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Pfizer Inc. Message Board

  • pebble.ubetcha pebble.ubetcha Dec 18, 2012 9:36 AM Flag

    a serious o/t suggestion

    go to your search box and type in the following:

    "I am Adam Lanza's mother".

    that will give you several links to one of the most thoughtful opinions i've seen on our problems such as newtown.

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    • I thought you said that you had a SERIOUS suggestion. This sure doesn't sound very serious to me; in fact it's downright larkish. What kind of a warped mind would think of typing in those words when his kook of a mother was herself a victim of the tragedy? She had to have been a kook because how many first-grade teachers own semi-automatic weapons?

      Sentiment: Buy

      • 1 Reply to fizrwinnr11
      • first of all STUPID, LYING, WELCHING, BIGOTED PINOCCHIO, it seems you have once more (GASP) "forgotten" your "promise" to never respond to me again until i posted proof that i had sold naked covered puts at your brokerage!!!!!!

        so once again, you've proven that GEPPETTO (me) pulls the strings of PINOCCHIO (you).

        as for your STUPID msg about my "serious o/t suggestion", it had to do with a story written by a mother (not lanza's) of another child with similar problems. since you're too STUPID to know how to search for a msg, i'll post it so you see #$%$ it was really about:

        Three days before 20-year-old Adam Lanza killed his mother, then opened fire on a classroom full of Connecticut kindergartners, my 13-year-old son Michael (name changed) missed his bus because he was wearing the wrong color pants.

        "I can wear these pants," he said, his tone increasingly belligerent, the black-hole pupils of his eyes swallowing the blue irises.

        "They are navy blue," I told him. "Your school's dress code says black or khaki pants only."

        "They told me I could wear these," he insisted. "You're a stupid #$%$. I can wear whatever pants I want to. This is America. I have rights!"

        "You can't wear whatever pants you want to," I said, my tone affable, reasonable. "And you definitely cannot call me a stupid #$%$. You're grounded from electronics for the rest of the day. Now get in the car, and I will take you to school."

        I live with a son who is mentally ill. I love my son. But he terrifies me.
        A few weeks ago, Michael pulled a knife and threatened to kill me and then himself after I asked him to return his overdue library books. His 7- and 9-year-old siblings knew the safety plan—they ran to the car and locked the doors before I even asked them to. I managed to get the knife from Michael, then methodically collected all the sharp objects in the house into a single Tupperware container that now travels with me. Through it all, he continued to scream insults at me and threaten to kill or hurt me.

        That conflict ended with three burly police officers and a paramedic wrestling my son onto a gurney for an expensive ambulance ride to the local emergency room. The mental hospital didn't have any beds that day, and Michael calmed down nicely in the ER, so they sent us home with a prescription for Zyprexa and a follow-up visit with a local pediatric psychiatrist.

        We still don't know what's wrong with Michael. Autism spectrum, ADHD, Oppositional Defiant or Intermittent Explosive Disorder have all been tossed around at various meetings with probation officers and social workers and counselors and teachers and school administrators. He's been on a slew of antipsychotic and mood-altering pharmaceuticals, a Russian novel of behavioral plans. Nothing seems to work.

        At the start of seventh grade, Michael was accepted to an accelerated program for highly gifted math and science students. His IQ is off the charts. When he's in a good mood, he will gladly bend your ear on subjects ranging from Greek mythology to the differences between Einsteinian and Newtonian physics to Doctor Who. He's in a good mood most of the time. But when he's not, watch out. And it's impossible to predict what will set him off.

        Several weeks into his new junior high school, Michael began exhibiting increasingly odd and threatening behaviors at school. We decided to transfer him to the district's most restrictive behavioral program, a contained school environment where children who can't function in normal classrooms can access their right to free public babysitting from 7:30 to 1:50 Monday through Friday until they turn 18.

        The morning of the pants incident, Michael continued to argue with me on the drive. He would occasionally apologize and seem remorseful. Right before we turned into his school parking lot, he said, "Look, Mom, I'm really sorry. Can I have video games back today?"

        "No way," I told him. "You cannot act the way you acted this morning and think you can get your electronic privileges back that quickly."

        His face turned cold, and his eyes were full of calculated rage. "Then I'm going to kill myself," he said. "I'm going to jump out of this car right now and kill myself."

        That was it. After the knife incident, I told him that if he ever said those words again, I would take him straight to the mental hospital, no ifs, ands, or buts. I did not respond, except to pull the car into the opposite lane, turning left instead of right.

        "Where are you taking me?" he said, suddenly worried. "Where are we going?"

        "You know where we are going," I replied.

        "No! You can't do that to me! You're sending me to hell! You're sending me straight to hell!"

        I pulled up in front of the hospital, frantically waving for one of the clinicians who happened to be standing outside. "Call the police," I said. "Hurry."

        Michael was in a full-blown fit by then, screaming and hitting. I hugged him close so he couldn't escape from the car. He bit me several times and repeatedly jabbed his elbows into my rib cage. I'm still stronger than he is, but I won't be for much longer.

        The police came quickly and carried my son screaming and kicking into the bowels of the hospital. I started to shake, and tears filled my eyes as I filled out the paperwork—"Were there any difficulties with… at what age did your child… were there any problems with.. has your child ever experienced.. does your child have…"

 
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