I've been waiting to write about last weekend--our second family camp/Shabbaton weekend with our synagogue--because I haven't yet downloaded the photograph of what it looked like after we removed the tick that had embedded itself into Em's arm.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
It was a fabulous weekend, tick notwithstanding.* As good as last year's trip. Maybe even better. But still just as impossible to describe.
What I can tell you about, though, is how my son once again reached new heights of contradiction. No, no. Really.
To wit:
Friday night, after dinner, there was a singalong in the dining tent. It got exceptionally loud in there. N is already sensitive to loud noise; it was getting to me, so it was not surprising that it was torture for him. But he was great about it. He simply came up to me at one point, told me it was too loud, and allowed me to lead him out of the tent and out into the (omigodsocold) night air. We walked far enough away that the sound was no longer piercing, but stayed close enough that we could hear the music. And we danced together, under the stars, my son and I, doing a little side-by-side hora. Lovely.
Saturday night, after dinner, there was Israeli dancing in the dining tent. N asked if I would take him outside again; I said that I sure would, but only if the sound was too much for him. It wasn't. I asked him if he wanted to dance with me again, this time with the group, but he said no. "I'm too shy," he said. I told him I understood, and then I joined the other 30 or so people in the dance circle.
At which point my son ducked under my arm and walked into the middle of said circle to stand next to the (somewhat puzzled, but willing to go with the flow) dance instructor. And stood there. And watched. As we all danced around him. As we all took steps toward him, en masse, and yelled, "Hey!"
He stood there, and watched, and grinned, and walked around the circle watching us appraisingly, and high-fived his counselors, and showed absolutely no ill effects from all those people, all watching him.
Too shy to hold hands and dance, but not too shy to be in the middle of the circle.
The next morning, same scenario. This time, we were doing the camp's closing circle, standing by family and holding hands, everyone who wanted to saying a little bit about what the weekend had meant to them. All he had to do was hold my hand, and Em's hand. He wouldn't have to talk; Em didn't. But he refused, told me he was "too scared to do it," pulled his head into his sweatshirt, wouldn't look at me, wouldn't stand by me.
And then walked into the center of the circle to stand next to the song leader (who, admittedly, he loves), and became, once again, the center of attention. Because he's too shy to stand on the outskirts.
[For the record, that was not nearly as cute as the Israeli dancing thing. Something about it was just so much more...off. Even though he was in the center of our circle, he was so obviously just watching us all, not engaging. It was one of those admittedly few times when he just 'looked' more disordered than quirky. I really need to learn how to deal with those times better. Even Em, who is almost preternaturally willing to accept his quirks for what they are, leaned in to me and said, "I don't mean to be mean, but this is a little bit embarrassing." And it was.]
It was also impossible to parse. What does it mean that he can't be part of the group, but doesn't mind being the center of it? Is he trying to hog attention, or is this his own way of trying to be alone? Is it really easier for him to have everyone's eyes on him than to join in with what we are doing? I don't have the answers. All I have are the inherent contradictions, which I can't quite bring together.
Even his Occupational Therapist, when I told her about this, had to shake her head. "I don't know either," she admitted. "I don't really understand that myself."
At least I'm not alone.
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*Tick facts:
1. We only discovered it in the last 15 minutes of the trip, when I put my arm around her for a picture and she winced as it brushed against her. We figure she picked it up during the night-time "trust walk" her bunk took...but, really, the woods are crawling with ticks at this time of year, and it could have been any place at any time.
2. One of my friends/bunkmates, a doctor--we were 75+ Jews in one place...of COURSE we had a doctor in the house--found a pair of tweezers in the camp infirmary and removed the s.o.b. almost before the words, "Um, Em, that's not a bug bite..." were out of my mouth.
3. Em freaked. Of course Em freaked. There was a bug burrowing into her right tricep. So she cried a lot until the doctor eased it out. Later, however, she admitted, "It actually didn't hurt at all. It was like her hands had anesthesia on them."
4. I freaked. Of course I freaked. There as a bug burrowing into my daugther's right tricep. But I didn't cry at all...because I'm a big girl. And because I was too busy trying not to gag.
5. Although Lyme disease is still pretty rare in Southern California, my doctor-friend and I decided I should take Em to the Urgent Care near our house, just to be on the safe side, and because the bite almost immediately started looking icky. After three hours in the waiting room and a visit with a doctor who actually knows less about infectious disease than I do, I prescribed Em a topical antibiotic cream, and we left. (No, I did not mistype that. The not-especially-bright Urgent Care doc rambled on about how "we" don't give oral antibiotics as a Lyme preventative, but then wanted to prescribe oral antibiotics to prevent the bite from getting infected. I gently inquired as to whether or not that was overkill, especially because Em was leaving on Tuesday for a week at sixth-grade science camp--more on that another time--and wouldn't a topical cream do the trick? Why yes, said not-especially-bright Urgent Care doc, and pulled out her prescription pad. For this I lost three hours of my life?)
6. It was good cream. I'd already put bacitracin on the bite twice, and it hadn't done diddly. One dab of this stuff, and the puffiness, the red streak, everything just disappeared.
7. What didn't disappear? The image of a swollen bug sticking out of my daughter's right tricep. I may be scarred for life.
8. Both of us are, nonetheless, counting the days until next year's trip.
Showing posts with label health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label health. Show all posts
Friday, March 13, 2009
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Taking Up Space
I really haven't spent the last three days hyperventilating and tingling and jumping out of my skin; nor have I spent them drugged to the gills. In fact, the number of X*nax in my little bottle is exactly the same as it was last week.
That panic attack passed, as they usually do. It was a rather quick passage, to be honest, probably helped along by being forced to think about someone other than me--GASP! I know! What a concept! To be more specific, it was helped along by hearing about someone else's ongoing panic attack...one which made mine look like nuttin'. I wouldn't exactly call it schadenfreude,* but there is something liberating in knowing that not only are others going through what you're going through, but they need your help to get through it. If that makes any sense at all. (So thanks, you. And I hope you're feeling better.)
Now that I think about it, I wonder if that would work with physical illnesses as well? I mean, I've got this niggly little cold/sore throat combo thingy that's making me cranky. Anyone wanna call me and tell me about how you have the flu, to see if we can knock this thing right outta me? I'd definitely appreciate it!
*Avenue Q is definitely one of my all-time favorite shows. Ever.
That panic attack passed, as they usually do. It was a rather quick passage, to be honest, probably helped along by being forced to think about someone other than me--GASP! I know! What a concept! To be more specific, it was helped along by hearing about someone else's ongoing panic attack...one which made mine look like nuttin'. I wouldn't exactly call it schadenfreude,* but there is something liberating in knowing that not only are others going through what you're going through, but they need your help to get through it. If that makes any sense at all. (So thanks, you. And I hope you're feeling better.)
Now that I think about it, I wonder if that would work with physical illnesses as well? I mean, I've got this niggly little cold/sore throat combo thingy that's making me cranky. Anyone wanna call me and tell me about how you have the flu, to see if we can knock this thing right outta me? I'd definitely appreciate it!
*Avenue Q is definitely one of my all-time favorite shows. Ever.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Paralyzed by Paradox
I want to do the right thing. I want to save the world, the environment, my children's health. But I just don't know how.
I start with such good intentions, and I charge head first into the fray. And then I just...stop. Paralyzed. By paradox.
Take sugar, for instance. No, really. Take it. Because dealing with The Sugar Issue is bugging the shit out of me.
[Of course, I'm full of it. Because if I could just eschew all sweeteners, period, I'd be in great shape. But I like sweet stuff. Not the way lots of other people do, but I like it. And my kids? Like many, they live for it. And thus, into the fray I go.]
So: Sugar is bad. Especially white sugar: it's highly processed, a gateway to diabetes, blahblahblah. But what about brown sugar? What about raw sugar? How do those compare?
High fructose corn syrup? I know it's awful, awful stuff. But in the exceptionally long hierarchy of awful, awful stuff, where does it fall? Above white sugar? Below? Above artificial sweeteners? Below?
And what about artificial sweeteners? Definitely way up there on the Awful Stuff Ladder. I think. Maybe. Definitely bad for me, since they make me crazy, so that's an easy call. But what about my kids? What, especially, about my kid who struggles with weight and may indeed be at higher risk for diabetes? What do I put on or in her food?
Honey? Where does it fall on the scale?
Agave nectar? I've started seeing bits and pieces that point out it's not as good for you as you might think.
What about stevia? What's the deal with stevia, anyway? Healthy? Not? Can I use it in anything other than coffee? And do I want to? Because...what is that godawful bitter taste it seems to add to everything I put it in?
And that's only the beginning. I tried finding links to all the stuff I was mentioning above, and in 90 percent of the cases, I couldn't find a single objective article to point to, to even begin to sort it out.
In the end, what this means is that it's impossible to take all my good intentions, walk into a supermarket and think, "This is what is good for us; this is what is good for the environment; this is what I will buy." And so, with every purchase comes the guilt, and with the guilt comes the desire to just throw your hands up in the air and say, "Screw it. If it's going to be this impossible--if there's no way to win--I might as well just give them what they want." (Which in N's case would be huge buckets full of white sugar...and a spoon.)
And don't even get me started on local versus organic, paper versus plastic, disposable plates filling the landfills versus using water and energy and detergents to wash dishes every night, whether mercury-based CFCs really ARE the best thing for our environment, which type of fish to buy and whether it should be wild or farm-raised...
I hate uncertainty. I hate this.
I start with such good intentions, and I charge head first into the fray. And then I just...stop. Paralyzed. By paradox.
Take sugar, for instance. No, really. Take it. Because dealing with The Sugar Issue is bugging the shit out of me.
[Of course, I'm full of it. Because if I could just eschew all sweeteners, period, I'd be in great shape. But I like sweet stuff. Not the way lots of other people do, but I like it. And my kids? Like many, they live for it. And thus, into the fray I go.]
So: Sugar is bad. Especially white sugar: it's highly processed, a gateway to diabetes, blahblahblah. But what about brown sugar? What about raw sugar? How do those compare?
High fructose corn syrup? I know it's awful, awful stuff. But in the exceptionally long hierarchy of awful, awful stuff, where does it fall? Above white sugar? Below? Above artificial sweeteners? Below?
And what about artificial sweeteners? Definitely way up there on the Awful Stuff Ladder. I think. Maybe. Definitely bad for me, since they make me crazy, so that's an easy call. But what about my kids? What, especially, about my kid who struggles with weight and may indeed be at higher risk for diabetes? What do I put on or in her food?
Honey? Where does it fall on the scale?
Agave nectar? I've started seeing bits and pieces that point out it's not as good for you as you might think.
What about stevia? What's the deal with stevia, anyway? Healthy? Not? Can I use it in anything other than coffee? And do I want to? Because...what is that godawful bitter taste it seems to add to everything I put it in?
And that's only the beginning. I tried finding links to all the stuff I was mentioning above, and in 90 percent of the cases, I couldn't find a single objective article to point to, to even begin to sort it out.
In the end, what this means is that it's impossible to take all my good intentions, walk into a supermarket and think, "This is what is good for us; this is what is good for the environment; this is what I will buy." And so, with every purchase comes the guilt, and with the guilt comes the desire to just throw your hands up in the air and say, "Screw it. If it's going to be this impossible--if there's no way to win--I might as well just give them what they want." (Which in N's case would be huge buckets full of white sugar...and a spoon.)
And don't even get me started on local versus organic, paper versus plastic, disposable plates filling the landfills versus using water and energy and detergents to wash dishes every night, whether mercury-based CFCs really ARE the best thing for our environment, which type of fish to buy and whether it should be wild or farm-raised...
I hate uncertainty. I hate this.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Just So Wrong
I walked to the Farmer's Market this morning, and brought home a really HUGE cucumber for my cucumber-fanatic family. Baroy and Em left for the day before I unpacked it, leaving only N to gape at it's awesomeness when I pulled it out of my special Farmer's Market tote.
Except he did more than gape. He picked it up and began cradling it, cooing to it and, finally, walking around the house saying, "Hello there, my girlfriend. You are so beautiful, my girlfriend! How are you today, my girlfriend?"
I didn't even know where to start explaining just why that is so, so wrong.
(Oh, come on. I can't be the only one who had a "24 Reasons Why Cucumbers Are Better Than Men" poster over her bed in college, can I?)
-------
And for anyone who was wondering: I stayed home with N last night. Part of the reason was because I've been feeling sort of low-energy myself these last few days, after a frenetic week. But part of the reason was that I wanted to make sure he had a special night...and while Baroy is a gem of a dad in so many ways, his idea of "a special night" is to watch a movie on TV. (That's also his idea of a Monday night. And a Tuesday night. And...you get the idea.)
So, I barbequed sausages (for me) and burgers (for N), which we ate with fruit and stringbeans picked right off the bushes I have growing in the backyard. We played with some of N's toys and then, when it got dark, we walked two blocks over to watch the big fireworks display right down the hill from us. It was fantastic. On the way back, N said, "I want to have a party!" When I asked him what we needed to do for it to be a party, he said, "Dance! Duh."
And so, when we got home, we brought out my laptop and boogied to one kids' song and one grown-up song (Shiny Happy People), playing freeze-dance throughout. At which point I put on my Mean Mom pants and said that boys with fevers needed to be in bed, seeing as it was already past 10. Of course, Baroy and Em returned from our friends' house just at that moment, and Em and N needed to tell each other about all the fun they'd had. The fact that N had just as much to share as Em made the whole evening worthwhile.
Except he did more than gape. He picked it up and began cradling it, cooing to it and, finally, walking around the house saying, "Hello there, my girlfriend. You are so beautiful, my girlfriend! How are you today, my girlfriend?"
I didn't even know where to start explaining just why that is so, so wrong.
(Oh, come on. I can't be the only one who had a "24 Reasons Why Cucumbers Are Better Than Men" poster over her bed in college, can I?)
-------
And for anyone who was wondering: I stayed home with N last night. Part of the reason was because I've been feeling sort of low-energy myself these last few days, after a frenetic week. But part of the reason was that I wanted to make sure he had a special night...and while Baroy is a gem of a dad in so many ways, his idea of "a special night" is to watch a movie on TV. (That's also his idea of a Monday night. And a Tuesday night. And...you get the idea.)
So, I barbequed sausages (for me) and burgers (for N), which we ate with fruit and stringbeans picked right off the bushes I have growing in the backyard. We played with some of N's toys and then, when it got dark, we walked two blocks over to watch the big fireworks display right down the hill from us. It was fantastic. On the way back, N said, "I want to have a party!" When I asked him what we needed to do for it to be a party, he said, "Dance! Duh."
And so, when we got home, we brought out my laptop and boogied to one kids' song and one grown-up song (Shiny Happy People), playing freeze-dance throughout. At which point I put on my Mean Mom pants and said that boys with fevers needed to be in bed, seeing as it was already past 10. Of course, Baroy and Em returned from our friends' house just at that moment, and Em and N needed to tell each other about all the fun they'd had. The fact that N had just as much to share as Em made the whole evening worthwhile.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Dull
I'm supposed to be writing something thoughtful and patriotic today, I know, but I just don't have it in me. Instead, I'm feeling pouty and out-of-sorts. Frankly, I'm having a teensy little internal temper tantrum...except, since I'm writing about it here, it's not quite so internal now, is it?
See, I'd been looking forward to last night for days: Baroy was going to be at a pickup rehearsal in Anaheim, Em was invited to a sleepover/backyard campout at her friend C's house, and N was invited to Weeyum's house to make up for the missed-due-to-fever sleepover of last weekend.
Except that, on Wednesday night, he started running a fever again. It's like his body is rejecting the idea of a sleepover.
So, instead of a night full of little self-indulgences--I was going to try out a new recipe, soak in the not-hot-hottub in the moonlight, have a couple of martinis, watch a movie on the actual TV instead of on my computer screen--it was a night full of little N-indulgences, things like fishsticks and Spongebob and a rousing game of stack-the-buckets. Which is fine. He was sick, and sad about missing *his* fun, and making him feel better is my job. But inside, I kicked my little psychic feet and pummeled the ground with my little psychic fists at what was supposed to have been.
Today, with a low-grade version of said fever still hanging on, the day again isn't going to be what I wanted it to be. One of us is going to take Em to our friends' house for swimming and barbequeing, and the other of us is going to have to stay home with N, and I don't like either of those choices, the staying or the going. I want to be together...all together. With my friends, with my husband, and with both of my kids.
And so I'm not going to wish anyone a happy birthday today, not even my country. Because I'm pissy and pissed off and feeling petty and spiteful.
Wah. Wahwahwahwahwah.
See, I'd been looking forward to last night for days: Baroy was going to be at a pickup rehearsal in Anaheim, Em was invited to a sleepover/backyard campout at her friend C's house, and N was invited to Weeyum's house to make up for the missed-due-to-fever sleepover of last weekend.
Except that, on Wednesday night, he started running a fever again. It's like his body is rejecting the idea of a sleepover.
So, instead of a night full of little self-indulgences--I was going to try out a new recipe, soak in the not-hot-hottub in the moonlight, have a couple of martinis, watch a movie on the actual TV instead of on my computer screen--it was a night full of little N-indulgences, things like fishsticks and Spongebob and a rousing game of stack-the-buckets. Which is fine. He was sick, and sad about missing *his* fun, and making him feel better is my job. But inside, I kicked my little psychic feet and pummeled the ground with my little psychic fists at what was supposed to have been.
Today, with a low-grade version of said fever still hanging on, the day again isn't going to be what I wanted it to be. One of us is going to take Em to our friends' house for swimming and barbequeing, and the other of us is going to have to stay home with N, and I don't like either of those choices, the staying or the going. I want to be together...all together. With my friends, with my husband, and with both of my kids.
And so I'm not going to wish anyone a happy birthday today, not even my country. Because I'm pissy and pissed off and feeling petty and spiteful.
Wah. Wahwahwahwahwah.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Everyone Loses
Speaking of supposed-tos...Tonight Em and I are supposed to go see the opening night of Baroy's show. N was supposed to go sleep over at his best friend's house; he hasn't seen WeeyumWise in two months, and they are pining for one another.
Last night, N felt warm to me. Took his temp; right around 100. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.
There are circumstances under which I might have pretended that never happened. After all, he woke up this morning with a temperature so low he might actually be dead. He's fine. I know he's fine.
But here's the thing: On Monday, we got a call from the Urgent Care where we'd taken Em on Saturday, because she'd been running a low-grade fever for three days and was complaining of a sore throat. And although the doctor there had sworn to me that Em did NOT have strep throat--that he was so sure of it he wasn't even going to do a rapid strep test, but would just take a culture 'to be safe'--guess what she had?
Which does not mean that N has strep. In fact, he's more likely to have whatever's been dogging me since Wednesday. I, too, had a low-grade fever and a slightly sore throat, so I hoofed it over to Urgent Care immediately, only to find out that I do NOT have strep. In fact, the doctor--whom I will never see again because I despised him and he pissed with off with every word he uttered--laughed at me and pointed out that in order to have strep you actually have to have a red throat, and mine was not even a little red.
But still. Not only is it POSSIBLE that he has strep, but Weeyum's mom has always been one to insist on canceling plans when either boy is even slightly ill. So I just couldn't drop my well-right-now-but-feverish-within-the-last-24-hours kid at her house.
Assuming he's fever-free, however, I will take him with me to the theater. Because I'm not going to miss this on the basis of a one-time so-low-it-would-be-OK-to-send-him-to-school fever. Even if I end up spending most of the play out in the lobby; I'll at least be able to be there for Baroy.
But damn. We've all been looking forward to this for months; Baroy to having his wife and daughter in the audience on opening night, Em and I to being there, N to seeing Weeyum. Plus, I just know--in that 'best laid plans' way--that N will end up spiking a fever at around 3:00 this afternoon, and that will be that; I'll have to stay home, and I'll resent the hell out of it.
I know there are worse things that can happen to a person, but it pisses me off irrationally. All I wanted was one fucking night to be there for my husband, one night to not have to be in the back of the room or on the outside looking in. I planned it all out, I juggled all the balls, I made it all work. But no.
I'm just pissed, is what I'm saying. Just totally pissed. At no one.
Last night, N felt warm to me. Took his temp; right around 100. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.
There are circumstances under which I might have pretended that never happened. After all, he woke up this morning with a temperature so low he might actually be dead. He's fine. I know he's fine.
But here's the thing: On Monday, we got a call from the Urgent Care where we'd taken Em on Saturday, because she'd been running a low-grade fever for three days and was complaining of a sore throat. And although the doctor there had sworn to me that Em did NOT have strep throat--that he was so sure of it he wasn't even going to do a rapid strep test, but would just take a culture 'to be safe'--guess what she had?
Which does not mean that N has strep. In fact, he's more likely to have whatever's been dogging me since Wednesday. I, too, had a low-grade fever and a slightly sore throat, so I hoofed it over to Urgent Care immediately, only to find out that I do NOT have strep. In fact, the doctor--whom I will never see again because I despised him and he pissed with off with every word he uttered--laughed at me and pointed out that in order to have strep you actually have to have a red throat, and mine was not even a little red.
But still. Not only is it POSSIBLE that he has strep, but Weeyum's mom has always been one to insist on canceling plans when either boy is even slightly ill. So I just couldn't drop my well-right-now-but-feverish-within-the-last-24-hours kid at her house.
Assuming he's fever-free, however, I will take him with me to the theater. Because I'm not going to miss this on the basis of a one-time so-low-it-would-be-OK-to-send-him-to-school fever. Even if I end up spending most of the play out in the lobby; I'll at least be able to be there for Baroy.
But damn. We've all been looking forward to this for months; Baroy to having his wife and daughter in the audience on opening night, Em and I to being there, N to seeing Weeyum. Plus, I just know--in that 'best laid plans' way--that N will end up spiking a fever at around 3:00 this afternoon, and that will be that; I'll have to stay home, and I'll resent the hell out of it.
I know there are worse things that can happen to a person, but it pisses me off irrationally. All I wanted was one fucking night to be there for my husband, one night to not have to be in the back of the room or on the outside looking in. I planned it all out, I juggled all the balls, I made it all work. But no.
I'm just pissed, is what I'm saying. Just totally pissed. At no one.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
A Poem, by N
We had a long wait in an orthopedist's office (turns out, long story shortened out of concern for your boredom levels, that N has a 10 degree curvature at the very top of his spine, which qualifies him as having the very mildest case of scoliosis you can possibly have and will only require watching every six months or so). After we'd finished watching cranes lifting a total of 16 portapotties from the roof of the new hospital tower being built right outside the office window (which is still bugging me, even now...what WERE all those portapotties doing up there in the first place?), I pulled out a paper and pen and suggested he draw or write something. And so he set to it, stopping only to ask me to spell "pretty" and "cuddly."
This is what he handed to me when he was done:
When the doctor arrived, N insisted that he read the poem. The doctor looked at me. "You MUST keep this," he said.
"Keep it?" I replied. "I'm blogging it."
This is what he handed to me when he was done:
Oh Mommy Oh Mommy You are so pretty so much. You are so so pretty so so much and you are so so cuddly. Oh Mommy Oh Mommy. Love N Middlename LastnameCould you not just DIE from the sweetness? (Also: Hello, Oedipus. Nice to see you again.)
When the doctor arrived, N insisted that he read the poem. The doctor looked at me. "You MUST keep this," he said.
"Keep it?" I replied. "I'm blogging it."
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Serendipity
I know that there are logical, scientific explanations for these 'weird coincidence' events that seem so significant when they happen but really have little significance. I know that, sure, I may be about to tell you about two events that have kind of freaked me out in that "ooooeeeeeooooo" way, but I don't often think about how many things happen to me on any given day that DON'T wind up in a strange coincidence, and I've probably been due for some kind of connection between events, because that's the way the world works.
I know all this, but I don't really want to think about it, because that would take all the fun out of weird random things happening. Not that either of these things is especially fun. They're just...random. [Hey, I'm trying here! Give me a break!]
The first one: About two weeks ago, my editor at Time emailed to ask me (and a bunch of other writers) for the names of important and influential scientists who might not be the obvious folks already on everyone's radar. Because I've been doing a lot of parenting stuff these days (have you seen the relaunched-but-still-being-redesigned ParentsConnect?) and very little science stuff, I ignored the email, figuring I didn't know of anyone that would fit the bill. But then, a couple of days later, when I couldn't sleep, I thought of a scientist I had written about a lot in my days in university PR. And so, for the first time in about two years, I googled his name, just to see where he was in his experiments on a pretty cool device that might one day make a big difference in a lot of peoples' lives. I didn't see much beyond what I'd written about two years ago, which was pretty preliminary, so I went back to bed.
The VERY NEXT DAY, I got a call from the PR office where I used to work--the first such call since I left there, mind you--asking me if I'd be interested in doing a piece for a new patient/alumni magazine they're launching on behalf of the medical school. A piece on the doctor whose name I'd been googling not twelve hours earlier. An update piece on the exciting work he's doing, because nobody has written about him since I left.
C'mon. That's a little spooky/weird/coincidental, right?
Then, yesterday, as a result of my continuing effort to habitually dispense medical advice without a license, I got an email from one of my colleagues at ParentsConnect, asking me my opinion on whether or not she should get tubes for her son, who has had recurrent ear infections. I sent her a long email, talking about how much the tubes had helped both my kids, and how it had virtually 'cured' them of getting ear infections, especially N, who had his put in at 18 months and hasn't had an infection in the five-and-a-half years since.
Which of course meant that, this morning, I woke up to hear N crying in his bed, and when I went to him to ask what was the matter--he's my relatively cheerful waker-uper, so crying in the morning is pretty unusual--he just pointed to his right ear. At which point, I immediately began wishing for a time machine, so I could go back one day and beat the crap out of myself before I could write those jinxing words about the five-and-a-half years.
Yeah, yeah, I know I didn't actually cause N to suddenly develop pus behind his tympanic membrane. Well, I mean, I know it, but I don't actually believe it. Science and logic be damned. I don't mind so much when something I google in the middle of the night earns me a nice chunk o' change in freelance fees, but when boasting about my kid's health makes them sick...then I get pissed.
[A funny little coda to all this: As I was proofreading the above, my sister called, and asked what I was up to. I told her that I had taken N to the doctor because I gave him an ear infection. "What?" she said. I explained the above, ending by saying, "I mean, I know I didn't give him an ear infection, but..." and she interrupted me. "No. You TOTALLY gave him an ear infection. Oh my god, I'm totally convinced that you did."
This, my friends, is why I love my sister so much. She understands.]
I know all this, but I don't really want to think about it, because that would take all the fun out of weird random things happening. Not that either of these things is especially fun. They're just...random. [Hey, I'm trying here! Give me a break!]
The first one: About two weeks ago, my editor at Time emailed to ask me (and a bunch of other writers) for the names of important and influential scientists who might not be the obvious folks already on everyone's radar. Because I've been doing a lot of parenting stuff these days (have you seen the relaunched-but-still-being-redesigned ParentsConnect?) and very little science stuff, I ignored the email, figuring I didn't know of anyone that would fit the bill. But then, a couple of days later, when I couldn't sleep, I thought of a scientist I had written about a lot in my days in university PR. And so, for the first time in about two years, I googled his name, just to see where he was in his experiments on a pretty cool device that might one day make a big difference in a lot of peoples' lives. I didn't see much beyond what I'd written about two years ago, which was pretty preliminary, so I went back to bed.
The VERY NEXT DAY, I got a call from the PR office where I used to work--the first such call since I left there, mind you--asking me if I'd be interested in doing a piece for a new patient/alumni magazine they're launching on behalf of the medical school. A piece on the doctor whose name I'd been googling not twelve hours earlier. An update piece on the exciting work he's doing, because nobody has written about him since I left.
C'mon. That's a little spooky/weird/coincidental, right?
Then, yesterday, as a result of my continuing effort to habitually dispense medical advice without a license, I got an email from one of my colleagues at ParentsConnect, asking me my opinion on whether or not she should get tubes for her son, who has had recurrent ear infections. I sent her a long email, talking about how much the tubes had helped both my kids, and how it had virtually 'cured' them of getting ear infections, especially N, who had his put in at 18 months and hasn't had an infection in the five-and-a-half years since.
Which of course meant that, this morning, I woke up to hear N crying in his bed, and when I went to him to ask what was the matter--he's my relatively cheerful waker-uper, so crying in the morning is pretty unusual--he just pointed to his right ear. At which point, I immediately began wishing for a time machine, so I could go back one day and beat the crap out of myself before I could write those jinxing words about the five-and-a-half years.
Yeah, yeah, I know I didn't actually cause N to suddenly develop pus behind his tympanic membrane. Well, I mean, I know it, but I don't actually believe it. Science and logic be damned. I don't mind so much when something I google in the middle of the night earns me a nice chunk o' change in freelance fees, but when boasting about my kid's health makes them sick...then I get pissed.
[A funny little coda to all this: As I was proofreading the above, my sister called, and asked what I was up to. I told her that I had taken N to the doctor because I gave him an ear infection. "What?" she said. I explained the above, ending by saying, "I mean, I know I didn't give him an ear infection, but..." and she interrupted me. "No. You TOTALLY gave him an ear infection. Oh my god, I'm totally convinced that you did."
This, my friends, is why I love my sister so much. She understands.]
Friday, December 14, 2007
The Morning's Post
When I was planning out this post this morning, it was going to be about how it is simply impossible that Em came out of me. I was going to be saying that because--after a rather traumatic day yesterday where Baroy took her to the dentist because there was a lump on her gum, and it turned out to be an abscess that had formed over a dead, capped tooth and so the tooth needed to be pulled--this child who supposedly is related to ME, hypochondriac extraordinaire, basically refused all pain medication and insisted on attending her soccer practice last night, even though she wasn't allowed to participate. And when I went to pick her up from practice, she was sobbing almost hysterically, and I thought, "Oh, she's in pain!" and went running to her, only to find out that she was pissed because the coach had made it a fun practice and let the parents play against the kids, and she wasn't allowed to play with them. And it was as if her heart were broken. Whereas, had it been me...well, it wouldn't have been, because if there's anything I have always hated more than dentists, it was playing team sports, which I have always sucked at and found way too stressful. And had I been there at that practice, I would probably have found a reason not to play, even for fun. Whereas my kid thought it was the Worst Day Ever, not because she had a tooth yanked from her head, but because she had to WATCH while her teammates beat the pants off their parents.
So that's what I was going to write about. Until I got to Em's classroom today for her class's holiday party, and found out that she had lost most of a filling in a tooth on the OTHER side of her mouth. At which point I was going to write a post about how much money has been flying out of our house in just the past two weeks (the current tally: a broken washing machine that couldn't be repaired, thus requiring a brand-new one to be purchased; four new tires for Baroy's car yesterday after he blew one on the freeway and was told at least two others were close behind; Em's pulled tooth from yesterday; and now probably a crown or something for the tooth that had lost its filling.
So that's what I was going to write about. Until Baroy called me from the dentist's office, laughing somewhat hysterically, to tell me to get those Tooth Fairy gold coins out again. Because, apparently, the tooth was just crumbling underneath the filling, and since it was a baby tooth, the dentist recommended just yanking it--and doing it today, so that Em didn't have to worry about it all weekend.
And so that is what I am writing about. How my poor baby had to have TWO teeth pulled in the past two days, and how she was crying in fear and pain, and yet how she came home, pulled herself together, and is now--less than an hour later--out in her friend S's backyard with the rest of the neighborhood kids, bleeding into a gauze pad and talking like a mini Don Corleone, and yet giggling and gossiping and having a blast.
Which brings me full circle, I guess. Who's child IS this? And how can I get to be more like her?
So that's what I was going to write about. Until I got to Em's classroom today for her class's holiday party, and found out that she had lost most of a filling in a tooth on the OTHER side of her mouth. At which point I was going to write a post about how much money has been flying out of our house in just the past two weeks (the current tally: a broken washing machine that couldn't be repaired, thus requiring a brand-new one to be purchased; four new tires for Baroy's car yesterday after he blew one on the freeway and was told at least two others were close behind; Em's pulled tooth from yesterday; and now probably a crown or something for the tooth that had lost its filling.
So that's what I was going to write about. Until Baroy called me from the dentist's office, laughing somewhat hysterically, to tell me to get those Tooth Fairy gold coins out again. Because, apparently, the tooth was just crumbling underneath the filling, and since it was a baby tooth, the dentist recommended just yanking it--and doing it today, so that Em didn't have to worry about it all weekend.
And so that is what I am writing about. How my poor baby had to have TWO teeth pulled in the past two days, and how she was crying in fear and pain, and yet how she came home, pulled herself together, and is now--less than an hour later--out in her friend S's backyard with the rest of the neighborhood kids, bleeding into a gauze pad and talking like a mini Don Corleone, and yet giggling and gossiping and having a blast.
Which brings me full circle, I guess. Who's child IS this? And how can I get to be more like her?
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Power to the People
There is a God, and she is good (unless she is really just a big jokester, and the email I received from the benefits-powers-that-be at Viacom just an hour ago is part of some horrible prank):
That sound you hear? That's me, breathing, for the first time in five days.
As a result of the input you’ve given to us directly through the sessions and your managers, we want to announce the following changes:Thank you, Viacom. I feel like I just won the freaking lottery, and I want to give credit where credit is due, though I'm not sure in whose lap to put the credit. I don't even care why they changed their minds really...All I know is that I would have been willing to bet body parts that that note would never have hit my mailbox, not in a million year.· We are expanding our freelance and temporary medical and dental benefits options to include the United Healthcare plan under which many of you are currently covered. This means anyone who is eligible for benefits in 2008 can opt for medical and dental coverage with United Healthcare at the current rate of contribution, or you can elect instead to enroll in the newly offered Aetna plan.
That sound you hear? That's me, breathing, for the first time in five days.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Attention
I'm sure many people who are a lot smarter than I am will have or already have had much to say about the NYTimes piece today on ADHD and academic success. So I'll be brief: This is news? I mean, yeah, it's sorta news that kids with behavioral issues will do well on their fifth-grade math tests whether or not their issues are treated. But, really, isn't that a waywayway side issue? I mean, I'm not pursuing help for N because he failed his first-grade science test. I'm pursuing help for him because I want him to be better able to navigate this way through the world--the worlds of social interaction, of working and playing well with others, of speaking his mind, of organizing his thoughts, of reaching his potential...It goes on and on. He's not a behavior problem, and he doesn't have ADHD (so far as I can tell), but it just feels like these studies miss the point of why we, as parents, push so hard to get help for our kids. We're thinking big picture, long-term success. Not "I want Johnny to get an 85 on his fractions test next week." Nobody gives their kid medication so that he can get an 85 on his fractions test. Or, at least, I hope not.
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As an aside, I once interviewed that story's author for a job at the university where I used to work. I knew him in that way that you tend to know most of the main players in a small specialty field--in this case, science writing--and I remember telling him I thought he could do better than the job he was applying for. So I really shouldn't be ragingly jealous that he's writing lead health pieces for the Times, while I...am not? I should be pleased for him, right? I'll work on that, I guess.
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My legs, they are restless again. When they woke me up at the stroke o' three last night, I started wondering about where, exactly, they wanted to go. I was pretty much ready take them wherever they wanted at that point, if it would make them stop feeling 'that way.'
They refused to tell me a thing. Bastards.
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I've lost about six or seven pounds in the last month, for absolutely no specific reason I can figure. This used to be my body's MO, so I'm not especially worried about it. Maybe it's all the stress. (Probably it's at least in part because of that.) Or maybe it's because I've been skewing vegetarian in my food choices of late--which is a HUGE difference from BEING vegetarian, mind you. Skewing vegetarian means I'm making myself tofu and string beans for lunch today, or choosing the veggie burrito at Los Gringos Rapidos when I stop in there for something to eat during a long walk. But it doesn't rule out Susanna's chili or Baroy's ground-beef-and-sausage-laden spaghetti sauce. Or a McDonald's hamburger, even. So, I'm not really sure how that would knock six-plus pounds off in less than four weeks. But knocked they have been. And I'm OK with that.
-------
As an aside, I once interviewed that story's author for a job at the university where I used to work. I knew him in that way that you tend to know most of the main players in a small specialty field--in this case, science writing--and I remember telling him I thought he could do better than the job he was applying for. So I really shouldn't be ragingly jealous that he's writing lead health pieces for the Times, while I...am not? I should be pleased for him, right? I'll work on that, I guess.
-------
My legs, they are restless again. When they woke me up at the stroke o' three last night, I started wondering about where, exactly, they wanted to go. I was pretty much ready take them wherever they wanted at that point, if it would make them stop feeling 'that way.'
They refused to tell me a thing. Bastards.
-------
I've lost about six or seven pounds in the last month, for absolutely no specific reason I can figure. This used to be my body's MO, so I'm not especially worried about it. Maybe it's all the stress. (Probably it's at least in part because of that.) Or maybe it's because I've been skewing vegetarian in my food choices of late--which is a HUGE difference from BEING vegetarian, mind you. Skewing vegetarian means I'm making myself tofu and string beans for lunch today, or choosing the veggie burrito at Los Gringos Rapidos when I stop in there for something to eat during a long walk. But it doesn't rule out Susanna's chili or Baroy's ground-beef-and-sausage-laden spaghetti sauce. Or a McDonald's hamburger, even. So, I'm not really sure how that would knock six-plus pounds off in less than four weeks. But knocked they have been. And I'm OK with that.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Trader Joe's Done Done Me Wrong
I'm a big girl. I should know by now. Decaf doesn't mean no caf.
As someone with an extreme--and really, I can't overstate that word, extreme--sensitivity to caffeine, I keep a sort of mental chart of what I can and cannot handle. A few sips of Diet Coke will speed up my heart, but it won't make me sick to my stomach. A whole can? Well, let's just say I'm not that far from my 13-year-old self, who got so hyped up by a can of soda at sleepaway camp that she decided to try to jump off the concrete steps leading up to her bunk. It took the rest of the summer for the skin to grow back on the backs of my thighs after I slid down the last four or five of those steps.
[An aside: When I worry about having bipolar disorder like my dad did, it is to stories like that that I obsessively turn. Because I distinctly remember giggling about how I was Supergirl or something equally insipid. And that is pretty much textbook mania...if you're not on drugs. For me, however, caffeine is very much a drug. Whether there's a connection between the two, well, you tell me.]
What else can I handle? One tall Starbucks decaf coffee a day, so long as the barista actually POURS decaf. (I would say that two out of every five cups I order has to be poured out when I ask, "That's decaf, right?") What can't I handle? Any decaf coffee beverage from Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. I don't know why. Their decaf is just too...caf for me. Which is a pity, because their Iced Blendeds kick some Frappuccino ass. But it's not worth the price.
What is the price? Depending on the level of caffeine and the amount I drink, it can include some or all of the following: A rapid heartbeat that easily lasts six hours after I down the drink. Hands that shake more than normal (which means some fairly serious shaking, considering that 'normal' for me is Parkinsonian for most other people). Intense, low-level nausea. Other gastrointestinal symptoms (I'll spare you specificity there). Extreme irritability. And a post-reaction headache that can hang on for days.
So what did TJ's do to me that warranted a scolding in the title above? It sold me a can of decaffeinated whole coffee beans, is what it did. And not just ANY coffee beans. I've been trying to pay a little more attention to the quality of what I eat, and care a little more about where my food dollars go, and so I decided to forego my usual Trader Joe's brand decaf and try this new 'breakfast blend' that was both organic AND 'fair trade.' (I am the world, I am the children, lalalala...) After all, I've never had a problem with any of their coffees before.
Of course, now, one mug later? Oooooooh, I'm not feeling well. I'm not feeling well at all. Like venti-cup-of-full-caf bad. And I'm pissed about it (see irritability on symptom list, above). Because I have stuff to DO. And now I can't. Because I'm shaky, and my fingers are going all over the place, and it's taken me about half an hour more than it should to type this. And my mind is racing, as is my dinner, which clearly wants OUT of my stomach.
Damn you, Trader Joe's. There goes my night. And there goes a just-opened can of what had been a pretty nice, mellow cuppa joe...before it decided to try to kill me. And also, there goes another addition to my mental list of 'don't believe it when they say it's decaf.'
As someone with an extreme--and really, I can't overstate that word, extreme--sensitivity to caffeine, I keep a sort of mental chart of what I can and cannot handle. A few sips of Diet Coke will speed up my heart, but it won't make me sick to my stomach. A whole can? Well, let's just say I'm not that far from my 13-year-old self, who got so hyped up by a can of soda at sleepaway camp that she decided to try to jump off the concrete steps leading up to her bunk. It took the rest of the summer for the skin to grow back on the backs of my thighs after I slid down the last four or five of those steps.
[An aside: When I worry about having bipolar disorder like my dad did, it is to stories like that that I obsessively turn. Because I distinctly remember giggling about how I was Supergirl or something equally insipid. And that is pretty much textbook mania...if you're not on drugs. For me, however, caffeine is very much a drug. Whether there's a connection between the two, well, you tell me.]
What else can I handle? One tall Starbucks decaf coffee a day, so long as the barista actually POURS decaf. (I would say that two out of every five cups I order has to be poured out when I ask, "That's decaf, right?") What can't I handle? Any decaf coffee beverage from Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. I don't know why. Their decaf is just too...caf for me. Which is a pity, because their Iced Blendeds kick some Frappuccino ass. But it's not worth the price.
What is the price? Depending on the level of caffeine and the amount I drink, it can include some or all of the following: A rapid heartbeat that easily lasts six hours after I down the drink. Hands that shake more than normal (which means some fairly serious shaking, considering that 'normal' for me is Parkinsonian for most other people). Intense, low-level nausea. Other gastrointestinal symptoms (I'll spare you specificity there). Extreme irritability. And a post-reaction headache that can hang on for days.
So what did TJ's do to me that warranted a scolding in the title above? It sold me a can of decaffeinated whole coffee beans, is what it did. And not just ANY coffee beans. I've been trying to pay a little more attention to the quality of what I eat, and care a little more about where my food dollars go, and so I decided to forego my usual Trader Joe's brand decaf and try this new 'breakfast blend' that was both organic AND 'fair trade.' (I am the world, I am the children, lalalala...) After all, I've never had a problem with any of their coffees before.
Of course, now, one mug later? Oooooooh, I'm not feeling well. I'm not feeling well at all. Like venti-cup-of-full-caf bad. And I'm pissed about it (see irritability on symptom list, above). Because I have stuff to DO. And now I can't. Because I'm shaky, and my fingers are going all over the place, and it's taken me about half an hour more than it should to type this. And my mind is racing, as is my dinner, which clearly wants OUT of my stomach.
Damn you, Trader Joe's. There goes my night. And there goes a just-opened can of what had been a pretty nice, mellow cuppa joe...before it decided to try to kill me. And also, there goes another addition to my mental list of 'don't believe it when they say it's decaf.'
Monday, September 24, 2007
Ball buster
A couple of years ago, N had a twofer surgery to take care of an undescended testicle and an epigastric hernia. The surgery went well in the sense that he woke up from the anesthesia, had no complications, and was in very little pain. But other than that, well, it was more or less a complete bust.
Today we went to see a new and different urologist about N's right testicle, the one that used to be just fine, at least until a couple of days after the surgery on his left one. And...hey! Who didn't see THIS coming?...they want us to schedule a surgery to pull this one down, too. I said that I wanted to see yet ANOTHER surgeon before we did so, though--again, one to look at the hernia and tell us if there's likely to be a reason to operate on it within the next couple of years, because if there is, then I want them done at the same time AGAIN. Except this time? I want a written guarantee. Not that they'll give me one, but still. Because I'm really not sure what I'll do if my kid gets cut into again only to have everything reverse twenty minutes post-op. All I can say is that it will probably involve the cutting-into of said surgeons' own scrotum. And maybe a little twisting of the balls held therein.
Today we went to see a new and different urologist about N's right testicle, the one that used to be just fine, at least until a couple of days after the surgery on his left one. And...hey! Who didn't see THIS coming?...they want us to schedule a surgery to pull this one down, too. I said that I wanted to see yet ANOTHER surgeon before we did so, though--again, one to look at the hernia and tell us if there's likely to be a reason to operate on it within the next couple of years, because if there is, then I want them done at the same time AGAIN. Except this time? I want a written guarantee. Not that they'll give me one, but still. Because I'm really not sure what I'll do if my kid gets cut into again only to have everything reverse twenty minutes post-op. All I can say is that it will probably involve the cutting-into of said surgeons' own scrotum. And maybe a little twisting of the balls held therein.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Stop it. No, seriously. STOP IT.
So there are a million and one work stressors, which I won't even get into, because it's neither professional nor appropriate. Just trust me. Unusually stressful.
On top of that, since Friday, there have been no fewer than seven phone calls about my dad, who--according to himself and his girlfriend--is nearing the end. This would be sad enough on its own, particularly considering that I got to hear about it from him in his very weak, very shaky, very confused voice. But sadder still? From the outside looking in, I don't think it's all that near the end. He's still making phone calls, and he's still walking around the house. He's still even taking showers by himself. His girlfriend says he's spending enough time in bed that she thinks he has the beginnings of bedsores, but what I fear, paradoxically, is that he's not sick enough. He's sad and confused and you can just HEAR how terrified he is...and I think he's still got a ways to go. It seems unfair, somehow.
Then, yesterday, I got a call from Baroy, who had taken Em and N to see the 'kids' from Harry Potter put their handprints onto the Hollywood Walk of Fame. His car had overheated; he thought it was probably because his fluid levels were low, and it wouldn't be a big deal, but he was going to take it in to the mechanic's shop on his way home. $500 later, he has a new radiator. It's just money, but really...like we needed this?
But wait! There's more.
Yesterday evening--after seeing the Potter handprints, after swimming across the street in S and B's kiddie pool for hours, after having dinner at J's house (with Em swimming in J's 'real' pool and N just hanging out)--N looked like he might have either gotten too much sun or some mosquito bites or something. By the time he went to bed, it was definitely mosquito bites...or maybe a couple of hives. When he came up to my room at 1 AM, it was...I don't know what the fuck it was, but it was something else. Huge, burning red, itchy-as-hell splotches across his entire chest and belly, under his arms, on the inside of one leg and on the back of the other, across his shoulders, etc., etc., etc. I gave him a big dose of Benadryl, slathered him in this Aveeno product I have that's a mixture of calamine lotion, a skin anesthetic, and colloidal oatmeal, and made him sleep next to me in bed so I could listen to make sure he was breathing OK, since he was clearly having a full-body reaction to SOMEthing. (Baroy slept in N's bed; both of our kids are AWFUL to have to sleep next to even when there's only one other person in the bed. WHY do children insist on turning sideways on a queen-size mattress and either ramming you with their hard heads or kicking you with their hard feet? Sheesh.) So, yeah. THAT was a good night's sleep.
He seemed much better this morning, and all day...until around 5 pm, when they were over S and B's house again and Em called to say that N was "all red and blotchy on his back and his face and it's kinda scary."
Long story short, I Benadryl-dosed him again then dragged him over to Urgent Care where the so-brand-spanking-new-I-have-more-medical-experience-than-he-does doctor took one look at him...and went to get an attending. Thank goodness. A real doctor. (I hate July, when the latest crop of newly minted physicians is loosed upon an unsuspecting public.) I was thinking this might be a viral rash rather than an allergic reaction, because his nose was stuffy and he was coughing, but the doc said no, that it was likely the other way around, and the stuffiness and coughing was a result of the allergy to we-have-no-idea-what that was causing these blotches. He showed me the difference (a viral rash doesn't turn white when you press down on it, for instance), gave us a prescription for a low-dose steroid ("to make sure it doesn't get a chance to get into his windpipe and affect his breathing"--yup, I'll be sleeping well again tonight!), told me to keep up the Benadryl and Aveeno, and sent us on our way with orders to try and see The Best Pediatrician In The World, who we haven't visited in a long time due to my lack of good insurance, in the next day or so.
I know. It's not like the world is ending. But, really. My job, my dad, my car...and now my kid? What happened to the frickin' rule of three? Shouldn't I have gotten a break by now?
I'm expecting the locusts to arrive in the morning.
On top of that, since Friday, there have been no fewer than seven phone calls about my dad, who--according to himself and his girlfriend--is nearing the end. This would be sad enough on its own, particularly considering that I got to hear about it from him in his very weak, very shaky, very confused voice. But sadder still? From the outside looking in, I don't think it's all that near the end. He's still making phone calls, and he's still walking around the house. He's still even taking showers by himself. His girlfriend says he's spending enough time in bed that she thinks he has the beginnings of bedsores, but what I fear, paradoxically, is that he's not sick enough. He's sad and confused and you can just HEAR how terrified he is...and I think he's still got a ways to go. It seems unfair, somehow.
Then, yesterday, I got a call from Baroy, who had taken Em and N to see the 'kids' from Harry Potter put their handprints onto the Hollywood Walk of Fame. His car had overheated; he thought it was probably because his fluid levels were low, and it wouldn't be a big deal, but he was going to take it in to the mechanic's shop on his way home. $500 later, he has a new radiator. It's just money, but really...like we needed this?
But wait! There's more.
Yesterday evening--after seeing the Potter handprints, after swimming across the street in S and B's kiddie pool for hours, after having dinner at J's house (with Em swimming in J's 'real' pool and N just hanging out)--N looked like he might have either gotten too much sun or some mosquito bites or something. By the time he went to bed, it was definitely mosquito bites...or maybe a couple of hives. When he came up to my room at 1 AM, it was...I don't know what the fuck it was, but it was something else. Huge, burning red, itchy-as-hell splotches across his entire chest and belly, under his arms, on the inside of one leg and on the back of the other, across his shoulders, etc., etc., etc. I gave him a big dose of Benadryl, slathered him in this Aveeno product I have that's a mixture of calamine lotion, a skin anesthetic, and colloidal oatmeal, and made him sleep next to me in bed so I could listen to make sure he was breathing OK, since he was clearly having a full-body reaction to SOMEthing. (Baroy slept in N's bed; both of our kids are AWFUL to have to sleep next to even when there's only one other person in the bed. WHY do children insist on turning sideways on a queen-size mattress and either ramming you with their hard heads or kicking you with their hard feet? Sheesh.) So, yeah. THAT was a good night's sleep.
He seemed much better this morning, and all day...until around 5 pm, when they were over S and B's house again and Em called to say that N was "all red and blotchy on his back and his face and it's kinda scary."
Long story short, I Benadryl-dosed him again then dragged him over to Urgent Care where the so-brand-spanking-new-I-have-more-medical-experience-than-he-does doctor took one look at him...and went to get an attending. Thank goodness. A real doctor. (I hate July, when the latest crop of newly minted physicians is loosed upon an unsuspecting public.) I was thinking this might be a viral rash rather than an allergic reaction, because his nose was stuffy and he was coughing, but the doc said no, that it was likely the other way around, and the stuffiness and coughing was a result of the allergy to we-have-no-idea-what that was causing these blotches. He showed me the difference (a viral rash doesn't turn white when you press down on it, for instance), gave us a prescription for a low-dose steroid ("to make sure it doesn't get a chance to get into his windpipe and affect his breathing"--yup, I'll be sleeping well again tonight!), told me to keep up the Benadryl and Aveeno, and sent us on our way with orders to try and see The Best Pediatrician In The World, who we haven't visited in a long time due to my lack of good insurance, in the next day or so.
I know. It's not like the world is ending. But, really. My job, my dad, my car...and now my kid? What happened to the frickin' rule of three? Shouldn't I have gotten a break by now?
I'm expecting the locusts to arrive in the morning.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Some quick updates, while we await the judge's decision
My legs, they are not so restless any more. I'm assuming it was the GABA I'd been taking, which wasn't really helping as much as it was tranquilizing me. That, or it was just coincidence. In any case, I can deal with the mild restlessness, especially since the major restlessness made me do some research, and I now have some exercises, etc., that I can use when it gets bothersome. It hasn't stopped me from sleeping in a week, though. So that's good.
The 5HTP I've been taking totally rocks in terms of picking up where the antidepressants left off. It also seems to work almost precisely like any SSRI in terms of side effects as well--in other words, I'm hungry all the time and I haven't lost a single pound, damnit. But I haven't tried to bite one of my children's heads off in a single, bloody motion since I've been taking it, so that's an improvement.
My dad, after holding eerily steady for a while--actually, after seeming to get significantly BETTER after our not-so-wonderful visit with him--is now reportedly on a downswing. Totally to be expected. But Em had begun to hope that she might get to see him when we head to NY at the end of July for her always-eagerly-awaited Month With Grandma and Pop-Pop (my stepdad). And now it's looking, again, like even if he's still alive, he might not really be visitable. But, like I told her, we'll just have to wait and see. I did my thing, said my goodbyes. I'm OK. But she feels like she needs to see him one more time (for a total of, what? six times in her life?) before he dies. I'm not sure I'm really rooting for that, to be honest. I'm not sure it would be such a good thing for her.
School doesn't end until next Wednesday, but that's soon enough for me. Although we don't officially get to find out our kids' placements for next year until the morning school starts (great for the principal, who doesn't get bombarded with "but I wanted my kid in anoooooooooother class" whining, but hell on us parents, who have no idea how to prepare our anxious kids for the next school year), I have exactly the info I need on both my kids, so I'm good. Em will be in whichever of the two fifth-grade classes her friend C *isn't* in--not only at parent request, but at VERY STRONG teacher recommendation. Phew. C is a really great kid, and she and Em are really close, but she's intense and dramatic and the word overbearing doesn't even begin to describe how she is with Em. Em's teacher absolutely despised the way the two of them were together this year, and says that the only way for Em to shine is for her to get out from under C's influence. And so it will be.
As for N, he'll be in the K-1 split class next year, also due to both parent request and teacher recommendation. Due to declining enrollment, our already-small school will likely only have one full first-grade class, and then a K-1 split class and a 1-2 split class. Deciding which one to put N in was difficult--and not entirely my choice to make, to be honest--but ultimately, I think this is the best choice for him. The 1-2 split is out--there couldn't be anything worse for him than to put him into a class where half the kids are kids he won't know and who are more advanced (especially socially) than he is. The first-grade-only class would have been OK, but just that: OK. The K-1 split has several advantages: It has the teacher who I think will be best for him out of the three teachers who will likely have these classes next year. It will have kindy kids, who don't really have their footing in school yet, and so if N is still struggling a little that way, he won't stand out as much. And the kindy kids leave an hour before the first-graders do each day, which means that for an hour a day, N will be in a class of between 8 and 12 kids rather than a class of 20 kids.
All of these things are subject to shifts that occur over the summer (if enough kids move into the district, for instance, they may go from a K-1 split to a second full first-grade class or something), but for now, I'm happy with the choices...for both my kids.
The 5HTP I've been taking totally rocks in terms of picking up where the antidepressants left off. It also seems to work almost precisely like any SSRI in terms of side effects as well--in other words, I'm hungry all the time and I haven't lost a single pound, damnit. But I haven't tried to bite one of my children's heads off in a single, bloody motion since I've been taking it, so that's an improvement.
My dad, after holding eerily steady for a while--actually, after seeming to get significantly BETTER after our not-so-wonderful visit with him--is now reportedly on a downswing. Totally to be expected. But Em had begun to hope that she might get to see him when we head to NY at the end of July for her always-eagerly-awaited Month With Grandma and Pop-Pop (my stepdad). And now it's looking, again, like even if he's still alive, he might not really be visitable. But, like I told her, we'll just have to wait and see. I did my thing, said my goodbyes. I'm OK. But she feels like she needs to see him one more time (for a total of, what? six times in her life?) before he dies. I'm not sure I'm really rooting for that, to be honest. I'm not sure it would be such a good thing for her.
School doesn't end until next Wednesday, but that's soon enough for me. Although we don't officially get to find out our kids' placements for next year until the morning school starts (great for the principal, who doesn't get bombarded with "but I wanted my kid in anoooooooooother class" whining, but hell on us parents, who have no idea how to prepare our anxious kids for the next school year), I have exactly the info I need on both my kids, so I'm good. Em will be in whichever of the two fifth-grade classes her friend C *isn't* in--not only at parent request, but at VERY STRONG teacher recommendation. Phew. C is a really great kid, and she and Em are really close, but she's intense and dramatic and the word overbearing doesn't even begin to describe how she is with Em. Em's teacher absolutely despised the way the two of them were together this year, and says that the only way for Em to shine is for her to get out from under C's influence. And so it will be.
As for N, he'll be in the K-1 split class next year, also due to both parent request and teacher recommendation. Due to declining enrollment, our already-small school will likely only have one full first-grade class, and then a K-1 split class and a 1-2 split class. Deciding which one to put N in was difficult--and not entirely my choice to make, to be honest--but ultimately, I think this is the best choice for him. The 1-2 split is out--there couldn't be anything worse for him than to put him into a class where half the kids are kids he won't know and who are more advanced (especially socially) than he is. The first-grade-only class would have been OK, but just that: OK. The K-1 split has several advantages: It has the teacher who I think will be best for him out of the three teachers who will likely have these classes next year. It will have kindy kids, who don't really have their footing in school yet, and so if N is still struggling a little that way, he won't stand out as much. And the kindy kids leave an hour before the first-graders do each day, which means that for an hour a day, N will be in a class of between 8 and 12 kids rather than a class of 20 kids.
All of these things are subject to shifts that occur over the summer (if enough kids move into the district, for instance, they may go from a K-1 split to a second full first-grade class or something), but for now, I'm happy with the choices...for both my kids.
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