attack my family. There is something wrong with this picture.

My kids and dogs average a friendly following dog every 6 weeks, and we often call owners who act like its our fault their dogs are roaming at large. I've had owners tell me they are too busy and hang up the phone when I've called to let them know their dog was loose. We've only had one dog without a collar that we had to send to the pound.

I worry about the dog that was impounded for biting my girl. If only, if only, if only...

I hate the man who didn't care his dog had injured my child, refused to tell his name, and told me that his dog wasn't at fault. He's ruined the lives of his pets because I cannot stand idly by when he turned his aggressive dog loose near a playground. That dog will probably die because of this. And that was preventable simply by keeping the dog on the leash that the man carried in his hand.

I came back

"You came back," my new coworker said to me on the second day. I laughed and asked if I had messed up enough that I shouldn't have. I wait with the fear punitive and authoritarian bosses have instilled in me since I was 16 at my first fast food job. So far, no one has embarrassed me in front of my coworkers, and no one has told me that I'm making irreparable mistakes. This worries me, what if they aren't telling me that I'm wrong because I'm hopelessly wrong?

I asked, at the end of my first week, if there was anything I should know, and if I was doing OK. I was told everything was great as long as I didn't hide f-bombs in the copy. I should be relieved by this, but I worry. In a world where I know that this part-time job means that we have a small but steady income, I don't want to mess up. The idea of being sent back to poor school, or being forced into the opportunity to work without pay, lurks in the corner of my mind. I can see myself enjoying this job, becoming attached to it, and letting it become part of my identity, and that worries me too. If I become this attached, what would happen if I lost it?

I don't anticipate losing my new job, but we've lost so much in the past couple of years that its not outside the realm of possibility. The instructor at poor school said the fear and worry never completely leave your mind. You may never be comfortable again, even if you become financially secure. I wonder if I will always feel like I'm on the verge of utter destruction for our family with one misstep.

On the first Monday of my second week, my coworker walked past my desk,"you came back," he said with a smile. I asked if that was good, and he said most people would have quit by this point if they were going to quit. I don't say what is on my mind.

__ Days without Incident

Its been 8 days since I received the call that they wanted to hire me.

Its been 7 days since I hated my life.

Its been 6 days since I leaked frustration, anger and fear from my eyes.

Its been 5 days since I worried about how my crutches and problems would be received.

Its been 4 days since I started my new job.


I didn't realize just exactly how destroyed I am by this life of poverty and struggling. It's slightly horrifying that I can see the lack of confidence in my work and in how I interact with my new coworkers. Once, I would have approached this position quite boldly and with no question of my own abilities--now, I'm not as confident.

I am grateful. I work just enough hours to avoid the obligations of free work and poor school. I no longer have to deal with a job coach that treated me like my damaged knees were directly connected to my ability to reason.

Today, I will continue to dig myself out of this grave I've fallen into. I will hide the fear that lives in my chest and I will try to overcome the doubts which continuously niggle at the back of my mind. As I learn my job and responsibilities I might just find myself again--wouldn't that be nice?

Fear and Hope

Some days, I'm really normal. Strangely enough, today started that way. Some days, I start out with an almost normal gait, and I walk short distances just like any other person. Today, I started out that way.  Some days, I feel perhaps we'll be OK. Today, I felt that way. Some days, the fortune cookie is spot on and I can expect a big change for the better in my future.

Today started on Friday though. I saw the ad posted on a job website during my lunch break at free work. The job coach called me about a job and asked me to go into her office. I declined and told her to email the details to me. She hates that, since she thinks I'm not taking her seriously, which frankly, I'm not. Since I'm being frank, I didn't want her even in the same time zone when I prepared that application to go out. It was a job I wanted. The kind of job that if I were still living on our former, comfortable, middle-class income, I would still want it so dearly I could cry. The kind of job that makes my heart skip a beat. I wanted it.

I waited. Fear and hope mingled together and I wanted to jump up and down, or crawl into a den and hide. I mentioned it to my husband, but even then I downplayed my feelings. Saturday, I wrote the cover letter and checked the resume. I waited. Finally, I submitted the application and said a little prayer. It would be waiting for Monday morning, if it made it through an application tracking system. Please let me win this round of "buzzword bingo." Then, the emails started. Not just the automatic replies, but a real person. We set up a phone interview.

I adore phone interviews. They are a chance to avoid face-to-face, which is nice when you've been told that you just don't have the face for a job. Or when the interview is more about your inabilities that have very little to do with your abilities.You learn to appreciate being judged on the words that fall out of your mouth.

An invitation to meet in person. A short test on style. A day of normalcy. An interview that felt less judgmental and more conversational. Always the hope and fear growing and mingling, until I admit to my husband that I want this. The high of feeling OK still coursing through me, I celebrate with a bit of hope, maybe even a tiny nod toward joy. And then the phone call--the call that terrifies and excites, and unleashes so many questions, worries and hopes. 

By the end of the day I'm back to my trusty crutches, worn down by the agony in my knee. But for a day--for such an important day--I didn't lose to the disability. I beat it.

Do Hard Things

I don't know when it became fashionable in the inspirational crowd.  I remember seeing a book title, and the anthem being picked up by mom-blogs, and Christian blogs, and homeschoolers, and later being repeated here and there.  Over two years ago, I picked it up myself as a challenge to try to rectify my misspent twenties: Do hard things.

I thought taking college Math classes and packaging my varied credits into an associate's degree would be hard things to do--so I did them.  I thought rehabilitating my knees, riddled with arthritis and plagued by patella-femoral pain syndrome, with grueling physical therapy followed by a surgery and more physical therapy would be hard things to do--so I did them.  I thought that taking the steps to work towards a bachelor's degree by tackling more college classes would be hard things to do--so I did them.

Those are hard things done by choice.  There is a certain, smug, assurance when you speak of these kinds of hard things no matter if you succeeded or failed.  You did hard things.  You chose to take on a challenge head first and no matter the outcome, the lessons were in the journey.  You can celebrate that journey, and know that you can do more hard things, or do better at the hard things that stumped you on the first attempt. "Do hard things" is a joyful, inspirational message meant to get you out of your comfort zone.

No one chooses to do the actual hard things.  It is insanity to seek them out.  I essentially failed a difficult Math class, but I did the hard thing of trying to pass it.  I did not pass, as my life was turned upside down during that spring with the passing of my father-in-law.  In dealing with this sudden loss of a beloved father, we did more than hard things.  To this day, we deal with that loss and grief in often less than inspirational ways.  Death is not the hard things inspirational speakers were talking about.

This poverty, this constant struggle to get by--this struggle to have shelter, clean clothing, food, transportation, and find employment, are not the "hard things" of the anthem.  This pain that never ends and the circle of complications that go with it, are not the "hard things" of the anthem.  Trying to keep your children innocent and your marriage somewhat functional while your world is completely failing, does not count as "hard things."  These fall beyond "hard things."  If you have a choice, don't do these things, they are all but impossible.

Failing a Math class is disappointing.  Failing at life is devastating.  Overcoming the disappointment of a failed Math class takes a while, until you can regroup and try again.  Failing at holding your life and family together isn't one of those things you get a second chance at.  So do hard things, but realize the world is so much harder than you ever imagined.

Discrimination

I am finding out first hand about discrimination based on appearances.  Let's be honest, I'm not particularly svelte or exceptionally attractive.  I wear glasses, and my eyesight is bad enough that I've given up wearing makeup as I get more mascara on the mirror than my eyelashes.  To use eyeliner, I end up hitting the mirror with the pen causing my winged eyeliner to careen off across my temple making me look like I'm a dedicated fan of Mike Tyson's tattoo artist.  With the limitations on my budget, I no longer get my hair cut or colored, and I find I look more like my well-in-her-60's mother, instead of the outrageous, fun, outgoing mom I once did.  I'm short, and more than a little overweight.  I don't normally worry about any of this.  I know I've got a lot else going for me.

It was quite the shock when an interviewer looked me in the eye, and waving his hand jedi-style at my face, told me he was looking for "a certain face for the company."  Since he himself was somewhat corpulent, I wasn't sure if that meant I wasn't quite fat enough... No, I knew what he meant.  He wanted someone younger, prettier, and more physically appealing.  I wonder how that worked out for him as 4 weeks after I interviewed with him, he was again advertising for the position.  I can't imagine the lost man-hours and cost of training and retraining young ladies who fit the look, but didn't possess the ability or desire to do the job.

Earlier in my job search I interviewed with a university research division.  This was the interview where not only was one person on the panel so against my experience with the local homeschool group, she was also very biased against my mobility issues. Somehow, having grant writing experience that benefits a group of people she fundamentally disagreed with made the leg much worse.  She managed to break all the rules that the university has in place to maintain a fair interview process.  I can never figure out why people would bother to interview someone they fundamentally disagree with.

The most recent and I think most disturbing interview discrimination took place yesterday.  It was an interview with the local school district for a paraeducator.  If this is an unfamiliar term, we called them teacher's aides when I was younger.  This was a typical panel of three interviewers, including a person sitting in for the director of the district's support services department, one was a principal of a local elementary, and one was the director of support services for a high school.  The interview seemed to go along reasonably well, and I was feeling okay with it until we got to that final question, "Do you have any questions for us?"

"Yes, a couple if that's okay.  The first is what is your decision making timeline?"

A typical answer of within a week was the reply.

"My second question is do you have any further questions or any concerns with my background or experience that you'd like to know more about?"

The principal offered, "Do you need the Praxis, or do you have at least 32 college credits?"  

"I do hold an associate's degree and I do have additional credits beyond that, so I don't think I need the Praxis."

The director of support services for the high school quickly jumped in, "I just have to know about the crutches?"

"Oh yes, I believe I self-identified on the application as disabled.  I use the crutches to walk."  This is more information than I was obliged to answer by law, but because I did self-identify, I feel comfortable with this explanation.

"You can't do this job!  We have stairs in the high school!"  This isn't just sitting around in a resource room! You have to be able to walk from class to class!"  

The district director of support services eyes widened, she quietly pointed out that the high school does have an elevator.  The high school director of support services continued on her tirade of how I would not be able to do the job.  The elementary school principal's face was wary as he pointed out that I seemed to get around just fine.  I said that with reasonable accommodations I have no problems.    

Now, I want to point something out:  This was the Director of Support Services for a local high school.  She works in Special Education.  This person with uncontrollable logorrhea on the subject of my physical abilities is actually in charge of helping students get ready to enter society.  I think I feel worse for those students than for anyone else she comes into contact with that needs assistive devices.  

One final point on this last interview, where I was very obviously discriminated against because of my crutches--the next applicant was waiting in the lobby as I left.  She was in a wheelchair.

Update:  I received the call today that I was no chosen for the role of paraeducator, something that I'm not in the least surprised about.

Disappointment

One of the biggest disappointments in life as a poor family is that we are in no position to help.  Where once as middle class people, it was our duty, and joy, to help others however we could.  That little bit of peace that comes from simple goodwill is lost to us as every other middle class dollar and moment we had before.  That joy of being able to do something for someone else is gone as we simply try to take care of ourselves.  There is a very real and very disappointing feeling that comes from not being able to offer anything. It weighs as heavily on my heart as the fear of disaster--this lack of ability to help; this inability to do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

It started with the dogs. It usually does for me. I followed along as a local animal rescue posted on social media that they needed fosters, adopters, and help for a number of Australian Shepherds.  I love Aussies, and have always wanted the chance to train one and incorporate one into our family.  But knowing how much a project dog costs, I sadly turned away.  Only a day later, the email came.  A couple of years ago, I had been involved in a breed specific group as we rehabilitated a dog. I love the breed, so when the email came that the rescue wanted to know if I could take in a local one, I was heartbroken.  Its not just the money, its the physical requirements of training a large, undisciplined dog.  My love of large, unruly, herding and farm dogs doesn't work well with a bum knee, tender shoulder and empty pockets.

I see needs everywhere that I cannot meet.  People need able bodies to help and I can only turn away.  People any number of things that I could have easily found at one point in life and I can't do anything to help.  Its an awful feeling to be so selfish.

Ah Yes, This Again

In addition to Poor School and free work, I am involved in Vocational Rehabilitation (VR), a program that is supported by the state.  This program has a lot of potential, and yet, it has a lot of frustration.  VR is supposed to help people with disabilities get back to work or to help pay for retraining.  In my case I have been referred to a job coach, who is supposed to help me find work.  VR also provides physical therapy for my injuries.

The job coach is paid a certain amount by VR to help me find a job. The brochures and written information sound good, and having a professional help me find something suitable is a great idea. So I was encouraged when I was accepted to the program.  My case manager at VR is a lovely lady who is genuine and caring.  She gave me some numbers and some unofficial advice on who to call in order to choose a job coach.  With that in mind, I chose a company that seemed to be proactive. We're going to talk about fraud and misuse of funds again.  Here is another case of misuse, and not by the end user.

My job coach does exactly what I do every week.  She looks for jobs for me to apply to.  She will also fill out the applications, submit my resume, and write my cover letters.  She will take the personality screenings that some employers require.  She will talk to employers to ask if they have any openings.  If I didn't have a resume, she would write one for me.  Here is my problem with these services:  I already do all of that on my own, and I don't want someone else to make up my experience and abilities.  I also do not want someone who can't spell submitting my applications.  I'm picky that way. Her services aren't incredibly helpful and they are served with a very strong dose of condescension.  Additionally, she has no problem committing fraud by lying on applications.  I have had to look over her shoulder and adamantly and repeatedly tell her that I do not have the experience that she claims.  I have gone back into applications after I've gotten home in order to change them since she has outright lied. I have been called for interviews for jobs that I have not agreed to apply for, without any idea what I'm being called about, and ended up looking like an idiot.  At the end of an appointment, I've seen her log that she has submitted my application for jobs that I submitted on my own time.

The moral questions are these:  Do I continue to let this fraud continue?  Do I allow applications that are not honest and truthful to go out in my name?  Do I continue to look increasingly foolish and put my ethics on the line, in order to reap the benefits of the physical therapy that VR is providing for my knees and shoulder?

And finally, at what point do I just stop caring about trying to be ethical?

Quicksand

So few things change when you spend each day trying to rise out of a bad situation, or more aptly, trying not to sink further.  Poverty is very much like quicksand, the more you struggle the deeper you sink.  Yet, you have to do something in order to stop the slow drowning.  Its just trying to figure out what to do without making the problems worse.  This is where we are now.

In our endeavor to keep a roof over our heads, and food on the table while looking for employment, as always, we have to fulfill certain obligations.  This week we had to recertify our information in order to continue to receive food stamps.  Let me take you on a trip through this process.

First, we receive the packet paperwork.  We see that it is due back very soon, with less than a full business week to take care of it.  We also see that we can recertify online.  This shouldn't be too big of a deal.  Except... when we first applied for food stamps the person at the health and welfare office filled the information in incorrectly.  Even though we had turned in paperwork with all of the correct information and all of the required documentation.  We had no idea of this until we went online to recertify.  To recertify online you have 48 hours from your first keystroke to finish the process.  So now the clock is ticking.

We have no reason not to be honest in this process.  We never have had a reason to falsify information.  But what do you do when you realize that your initial paperwork is incorrect? There is a huge amount of fear involved, because that is how the state works. The idea of having to pay back the cash amount of the food stamps and health insurance for our children over the past 5 months is too scary to make mistakes.  We decide to go to the Health and Welfare office to talk to a real person.  I had to take time off from free work in order to go to the H&W office. I also have not experienced any great supernatural healing as of yet and I still use crutches.

The waiting room is populated with some young families, a few women and children, an older couple and us.  They no longer have a receptionist, as they did a few months ago. They are short-staffed. There is a sign asking that people wait in line in order to receive a number.  My husband waits in line and I sit down.  A very disgruntled worker yells at me to remain in line.  I point and tell her that I'm with him, and he's in line.  She doesn't understand that we are together and she continues to yell at me to get in line.  He tells her that we are together and he's in line.  She doesn't understand and continues to yell at me to get in line.  She finally, while glaring smugly at me, gives him the next number.  She watches as he brings me the paper, and it finally dawns on her that we are together.  No apologies for yelling at us.  Poor people don't deserve to be treated with any sort of respect, and this is no more obvious than in the Health and Welfare office.

We finally talk to a person that while nice enough, really has no interest in helping us with the recertification process.  She does explain that the very short due date is actually a "target" date and not the actual due date. She smiles and tells us to use the incorrect information in our recertification.

Now, think about this.  We provided correct information to begin with, but it was entered incorrectly by a state employee. We were told to continue to use incorrect information on a state form, by a state employee.  We are treated poorly by another state employee.  If you are certain that fraud is rampant in the state system, how can you be sure its the people using the system, and not the people who are paid to help them?  If our application is found to be incorrect, we are the ones who will suffer because of it.  Nothing will happen to the employee who inputted the information incorrectly into the system.  Nothing will happen to state employee who acted inappropriately because I did not stand in the line.  Nothing will happen to the employee who told us to continue to use the incorrect information.

"Entitlement" rhetoric relies heavily on the supposed vast amounts of fraud in the welfare system.  Due to my experience as someone who is using welfare to help my family survive, and from others in the same position, I am beginning to see that wrong-doing in the welfare system stems more from the blatant mistreatment and purposeful misleading of those most vulnerable, by those who are supposed to help.

Under Pressure

We hear the words meant to encourage us.  Those who say we handle this all with such grace, but behind the computer screen and the behind the smiles, are the short tempers, the tears, and the shouting.  We have weeks where we plant a small seed of hope only to see it die as poverty viciously chokes it with pain and destruction.  We have weeks where the closest we get to a smile is a grimace that we hope passes as something close to friendly.  Some days we sit in the car and sob, with arms wrapped tightly around our middles to keep from splitting apart.  Some days we tiredly accept that the sink backs up, the dashboard is alight with various warnings, the household appliances work only occasionally, and that one signature that would unwind a small ribbon of stress isn't available.  Other days we kick the offending appliance and are later embarrassed by the dents.  Some days there isn't any grace to go around.

There is no "but" to this.  There is no "at least".  Some days the only relief is once the kids are quiet in their beds, and we have retreated to our own distractions.  Some days the fleeting relief doesn't come until the early hours of the morning when the worries and scenarios in our heads finally slacken enough to allow sleep to claim its place for a short while.  We don't give voice to the questions that overwhelm us.  The "how much longer?" type of questions.  They hang between us.  There aren't any answers to these questions anyway.  

We live knowing that we fall closer and closer to losing our home and any lingering dignity that bothered to stick around.  We struggle to grasp at the threads of hope knowing they are far more fragile than ropes thrown to the drowning.

Groundhog's Day

Life feels a lot like the movie Groundhog's Day right now.  I have an overuse injury to my right shoulder, which is the one that is responsible for the brunt of the support when I use crutches. So if you wondered if I won the lottery and I quickly forgot the last year not even pausing to share the joy with you--I'm sorry to say I did not.  Instead, I was doing my best to avoid adding to the injury by typing more than necessary.

Not much has changed as we continue, day after day, to try to solve the problems that plague us.  This is the worst part of our desperation: nothing changes.  My husband still works hard to build his business.  We both still search frantically to find a job that will pay a family wage.  We teach the children, do the chores, and try to figure out what's next.

So far, we still answer the phone and very diligently return the forms and paperwork that will keep us in our house until March first.  After that, I suppose the gentle-voiced gentleman who is our contact with the bank, might not be as kind and understanding.  We hold onto the faintest sliver of hope that something good will happen soon.  That somehow we'll get through this.

Even though this isn't anything close to our idea of how life was supposed to be, we do still count our blessings.  A dear friend blessed us with dinner out last week.  The kids were ecstatic.  I think that they were as excited by this chance to eat out as they would be to go to a science museum.  Other friends have encouraged us lately too, and I cannot express just how thankful we are.

Missing Middle Class

Sometimes this is much harder than we expected.  We actually didn't expect to be so broke and so poor that we'd ever have to make the decisions we are forced to make.  Sometimes its just the little things too.  Things that we took for granted for years.  Things that poverty can't even consider.

I miss wine.  I miss the ritual of opening a bottle of wine, pouring the glass and looking at it, smelling it, tasting it. I miss sitting down at the end of the day with a glass of red wine, and taking time to relax. I miss pairing a nice red wine with a fine dark chocolate and savoring each. I don't suffer from not having wine, but I do miss the peaceful rituals I had with it.  I think that my husband feels the same about craft beer.  I think we both miss the evenings where we had our drink and sat and talked together, having missed one another through the day. We gave both up, having drank our small collections.  Likewise, I miss some of the winter drinks we used to have.  I miss the smell of scotch.  I miss the bottle of honeyed whisky I would indulge in once a year. Obviously, not necessary to life, these things were cut early from our budget. They were just something fine and enjoyable to us.

I miss shopping for housewares.  Not even the buying of housewares, but we've gone so far from middle class that we won't happen across that perfect-something-on-perfect-sale-so-we-should-buy-it item. There is no perfect something to look for no matter how inexpensive it is.  Even free is too expensive at this point.  I looked forward to Bed, Bath and Beyond opening this summer, but its opening coincided with my injury.  So I never had the chance to go look for cheerful, cotton napkins.  And now I'm at the point where new napkins are such a luxury item that shopping for them is akin to looking at brand new Jaguars.  Its completely ridiculous to even consider buying something so extravagant.  But I miss thinking that I should pick up new kitchen hand towels if I find any I like the next time I'm out.

I miss being able to call a repairman or even just replace a faulty item.  Everything seemed to fall apart the moment we no longer could afford the basics. I'm not sure how so many appliances knew that we couldn't afford to fix them, but they must have, since so many things went wrong.  A malfunctioning washer is just highly inconvenient when you can afford to go to the laundromat, or to replace it, but its a heartbreak when you can't afford any other option.

I miss simple things like going out once a week or even once a month.  There is no quick-trip through a drive-thru, or going out for dinner.  Going to the movies, buying new ones, or even renting from RedBox is out of the question.  There is no taking the kids out to try something new, or enjoy something old.  If a much anticipated video that we've had on hold for months doesn't get turned back in to the library, we don't get to see it. Birthdays and Valentine's day are simply days on the calendar.

I miss going to do other things, like fishing, hiking, and taking the dogs out. Sure, these things are free, or otherwise very cheap, but I can't go anymore if I can't walk.

I'm not sure you realize on your way up to middle-class just how much easier life becomes with money.  Sure you realize that life is a lot easier than when you were a young couple, married and just starting out in life, but you don't always notice that money and time have changed you that much.

And I know I'm whining.  But before you roll your eyes at me, think about the little (or big) luxuries that you indulge in.  Is it craft supplies?  Wouldn't you miss being able to sew or knit or scrapbook?  Wouldn't you miss relaxing at the end of the day?  Wouldn't you miss grabbing a quick bite to eat when you were too tired to cook? Or going out on a special date?  Wouldn't you miss being able to have clean, dry clothing and clean dishes?  Wouldn't you miss walking?  If you say no, you aren't being truthful with yourself.

Soda and Compounding Problems

Here is a nice little side effect of not having health insurance:  I use crutches to support myself and to get around as a result of an untreated left knee injury.  When I participated in that Functional Capacity Evaluation (FCE) last week, I injured my right shoulder.  So now, I cannot walk, because the shoulder of the right side, which carries more of the load when I use crutches, is injured.  Without the ability to actually be treated for injuries, I am stuck unable to do anything.  At least the doctor at the free clinic gave me a note so I could stay home for a few days instead of having to attend classes on how to get a job.  Those classes never go over how to get a job when you can't walk or use your arm.  The note protects my children, and thus they still get fresh fruit and vegetables, dairy, meat and grains.

Speaking of food, I've noticed those who wish to limit access to foods they deem unhealthy.  Do I agree that soda is unhealthy?  Of course I do.  But try looking at it this way: when we were middle class we were able to go out once a week as a special family outing.  Once we became poor, we could no longer take the family out to eat, so we switched to making those (fun, but labor intensive) meals at home.  We try to recreate the enjoyment we had as a family eating a special meal.  But does being poor mean that our kids should only be allowed to drink water?  Does it mean that they can't enjoy soda with their homemade pizza?  Does being poor mean that we have to take away all treats from our children so they fully know just what kind of failures their parents have become?  "Sorry kids, not only can you not have dance lessons, or play baseball, or learn how to play the piano, but your great-uncle says that you don't deserve soda or popcorn during family movie night."  Or should I have to explain to my kids, "My old neighbor from Jr. High wants to disallow you having cake for your birthday"?

When you say soda and treats shouldn't be bought with my taxpayer dollars (yes, mine. We've paid taxes for many years.), you are saying that knowledgeable parents who make too little money aren't capable of deciding that their kids can have a treat now and then.  Are there people who think Cheetos are a valuable part of the food pyramid?  Yes.  There are people who don't read nutrition labels.  There are people who consider Dr. Pepper to be a fruit juice.  There are also people who don't plan their menus, making sure that they provide a healthy balanced option that is varied, cost effective, and suits the needs of their family over an average of 450 individual meals for the month. That's not a food stamp problem, that's an education problem.  Getting upset that I buy soda for my kids to enjoy once in a while is silly.  Get upset that we don't provide proper health and nutrition education.  Get upset that we don't have heathcare for people who make $100 too much for medicaid and $1700 too little for ACA.  But don't waste your heartbeats on worrying over poor people buying a soda.  If you want to take it away from the people who chronically make poor choices, you'll be taking it away from those who use food treats sparingly and deliberately.

You notice poor decision makers more often then you notice the people who are being careful.  We all notice that.  Nobody wants to watch a reality tv show about people who make good decisions but get caught in a spiral of compounding difficulties.  People watch reality tv about those who make poor decisions and do stupid things. Since you don't take the time to notice the people who are carefully choosing the best foods that fit their families' needs, you aren't making a fair or well-informed decision, and that makes you purposefully ignorant. How does wallowing in this ignorance while you yell to take soda away from the poor make you the better person?

On Pain, Injury, Intelligence and Other Notions

This week, Vocational Rehabilitation sent me to a Functional Capacity Evaluation (FCE). This may mean nothing to you, and if that is true, you are extremely fortunate.  The FCE is a series of physical assessments that measure your abilities to perform certain tasks.  That didn't sound so bad, so I did no research before I showed up for this evaluation.  I should have.  If you are ever sent for this evaluation, please read up on what you will be doing, and please understand that it is incredibly painful and you will suffer.  You will suffer a lot.  Days later, you will still be suffering... a lot.  You will wonder if you should go to the ER, and if you are like me, you will choose to see how close to death you will go, since you do not have insurance.  If you have insurance, you will choose to go to the ER.  If you do not have insurance, you'll despise everything about the convoluted medical insurance system, but you know you cannot afford to die this week, so you'll take as many pain relievers that you can possibly stomach and hope to get through.  Your heart will feel like giving up.  Your blood pressure will go through the roof.  Your oxygen levels will drop.  If you have an injury like mine, you will regret ever participating in this assessment, as it will make the injury worse.
 
I won't know the results of this evaluation for a while, I suppose.  The Occupational Therapist who administered the tests was kind, and even a bit apologetic.  He did say he was going to strongly recommend intense physical therapy for my problems and he suggested that I see my former surgeon for care.  While I appreciate that he sees the problems I face, I can only shrug at the recommendation to pursue medical care.  I am perpetually amazed at the number of medical professionals and the "welfare" professionals that do not understand the ACA and Medicaid gap. I am beginning to believe that the only people who do understand the gap are those who are in it.

Another joyful little gift from Voc. Rehab. is the job coach.  I understand that the people who serve as job coaches most frequently provide services to those who may be intellectually challenged.  I have a hard time believing that they don't serve those who are only physically challenged though.  With that said, I have no good words for my latest case manager/job coach speaking to me like I am an imbecile.  My joints have nothing to do with my intellectual faculties.  I very much prefer not to be spoken to like a dull-witted child and I cannot think of any reason to patronize any person regardless of the challenges they face.

It seems the further I go down this rabbit-hole, the more I see that the system inherently discourages and hurts, instead of helps those who need it.  I am at the point where if we had a safety net, if we had someplace else to turn, we would.  I never expected to experience this sort of loss of dignity.

"Opportunity"

For those who think that people on welfare don't work, I want to you know that we do.  Not only do the majority of us spend a job's worth of hours every week searching for work, we also have the obligations to fulfill.  I have now found out that if you go long enough spending 40-60 hours a week searching for work and fulfilling your state obligation of attending poor school, you get "offered" work "opportunity" in order to earn your food stamps.  Now, there isn't anything wrong with expecting people to earn their way in this world.  People should earn their way, I'm just wondering how efficient this "opportunity" is when it comes to the work search.

Consider this with me, if I spend forty hours a week searching, researching and applying for employment, plus the 5-10 hours a week that I'm obligated to attend classes or provide other proof that I'm looking for work, how will adding another 5-10 hours of forced volunteerism help?  How will adding another anxiety-obligation actually help me find employment or provide the medical care I need in order to be a fully functioning member of society? (Anxiety-obligation in this case means an obligation that is tied to my children's well-being.  If I do not do this, the state will take away food stamps for my family.) If anything, it ties up more hours that I could continue to devote to this work search.  

Let me see if I can explain something. When you look at the unemployment rate you see its low, leading you to believe that there are actually many jobs available.  But the unemployment rate doesn't take into account the underemployed like my husband, or the unemployed who aren't claiming unemployment insurance payments.  There are a lot of people in the same place as us.  Idaho, and this area, really likes to claim a low unemployment rate, but by doing so they marginalize a significant number of people.  I see a number of people who are participating in poor school who are in this margin. The problem is that there aren't enough jobs for the marginalized and the more recently unemployed.  

The job market is not an employee's market, instead it is still an employer's market.  Many of the jobs I apply for have 50-100 applicants for one entry level position.  Now, lets consider that you are an employer.  There are obviously applications that do not meet your requirements for your position that you have open, and those get tossed.  Then you have the applicants that meet most or all of the job requirements.  You choose anywhere from 2-8 to interview.  If I am among that pool, you may be ok with my qualifications, but you won't be impressed with my physical issues which you will see the moment I walk into the interview. Its been said by more than one case worker that they cannot figure out why I am not employed.  I wonder if they are blind to the fact that I have to use crutches.  

So let's wrap all of this information up into something we can understand.  There are not enough jobs when you consider the number of people who are not being counted by the state as unemployed.  With a huge employee pool, someone who needs accommodations for a physical problem is not going to be the top candidate for any position.  Forcing me to now work for the organization that has failed to help me find work is still not going to help me find a job that will provide money to pay for things like heat, electricity and water.