Aaron Polson's Blog, page 9
May 14, 2012
The Road Less Traveled
Aimee and I enjoyed hiking--especially in National Parks. Our National Park map still hangs in our basement, framed and laminated with colorful push pins for each member of the family. The pins indicate where we've been.
In 2000, Aimee and I took a trek to Yellowstone National Park, otherwise known as "Disneyland of National Parks," meaning it's rather crowded and overflowing with RVs. Yes, we drove to Yellowstone in my tiny Honda Civic (and that, my friends, was quite a road trip). We brought most of our food in a big cooler. We camped for a week and found plenty of less-traveled paths (with the help of a few nice park rangers).
Aimee had a nose for water. She climbed onto countless rocks in the middle of mountain streams while I stood on the shore, exhorting her to be safe. Here she is in a common moment of contemplation. In the scrapbook, I wrote a simple note on a Post-it: the road less-traveled.
And that was Aimee's life as I knew her. She never took the easy path--helping start a grant-funded mental health program for kids in local schools, coaching high school sports (and later her sons in soccer and basketball), spending a week each summer at Anytown (a diversity/leadership camp for teens). She even listened to all of my crazy dreams and laughed when she found scraps of paper scribbled with story ideas.
I like this picture more than any other from Yellowstone. I like to imagine what she was thinking, or maybe that she wasn't thinking at all--just letting the water pass beneath her. It's a peaceful thought.
In 2000, Aimee and I took a trek to Yellowstone National Park, otherwise known as "Disneyland of National Parks," meaning it's rather crowded and overflowing with RVs. Yes, we drove to Yellowstone in my tiny Honda Civic (and that, my friends, was quite a road trip). We brought most of our food in a big cooler. We camped for a week and found plenty of less-traveled paths (with the help of a few nice park rangers).
Aimee had a nose for water. She climbed onto countless rocks in the middle of mountain streams while I stood on the shore, exhorting her to be safe. Here she is in a common moment of contemplation. In the scrapbook, I wrote a simple note on a Post-it: the road less-traveled.
And that was Aimee's life as I knew her. She never took the easy path--helping start a grant-funded mental health program for kids in local schools, coaching high school sports (and later her sons in soccer and basketball), spending a week each summer at Anytown (a diversity/leadership camp for teens). She even listened to all of my crazy dreams and laughed when she found scraps of paper scribbled with story ideas.
I like this picture more than any other from Yellowstone. I like to imagine what she was thinking, or maybe that she wasn't thinking at all--just letting the water pass beneath her. It's a peaceful thought.
May 13, 2012
For Mother's Day
This message is for men on Mother's Day, a message in honor of Aimee.
Guys, I'll keep it brief: if you have kids--and I don't care if you are divorced, estranged, never married--find your baby mama and go tell her how amazing she is. Now (as in as soon as you finish reading this post). Find your own mom and tell her how amazing she is, too. See a mom on the street with her kids, wish her a happy Mother's Day and tell her how amazing she is. They're all pretty damn amazing.
The truth? None of us would be here without our mothers. If you're a dad, you wouldn't be a dad without a woman who carried your kid for nine months. Anyone who has witnessed childbirth--the everyday miracle--knows women kick much ass in the toughness department.We say these things often ("you wouldn't be here without your mother"), but we seldom take the time or mental energy to really process what it means.
After you tell her how amazing she is, make sure you take care of her. Not just today, but everyday. Not in some creepy Promise Keepers kind of way, either (that's not my message). Just be good to her. Support her. Burn copies of Time Magazine's Are You Mom Enough? issue on the street just to let people know that yes, your baby mama is more than mom enough.
They all are.
Guys, I'll keep it brief: if you have kids--and I don't care if you are divorced, estranged, never married--find your baby mama and go tell her how amazing she is. Now (as in as soon as you finish reading this post). Find your own mom and tell her how amazing she is, too. See a mom on the street with her kids, wish her a happy Mother's Day and tell her how amazing she is. They're all pretty damn amazing.
The truth? None of us would be here without our mothers. If you're a dad, you wouldn't be a dad without a woman who carried your kid for nine months. Anyone who has witnessed childbirth--the everyday miracle--knows women kick much ass in the toughness department.We say these things often ("you wouldn't be here without your mother"), but we seldom take the time or mental energy to really process what it means.
After you tell her how amazing she is, make sure you take care of her. Not just today, but everyday. Not in some creepy Promise Keepers kind of way, either (that's not my message). Just be good to her. Support her. Burn copies of Time Magazine's Are You Mom Enough? issue on the street just to let people know that yes, your baby mama is more than mom enough.
They all are.
May 9, 2012
Crushing Stigmas, Smashing Stereotypes, Remembering with Courage
This is the big one. It's been brewing for a while.
My honesty, my frankness, might make some people uncomfortable. That's okay. Aimee's dead, and I know she wouldn't want anyone to be complacent about life. I'm not about to shame her memory by being a coward.
Aimee suffered from postpartum depression and psychosis. While postpartum depression is widely recognized (some studies show as many as one in eight women suffer some depression after childbirth), postpartum psychosis is much more frightening and seldom discussed. Postpartum Support International has a good overview of the condition at their website. You'll note it is a rare illness, affecting around 1/10th of 1% of new mothers.
It's a scary damn disease, too, and one which has too much stigma attached. Aimee never spoke of her bouts with psychosis by name--it was always her postpartum depression or postpartum trouble. It breaks my heart she couldn't call the monster by its real name.
And it is a monster.
I am a trained school counselor with a master's degree in counseling psychology. Aimee was a licensed clinical social worker. We both knew mental illness did not define a person. Aimee was not the psychosis, just as a cancer patient is not a tumor or one with a broken leg is not a broken bone. All the same, mental health issues carry such baggage--so many stereotypes. Aimee was the most vibrant person I've ever known when she was healthy. I still can't fathom what she saw in this small town Kansas boy when she agreed to marry me.
She first struggled about nine months after Owen's birth. It came on slowly with typical depressive symptoms, but slowly morphed into something more hideous. She spent a week in inpatient psychiatric care for the first time in June, 2004. With medication and rest, she recovered. Mostly. Such an experience leaves scars, even if you can't see them.
After Max was born, the psychosis came with a tiger's ferocity. I woke on August 1st, 2006 to a stranger in my bed. She spent her second stint in psychiatric care and navigated a shaky three months before being hospitalized again in November, 2006.
Her recovery was slow. The old Aimee--the most vibrant person I've ever known--never fully returned, at least not to those who were around her most. It breaks my already-shattered heart to write this, but I never stopped loving her. I never stopped caring for her. That is not how I operate--or ever could operate. When I took a vow--to honor and care for her in sickness and in health--in front of God and everyone, I meant it. I'm stubborn that way. I love that way.
Aimee always wanted another child. I was afraid.She never felt our family was complete.
She told me she was pregnant with Elliot last spring. I cried. A cannonball settled in my gut, a cannonball of ice and rusty nails. I steeled myself for the journey ahead. With her history of postpartum psychosis, chances were very great she'd have a relapse.
Nearly four months after Elliot's birth, she did.
Here's what I want you to understand: Aimee was not her illness just as my father, who died as a result of a malignant brain tumor and subsequent treatment, was not the cancer.
If I can help one person have the courage to seek help when they need it--I know Aimee would want that. I know she would.This post is the first step.It's the truth. If Aimee showed me anything, it was how to be brave. I'm not sure what the next step is--but I'm not going to be quiet about Aimee. I'm not going to dishonor her memory by being a coward.
My honesty, my frankness, might make some people uncomfortable. That's okay. Aimee's dead, and I know she wouldn't want anyone to be complacent about life. I'm not about to shame her memory by being a coward.
Aimee suffered from postpartum depression and psychosis. While postpartum depression is widely recognized (some studies show as many as one in eight women suffer some depression after childbirth), postpartum psychosis is much more frightening and seldom discussed. Postpartum Support International has a good overview of the condition at their website. You'll note it is a rare illness, affecting around 1/10th of 1% of new mothers.
It's a scary damn disease, too, and one which has too much stigma attached. Aimee never spoke of her bouts with psychosis by name--it was always her postpartum depression or postpartum trouble. It breaks my heart she couldn't call the monster by its real name.
And it is a monster.
I am a trained school counselor with a master's degree in counseling psychology. Aimee was a licensed clinical social worker. We both knew mental illness did not define a person. Aimee was not the psychosis, just as a cancer patient is not a tumor or one with a broken leg is not a broken bone. All the same, mental health issues carry such baggage--so many stereotypes. Aimee was the most vibrant person I've ever known when she was healthy. I still can't fathom what she saw in this small town Kansas boy when she agreed to marry me.
She first struggled about nine months after Owen's birth. It came on slowly with typical depressive symptoms, but slowly morphed into something more hideous. She spent a week in inpatient psychiatric care for the first time in June, 2004. With medication and rest, she recovered. Mostly. Such an experience leaves scars, even if you can't see them.
After Max was born, the psychosis came with a tiger's ferocity. I woke on August 1st, 2006 to a stranger in my bed. She spent her second stint in psychiatric care and navigated a shaky three months before being hospitalized again in November, 2006.
Her recovery was slow. The old Aimee--the most vibrant person I've ever known--never fully returned, at least not to those who were around her most. It breaks my already-shattered heart to write this, but I never stopped loving her. I never stopped caring for her. That is not how I operate--or ever could operate. When I took a vow--to honor and care for her in sickness and in health--in front of God and everyone, I meant it. I'm stubborn that way. I love that way.
Aimee always wanted another child. I was afraid.She never felt our family was complete.
She told me she was pregnant with Elliot last spring. I cried. A cannonball settled in my gut, a cannonball of ice and rusty nails. I steeled myself for the journey ahead. With her history of postpartum psychosis, chances were very great she'd have a relapse.
Nearly four months after Elliot's birth, she did.
Here's what I want you to understand: Aimee was not her illness just as my father, who died as a result of a malignant brain tumor and subsequent treatment, was not the cancer.
If I can help one person have the courage to seek help when they need it--I know Aimee would want that. I know she would.This post is the first step.It's the truth. If Aimee showed me anything, it was how to be brave. I'm not sure what the next step is--but I'm not going to be quiet about Aimee. I'm not going to dishonor her memory by being a coward.
May 8, 2012
So This is Anger
Evidently there is a bit of controversy as to whether grief comes in loose "stages" or not. News to me. I'm not really operating on anyone's schedule, as my own grief is my own, regardless of what this smart fellow might say (Dr. George Bonanno). Sure, you've studied thousands of people--and not one of them was me. (this, my friends, is a fundamental flaw in most of psychology--it can speak to trends or general behaviors, but not much to individuals) I know what I feel and how I'm working through my experience. I know I miss Aimee. I know that losing one's wife sucks at 37, and would most likely suck at any age.
Emotions are what they are. I can't help but cry--and, during the last two days, shout and howl at the universe. Yes, I've been angry lately. Is it a stage? I don't know, but it's real. I'm angry.
As in "HULK SMASH" angry. I feel it in my bones. My skin itches with it.
The thing about this anger, the really tough thing, is that it isn't directed at anyone or anything in particular. I'm just angry. Angry my life is what it is right now. Angry I don't get to hug Aimee again, or give her another back massage, or just laugh with her. Angry my kids don't have a mommy (in the physical sense). Angry people have to spend their sympathy on me (although I appreciate every good thought and all the help). I'm just angry.
Anger isn't fun. It's not my natural place. I don't want to be angry for long, and that's why I'm writing about it.
Stage? I don't know. I do know it won't last forever.
Nothing does.
Yes, Dr. Bonanno, I will rebound. I am resilient, as all healthy adults can be.
Right now though... right now I'm pissed off.
Emotions are what they are. I can't help but cry--and, during the last two days, shout and howl at the universe. Yes, I've been angry lately. Is it a stage? I don't know, but it's real. I'm angry.
As in "HULK SMASH" angry. I feel it in my bones. My skin itches with it.
The thing about this anger, the really tough thing, is that it isn't directed at anyone or anything in particular. I'm just angry. Angry my life is what it is right now. Angry I don't get to hug Aimee again, or give her another back massage, or just laugh with her. Angry my kids don't have a mommy (in the physical sense). Angry people have to spend their sympathy on me (although I appreciate every good thought and all the help). I'm just angry.
Anger isn't fun. It's not my natural place. I don't want to be angry for long, and that's why I'm writing about it.
Stage? I don't know. I do know it won't last forever.
Nothing does.
Yes, Dr. Bonanno, I will rebound. I am resilient, as all healthy adults can be.
Right now though... right now I'm pissed off.
May 3, 2012
A Brief History of Sunflowers
A couple of pictures from the vault today: the first Aimee and I took with sunflowers nearly thirteen years ago.
Aimee surrounded by the yellow blooms wearing her Sunflower Bike Shop t-shirt. How appropriate.
Yes, that's me, baby face and all, sniffing a sunflower. Look how non-grey my hair was back then. And no, sunflowers don't really have a lovely flower fragrance. To take the picture, Aimee asked me to climb a little mound and stand in the middle of the flowers. I paid for my compliance with tiny cuts and hives on my arms and legs. She framed my picture (the one above) and kept it on her nightstand until the day she died.
After that first adventure, we took family photos with sunflowers each year. Usually, we'd pose with random "dirt mound" flowers--the small ones from the pictures above which litter Kansas in late summer. A few times we found commercial fields of sunflowers, the big, fat-headed blooms harvested for seeds or floral arrangements. Sunflowers are stubborn plants, and the wild ones crop up anywhere they can find open soil.
Sunflowers held special meaning for us. I painted an arrangement of sunflowers for Aimee's wedding gift. When we honeymooned in Ireland and I started feeling a little homesick, Aimee found a flower shop in Cork and bought me a sunflower. The boys and I made her a triptych of flowers one year for Mothers' Day.
We'll take a family photo this fall, the boys and I in a cluster of yellow, and share memories of sunflowers past.
Aimee surrounded by the yellow blooms wearing her Sunflower Bike Shop t-shirt. How appropriate.
Yes, that's me, baby face and all, sniffing a sunflower. Look how non-grey my hair was back then. And no, sunflowers don't really have a lovely flower fragrance. To take the picture, Aimee asked me to climb a little mound and stand in the middle of the flowers. I paid for my compliance with tiny cuts and hives on my arms and legs. She framed my picture (the one above) and kept it on her nightstand until the day she died.
After that first adventure, we took family photos with sunflowers each year. Usually, we'd pose with random "dirt mound" flowers--the small ones from the pictures above which litter Kansas in late summer. A few times we found commercial fields of sunflowers, the big, fat-headed blooms harvested for seeds or floral arrangements. Sunflowers are stubborn plants, and the wild ones crop up anywhere they can find open soil.
Sunflowers held special meaning for us. I painted an arrangement of sunflowers for Aimee's wedding gift. When we honeymooned in Ireland and I started feeling a little homesick, Aimee found a flower shop in Cork and bought me a sunflower. The boys and I made her a triptych of flowers one year for Mothers' Day.
We'll take a family photo this fall, the boys and I in a cluster of yellow, and share memories of sunflowers past.
May 1, 2012
(Life) Revisions
The morning of Aimee's death, when the sheriff's deputies were asking questions as part of their investigation, I found myself making verbal revisions, shifting from present tense to past tense automatically. I'd say something like: "She wears--wore--these shoes all the time." My brain had begun the hard work of understanding the world without my sweet, sweet wife.
I stumbled through that awful day with too many verbal revisions. Aimee is gone. Aimee did those things in the past.
At night, after the boys are in bed and when I do most of my private grieving, I sometimes have little breakthroughs. Last week, when thinking about all the things she won't do anymore, I realized I don't have to say "I loved Aimee." This isn't a necessary revision--I still love her in the present tense, just as I still love my father even though he's been gone for nearly 23 years. If grief is the cost of loving, at least love doesn't have an expiration date.
Yesterday was Max's birthday. I struggled; I spilled over with tears and frustration and all sorts of awful heartache after the boys went to bed. I miss Aimee--again in the present tense--and love her dearly. The way I love her has changed, but not the love itself.
And that, even in the blackest moments, keeps me going right now.
...
Another revision I should mention:
The "buzz bomb" from my "Culture Clash" post was actually called an "Overlord". Thanks to Janae for setting the record straight.
It still was less than spectacular. (Sorry, Jason)
I stumbled through that awful day with too many verbal revisions. Aimee is gone. Aimee did those things in the past.
At night, after the boys are in bed and when I do most of my private grieving, I sometimes have little breakthroughs. Last week, when thinking about all the things she won't do anymore, I realized I don't have to say "I loved Aimee." This isn't a necessary revision--I still love her in the present tense, just as I still love my father even though he's been gone for nearly 23 years. If grief is the cost of loving, at least love doesn't have an expiration date.
Yesterday was Max's birthday. I struggled; I spilled over with tears and frustration and all sorts of awful heartache after the boys went to bed. I miss Aimee--again in the present tense--and love her dearly. The way I love her has changed, but not the love itself.
And that, even in the blackest moments, keeps me going right now.
...
Another revision I should mention:
The "buzz bomb" from my "Culture Clash" post was actually called an "Overlord". Thanks to Janae for setting the record straight.
It still was less than spectacular. (Sorry, Jason)
April 26, 2012
Stepping Through
How do you talk about death with your kids, especially if their mother--mommy--died?
I've wrestled with this quite a bit lately. The boys are doing okay, but I don't want to completely shelter them from their feelings. I don't want to hide my grieving, either, because they need to know it's okay to cry and be angry and sad and...
Aunt Heather loaned me a few books about death/children the other day, one of them being a parable about water bugs and dragonflies. You can find a copy on Amazon or simply read the parable for free online. It's a nice story, and one which I hope reflects how the universe really works. Of course, I have no idea how the universe really works. I wish I did.
Those of you who know me well know how much "existential questioning" I do. Now that Aimee is gone, those questions are heavier. They really pull at me, especially at night when I'm trying to go to sleep or wake up at four AM expecting to hear Elliot (and don't--that kid is a world-champ sleeper).
Last night, I thought of a story I'd written several years ago, "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable". It's still one of my favorite stories, originally published at A Fly in Amber and reprinted (in slightly different form) in Triangulation: End of the Rainbow --
I like the way it reads at A Fly in Amber... No explanation of what is beyond the doors. That's where I am right now: on one side of the door. Aimee has stepped through and I can't follow. Not yet. I've got more murals to paint before I join her... Too many to count.
And yes, that is a metaphor from the story.
I frame my world with metaphors.
When I wrote the "The World in Rubber..." I wasn't thinking about death. But it works. It fits perfectly how I feel right now.
I miss you, Ziggs.
(a woodcut of a dragonfly from UK artist Christine Howes)
I've wrestled with this quite a bit lately. The boys are doing okay, but I don't want to completely shelter them from their feelings. I don't want to hide my grieving, either, because they need to know it's okay to cry and be angry and sad and...
Aunt Heather loaned me a few books about death/children the other day, one of them being a parable about water bugs and dragonflies. You can find a copy on Amazon or simply read the parable for free online. It's a nice story, and one which I hope reflects how the universe really works. Of course, I have no idea how the universe really works. I wish I did.
Those of you who know me well know how much "existential questioning" I do. Now that Aimee is gone, those questions are heavier. They really pull at me, especially at night when I'm trying to go to sleep or wake up at four AM expecting to hear Elliot (and don't--that kid is a world-champ sleeper).
Last night, I thought of a story I'd written several years ago, "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable". It's still one of my favorite stories, originally published at A Fly in Amber and reprinted (in slightly different form) in Triangulation: End of the Rainbow --
I like the way it reads at A Fly in Amber... No explanation of what is beyond the doors. That's where I am right now: on one side of the door. Aimee has stepped through and I can't follow. Not yet. I've got more murals to paint before I join her... Too many to count.
And yes, that is a metaphor from the story.
I frame my world with metaphors.
When I wrote the "The World in Rubber..." I wasn't thinking about death. But it works. It fits perfectly how I feel right now.
I miss you, Ziggs.
(a woodcut of a dragonfly from UK artist Christine Howes)
April 25, 2012
This is Going to Leave a Mark
I wear several physical reminders of past wounds--most of them on my face. Spots under my nose and on my chin show where asphalt dug deep during a biking accident my freshman year in college. The same wreck left a jagged line in my right eyebrow. I can tongue the lump inside my left cheek where I had stitches in fourth grade (after a well-placed kick pressed soft cheek flesh into my teeth and the pool clouded red with mouth blood). There's a small divot under my chin where I landed chin-first after jumping from a mattress when I was four.
Even my collarbone is crooked, broken when I was born.
Aimee, while having several sinus surgeries in the time I knew her, carried most scars in silence--or defiance. She had near-constant back pain from an accident in college. She developed neuropathy in her right wrist while clicking away on a mouse as a counselor at Free State. None of these things slowed her down. Aimee was stubborn--defiant--and bold. She thought she could conquer anything.
She always climbed into the middle of mountain streams to sit on a rock during our many hikes. I always told her to be careful--worried she would slip and fall on the smooth, mossy rocks. She never did.
And I was the one with scars... Funny how life works.
I have new scars now, the kind which don't show on my face. Aimee left them, and I won't trade them for anything.
For the multimedia inclined, take this message to heart:
To conclude, in the immortal words of Captain Lance Murdoch (from The Simpsons)"
It's always good to see young people taking an interest in danger. Now a lot of people are going to be telling you you're crazy, and maybe they're right. But the fact of the matter is: Bones heal. Chicks dig scars. And the United States of America has the best doctor-to-daredevil ratio in the world! --
...upon hearing that Bart wants to do a dangerous stunt, ``Bart the Daredevil''
Even my collarbone is crooked, broken when I was born.
Aimee, while having several sinus surgeries in the time I knew her, carried most scars in silence--or defiance. She had near-constant back pain from an accident in college. She developed neuropathy in her right wrist while clicking away on a mouse as a counselor at Free State. None of these things slowed her down. Aimee was stubborn--defiant--and bold. She thought she could conquer anything.
She always climbed into the middle of mountain streams to sit on a rock during our many hikes. I always told her to be careful--worried she would slip and fall on the smooth, mossy rocks. She never did.
And I was the one with scars... Funny how life works.
I have new scars now, the kind which don't show on my face. Aimee left them, and I won't trade them for anything.
For the multimedia inclined, take this message to heart:
To conclude, in the immortal words of Captain Lance Murdoch (from The Simpsons)"
It's always good to see young people taking an interest in danger. Now a lot of people are going to be telling you you're crazy, and maybe they're right. But the fact of the matter is: Bones heal. Chicks dig scars. And the United States of America has the best doctor-to-daredevil ratio in the world! --
...upon hearing that Bart wants to do a dangerous stunt, ``Bart the Daredevil''
April 23, 2012
This... Sucks
Yesterday, I was doing okay until I staggered into a whole field of "grief landmines". More like I'd been dropped into the middle of the field with a ill-made map.
It all started with the rocking chair in Elliot's room. Made of solid wood by gnomes in upstate Vermont (or handcrafted in a factory... I forget which), it's a beautiful piece of furniture, one which Aimee and I agonized over for hours and several stops at furniture stores before Owen was born. We talked about sitting in it on the porch when we were old and grey... and eventually passing it on to our kids.
That's the part that stuck in my chest: "old and grey." Aimee and I had a lot of plans for being old and grey together--she made me promise to stroke her hair when she was an old lady.
I've been robbed of the chance to fulfill my promise.
And that sucks. Hard.
Friends and family keep asking me how I'm doing. Okay. Awful. Okay again. It comes and goes.
I'm scared.
Confused.
Lonely in a crowd.
And scared some more.
But I'm not ashamed of sharing. Aimee never was--I valued her honesty as much as any other piece of her, and I'm not about to dishonor her memory by clamming up.
Write hard?
Yes. And live hard, too.
It all started with the rocking chair in Elliot's room. Made of solid wood by gnomes in upstate Vermont (or handcrafted in a factory... I forget which), it's a beautiful piece of furniture, one which Aimee and I agonized over for hours and several stops at furniture stores before Owen was born. We talked about sitting in it on the porch when we were old and grey... and eventually passing it on to our kids.
That's the part that stuck in my chest: "old and grey." Aimee and I had a lot of plans for being old and grey together--she made me promise to stroke her hair when she was an old lady.
I've been robbed of the chance to fulfill my promise.
And that sucks. Hard.
Friends and family keep asking me how I'm doing. Okay. Awful. Okay again. It comes and goes.
I'm scared.
Confused.
Lonely in a crowd.
And scared some more.
But I'm not ashamed of sharing. Aimee never was--I valued her honesty as much as any other piece of her, and I'm not about to dishonor her memory by clamming up.
Write hard?
Yes. And live hard, too.
April 20, 2012
4/20, or "That Holiday"
If you don't know about 4/20, I'll steer you to a rather "weasel-word" free article at Wikipedia.
This is a quickie from my Aimee files:
Once, while working as a WRAP social worker at Free State High School, Aimee spoke with an intoxicated student in her office on April 20th. The kid's rationale for showing up to school drunk rather stoned (as one who would celebrate 4/20 might be expected to celebrate)?
"I was afraid I'd get in trouble for being high at school."
Right. Good thinking kid. Drunk was a much better choice.
She proceeded to vomit in the middle of Aimee's office.
We had some laughs about that one. Big, hearty laughs.
