Rox and Roll

On choosing to find the positive

Recently, I heard some bad news about my ongoing lung issues.  I'll be going through some more invasive testing in late March, and there's some possible surgical intervention in my near future.  This is a bit of a shock, as my next-to-last CT scan led my doc to think I might be headed out of the woods; the clearer picture in my CT scan last week told a 180-degree different story.

I'd go into detail about what's going on, but it's all still guesswork.  The good news is that the situation is still under investigation and believed to be identifiable, treatable, and perhaps even correctable.  With that in consideration, there is no bad news.  Things could be worse, and I won't fall prey to self-pity. 

What I am doing is using this struggle to reflect on a whole lot of things: foremost, the joy of living in a positive way.  There is so much wonder in the everyday, and it's all the more apparent when your everyday is challenged.  I pay so much more attention to the little things, like the beauty of the spring that has already sprung here in Palo Alto.  I also am a lot more careful not to take people's love for granted.  I'm most guilty of doing that with regard to my husband, who deserves a lot more credit than I give him for being a really good man.  I do appreciate him a great deal, but I don't show it enough, and the same goes for my kids, my parents, and a whole lot of other family and friends. 

But what's the best way to show that appreciation?  I'm no sap, so it's a little hard.  For some folks, I can just give a little more of my time, checking in a little more and making sure that I'm taking as much time to ask about their lives as they've been taking to follow up on my health news.  I know that when I feel listened to, I feel like I've received a gift; and I can return that gift in kind.  For others, after some significant introspection, I decided that I can do them a favor by letting go of a lot of things about which I've been bitter -- some of which have been for great reason, but stewing on them and discussing them on end serves no purpose.  The Guv has accused me many times of being too process-focused and not outcomes-oriented enough.  He's right.  What's my definition of victory?  Right now, it's simply living a joy-filled life surrounded by only positive energy.  That goal is inconsistent with a whole lot of negativity around me these days.  To spare feelings, I'm not going to list these things.  (File that one under: "I appreciate you, so I'm not going to call you out on my blog.")  I'm only going to write that I can't change other people's behaviors, so I'm changing my own.  Picture me, sitting on the beach at Half Moon Bay, waving "jazz hands" in the air and surrendering.  Letting go.  Telling you that if I've been wrong to you, I'm sorry.  Telling you that if you have treated me wrongly, maybe even many times, I forgive you.  I can't change you, and you can't change me; yet we can both be better people.  If you're among these folks surrounding me with "issues," know that you can't get under my skin right now; so, if you have a bone to pick, pick it elsewhere.  It's both unhealthy for me and unhealthy for you.  I've checked out of these little niggling battles.  I can only serve one master right now, and that has to be me, with a focus on healing my body.  It's funny how healing my head and my heart is coming about as part of that process.

I posted a Facebook status today quoting a Zen proverb: "Pain is inevitable.  Suffering is optional."  Yes, I'm experiencing some pain, but no, I'm not suffering.  I choose not to suffer.  I choose to fight my illness and nothing else.  I choose to be grateful. I choose to be happy. 

I choose to get well. 

A Missive from the Sick House

Mid-day today, I found myself standing in the middle of my living room, scratching my head, and asking out loud -- loudly -- what the hell has been happening around here the past couple of weeks?!

We've had a dose of bad karma 'round these parts that is pretty unbelievable.  It started with the Guv claiming that Dash was sick and my denying it ... and Dash spending a night booting up his guts.  Then the cough set in, and I heard some crackles, and then I started coughing... and wham, Dash is fighting pneumonia, has been out of school for over a week, and I'm still coughing.  I'm in denial about what the coughing means for my lungs -- which finally, last month, showed "normal" inflammation markers for the first time since June of last year.  Seven-plus months of pneumonia was enough, thank you; I'm not going back there.  I'll just sit right here on my nebulizer, pop some more antibiotic pills, and continue my cruise down De Nile. 

Petunia caught it for a day, apparently mistaking Groundhog Day for April Fool's Day, realizing that she had a mother who was sick enough to want her to stick around and play with her brother so that, when mom's bed called, mom could answer it... yeah.  She's back in school, having avoided "it."

But then, today, the dog's turn came.  The first clue was last evening, when she had an accident.  ("Accident" means "crapped on the floor," by the way.)  It's pretty rare that Lola has an accident these days; she's pretty good about barking at the door to ask to be let out.  We only take her out on leash, still, as there are too many places where she could escape; she can fit through the bars of a baby gate, and our fence is, at parts, less secure.  Last night, she didn't bark, she just went on the floor -- and it was a little bit ickier than usual, but I thought little of it.  Then midnight rolled around, and I heard scratching on the floor of her crate.  And a little bit of whimpering.  And since the Guv and Dash were sleeping right under that crate (in the basement), I figured I should investigate.  Whhooot, that smell!   It didn't look too bad, so I took her out to finish her business (no luck), then left her in the dog bed to sleep it off.

I woke up this morning to find what can only be described as a Shit Explosion with a side of Projectile Vomiting.  Thank God the dog is confined to one rug-free, leather-and-wood room.  That shit was everywhere.  It was impossible to take a step without strategic planning.  The kids stood at the gate, agog.  Then Dash ran away, and he probably threw up (he usually does when the dog has accidents in the house).  It was 7:35 a.m., Petunia had to leave for school in 15 minutes, and there was no way I'd even make it to her lunchbox in that time frame.  Somehow, though, it all came together, and then the reality hit: something had to make the dog sick.  Generally speaking, dog bowels just don't spontaneously combust without reason.  I figured I'd better call the vet.  It was her day off, so I left a message, contemplating whether or not to call her back-up clinic.  She rang back with a lot of questions about where she is allowed to roam free (nowhere), whether or not she could've ingested a huge chunk of Something Bad that could be obstructing her (unlikely), and where we walk her (around the yard and 'hood).  "Are you near your backyard?" she asked.  "Yes," I answered.  "Will your phone reach that far" she asked. "It's wireless, so I think so," I replied.  "Go to where the dog goes," she ordered.  I did.  "Now look around, like you're a dog," she ordered.  I thought my vet was probably trying to have a good laugh, but I got on all fours, then crouched even lower.  And I saw: mushrooms.  E.V.E.R.Y.W.H.E.R.E.  Normally, this wouldn't be a problem, but, normally, I'm not in my bed moaning because I can't breathe again.  Ergo, Petunia and, on one occasion, the Guv, have been taking Lola out for several days to do her business.  They have the attention span of gnats, those peas-in-a-pod, and they wouldn't notice if Lola was chewing off her own limb, let alone a Mushroom of Death.  Not that I'm blaming them -- I've gotten so used to her trying to mouth acorns in our yards that I wouldn't have thought anything of her chewing on something.  But she likely didn't eat "whatever" it was on my watch, which made me feel all the worse that I can't garden for crap.

The vet was holding... "Whoops," I told her.  "I'm not exactly a great gardener."  She told me to google "death cap mushroom," and, while it doesn't appear that we have those (though they do favor live oaks, under which our species of mushroom were growing), we had several other varieties, some of which looked like the pictures of "toxic" on the "why the hell are these mushrooms in your yard?" website.  She suggested I take Lola to a vet clinic in San Mateo (which might as well be San Francisco from where I live), as they have an on-site lab and can tell instantly if she's in liver failure, which is what comes of mushroom toxicity.  (Seriously; three dumbasses humans ate death cap mushrooms last autumn and killed themselves.)

So... the vet found an elevated liver enzyme, just not high enough to be super-alarming.  The options were: pay hundreds of dollars for her to get subcutaneous fluid and take her home with medication, watching her carefully and bringing her for a recheck tomorrow; or pay thousands of dollars for them to keep her there and, if she was going to die of liver failure, they'd make her comfortable but probably wouldn't be able to do anything to stop it.  So... we're home.  Waiting.  Watching.  So far, so good. 

Meanwhile, I called a "real" gardener who is coming tomorrow afternoon to spec things out.  I'm pretty much planning on concreting everything except for a small patch of fake grass.  At best, we'll rip out all of the native grasses under, in, and around which the mushrooms hide; at worst, we really will rip out the whole yard and replace it, not just for the dog but also because I really can't keep it up (and don't care to do so).  

I can't stop kicking myself about all of this, on a number of levels.  If I were just a little more pushy about Dash's hand-washing, maybe he wouldn't have gotten the bug that grew into pneumonia.  If he didn't get a bug that grew into pneumonia, and if I didn't need to sleep with him when he was sick, then maybe my own lungs would be as well as they were last week.  And if we were both well, then no one else would've taken the dog for a walk; I'd have been on it, and she wouldn't have eaten anything...

Aww, who am I kidding... the mushrooms would still be there, because I never would've thought twice about their presence (if I could even see them from my usual standing height).  Lesson learned, the hard way... though it's late at night, and little Lo seems to be doing fine.  My poor furry little baby.  Tomorrow, the gardening begins.

Things not to say to a sick person

On Monday, I returned to the pulmonologist for the latest in the ongoing saga of what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-my-lungs.  We met to discuss CT scan #3, the one that I hoped would show that I'm healed.  After weeks and weeks of antibiotics, breathing treatments, etc., I've felt pretty normal, except for some residual fatigue.  Fortunately, the CT scan showed that I have improved a great deal; a lot of the crap in my lungs has cleared out.  Yet there's still a lot of "debris" in there, especially in the left lobe, which is also still partly collapsed.  (Ta-da!  Fatigue.)  And the scan also showed an even clearer picture of a damaged bronchial tube -- likely permanent damage that will require surgical correction at some point.  What I didn't hear from my doc is what caused all of this.  Is it a chronic condition?  A physiologic abnormality?  A treatable illness requiring a surgical correction then I'm in the clear?  A disease?  After three more months of treatment, we'll do another scan and talk about "options."

Now, look, I'm an optimistic person.  Even if I were staring death in the face -- not that it's even remotely possible before I'm in my 90s based on my family history -- I'll believe I'm going to live until I'm gone.  I am certain that I have a long and happy life ahead of me.  But that said, I'm annoyed.  I'm out of patience.  I'm sick of being tired.  I'm sick of not knowing what "it" is.  I'm sick of not knowing my prognosis.  I'm sick of wondering how they'll do surgery and how long I'll be out of commission and when can I get my life back?  The one where I once hopped on my road bike and road the Foothill with Chris?  I'd like it yesterday please.  As the inimitable Alanis Morrisette sings, "I don't want to live on someday when my motto is last week."

But do you know what I'm sick of most of all?  Other people.  Not all of them -- just the rude ones.

Backing up, I am fortunate to have a lot of caring and supportive friends and a family who's a phone call away (and an airline flight cross-country, but they'd do it in a nanosecond if I needed it).  But when you broaden that circle, you get a lot of people who say things like:

"But you don't look sick." 

Usually that's offered in rebuttal after I've refused to sign onto the latest fundraiser/ charity drive/ raise-awareness-athon/ hopefest/ guiltfest/ mom-time-sink.  And what do I end up saying in retort?  "Thank you!  I'm so glad I don't look ill.  But I am, so leave me the eff alone."  (OK, I don't really say that last part, but I think it.)  I can't even keep on top of my current commitments -- many of which I shouldn't have made for a host of reasons, among which sickness is only part -- but I'm not taking on anything else.  I don't look sick?  I'm no proctologist, so take your a$#hole somewhere else.

And then there's my current favorite:

"At least it's not something worse."  (For "something worse," insert "incurable" or "cancer" or "COPD" or "my grandma's sister's aunt's cousin's horrible condition that prevents her from leaving her iron lung in the worst hospital ever in Mexico.") 

Usually, that one's offered by someone who really didn't want to talk with me about "it" anymore -- or wanted to tell me to quit whining already and get on with things.  The problem is that I'm not a whiner, have never been a malingerer, and, well, am actually sick. The other problem is that nothing -- nothing -- from that list has been ruled out definitively, except for the cultures tested for in my bronchoscopy and asthma.  There are a lot of things that are as bad as or worse than some forms of cancer.  My lungs are scarred/scarring, and that's pretty effing bad.  Life is not a card game in which cancer trumps all; and everybody knows somebody to whom something worse has happened.  Believe me, I know; I just supported a bike ride in memory of a friend who died from skin cancer.  He was 34 and left behind a two year-old daughter.  He suffered -- and his family suffered -- more than I have.  But I don't know my outlook yet, and, while I have every reason to believe it's good, it's not a competition.  I can cry for him and still be sad that I don't know what's wrong with me yet.  And I won't know for months.  And sometimes, it's going to show that the "not knowing" is hard on me.  So to those who say, "at least it's not [insert horrible thing]," I hope you're right.  If you're wrong, though, I should be allowed to get all Marsellus Wallace on you. 

For now, I'm thankful that I'm resilient, and I will let neither this sickness nor people -- who I presume to be well-meaning despite the interpretations above -- get the best of me.  I am not my sickness, and my sickness is not me.  I have a lot of good to do in this world, and, no, I won't look sick as I'm going out and doing it.  I'll put on my best face and do what I do; there is no other self-indulgent option... except for this blog, I guess.  So here I [end rant] -- and keep calm and carry on, as they say.

When you get knocked down 7 times, you need to stand up 8

The title of this post is from a Japanese proverb, and it resonates so much with me now that it's become my motto.  This sickness I have, this "whatever," it's not ending -- but if I have to get up 18 or 108 or 1008 times, I'll do it, because getting frustrated and giving up really aren't an option.  And if I keep telling myself that, maybe I won't get frustrated, and maybe I'll still have some hope that I can be fixed.  I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...

I haven't blogged much about this illness lately because there's simultaneously a whole lot to say -- and a whole lot of nothing.  I've had CT scans, a bronchoscopy, lots of X-rays, too much bloodwork and get near-daily calls from my pulmonologist with another idea.  Something is wrong, and it's not going away... something's growing in my lungs, something's making me unable to catch my breath.  Forget exercise; taking the dog to the backyard is my limit.  Target requires days of rest before and after.  Oddly, other than being unable to breathe, I appear totally healthy.  And man, is that causing me problems.  If one more person says to me "but you don't look sick!" -- well, that person will be missing her teeth.  And it is always the women who say it, too, taking cattiness to an all-new level.  I've come up with some good responses, like, "shhh, don't tell anyone, but I'm just trying to get out of my over-committed volunteer schedule" or "it's God punishing me for supporting No on 8" just to see the really annoying people made uncomfortable.  Of course, I'll never utter those snide responses, because I have this little thing called dignity that so many former Prom Queens seem to lack.

What was I saying?

Oh, sickness... yeah.  So, I'm getting help and opinions left and right from great doctors.  It's just that I can't be treated until they know what "it" is.  The next step in determining that may be some form of lung biopsy, which will be my first surgical procedure.  I had two babies come out the long way and have never been cut, and now I get the pleasure of meeting a thoracic surgeon.  In other words, this is God telling me that the puppy we adopted was a much better choice than the third baby I almost talked the Guv into last spring. 

I wish I could tell you that I'm taking all of this time sitting/lying down to be reflective, coming up with great life lessons to pass down just like Randy Pausch.  But the truth is, I just am not cut out that way -- I don't think "the end is near," and, even if I did, I would spend my time holding my kids, not trying to decipher the meaning of it all. I'm spending a little less time dreaming about going back to work and a little more time wishing it were bedtime already, but, other than that, I'm walking the dog, packing the lunches, teaching Dash to read, sometimes even attempting laundry.  The Guv is picking up a lot of my slack, never once complaining that he has less of a wife these days; and the kids have become more independent over these last few months, something good that came out of this something bad. 

So the great wisdom of this post is just that life is going on, day by day.  It sucks that I have to deal with this, and that my family has to deal with it, but this stuff unfortunately happens to everybody at some point or another.  I didn't expect it at 35, but that's okay; I'm in a great community, surrounded by loving friends, some of the best doctors in the world, and a whole lot of sunshine.  Life is good, and I'll be well, someday.

The coffeeshop wisenheimer

When the man at the Dirt Cowboy Cafe in Hanover looked at me askance, I didn't think much of it.  After all, I was wearing my brand new, bright red Wagamama t-shirt.  But when the man kept staring and clearing his throat, I finally met his gaze,

"You really should cover that up," he suggested in a whisper loud enough for the whole line to hear.

I looked around.  My fly was up, my belly was covered, and I didn't have any offensive tattoos today.  I patted my hair in case I'd suddenly gone part-bald and failed to notice.

And then he pointed at the crook of my left arm, the arm in which the hospital had put an 18-gauge IV in order to flood my system with dye for my CT scan last weekend.  My arm is bruised, and there are track marks from a couple of misses by a nervous nurse.  I stared at my arm, my face feeling hot, trying to fight the tears springing to my eyes. 

He kept staring at me.

It was my turn to order.

"I was in the hospital last weekend.  It's from an IV," I told him, loudly enough for the rest of the line, now staring at me, to hear -- like any of them had any right to know.

"Oh, well, that's good!" he replied, picking up his coffee and walking out of the door.

I could hardly speak to the barista.  She asked if I was alright. 

"Not really," I replied, "but I'll have a medium skim chai anyway."

There are so many things wrong with this picture, and one of them is that it never even crossed my mind that "people might think something" if I leave my arm uncovered.  I've never really cared about what other people think, though, and I certainly don't care right now.  I'm not supposed to have pneumonia bad enough that it causes me excrutiating pain if I sit too long or, God forbid, if I try to lie down.  I'm 35 years old.  I'm not supposed to have a blockage in one of my broncii and a partial collapse in the left lower lobe of my lung.  I'm not supposed to have a pulmonologist, who will likely order another CT scan on Friday to see if I'm improving or not. 

It's summer.  I'm supposed to be swimming with my kids and playing tennis with my husband.

I've decided to try to find the humor in all of this, because, if I don't keep laughing, I'll never stop crying.  I'm not the self-pitying type, and a lot of people have this illness without the benefit of youth or top-notch healthcare or my naive optimism.  I've been called a lot of things in my life, but I've never been called a junkie.  I guess I can cross that one off of my list now.  Next?

I'm still out here...

... just half-dead.

I did the one thing that a mother just cannot do: I got sick.  Not just a little sick -- a lot sick.  I-can't-get-out-of-bed sick.  The kind of sick where my husband altered some of his own plans because he knew that the situation was that dire.  And it was horrible.  I have no idea what "it" was.  Perhaps a flu, perhaps a virus, perhaps a stomach bug... but four days into it, I'm still sweating through the sheets at night, waking up with terrible headaches, and have zero appetite.

To that end, perhaps I should call this my swimsuit-season diet?

I remain repulsed at the sight of food, which must be making my husband chuckle since he declared me a bottomless pit a couple of weeks ago during our wine country weekend getaway.  The thought of tasting wine right now makes me sick.  Actually, the thought of tasting air right now makes me sick. 

So enough about that.  I feel like the worst mother ever, as it was the last week of school and I pretty much missed it.  My Petunia is now a fourth-grader.  High praise to her dad for showing up for the year-end picnic while Dash (who miraculously got less sick than me for once) and I watched movies in bed.  I am moderately better mostly because of that fourth-grade angel, who has distracted her brother magnificently while I've been laying in bed moaning. 

That brother, on the other hand, will not tolerate me being sick for one more minute.  He has screamed "MOMS DON'T GET SICK!" in my face about 2000 times.  He has ordered me to put my shoes on and take him to the park RIGHT NOW about as often.  Thank God it's the weekend, and daddy has them at the park... which makes me wonder why I'm not in bed.

Oh, that's right, there's laundry to fold.  I forgot: Moms don't get sick. 

Exposing kids to disease should be a crime!

More parenting videos on JuiceBoxJungle

I confess: I have a strong stand on vaccinations, and that is that vaccinations should be given on a schedule approved by a medical doctor to all children with as few exceptions made as possible.  I believe that these exceptions should be based on proven medical harm, such as severe allergy to a component (like the egg protein in a flu shot).  If parents decide to give kids shots on a delayed schedule, one-at-a-time, in order to monitor reactions, fine -- because at least they're innoculating their children.  The threat to my kids if they don't is too great, and I don't think that anyone should have the right to expose my children to disease.  I have argued until I'm blue in the face with various religious whack-jobs who feel that their God and fate should control whether or not their child -- or mine by association -- contracts and suffers from a disease.  These are the same parents who would let their child die before receiving medical treatment for a disease like diabetes.  I know some very educated people who are Christian Scientists, and I do not question their right to follow their faith -- but they should have NO right to kill their children through failure to treat them for disease that has no faith-based cure (like, all of them).  I submit that failing to vaccinate, should your child die from a preventable disease, is as criminal.  I believe in God and Christ, and I pray.  I pray extra when my kids are sick.  But I also took enough science classes to know that faith alone does not heal.  Some will say I'm blaspheming.  I call it Real Life.

Harsh?  Maybe.  I have one child who is as sturdy as an ox and another who has a compromised immune system for a myriad of reasons.  I rely on "herd immunity" to protect my child's health -- hoping that the few unvaccinated among us will simply never be around my kid.  When I recently heard someone at his nursery school talk of refusing vaccinations, it was all I could do not to plug my ears and sing "La La La" at the top of my lungs.  There's someone -- and probably more -- on his playground every day who hasn't been vaccinated.  That scares the shit out of me, for, as effective as vaccines are, they're not 100%.  And the more I dig on this issue, the more it appears that there may be a clustering of exemptions here in NoCal.  This means herd immunity may be compromised, which is unquestionably a bad thing for us all.  Doctors expect a measles outbreak to occur in this country because of parents refusing the MMR.  Is there a chance that such an outbreak will cause more harm than *might* be caused by the vaccine?  I hope we never know.

As for these chicken pox parties, puh-leez... Why not expose your child to driving without a seatbelt, secondhand smoke and swimming without a lifevest all at the same time?   CHICKEN POX IS A DANGEROUS DISEASE.  It can cause encephalitis, brain damage, even DEATH.  Why on earth would any good parent ever take the chance of their child getting this vaccine-preventable illness?  A family friend of ours who is a pediatrician watched her own child die from a chicken pox vaccine in her own arms, and even she will tell you that the chances of the vaccine being harmful are much less than the chances of chicken pox causing lasting damage to your kid.  God rest her child's soul, and thank God that she still believes in vaccination.

Look, I don't use words like "should" and "crime" and "religious whack-jobs" often, but I'm angry.  I'm angry that parents can go rogue with regard to vaccinations that protect my child as much as their own.  If my child is exposed to chicken pox and contracts it from a kid who attended one of these parties (because the parent didn't keep the child inside for a week afterward -- no one does!), then I will go after that parent to the fullest extent that the law allows. 

At the end of the day, yes, there are a blessed few people in this world who really cannot be vaccinated.  I'll pray for them not to contract a vaccine-preventable illness, as some hope is better than none.  But for all of the parents out there who think that they know more than doctors, scientists, public health officials, etc. -- you just plain don't.  And you don't have a right to risk harming my child.  I don't think you should have a right to risk harming yours, either.  Vaccinations save lives.  For the sake of the children, I hope that herd immunity protects these victims from their parents' ill-informed decisions.  I also hope that the laws tighten before the cluster of exemptions grows large enough to do some real harm.

Braces and spinach and stitches, oh my!

Petunia and Dash visited our new dentist today.  Petunia was shocked that she has a cavity in between two tightly-packed baby teeth; it is going to be filled on Friday, because it is in one of those teeth that you don't lose until you're 12.  It's a huge bummer; she is a great brusher and flosser according to the dentist, but this cavity is so wedged in there that it was virtually inevitable.

That aside, the even bigger shocker was that the dentist recommended consulting an orthodontist about the crowding in Petunia's mouth.  Apparently, the "new" thinking (new since my day, anyway) is that kids with crowding or other orthodontic issues should have braces for about 18 months at this age, and that dental work might preclude the need for braces later on -- or might at least shorten the duration in those teen years.  Here's how our conversation, post-dentist, went:

Petunia: Mama, what was that dentist girl saying about needing to see about orthodontia?

Mama: Well, she thinks that it might be advisable for you to have braces sooner rather than later because of the crowding in your lower teeth.

Petunia (sighing): The crowding that gave me this cavity that I now have to have filled?

Mama: Yes, I think so,

Petunia (super-serious): I do not want braces.  (dramatic pause)  Braces will look cheap on me.

Mama: What huh?

Petunia: Seriously, mama, they're not good.  They don't "go" [and she even inserted air quotes!] with me.

Mama (stiffling a laugh): Well, would you rather have them as a teenager?

Petunia: MAMA!  [hands on hips, walking stopped]  Do you know how serious I am?  I WOULD RATHER EAT SPINACH THAN HAVE BRACES.

Mama: Wow.  I mean, WOW.  We'll have to talk to Daddy about this problem, and, in the meanwhile,  we are scheduling a consultation.  (cutting off protest from Petunia)  Just to get information!

Petunia: Alright, but I'm just saying, it's not cool.

[Mama: OH MY G-D, SHE'S ONLY 8, I'M GOING TO NEED SOME SERIOUS MEDICATION TO GET THROUGH THE NEXT TEN YEARS....!!!!!]

*****

Meanwhile, Dash was mortified by the hygenist touching his sister's teeth with "some buzzing thing" in the dentist's office.  He didn't act up or anything; he just whispered to me that he wanted "that lady" to stop it.  I wasn't sure what to expect when it was his turn in the chair.

Imagine my surprise when he climbed into the chair by himself, looked me square in the eye, and said: "I'm a big man.  I can do this."  I confess that I almost cried.  He is almost 4 I guess... but something tells me that this steely resolve is quite atypical for his age.  I hope he keeps it, because I envy it; I am pretty strong, but not half as much as him!

*****

Flashback to a week ago, when Dash was sitting in the dermatology office with me as I had a mole, and some surrounding tissue, excised.  (My brother is a melanoma survivor; I don't screw around with funky moles.)  I looked over at him as the doctor was numbing my arm, and I wondered if perhaps it was a bad idea to get this done with him sitting right there.  His sweet little deep brown eyes met mine, with a gaze that was neither sad nor scared -- just steady.  It was like he was telling me, "It's alright, and I'm right here if you need me."  I have never had stitches before, and I'm sporting four right now.  I almost cried as I was getting stitched, as the sensation is rather unpleasant -- but instead, I looked at my boy, sitting there with his hands folded in his lap, and I drew strength from him.

You know, sometimes I think that I've spent almost nine years holding children; and other times, I realize that as much as I've held them, they've held me, too.

When I got up from the chair, stitches and all, I thanked my Dash for sitting so nicely while the doctor was working on my arm.  He said, "It's okay, Mama, you're all better now," and he took my hand, and we walked out of the door together.  He is a big man, indeed.

Just dropping in to say "hi"

A friend emailed me yesterday to ask if I was no longer blogging.  I emailed back and asked, "Guess again?"  She correctly surmised that the kids have been sick again.  This time, they've been taking turns, and the latest is a real doozie.  Dash is all alone across the room from me right now, stretched out across our leather sofa.  He has decided that the cool comfort of the leather far exceeds the comfort of my warm arms, and he has demanded to be left alone there all day.  When his fever hit its highest, he didn't even want me to look at him.  Luckily, that high number's been dropping all day, and I am off of my perch: prone on the rather hard floor beneath the couch, squished up against it so that he can't see an iota of my body, since the very existence of the mother who brought him into this world so that he can be feverish and vomiting apparently offends him today.  I was not allowed out of the room, but I had to be out of sight -- and after the kid had vomited a couple of dozen times, what was I to do?  I complied, passing him a "boot bucket" whenever that first wretch happened.  He didn't even want me to hold THAT for him!  When he demanded Gatorade, missing from our pantry, he agreed to a ride in the car, but complained the whole way: "Mama, you're carrying me too hard... Mama, I don't have shoes... Mama, I don't want shoes... Mama, the seatbelts are uncomfortable... Mama, the sun is too bright... Mama, this is the wrong store for Gatorade... Mama, I hate."  To which I replied, "You don't like what?"  And he answered, "I hate today."  Yeah, kid, I became a member of that club around 3 a.m.  You made it twelve whole hours longer than me.  Here's your medal.

So on the one hand, there's nothing worse than having a sick kid; but on the other hand, there's having a sick kid and last night's dinner dishes sitting in the sink because you're not allowed to move.  The Premier gave his blessing to my laptop, and, finally, to my sitting in the chair across from him, as long as I don't look at him, watch TV with him, touch him, type loudly or move without permission.  My knitting practice is disallowed, as the clicking bothers him. 

This is one of those "each day is better than the next" kind of weeks, isn't it?

No matter; I'm stocked up and ready.  I now have Gatorade aplenty and some emergency chocolate rations for myself for tomorrow, when I have to watch another sunny day pass by through the window.  Someone told me the rain's coming again, so I'm itching to take a walk.  Maybe Thursday?  I also stocked up on kids' videos from the library, because I believe that kids should have unlimited TV/movie access when sick and unmoving from the couch... and if I had to watch the same Bill Nye "The Moon" video one more time, I would've booked a flight to Seattle, tracked him down, and... yeah.  Did I mention that today sucks?

Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, a few thoughts are swirling.  What if Dash's ear tube fell out, and this is the first of another string of ear infections?  What if it's strep; his stomach hurts, isn't that a sign?  What if he's like this tomorrow, with a lower fever but still so irritable and lethargic?  Why the hell didn't I go to medical school???

And then there's that little devil on my right shoulder... actually, it's now taunting me from where I left it beneath the couch... saying "hey, since he doesn't want to be touched, maybe Dash will even want to SLEEP here, and you might get your first good night of sleep in four years!"   It's an evil thought, but I can't help wondering... what if?  There's room for the couch in his bedroom, even.  For of all of the sadness that lurks in our house today, there is one great thing happening: self-sufficiency.  If he can lie on his own, throw up on his own, comfort himself while sick...?  Maybe he is growing up, after all, and that is a rather happy thing.