What I've Learned On My Summer Vacation

I really don't know what I was thinking.

See, a few months ago, when there were still the remnants of all that winter snow in the mall parking lot, the kids were in raptures over one of those crappy little 'fairs' that were set up by the chain toy store. You know the sort: a small Ferris wheel, some sort of half-assed mini roller coaster, probably a tilt-a-whirl, a few win-a-.99-cent-prize by spending $5 and seeing if you can toss a ring around a bottle and some cotton candy and popcorn concessions.

Their pleas of "pleasepleaseplease" were answered with a 1-2 punch of "No!" and "We'll see about going to the big State Fair in the summer."

A trip to the fair in summer, being months away and warm and bright, seemed like just the ticket. Visions of tents pitched on the grass, breezes amidst the trees, parades of well-groomed cows and the like, accompanied by all sorts of fair food. What's not to like? Sort of a grown-up version of our small county fair that we went to a few years ago.

Oh, Stupid-o mio.

Concrete. Miles and miles of concrete overlayed with a cacophony of screaming. Unbelievably overpriced, with tens of thousands (hundreds of thousands?) of people scuffing along in the opposite direction of where ever it was we were trying to get to.

And to top it all off, I inflicted the whole thing on poor pal, Teri, who I've not seen in 2 years. "We're going to the fair! We'll be near you! Do you want to meet up with us and do the fair? We can get to spend some time together while the kids enjoy themselves."

Alas for her and her girls, meet us they did. The cranky, over-heated family who didn't bring enough cash for both riding and eating, or really even just riding. (Who the hell doesn't take credit cards these days, I ask you? That's not just unamerican, it's anti-commercial. Don't they watch TV? Life stops for those who taketh not the bits of plastic.) After a few hours of dragging around, we called it a day and packed it in, leaving poor Teri a little cotton candy colored puddle in front of the cursed Ferris wheel. (We'd gone back on purpose, right before leaving, so Colin could ride it, as promised, but he decided that he'd really rather not ride it after all and just.wanted.to.go.home.) As a topper, Sara succumbed about 1/10th of the way back to the car (conservatively a generous 1/2 mile (1 km) away, swimming like salmon up a stream of lemmings) and so Charles and I lugged her back, between us, Colin dragging behind.

Had we only stopped and indulged the lil' darlings all those months ago with the crappy parking lot fairlet, we'd have saved us all a bunch of woe, not to mention a chunk of change. Live and learn, cupcakes. Live and learn. Trade not the small pain of today for the large woe of tomorrow.

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A couple of weeks ago, though, I got to meet another of us, Teresa, out from Seattle to visit the relatives. We met up at the very large farmer's market around the Madison capital square and I got to sit and laugh with Teresa and her sister and daughter while her brother-in-law entertained her niece and nephew. It was, as it invariably is, an all-out gab fest as two people who've never met in person and yet know scads about each other's lives finally get to sit down and sip coffee and nibble baked goods. It's never long enough, is it? And what is Teresa like? Just like she looks: You have to hug her as soon as you see her. She absolutely sparkles. It should come as no surprise to know she teaches kindergarten. I don't know if only lovely people teach kindergarten or if teaching kindergarten makes people lovely. (I strongly suspect the former. 5-year-olds are sweet but I think were it me in a classroom of them I'd be heavily medicated or lobotomized and Teresa is neither.) I forgot my camera but she brought hers and posted one of us if you care to scoot over and wave "Hi" to her.
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And while we're on the topic of catching up over the past few weeks, what happened to The Pool? Well, it was replaced with a more modest and demure inflatable one that was used with reckless abandon by kids and dog, alike. When it was about to qualify for protected status under the umbrella of the endangered species act as a habitat for several newly emerging life forms, I emptied it, scrubbed it out and left it to desiccate a bit in the sun before filling it anew. Then one of those freak violent summer storms blew up out of nowhere. It ended up down at the bottom of the pasture impaled on something large and sharp, leaving it with a ragged rent in the side, rendering it no longer either "inflatable" or a "pool". Luckily, the pools are still on sale at an even more reduced price. I did toy with putting 5-6 of them in the cart. I think I will live to rue the day that I did not. I was wondering why Jocelyn was disparaging inflat-a-pools in her comment. Now I know.



I'm just a-learning lessons left and right, aren't I?

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Speaking of learning, I did finally take that agricultural medicine test last week. Not that anyone was really wondering, but take it I did. It was well and truly taken. Now I just need to wait for the results and then figure what the hell I'm going to do with all that newly gotten knowledge about tractor safety and the lot. Assuming I pass, of course. If not, then I guess I'll not need to decide. Win-win.

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Interlude:

Here's the two fawns who seem to be growing and learning without their mum. They keep eyeing my vegetable garden but have decided that the tomatoes that have taken over most of the space aren't what they'd really rather eat. Aren't they pretty? I tried to post a larger, cropped picture but flickr wouldn't have any of it for some reason. Trust me. They're adorable and still have their spots.

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Firmly entrenched in the heading of "When Will I Ever Learn" is finding that I have somehow agreed to serve my Network and can be found on the roster of the Physician Practice Committee. Gads. For almost 8 years I had successfully avoided such things but found myself thinking, "Hmm. This could be interesting and a way to make some positive changes in the good ol' firm. And breakfast will be served."

All this must have taken place right before lunch when my defenses and blood sugar were at a double ebb for I found myself responding that I'd be delighted to take a seat at that table. I now find that I've somehow become one of 2 physician leaders of the Patient Access sub-committee of the original committee. That's 2 committees. What were they thinking? What was I thinking? I'm the one who sits in the back and nods in agreement from time to time while eyeing the danishes and wondering if I can somehow snag another one while looking like I'm just stretching, sort of a variation on that old first-date-in-the-movie-theater move where his yawn ends with an arm around your shoulders. Now I'm to be at the head of the table at the horrible hour of 7 am, expected to contribute many things of worth AND I've not heard a word about food at these sub-committee meetings. I fear a large tumor has taken over the logic and reasoning bits of my frontal lobe. Here's hoping it rapidly eats away the rest of my higher functions and personality so I won't suffer too long. As an added bonus, we're to round up several other physicians to serve along with us. Ever try lining up docs to do such things? Forget herding cats. It's like herding birds. Birds who never return your calls. Can't say I blame them.

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And while we're on the subject, is there anyone else who would be horrified to find that the gown you were handed by the nurse for your daughter to change into at her kindergarten check-up/meet-her-new-doctor-now-that-your-insurance-has-changed appointment had 8 McDonald's characters spread across the front in various medical garb, all grinning horrifically?

I felt like putting posters of "Supersize Me" up all over the exam room. Good grief.

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So, that's my hiatus in brief. Well, not really brief, actually.

I'll leave you (and you, Teresa as I promised you one, and you, Jocelyn, as you appreciate the inappropriate conversationalist that is the manic gardener, and you, Teri, as you are a true friend as you're still speaking to me despite the horror that was the state fair) with the following of my lovely tree lily. It topped out at over 6 ft (2 m) high and smelled of sweet, sweet summer. Don't look too closely as each cup was full of gorged and stupefied earwigs. The good with the bad, as is life.

Hope the rest of you are well and you avoid state fairs and committee meetings.

(Oh, and if you happen to not look where you are vigorously weeding along your raised garden bed, and put your hand --gloved, thank god, but inadequately so-- in a hornet's nest, this will lead to a most painful stinging, causing a stream of fuckingshitfuckingshitsonofabitchFUC!KING!SHIT! to issue from your mouth as a reflex, and your small children will learn how to correctly pronounce, enunciate and vocally inflect those most taboo of words. They'll be the pride of the school playground in a few weeks.)

Follow-Up

So, Diana, what's going on out there in the land of brats and cheese, corn and cows? You've had a thing or two going on and have provided no feedback. What gives?


Well, thanks for asking! (Aren't you the kind ones to do so?)


Let's see...


Thanksgiving was nice and quiet and all the food turned out, so that was pretty perfect. Sadly, we were to a man Jack of us (Woman Jill? Kid Joe?) coughing and hacking (the bouquet of the phlegm blended so nicely with the gravy), so Lilian decided that an upper respiratory infection just wouldn't go well with her sternotomy scar and stayed away from all the festive nose-blowing. As her skilled nursing benefits were up (and as she was up and around), she and her few belongings shuffled across the small parking lot and back into her own apartment under the watchful eye of her neighbor, on Saturday.


Yes! Lilian has re-entered the building! She was to have come to us after leaving the nursing home, but, again, the coughing and sniffling and liberal usage of tissues made this not the place to be. She still plans on returning to us in the near future, though, so that's where we are on that front. So, cheers!


After our usual 2 false-alarm forecasts, we had our first snow on Thanksgiving, which was pretty and went away after a few days. Molly-dog and the kids were ecstatic. I was cooking. So, cheers!


After 7 months, my favorite road re-opened, "New! and Improved!". Before all the grading and paving and levelling and all, it had been this thrilling roller coaster that, if you theoretically (ahem) exceeded the speed limit, you could get the pit of your stomach to drop several times along it's length as you crested hills and plummeted down the other side. Yeah, sure, it was somewhere north of hazardous during a winter storm, but who the hell drives a roller coaster during a blizzard? That's when you take the interstate that's flatter and frequented by lots of snow plows. Now, while not flat, the high hills and big drops are gone, which is sad. I'm assuming it's still pretty (one of my favorite places on Earth is along this road: a bucolic pasture where cows graze and calves gambol and a stream wanders through it) but as it's dark when I drive in and dark when I drive back, It's going to be a while before I see more than the newly installed guard rails with their high-visibility reflectors. The whole thing has the feeling of a top-secret military landing strip. (Remember, this is waaaay out in the country where we don't believe in such wussy things as street lights. The moon and the stars were good enough for our fore bearers, so that should be good enough for us. If you're stupid enough to be out on a moonless, starless night, well, you just deserve what you got coming. Plus, most of the dark months are accompanied by a nice, reflective blanket of snow, which should be more than enough for the team of horses pulling your sleigh to see by, right Half Pint?)


Still and all, it's good to have the county road back, face lift and all. Trims a good five minutes off our commute each way. So, cheers!


For some reason, I'm just not in the holiday spirit right now. I've dragged out a few decorations (and by "few" I mean "3"). Santa has ordered a few things online but hasn't the slightest interest in trotting off on Rudolph to an actual store. This is very odd as I'm usually a Christmas fool. Good thing we've got a few more days this year. I'm thinking I'm going to need them.


As of yesterday, I think we've finished Lousefest '07. The last dousings of Rid were done. The final combings of the locks were clear. The microscope was returned from the counter of our bathroom to it's rightful place, the microscope-shaped space in the dust on my son's desk. Well, it's mostly done. The toys and such in the plastic bags in the garage still have a week to go, but think of how happy we'll be to see them. Sort of like a mini Christmas at the start of December! Maybe that's my problem. I'm missing my wood-handled, soft-bristled hairbrush. The nasty-assed cheap-o hard plastic brush that I found at the back of Charles's drawer is so cruel to my delicate scalp. The kids are well-versed on the evils of coming into contact with any spare hats or hairs of anyone else on the planet. They now don't even flinch when I leap out at them from various closets and doorways shouting, "True or false! We never, never, upon pain of death, even if it's 180 degrees below and we've forgotten our own hats put someone else's hat on our head?!?" More importantly, they get the answer to the question right with 100% accuracy.


I'm also positively giddy at the thought of not dealing with 2-3 times the amount of laundry in the course of a week and am looking forward to not having to make my kids' beds more than once a month. (Hey. They're little. They don't stink. Much.) So, cheers!


Sara's first kid birthday party went well. It was apparently the first birthday party for several of the little girls in her class and quite the social event of the season. The pinata was an especially brilliant touch, as it took up lots of time in first, getting everyone in their coats and shoes, then trotting them out and around the back of the house, where we'd hung the damn thing from the balcony (it was a large, pink crown. I'm regretting it wasn't a huge Dora The Explorer head or something equally despised) and then giving each kid multiple whacks with first, a soft bat, and then a hard plastic bat and finally, a hefty stick, until one girl had enough and took it to pieces. Go her! Then more time was spent with all the gathering of the candy and putting it in their bags and then going inside and shedding coats and shoes and all. Basically, with the pizza before and the cake and presents after, that was the whole damn party! Double cheers!!


Colin's birthday is in a few weeks and none of us, including the birthday boy, himself, can decide on a party idea. In a few years, he'll be old enough to do the planning himself. I'm secretly hoping he'll go my route of least bother and just have a family party from 5th grade on. And if he doesn't decide on that, I'm thinking a well-placed bribe may swing things in my lethargic favor.


I just don't do parties well. Guess that's one more thing for their future therapy sessions.


Speaking of which, that may be an idea for Christmas: Therapy gift certificates as stocking stuffers. That and journals in which to write down all my parental failings, birthday parties and all. I get why children's party planners are in business. I can see the appeal of just pulling out a check book (or applying for a bank loan) each year to give Junior a lovely birthday without ripping parts of your soul out to do it. I'm even dreaming of googling the location of the nearest Chuck E. Cheese, which goes to show the depths of my desperation. I won't actually do it, mind, as that'd take effort, but I'm dreaming of it.


And the furry ones? How are they now that they've turned 2? Very much the same. Mad-Kitty still has the propensity of getting herself shut in drawers and not meowing for release (meaning we still get to literally comb the house at 10 pm after we've gone to bed and realize that not only is she not in her usual place, curled up next to me, but we've not seen her for hours). Molly-dog still loves everyone and pees at any bit of praise or censure. A few days ago, Charles was dismayed to find her at the study window watching the UPS guy deliver a package. She was not barking (like any respectable German Shepherd). She was not even just watching. She was wagging her tail so hard that her body was moving back and forth, her ears flat to her head, whining in excitement that here, at last, was someone new! Someone she might possibly get to go out to greet and pee all over the shoes of, just to, you know, demonstrate her adoration and all. And, by the way, if here were interested, show where we keep my grandmother's silver and the stereo equipment. Clearly we need another dog if home security is a concern. We'd wanted a Shepherd who was submissive and non-agressive, but this is ridiculous.


And, finally, there've been no further zombie squirrel sightings on the UW campus, and I never did get that caramel latte, with or without the ricotta.


So that's the state of my Union. Yours?

4th Hurdle: Taken with Feet to Spare

Never, but never, bet against an elderly Latvian former WWII refugee.

Oh, yeah.

Halloween day, they transferred her from her bed in the hospital, where they'd taken pity on her (as aided by the lowish cardiac ward census) and not assigned her a new roommate in 48 hours, to the local nursing home that is part of the old fart's complex that also houses her apartment. Prior to her discharge, she was doing a bit better again, with some return of her sparkage.

The evening of her transfer, we all trooped into the nursing home, bearing a box of diabetic ice cream bars, as requested, and two suitcases of "clothes to exercise in" that I'd culled from her closet. The kids in their costumes (a knight with a sword almost as tall as he was and a forest fairy, complete with wand and wings) and the adults in their coats, thinking of how very good that beer awaiting them back home will taste. After much tracking and backtracking (the signs in the nursing home are apparently there to confuse rather than clarify), we finally found her sitting up in bed, cheeks rosy, eyes bright, telling the nurse her life's story. She looked like she did about 10 years ago and I don't think she drew breath for 10 minutes as she rattled on non-stop, relating her day's activities. If I didn't know better, I'd think she'd been dipping into the gin.

I want what she's having.

Well, without all the cutting open of one's chest cavity, of course.

She had a roommate, who was pronounced "very nice", and she's thrilled to be there where she knows so many people. I think she's going to choose to get better. The next day they were going to move her to a private room and start twice daily physical therapy. I know we're not home free, but she's only a week post-op and looking better than she has in ages. She's getting her drive-me-crazy personality back and she's in her element. She even knew her nurse, who goes to her friend's church. Everyone knows everyone in this small town.

Somehow, I think even the meatloaf will be palatable.

Thank you all, again, for all your patience and good wishes and just for being there. There really is nothing like a strong, supportive group of friends. You have helped me more than you will ever know.

And now back to our regularly scheduled blog. There's been too much seriousness, lately, carnivorous squirrels notwithstanding.

3rd Hurdle: Knocked Down

Well, finally! The first shoe dropped.

When we went in to visit yesterday, we found her looking like she'd been through the wars, and as she was a WWII teen aged refugee from Latvia, that is saying something.

She apparently developed atrial fibrillation in the night, resulting in her third night of no sleep and an amiodarone drip (a yucky drug with a slew of short and long term potential side effects but the best option for short term treatment of this heart arrhythmia). It's a common occurrence and usually doesn't result in any long term complications, so I'm not fussed, but to her it is just one more thing.

She also had another evacuation of the roommate. This one apparently was quite ill and had so much going on that they moved her to a private room so as not to disturb Lilian. (Now, of course, we are all thinking, "Um. How about if Lilian gets moved to the private room and be done with it?" but that would be crazy talk.) So, for those keeping track, she's had 4 roommates since she was rolled out of the ICU, only one of which was discharged (she with the bed-ramming husband). Last night, Charles and I were taking bets on the fate of her 5th roommate. I am betting it'll be a good old fashioned 'Discharge to God', which will be discovered a bit past midnight and result in the creepy bustle if activity that accompanies a hospital death, including the scrubbing down of the room by surly housekeeping staff, because who the hell wants to be mopping a floor at 3am?

This will, of course result in her 4th night of no-sleep. No wonder she looks and feels like she's been trampled by vast herds of bison.

So, for those keeping tabs:

• Post op day # 3
• 4th roommate removed in 48 hours
• First post op complication (a. fib)
• 3rd night without sleep
• Spark gone. Last night she didn't even have the oomph to feed herself.

But, on the plus side, no meatloaf. Judgement restored.

They had been talking about sending her home with us on Monday (heh, yes, day after tomorrow), but I can't see how she'll manage that. We're pulling for a short stay in a nursing facility for some intensive rehab so she can come back home with us.

I'll keep you further posted on these General Hospital Days Of Our Lives, because what else have I to write about? At least Charles and I are getting lots of that car time together with our trips back and forth twice a day...

2nd Hurdle: Crossed. (grudgingly)

For those still hanging in there with us, nothing bad has still not happened yet, unless you count the pinch-sized bruises on our arms that we keep giving each other to check our state of reality.

Yesterday, they rousted her out of bed for not one, but two 'walks' down the hall. I used the word "walk" as it is what you call human ambulation, but I suspect "totter under duress and possibly gunpoint" would be a better term. As one who is not used to illness, Lilian is like most of us and does not enjoy what having one's body fail entails.

In short, she does not enjoy ill health.

She has had her share of horrors the first 24 hours after leaving the ICU, including the really, REALLY cranky old man in a motorized scooter who repeatedly kept banging into her bed right after they moved her to the regular cardiac ward, despite our saying, "HEY! Please watch what you're doing." He was apparently married to her roommate, who was loud, but soon discharged. As he scooted past us, he glared his gloweriest at us, apparently for not allowing him to continue to ram the bed of a woman 16 hours post bypass surgery, bloody chest tube and multiple IV drips, not to mention various other catheters emerging from her bruised person.

May he have a long, miserable stay in the level of hell populated with all the others of his kind. They can all be horrifically rude to each other and at least deserve their glowers.

Then they gave her a new roommate, a 96-year-old lady, who, according to Lilian, "looked 96 years old," (her way of disparaging someone). She apparently was moved after a solid hour of screaming, yelling and hollering about this and that. I don't know if she was intentionally doing this or just really confused (imagine that in a scary hospital), but given her prior roommate, maybe Lilian is just unlucky in attracting the only horrible people in Wisconsin. (State motto: We're really cold but really nice.)

Then the meatloaf was horrible. (As a confirmed hater of meatloaf, I found this hardly surprising.)

Then they started having her get up and around by sitting in a chair and by the previously mentioned totters down the hall. She also spent time with the social worker and the physical therapist. No rest for the weary.

So that's where we are in all this. She looks beaten but she's got a glint in her eye that she didn't have in the days leading up to all this. She seems to be mentating better than she has for the past several weeks. She has the strength to resent what's happening to her and more power to her. No one should have to endure hospital meatloaf, even if of one's own choosing.

1st Hurdle: Cleared

Damn! but I hope I'm made of such tough stuff when I'm 82.

Lilian came through her surgery beautifully, well, if being on a ventilator with tubes coming out of one's trachea, chest, bladder, and internal jugular vein is considered beautiful, that is. The lovely surgeon was able to bypass everything with only 3 vessels rather than the 4-5 he anticipated, which resulted in about an hour or more less time on the bypass machine and only 2 long scars on her extremities where the vessels were harvested from: One on her arm and one on her leg.

What bothered her most prior to going into surgery?

Having to remove the bobby pins from her hair. She had thought that as she would be wearing one of those surgical shower cap thingies she would be able to keep her hair up. "No, no, no," said the nurse and out they came, much to her chagrin. I think she may have tried to keep a few in place but the nurse made her comb her fingers through her hair twice to make sure they were all out. They are in a urine specimen cup (unused) awaiting her recovery.

When we saw her late yesterday afternoon, she was able to rise to consciousness enough to nod to questions, such as "Do you have pain?" ("Yes" and then "No", as the lovely morphine took effect.), and she wiggled all 4 extremities. From this, I can say that she had no catastrophic neurological event, and that's definitely something.

The next few days will show us what sort of path the return journey will take, but for now we are just extremely grateful that she has done so well.

As always, thank you for all the wonderful goodness you sent. (And, Cagey, your care package was waiting on the table when we straggled home all limp and wrung out from the day. The Choxies went far to revive our spirits. Sadly, Sara is now a junkie, as are the rest of us. She had to be told in no uncertain terms that they were not acceptable breakfast food. At least not acceptable for small-handed ones. I then had to turn away so she wouldn't catch a whiff of the hypocrite on my breath. Ahem. The stickers will entertain them later today, while I try to get some things done, so I bless you twice for your wonderfulness.)

Over and out.

Better

I can't tell you all how much your comments and support have meant.

Things have settled down a bit over the past few days. Thursday, Lilian and I spent 5 hours (including travel time) waiting for this and that related to her impending surgery, mostly at the cardiothoracic surgeon's office. It is fortunate that I'm not lacking in butt cushion as the chairs, as per health care regulations, were. Sitting in the overcrowded waiting room it struck me how waiting in a patient waiting room is just like waiting at the airport for your flight. Well, except for the lack of multiple food courts to pass the time. The endless sitting with full knowledge that the time you have been given for a departure from the waiting area is only a vague estimate, usually greatly delayed. Unless you choose to try to dash to the bathroom, and then your number is called.

Also, we found out how little the HIPAA privacy act does to actually protect the patient from the whole world knowing what is going on in your private life. For instance, as we sat in the holding cell, listening to one of those daytime court TV shows that I tried unsuccessfully to cancel out with my book (Teri Gross's All I Did Was Ask -- very good for such situations where you want to read but need to be able to close the book at a moment's notice), our presence was being noted by the driver of the monthly shuttle from Lilian's retirement apartments. He was there shuttling a passel of little old ladies to their own physician appointments. So all her doings were known all over the apartment complex within a matter of a couple of hours.

Now, of course, this wasn't really news to them as she receives multiple calls each day from the tell-a-friend network, but there you have it. Should you need to keep your visit to your physician truly private, best to wear a full gorilla costume in the waiting room. Otherwise, you are guaranteed to be spotted by the least discrete someone you know who knows all your nearest and dearest.

Don't say I never warned you.

So. We've now got a date for her surgery (4-5 vessel CABG, AKA: Coronary Artery Bypass Surgery): Wednesday morning at 0:dark-hundred. And then we can finally know what we are facing for the long haul. I quite liked her surgeon, a very neat, snappy dresser with a nice, patient bedside manner. (A CT surgeon SHOULD dress like he stepped out of a GQ Magazine advertisement. We all know what one makes a year and dressing otherwise is false modesty. Plus, how can you trust one who looks anything but fully pressed? Good God. He spends much of his days with both hands in people's chest cavities. Would you trust this to a slob?) He politely listened to her discourse on her recent trip to Latvia, despite being about an hour late, explained what she should expect from her recovery in thorough but not overwhelming terms and left her feeling that she was in good, competent hands. As did I. He was just what a CT surgeon should be. Her cardiologist also impressed me as did all of the nursing staff we encountered, the surgeon's own nurse even taking us the short cut through the back halls and back elevator to save us half the distance to the lab. Absolute angel.

Dad has graciously agreed to be here with us to watch the kids and berate the naughty dog (who ran into the street while she was supposed to be having a nice run around the property with him) and watch over Lilian upon her recovery when Charles and I are working. This means that the search for daycare can be put off for now. If Lilian pulls a miracle, we may not need to arrange it, if not, at least that's almost 3 months that Sara will have to adjust to all this, which can only be for the better.

My sanity is much restored, thanks to the above and Marvelous Charles, who has been a rock in all this, and all of you, the best friends in the computer anyone could ever have.

Wish us all well come Wednesday morning. We'll need every bit of it.

What's Going On

OK. It's time to talk of many things: Of shoes and ships and sealing wax and cabbages and kings and why Diana is in such a distracted state and whether pigs have wings....

It's been a hell of a less-than-two-months, my dearest darlings. Some of you know some of this. Some of you know most of this but not all of it, as the last bit we just found out, so there's something for everyone. I needed time to see how things would sort out and get my head around all the life changing ramifications of What's Going On. Oh, and just to continue my cryptic, woman-of-mystery patina, some of the WGO will be just alluded to as this is not the place for it and it is not my tale to tell. Basically, this is all about me and how it affects me and all other self-centered bits and bobs.

Why did I take so long to clue you in? Because this little personal refuge of a blog is where I come for a break from what irritates and annoys, a place for the funny and bizarre that I encounter. It's rarely the place for the cold harsh face of reality.

That's not to say that I've not discussed things that made my heart rend, like this and this and let's not forget this. But mostly I like to keep this a sunny, cheery, cynical place where you can come in and put your feet on the furniture and have a glass of wine or a cookie (or both).

Sometimes, though, my need to make things all shiny and happy is outstripped by the need for some good-old-fashioned support from my friends and this is one of those times. Plus, sometimes you just need to get everything out and look at it outside of your head.

So, here goes:

About a week after we'd all finally crawled from our respective germ-coated couches and decided that we just might inflict ourselves on the world again, we headed off to run our Saturday morning errands, coming home at lunchtime to a slew of frantic messages on the machine. To sum up, my mother-in-law, Lilian, had fallen the day before and had severe back pain. Charles headed off to take her to the emergency room. The upshot was that she'd had a heart attack the day before, which caused the dizziness which led to the fall and the pain in the back that finally had her calling for help. It wasn't the first fall. It wasn't even the 41st fall, apparently, but she's one who loves to blame every thing on her medication and refused to tell her doctor about all these falls. (sheesh.)

So she's been living with us full-time while she slowly recovers from the fall and the fall-out of the fall. We've added walkers and bath benches and hand-held showers and many, many pills and appointments to our days. Home health nurses and physical therapists make visits. I can now give an enema and empty commodes with the best of them. Or at least on par with a first-year nursing student. Word to the wise: never underestimate the bowels in the grand scheme of things. Never.

In the course of events, the three of us traipsed up to Madison last Thursday so she could undergo a coronary angiogram with the hope that she'd be a candidate for coronary artery stenting and all would be well.

(Excuse me while I laugh at the beautiful naivete': Hah! HAHAHAHAHA!)

The bottom line is that every major vessel that supplies blood to her heart (left main, RCA, LAD, circumflex and diagonal) all have stenoses (blockages) of 95-99%. If it weren't so horrible it'd be miraculous. She's sustained minimal damage to her heart but the blood supply to the whole damn thing is hanging by the diameter of a hair. And everything is markedly calcified. Not just the coronary vessels but the aorta.

So. Multi-vessel bypass surgery it is. But wait, grasshopper. There's more. Remember the calcified vessels? The ones with the thick inner ceramic coating? Bypass surgery involves bypassing the blood supply to and from the heart so the body can keep on living while you halt the beating heart for a while so you can sew in all these new vessels to bypass the narrowed vessels. (Seems the term "bypass" is apt, yes?) To do this, you must clamp the aorta (main blood vessel that carries oxygenated blood from the heart) before it branches off to the rest of the body, like, oh, the BRAIN. The clamping will crush some of the calcium and make bits break off and go floating thither and yon.

Get the picture?

These bits will lodge in distal vessels and halt blood flow. Some of these bits are enough to kill significant tissue. Stroke is a huge risk. This is on top of the memory problems that often result from just being on bypass.

Right now, aside from the blood supply hanging by a literal hair, she's in great shape. Her brain works as well as it did when I met her 25 years ago. Probably the same as it did when she, herself, was 25. She's in absolutely no pain (aside from her still sore back). But if we do nothing, she's got 100% chance of dying in the not too distant future, either quickly from a massive heart attack or more slowly and miserably by congestive heart failure.

So between a dead cert and a small chance, she's taking the small chance of more good quality life. She's not ready to die, yet.

That's enough about non-me.

How does this affect me? You mean aside from losing the mother of my husband? The "Gram" of my children? Someone who's always been there for us (sometimes more than I'd like, but that's just me being poopy)? Well, to start with, she's been the one to care for Colin and Sara when we are at work. If a miracle happens and she sustains absolutely no devastating neurological or physical complications, the soonest I'd guess she'd be able to be there as primary non-parental caregiver, getting the kids on the bus and shepherding them after school, would be early January. That means that I've got to get them into daycare. I'm not worried about Colin. He'll adjust with minimal grief.

Sara is another story. She'll adjust but it'll be rough for her. She's very much a mommy's girl and in my absence, she's a gramma's girl. She trusts few strangers. She's shy. It's been hard for her adjusting to 4-year-old kindergarten. (It's been good for her, but it's been hard. She comes home in exhausted tears more than half the days. She needs morning class but we didn't win that lottery.) Add in daycare and she's going to have a very rough few months. It's breaking my heart. Had this just happened one year later, she'd be a year older and in full-day 5-year-old kindergarten. Going to daycare for an hour before school and a couple of hours after school wouldn't be that huge a deal.

Daycare will also mean that I have to have a change in my work hours. There's no other way. In some things Charles and I can share the childcare, but as a school principal, he can't adjust his hours. My work will balk but I don't think in the end they will refuse because they need me as much as I need them. Thank goodness, as (all together now) I love my work. It'd devastate me to have to leave it and find something else. I live almost an hour from work and most daycares will let you drop off your child by 7 am but pick-up must be by 6 pm (or earlier). The nature of my work is that I can't guarantee that I will be able to walk out the door by 5, so I'll need to be off by 4. (For instance, the last patient of the day with a complaint of "cough" will invariably turn out to need STAT blood work, an ECG, a chest x-ray, etc. Can't do that in 15 minutes.)

This means that my Wednesday afternoons that are devoted to things like working in the family planning clinic at the Health Department will have to go by the wayside. I should still be able to function as STD clinic director as it doesn't involve clinic hours, just chart review, which I can squeeze in, but I hate to give up the STD clinic, so we'll see what can be worked out on that front.

Charles and I won't be able to drive in to work together anymore, which is sad. That's good time we get just to ourselves to talk and listen to NPR and just be alone together. We'll survive and it wasn't likely that we'd be able to do it next year as it's time for Charles to be making the next career move, but we weren't looking for it to happen now.

And as long as I'm being selfish, those non-Health Department Wednesday afternoons off have been so handy for things like dentist appointments and haircuts and work-out time.

What else is Going On? Well, we've been blessed by visits just after all this happened, initially from my mom and step-dad and, following their departure, my dad (the Ole RFer) has come for a couple of months. His arrival was beyond a blessing, but the reason for it was heart-breaking. That tale is not for here but it has wrought it's own long-term devastation and life on that front will never be the same on many levels.

So that's why I've been in a first-class worry. Life has been horribly eventful but not funny. Even the day spent in the hospital last Thursday was without much in the way of funny.

So, life goes on. It is what it is and we must roll with things as best as we can, but it's all been a bit much all on top of each other. It's as though everything got thrown in a tumbler and shaken around and thrown back out with nothing facing the way it was.

I'm blessed with having a strong marriage and my kids are strong and healthy, but we're in for some boulders over the next few months. Thanks for letting me spew and pretty-please don't take it personally if I'm not regularly around. It's just that sometimes coming up with a post or even turning on the computer seem like more than I can take. Uncertainty is not something I do well with. After the surgery, we'll know more what to plan for but for now, I'm just trying to have as many safety nets in place as possible and cause my kids as little sudden upheaval as possible.

I'm Not Dead, Despite Rumors To The Contrary

Actually, I'm nearly all well. As are the kids. It's marvelous.

Sadly, we've had a bit more of the ill-health wind, this time involving my poor mother-in-law, who lives with us 1/2 the week and makes sure our kids have vegetables with their meals when I'm not there.

(Actually, as I'm not there, the presence of vegetables may be sheer fallacy, as she tends to be the indulgent sort with the grandchildren, but I prefer to hold firm to my vision of plates laden with vegetables and nary a candy bar or Cheeto in sight. And lots of time spent reading and working on various mentally stimulating and emotionally satisfying activities while listening to the collected works of Mozart or Billie Holiday.)

While not sharing confidences that are not mine to share, I can say that she's now home with us from several days in the hospital and doing better. Charles and I have split time off work to be with the kids and thankfully my mom and step-dad's visit starts tomorrow, so we will have some breathing room. We are hoping that my mother-in-law recuperates nicely and will be able to continue to marshall the small-handed ones, as it is so much nicer than day-care and she really enjoys it, but we will do what we have to. Time will tell.

It's been a stressful several days on top of the plague-ridden several weeks, so I've had little time for you-all, my dearest darlings. (Plus work has been a whirl-wind of meetings scheduled during my pre-work blogging time, not to mention all the patients, bless their phlegmy little souls, who are coming in droves.)

So that's what's been happening. I've also spent time shaking my fist at the filthy house and the hoard of flies, both house and fruit, who have invaded my house despite my best efforts with vacuum and plastic baggie traps. (Last count: 47 houseflies have met their maker in the bowels of the trusty vacuum and well over 200 fruit flies have either been dispatched via vacuum or trap.) For once, I'm not going to be sad to see the first nights of hard frost.

Please don't count this as a real post, just a whiny explanation as to why I'm seeming to ignore you, yet again. I suck, but we all knew that.

I'll be back soon, hopefully with something amusing to writing about and I'll continue to slowly make the rounds while cramming a hasty meal in my mouth. Love you all.

Act II

Of course, you knew how this was going to play out. Our heroine finally gets on some drugs that start her finally on the road to recovery and the blush of health, when her adored offspring decide to do their rather impressive impression of viral surround-sound.

To get the full effect, it works best to recline one child on the love seat, the other on the couch; positioning yourself between them, lounging in the Big Chair.

To the tune of Strauss's The Blue Danube:

"Cough, cough, cough, cough, cough!"
"Hack, hack. Hack, hack."
"Cough, cough, cough, cough,COUGH!"
"Hoik, hoik. HOIK. HOIK!"
"Cough, cough, cough, cough, cooooooough, snort, snort, snort!"
"Wheeze, sneeze, wheeze. Wheeze wheeze. Sneeze, sneeze!"
(Snort, snort.)

If you are me, and find yourself crammed in the Big Chair between the two plagued ones, though, you will get to experience the extra sensory bonuses of surround-tactile-enhancement. This is sort of like those seats that are set up to vibrate with the movie for more realistic involvement with the theater experience.

But instead of merely shaking the seat with the coughing, you have the bilateral waves of heat giving you the impression of being in the Sahara. Add in the multi directional showers of phlegm and snot, and it will make you feel that maybe it's not the dry dessert of the Sahara so much as the hot, humid Amazon rain forest, and that maybe the horrible sounds are the mating calls of the very rare Giant Speckled Tree Toad.

Put the film, "Amazon" on the TV and you are in for a multi-sensory experience that people would pay good money for.

(In case you were wondering if I was harboring any guilt over giving my kids my illness, I will rush to deny that I did any such thing as the incubation period would have been 2 +1/2 weeks (too long for it to be my fault, thank goodness) and that their crud seems quite different from mine. So. Not My Fault and I think it'd stand up in court.)

Sadly, tomorrow is "School Picture Day", which they are almost certain to miss. This means that it all comes down to "Picture Retake Day" to get it right for the picture frames of the extended family. (School pictures are one of the staples to be sent as one of the Christmas/Hanukkah presents as well as being tucked into holiday greeting cards to our nearest and dearest.) One doesn't care to waste School Picture Day, especially if one's youngest can't seem to get the idea that for a nice picture one needs to both smile and open her eyes. She either looks like she wants to take your head off or she's doing her rather brilliant Stevie Wonder impression, sans dark glasses: eyes shut, dreamy smile, head tilted back and to the side.

So, as you can see, I was rather counting on the option of the picture retake.

And finally, send your very best hopes that poor Charles knows when to breathe and when to run from the room covering his mouth and nose, as I think his days of good health are numbered and the one thing certain to make his already crazy-busy life as grad-student and middle-school principal (not to mention father, husband and chief dog-tire-er-out-er) is to get good and sick.

Now is not the time, bugs. You hear???

Remiss

Yesterday marked a large day in my little universe and yet I let it slide past without immortalizing it in the form of a post.

Sara started school yesterday.

I now have entered into that stage of parenting where I can legally toss my progeny to a state sanctioned institution for 5 hours a day (including bus transit time).

I now have time alone in my house.

Let me repeat that last sentence: I. Now. Have. Time. Alone. In. My. House.

For those of you without small children, you may not fully grasp the hallowed nature of those words.

For almost 9 years, I have had at least one small person with me constantly, unless I'm at work, going to work, or coming home from work. They have been with me in the bathroom. In the closet. Even in the cupboard under the sink where I once tried to grab 5 minutes of 'alone time', wedged between a box of steel wool pads and a petrified banana peel that had escaped the garbage. In one way, it's delightful. I adore my kids and think the sun rises out of their heads in the morning and sets in their behinds at night.

I am also someone who craves time alone.

And now I have it.

For the last year or so, I have met the thought of handing off my youngest child to school with a slight lump in my throat, truth be told. I had quite a time doing so with Colin. He was so small getting on the big, yellow bus all alone. I do miss the small-handed ones when they are away from me and I thought that when the day came to hand Sara off to school, I'd have at least a few tears prickling my eyes, possibly even stooping to openly sobbing.

Nope. I loaded her in the car yesterday, drove us down to school, trotted her down to her class, passed her off to the fabulous Mrs B (who was Colin's beloved kindergarten teacher), kissed her soundly on the cheek and headed for the door. The car keys dancing in my fist.

Free.

Alone.

Or at least I would have been alone, had the repair guy not been waiting at home, trying to fix the satellite and dismantling Charles's rather complicated theater system for much of the afternoon. ("So. What channel does the TV have to be on to get the satellite?" "The one it was already set to." "Oh. I changed some things around." "Well. You're on your own, buddy. Here's Charles's work number. I don't touch that shit.")

But today, there are no repair guys scheduled. There are no errands I am running (sadly, I'm still sickly. Actually getting more sickly. But I'm getting more antibiotics; bigger, better antibiotics, so things WILL be looking up in the future. At some point. Yes?) and I have plans to wear the fabric of the sofa cushions bare with my lounging ALONE for 5 hours, this afternoon. If someone rings the doorbell, they'd better be delivering a large box of chocolates, otherwise I shall cough purulent goo all over them and wither them with my glare of contempt.

And Sara? How is she doing with being abandoned by me? Heh. By 8:00 this morning, she was asking for her lunch, (she'd had her breakfast an hour before) as she knows she gets to get on the bus to go to school after lunch.

I think she's ready for this as well.

Fun With Fevers

(whispered voice) Hullo all.


(cough, hack, hoiiiik)


Yes, I didn't miss me either.


Actually, I'm fairly positive that those doughty astronauts up on the International Space Station who were testing some sort of infrared telescope had to repair the optics when they mistakenly aimed it at Southern Wisconsin, thinking that it'd be a nice, coolish spot, what with the heat wave having broken and all, only to find a searing spot, roughly human-formed, spelling rude words with her limbs in a fever haze. After the third day of fevers of 103-104, you have to start to use your inner muse to entertain yourself as you really haven't the energy to lift that 2 oz paperback, let alone keep your eyes open to read it.

But! On day...oh, what the hell was it.....what the hell is today, come to ask...anyway, Inferno Day Something-or-other, Marvelous Charles had his way and I started to swallow the damned antibiotics, and, lo and behold, 24 hours later, my fever started to throw all its dirty wash (and it had lots of sick-sweat-soaked stuff, you can be sure) into its bag and started to back out the door with hurried apologies that it had an urgent matter of business that must be attended to. And 12 hours later, nothing remained but the pastiness. Charles claims that this rapid response means that he was right and it was not 'just a virus' after all. I grumbled something about not being able to rule out coincidence and who the hell went to med school, anyway, and please pass the water and my next pill, thank you.


I am also left with the total absence of my voice. And the cough. Oh yes, and the rather unpleasantly pulled back and shoulder from the damn cough. But. Gone are the fevers and I can hug and kiss the children, again, after 5 days.


I can't yell at them, but I can kiss them and that I'll take.


I also find that approximately 3 pounds of me got mistakenly crammed in with Fever's dirty wash, so, there's that for the good! Now all I have to do to lose that last 10 lbs is to continue to eat 400 calories a day and raise my basal metabolic rate to that of a small neutron star and I'll fit into my skinnier jeans.


Yeah. Right.


The kids have been most marvelous. Charles had full parenting responsibilities over the weekend, but sadly had to return to work on Monday, it being first day of school and all and one CAN NOT EVER miss the first week of school if one is an educator. If one has a massive heart attack, it is expected that one will propel oneself through the halls to one's blackboard or office in one's hospital bed and work. After all, you just had 3 months off. You should have planned it better.


The last couple of days have been survival mode. Colin has had the responsibility of making breakfast and lunch for himself and his sister. They have had nothing but peanut butter and honey sandwiches, waffles, cold cereal, milk and carrots with ranch dressing, but they are seeming not to mind it. Hell, for all I know, they are eating nothing but ice-cream and ice-cream and just smearing peanut butter on the counters, but what I don't know won't hurt me. Charles makes them a healthy dinner, so I think we're not likely to see advanced scurvy and I've sent them outdoors each day it's not been storming, so they won't get the rickets. Pellagra is possible but I think they had some meat a few times at dinner, so we should be OK there, too. The trip to the dentist, tomorrow, will sort the rest out.


And so, I leave you with my heartfelt apologies for failing to visit youse alls. It's common for me to not post for a week, but I feel badly if I don't see my friends for more than a couple of days without mentioning that I'll be off to Monte Carlo as the Crown Prince needs my advice on a 'little matter.' (Does Monaco have a Crown Prince? They have a Prince, but a Crown Prince? Is Rainier still alive? Clearly no one in Monaco will even be asking my advice on toilet tissue now. Blew that.) I especially apologize to Rotten Correspondent who knows me but a short time and blogged me such nice birthday somethings that I have inadvertently ignored in my ague. 1000 apologies, Rotten.


Oh. And one more thing. Apparently, when you have NO voice what-so-ever aside from one's inadequate whisper, one's dog will stab you in the back and, while you have shuffled off to the bathroom, will eat the last piece of chicken that you left on the table, which was the ONLY thing in the house you felt that you could fathom putting in your mush, masticating and swallowing. When you come shuffling back from the bathroom, shaking with rigors, you will soon be shaking with rage and screaming in whispers (which are not at all intimidating). You will hustle said traitor and man's worst friend into her crate to rot until you are sure that upon letting her out you will not messily murder her. It's not at all the murder that you mind, but the mess, as you haven't the strength to clean it all up, what with all the damn chicken grease that's smeared on the floor, by the plate. I add that she has never done such a thing in her almost 2 years with us. Coincidence? Don't make me laugh.


And! I also have an inkling of what religious fanaticism feels like to a zealot as I stood in my poor kitchen, still shaking, sweaty and weak; wielding the wand of the vacuum, I systematically summoned 22 houseflies to their doom. It takes a steady eye and hand and I had neither, but what I did have was the grim, steely certainty that right was on my side and that I would not fail. In short, I found the strength of 10 Dianas plus 2 and didn't collapse on the couch until I had gotten each one I could find. They apparently thought they could stage a coup d'etat on my kitchen. Not while I still have a limb to command, fuckers. Now I just need to figure out if the damn dog intentionally or accidentally leaked the news of my illness to the king of the flies, and deal with her.


So there you have my trials and goo. I missed you all and will make the rounds slowly. Rest assured, though, I will be reading all you have written. Late to the party, but making amends and covering my mouth. Tissue, anyone?

Ingrate

It's now about 16 hours later and I'm still disgruntled.

As always, my disgruntle-i-tude is met with that small, yet imposing figure in my head, armed for some reason with a rolling pin, an apron and a very disapproving expression, telling me in no uncertain terms that I've got nothing to whine about, buck up and stop sniveling and think of all those poor people in China or Afghanistan or Rockford, Illinois, for Pete's sake.

I hate her. I can't even wallow in self-pity in peace.

Anyway. Yesterday. Tuesday. The Tuesday. Annual Date Night Tuesday.

Last week, looking for a movie to take the kids to, I noticed that the sorta local IMAX theater had the new Harry Potter film playing. I sighed and wished that my kids were the sort of hardened ruffians you could take to an intense Harry Potter movie and have them sit nicely and not have nightmares afterward. I then looked at G-rated movie times and moved on. But the seed was planted, and my mind worked a way to make this happen.

Charles, that audiovideophile, even agreed that going to see a flick in an IMAX theater would be even better than seeing it in his home theater and, therefore, jumped with gusto on board the date idea. The last movie we saw in a theater was in 2001. To put things in further perspective, we go out on a date about once a year, usually for our anniversary. As this year's anniversary was the pre-conference barbecue dinner with 150 other educators, I really didn't count it as our annual date.

I was looking forward to this the way a 5 year old looks forward to, well, maybe not Christmas, but certainly the 4th of July. I was even counting down the hours. Really and truly.

So, all I had to do was finish clinic on time, have us scream out of there right at 5 pm, leaving any undictated charts for the following morning, eat dinner in the car, and arrive there just in time for the 6:30 showing. We could just make it if the heavens aligned and the gods smiled.

Which of course, they didn't.

I knew damn well they wouldn't. The last patient was not the easy problem it seemed at first, and the 30 minutes I seemed to have to spare turned into finishing 30 minutes after we had to leave.

Of course.

I had further jinxed things by telling my physical therapist pal that (squee!) I had a date to see an IMAX movie alone with Marvelous Charles. No kids. In a theater. Not 6 months after everyone else had seen the movie.

I had only myself to blame.

Ah, but wait. As my life is often one of those 'good thing events didn't turn out the way I had planned or such-and-such would have turned out differently', it didn't surprise me that there was a Part 2 to the evening: Which would be the 1/2 inch of water in the basement storage room from the foot of rain that had fallen over the previous 36 hours.

Little damage had occurred aside from wet carpets and a few drippy cardboard boxes, so in the grand scheme of things, we'd have been awfully sorry to have had all that molding mess sitting there for another 24 hours or more.

Which should make me terribly grateful.

Instead, I'm still cranky and disappointed and my head is still full of that small rolling pin shaking woman telling me to stop feeling so damn sorry for myself.

Which is only making me more cranky and ungrateful.

Bah.

Disgruntled

I feel cranky.

I have a blog.

I will therefore inflict my crankiness on you.

(This is your chance to hit the 'back' button and flee. Don't say I don't give you a fair and fighting chance, dearest darlings.)

1. Gorbag the half-orc and his Weedwhacker Of Death have caused me more grief. They've now laid low 2 black-eyed-susans and 3 very pretty foxgloves that I had been nurturing around the benches at the way-back of the yard. For weeks I have been trotting out there (about a hundred yards) with a watering can in one hand and a pail in the other, to lovingly slake their thirst. I planted them where I thought was both far enough from the benches to save them from slaughter, yet close enough to be enjoyed by any quiet bench sitter. Now, there's naught left but shreds. Gorbag has agreed that perhaps it would be best if I took over the wielding of the whacker.
2. I love the wood floors. How I love the wood floors. How much cleaner they make the house. Why? Because I must move all the furniture every week to vacuum all the accumulated crumbs and large drifts of dog hair that scamper, oh so visibly around it's sleek surface. In addition, I have to vacuum an extra day (that's 2! days of vacuuming each week) to keep things from accumulating a visible layer of fuzz. With the grimy carpet, all this was fairly invisible. Reasonably invisible dirt bothers me not in the least. I moved the furniture once a year, whether it needed it or not. I guess like most pretty things, they are higher maintenance.
3. Last night I had beans. This morning I have gas. My apologies to the counties down wind. (I have my windows open.)
4. The lawnmower has been out of commission for 2 weeks now and will not be fixed for another week. 3 weeks without mowing this yard at this time of the year is not only unsightly, it is downright scary. We are not able to trod the path for our nightly constitutional as the thistles are now past ankle high. The thistles, as you may recall, populate our grounds much as crumbs populate the floor of a family car. Yes, there are other components (namely dandelions and clover and prairie grass), but the thistles are spread thickly throughout all. They also grow 4 times faster than any other green thing. We shall not mention the fact that keeping things cut keeps the ticks at bay.
5. I managed to forget to apply sunscreen before I went out to stain the horizontal surfaces of the deck last weekend. It wasn't hot. There were plenty of clouds. I was stupid. I'm now stupidly sun burnt on my shoulders. Sadly, my bra strap seemed to have escaped the borders of my tank top, so now I have a pasty-white bra strap line (complete with visible circle from the dealie that allows the strap to adjust) streaking across my shoulder. So very classy.
6. Somewhere, hidden in the house, my nice cup of coffee, with the right amount of cream, is well on its way to becoming stone cold.
7. The house is not self-cleaning, although I've managed to bribe my tamagotchi-coveting son to pick-up, dust, clean the bathrooms, schlep the laundry and help fold the clothes all for $3. Guess I really can't count this, can I?
8. While the 4 apple trees are all still alive, the 2 sweet cherry trees are either dead or close to it as to make no matter. Sorry, Dumdad.
9. It's Swimming Lessons Day. The kids loooooove Swimming Lessons Day. I haaaaaaate swimming lessons day. For an hour and a half I get to stand and watch through the window as first one child then the other mostly holds on to the edge of the pool while waiting for their turn to not-swim back and forth or to jump off the diving board. The very best days are 'water safety day' where I get to watch them sit and listen for half the class. Yes, there are a hand full of stools to perch on, but in order to get a stool, one has to be there ahead of the other parents. Having to wrangle Sara into and then out of her suit, I am never early enough. My only hope lies in the occasional day that most of the other families are missing, for some reason. Then, THEN! I get to snag one. I have toyed with the thought of leaving and running some errand, but the huge signs that proclaim that PARENTS MUST WATCH THROUGH THE WINDOW AT ALL TIMES, prevents me from doing so in reality. Sadly, progress is slow for the Piffle kids and I've literally years more of Swimming Lesson Days to look forward to. In about a year, though, Sara will be in the next age group and should be able to take them at the same time as her brother. That will at least shorten my woe.

Well, I'll be.

Worked like a charm. I've managed to sluff off all the evil into the computer and off into the landfill that is the Internet. I will then be responsible for the crashing of multiple systems as my vitriol and whininess breeds like. Sorry about that.

Yes, indeedy. Cheaper than Prozac and without all that incarceration hassle of heading up to a bell tower with many firearms.

Fun With Mom

Hey, everybody! Diana's lost her voice completely. She can softly whisper, clap her hands and snap, but that's it. (Don't feel bad, she does this every year, usually over Thanksgiving, so she's really past due.)

If you were non-driving members of this family, you'd have all sorts of fun with this turn of events:

1. Eke oodles of entertainment as you sit in the kitchen hollering "MOM!....MOM!...MOM!...MOM!..." with the regularity of a pulsar. When 'Mom' finally hauls her sorry self from under the blanket on the couch, surrounded by tea and tissues, to see what's wrong, you smile sweetly and tell her "I love you." Repeat. She'll be unable to do anything but stand there twitching as the conflicting emotions of extreme irritation and sappy mom-love battle across her face.
2. Smother the laughter as you watch her ram her knee cap into the corner of the coffee table and hop around unable to holler bad words, yell or even whimper. Pretend you can't read her lips.
3. If you're the dog and it's time to come in, sit there grinning with a faux puzzled expression on your face as she whispers, "Come, Molly! Come in! Come in now!"
4. If you're Sara, refuse flatly to get dressed after swimming lessons, instead lie Gandhi-like on the locker room floor as your mom glares daggers at you and barely-whispers all sorts of dire threats. Pretend that you can't hear these threats. Ask, "What?" over and over. Unfortunately, find that she has access to your brother's Gameboy and that all the fun is lost from the situation when she sits on the locker room bench, turns her back on you and starts to play Mario-something on it.
5. If you're the evil kitty, take every opportunity to claw the carpet as you know she isn't going to get up off the couch and stop you and that snaps and claps have no detrimental effects on cats. Make sure there's nothing heavy in arm's reach that she could chuck at you.
6. If you're Colin, watch as her eyeballs bulge alarmingly as she whisper-shouts at you to JUST GET YOUR SHOES IN YOUR BACKPACK ALREADY AND YOUR BOOTS ON AS THE BUS IS COMING IN 30 SECONDS AND SHE'S NOT DRIVING YOU TO SCHOOL!!! Watch the vessels in her temples throb and her face turn a most unbecoming shade of puce.
7. After she's explained to you for the, I dunno, is-there-even-a-number-that-large-eth time that she really, really can't say a word, no matter how much she wants to, and that even whispering is exhausting her, ask her what this says. Repeat. Again. And again. As her reserves for ignoring you grow, you'll have to be even more persistent. But I know you have it in you.

Now, who's up for some phone call fun?

Shot

Yes.

You can still get the 'flu even if you smugly got your flu shot.

Back when I'm afebrile and I've got the energy.

(Dis-infect your screen after you read this.)

M.I.A.

So sorry I've not been around. I seem to have come down with the crud I've been seeing for the past week and a half. If enough people breathe it in your face, I guess it's destiny, eh?

Well, at least I know what to expect.

And, hey, get it early and get it over with, I say. I proclaim cold and flu season officially begun!

So now I must go back and sleep some more and do things like try to figure out why the tea kettle isn't boiling when the burner isn't turned on.

Pathetic.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Public Service Announcement

Apparently, at my lovely dentist's office, they've got this new thing. It's some sort of powder that sandblasts some of the stain off your teeth. Sounds great, eh? I made an encouraging sort of assenting noise as the hygenist, clad in full-face mask and handing me goggles, set to work. I'd noticed that the choppers, thanks to years of coffee and tea, had developed a rather jaundiced cast. I'd even played with having them bleached or whatever that whitening process is, but then found out that you have to abstain for a full two weeks from the sorts of beverages that, when spilled on your clothes, cause you to mutter profanities and reach for your full armament of stain removers.

Give up red wine? Fine.

Give up coffee? Fine.

Give up tea? Fine.

Oh. Wait. Give up coffee AND tea?

Nope. Not to be considered.

I'm tied to my nice, warm, milky cuppa or three each and every morning. I can give up one or the other, but not both. No, cocoa is not a substitute. I don't want sweet beverages in the morning. No, it's not the caffeine. I've reaped the seeds I've sown by bragging all those years that caffeine doesn't affect me. For years it relaxed me. Never mind that it never gave me that boost I needed at 2 am during school and more school and residency and private practice. Bastard caffeine.

Now, not only does it keep me awake (even a demitasse of decaf after dinner), I get horribly crawly and jittery if I drink a fully caffeinated cup in the morning on a full stomach, with plenty of milk. It also bloats me. The shame. Rat bastard caffeine.

"Much better!" the nice, helpful hygenist proclaimed, her own teeth flashing in the reflected light off my goggles. "Here's a mirror! Look!"

And so, I did. Through the goggles and in the glare of the fluorescent light of the exam room, I flashed a grin in the hand mirror. They did seem less tarnished.

"They DO look better!" said I, and gave her a heart felt thanks.

The rest of the check-up proceeded routinely, and I smiled in my rear-view mirror as I started up the car. Hm. In the dim car, I can't see any difference.

Later, at home, I grimaced in the bathroom mirror for several minutes, imitating a wolf. Nope. Looks the same to me. Oh well. Let's get us a glass of iced tea, shall we?

Yeouch!

And it was then that I discovered the hidden downside that was not mentioned, indeed may not even be something the hygenist had been aware of (and even had she mentioned it, I'd probably have waved and mmmm-mmm-hmmmmed her to do it anyway, in my quest for a quick fix, true blue, red-blooded, American that I am). It removed the scant bit of stain that was not part of my inherent tooth structure. It also removed the layer of calcium or what-have-you that I'd layed down by the 2 tubes of 'sensitive tooth' toothpaste last year.

Now the teeth, they are again exquisitely sensitive to anything warmer or cooler than mouth temperature (97.6 degrees F) and, as an added bonus, to anything of concentrated sweet. Fortunately, it is just the left side of my mouth, as it had always been.

Fortunately, I have 2 new tubes of the 'sensitive tooth toothpaste', bought last year.

And, in the mean time, I'm brushing up on my drinking out of only the right side of my mouth for the next several months.

It goes without saying that our dear Babs is giggling fit to bust, with her movie-star-white 'deeth', sipping scalding hot tea and swishing it all around her mouth.

Good thing she's too much of a lady to gloat.

Stomp

When, in the course of human events, said events become more that our little psyches can take, it becomes necessary to rise to the occasion and throw an all-out completely immature tantrum.

For instance, say your 70 lb, 9-month-old puppy makes an error in judgment and grabs your hand playfully in her mouth, causing your reflex cry of "Molly! No!" (Because you think that this behavior needs to be stopped or you will have no friends coming to visit you, due to your loving but inappropriately denticular dog and her 'love bites'.) As the words leave your lips, you realize your error; you should have hit the button on the remote in your pocket that triggers a short but extremely effective blast of citronella from your exuberant pet's collar, instead. The reason for your ruing of the shout vs the spray is that the dog pees when she senses displeasure (your yelped "No!") but not when she gets a blast from the collar.

Of course, it is too late and she pees and pees and pees all over the ruddy kitchen in several spots as you reflexively holler, "NO! NO! NO!!!!!" This is, of course, the same dog who you have taken outside to the great outdoor latrine 4 times in the past 90 minutes, all to no result.

Clearly, she anticipated such an outcome. Perhaps, she was even saving up for it.

You keep your frazzled temper barely in check, lest you tee off on the furry creature, and that would be bad, especially as she is now completely empty of urine, yet still full of poop. (Every situation can conceivably be made worse, you see.) You hustle her to her crate and turn to face the pools o' piss, completely pissed, yourself. It is then, as you vigorously pull off some paper towels with much ire, that the whole damn roll flies from your hand, spilling across the kitchen, with the lion's share of the roll, still wrapped around the center cardboard core, landing in the greatest lake of yellow.

The final straw.

Literally stomping mad, you summon your inner 2-year-old and throw a full-blown tantrum. It's not pretty. You're not proud. Sometimes, it can not be helped, though. The fury of your buttoned-down WASP-y ancesters surges through your body and you are vaguely aware of screaming, "AAAAARRRRRUUUUGGGGGRRRRRRAAAAAAAHHHHH!" While you repeatedly slam the floor with all the force in your right leg. (As you can't tee off on the dog, might as well lay the blame squarely on the floor.) BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!BOOM! Your sturdy German thighs and calves, handed down through the female line, that thousands of miles on the treadmill have made not long and lean, but even thicker and more muscle-y, drive your right foot rapidly and repeatedly into the floor.

And now you see the problem, don't you?

The foot, she is bare.
The muscles, they are strong.
The floor, it is tile.

The heel, it is now bruised.

Lesson learned. Indeed, with every step, lesson re-learned:

Always wear your padded shoes when you decide to teach the floor a lesson, lest you become the lesson, instead.

Cranky Goes A-Ranting II

Generally, I am a placid, easy going lass. Things do bother me, but I usually get past them with a shrug and a muttered profanity or two. If it's something extreme, I may resort to a quick venting with Charles (or a handy friend) with briefly bulging eyeballs and spittle. After that, I wipe my mouth and poke my globes back in my orbits (It's handy, being a contact lens wearer. No qualms about manhandling your eyeballs back to their proper positions.) and I'm done. Water off a duck's back.

Quack.

Sometimes, though, I must take more extreme steps to purge these irritations. That's where you come in, oh my friends in the computer. If I get these down, I can remove them, one by one from my psyche, where they are currently lodged, like splinters in my toes.

1) It is summer. Summer is hot. In hot weather one tends to wear cooler clothing. In winter, it is cold. In winter, one tends to wear warmer clothing. Therefore, in summer, the set temperature of a building ought to be warmer than in the winter. Yes? Fuck yes. Or not. At least not in our office, where it is set at a frosty 68 and even in my lab coat I am shivering and holding my warm cuppa coffee to try to get the feeling back in my fingers. Lacking a warm mug, I am forced to inflict them on my poor patients. If you need me to examine your sore throat, you will probably not mind my corpse-cold hands. If you need me to poke around on your belly, you will probably find yourself clutching the ceiling tiles, where your reflexes have flung you. (Of course, I have inquired into the reason for this. I have been told that the A/C in this building requires it to be set at this level or it stops working. My comment that it would not be a bad thing went unheeded.) Were I a patient sitting on the iceberg that is the exam table in my underpants and a sheet, I'd have even more to say.

2) The problem with being a smart-ass is that it can be difficult for people to realize that you are not being a smart-ass when you suggest it would not be a bad thing to let the A/C die a quick death.

3) Baby talk. Especially baby talk to babies. If you are a consenting adult and prefer to call them 'doggies' and 'horseys' and utter sentences like "Oof. I went whoopsies!" and "I need to tinkle," then that's your own lookout. But the babies, for crying out loud, are just learning to talk. Let's teach them to talk correctly.

4) Jell-o is not a salad. It is a dessert. And corn is not a vegetable, it is a grain. A very tasty grain, but a grain, none the less. It does not count as a serving of veggies anymore than a piece of bread does. That is, unless you are the branch of the federal government that oversees the nutritional content of school lunches, which notoriously considered fries and ketchup to each count as a serving of veggies. I haven't looked, but I'm sure that then qualifies a PB&J sandwich as 2 veggies and a fruit. Add 2 handfuls of chips and you've got your '5 A Day' all in one sitting.

5) The entire office, minus a couple of us, is taking part in the new weight loss clinic that has been started at our site. A program that involves medication and shots and such. (No, I'm not involved, just a bystander.) Why, then, did those staff members who are partaking in this ordeal order 2 huge egg, bacon and cheese breakfast pizzas from the local pizza delivery place? I understand cravings during dieting. Lord, do I. But is this really such a good idea? (Can you tell it is taking every ounce of willpower to not go to the back room and scam a few slices? Could that be at the root of my bitterness? Hush, you.)

There. I feel better. Still hungry, but better.

Anyone else need to fling some angst? It's fun.