Tag Archives: Autism

With Prejudice

I’ve been keeping secrets.

Because I had to.

Because it involved a court case.

That involved my son.

I wrote an anguished post with gut-wrenching pathos at the time it happened.

And I’ve waited until the final hearing to share it.

You may question whether it is appropriate to publish such personal information.

I certainly have.

But, I have decided that if it is at all possible to help another child by sharing what we endured…

…to reach out to other autism families.

…to other police officers.

…to other neighbors.

Then, maybe next time, nothing bad will happen.

Or something better will happen.

Or nothing will happen at all.

And wouldn’t that be beautiful!


Cops
Who did this protect and serve?

June 9, 2018

Dear Officer:

We met today under the worst circumstances. You were just doing your job; I understand that. But I feel I need to explain why I behaved the way I did and, perhaps, you can understand a little bit how the exchange seemed from my side of the handcuffs.

I came to the door, half-clothed and disoriented by lack of sleep, to learn my son had escaped. For fourteen years, I have been responsible for keeping my child safe and I have failed. Again.

But this was different from other times.

The neighbors whose home he entered were sleeping. All they heard was an intruder.

And my son no longer looks like the little boy he is.

When you first approached me, you said something about my son not responding to requests. My reply was not polite.

“Of course he can’t respond. He is a non-verbal autistic!”

You walked away as if you needed space to process that.

So, when you came back and asked me, “Do you realize what might have happened?” I answered you honestly.

“Yes. Yes, I do. It is my greatest fear.”

I was not trying to argue that the situation wasn’t serious. I was just grateful nothing worse had happened. I was focused on making my son feel better, to calm him down right now so he wouldn’t injure himself.

And you wouldn’t let me see him.

You have protocols for interactions. None of the officers would let me approach the car where my son was handcuffed. But I could hear him wailing from where I was standing in my bare feet on a damp sidewalk. You have your emergency response and I have mine.

I have a mother’s need to care for and defend her child. It doesn’t matter that my ‘child’ is five feet eight inches tall and weighs 170 pounds. He is still a child who was crying because you had his blanket, crayons, and papers. Materials now taken away in evidence.

It is probably not expected for officers to feel empathy for the wrong-doer, or his mother. To care about both sides of an equation. Perhaps you were running on adrenaline?

Did you train your firearm on my special need child? He couldn’t follow a simple command like, “Put your hands in the air and get on your knees.”

This thought haunts me.

I later learn, from the reports, that you had to tackle my child to get the cuffs on him. That he resisted and clung to a door frame as he was pulled from the house. This explained the bruises and abrasions.

Trust me, I can picture what might have happened in painful clarity.

In the past, when my son has escaped and entered homes or the nearby church, people have recognized his special needs and things have been okay. Maybe that made me blind to a growing problem.

The fact that my son was wearing a pair of Christmassy pajama bottoms and a Victory Day t-shirt from the school’s special needs programming wasn’t enough to tell you how very special he is.

The training that kicks in and locks an officer into a rigid response doesn’t allow you to recognize my shock and relief at a nightmare that wasn’t fully realized. Perhaps that looked like an insult to you? It wasn’t meant to be.

You couldn’t know that I had been sick with Salmonella. That Friday night was the first night I got any real sleep in almost a week. So, when my son woke at five a.m. Saturday, I was disoriented and put him back to bed. That when he woke me at 6:10 a.m., I was more so. That I fell back asleep is my fault. I promise you, I’m wide awake now.

I am haunted by what might have happened. I am haunted by it every time he is out of sight. I am haunted by a future I cannot see or control but can only dread. Fear never leaves me.

I am grateful that he wasn’t taken into a police station and booked. Thank you for releasing my son into my custody. Even if, like Cinderella, you sent him home with only one shoe.

I had hoped that the neighbors would drop the charges against my son for entering their home and scaring them so badly. But their fear was greater than their understanding of autism or the limits of a system that is not built for children like mine.

I do not blame them. Or I try not to. I understand how it must have looked from their side of the road; I just wish they could see the situation from mine.

Just as I hope you can understand. And that you never learn how it feels to watch your baby in handcuffs, crying and just wanting to go home.

*


Like many unpleasant life lessons, this has been a learning experience.

The wheels of justice move glacially slow. 

We waited weeks for the notice that my son was being charge with first degree home invasion. Then we had to be assigned an attorney by the court. Then there were appearances and reports to submit. The sheer drag time of getting a competency review dulled the initial sharp stabs of terror to a steady, gnawing anxiety.  I cried a lot this summer and into the fall.

During that time, Child Protective Services became involved. I was very grateful for the unexpected kindness of the Children’s Services Specialist who eventually cleared me of charges of neglect.

There were some positives.

The county health organization expedited Alexei’s process for getting ABA assistance as well as Community Living Supports. We are finally getting the help we’ve needed. 

Also, I was able to take advantage of a program through Vivint Gives Back to get a reduced rate for a security system that will wake me up if any one of the doors or windows are opened.

And my son’s window now has security bars, because he can get into trouble even faster than an alarm system can wake me.  (I stopped jerking awake at the slightest noise after these were installed.)

My son’s psychiatrist agreed to let my son take stronger meds to help keep him asleep.

And this week, my son was declared legally incompetent.

The case was dismissed with prejudice. Which is a good thing. It means he can’t be held responsible for his crimes and the verdict is final.

And I can only hope that the next time a family like mine is struggling, that it doesn’t take a crisis to get assistance. And that maybe the neighbors will offer to help make our lives easier instead of harder.

As for me, I spent these months channeling my fears and anxiety into my garden. Every time I had a panic attack or thought about losing my son, I planted flowers. I think I there are over five hundred bulbs and perennials out there now.

So, when spring arrives, perhaps it will bring a promise of better things.

Tulips

 

 

 

 

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Booger 101 – A Letter to my Autistic Child’s Teacher

After sending my son’s teacher an email warning detailing his behaviors, I re-read it and realized I made my son sound like a monster. I am now taking bets to see if/when she resigns. I give her two weeks.

Here’s a snippet of what I sent—only slightly exaggerated. Enjoy


Continue reading Booger 101 – A Letter to my Autistic Child’s Teacher

The Return of the Puzzle Prince and Possibly the Magic Box

 

Part II of a fairytale nightmare follows the harrowing saga of promise and betrayal in the health insurance industry. If you missed last week’s episode, you might want to catch up here. For everyone else, join us now as our intrepid heroine embarks on a battle royal…searching for a deserving backside to stick something sharp and pointy into.

*

A widowed mother and her son enjoy a Wish Come True in the form of a very expensive magic box that talks. They scamper to the Free Bed of Mary for training.

The speech therapy Wizard warns them:

“This device is written in a new kind of language—it is not just pictographic but also location based. Terms are organized so that the mind will find them by remembering the pathways of communication.”

“Huhn?” Says the widowed mother.

“You have to learn how the box talks before you can use it. Start with simple words and repeat finding their location. Core words will never move.” The wizard points out the many wonderful features.

“What does this button do?” The widowed mother points to a square on the programming page.

The wizard looks for a long second at the screen.

“That one erases the system.” The wizard says at last.

“Why would anyone put a button like that on the board? Why?” The widowed mother cries, shaking her head.

“Let’s just lock the prince out of that part, shall we?” Says the wizard.

The widowed mother and her puzzle prince go home dragging the heavy magic box with them.

*

Slowly the words come. Many requests are heard:

“I want balloons…” The magic box demands.

“What’s the magic word?” The widowed mother prompts.

The puzzle prince deftly plunks on the keys and the magic box answers…

“Please.”

And so life continues, until the fateful, blustery day in March a drone from the Print-Me Promise magic box factory phones. Unfortunately, the widowed mother was steering the royal blue coach on a busy highway when the call came in.

The widowed mother fumbles for her phone:

“Hi, uh, I’m driving. Can I call you back in about ten?” She says.

“It’s the Print-Me Promise hive calling,” says a drone on the other end. “The WoodNorth Elves are denying your claim.”

SCREeeeeEECH!

*blue coach narrowly avoids merging traffic to take an exit*

The widowed mother uses some inappropriate language before saying,

“Hang on. I’m pulling off the road.”

The widowed mother scrambles to take notes on the back of an envelope while the drone, named *Jin,* rattles off information as if in a race to get to the end of a sentence.

“According to the WoodNorth elves, your son’s policy was retro-terminated November 30, 2016 back to February 29, 2016 and a new policy was made effective March 1, 2016 through December 31, 2016.”

Jin stops to take a breath and the widowed mother seizes her opportunity:

“I’m sorry, Retro-whatted?”

“Retro-terminated.” Replies the busily buzzing drone.

“What does that even mean?” The widowed mother scribbles indecipherable notes.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen that language before myself!” Admits Jin-the-long-suffering-drone.

“Sounds like an attempt to weasel out of paying for the speech device.” The widowed mother says.

Meanwhile, the puzzle prince, aggravated by the loss of his promised car ride, gets cranky.

“Kerride! Kerride! 3232!” Shouts the puzzle prince.*

Jin the Drone is undeterred.

“According to our records, we have a ‘single-case agreement’ and a ‘binding contract’ approving the speech device.” Jin asserts—no doubt with a decided chin nod. “I think they are stating that, at the time the requests for the device were made, a new group number was in place and the benefits had changed.”

“Kerride! Ball Ons! 3232.” The puzzle prince is getting louder by the second.

“Let me call you back.” Says the widowed mother. “I have to stop and buy a kingdom’s worth of bribes.”

*

20 balloons later…the widowed mother calls the hive back and learns that her son’s magic box may not be so string-free as believed.

Jin scrolls back in time to review notes—hunting for the elusive insurance snipe to explain what went wrong where and when. After several minutes she concludes:

“…We resubmitted the request for payment on March 21, 2016. The insurance company indicates that the plan your son is currently under requires that you meet the maximum out-of-pocket before pay-out. You owe $843.00.”

“Hang on.” The widowed mother interrupts. “We had met our deductible last year. The magic box should be covered 100%!”

Before the widowed mother can totally lose it, Jin the drone hurries on. “Let me see if I can talk to the head elf over at WoodNorth and call you back!” Jin rings off.

*crickets chirping interlude music*

As the story is flagging, a plot twist must be introduced. This seems a good time for the Puzzle Prince to fall ill with plague…so he does. The puzzle prince hits the floor with a thud and stops moving. Surprisingly, the widowed mother notices.

“Come on honey. Let’s get you to a med center.” Croons the widowed mother, nudging the mound of blankets with her toe.

The Fairy God-Doctor’s office does not have any openings, but they recommend another fairy practice in a neighboring village.

“The Wye Moaning office has openings at their branch!” Chirps the Fairy God-Doctor’s staff. “Will that be okay?”

“Yeah. That’ll do.” The widowed mother grabs her key and drags cajoles her collapsed child to the coach.

It is at the counter of the clinic that the widowed mother discovers that she has five difference insurance cards in her wallet. Apparently the insurance company had sent updated cards at some point!

“Well, well, well…” The widowed mother finally hears the retro-proactive shoe that dropped, somewhere in February, or May, or possibly November of 2016. “I guess they did change the plan…and never told me.”

“Ack. Hack. Cough.” The puzzle prince curls in a ball and mimes dying.

A Fairy God-Doctor in a long white robe is summoned. Samples are taken. A $30-dollar co-pay later and the results of the spit test are in.

“He has a virus.” Says the white-coated one.

“A mutant super-virus that has turned him into a sputum-spitting scourge?” Asks the widowed mother with a fearful glance at her green-faced child.

The Fairy God-Doctor restrains an eye roll.

“Give him Benadryl if he gets wheezy.”

The Fairy God-Doctor backs out hastily as the coughing prince attempts to leave a phlegmy gratuity on the doc’s shoes.

*

Several mucous-filled days pass. The puzzle prince recovers just enough to demand constant attention. Life is getting back to as close to normal as it ever does when the widowed mother decides she’d better attack the growing problem of the magic box head on! If she had known how vigorously she was going to be charging the beast, though, she surely would have peed first.**

Donning her battle armor and carrying only her cell phone and clipboard to defend her, the widowed mother tackles the WoodNorth elves first.

Confronting the Elf2

Dialing with digital precision, the widowed mother marches symbolically up to the red tape factory and pounds on the iron-studded door.

An elf appears carrying a particularly fat scroll. She doesn’t even look up from scratching notes to say ‘Hi.’ Instead, she busily scrawls a note and barks,

“Yeah? Whatcha need?”

So accustomed to angry callers, the elf doesn’t even flinch with the spittle starts to fly.

“My son’s magic box claim was denied even though we had authorization! The Printme Promise hive, who makes the speech device, says that, because his insurance policy was retro-terminated, I owe hard-earned gold for re-application in 2017 when the magic device was already authorized in 2016 when the out-of-pocket had been met.” Seethes the widowed mother.

The elf holds up a hand when the widowed mother pauses to take a breath. Spinning the scroll of paper and humming under her breath, the elf asks for the policy number.

“Ah ha. Yes. I see. Mmm Hmm.” The elf mutters.

The spinning of the scroll is hypnotic; its magic is intended to lull the unsuspecting attacker into a catatonic state. The widowed mother recognizes the magical tactic and cracks the seal on a diet cherry Coke to keep her wits about her. She’s mid-swallow when the elf stops the wheel of paper.

The elf pokes a spot on the page and a Gordian knot of red tape springs from the roll. Flapping segments slither out and form a corona of hissing serpents which coil around the elf’s perky green hat. The elf now looks like a red-headed Medusa on a particularly bad hair day.

“I can see the denial and the two account numbers you mentioned. The WoodNorth Elves Union 484 thank you for your patience as we untie the red tape binding your documents! But everything you’ve said does appear to be what happened.”

“Dishonor! Calumny! Malfeasance! And…and…uh…poppycock!” The widowed mother tries to hiss fire, but all she can manage is heavy breathing into her phone.

The widowed mother sums her outrage up in three words: “I demand justice!”

“Okay.” The elf is all agreeableness. Glancing up from the never-ending scroll, she asks, “Whatcha want me to do?”

“Um.” The widowed mother is nonplussed; she hadn’t expected cooperation. “Could you send me copies of the paperwork?”

“What’s your fax number?”

Tucking an errant snake of red tape behind her ear, the elf taps a few places along the scroll before looking up and saying. “Done!”

Reams of paper whiz out from behind the elf. Unspooling cataracts of incomprehensible insurance bibble babble disgorge in a surging mound in front of the bewildered, widowed mother.

The elf quickly backs away, dragging her scroll and the red-tape snakes toward the factory door.

“Uh, thanks for your…help?” The widowed mother shouts to the retreating figure now mostly hidden by the mountain of paperwork.

The elf offers a sly grin that seems to say “Be careful what you wish for!” before ducking into the factory and slamming the door.

Hanging up. The widowed mother is daunted but not discouraged by the task before her. With a sigh, she raises her pen and clipboard and wades in to tackle the massive amounts of data.

She slashes at facts that try to take a bite out of her ankles. Stomping down the irrelevant notes from the speech language wizard’s epic spellwork, she climbs until her arms are tired and she is cross-eyed from reading acronyms and codes in microscopic print.

“It would take an army to wade through this mess!” Sighs the widowed mother.

Hey.  There’s an idea! She thinks

“Not an army…but a hive!” The widowed mother crows triumphantly.

She dials the drones at Printme Promise. Cutting to the chase, the widowed mother makes the same request of the undersecretary to the Queen Bee.

“Paperwork?” The buzz from the other end of the line hums in interest. “Heck yeah. We’ve got paperwork.”

Shortly thereafter, a buzzing squadron of bees descend from a cloud dropping sheets of wasp-wing-thin, honey-gold paper. Before long, gossamer layers wrap the very top of the mound until a point forms. Alternately stabbing with her pen and carving away with her clipboard, the widowed mother makes it to the top of the pile.

Attack the Hive 1

The uppermost crust of the now-hive-shaped structure peels off in her hands. Neatly scratched into the sheaf is a line-by-line detail of what happened and when in easy-to-read annotation.

The widowed mother shouts up to the buzzing horde who constructed the data for her.

“Oh, thank you sooo much! This makes so much more sense! I could just kiss you!”

The bee closest to her stutters mid-wing and nearly drops out of the flight pattern.

“Uh, no thanks are necessary. Especially not that! We’re allergic to humans!”

With a dip of their wings, the drones return to the hive post-haste.

Fortified by data, the widowed mother is much rejuvenated. Now she will be able to confront the Blue Insurance Fairy!

But first…a royal privy break!

After a refreshing pit stop, the widowed mother tightens her armor and dials the enchanted castle. BIF picks up on the third ring.

“Hello, welcome to the Blue Insurance Fairy call center. How can we make your dreams…?”

“I want to speak to the fairy in charge of appeals and grievances.”

The widowed mother cuts off BIF mid-enchantment. Hah! The widowed mother thinks. That’s showing ‘em who’s boss!

“In order to fulfill your dreams we will have to review your dream policy and check your dream out-of-pocket and that requires a boring recitation of every dream call you’ve made in the history of your dream policy! Hold please while I bring up your account!”

“Nooooooooooooooooooooo!” The widowed mother cries, but she is too late.

She bangs her head on the nearest hard surface to the beat of the Muzak now belting in her ears.

♫“… When I’m drivin’ in my car, and the man come on the radio

He’s tellin’ me more and more about some useless information

Supposed to fire my imagination

I can’t get no, oh, no, no, no, hey, hey, hey

That’s what I say

I can’t get no satisfaction, I can’t get no satisfaction

‘Cause I try and I try and I try and I try

I can’t get no, I can’t get no”♬

After weeks of trying to understand what happened, calling and badgering to little avail, the widowed mother snaps.

“That does it!”

The widowed mother storms the Blue Insurance Fairy’s castle, shaking her cell phone at the gates, shouting,

“I am not getting off this phone until I get some satisfaction!”***

Suddenly, BIF appears along the crenellated battlement. She is now wearing the battle helm of a grievance fairy—it’s extra pointy. BIF faces the widowed mother who brandishes a clipboard shield in one hand and her pen poised to stab in the other.

BIF wings fiercely along the ramparts as she explains the mysteries of insurance. After a long conversation which repeats much of what the widowed mother already knew, BIF concludes by pointing at the base of the turret—there a green beast snores, its snout whistling, curls of smoke waft with every exhale.

“Blame the Market Place Dragon. They changed your policy.” BIF hisses in a stage whisper—as if she too is afraid of waking the sleeping giant.

“So the dragon changed my son’s policy and didn’t tell me. The application that went in under the wrong policy number somehow got approved…and the error isn’t discovered until March of this year?” It’s enough to make a widowed mother cry. “Is there anything I can do?”

“You could wake the dragon.” BIF says with a doubtful look at the enormous reptile. “Or you could wait until the second claim goes through and we can file an appeal after it is denied or approved and payment is requested.”

The widowed mother doesn’t think twice. She waves her cell phone at the fairy—a pink flag of surrender.

“Talk to you again in a few months.”

And so our adventure ends on an anti-climax. For now. Nothing is resolved. Nothing is certain. The magic box may be theirs free and clear–or like many fairytale promises–it may come with a hidden price to pay. All we know for sure is, there will be many more car rides before our heroes see an end to this tale. And balloons. Lots and lots of balloons

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:

*The puzzle prince is not allowed the magic box while in the coach. It weighs over three pounds and is framed by reinforced steel—the box, not the coach. It may be indestructible, but the widowed mother’s head isn’t.

**I’m about to boil down approximately nine hours of phone conversation into a semi-coherent and as-entertaining-as-possible-without-pharmaceutical-aids metaphorical journey. You might want to take a potty break too.

***She might have been singing that last bit.

The Puzzle Prince and the Magic Box

A Cautiously Optimistic Tale of Victory Over Health Insurance Bureaucracy…Maybe

*

Once upon a time, there was a widowed mother who lived with her boy in a small hovel near a grand village. Her son—a prince under a puzzling curse—could not speak.*

One day, his widowed mother decides to ask the Blue-Insurance Faerie if, maybe, just maybe, the puzzle prince qualifies for a magic box that will talk for him.

The Blue Insurance Faerie—we’ll call this entity ‘BIF’ for short—is all for it.

“Just have your Fairy God-Doctor write a referral.” Says BIF. (August 2016)

After contacting her son’s Fairy God-Doctor, a referral is written for a speech evaluation. (Sept 6, 2016)

You see, even though everyone in the kingdom agrees that her son cannot speak, someone with a magic decree in speech therapy has to write a scroll in the arcane tongue of long-dead medical professionals so BIF will be able to open a magical case.

The Fairy God-Doctor assures the widowed mother and her son, the puzzle prince, that all is in hand. But she warns them,

“This paper is only good for sixty days. Be sure to get the pumpkin back to the castle before the deadline at midnight!”

The widowed mother, who is trying to keep the puzzle prince from climbing the walls, absentmindedly nods her thanks.

A wizard is summoned from The Free Bed of Mary. (Mary is accommodating that way.)

The wizard examines the prince.

“Tell me the way to your home, my child!” The kindly wizard asks.

“Kerride! Baaaall On! Piper!” Says the puzzle prince.

“Where is the place of your living, my child?” Asks the Wizard, this time poking at a magic box to show some options for answers.

The prince types his reply into the box:

“Car Ride. Balloons. Paper.” Says the magic box.

“Well, at least he knows what he wants.” Says the wizard.

The referral is granted. The kingdom rejoices.

“But wait!” Says the Speech Wizard. “Now you must pass through the dangerous authorization process. There be dragons in them thar hills!”

Or, to be precise, there are elves and worker drones to negotiate with.

“These elves don’t make cookies! They make red tape!” The Speech Wizard warns. “And sometimes, they make trouble!”

“We’ll cross that troll bridge when we come to it.” Says the widowed mother.

Red Tape Elves (2)
I couldn’t stop laughing. Red tape has never been so funny! Artwork by Rob O’Neil

 

Once the Speech Wizard makes the recommendation, BIF leaps into action. And by this, I mean, the blue insurance fairy writes a spell to summon the third-party insurance providers who evaluate claims for durable medical equipment. These industrious elves live in a crooked tree which is hidden in the Wood in the far North.**

BIF asks the WoodNorth elves to authorize a magic box for the puzzle prince.

The WoodNorth elf is happy to help.

“I will send a fax spell to the magic box makers and beseech their aid!” The WoodNorth elf says.

The WoodNorth elf holds a scroll of ancient words up to a branch of the tree, waves a wand, and shouts:

*FACSILIMUS TOTALIS!* (September–something–2016)

Sadly, the makers of the talking box—we’ll call them “Print-Me Promise”—have a shield around their hive and the spell is repelled.

Weeks pass.

The WoodNorth elves are happily certain that the magic fax was received. So they leave the puzzle prince’s case to molder.

The Print-Me-Promise hive, which incorporates many worker drones to make equipment intended to survive being thrown by giants having a tantrum, has no clue a spell is expiring outside its fortress.

The prince is left to rot by the widowed mother who is trying to keep him from breaking into the neighboring castles or melting down their hovel by setting the microwave on fire.

Time passes. Nothing happens. The WoodNorth elves get curious…they use a magic nut to contact the Print-Me-Promise drones.

“So…what is the status on the fax we sent?” Asks the WoodNorth elf-in-charge.

“What fax?” The drones reply. “We didn’t get any fax. The fax queue shows nothing in our log.”

“Sigh,” says the WoodNorth Elf. “Let down your barriers and we’ll try again.”

“Buzz, buzz.” Says the drone…which the elf translates as, “Go ahead, make my day.”

Meanwhile. The magic paper that the Fairy God-Doctor wrote at the beginning of the tale dies a quiet death and no one notices.

“Ack. Argh. Gurgle.” Says the magic paper.

With me so far? Excellent, it’s about to get worse

Before long, the Print-Me-Promise drones read the magic paper, realize that the deadline has expired, and notify the widowed mother that they will request a resubmission from the Blue Fairy God-Doctor…or maybe the elves…the widowed isn’t sure. She is busy prying a screw driver away from the prince who has disassembled his desktop computer monitor—a sacrifice to the gods of curiosity.

Hive
“Buzz, Buzz, Buzz.” Not translated, but I’m sure you get the gist.  Artwork by Rob O’Neil

“Someone is to blame but it isn’t the Print-Me-Promise drones, that’s for sure.” Said the hive representative. “We’ll ask for another magic paper. Don’t you worry.” (October 5, 2016)

“Sigh.” Says the widowed mother.

“Kerride.” Mumble-shouts the prince.

“Zapp, Pow…Kersquitch!” Says the microwave, before dying dramatic death.

A second magic request is sent by the Blue Insurance Fairy to the drones at Print-Me Promise. (Apparently the elves are bypassed entirely this time.) (11-9-2016)

The snows begin to fall. Much revels overtake the kingdom. A turkey avoids the slaughter because everyone in the house prefers chicken for the Giving of Thanks.

The elves and the hive are quiet.

The widowed mother becomes nervous as the time of lights approaches. If the magic box isn’t approved before the year’s end…she may have to pay a price to the Blue Insurance Fairy—and the out-of-pocket deductible is $1,500 gold coins.

In alternate messages with the Elves and the Drones, the widowed mother is told:

“It’s the fault of the elves…they didn’t get the request to us before the first paper expired.”

“It’s the fault of the drones. We sent them a second referral.” Say the elves.

“Just fix it.” Yells the impatient, widowed mother.

“Bacon, Bacon, Bacon!” Yells the puzzle prince, who grows an inch-a-day when he eats the deliciously meaty ambrosia.

(Strangely, ‘bacon’ is one of the few words the puzzle prince enunciates perfectly. Go figure.)

As the tree-of-green is placed in their hovel and blue lights are strewn upon it, the industrious elves and the equally frantic worker drones are swishing magic pieces of paper back and forth trying to appease the deadline ogre in the Blue-Insurance Fairy’s dungeon.

Finally, the ogre living in BIF’s basement roars:

“Enough! Just give the blasted prince a box and leave me in peace!”

Just before the bells of the new year ring, a magic box is promised.

“Your wish has been granted.” Says the WoodNorth elf.

“We have a binding contract!” Say the drones. “A magic box is on its way.” (December 28, 2016.)

“We’ll call when the magic box comes in.” Says the wizard from the Free Bed of Mary.

Puzzle Prince and Blue Fairy
In reality, the prince looms over the widowed mother, but we had to keep him in frame, so he’s kneeling in this picture. Artwork by Rob O’Neil

As the snows melt to reveal a strangely dirt-encrusted January, in the grand village, the happy puzzle prince pushes a few buttons:

“Car ride. Car ride. Car ride.” Says the magic box.

“Sigh.” Says the widowed mother, who grabs her coat and keys.

Their blue coach backs out of the driveway and travels to many magical places each time the magic box asks nicely.

The prince and his widowed mother and the magic box live happily ever after….

Or do they?***

 

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:

*And, apparently, his mother can’t type. I spelled it ‘speek’ the first time.

**Names of agencies have been cleverly changed to protect against lawsuit.

***To Be Frustratingly Continued…