Wednesday, August 03, 2005

When the Hell did it Get to be August? It was another great beach day with Playgroup Peeps Sarah/Abigail and Debbie/Kaitlin.  Somehow, Jack and I keep missing the weeks that Maureen/George are able to be there, so Jack was with the girls again today and George was the only boy last week.  Have I ever given a description of the Mom/Baby pairs in our little playgroup?  I don't think that I have, so let me do it now so that you all know whom I'm blogging about.  The way that we all got together is like this: Amy (of Amy/Abby) and Maureen (of Maureen/George) were in the New Moms/New Babies class that I took when Jack was a wee little baby who spit up a lot.  I recognized Amy because she had been in our birthing class at the hospital when Jack was still the Alien in my Buddha.  After the NM/NB class was done, Maureen met Sarah (of Sarah/Abigail) at an exercise class for new moms and Amy met Debbie (of Debbie/Kaitlin) at another new moms program.  Those four pairs started meeting on Wednesdays and then, in February, when all of the babies were turning one and we had a small reunion of the original New Moms/New Babies class, Maureen and Amy invited Jack and I to join their group.  I met Jennifer (of Jennifer/Katherine) through another new parents group and invited her to join us.  So that's how the 6 of us got together.  I'm giving all of this detail in case there are other new moms out there looking for support: I think that the formal programs and groups provide a great opportunity for networking (shoot me for sounding so corporate then); that is, take what you want from the formal group but keep your eyes and ears open for someone who has similar interests, lives in the same area, is rolling her eyes at the same time you are, or whatever and then just start your own group. And this is one of the secrets of parenthood and one of the less obvious reasons, I think, that people have kids: kids give you an enormous opportunity to meet new people.  Take the beach, for instance:  I used to go to the beach with my towel and my sunscreen and my book and my bottle of Poland Springs and I would sit there and read and have a swim and go for a walk and read some more and take a nap and have another swim and go home without talking to anyone else on the beach.  Now, I've got a jogging stroller with a cute baby in it (a cute baby who was just standing up buck naked in the back of the station wagon) weighed down with a million sand toys and a cooler and a little pop-up tent and immediately everyone else with kids smiles at me and I smile back at them and Jack steals their buckets and their kids come and sit in Jack's tent and we've made 40 friends within 3 hours.  So, I don't know if it takes a village to raise a child, but I do know that you get to know the whole village when you have one. So Where Was I? So, of the moms, Maureen, I think, is a born leader.  She has great energy, both physically and spiritually.  She is an artist and a skiier and is working part time teaching fitness classes and as a personal trainer.  She's pregnant again and is originally from Nebraska.  She's very open and warm. Amy I've written about a little bit: she's an educator, a former Peace Corps volunteer, an avid runner.  Amy is has incredible compassion and sensitivity.  She's a great listener and is very creative.  She is soulful.  She's home with Abby almost full time, although she was teaching classes at Gymboree for 3 year-olds this year.  Amy is originally from Upstate New York. Sarah is small and blonde and very, very, very smart. (Please note that all of the women in this group are smart; I guess that what I mean is that Sarah has a very sharp mind and she's inquisitive and sees all of the angles.  She'll ask a question that makes me wonder why I hadn't thought of that same thing.)  She's an attorney specializing in environmental law and is working 20 hours per week (which, for a lawyer, probably means more like 30.)  Sarah is incredibly soft spoken, which I think is a funny trait for an attorney.  It is no accident, I think, that Abigail has best vocabulary of the group. Debbie is one of the nicest people I have ever met.  She has an MBA from Harvard and is incredibly laid back and nice and, even though she lives further west than any of us, is always happy to come into the city or to places closer to the rest of us.  Once, when it was Debbie's turn to pick the activity for the week, she suggested going to the Aquarium.  Two of us demurred: too expensive, too hard to park, blahblahblah.  Without missing a beat and without losing her good nature, she suggested an indoor play park that was easily a 40 minute drive for her but was convenient for everyone else.  Oh, and she's pregnant, too.  Debbie isn't working since her husband is a consultant and is in Texas right up until the baby is due. Jennifer is a self-described Army brat who moved here from California when her husband was transferred here for his work.  She was looking for a job when she became pregnant with Kate and so put the job hunt on hold.  Jennifer is an avid reader and she reads Salon and some Salon blogs and other mommyblogs.  Jennifer is a lot of fun: she and I were the two who ordered margaritas when we had lunch at a Mexican restaurant before going to the Discovery Museum with the kiddies.  Next time, I'll blog more about the babies.  I guess that I'm just feeling very fortunate to have found a group of women with whom I have more in common than a baby born in the winter of 2004.  They're all keepers.   Epiphany I had one a few weeks ago that I've been meaning to write about in here: I've decided that my fifties will be all about me.  I started thinking about how my 20's had been given up to higher learning (and cute boys) and my 30's were spent on my career.  Now my 40's are going to be given, willingly and gladly and without regret, to Jack.  So, I'm thinking, my 50's are going to be all about me.  I'm going to finish my masters (if I want to; or maybe I'll just take some writing classes.)  I'm going to get a job that I want to do rather than one that I have to do.  I will go to a yoga class 3 times a day to make up for all of the classes that I'm missing now.  And I will ride my bike all the time (and it will be sheer pleasure when my 10 year-old son is riding up ahead of me.)  That's the new plan. 9:28:00 PM    comment []

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

The Grind I was back at work last night, and some of the people whom I work with seemed genuinely happy to see me back and shocked and horrified when I gave the overview of my two weeks away (surgery, doctors' appointments, 2 car accidents, a head and neck MRI with contrast and being told I had a stroke.)  The night was busy in the Medical/Surgical ICU: I cared for some patients with very difficult and complex diagnoses and needed to help make some big decisions regarding the plans of care.  Toys I mentioned in my last blog that I've found Tolo toys at Marshall's and that I like the inventiveness and quality and relative old-fashioned-ness of this line of toys.  The other toys that I've also found at Marshall's is Tomy, and they manufacture some innovative, well-engineered, under-microprocessor-run fun toys.  The Push-n-go toys from Tomy are very cute: Jack has a little airplane with a pilot in it and you push the pilot down and the plane goes forward on its wheels, taxiing before takeoff.  I also bought, for $6.99 at Marshall's, the cutest little train: the toy includes a circular track and a little train engine; when you pull the train backwards, the wheels are wound tightly and when you let it go, it goes around and around the track.  It also came with two tunnels! and two trees!  I think that I like this toy more than Jack does.  It's just so nice to see some engineering and thought going into toys rather than software and lights and noise. Size Matters It doesn't really, but it was a good title.  Last week, I had final and complete confirmation of something that's been in the media before and a truth that all women know: women's sizes are corrupt.  That is, a size 10 is not a size 10.  For many of you, this will not be news.  It wasn't for me, either.  I am a person who has been fortunate enough to have maintained the same weight, plus or minus 3 pounds (except when I was pregnant) since I was 25, almost 20 years ago.  Back then, I was a size 8.  Suddenly, about 10 years ago, without any effort on my part, I became a size 6.  Then, again, without exercising any more than I was and while maintaining my daily intake of Twizzlers and M&Ms, I turned into a size 4.  Furthermore, I wear a lot of vintage clothes, and so I knew that, in the 50's, without a girdle, I would have been a size 10.  Hmmmm. I was watching the Today Show last week and they had a story on this old story, and what was different about this take on the story was that they had clothes: a size 8 skirt from H&M was an inch and a half smaller than the size 8 from Banana Republic and 3 inches smaller than a size 8 skirt from the Gap.  Even more galling is that BR and the Gap are owned by the same company.  Bah! The thing that I learned and that was newsworthy, though, was that size inflation is happening to men's clothes, too!  I had always thought that men had it better: if your waist measures 30 inches and your inseam measures 32 inches, then you buy a pair of pants that are 30x32.  Brilliant!  Except that now, a 30 isn't a 30; in some places, it might even be a 34!  So men are finally falling victim to marketing, too. I find this whole thing absurd (clothing manufacturers indirectly flattering fat Americans by making their sizes smaller), interesting (this is really some brilliant marketing; almost as brilliant as some of the crap that Karl Rove has cooked up for Bushie), funny (c'mon.  I weigh 127 pounds.  I have boobs.  I am NOT a size 4, even if the Gap wants you all to think that I am), annoying (I shop on the Internet.  I don't have time to try things on) and, for the first time, gloriously non-sexist!  How refreshing that men are being pulled into this game, too.  I imagine a world when Jack starts dating where all of the women want to wear sizes that are negative numbers and where the men wear pants marked with their neck size rather than their waist size.  Silly, silly, silly vanity. Right, so Back to Motherhood If you haven't gone back and read the comments that were left after I lambasted the whole idea of potty training a newborn (or even an 18-month-old) and you're interested in the other side, Randi left a nice comment about her efforts to hold her littlie over a pot a few times a day.  Zoinks.  So not for me, but more power to you!  Jack continues to be so random with his poop frequency and so clueless about the whole process, that I am sure that I will be blogging about the whole poop-conversion thing more and more as time goes on.  And if THAT isn't reason to read again, I don't know what is! Quickly The numbness is now confined to the outside of my right ankle and the top of my right foot.  I noticed that it became uncomfortable last nigh, but no one ever told me that staying up all night and running around an ICU would be comfortable.  I see the neurologist, Dr. H., again next week.  I'll keep you posted. Also, and now it isn't so quickly anymore, after this whole healthcare incident, I had made up my mind that, as much as I love my PCP, Dr. K., the care at the hospital where she works is subpar.  Jack's pediatrician is at Mass General, and I had planned to ask him for a referral to an MGH PCP the next time Jack had an appointment.  Then, Dr. K. called at 7 in the evening to see if I was doing ok since I had cancelled an appointment with her (for my eye, which, by the way, got better) because I had the car accident.  And she was so shocked to hear all of what had happened and spent 20 minutes on the phone with me and was so concerned and kind and smart and good that I still love her and I don't think that I can leave.  I won't have any other procedures at that hospital, though. 8:24:48 PM    comment []

Friday, July 22, 2005

Milestones I was anxious for Jack to learn how to drink through a straw because this would allow me to enter the great maternal arena of the Juice Box.  I am happy to report that Jack now excels at drinking from a straw and from a juice box and has also learned to squeeze the juice box so that juice squirts out of the straw all over him.  We are still anxious for Jack to start talking in earnest.  It bugs me that he looks exactly like Kevin, he is big like Kevin and he is quiet like Kevin.  I did all of that work and I got bupkus.  And, of course, I would also like to communicate with the little angel.  Right now, he communicates by pointing and saying, "Eh!  Eh!"  That gets old quickly.  Jack also vehemently shakes his head "no" (he does not nod his head affirmatively.)  He has also become a champion waver; the only problems here are that he tends to wave after the person is out of waving range and that he does a near-perfect imitation of the Queen's Royal Wave (palm facing in and lower arm at a 90 degree angle to the extended upper arm.)  It's a riot. In other words, his non-verbal communcation skills are excellent (sorry, bad pun.)  Verbally, however, Jack is lagging.  His big words are still Dada and Ditsy (Sydney).  He is, however, using these words with almost alarming frequency.  He will repeat Ditsyditsyditsy for more than half an hour, which will soon result in me running screaming from the house.  Kevin taught Jack to say Dada with a prolonged first syllable and then the emphasis on the last syllable: daaaaaahDA, like Heeeere's Johnny!  So, sometimes, Jack will stop saying Ditsy and say daaaaahDA daaaahDA for half an hour as I am seething and silently screaming, "Who's your Mommy?!" Jack also has the word 'dog.'  I discovered this week, though, that dog can mean anything living animal, as he was calling all the seagulls at the beach dogs, and, wouldn't you know it, they were all named Ditsy. We also made a big leap forward in the realms of bathing: Kevin had felt that Jack was safer in the EuroBath baby tub http://www.babyage.com/i_1106_cp_goog1106_340w_primo_primo_eurobath.aspx that I had bought and loved back when Jack was a writhing infant.  I thought that Jack was ready for the Big Tub, but didn't want to usurp parental authority.  Last night, though, when Jack nearly impaled himself on one of the safety features of the EuroBath baby tub, I asked Kev if he thought that our little handful might be ready for the real tub, and DaDa agreed that he probably was.  So, no more baby bathtub.  And that's happy and sad at the same time. Growth Spurt Next month is Jack's eighteen-month pediatrician's visit.  And I am sure that he has grown A LOT.  I am anxious to see how tall he is: he is like my hollyhocks, which took over the flowerbed this summer and are nearly seven feet high.  Not that Jack is seven feet high, but you get the picture. Materialism I haven't written about good finds and good brands lately, and I wanted to mention that I have found toys by the European toymaker Tolo at Marshall's.  What I like about Tolo toys is that most of them are mechanical: no batteries, no microprocessor controlled stupid sounds, no flashing lights and no batteries to change.  They are also well constructed.  And Jack loves them.  And, when I can buy them at Marshall's for under $10 (usually well under $10), it's nice to get a little variety. Jack is also very taken with open-the-flap books.  He LOVES them.  My sister had given me one that had belonged to my nephew; it was an Arthur book in perfect condition.  Our neighbor had also given Jack an open-the-flap book.  They are both now nearly loved to death.  So, about a month ago, Jack and I were in Harvard Square and I went to the Harvard Coop and spent a small fortune on open-the-flap books.  Please know that I am all about the library, but right now, while Jack is still eating and feeling his way through books, I think that it's a little safer to own them.  Jack's all time favorite book is still the Baby Einstein "Dogs" board book.  And as torn as I am about Baby Einstein, it's actually a very cute book, and ends with a picture of lots of dogs sleeping and the caption, "Sometimes dogs just like to sleep."  Perfect. 9:44:17 PM    comment []

Thursday, July 21, 2005

First, the Good News Today was a perfect beach day, and so, for the second time this week, Jack and I went to the beach.  Today, we were back in Gloucester at Wingaersheek Beach with Motherhood Mentor and Good Friend Stephanie and her 12 (!) year-old daughter, Samantha.  The water was perfect and the tide was going out, which made for lots of good rock climbing and digging and splashing and swimming. Jack and I also went to the beach on Wednesday, with Ms. Sarah Spencer Welsh, the newlywed!  What a treat.  We had a blast.  On Wednesday, we headed to Ipswich, also on Cape Ann, to Crane Beach.  The water was nothing short of frigid (low 70's) and Jack insisted on staying in it even though his lips were blue and he was shivering.  And it was so, so nice to see Sarah and to hear her plans with her Joe as she heads to med school next month.  Hooray!  Jack didn't sleep the whole way home because he was too busy flirting with Sarah.  I hope that Joe doesn't mind.  Stephanie gave me the best advice today: put baby powder on dry skin that has sand caked onto it and the sand brushes away!  And you smell like baby powder!  This is good news for all of us, but especially for those of us who eat the sand, roll in the sand and get the sand in our diapers.  Magic! Karma, or, If Things Come in 3's, I'm Screwed Why doesn't anyone ever say that things come in 3's when it's good things?  If you go up to a friend and say, "I just met my soul mate and I got the job of my dreams," no one ever responds with "Well, you should play the lottery, because you'll certainly win.  Things come in threes!"  BUT, if you fall down the stairs on your way to work and then miss the train, tell the water cooler crowd at work and they'll all avoid you like the plague.  You're doomed.  Once this spring, when I was struggling with pigeon pose, or a head stand, or, hardest of all, crow (it is as hard to do crow as it can be to eat it) in yoga class, the instructor told us that there is no such thing as *good* Karma and *bad* Karma.  Karma is bad.  I guess that the Christian version of Karma is the cross that you have to bear.  It's all of the crap that happens that you have to work to overcome to reach enlightenment.  So, I have had a boatload of Karma the last two weeks. Yesterday, as Jack and I were in the Jetta wagon, stopped at a red light, we were rear-ended.  No, it wasn't serious.  Yes, the Jetta has WAAAAaaay more damage than the Passat, which didn't have any damage after last week's accident, however, it's very driveable, and Kevin pushed the bumper down so that I can open and shut the rear door.  Yes, Massachusetts is a no-fault state and yes, we have a $500 deductible.  Jack and I were on our way to get Ms. Spencer Welsh to babysit for Jack so that I could go to see the surgeon for my final visit.  When I finally got to the doctor's office, the receptionist told me that my appointment had been cancelled because I had been seen by the surgeon last week.  And how was I supposed to know that the appointment had been cancelled?  According to the receptionist, it was my fault because I hadn't asked the surgeon when she saw me last week if I would still need to come for this visit.  Given the circumstances, I was remarkably composed and I didn't jump through the annoying glass window and throttle the bitch.  I just asked when I could see the doctor and explained that I needed a note to return to work and clenched my teeth and pressed my fingernails in to the palms of my hands.  I am never, ever, ever going back there again.  Ever. Fucking Karma.   9:44:47 PM    comment []

Monday, July 18, 2005

Me The numbness and tingling and loss of sensation on my right side is now confined to a small area in my lower right leg: I can't feel just above my ankle or the top of my right foot.  So, it's getting better.  I'm still getting bad headaches, though, and I have photophobia, which is a fancy way of saying that I am intolerant of bright light, or any light at all, really.  My eyes water and I wince.  I don't know what that's about, but I haven't worn my contact lenses in a week and I'm hoping it goes away because I don't want another round of going to see doctors.  Yes, yes, yes, I'll take care of it.  I hear you all moaning at me to go see an eye doctor.  And I will.  I promise.  The other thing has been a persistent sharp cough and tickle in my throat which I thought would have gone away by now, since it's been one week since my surgery.  The cough wakes me up at night and, consequently, I am remembering my dreams.  And my dreams have been very very very strange.  Lots of old boyfriend dreams (nothing racy, just guys whom I hadn't thought about in years showing up in my dreams) and strange places dreams (like a hotel that is being remodeled but until the remodel is complete, needs to be accessed by swimming to it or office buildings that require special access that I don't have and then I get in anyway, but get caught) and just strange-all-around dreams.  I just want to sleep!  Bleah. I am officially off from work until next Monday.  I am confident that I'll be able to go back by then.  I see the surgeon again on Wednesday and go to Occupational Health on Thursday to get my clean bill of health.  Jack When my nephew, who is 12 years old, was about Jack's age, I called my sister to see how she was doing and she sighed in a mixture of exasperation and exhaustion and said, "He's a climber." I had no idea what she meant, but I do now. Jack is a climber, too.  Today, I came here, into the little office cum downstairs nursery to send a few e-mails and left Jack playing happily in the living room, where many of his toys are.  I heard some noises that I wasn't sure about, and ran out to the living room, only to see him in the kitchen STANDING on the kitchen table with a basket of peaches and throwing the peaches across the room (he thought that they were balls.) This morning, when we took Sydney for her walk, Jack climbed up onto a low stone wall and walked on it for its entire length.  He did this several times. He is unstoppable at playgrounds.  He heaves himself up on the platforms for big kids and hurtles himself down sliding boards.  He is still (thank you God) cautious about jumping (I don't know why he's so cautious, but I am not questioning this little bit of grace that I have been given.)  It's good that he is cautious because I often turn to find him at the highest peak of the jungle gym poised at an opening looking defiantly at me.  Then he spins around and finds a slide to come down on. It is very very very hard not to be overprotective.  I scream inside myself every two seconds: No!  Holy shit!  Jesus, Mary and Joseph!  Don't!  No!  Shit!  On the outside, I say: Good job!  What a good boy!  Hold on!  Feet first!  Where is my little baby who I carried around in the baby carrier? Three H's The weather has been dadgum hot.  Hot sticky hot.  On Saturday afternoon, when Kevin got home from work, he took Jack and I to the beach in Gloucester.  Yesterday, Jack and I went to the sprinkler park.  Today, we were all set to go to the pool that is about a block from our house and that pool was, inexplicably, closed, so we went to another pool that we had to drive to.  At least we were wet.  Tomorrow, we are going to the beach again.  I am trying to pack a lot of summer into the days.  I like having damp beach towels on the clothesline and bathing suits on the towel rack in the bathroom and the whole insouciant attitude that comes with beachgoing and pool-hopping.  Meals are whenever and whatever.  Bathing suits are rinsed out and worn again under a pair of shorts or a skirt the next day.  Hair is in a ponytail or under a hat.  Shoes are flip flops or sandals.  Socks are in winter storage.  It's ok to eat a popsicle for dinner.  It's summer.  8:54:25 PM    comment []

Friday, July 15, 2005

Whirlwind modern medicine decidedly NOT at its best, liz behaving badly and illogical feelings of luck Thanks to everyone who has e-mailed me or commented here about my post-op shenanigans.  The last few days have been crazy, so here's a synopsis: On Wednesday, I went to see the surgeon, who is very kind and calls me "sweetheart" and sounds like she means it, as opposed to calling me sweetheart because she can't remember my name.  So she examined me and came to the same conclusion as Handsome Charming Single Surgical Resident did: the right side of my body is numb and tingly because of the position that they had me in on the OR table.  It's just a coincidence that my face is numb from my neck being scrunched up and my arm is numb because that's where the IV was and my leg is numb from the belt that strapped me on the table.  However, the surgeon wanted me to see a neurologist "just to be sure." On the way home from the appointment with Dr. P, my numb right foot slipped off the brake when I went to stop for a braking truck in front of me and I slammed into him.  The little Passat, gawdbless'er, had only a few scratches.  The truck was fine EXCEPT that the guy who was driving it (it was not his truck) told me that the little Passat had skewed the truck's bumper sideways.  I looked at a big dent on the rear right of the truck, where the tail lights are, and said, "I did not do that." and he said , "No, you didn't do THAT, you did THIS", as he pointed to his bumper, which was pointing slightly upwards on the right.  Now, getting testy, I said, "Oh, so you're magic.  You can tell that I didn't do some damage but I did do other damage.  You just want me to buy you a new bumper because you hit something else with it earlier today and now you can tell your boss that I did it!"  Anyway, it went on like this for some time, as we exchanged information and I got angrier and angrier and more and more upset.  End of story: Jack was not with me, I was fine (or at least as fine as I was when I started), the Passat was fine and my insurance will probably go up next year.  Fuck. After that happy scene, I went back to Kevin's work, where he had Jack and now had to drive me home because I was a wreck.  I decided that I would just take Jack with me to the neurologist appointment the next day, because I am sick of Kevin missing work and me paying for a sitter and parking and everything else because of the illogic of medical care.  And, plus, the visit to the neurologist, Dr. H., would only take a few minutes because I was fine, just numb from positioning, etc, etc. So, yesterday, I arrived at Dr. H's office, dragging my right leg, with an unhappy Jack in tow.  I had forgotten to change the stroller in the car, so I had the big, unwieldy jogging stroller and the doctor's office was in the oldest part of the hospital, with some chairs lined in a narrow hall.  You get the picture.  Jack is whining, I'm knocking everything over with the stroller, and this is 3 days at the hospital out of 4.  I check in for my appointment and, of course, they ask me for my insurance card.  I snapped. "I don't want my insurance company to pay for something that is the hospital's fault.  I had my gall bladder out on Monday and now I can't feel my right leg." The medical secretary got the office manager, who was snitty.  "Dr. H. needs to be paid for her services." "I'm not arguing that," I said, knowing already that I was going to lose, but not without a fight, "I think that the anesthesiologist who let this happen to me can pay her." "We have no arrangement for that," she said.  "Dr. H. needs to get paid for her service." I hated this woman, a little too intensely, and I was taking out all of it on her: the pain in my belly, the numbness on my right side, the car accident, the yelping toddler, the big awkward stroller were all her fault. I handed over my insurance card. Later, the same office manager asked me if I had called my PCP to get a referral.  I snapped again, "I did.  Don't worry, you'll get paid.  I really appreciate your compassion and understanding, by the way."  She looked at me, stunned, and said, "I got you this appointment yesterday."  I wasn't done.  "Oh, so that's where compassion ends?  You got me an appointment to fix something that somebody at this hospital broke?"  She said something that I don't remember and I stopped.  Jack was shrieking. Dr. H. had, of course, heard of this little diatribe by the time it was my turn to see her.  She was brusque.  She was also good at what she does.  She took a thorough history and then did a physical exam, while Jack howled and shrieked and yelped and threw things.  Why didn't I just suck it up and pay for a babysitter?  Then Dr. H. looked at me and said, "I am fairly certain that you've had a stroke.  I can either admit you now and you can have an MRI later as an inpatient or you can have an MRI later today and then get admitted once we are 100% certain that that's what it is.  You will need a course of heparin and will be on heparin or Lovenox for the rest of your life.  I think that an artery in your head or neck was torn during the surgery, when they positioned your head for intubation.  If that's not what it is, I'll be floored." I was still stuck on the first sentence.  I am 42 with the cholesterol level of a vegan on Lipitor.  I exercise (well, you guys know, I try), I eat well, I haven't smoked for years and never smoked that much when I did, I have minimal family history of cerebrovascular disease, I have low blood pressure, I never had a miscarriage (which is linked to stroke), I went through a vaginal delivery with no problems, etc., etc.  How the hell could I have had a stroke?  And then I remembered the clumsy 2nd-year anesthesia resident, who had barely gotten the IV and who dropped EKG leads on the floor and bumbled and fumbled and felt his way through.  HE had hyperextended my neck.  It was HIS fault!  Then, how was I going to tell Kevin that I had had a stroke?  How was I going to be away from Jack for a few days?  How was I going to go back to work?  What was my life going to be like with a blood thinner and a previously ruptured artery in my neck? I called Kev at work and asked him to meet me at home.  He left work early for the second day in a row, after having had off Monday and Tuesday.  Jack and I found a picnic table outside and I fed him lunch and he was delightful.  I put on my sunglasses so he couldn't see me cry. We got home and Kevin and I came up with a plan.  My goal was to keep things as normal for Jack as possible.  So, we decided that Kevin and Jack would drop me off at the hospital for my MRI and I would bring a small bag with me for my stay.  I would call Rama and get babysitting lined up for the next several days.  Kevin would ask our neighbor to watch Jack that night once Jack was in bed so that Kevin could come see me in the hospital.  I brought the bills that needed to be paid and the accident report that I need to fill out and a book and some New Yorkers.  Carrying my little bag, I went through the admitting process for the second time this week and then went to wait for my MRI.  The MRI was awful  I had had one of my hip once before, and it was uncomfortable, but nowhere nearly as bad as this.  When they do your head and neck, they shut your upper body in a cage and pack it in with foam block and then back you into the tunnel where, for 45 minutes, you're subjected to grunge guitar feedback alternating with loud pipes banging and then, sometimes, scariest of  all, silence, interspersed with whirring noises and then the technician's voice saying "Next one, 6 minutes.  Stay still!  Don't move!"  I don't tend to be claustrophobic, but my skin was crawling by the time it was done.  Oh, I forgot to mention that the contrast fluid coming in my left arm through and IV at the fold of my elbow burned and ached at times and, of course, I couldn't move it.  I amused myself by doing yoga breathing and wiggling my toes. When the forty-five minutes of modern medical torture ended 12 hours later, the technician, a Jamaican guy named Wolf, let me out of my cave and my cage and I was so relieved to be out that I almost started crying.  But I was out of tears and emotion from earlier in the day, so I just got off the table and took my overnight bag and went to sit on some chairs to wait for the Dr. H. and the radiologist to do a 'wet read' of my MRI. Dr. H. came out and said, "You didn't have a stroke.  I'm floored.  But the MRI is negative.  Now I need to see the arteries in your neck.  I'll be right back." I DIDN'T HAVE A STROKE!!!  I DIDN'T HAVE A STROKE!!! Dr. H. came back a few minutes later and said, "Your arteries are beautiful.  They're clean.  No tears.  No ruptures.  I am completely surprised and now, I'm sorry to say, I have no idea what is wrong with you." I called Kevin immediately to tell him the news and he had Jack in the bath and held the phone up to Jack's ear so that Jack could hear me say "Mommy's coming home!"  They both met me outside the hospital and Kevin had dressed Jack in his *Mommy* tatoo t-shirt.  I have never been so happy to be going home unexpectedly.  I dropped the little overnight bag in the entryway and haven't touched it since.  So, I am still dragging around my numb right leg, which is getting better.  The numbness in my arm and in my face is pretty much gone.  And no one knows what's wrong.  Today, my goal is to not go to the hospital for anything.  We think that Kevin may get a full day's work in today.  I think I'm going to see if Rama can come on Monday just so that I can take a day off.  And I am loving every minute of being anywhere other than in the hospital.     12:40:32 PM    comment []

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

What the Hell Was I Thinking? Surgery stinks.  Ouch.  Ugh.  Bleaah.  After giving birth, I was amazed at how quickly I felt pretty darned good.  After having a tiny little gall bladder out, I am amazed at how shitty I feel.  So, What-the-Hell-Was-I-Thinking #1, I never should have worked Sunday night.  I'm almost 43.  I was going in for surgery.  And I work a 12-hour night shift?  Stupid girl.   At work, we will frequently talk of "buffing" a patient before surgery: getting the patient into the best possible condition before the procedure so that the procedure is tolerated better.  I was completely de-buffed.  What-the-Hell-Was-I-Thinking #2: Kevin, gawdbless'im, took the day off from work today.  I thought that I would be ok with Rama working her regular hours (8:30-1:30).  Um, I slept off and on until 2 this afternoon.  And I'm not able to lift Jack.  Good thing that Kev was here. To complicate things more, I am having numbness and tingling in my right leg, especially below the knee.  Yesterday, right after the surgery, it was my right leg and arm.  I was in tears, as I convinced myself that I had had a TIA (transient ishcemic attack, or mini-stroke.)  The same charming surgical resident who had done my pre-op showed up and did some basic neuro tests and convinced me that I wasn't having a stroke, but no one seemed to know why I'm having the numbness and tingling.  It's still here today, and my leg will occasionally give way, so I just spoke to my surgeon and she wants to see me tomorrow.  She thinks that it is from the belt on the bed that they used to strap me on (the head of the bed is put down at an angle ("Trendellenberg") to decrease the air in the abdomen that causes all of the pain), so that's a relief, but I still can't walk right or dependably, which is not a good thing, especially when I'm responsible not only for my motor locomotion, but that of a crazy, blond toddler.  The pain isn't that bad.  I haven't had to take any percoset; I'm managing with Tylenol.  It's just the fatigue and my leg, really.  And that's enough. 7:35:04 PM    comment []