or: Ignore me doing this!

Last night class started off much the same way as the last class had ended. Almost immediately I caught the prof rolling her eyes at me. I was less sure about what I was doing because she had such a negative reaction to me, so it took me a few nanoseconds longer to get to my question because I was trying to avoid pissing her off. Then she got pissy that I was taking so long. “Just ASK,” she said, rolling her eyes.

That’s how I found myself, ten minutes into the three hour class, staring at my paper with my face burning as if I was ten years old again and wishing I could just go home where nobody rolls their eyes when I have a question.

The class picked up later, and while I was the last person called on during a discussion, I didn’t even have my hand up, so that was okay. I actually started having fun, as long as I was focusing on the material, and it suddenly occurred to me,(and I dont know if you know this), but I’m thirty motherfucking years old, and I don’t need to be sitting in a college course feeling like a smacked-down ten year old. What kind of pathetic idiot am I?

So after class I approached the professor and dragged that ugly ass elephant right into the room.

I said that I had the distinct feeling that I was upsetting her. I said that I am often socially impaired in classroom situations, and that I love her class, and that the last thing I want to do is upset her. I said that if she’d tell me whatever it is that’s making her crazy I’d be more than happy, more than happy, to stop it. I swore I would not take any offense whatsoever.

She told me that no, she wasn’t upset with me at all and that it was refreshing to have someone in the class who had actually read the book. She said that it’s sometimes frustrating when I point out something in the book and she knows that she should have put it in the lesson plan, but then it’s too late. She told me how frustrating it was to teach a three hour one-day-a-week class. She said, “and you’re intelligent and verbose, and I have to get all of THOSE people *sweeping arm movement encompassing the rest of the empty classroom* to join in the discussion.”

I told her that I knew that I talked too much, but it was just that I really enjoy her class and I was so excited about the material and I want to know it all right now. I was able to tell her how much I respected her and how much I was learning.

Then she said, “You know, I was exactly like you were when I was in school.”

And we were off to the races, swapping stories, talking about our families and talking about how cool the field is.

I don’t think I was imagining things. I think she was really irritated by me, but by pointing out that I was noticing her frustration I think she had to reevaluate it. And by being able to tell her how much I enjoy her class and that my questions come from excitement and not from an intention to show her up, I think her view of me shifted. I told her that all she would have to do was give me the hi sign with a raised finger or something and I’d be happy to shut my mouth; happy to do it. I get carried away completely by accident and wouldn’t be insulted if she wanted me to hang on to a thought until later. She said that she wouldn’t need to do that and just to keep up the good work.

Then we talked for a solid 45 minutes about all things speech and language path related and she assured me that I was going to be a great grad student and was a delight to have in class. We talked like two adults and the ten year old me morphed back into the (at least marginally intelligent) 30-year-old woman. I kept giving her opportunities to leave and close the discussion and she kept asking more questions and making more points, which felt great.

I have good feelings about future classes and feel much, much better. She really is a good prof. I think she just misunderstood my intentions. And the elephant is no longer munching on peanuts in the middle of the room. Thank the good lord for that.

Wallace’s still teething

Last night Wallace had as rough a time with daddy as he did on previous nights with mommy. It’s selfish and terrible, but I’m glad that it isn’t just me. He also slept through the walk home from day care during a hailstorm. Apparently there are constant hailstorms in the womb and hail is old hat to small babies. ZZzzzzzzzz.

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Once again our family has recently signed up to participate in the American Cancer Society Walk & Roll Chicago. We have committed to raise funds for the American Cancer Society in their efforts of eliminating cancer as a major health problem by preventing cancer, saving lives, and diminishing suffering from cancer, through research, education, advocacy and service. We would appreciate it if you could sponsor us in this great endeavor.

Last year I walked five miles while six months pregnant and, although I was the last person back over the line (literally), I managed all five miles. This year we’ll be introducing Wallace to this great event! Our family has once again been touched directly by cancer this year, and we are hoping that our efforts will help eradicate the disease.

Any donations are greatly appreciated and our goal this year is starting out at $500. However, we do understand that lately there have been many calls for charity, particularly the tsunami relief effort, and that things might be tight. If you can’t manage to give, we understand. Please, then, if you’re from the Chicagoland area, consider coming out and walking on the day and trying to raise funds yourself. It’s a great way to give even if your pockets are a little bare at the moment.

Thank you for considering sponsoring us as we join the fight against cancer as a Walk & Roll Chicago participant. Please visit our personal page (click on the post title) for more information.

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And I bet I’m the first to come up with that clever little phrase.

Wallace is miserable right now. I’ve said that he’s teething, but non-parents should know that it isn’t just the pain of having teeth cut their way out of your gums. It’s not just like slipping a piece of paper between your two front teeth and dragggggging it gently along until you have a nice bloody gap there.

Teething pain stings so much that it brings on serious mucus production, which in turn means sneezing, running, and snuffling until his chest is full of bubbly hell. He has problems eating and problems breathing well and, as a result, has trouble sleeping and is generally pissed off at the world. And given the state of him, one can hardly blame him.

With the onset of teething our parenting skills have suddenly turned to useless bits of outdated information. His screaming can now mean so many things, up to and including “My teeth fucking hurt and I hate you, you bastards” that his every-five-minute heartbroken, angry sobs can only be tackled by a system of trial and error. I’ve missed several poopy diapers for trying to feed him or distract him.

I’ve also discovered that I’m an idiot. He’s gone back to day care over the past few weeks. Prior to his return, our schedule was:

7:30pm - dinner
7:45pm - bath
8:00pm - ready for bed
8:15pm - lights out

The past few days he’s been starving at 6:30, so I’ve given him a bottle. Then he’s not hungry at 7:30, and really wants his bath. After we battle out dinner, bath might be fun, but really he’s ready for bed. By the time I’m getting him ready for bed he’s acting like he’s going to die of exhaustion and screaming his fool head off.

This is when my idiot Type A personality gets in the way. Last night, as he was screaming at 8:00pm, it suddenly occurred to me, “You dumbass! He’s hungry at 6:30 and wants to be asleep by 7:45! What the hell are you doing sticking to an outdated schedule??”

So on the days he goes to day care we’ll try:

6:30pm - dinner
6:45pm - bath
7:00pm - ready for bed
7:15 to 7:30pm - lights out

and we’ll see if that eases the bedtime angst.

Mommy sucketh mightily at the moment. So much so that his relief when he got to day care this morning was palpable.

Beware the teeth. They are fierce.

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So.

In recent news we have the Marburg virus spreading through Luanda. It’s also in Angola, but don’t worry, the authorities swear it’s under control.

Add that to the recent announcement that the US has kicked rubella’s ass and you get a very clear picture of how the world is connected through biohazards.

Years ago the story that we’ve eradicated rubella would have been met with jumps of joy, much like the eradication of polio. Instead it’s a blip story on the national radar and doctors are cautioning everyone to continue immunizations. The Marburg virus (a cousin to Ebola) is a very nasty little presence in the world, and its spread appears to be insidious. Essentially we are all now dependent on everyone else to control their outbreaks reasonably and report responsibly on containment problems.

This, of course, is folly, as evidenced by the reaction in Chinese officials to the SARS epidemic in 2003/2004. From the same area, health officials in Asian countries are having serious trouble getting a handle on the Asian Bird Flu that has now spread to, the previously insusceptible, feline population.

The WHO is predicting that sometime soon we’ll have a breakout of Asian Bird flu or something similar that will rival the 1812 flu. There are too many of us living in close proximity and traveling in and around one another to avoid it. AIDS wasn’t it; wasn’t the medieval disease the doomsday predictors were talking about. The real doozy is coming and it’s going to be airborne. Unless, of course, HIV becomes airborne. After all, we’ve had a super drug-resistant HIV strain develop lately.

So the question is, at what point do we panic? Are the risks to ourselves and our children greater these days, or is it merely the common knowledge of those risks spread by more global connections than ever before?

And what, realistically, can we do about it? After reading all this it occurs to me that if even something minor were to happen in my town and the water were to get cut off, we’d be up a creek with regards to baby formula. So should we be packing our basement with two weeks worth of provisions, or is that a duct-tape knee-jerk reaction?

I don’t know what I’d do if there were a major outbreak of Ebola or Asian Bird Flu or airborne HIV here in the US. One would be tempted to pack up and flee the cities, but at the end of the day how effective (and realistic) is that kind of plan?

After all, aren’t we just waiting for a major earthquake that destroys California and waiting for a major volcano eruption or nuclear core meltdown? Is it just more of the same waiting?

Meh. I don’t know the answers. I’ve just been thinking about it.

What do you think?

In unrelated WANT WANT news:

I was pointed to this today and I want one with my whole stupid heart. The damn thing looks so cool. And would only be good for 10 more pounds on our six-month-old. So it would become useless as quickly as it is expensive. Very. Still, want want want:

Stokke Xplory Stroller

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Or: A post-partum post.

Over the past week I have been truly post-partuming. I got my period ages ago and thought I was back to normal, but now that the pregnancy hormones are really subsiding I remember what normal is. Normal is:

1. Thinner hair
2. Spottier skin
3. A more sensitive digestive system
4. A more sensitive urological system
5. Less glow
6. More cravings
7. More weight
8. Less panache

And I list all this as my formerly beautiful nails are cracked and peeling and my hair falls out in alarming quantities.

But we shall survive. I put up with acne outbreaks before Wallace, I can endure them now. The only big minus is that my health is taking a nosedive.

Back in December I met with a doctor who is fantastic at using physical therapy and acupuncture to help heal folks who are really sick. My friend Lisa is very sick with fibromyalgia, and after two years of crippling pain this doctor gave her her life back.

I met with him back in December because I could anticipate the hormones wearing off and my situation becoming precarious again. I wanted to have someone in my corner so that I can avoid the thousands of expensive drugs and the weekly catheterizations for as long as possible. The guy was fantastic and we discussed a regimen of massage therapy and acupuncture to gently try and keep my body as healthy as possible.

During that consultation I got a massage that immediately calmed my stomach. It was amazing. The woman who helped me was fantastic. I left with very high hopes.

So here I am, my health situation going south, and I went to the fabulous doctor today.

1. The acupuncture guy was out sick.
2. Nothing was written in my chart regarding my case.
3. The lady who worked on me before to help with my IBS wasn’t available.
4. I got the new girl, who looked at me blankly and asked what I wanted. After all, she couldn’t help with IBS, she was a PHYSICAL THERAPIST. Said slowly, as if I’d missed the point or the people I’d seen in December hadn’t assured me they could help.

So instead of help with IC the new girl was going to give me a relaxing massage. That is, she was, but instead she spent the entire time digging her sharpened thumb bones into my ass. I’m now just as icky in the bladder as I was before this joyful occasion, but, hey, at least my ass is bruised.

They are supposed to fix it on Thursday. I’m supposed to get the royal treatment, including acupuncture and someone other than Thumbs-in-the-Ass. But just remember, if you go for physical therapy, and they ask you if you’d like to work with Kate today, say “NO”.

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Hey! Happy Easter!!

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HAPPY EASTER!

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or: Once the class weirdo, always the class weirdo.

I’m sorry this is so long. I needed to rant.

School is something I’m very conflicted about at the moment. I’m going to talk about the good bits first, because it’s easy for me to get caught up in what’s wrong and forget to mention what is going well.

Last night I got a test back that I was worried about. Wallace was sick and the week before I took the test I’d had about two hours of sleep a night, average. My goal was not to fail. Instead last night I got the test back and I got a 90%. Go me! It turns out that learning a little bit of information spread out over time really does make it stick. Go figure.

I also was given an extra credit sheet two weeks ago on Chapter Four, which class I missed because I was busy throwing up. I obviously didn’t understand it and just did the best I could and handed it back. During break last night the prof called me up, explained it, and gave it back to me so I could do it correctly and get 5 points. Sweet.

Now the rough bits: My teacher doesn’t like me and I’m the class weirdo. Again and a thousand times again.

I suppose you can’t hide who you are. I’m a geek who tends to be verbose and over-educated. I like to debate and ask questions and genuinely want to know about things. I love the subject that I’m studying. I love it with all the academic love that burns in my heart. So I arrive to class up-to-speed, excited and wanting to participate. This should be a good thing, right?

Apparently, no. Not even close.

The class is populated half with people who want to be SLPs, who are mildly intelligent, and half with early education majors. The class is a requirement for the early edders, and they don’t tend to see it as relevant and don’t like it. And these people, I have to tell you, as a group, are the dumbest people on the planet. Their collective IQ, if harnessed as energy, would not be enough to brown a small piece of toast.

Even the folks studying SLP are egregiously idiotic. Which is a shame, because as a group they seem like nice folks. It seems that everyone in the class besides me is all about the minimal value. “How much do I have to do?” “What grade do I HAVE to get to pass?” “Do we HAVE to bring in outside studies on our projects?”

It makes me sick. I pay a boatload for this class. Out of pocket. It’s outrageously fascinating to me. With a new baby and a full-time job I’m still able to read the chapter twice and do all the vocab definitions twice before we have the class on that chapter.

Unfortunately, the prof has to start the class assuming that nobody has read the chapter. We slog through it piece by piece and occasionally have interesting discussions, but primarily we’re going over what I already know, because I read the chapter.

I ask questions and make points. For example: Last night the teacher brought up a little boy she used to work with who couldn’t seem to generalize “ed” endings. Past tense. He can produce the sound, but if you say to him “Today I walk. Yesterday I ____”, he can’t supply the answer.

In chapter 7 in the book they talked about an entire family in England who were unable to learn past “ed” tense as a rule. They had to learn each individual verb past as an irregular verb. Like you and I were learn that we should say “We went” rather than “We goed”. They know how to say “walked, danced, played”, because they learned that that’s what you say, however when faced with “This man finkles today. Yesterday he _____”, they would not be able to supply the word “finkled”. They have no past-tense ED generalization rule.

Scientists found that the entire family had a genetic anomaly that has to do with proteins that might account for the inability to generalize past tense. It’s certainly a push for nature in the nature/nurture debate that surrounds language acquisition.

So I bring this up. The teacher scoffs and asks me to find it. I do, in about ten minutes, and read it per her invitation. She smirks and me and says, “I don’t think this boy was ENGLISH.” Right. Because genetic anomalies are specific to one group of people and have never been heard of to happen to others in nature before. Right.

Anyhow, I paid later for having the impudence to bring up something in the book that is relevant to what we were discussing. We were arguing (and everyone was) nature/nurture with regard to syntax. Now, it’s fairly easy to see where semantics might be taught by parents, at least partially, but syntax is damned tricky. Nobody teaches children how to put sentences together. No one sits down with your normally developing three year old and explains, “When asking a question, you put the wh at the beginning of the question. For example ‘The dog is going where?’ should more correctly be ‘Where is the dog going?’”

Nobody teaches three year olds this. Three year olds can just do it. And they do it well. They don’t make the mistakes you’d think they’d make. Even two-word sentences are complex. Much more complex than mom or dad ever reinforce.

There have been studies done that say that no matter how much kids hear correct forms of words, they learn syntax at their own pace. So you can try and model well and teach your kid, but he ain’t gonna get it until he gets it. However, that study didn’t take into effect recasts. So when a child says, “We goed to the circus!”, mom or dad is likely to say, “That’s right! We went to the circus!” That’s a recast. Rephrasing it back to the kid, without making a point of “teaching” it.

Does the study take into account the amount, frequency and reliability of parenting recasts?

Plus, and someone else brought this up and I thought it was a great argument: If kids are naturally predisposed to learn grammar correctly, then why, if a child has a mother who says “I ain’t not goin’ to the store”, will a child not say “I am going to the store”? They also will say “ain’t not goin”. Which seems to indicate that on some level syntax is something that they pick up from parental modeling.

Essentially the nature/nurture fight is all. It’s everything in Speech study today. Do we come out knowing 90% of it, or are we taught 90% of it? And the answers are surprisingly difficult to come to.

So we were debating it and she called on me and I said, “Well, I’m torn.” and she immediately said, “You’re TORN?? You’re TORN??? Do you sit up at night and worry about this stuff?” and she just made fun of me.

I hadn’t even thought about the words I was using. I was just debating. I felt like I was being made fun of for the way I spoke, and that was just shit. I felt like I always did in elementary school. If I know stuff, or want to know stuff, I’m supposed to keep it to myself. I’m supposed to act dumb or be silent so as not to pull the class off course.

God forbid I ask a question the prof doesn’t know the answer to. This prof hates me for that, and I can’t understand how she doesn’t know that I don’t know that she doesn’t know the answer because I haven’t asked the question yet!

So I love school. I love the class. I like that I’m working as hard as I can because someday a mother is going to come to me with a child with a speech problem, and because I did my homework and went above-and-beyond I might actually be able to help. I don’t introduce Plato into the class discussion. I don’t go off topic. I ask relevant questions about the material we are discussing and I can’t help it if the other people in the class are too stupid to keep up.

It’s so hard. It’s hard being the class weirdo again. I hate it. All the ostrization without any of the happy teacher vibes. She’s not penalizing me grade-wise so I’m just going to put up with it and hold my breath until I can join the graduate classes of hopefully equally geeky and eager folks.

It’s still really depressing.

And no, she won’t really talk to me after class and I don’t think she’d want to see me in her office. She genuinely doesn’t like me. Which is a shame, because in spite of her making fun of me she’s a nice lady with interesting stories and I feel like I could learn a lot from her. I’m as upset that I’m upsetting her as I am that she made fun of me.

But it seems my only other options are to act dumb or keep my mouth shut, and why should I, if I have questions. I’m torn. Go head and make fun of me. I’M TORN!

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Some Wallace and a short IC recap

I have a six-and-a-half-month old baby. This means that I have a teether. He’s teethed before, at about four months old. He stuffed his fist in his mouth and kind of made this “Unh! Ungh!” noise that was so adorable. God, it was cute. You should have seen it.

Little did I know that that round of teething was teething. This round of teething, this round that we have here now, is TEETHING. Super industrial teething. He can’t really sleep, he’s having a miserable time trying to eat, and he’s greeting everything that enters his field of vision with his mouth wide open and a vicious head-lunge. And believe me, this child is strong and if he gets a hold of your fingers they will get chewed. Much in the manner that you’d get chewed on by a Tazmanian Devil. Poor little man, and, hey, OUCH! LET GO, VICIOUS CARNIVORE BABY!

In mixed news he’s now crying when I leave the room. Which on the one hand is so fucking cute and is really comforting in that it’s the first real, outward sign that he knows that I’m Different and Special and that he Likes Me! (He really, really likes me!) On the other hand, poor little crying baby. I don’t look forward to sad drop offs at day care or not being able to, say, go to the bathroom without inducing a shriek-fest.

To Wallace:

DEAR WALLACE STOP HAVE ENJOYED YOUR ATTENTION STOP DIG THAT YOU LIKE ME STOP ALSO LIKE YOU ENORMOUSLY STOP CAN STOP NOW AND GO BACK TO LIKING EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING APART FROM ME TOO STOP. 

Stuff he can do:

He lifts up his hands to be picked up or to get down from somewhere. He can grab his bottle and feed himself, or put a binkey in his mouth if he wants one. He gives drooly, open-mouthed baby kisses that I know are kisses because he doesn’t try and suck my face at all. Just slobbers all over it.

He’s eating sweet potato AND broccoli, (I promise I will not mention the resulting diapers). He can put small blocks into a bigger block, (admittedly mostly by accident), and will jump in his Jumperoo forever. He will sit up for five or ten minutes at a time unsupervised and unsupported and has started catching himself from falling over, and when we give him Naked Baby Tummy Time he can get his knees under his body and shove forward on his face for inches at a time.

He’s also starting to work on sounds in a big way. He’s started doing a sound that is basically a bilabial fricative. It’s not a “B” sound, but it’s what a “B” sound would be if your lips didn’t quite come together. Or and “F” sound if you were trying to make it without moving your lips. He’s working on it very hard to see what his breath and articulators together can do and will practice for some time when he thinks that nobody is looking. It’s pretty damned exciting to watch.

In short, he’s marvelous and obviously advanced. Except for the rolling. He poo-poohs the rolling. The rolling has been poo-poohed and is obviously for suckers like YOU, not him. Why roll when you can sit? Why roll when you can shove along the carpet on your nose? Why roll when there’s so much standing and jumping to do?! The baby makes a fine point.

IC, IBS, and the rigors of a chronic illness sufferer saying goodbye to the final pregnancy hormones.

Firstly, allow me to say that I am tremendously grateful for the break that pregnancy afforded me, and if the Universe is listening: Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for not making my IC worse in pregnancy, but giving me a break from it. Thank you for allowing me to hold and play with my baby boy without pain. Thank you for giving me an easy C-section recovery. I love you Universe. If I wasn’t married to Andy I’d totally have your babies. Totally. XOXOXOX, Krissy.

Now that the Universe is placated and no longer listening: My IC (Interstitial Cystitis) and IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome) appear to be making their grand entrance back into my life. My bladder hurts like a bitch when I pee and I’ve got that bone-weary exhaustion that goes with it. Last night I spent two hours sitting on the toilet feeling alternately like I was passing knives and peeing fire. Life is not always a happy place when you’re frightened of the bathroom.

The good news is that getting my eating under control may do a lot to even me out. I also have a doctor to call that Andy and I are both going to go to. Me for my IC, and him for a seriously messed-up body because his body physically developed actually around the trombone (which will happen if you play for hours a day every day starting at 12 years old). These people do physical therapy and acupuncture and brought a friend of mine who suffers from Fibro. She was on the edge, about to lose it after two years of not getting help and being stuffed with drugs, and these people gave her her life back.

Me, I’d just be okay with the not pissing fire and blood.

The other problem is my weight. I gave up all white sugar and white flour in January and did moderate exercise and dropped weight like you wouldn’t believe. Now I’m on my way back up again and jonesing for cookies like they are crack. It’s a bad thing. I’m having more trouble giving up sugar than I did cigarettes or booze.

Any time I have an IC or IBS flare (and they usually happen together), all I can think is “Hello darkness, my old friend”. And really, that’s just too cheesy a response, even for me. Blah.

If you want to learn more about IC and how to diagnose and treat it, click to the IC Network by clicking HERE. Or go directly to the FAQ HANDBOOK

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Terri Schiavo and her husband.

To read a succinct, to-the-point blog entry that sums up my feelings, Click Here to link to Terri Schiavo FAQ for the Uncommitted.

The publication contains a list of information and arguments to be made that the system, such as it is, made this decision long ago. Michael Schiavo stopped being in a position to order the removal of the tube ages ago, yet is constantly vilified. Most of the individuals supporting Terri’s right-to-life were duped into watching a 12 second video of her spliced together over footage from four hours. They are absolutely certain that they know more than the 12 judges who studied the case in detail. What people are doing and saying makes me ill.

Michael was her husband. She was bulemic and had a horrible accident. She’s been in a permanent vegetative state for fifteen years. There is no longer any money to be gained by leaving the tube in. She is, and let me make this clear, she is NOT THERE.

Her parents are not her next of kin anymore. They stopped being NOK the moment Terri married Michael. If I am injured, I want Andy to be the one with all power to protect me. Taking that power away is ludicrous. Particularly for all the “sanctity of marriage” folks to be barking about it.

I feel so terrible for her parents. They’ve probably got all sorts of evil, grandstanding people whispering in their ear 24/7. Suddenly, if they take out the tube they aren’t simply letting her go, they are KILLING HER! according to all sorts of idiots. They aren’t just protecting Terri, they are protecting their relationship and themselves in relation to her.

And you know what? I understand. Look at that little boy down there. I would do anything and everything to keep him alive. I would throw myself in front of a bus, I would spend every last dime, I would give him to someone else, I would do anything, ANYTHING if it meant that he’d be okay. So I understand where Terri’s parents are coming from. Unfortunately they are trying to save someone who is already gone. She’s gone. She’s been gone for 15 years.

On a Personal Note

Andy and I have talked and each of us agrees that we’d like the plug to get pulled very quickly, however, honestly? We don’t think that in that state there is any cognition anyhow. That means that leave me plugged in or unplug me, depending on whatever my family (meaning Andy and Wallace) needs.

If I had my druthers, I’d wouldn’t be adverse to have two weeks to recover if I’m on a ventilator and a year to recover if I’m in a vegetative state, if my family can afford it. I mean, I’d dig being given a chance to come around. But if they can’t afford it, the moment they can’t, pull the plug. I am NOT okay with my family going bankrupt while I sit there and atrophy. No no.

And blanket pardons for Andy if he pulls the plug and in an alternative universe I would have woken up 20 minutes later. Blanket forgiveness. It’s all so guilt-ridden and convoluted anyhow. I want him to do what he thinks is best and know that wherever I am, even if it’s only a memory, I love him more than the entire world.

The whole thing is ugly. Hugely ugly. All I can think is that this is the dumbest act of Congress ever, and that poor Michael has been through the fucking wringer. It’s time to take out the feeding tube. Mom and dad, it’s time to let her go. As nightmarish as it is, it’s time to let her go.

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