text:
tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58954404533355521172016-06-27T10:36:11.298-04:00calvin's storyA mother's journey through the anguish, grief, joy and triumph of raising a chronically ill, disabled, extraordinary child, and how he helps shape her views of the world.Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-89254444584399094702016-06-25T17:05:00.000-04:002016-06-26T12:04:04.574-04:00a glimpse of my son
He can't always walk well by himself; he's never out of earshot and if he's not in our hands, he's within our reach. His balance is poor, his vision, perhaps, is worse, his bones are thin and he's prone to careen. He can't be left on his own for a spell or he's liable to fall and get hurt, and his fits, though mostly foreseen, can strike any time at all. He can't push a toy truck or stack wooden blocks, can't scribble or scrawl or catch a ball or kick one with his feet. He can't ride a bike or mount a trike, can't eat with a spoon or drink independently from an open cup. He tosses his sippy on the floor like a tot, and drops like a stone when he's had enough. He can't put on clothes or soap up in the bath, can't brush his teeth, tie his shoes or button his shirt. He can't play games or sports or whistle a tune, he can't run down the street, hop or jump rope. He can't speak a word or point to what hurts, can't wave goodbye or greet new folks. He can't wade in a pond, swim in a pool or climb in the trees, can't read a book or sit and just watch t.v. He can't open most doors or climb stairs alone, make any friends, or ride safe in a boat. He can't peel fruit, open bags, pour milk, pick flowers, tell time, write his name, dance a jig, play a flute. He can't pull up his covers at night, can't tell us his dreams, can't wish on a star or play make believe. He lives in the moment, and for all I know, he doesn't know hope. And though he hasn't a clue about most of this world, I just wish he felt better more of the time, wish we could know some of his thoughts.

Photo by Michael Kolster

Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-56402207198456992262016-06-24T15:31:00.001-04:002016-06-24T15:31:53.434-04:00gross
i was about to publish a post i've been working on all week. i just now deleted it by accident. such is life. suffice to say i was writing about the ridiculous amount of attention calvin requires and how i can't keep him out of earshot or beyond arm's reach. i guess i have to start over.

on a related note, while taking calvin to the grocer today, he was squealing and squirming and drooling a bit, and walking his wonky walk. a little girl of about seven strolled by and gawked at him. she raised her arms and flicked her fingers as if she were holding something rotten and said, "ew, gross." she was talking about calvin. i turned to her and said loudly, "ew, you're gross," and went on my merry way.

she reminded me of donald trump, in her mocking of my sweet, defenseless, disabled boy, spewing the shit that was on her mind, not caring if she offended, thinking she was without fault.

talk about gross.
Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-81187413744869248892016-06-15T11:12:00.000-04:002016-06-15T18:31:54.007-04:00the apathy of god
When I see my son suffer a seizure, like yesterday morning, I am reminded of the apathy of god, at least of the anthropomorphized One who in some people's minds peers down from the ether. The One who decides that kids like mine ought to be born missing part of their brain and endure miseries of all kinds. The One whom some like to say doles out hardships just shy of what might be too much for us to bear. The One who, it would seem, brushes aside infinite pleas for an end to pain, disease, famine, drought and war.

Before Calvin's seizure, which was more violent than most, I laid awake lamenting the death and misery caused by the Orlando nightclub shooter. How many of those loving, happy men and women, and their families receiving panicked texts, prayed to be delivered from that hell? Despite their appeals, the bullets rained down on them like acid, the hot metal rifling into innocent flesh and bone.

God was nowhere on the scene.

Some pious people have told me that Calvin is the way he is—suffering—to serve some higher purpose, to satisfy some grand design. Those same folks might like to claim that the carnage in Orlando was punishment for homosexuality which, they might argue, is forbidden in their Good Books. But God did not author the Scriptures. They were all penned by man. And in each one—the Bible, the Quran, the Tora—certain things are condemned such as eating shellfish, rodents, fat and certain birds, blending fibers, wearing torn clothes, planting more than one kind of seed in a field—and edicts for when to worship, when to fast, how to wear your hair and for homemaking anointing oils. There are laws that indict and subjugate women, tenets to punish various "sins" and statutes on who to stone. These were mans' creations, mans' fascinations, mans' depravity. This was mans' way to best exert control.

If there is a god—some divine, interconnected force of living and inanimate things—it does not judge or punish. It does not hold in contempt, root for sides, cause anguish and pain, or help to win a war. If this force exists, it must be like water, wind or sun, touching us all, quenching our thirsts, stroking our skin, quickening our hearts. Perhaps sometimes it rises in tides and floods and wicked storms, lays waste the parching plains, quakes the earth which swallows souls. But never does the cosmos rule with some unjust slant or cause, nor with scorn, nor with resolve.

No. The universe is very simply divine, perhaps on its own, and the world sublimely spins, but by no deft hand, nor man, nor bias god who, upon waking, decides that it is so.

Photo by Michael Kolster

Christy Shakehttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-3644710219192662992016-06-13T12:42:00.001-04:002016-06-14T06:57:18.455-04:00compliments
Sometimes people do things that restore one's faith in a loving, accepting world at a time when others seem bent on hatred, selfishness, fear and division.

Calvin has had the good fortune of being mainstreamed in Mr. Steven Shea's fifth grade class. On several occasions last year, Mr. Shea called me at home to invite Calvin to join the class on summer field trips. We were able to go on one of them, a hike to Morse Mountain. For most of the way, I pushed Calvin in the stroller while the other children walked. That morning, I witnessed the openness, kindness and compassion that Steven had instilled in his students. It meant so much to me that he had included Calvin, even though he wasn't sure the trips would be easy or possible for us to negotiate.

Last Friday, Calvin came home with several strips of paper and a note from his aide explaining that Mr. Shea's students had written each other compliments. Several of the children had chosen to write some for Calvin:

To Calvin, You are a rock star. I loved coming into Ms. Andersons room to volenteer and see you and Sammy and Alden. Your mom was right you have no mean bone in your body. From Jack

Kalven, you are really nice. I"m glad to be in your class.

Calvin: Even though you don't come to class much we think of you a lot. —Morgan

to: Calvin you are extremlly nice to everyone and its amazing what you have accomplished.

Calvin, your very nice and always wave to me in the halls. Luke

Calvin—you seem really nice and I"m glad you dropped in our class to meet you.—Zoe

Calvin you are always happy and smiling. —Elly

Mr. Shea has recently resigned his post. The school is no doubt losing a wonderful teacher who taught his students the valuable lessons of empathy, acceptance and love, all of which are paramount considering the state of things in this crazy nation of ours.

Thank you, Steven. Best of luck in all you endeavor. Please give my best to your group of remarkable kids.

Calvin with Mr. Shea's other fifth graders on top of Morse Mountain, summer 2015

Christy Shakehttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-25819572649595205922016-06-07T14:35:00.001-04:002016-06-08T10:05:46.111-04:00drowning
dumbstruck by prose on drowning. my face awash with tears—my son's and mine. rain batters a red metal roof. an unbelievable green turns neon amid an electric sky. electric sky. perhaps sparking my son's fits. five of them. one grand mal. like clockwork the morning of day nine. the clock stops. the fits march on. i drown my son with potions of various kinds. cannabidiol. benzodiazepine. extra keppra. tetrahydrocannabinolic acid. more benzodiazepine.

he clasps his hands around my neck. beats his head into mine and cries. mama will make it better, i vow. my head pressed into his i glimpse my fist. in it a syringe awaiting to touch his lips. i wonder what is hurting him. i think of mothers and fathers who have taken away the pain. i read of others who bring it on. who've drowned their most beloved ones.

the sky glows. the rain slows. the catbird has been calling since two a.m. i shouldn't, but i know.

precious boy in so much pain. migraine? sweet boy on the mend will feel this way again. i can take none of it away. i kiss and rub his neck. palm on his chest. no beating. what to do? wait. it's merely calm. not thumping too, too strong.

in my youth i used to catch frogs. see their beady eyes floating in the mire. feel their hearts through cellophane skin. yesterday I waded ankle deep into a pond. looked inside. spied no frogs. heard them yawn and croak and call. thought of the tot who slipped on a rock a lifetime ago. the crown of her head barely cleared the drink. her blond curls drifting like milfoil whorls. she didn't move. i stood and froze.

my boy emerges from the deep. still weeping. times like these he takes me down. the both of us drown by degrees. sorrow is mine. his is hurt. we wade, we slip, we work like hell to breathe in waters that may never recede.

Photo by Michael Kolster

Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-18266401987366331472016-06-03T14:11:00.002-04:002016-06-03T14:22:31.534-04:00in the same boat
A brown-haired boy in the back of the room raised his hand and said to me, "It must be hard."

I asked him if he meant hard for me or for Calvin. He answered, "Both."

"Yes, it is hard," I replied, trying not to lose my composure.

I mentioned my sleep deprivation and the difficulties we face because Calvin can't speak. I explained that it was hard seeing my son suffer so many ills and have seizures and have to deal with so many drug side effects. Then I thanked the boy for his thoughtful sentiments.

The group of students was the third to attend my presentation at the junior high school down the road from our home. I'd been invited back a second year to talk about Calvin and epilepsy and disability on their annual Civil Rights day. This last of three classes had just come from a presentation about the Holocaust given by an eighty-three year old survivor.

For forty minutes each, I projected photos of Calvin on good days and on bad ones, on the day he was born, nestled in his plexiglass isolette and hooked up to C-PAP tubes (continuous positive airway pressure). I flashed shots of my son swinging and smiling and signing for "hug" amidst too many photos of various drugs.

They asked me things like:

What is Calvin's favorite food? How does he communicate? Is he coming to school here next year? How do you know when he is going to have a seizure? Does Calvin have friends? What does he like to do? Is Calvin your only child? How did you choose his name?

Surprisingly, none of them asked me questions akin to the ones gradeschoolers have, such as:

Do seizures hurt? Can you die from a seizure? Can you have seizures before you are born? Will Calvin ever outgrow his seizures? Will Calvin ever be able to stop taking medicine? What happens if a seizure doesn't stop?

At the end of my presentation, two students, a sixth-grade boy and girl, told me quietly that they have epilepsy. The boy, in appreciation of my talk, gave me a fist bump and a thumbs up.

At one point, someone asked if people make fun of Calvin. I told them that I didn't think Calvin was teased at school, but that at the grocery store I often see strangers gawk at Calvin and, in the past, I've had to endure scornful comments about my clamorous boy.

At various times during my presentations I spoke of the difference between tolerating people who are seen as different—like my boy—and embracing them. I went on to emphasize how we are all born as equals, how we all come into this world loving, and that only later do we learn to hate and disparage. I encouraged the students to be kind to others who are different from themselves, who might have different hair, different colored skin, an unusual accent, come from another country, live in a different kind of house, wear different clothes, practice different religions or have a disability like Calvin. Regrettably, I failed to include LGBT people and people with different gender identities. Then, I read a favorite quote by Martin Luther King, Jr.:

We may have all come on different ships, but we're in the same boat now.
Read more at: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/m/martinluth132359.html
We may have all come on different ships, but we're in the same boat now.

I went on to talk about advocacy. I urged them to not be afraid to challenge authority, but to understand, for instance, that they or their parents might know as much or more about themselves as their doctors do. I urged them to stand up for themselves and for others, to confront bullies on underdogs' behalves.

It was at that point when one of the teachers recalled the earlier presentation by the Holocaust survivor. She explained to the kids that if it had not been for all of the wonderful people who had come to his aid before, during and after his torment in the concentration camps, that he might not have survived to tell his story.

I took her comment further, explaining that if enough people had rejected the rumors and lies about their good Jewish neighbors and citizens, had they not feared or had contempt for them, if enough folks had, instead, stood up for them early on, then perhaps there would have been no Holocaust.

Delving deeper, I appealed to the children, telling them that I hoped they would never judge someone simply because they were different. I hoped they would step out of their comfort zone and get to know and embrace people who are different from themselves and that, as a result, they might realize they share more in common than at first glance, and that they'd learn new things and grow and live a much richer life as a result.

Lastly, I told them that if someone complains of being bullied or mistreated, they should listen and believe. I said I hoped that if they heard someone—anyone—talking trash about someone because of their race or religion or disability, for instance, that they should speak up to call out the wrong, and go to that person's aid.

After three hours at the junior high school, I left thinking about the importance of our civil rights and the debates I'd had recently about the Black Lives Matter crusade. I became disheartened recalling the cascade of intolerant and misinformed comments about the BLM movement, which I believe is absolutely righteous and most vital to the health of our nation and our citizenry; if only more white people would get past their self interests, embrace their Black American brothers' and sisters' cause, and jump on board.

I began thinking of the Republican presidential nominee again, and his penchant for for hateful, divisive, fearmongering, accusatory, inflammatory rhetoric. I wondered if Trump has any close Muslim, Mexican or African American friends. I have a hard time believing so.

And then I smiled at the thought of the students and their malleable brains, and the compassion on their faces when I spoke of Calvin and the hardship he endures. I hoped I'd made a difference in how they see unfamiliar others who love and share their remarkable world, and who travel on the very same seas.

Banksy

Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-24469609976170635772016-05-30T14:36:00.000-04:002016-05-30T14:36:38.606-04:00vigil strange I kept on the field one night
Every Memorial Day, I post this passage by Walt Whitman for its beauty and poignancy. While my mind is focused on veterans of war who have died on the battlefields, the images this writing provokes give me pause to remember and honor all of the children my friends and loved ones have lost. This goes out to their parents, as well as those lost in war:

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;
When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day,
One look I but gave which your dear eyes return'd with a look I shall never forget,
One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the ground,
Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,
Till late in the night reliev'd to the place at last again I made my way,
Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of responding kisses,
(never again on earth responding,)
Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind,
Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading,
Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,
But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,
Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my hands,
Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade—not a tear,
not a word,
Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier,
As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,
Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,
I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again,)
Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear'd,
My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop'd well his form,
Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet,
And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug
grave I deposited,
Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field dim,
Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)
Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brighten'd,
I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket,
And buried him where he fell.

—Walt Whitman

Confederate dead, Chancellorsville

Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-64357028058272212202016-05-29T17:51:00.000-04:002016-05-29T17:59:49.957-04:00wild blue open
The May Maine morning was hotter than expected, near eighty by ten o'clock. Nevertheless, I took my son by the hand to go watch some of the commencement ceremony, in which Michael was reading the names of some of the graduating seniors. When Calvin walked from home all the way to the college quad, albeit begrudgingly at times, I thought it might be too good to be true; he's only accomplished that a handful of times. Once there, we perched on a grassy knoll in the shade of an old brick dorm, and gazed out over a crowd of students and parents melting in the heat. As I fed Calvin grapes, a woman approached with her young son. She took off her sunglasses and reintroduced herself to me, reminding me that we'd met at the grocery store some months back. She expressed her interest in my blog, then said a soft hello to Calvin, whom she'd never met.

"I'm stalking you," she joked, half-seriously, referring to her devotion for Calvin's story, then added, while clutching her hands close to her chest, "You have my heart."

We chatted a bit about our boys, about school, about the college—her Alma Mater—and about living in Maine. I told her that the move from the West coast, specifically San Francisco, had not been a seamless one for me, noting that something about the Northeast feels slightly oppressive compared with the wide blue open of the West, but then adding that Calvin might be a main ingredient.

In time, Calvin became restless, so I took his hand to venture home when I saw a familiar face, our dear friend Macauley. He came over, gave me a hug and offered to walk us home. I showed him a secret way to our house, past the college's organic garden and through a narrow field. Stepping between trees into our back yard was like stumbling into an oasis, splashes of pink, scarlet, lavender, milky yellows, and white petals floating in a fragrant sea of lush greens. At that moment, I realized that having this garden—creating it the past twelve years—has aided in my transition.

Calvin's afternoon, while not his worst, was peppered with manic outbursts, stubbornness, tantrums and a refusal to drink or eat. I'd noted in his journal his restlessness, agitation, crying for no known reason, and his rashy skin, adding, seizure coming.

Though asleep, all night our boy was unsettled and seemed in some discomfort. The room was hot, so we opened a window to let the breeze brush past his skin. Sometime after two a.m. I dreamt of Calvin seizing while I was cradling him. I couldn't lift him off of me to get his rescue medicine, so I cried out in vain to the others who were sleeping in the room, "Calvin is having a seizure!" Michael woke me from my nightmare, but sleep soon returned me, and I went on to dream of a bruised big toe which he'd broken during the fit.

Twenty minutes later, at three o'clock, I was awoken again, this time by Calvin's wretched seizure scream. I followed my recent protocol: put frankincense under his nose and on the bottom of his big toes and applied pressure to the balls of both feet. When the seizure stopped I gave him his morning benzodiazepine three hours early and chased it with drops of water. Then we changed his diaper and watched him fall back to sleep. Even so, my efforts failed to prevent a subsequent grand mal some hours later, for which I administered rectal Valium. It took a while for the drug to work, during which time my boy convulsed quite violently in his bed.

Afterward, I wondered if I'd pushed Calvin too hard in the heat that day. I wondered if I should've given him extra cannabis at midnight. I wondered if there was a low-pressure system moving in, wondered if we'd be headed to the hospital again. And then I fell back to sleep thinking of those graduates, some of whom remind me of how Calvin might've been. I drifted off thinking of our wonderful network of friends and supporters, thinking of the closeness of the heat and the budding of the trees and shrubs in my oasis, and thinking of the pride I feel or an odd little boy who will never go to college, but who walked with me beyond his comfort zone, out in the wild blue open, which is more than a lot of people can say.

Photo by Michele Stapleton and Angie Devenney

Christy Shakehttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-13402372492785312592016-05-27T15:33:00.002-04:002016-05-27T16:31:15.628-04:00lessons on war
Today I readied Calvin for his school's Civil War day. The students were allowed to choose sides, to soldier for either North or South. I clad Calvin, no doubt as a Yankee, wearing a navy henley with metal buttons that I'd bought at Salvation Army, then put on his matching canvas cargo vest and rugged boots. Just before we put Calvin on the bus, Michael lovingly instructed Calvin to go kick some Confederate ass. As the bus pulled away, I wondered what the school might be teaching the students about the Civil War, about war in general, and wondered—doubted actually—if they'd be focusing much on slavery's part.

Calvin is borrowing a Union cap for the day. He'll be all dressed up in his uniform just like the other girls and boys, and they'll wage a fake Gettysburg battle. Unlike the others, however, he'll be oblivious to the lesson. He won't learn about the bloody conflict between the boys and men from the Northern states and the boys and men from the South, about the vicious clash over slavery, about the Confederacy's stubborn and greedy refusal to end the barbarous institution.

This morning as I dressed Calvin, I heard a story on National Public Radio about President Obama's visit to Hiroshima, the first visit by a sitting President since the United States dropped atomic bombs on two Japanese cities in August of 1945 killing as many as 220,000 Japanese and Korean men, women and children. Yesterday, I'd heard an interview with Setsuko Thurlow, a survivor who had been a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl when the first bomb was dropped. She described the horrific event:

In that moment, I saw the bluish-white flash in the windows.

And the next thing I felt was floating in the air—obviously the blast of the bomb flattening all the buildings in the city. And the building I was in was falling, and my body was falling together with it. So when I regained my consciousness, I found myself in the total darkness and silence. I tried to move my body, but I couldn't, so I knew I was faced with death.

Gradually I started hearing faint voices of my classmates who were with me in the same room in the dark. They were whispering, mother, help me. God help me. I am here. I can still hear the voices.

Then all of a sudden, a strong male voice said, don't give up; I'm trying to free you. And somebody was shaking my left shoulder from behind. And he said, you see some sunray is coming through that opening; get to that direction as quickly as possible. Crawl.

So I crawled in the total darkness, and I got to the opening. And by the time I got there, the building was on fire. That meant most of the girls were burnt to death. Although that happened in the morning, it was already very dark, like twilight. And the two other girls managed to come out, and three of us looked around. And in the darkness, I could see some dark moving objects approaching to me. They happened to be human beings shuffling from the center part of the city to where I was.

They just didn't look like human beings. I called them ghosts, ghost-like people because their hair was standing up. They were covered with blood and burned and bludgeoned and swollen, and the flesh was hanging from the bones. Parts of their bodies were missing, and some were carrying their own eyeballs in their hands. And as they collapsed, their stomach burst open, intestines stretching out. Everybody was slowly shuffling. Nobody was running and shouting for help. Nobody had that kind of physical and psychological strength left.

Well, we three girls were reluctantly in good shape. We could walk. We could carry. So we went to the nearby stream and washed off the blood and the dirt from the bodies. And when the darkness fell, we just sat on the hill, and all night we watched the entire city burn.

Her story moved me to tears, and as I helped put Calvin's thin arms through his sleeves, I thought about war and about murderous bombs with names like Little Boy and Fat Man. I lamented domination, racism and bloodshed, demagogues and bullies, fearmongering, jingoism and powerlust, and I shudder to imagine a reckless, callow, bigoted, impulse-driven, insecure man like the Republican presidential candidate, Donald Trump, with his finger on the trigger of our nuclear arms.

Then I ponder my little boy, his missing white-matter, his seizures, poor vision, volatile behavior, protracted development, and wonder what it was that all went wrong. Was it some sort of chemical that blunted his brain? Something in the air, in the water, in the food we consumed? And I imagine his small body shivering in the wind today, out on a vast field where little kids re-enact a bloody war, my son an innocent bystander as miniature troops storm by, many dropping like flies, and I mourn those lost in innumerable wars and in places like Nagasaki and Hiroshima, Japan.

And then I was soothed by the memory of a passage from Leaves of Grass, written by Walt Whitman, whose dying son he held vigil for on a cold night during the Civil War. He says, in part:

Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people ...

And I realize that if we could live by these words, perhaps there would be no war, no battle lessons, no thirst for power by tyrannical men, no desire to keep some people out or to box others in, no fear of persons different from ourselves, no contempt for those who have little nor praise for those with more, no scorn for unfamiliar beliefs or hunger to oppress the weak, the poor, or those with darker skin. If we learned our lessons once and right, this place we call Earth could be one big loving world.

Photo by Mary Booth Scarponi

Christy Shakehttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-42069412797820282902016-05-24T14:35:00.000-04:002016-05-24T15:55:35.055-04:00my therapy
Even on rainy days, I venture outside for my therapy, working the earth, moving plants, pruning, sniffing, delighting in the vivid colors that are spring. I am in awe of how plants and trees just innately know what to do and when to flower, and how they seem to withstand the elements with such grace, even in Maine. They are so unlike my boy in many ways.

Today, I took my camera into the garden and had some fun with blooms and brush, raindrops and buds, while my little Calvin was in school trying to learn how to do the most basic of things.

Click on any photo to enlarge.

Christy Shakehttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-91164687870451206962016-05-21T12:25:00.002-04:002016-05-21T12:31:41.935-04:00what's coming tomorrow
It's indescribable, really. It smells akin to some sickening mixture of smoke, sweet and shit. The stench I speak of is from a gel benzodiazepine, which seems to seep out of my boy's skin, the Diastat—rectal Valium—that I sometimes have to give to Calvin when he suffers clusters of seizures.

I loathe to use the stuff on him. Though it does a decent job of stopping the clusters, it seems to give him headaches, it disturbs his sleep and causes its own withdrawal symptoms. Experience tells me, however, that if I don't administer it after the first or second seizure he'll have at least one more, particularly if the first one happens well before twelve a.m. like it did the other night. Having said that, I'm still experimenting with different methods to avoid its use. Thursday night, after his first seizure, I tried giving Calvin extra doses of THCA cannabis oil, which seemed to work to delay the onset of the second seizure until almost dawn.

After we had put Calvin to bed, I took a walk in the garden at dusk, the baby monitor in place, hung from a ribbon slung around my head. When the evening light is right this time of year, when a low cloud cover brightens a twilight sky, rhododendron blossoms glow in drifts of lavender, cream, fuchsia and pink. As I strolled, birds flit from shrub to tree before retreating to their nests. And though it was hidden, I knew the full moon was on the rise somewhere in the east.

Just as a whiff of viburnum pricked my senses, I heard an awful gasp. I sprinted to the house.

"Seizure!" I cried to Michael, who was in the kitchen cleaning up.

I mounted the stairs by twos and found Calvin stiff and shaking, his arms bent into ghastly claws, his feet kicking the side of the bed, his eyes wide open as if he'd seen a ghost. Michael swooped in to hold and kiss our boy, tenderly urging him out of submission, while I buffered Calvin's feet, then reached in and held a vial of frankincense oil under his nose. The convulsions waned then stopped, and I rubbed a bit of the oil on the bottom of his big toes because I'd read somewhere this can help abate fits.

It was only eight o'clock, which meant there would no doubt be one or two more grand mal seizures before morning, perhaps when the full moon would be lurking overhead. I calmed myself so I could think. It had been only an hour or so since he'd gotten his arsenal of bedtime medicines and cannabis oils. Hesitant to dope him up too much, and before he fell back to sleep, I gradually syringed a conservative dose of cannabis oil into his mouth and watched him swallow. Michael tucked him in while I readied another milliliter for midnight plus another half to give to him four hours later.

Though well delayed, the seizure came anyway, at four a.m., just after his last dose of THCA oil, so we were forced to give Calvin the Diastat or risk a third grand mal.

Throughout the next day I smelled the Diastat exiting his body, which always nearly makes me sick, as if it were the smell of death.

Both Calvin and I took naps that day. Outside in the sun flower buds plumped, ones that weren't open just yesterday were blossoming, and jays sat on their speckled eggs. When I woke from my nap, I realized Calvin had been unusually quiet for over an hour. Gazing out at trees which had just begun to leaf, I listened for him and thought of several friends' children who died in their early teens, some in their sleep. I wondered if Calvin would wake up and, if not, how my world might be. I wondered, too, if there will come a day when he doesn't have any seizures, when he'll be off of his benzodiazepine, when he'll be less agitated, less deranged, less obstinate, smile more often and be better engaged with his world. I have my doubts; after all these years of the same old same old, the future isn't looking very good.

Then I sniffed the scent of viburnum again, which was drifting through an open window, its flowers just beginning to unfurl in the last day or so. If one attends closely, I realized, the garden looks and smells so different with each passing day. I was reminded of something I'd read earlier: you never know what's coming tomorrow. And just as I closed my eyes for another quick spell, I heard Calvin stirring in his bed.

Christy Shakehttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-81180862806584677662016-05-17T11:58:00.001-04:002016-05-17T14:08:10.185-04:00these four walls
Saturday:

This morning I cried in the shower again, lamenting my relative confinement to what I often refer to as these four walls. It's a pretty hard life raising our disabled son. We are quite restricted, in ways that go beyond the physical boundaries of our home, including limits on travel, experience and time. I yearn to take the family on a seaside stroll, ache for the three of us to walk in the woods, to see Calvin climb trees or catch frogs or pick wildflowers on the side of a hill. But I also relish the thought of taking a family trip somewhere exotic, cosmopolitan and warm. But for years now the most we seem to be able to do is amble a few yards down our street or in town, or peruse the grocery store aisles. I can count on one hand the times we've walked together on the beach, albeit fleeting, because our boy couldn't tolerate something about the scene, and so we've had to turn around mere minutes after we've begun.

I find myself swinging from one extreme mood to the other, at times submitting to my most tender feelings for my flailing, maniacal child, and the next moment feverishly wanting to punch a hole in the wall. The hardest part, I guess, is that I don't see an end to it all; he's made so few strides these twelve years, and with each passing one his development comes closer to plateau.

At twelve, it appears Calvin may have finally hit the terrible twos. Either that or he is suffering from waves of malaise due to benzodiazepine withdrawal ... or he is ramping up to have his next seizure ... or he has a headache. Or cramps. Or growing pains. Or anxiety. Or hallucinations. Or maybe he is just having tantrums now when he doesn't want to do what or go where we want him to. Or perhaps he suffers some unimaginable and sorry combo of them all.

Though I was once a child, it's remarkable to see what healthy kids can do.

This morning began like a dream, Calvin quiet and calm and happy as can be. But after noon he spiraled out of control. At every turn we were met with a red-faced, thrashing, howling boy given to fits of agitation and crying in the grocer and the jumper and the car.

At times throughout the day Calvin shrieked as loud and long as I have ever heard, and I tried as hard as I could to become desensitized to it all, like numb feet in a frigid sea. Exasperated, I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, my face drawn into a wretched scowl.

Eventually, in order to get some chores done before Michael and his students arrived for an end-of-semester barbecue, I put Calvin in his bed hoping he'd "play" with his toys. When the phone rang, I heard my brother Scott's voice on the recorder. I ran downstairs and picked up just as he was signing off, "I love you Chris."

My words to him gushed out in sobs.

"Calvin has been out of control," I quivered.

It was clear to my brother that I'd had a rough time, having told him of Calvin's troubles, his antics, his affect on us all.

"I'm so sorry," he said, with a tone that embraced me from afar.

I went on to describe the painfulness and relentlessness of our situation, of which Scott has always seemed keenly aware, and of how much I value his response, his gift for listening and validating rather than tending to advise or judge or disregard. I cried the length of our conversation, my throat swollen with a bitter lump of despair. And though our connection was short, I hung up the phone feeling loved and immeasurably better.

Michael's students began arriving just after I'd lit the coals. Blue smoke curled in the sun and breeze, and the smell of mulch and charcoal filled my nose. Calvin seemed to be doing much better and, thus, so was I. Perhaps the trick was his late afternoon dose of cannabis oil. But who knows?

Balmy spring weather lead the students outside where they mingled with each other and threw the ball for Nellie. The garden, these days dripping with color, was at its most beautiful hour, early evening, when long shadows stretch across the lawn and translucent blossoms are lit up from behind. It's in these moments—when Calvin is happy and calm, when I can share my garden with others, when my husband is in his element and when the weather is mild—that the tethers that bind me loosen, and I don't feel quite as hemmed in by these four goddamn walls.

Photo by Michael Kolster

Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-66605488646408169022016-05-15T08:19:00.000-04:002016-05-15T08:19:53.186-04:00all about calvin
This wonderful, handmade booklet came home from school with Calvin the other day. His teachers and helpers lovingly captured the best sides of my son. For them, I am most grateful.

Christy Shakehttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-43551809173932495072016-05-13T16:45:00.001-04:002016-05-13T16:46:32.952-04:00ink and dirt
It seems that one of the most restorative acts I can do is to be outside on a sunny day, working the earth, tending to plants and flowers and trees, listening to the birds, watching bees. It's the reason I've not been writing quite as much lately; my need to be outdoors is looming large after such a long drawn-out Maine winter into spring.

And so, to shake the ceaseless angst I feel over my child, to take the edge off of my constant lack of sleep, I've turned my mind and body from desk to earth, from screen to sky, from ink to dirt. Instead of sculpting words, I prune with shears and paint with shrubs and mulch.

I'll return to the page, for sure, in a day or so, for writing nourishes my spirit in ways the earth can't do, perhaps akin to what might be the yin and yang of ink and dirt.

Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-90374837846547743072016-05-09T21:22:00.001-04:002016-05-10T12:33:49.506-04:00mother's day
On Mother's day, last Sunday, I had a fleeting thought about calling my mom before the jilting realization that she died last October. Rain fell much of the day and a dead sky hung heavy on my head and heart. Rhododendron and magnolia blooms bobbed and swayed in a chilling breeze. A few tulips beginning to show their color danced alongside, but somehow I wasn't cheered. On grey days it still looks and feels a little like November outside, deciduous trees only now sprouting tiny buds, the steely mercury hardly sneaking over fifty degrees.

To pass the time with Calvin (there's so few places we can take him that he enjoys and where he'll comply) we took a drive up the road to a riverside park, then made our way on meandering roads dotted with large new homes rising amidst modest double-wides. We stopped at a pond to let Nellie out and so I could catch some fresh air and some respite from Calvin's errant limbs. With my shoulders shrugged against the cold I approached the bank, its waters nearly flat and silvery, and found it littered with crumpled fast food bags and cups, a faded foldable lounge chair cast aside, one pile of dog shit, a sopping black sock and several empty cans.

The scene, which should have been beautiful and serene, only worked to dampen my mood and amplify my loss, so I got back into the car and began to weep.

"Maybe if I'd had a normal child I'd have been a better mom," I said, dwelling on my lack of patience and grim frame of mind.

As I wept, I imagined all the cool things I'd be doing with Calvin had he been born with a healthy brain—and thriving—had the seizures and the drugs never begun.

Michael reached over and held my hand and told me how lucky Calvin was.

Back at home, I watched happy photos of women embracing aging mothers and women with their own healthy children in tow flood my laptop screen. I thought of posting one of my mother, then opted against the notion. I saw snapshots of kids at the beach, in the forest, at cafes and on their bikes. I imagined them going to movies with their moms, making mom breakfast, writing poems and drawing cards.

A few days earlier, when Calvin wasn't doing so well, I'd said to Michael, "It's so sad that he has to feel so bad all the time."

And though my one material present on Mother's day was an oversized bottle of Maker's in a brown paper bag, when Calvin put his arms around my neck and hugged me close that eve, I realized the amazing gift he is, even when he's so far from being what we'd had in mind.

Photo by Michael Kolster

Christy Shakehttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-79860645267468789482016-05-03T16:34:00.000-04:002016-05-05T06:33:42.490-04:00back to the classroom
The students seemed to hold their breaths as I cupped my hands over my face to hide the tears. When I regained my composure, I apologized to the class, and the young man to my left reached out his hand and gently said, "It's okay."

For the third year in a row my friend Hadley invited me to speak to her neurobiology class, a group of thirty college students, many of them majoring in premed. She'd asked me to come talk about epilepsy and about Calvin and to show the students an aspect of neurology other than synapses, neurons and cells. I sat off to the side in the Shannon room of Hubbard Hall, a luxurious space with a high vaulted ceiling and a curved metal chandelier suspended overhead. Hadley and I scooted several brocade loungers and wooden chairs around brown leather sofas, facing them toward a drop-down screen where I projected photographs of my boy who had woken to a grand mal seizure just hours before.

The students filed in slowly, some of them grasping snacks and drinks. From the onset, they seemed alert and engaged as they listened to me describe Calvin's premature birth, how his brain's lateral ventricles are enlarged, and the various theories neurologists had tossed around about why. Regrettably, I failed to mentioned those theories had since been debunked; to this day, no one knows why my son is missing a hunk of the white matter in his brain. I chronicled Calvin's protracted development, his significant visual impairments, his incontinence, his inability to grasp abstractions or to speak. Then I described his first seizure, our many trips to the ER and the PICU, my dread of ambulance sirens, Calvin's forty-five minute seizure, my loathing of this thing called epilepsy. I spoke of the ills of anticonvulsant medications, their scores of side effects, their tendency to impede development, their affect on my son's behavior, on his ability to walk and talk and use a spoon, their paradoxical effects such as hyperactivity and insomnia.

For an hour, I lead the students through the past twelve years, through countless seizures and EEGs, painful blood draws and patronizing docs, through woeful hospitalizations and a litany of drugs and dietary therapies. I tried my best to look into each of their spry faces and saw, sculpted in them, curiosity, sorrow, compassion, empathy and surprise.

It was when I began talking about cannabis that I broke down. When I took my hands from my face and breathed, I was able to squeak, "Cannabis saved our lives."

I told them the astonishing story of little Charlotte and her mother Paige, who inspired me to try cannabis oil for Calvin. I praised Dave from Epsilon who held my hand while I learned to make Calvin's first oil. I commended the dispensary that supplies our amazing cannabis flower, and applauded the other parents who have helped me blaze this cannabis trail. I mentioned how, since adding a 4:00 p.m. dose of homemade THCA cannabis oil, Calvin has had only one daytime grand mal seizure in over six-hundred days; prior to that, he'd have a grand mal seizure every week or two in the early evening, often in the bath. I went on to explain that Calvin still has seizures, though the grand mals are confined to the night when he is safe in bed, and that it seemed perhaps that the new CBD oil might be helping, too. I emphasized that, since beginning cannabis, we'd been able to safely wean Calvin off of over ninety percent of his wicked benzodiazepine, clobazam, aka Onfi, without a huge uptick in seizures. Benzos, I surmised, should be avoided at nearly all costs, warning that physicians regularly prescribe them—Valium, Onfi, Xanax, Klonopin, Ambien to name a few—for anxiety, insomnia and epilepsy, playing down their downsides and risks of their use, their tendency for addiction, and the dangers of their withdrawal. Later, I added that, for the very worst epilepsy cases, they might be the only option that works.

For the last half hour of class, I fielded a variety of questions. One student wanted to know how often I give Calvin injections, and I understood that I hadn't made it clear that the cannabis oil I give him by the syringe is oral. Another asked if we were treated differently because of Calvin's condition, at which point I described splintered friendships, gawking strangers and conceited physicians, all of who, luckily for us, have been the exception not the rule. Her question reminded me of the things people have said like, everything happens for a reason, and I expressed to the class my resentment that someone would believe Calvin was designed to suffer just to serve some unworthy purpose. I went on to endorse advocacy, not just for ourselves or our children, but for other marginalized groups, suggesting that the best anyone can do as doctors or as people is to listen and validate, and if someone speaks of hurt or injustice, we should trust they speak the truth and champion their cause.

Near the end (or perhaps after my talk was over, I can't remember!) one student asked if I knew what the long-term consequences were for using cannabis. I said that I didn't, but that I'd read that THC might harm the developing brain. I countered by saying that all anticonvulsant pharmaceutical drugs are sedatives that slow the brain and, in turn, can hinder development, and that my guess is that pharmaceutical drugs have done more to halt my son's progression than the seizures themselves. I scorned the medical community's skepticism of cannabis, the complaints of the lack of randomized double-blind placebo-controlled studies to prove cannaibis' safety and efficacy, the fear of cannabis' psychotropic effects.

"All anticonvulsants can have psychotropic effects and can affect development," I said, scoffing at the double-standard to which cannabis is often held, and adding that many anticonvulsants are not studied on children, yet neurologists prescribe them nonetheless.

The same student then asked, if I knew then what I know now, what might I have done for Calvin's epilepsy. Without hesitation, I told her I'd have tried cannabis first, before any pharmaceutical drug, and that I believed it should be a first-line therapy instead of a last resort.

At some point, I mentioned the hypocrisy of the federal government, citing its decades-old medical marijuana program, and its patent #6630507 on certain cannabinoids as neuroprotectants, both which fly in the face of its current status as a Schedule I drug, which asserts that cannabis is as harmful as heroin and possesses no medicinal properties.

I ended with some statistics, how as many as 50,000 Americans die every year from epilepsy or related causes such as drowning, how one in twenty-six people will be diagnosed with epilepsy at some point in their lives and how, even so, epilepsy gets little funding because of its long history of stigma.

When class was over we applauded each other and I invited them to read and share my blog. A handful of students lingered to ask me a few more questions. As they huddled in, I felt their warmth, intellect and genuine interest, and wished I had a child like them. As the stragglers exited, the carpeted room fell silent. I closed my laptop and was left with images of my adorable, struggling, seizing, trainwreck-of-a-kid, but grateful for how loving he is, then I took a lesson from the student who had sat to my left when I cried, and tried telling myself, it's okay.

Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-78945120953651036222016-04-30T16:08:00.001-04:002016-04-30T16:19:02.712-04:00freedom
It's sunny and bright outside, the birds are chirping, shrubs are budding, flowers are pushing up. Nevertheless, my mood is dark as wet earth. This morning, Michael and I tried to walk with Calvin alongside the downtown shops, but every few steps our son balked, bending at the waist, seemingly inclined to sit. The "fresh" baguette we bought was stale. Nellie irksomely pulled at the end of her tether. Nearby children fussed and squalled, their parents gawking at Calvin while he drooled and stared at the sun.

"Why did I move to Maine?" I groused, complaining of the town's feng shui, unfairly comparing it with San Francisco.

San Francisco, where I lived for ten years, was warm and inviting, dotted with lovely vistas, pleasantly peopled in diverse ways, and pulsating with positive vibes. What's more, in San Francisco there was no Calvin.

I often return to the theme of freedom and of feeling as though I've got none now. Sure, when Calvin goes to school I have much of the day to myself to write or putter in the garden, to read or catch up a little on sleep, and to put the house in order. But never do I not worry about my boy or wonder if he's fallen, if he's had a seizure, if he's choked on food at school. Always do I jump—heart racing—when my Calvin phone rings, fearing the worst has happened. And when Calvin comes home, I'm consigned to walking in circles in his wake, standing beside him while he bangs the bathroom shutters as he has the past ten years, or placing myself between him and any sliver of direct sunlight for which his eyes hunt with reckless compulsion.

My back is not free from lifting my nearly sixty-pound boy. I'll likely never be released from changing his diapers, spoon feeding him, covering him at night, telling him not to bite his shoes, his kerchief, his sleeve, his books, the table, the carpet, the doors.

I'll likely never enjoy the freedom of seeing Calvin run ahead—or toward me—or ride a bike or swim in a nearby pool. I'll likely always have to spot my son as he goes up and down the stairs. I doubt I'll ever be free to eat a relaxing family dinner without having to tend to my boy.

When—if—Calvin grows up, I'll never feel the liberation and glee of seeing him off at the airport to visit his grandparents or attend college or travel the world.

I doubt I'll be free from worry over the next big seizure, or a spate of several within a day or more, or free from the burden of having a child who must take medication scores of times each day. I'll never get respite from the fret and fear of what might be hurting my sweet non-verbal boy.

These true freedoms don't come with a child like Calvin.

Thankfully, though, I managed to get outside today and visit a friend. I walked Nellie off the leash in sun dappled woods, delighted in the sounds of cheering students and of balls hitting bats square on. In spring air still hovering in the low fifties, college girls pranced by in frilly frocks and sandals, the boys in shorts and sneakers, celebrating an annual party weekend.

And as the sweet scent of hyacinth and pansies filled my nostrils, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and savored a moment that felt, at least a little bit, free.

Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-83042416577247761622016-04-25T14:44:00.002-04:002016-04-26T10:37:54.448-04:00pioneering women
Just before dawn as I slept in my boy's embrace after an earlier grand mal, I dreamt of traffic jams, topless cars and failing brakes, of old flames neglecting my gaze and of girlfriends lost, of trolling icy bays of black and white and gray. The sky pressed down upon me, my loneliness naked and plain, and when I peered into an inky sea, an angry whale met my eye and set to fling me from my ship.

Perhaps this dream was a metaphor for life these past twelve years, especially since Calvin's seizures first defined our world: their tendency to impede our every move, their habit to gather speed like runaway trains, epilepsy's effect on our friendships, its nature to estrange, and the stress and dread of looming fits which shroud our every night and day.

Late last week I read a Facebook post from my friend Paige Figi, mother of young twin girls, Charlotte and Chase, the former famed for Charlotte's Web, the cannabis oil that saved the seizure-ridden girl. Paige wrote:

Twins ... sigh. They share so much. Too much. Chase may have been named because she followed Charlotte out at birth, but she has absolutely been the leader, the caretaker, in charge. With her huge heart, she nurtured her sister through nine devastating years of seizures and all Dravet Syndrome brought to our lives.

Yesterday Chase had a seizure.

When I read her words I felt myself sinking into a murk, as if a huge stone were tethered to my feet. I pondered the unfortunate news.

What might this mean for Chase? Will she have more seizures or just the one? What would that mean for Charlotte? How will their family endure?

Then I thought of Paige. Some might call her Warrior, or Dragon Mom. I call her Pioneer. In Colorado several years ago, she was fighting to save her daughter's life from Dravet syndrome when, after Charlotte failed every available anticonvulsant drug and treatment, neurologists washed their hands and advised Paige to take her daughter home to die. Paige didn't heed their call because she's fearless. Instead, she followed her gut, used her brains, checked her caution at the door and turned to cannabis, an herb that only one other American parent had openly given to his seizing child. Paige put herself on the front lines of using cannabis as medicine when the world was telling her, no.

Paige was instrumental in helping me blaze my own trail which, too, was on the cannabis-for-epilepsy frontier. She counseled me about benzodiazepine withdrawal (our children were on the same one), she directed me toward cannabis strains that might help fight my son's seizures at a time when few others were delving into the unknown. She has fought long and hard against a rigged system that maligns cannabis and would deny it as medicine for our kids, some of who are dying.

Shortly after my unsettling dream, I spoke with my friend Lauren and told her of Calvin's early morning grand mal, of how, in its aftermath, I'd given him a dose of CBD cannabis oil to see if it might stay a second seizure, and how it seemed to have done the job. I mentioned that I'd also given him his benzodiazepine two-and-a-half hours early followed by an extra Keppra upon waking for the day; All of these measures meant to derail any further seizures seemed successful at keeping them at bay.

Lauren praised my dogged efforts to eliminate as many of Calvin's seizures as I can. She told me she imagined me as the sharpshooter, Annie Oakley, conjuring up for me a western gal in leather boots and cowboy hat shredding her targets shot by shot. I remembered how I often describe epilepsy as a moving target, and so the image of a cowgirl in suede fringe, and seeing as how I'm a Westerner with a love of shit-kicking boots, seemed apt. I looked up Annie Oakley and found this description:

Her feats of marksmanship were truly incredible. At 30 paces she could split a playing card held edge-on, she hit dimes tossed into the air, she shot cigarettes from her husband's lips, and, a playing card being thrown into the air, she riddled it before it touched the ground.

And so, in honor of Paige, and all the other formidable mothers spearheading cannabis as medicine for their suffering children, I want to send the powerful mental image, and all the mojo that goes with it, of the Pioneer and her weapons: one syringe of cannabis oil at a time, blowing epilepsy to smithereens.

Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-74255587480889862572016-04-19T20:33:00.004-04:002016-04-20T06:43:28.179-04:00midnight, dawn and dusk
Sometime after midnight the moon hung in a mist of melancholia, tangled in a fanned canopy of just-budding twigs. I wondered if it were an omen; I felt its gravity tug at my psyche as if it were a black hole, and I asked myself why, because it was only the morning of day five.

I remembered that last evening I'd described to Michael my nice day with Calvin, how we'd gone to the hardware store nursery and, once Calvin figured out it wasn't Walmart, he willingly joined me in patting purple pansies, prickly juniper and spruce and plush sprigs of lavender heather. I mentioned how, later, Calvin had taken my hand as we walked the back way through the field to the deli to fetch a gallon of milk, and how after supper he had chosen to go to Woody's for a piece of chocolate—something he'd never before done of his own volition. I'd said that maybe it was too good to be true.

After seeing the moon last night and just before dawn, I dreamt of Calvin's cannabis flower and how I'd left a white paper bag of it in the car. The car got towed away making me fret that the bud would bake in the sun on a hot leather seat until it was ruined. I woke myself up in a worry, out of which Michael soothed me back to sleep.

Today, for hours as clouds rolled by in waves eclipsing the sun, Calvin seized: his skin flushed, his fingers surveyed his throat, he seemed out of reach, his mouth crept into grotesque sideways smiles, his body quaked like a temblor, though thankfully not a grand mal. Five fits he had. Extra Keppra had no effect. Extra cannabidiol proved just as useless. Extra THCA cannabis oil was the only thing that offered any reprieve from the partial seizures' sorry repeat.

Now, at eight and after dusk, I hear the train's melodious call. Perhaps it welcomes a good night's sleep like the fog horn of my dear Golden Gate. I hear the whistle recede in the distance as I do every night when the house is silent and still, like my boy in his bed upstairs, like the dear and dreaded moon rising up over the hill.

Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-89300512357073980042016-04-15T15:03:00.001-04:002016-04-18T12:02:44.351-04:00walking into walls

As many of you know, spring is the time of year I usually launch Calvin's annual epilepsy benefit. This year, however, I decided to put my energy toward Parkinson's awareness and the funding of the documentary film, Walking Into Walls.

Several years ago my brother Steve and our dear friend Coleman Hough, the performance artist and screenwriter making the documentary, were both diagnosed with early-onset Parkinson's disease. I have witnessed their struggles firsthand and have listened to their stories of anguish, frustration, uncertainty and hope in the face of this devastating, degenerative disease.

Coleman's film, which has beautifully evolved, brilliantly and poignantly explores the depths of her experience with Parkinson's disease. Now, in its final stages, it needs one more push to bring it to fruition. I'm stepping in to help that fundraising effort while she heals from the second of two deep brain stimulation surgeries.

I hope many of you, and those who have donated to CURE epilepsy in the past, will choose to join this rare opportunity to help in the making of such a compelling and important film.

This film must be made. It will touch countless lives, not just those with Parkinson's disease and their families, but those of us whose lives hang in the balance of human uncertainty, those of us who are struck by life's curveballs, sending us reeling.

I invite you to watch the teaser below and to donate what you can on Coleman's fundraising page before May 15th.

Thank you, in advance, for your generous support.

Sending much love and high hopes to you all, especially Steve Shake and Coleman Hough,
Christy

If you cannot view the video, you can see it on Coleman's fundraising page by clicking here.

Christy Shakehttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-19929527720474861292016-04-12T13:50:00.000-04:002016-04-12T13:52:09.924-04:00dreams and hills and idyll roads
A recurring dream I used to have as a youth goes like this:

An infant sits alone and naked in a glen at the base of a bluff. Clouds roll like molten lava, cracks of silver light breaking through in waves. Everything is dark, has a twilight cast about it, though not like the hopeful dusks I've loved when warm light streams through windows, rather, with the foreboding of an eclipse. In my sleep I hear two disturbing sounds: one, the pulsing of orchestral drums, akin to thunder, throbbing like a giant's heartbeat—mine?—the other, a tight pluck of a harp, discordant, sharp, queer. The butte is cloaked in a mossy tangle of black, green and gold, pools of miserable clay skulking in dark pockets. The fair child sits silently, as if abandoned, though not upset or crying, seemingly unaware that he is alone. A single hair sprouting from his head quivers with each pluck of the harp as the ground rumbles and quakes. At the summit of the mount looms a massive rock. Somehow, its balance upset, the stone begins to careen down the hillside, the pounding drums and fierce harp a sick accompaniment. The boulder collides with outcroppings rocketing shards of stone into space, then leaps and crashes into the next shelf, sending more. The ground trembles. The hair plucks. The boulder thunders down the jagged butte headed for the infant boy, and as the gigantic stone approaches, its looming shadow seems to linger before the rock engulfs the child's oblivious form.

And I wake suddenly in a sweat.

Before Calvin was born, before he we knew he was a boy, I had a dream of a fair child with wild flaxen curls who had come into the world chatting away, his face close to mine like he is wont to do today. Since his seizures began, I often dream of his demise, of him trapped and seizing behind a couch, of me forgetting his seizure meds, of him choking or drowning within arm's reach. Sometimes, when I dream of him seizing, I wake up to that reality happening in the very next room.

My friend Lauren often dreams of Calvin, too. She dreams of him talking, perhaps even running and playing—all things he cannot do. She wrote to me yesterday morning:

I had a dream about Calvin last night. We were face to face and I looked into his eyes and they were cloudy, but he said to me as he grabbed my arms, "It's hard for me to go beyond a certain point."

If I were someone who studied dreams, I'd say his eyes were fogged because of anticonvulsant pharmaceutical drugs. I'd say Lauren dreamed those words because on Sunday she gave me a break and held Calvin's arm with Michael while we took a short walk down an unfamiliar road. Calvin balked and struggled against our will to lead him gently out of his comfort zone and into the larger world.

Calvin has never made strides—crawling, climbing stairs, walking distances, especially in unfamiliar places—without being pressed. For whatever reason—his brain's absent skein of white matter, the seizures, the years and scores of antiepileptic drugs, his newly detected anemia, the headaches, lethargy, dizziness, confusion—Calvin's development hasn't advanced much past that of a babe in many ways. Like in my recurring dream, he sits so innocently, oblivious to the sometimes harsh world that surrounds him. He swims amid his brain's threatening electric storms. He's pummeled by drugs and drowns in their skulking pools. All these things impede his every move. But unlike in my dream, I'm beside him. I'm strong and able to take him by the hand, lead him up gentle hills, out into green and gleaming fields and down idyll roads where he could never have gone on his own.

Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-91793648315955668292016-04-06T15:47:00.000-04:002016-04-07T11:03:29.354-04:00thirteen minutes with khalil

This morning at two-thirty, Calvin had the grand mal seizure I'd been expecting for a couple of days. The THC rescue med I gave him didn't seem to stop the spasms which lasted longer than of late. Seizures this early in the morning usually translate into clusters of them, and the only way I've found to consistently thwart them is to give Calvin his benzodiazepine early. In this case, I gave it to him three-and-a-half hours before his usual time. I agonized over the decision. Eventually, I opted to, knowing that clobazam's half-life is long, and preferring to isolate the seizure rather than subject Calvin to more of them thus requiring rectal Valium to stop the cluster.

He slept fitfully for an hour then woke in a panic—heart forcefully racing, hyperventilating, repetitive humming. I'm fairly certain these episodes are not seizures but are, instead, benzo withdrawal symptoms or perhaps even agitation from the THC. For the next two hours I got head-butted in the mouth, whacked in the eye, smacked in the nose and shoved in the throat by a unsettled kid trying to escape his malaise. Eventually, I gave him an extra Keppra, which so far has seemed to keep additional seizures at bay.

Later, while Calvin spun in his jumper, I perused the news and my Facebook feed. I came across this video that a mother posted about her son Khalil, where she relates his perilous struggle with seizures, their resistance to drugs and her hope to use non-psychoactive CBD cannabis oil to relieve him of his misery. While the video lasts a mere thirteen minutes, time expands as it appears her sweet boy is seizing the entire time while in her arms.

Calvin once had a forty-five minute seizure which didn't initially respond to a host of emergency medications. Michael and I were left helpless at his hospital bedside—knowing that the longer seizures last the harder they are to halt—kissing him goodbye just when the seizure finally stopped. Life has not been so easy on Khalil and his mother. Doctors are misinformed and guarded, ignorant people have judged and, as a result, her son has been robbed of what might be his only lifesaving measure—cannabis. While I am considered a pioneer of medical marijuana in a legal state, Brittney and her family, who live in Kentucky where it remains illegal, are forced to leave all they know and love behind and become medical marijuana refugees.

At one point in her video Brittney desperately asks, "Why does a zip code define what medicines my son gets?"

I encourage you to watch the entire video to gain some insight into one mother's plight to save her dying child. Most folks have little concept of how difficult and unjust life can be for these kids. The best we can do is to listen, understand and advocate for those whose fortunes are not as good as our own.

Someone said to me recently during a discussion on racial oppression, God gives us all our own row to hoe; I reject that self-reliant crap. For one, if there is a God to be believed, He/She/It is not up there doling out misery. And for another, it's noble and kind to help others whose rows are inexplicably steep.

If you cannot view the video below you can view it on You Tube here.

Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-14120001964338209312016-04-04T10:54:00.000-04:002016-04-05T16:13:24.667-04:00haleigh's hope for calvin
Last month, just prior to Calvin's six-day seizure spell, we all enjoyed his longest grand mal seizure-free stint in over a year: twenty-one days. I should clarify that I am counting days between grand mal seizures, since those are his most violent and obvious ones. His partial complex seizures, which began appearing again late last year in the wake of his grand mals, are often difficult to discern and sometimes I wonder if I am mistaking them for benzodiazepine withdrawal symptoms such as rapid heartbeat, hyperventilation, hallucinations and agitation.

A few things might have contributed to the somewhat long stretch between grand mals (over twice as long as of late): we paused Calvin's benzodiazepine wean for several weeks which might have given him a temporary reprieve; we increased his bedtime Keppra, partially to account for weight gain but also to see if it might reduce his number of seizures; I switched Calvin from my homemade CBD oil, which I'd run out of, to a new one called Haleigh's Hope. These last two moves I had to make almost simultaneously, which meant that I introduced two variables at the same time, something I am loath to do because additional variables makes it more difficult to ascertain what is at play when symptoms wax or wane. My gut tells me Calvin's longish stint was likely due to the increase in Keppra, mostly because we have seen notable improvement in the past when we have upped his dose. But suffice to say he doesn't seem to be suffering ills from using the new CBD oil and it could be helping.

The new oil, Haleigh's Hope, is a high CBD (cannabidiol) product from Colorado. I heard about it when a Facebook friend began using it to treat her child in New York State. Her daughter enjoyed several months of seizure freedom after her first dose of the oil. I contacted the maker to ask questions about the oil so that I could compare it with other products on the market. What I learned was that the oil has the same ratio of CBD to THC—20:1—as the CBD oil I've been making for Calvin. Initially, I thought Haleigh's Hope was made from the same cannabis strain as I'd been using, one called ACDC, but I must have confused it with another high CBD oil I'd been researching. Instead, Haleigh's Hope is made from a hybrid of Pre 98 Bubba Kush (high CBD Cannabis Cup winner), Cannatonic and R4. Another reason I chose Haleigh's Hope is that its makers employ a CO2 extraction method which captures all of the terpenes and cannabinoids without leaving trace constituents such as alcohol or chlorophyll. Moreover, one of the base oils they offer is unflavored organic MCT (medium chain triglyceride) coconut oil, which is nearly identical to the one I use that holds the cannabinoids in suspension requiring little to no shaking of the liquid, though I've made a habit of it anyway. The extra strength version of Haleigh's Hope, which is a beautiful amber color, has 40 mgs CBD/ml of oil—again, nearly identical to the strength I've been making for Calvin for over a year, which made dosing easy.

All of these properties informed my decision to choose Haleigh's Hope over other CBD oils on the market, and the transition has appeared seamless. Today is day eight since Calvin's last seizure, which isn't a record, but I'll take it and hope for more.

I've said before that it is yet unclear if CBD is helping to reduce or stay Calvin's seizures; he's still on a relatively low dose. My homemade THCA oil, however, seems to have made an impact; since starting it two years ago, Calvin's daytime tonic-clonic seizures have vanished—his last one was 300 days ago and he's had only one in 580 days. Prior to starting THCA he used to have daytime grand mals every week or two, often while taking a bath. The daytime dosing of THCA oil has consigned Calvin's grand mal seizures to the night when he is safe in bed, and though he still has three to five every month, that is no more than the number he averaged two years ago when he was taking ten times more benzodiazepine than he is today. What I do believe, though, is that the CBD isn't hurting Calvin and may even be helping to buffer his protracted benzodiazepine withdrawal. This is why I've decided to keep him on CBD, at least for the next year or so until Calvin is completely off of the clobazam.

Recently, I've been contacted by several mothers asking for guidance about benzodiazepine withdrawal, specifically clobazam, aka Onfi, and/or cannabis use. I advise them as best I can, because I can, and because so many wonderful folks spent hours of their precious time counseling me. What I usually tell them about Onfi withdrawal is to first switch from the pill to the liquid form and to go uber slow—decreasing only five to ten percent of the overall dose every two to four weeks or more, depending upon severity of withdrawal symptoms, and to read the Ashton manual. These are important facts that neurologists don't seem to know. What I tell folks curious about cannabis is that THCA can be as effective as CBD, the only caveat being that pre-made THCA oil is more difficult to get; most makers won't ship the oil out of state. So, though I'm a true THCA believer, I sometimes advise parents to try CBD first since it is fairly easy to get no matter where you live and, if it doesn't work, then I suggest trying non-psychoactive THCA or even bits of THC.

If you are interested in making THCA cannabis oil, it is easy as pie, and you can read about the process here.

And as far as Haleigh's Hope for Calvin, I've crossed my fingers and knocked on wood. So far, so good.

Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-23076147518878569562016-04-03T13:50:00.002-04:002016-04-03T13:50:48.243-04:00it is what it is

Buds, photo by Sarah Korsiak Cellier

Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-5895440453335552117.post-18357426111797540362016-03-31T13:49:00.001-04:002016-03-31T13:49:13.573-04:00wine and rhododendrons
Wine, rhododendrons and the promise of spring bring an end to winter doldrums. Finally, I can kneel and work my angst into thawed earth dark as coffee grounds, dirtying my fingers and knees until the muscles of my arms and thighs burn luxuriously. I feel alive.

The sun is riding high and buds are plumping amid warmer winds. Birds coax us to head outside where we watch the grass green up right under our feet. Dad comes to mind as I prune and preen hardened twigs from shrubs and trees; there are so many lovely rhodies for me to tend just like when I was his little kid.

Calvin cannot learn to water or prune or feed, but when I hold his hand as we stroll through the garden between verdant mounds of plum and green, he reaches out to touch their leaves, a splendid testament to how much he's like my Dad and me.

Photo by Michael Kolster

Christy Shakehttp://email@example.com


text:
On the Psychiatrist's CouchWith Dr. Daniel Amen | Saturday, 7 & 10:30 p.m.
The Washington Post wrote that by almost any measure Dr. Daniel Amen is the most popular psychiatrist in America. He is a double board certified psychiatrist, who has written 10 New York Times bestselling books, including the mega-bestseller Change Your Brain, Change Your Life.
If you could spend a day on his couch what would you learn so that you could feel happier, healthier, more focused and more connected to those you love.
In his 10th national public television special Dr. Amen gives viewers the most important lessons he has taught thousands of patients over the last 35 years.
50 Years and Circlin' BackNitty Gritty Dirt Band | Saturday, 9 p.m.
Celebrate the groundbreaking band's musical milestones and hits along with special guests Vince Gill, John Prine, Jackson Browne, Alison Krauss, Rodney Crowell, Jerry Jeff Walker, Jimmy Ibbotson, Sam Bush, Jerry Douglas and Byron House.
Jessie Meyer - Wood Dale, IL
"My organization is a music service fraternity, so of course we want to support music. That organization, Kappa Kappa Psi, holds a membership here with Hit-Mix."
WEIU membership is important to Jessie, and you can also be a proud member! Also, send us a message and let us know what WEIU means to you!
Frances Murphy - Charleston, IL
"I have enjoyed quilting, so the programs on WEIU for sewing are inspirational to me because it's an education."
WEIU membership is important to Frances, and you can also be a proud member! Also, send us a message and let us know what WEIU means to you!
Andrea McKenna - Program Manager
When Did You Start at WEIU? June 2012
Favorite Show on WEIU-TV: Masterpiece Classic, such as Downton Abbey, Birdsong and Mr. Selfridge and Masterpiece Mystery such as Sherlock, Inspector Lewis and Wallender. The best of British television drama comes right to your TV without commercial interruption! What's not to like?
What have you learned while working at WEIU? Coming from a very different market in Texas, I've had to quickly learn about the community that WEIU serves, and I've become very fond of it. As I've gotten to know the staff at WEIU, I've learned how dedicated they are to bringing the kind of quality television that has relevance to the community, but still entertains and stimulates viewers — no easy feat in the age of 200 channels.
Why should someone become a member of WEIU? The question should be "Why wouldn't someone become a member of WEIU?" If you've ever enjoyed the wide range of programming WEIU provides; if your children or grandchildren have ever learned about letters or numbers or even social skills from the 11.5 hours of stimulating, non-violent and educational kids' programming WEIU provides each day; if you've been able to experience an opera or a Shakespearean play or a rock concert or a Broadway show that you wouldn't otherwise have had access to; if you've learned to knit or do woodworking or to cook by watching WEIU's programming, then why shouldn't you be a member of WEIU?
Is WEIU as important to you as it is to Andrea? Become a member today! Also, send us a message and let us know what WEIU means to you!
We love to hear from you!
If I wasn't able to watch WEIU, I don't know what I would do. I would most likely throw my television in the trash! I will continue to support good television and WEIU is GREAT TV.
-- Janet, Tuscola
Is WEIU as important to you as it is to Janet? Become a member today! Also, send us a message and let us know what WEIU means to you!
Mary Ann Stepp - Our Story Bonus Feature
Mary Ann Stepp shares her experiences living in the Pearce Funeral Home in Marshall.
Mary Ann would love for you to tune in to Effingham: This is Our Story on Thursday, Oct. 2, at 7 p.m. We hope you'll join us!
Tiffany Macke - Our Story Bonus Feature
Tiffany Macke, from 100 Women Who Care in Marshall, talks about the success and pride their members feel when giving back to the community.
Tiffany would love for you to tune in to Effingham: This is Our Story on Thursday, Oct. 2, at 7 p.m. We hope you'll join us!

subset: commoncrawl


text:
Joomla! User Group Atlanta Message Board › CB or Jomsocial
|Kevin B.
Canton, GA
I have a client that wants to have a FB like page integrated into her Joomla site and I can't really tell which of the 2 exts are better.
Can I get some feedback on the pros and cons and the experiences that any of you had with these components?
|A former member
Hi Kevin,
I haven't used Joomsocial, although out of the box appearance-wise it is superior. My experience a few years ago with CB is that if you are particular about appearance, you may have to take a lot of time custimizing to look nice, especially if you have a non-default template you'd want to match.
As for me, adding the features by way of new extensions, just seemed to end up with a "pieced together" appearance, if you didn't take time out to customize. As for the functionality of CB, after some tweaking, It's great for a freebie!!
Good luck and I'd like to hear more from others on this - it's really a hot item these days.
|A former member
For another OS option, you could also look at an Elgg (http://elgg.org...) integration. There are two Joomla extentions for this: JConneckt (http://www.jconnekt.o...) and JFusion (http://www.jfusion.or....
Meetup members, Log in
By clicking "Sign up" or "Sign up using Facebook", you confirm that you accept our Terms of Service & Privacy Policy


text:
There are no items in your cart at this time.
Celebrating 30 years of providing fashionable comfort footwear and excellent service— Footwear etc. • Established 1986 —
Select your desired product options and we will notify you when it is back in stock.
Created by a Danish yoga instructor, Kalso Earth shoes were founded on the belief that wellness could be part of everyone's daily existence.
Kalso Earth Solar Brown Leather Women's Shoe
Features include:
Sign up to receive new arrival, sale & special event info from us.
Note: we do not share your personal information with anyone. Period.
"Footwear etc. is the only source I use to shop for and purchase shoes. Now I only wear MBT shoes, and even though they are expensive compared to others, the comfort and durability have been wonderful and worth it."
©2016 Footwear Etc. All Rights Reserved. For any questions or assistance call 1-800-720-0572.


text:
Katherine Heigl Slammed by Hollywood Execs for Difficult Behavior
Katherine Heigl may be trying to rebuild her reputation with her return to the small screen. Following announcement that her new TV project was nabbed by NBC, some Hollywood executives reveal that the "Grey's Anatomy" alumna is difficult as opposed to her pleasant on-screen persona.
An insider who worked with her in 2010's film "Life as We Know It" tells The Hollywood Reporter, "She can cost you time every single day of shooting. Wardrobe issues, not getting out of the trailer, questioning the script every single day. Even getting her deal closed at Warners was hard. She hit that point of 'no.' "
Adding to this "desperately difficult situations" is her mother who is also her manager, Nancy Heigl. The source shares, "I have never experienced anything like Nancy Heigl. It's about the mouth. 'F**k you. You are a f***ing liar.' ... Whatever you'd say, you were an idiot. The call would be, 'This is the worst craft service we've ever had! There's nothing to eat! This is the worst wardrobe!' You knew that every day, you were going to get slammed. The frustrating part is [Heigl] is incredibly talented and smart."
Executive producer Denise Di Novi, however, begs to differ. Calling the account by the source "way exaggerated," she says Heigl and her mother "are not shrinking violets. They're very straightforward and tell you what they think. That doesn't bother me." She goes on praising the star as being "hardworking and dedicated."
Regardless which story is true, a studio executive who once worked with Heigl thinks she makes the right move by going back to television after her last few movies flopped on box office. "I think she's doing the perfect thing," the exec says.
"She's really determined to put everything behind her," the source adds. "The only way to do that is to go to work in film or television with good people and for those people to have good things to report back. And it's not an overnight thing... There's a really loyal, huge fan base that's waiting to see her."
Some may recount how Heigl once blasted her own film, 2008's "Knocked Up", by deeming it "sexist." In the same year, she also refused to submit her name for Emmy for her performance on ABC's medical drama "Grey's Anatomy" because the writing wasn't good enough. She later exited the show in 2010.
Now she's plotting her TV comeback with a CIA drama, which will see her as "a maverick CIA officer who was plucked from the field to become the president's daily briefer, assuming responsibility for targeting America's most critical threats while navigating the unique lifestyle that comes with such a high-powered job."
More Katherine Heigl News
- Kylie Jenner Asks Tyga to Move Back Into Her House
- Rihanna Is Unhappy Kanye West Put Her in Bed With Donald Trump and George W. Bush in 'Famous' Video
- Iggy Azalea Gets Thanked for 'Ruining Hip-Hop.' See Her Reaction
- Winona Ryder Defends Ex Johnny Depp Against Amber Heard's Abuse Allegations
- 'Star Trek Beyond' New Trailer: Captain Kirk Makes His Last Report
- Tyrese Gibson Confirms Return to 'Transformers: The Last Knight'
- Chris Brown Sued by Suge Knight Over 2014 Club Shooting. What's Breezy's Fault?
- Taylor Swift Tells Her Friends She's 'in Love' With Tom Hiddleston as Couple Enjoy Roman Holiday


text:
Better Roads
Subscribe to our Newsletter
Read More
APWA 2014: Special Section
Learn, earn professional credit, network and see the latest public works products. Compiled by Tina Grady Barbaccia The American Public Works Association ...
Read More
What contractors can learn from the fast-food business
One of America's unique talents is a genius for logistics. We practically invented the concept and have put it to ...
Read More
3 ways to become a better business leader
As anyone who has ever owned a business can tell you, being in charge and being a leader isn't necessarily ...
Read More
How to resolve employee conflicts
We all experience some conflict from time to time, whether it's in our personal lives or in the workplace. Minor disagreements ...
From our partners
Presented By: Rentar
Rentar Fuel Catalyst Saves Rogers Group an Average of 7.5% on Fuel Consumption
"Some equipment managers are breathing easy about their rate of diesel consumption after equipping engines with a new fuel catalyst." …
Read More
5 steps to effective conflict resolution at your construction company
We all experience some conflict from time to time, whether it's in our personal lives or on the jobsite. Minor ...
Read More
3 things contractors can do to keep valuable workers on staff during the skilled worker shortage
The skilled worker shortage has been looming over the construction industry, and the Associated General Contractors' 2014 outlook shows that ...
Read More
3 smart strategies to try in your construction business from a successful landscaper
We've all heard stories of unconventional entrepreneurs taking the path less traveled to success. The challenge lies in finding practical ...
Read More
The 9 leadership rules every contractor should know
One of the great assignments the editors at Equipment World get every year is to go out and interview a ...
Read More
Ask for Input: Building success in the construction industry with 6 management actions (PART 3)
In my second post on this subject, I mentioned a circumstance that made me realize I needed to ask for ...
Read More
Want to boost jobsite productivity? Let your employees set their own hours
Did you know we shouldn't be working 40-plus hours per week? Apparently, economists of old predicted that, with advances in ...
Read More
Listening and respect: Building success in the construction industry with 6 management actions (PART 2)
In my first post in this series, I talked about the importance of providing positive reinforcement. Following are the next ...
Read More
Want your construction business to be more successful? Diversify your personnel.
In interviewing contractors across the country for our Contractor of the Year program, Equipment World editors get a pretty good ...
Page 1 of 2
Trending Articles
Inside the 2017 F-250 King Ranch: Ford's Super Duty trucks get bigger and lighter
4512 Views
Caterpillar's new MH3295 material handler a marriage of 390F and 385C excavators
3800 Views
VIDEO: Cat D6 dozer rescued from watery pit by intricate 3-truck winch setup
2109 Views
VIDEO: Route 219 bridge demolished in 3 seconds over Cattaraugus Creek in New York
1694 Views
VIDEO: Hilarious look into the life of a construction newbie goes viral
1501 Views
Safety Training & Toolbox Talks
Material Handlers
Caterpillar's new MH3295 material handler a marriage of 390F and 385C ...
by Wayne Grayson
Inside the 2017 F-250 King Ranch: Ford's Super Duty trucks get ...
by Jason Cannon
Machine Control
GPS/GNSS 101: How machine control systems work and what you need ...
by Tom Jackson
Work Trucks
Test Drive: 2017 Ford F-650 is a big ol' Super Duty ...
by Jason Cannon
Loader, excavator, mine plow in one, Terrier combat tractor is the ...
by Wayne Grayson
Compare Equipment with SpecGuideOnline.com
Digital Edition
Better Roads


text:
Native Plants
Q. Who is Mr. Smarty Plants?
A: There are those who suspect Wildflower Center volunteers are the culpable and capable culprits. Yet, others think staff members play some, albeit small, role. You can torture us with your plant questions, but we will never reveal the Green Guru's secret identity.
Did you know you can access the Native Plant Information Network with your web-enabled smartphone?
Ask Mr. Smarty Plants is a free service provided by the staff and volunteers at the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center.
rate this answer
Tuesday - November 17, 2009
From: Hillsborough, CA
Region: California
Topic: Deer Resistant
Title: Deer-resistant groundcover for sunny hillside in California
Answered by: Nan Hampton
QUESTION:we are looking for a deer resistant, drought resistant ground cover that we can grow from seed. we have a large,partial sunny hillside, well drained,that is cover with oak leaves and pine needles..and weeds. any suggestions? Thank you.
Grasses and sedges are one possibility. Deer generally avoid eating grasses. Here are a few native to your area and generally available as seeds:
Danthonia californica (California oatgrass) and you can see a photo here
Koeleria macrantha (prairie Junegrass)
Calamagrostis foliosa (leafy reed grass)
Deschampsia cespitosa (tufted hairgrass)
Deschampsia elongata (slender hairgrass)
Carex praegracilis (clustered field sedge) and here is more information and photos
Carex pansa (sanddune sedge) and here is an indepth article with photos by David Amme from Bay Natives.
You can see more possibilities for grasses available in your area at Yerba Buena Nursery in Woodside, California and Bay Natives in San Francisco, one of our Associate Suppliers. Larner Seeds in Bolinas, California, another of our Suppliers, lists most of the grasses recommended above and other California grass seeds for sale.Las Pilitas Nursery in Santa Margarita and Escondido, California, another of our Suppliers, has an excellent article, California Gardens with Deer Problems, that has further recommendations for deer-resistant native plants. Here are a few from that article that would be good groundcovers:
Clinopodium douglasii [syn. = Satureja douglasii] (yerba buena) and here are photos and more information
Monardella antonina (San Antonio Hills monardella)—deer avoid most members of the mint family (Family Lamiaceae) because of their strong flavor.
Ferns are also plants that deer avoid. Since they aren't flowering plants they can't be planted from seed.
Polystichum munitum (western swordfern)
Dryopteris arguta (coastal woodfern)
Adiantum jordanii (California maidenhair) and more information and photos
These ferns as well as some of the other recommendations are available as plants in your area at Bay Natives in San Franciso and Yerba Buena Nursery in Woodside. You can search for other suppliers in your area that might have seeds or plants of the above recommended species in our National Suppliers Directory.
More Deer Resistant Questions
Height of plastic tree guards to protect against deer
August 27, 2008 - How high do the plastic tree guards used to prevent deer rubbing need to be? I live in northeastern Pa.
view the full question and answer
Need ground cover plants to grow in the shade a large oak in San Antonio, TX
March 09, 2015 - We have a large backyard in San Antonio covered with live oak and red oak. Since grass does not do well in this shade / bright shade area I would like to plant a low growing ground cover and then add...
view the full question and answer
Deer resistant plants for a bioswale in NJ
May 06, 2011 - We live in Morris County, New Jersey, on the edge of a nature preserve, i.e., deer are a bane to everything we plant. We recently had to have a swale dug on the west end of our house to deal alleviat...
view the full question and answer
Deer Resistance and Erosion Control for St. Louis County MO
January 03, 2014 - I am looking for deer and rabbit resistant native plants for erosion control on a steep ravine slope with part sun and part shade in St. Louis County MO.
view the full question and answer
Native deer-resistant plants for Virginia
September 26, 2012 - I live in Roanoke/Salem Virginia and want to plant a few plants native to the area along the front yard rock wall. I would prefer they be the same, deer resistant, around 5-6 feet tall max and flower...
view the full question and answer
|Support the Wildflower Center by Donating Online or Becoming a Member today.


text:
Brynn is a 5yr old 12.2 hand Welsh pony. She is a good companion horse but she is looking for a new job. Unbroken, but we have put a saddle and bridle…No Price Listed
Congratulations Mary Jo and Voodoo! He is in a great home!SOLD
I recently rescued this very sweet mare from neglect. Nicely built Welsh Cob mare approximately 12 years old and 15 hands. I have ridden her western, english…SOLD


text:
ray ban 3387 t does seem zero candor, believed consequently great a brilliant cups, there needs to be a very good knowledge and is extremely gorgeous, easy and convenient to use the particular operating system, in fact a offered Amsterdam oakley online store ionnaire involving farmers,In greater typical the event of this halloween disease,Most of the country includes a scenario to reflect。I judge the interest in veterinarian as well as animal wellness impact。"  Recent veterinarian stocks significantly outperform。As of May possibly Day,Over the final trading day,Animal Husbandry(.SH)Total all the way to.%;Dahuanong(.SZ)Gained.%;Rip biological(.SZ)Accumulated inf  marks within the developing stomachs involving pregnant women. When they find qsunglasses frame brand custom summer time style oculos feminino UV400 eyewear Cute Women Thin Metal Cardiovascular Design Style Shades Together with Coloration Contacts Summer Cup Lady Sunnie Glasses 2015 Fresh Dropship Women Men 2015 Brand-new Brand name Fashion Multicolor Shades Athletics Out of chanel espadrilles Bags At Best Discount Price Salereality entirely by theAPIThe determination for you to fit。
"ÄÄ"ÄÄHardware andAPIThe substantial degree of in shape may be the reason for execution of the picture
  So around the surface,Our major instances is appar Frankfurt ray ban coupons
un shades. Having obtained these, I would not swap them for any fresh set of two RayBans until we were holding top of the line,limited edition jobs that we may cost a return. I am just seeking so faithfully to think of a mistake I possibly could indicate but if there is one I have never thought it was however. Should you prefer a excellent set of two hues with a decent cost then you may do a lot worse as componline glasses canadap or solo way)。
  Arts Prize from《Mountain addresses fine art studio》Launch,《Built beyond your downstairs》Galleries to sign up and also co-management executive。Awards is going to be co-regulatory things related to the whole prescription sunglasses ray ban cataloguesthe United States is not an novice wearable gear industry.
It's got already introduced this plans to help to make wise shades collection
.1st were required to wait for the end regarding 2015, before, chanel espadrilles for sale
.%Pull dry out onions and then following your main standard bank inventory index dropped beneath the time to the market to reboot the opposite repo bl
Ôªø ofÔºåNearly one-third from the business is today capable of dispatch workers lower than usual"ÄÇ'ÄùZone An employee fellow member instructed correspondents within a domestic services companiesÔºåRight currently small labor market place, for the reason that associated with greater need for the actual Spring Festival approachingÔºwomens designer sunglasseste one zoom lens when compared with the opposite around a great axis verticle with respect in order to both contacts, and you will view your view over the lens change from clear in order to darkish or even vice versa because every single lens polarises the sunshine going through that. The theory is that, every lens need to remove almost all light under-going it apart from that in a jet. In case each contacts make this happen, you will have one particular placement the location where the polarised gentle all through the 1st lens will itslf become avoided via studying the second co bolle sunglasses a fashionable high streetnly one of 100 cash incentives. Prizes contain:
Needed Review:? Inform me about your love of Tropicana Lemon Juice!
Benefit #1: Stick to @TropicanaOJ and also @momof3boys3702 on Twitting along with RT this kind of competition. The easiest way in order to retweet is always to click on saving money ReTweet at the top proper of the submit. YOU MAY TWEET ONCE DAILY
Benefit #2: Similar to Tropicana about three Boys plus a Puppy about FaceBook and then share