Discussion of My Viruses

I spent the first three days of the week in bed sick with a wicked cold that was perhaps amplified by the arrival of a new mattress. Who can stay out of bed when staying in it feels like heaven? I may or may not have allowed myself to feel more sick in order to stay in the nice, new bed.  But the cold has now retreated into the realm of average viral discomfort and today I had to leave the bed behind and accomplish something.

Today's accomplishments were many, but the best was going to Costco and only spending one hundred and eleven dollars. I would imagine that not many people possess that amount of self control. Small victories.

Prior to venturing outdoors and hitting the shopping scene today I had to make the journey downstairs to survey the damage caused by three days of Mom In Bed. It was fairly extensive, but nothing that can't be repaired within a 24 hour window. The most disconcerting side effect of my self-prescribed bed-rest was my children's mental status. It didn't take long for them to learn to do without Mom's help or supervision and they quickly regressed to a primitive, feeble-minded sort of existence. Allow me to paint for you a picture of what I found when I descended from my shower and make-up application around noon today...

I stepped over two coats, three pairs of shoes, several crunchy leaves, one pencil and a bullet strung on a necklace and entered the kitchen where Drew was vacantly eating a microwaved corn dog and Trent was licking ketchup off of a plate, (presumably because his corn dog had already been devoured, leaving an excess of condiment), and in front of each boy was a portable DVD player. One child was watching Napoleon Dynamite and the other, Cars 2. Simultaneously. With the volume on each machine plenty loud. Cameron was at the table with his head bent over his Nook letting his own lunch get cold while he cleaned poop off of the zebras in his virtual zoo. Toys and clothes were strung about the living room as though every family member had been changing their pants and starting wars between dinosaurs and Avengers in front of the TV all week. Dishes had spilled out of the sink and made their way to a windowsill behind the couch where they were competing with empty Mt. Dew cans for a view of the backyard. So really, it wasn't too bad. I can knock out that kind of mess in less than an hour. It was the glazed-expression, ketchup-licking, double-feature action that was primarily worrying me. So I'm glad that I got out of bed today before things progressed to the kids figuring out how to watch episodes of reality TV on cable.

Really the worst part of this whole sickness ordeal was/is not the mess downstairs or the lost days of productive work that could have been done, or the coughing until I gagged, or even the mush-minded children...it's the cold sore. Seems that every 5 months, or every time I get sick, whichever comes first, I get a cold sore. I hate them more than the fact that Drew has watched Napoleon Dynamite so many times that he is actually starting to adopt some of Napoleon's mannerisms. And with every itch and ooze of my upper lip I can't help but wonder who the hell gave me this disease? I've had them since I was four and no one in my family gets them, so it's likely that I encountered the offender at the home of my then part-time babysitter. But I'd still like a name so I could curse the person as needed. But I would imagine that a lot of people who have herpes have to spend every flare-up wondering who gave them the disease, and at least mine isn't down south, so I shouldn't complain. Things could always be worse.

Anyway - here's to good health. Hope you all have avoided this season's viruses.

The Surgery - Part Deux

I didn't really think it was bad at the time, but everyone who I've told this little piece of information to totally freaks out.  

After Andrew kissed me goodbye when I was going to the cath lab to have my heart operated on, he went home. 

Now, don't go thinking he's a giant butt wipe or anything. 

The doctor told Andrew that I'd be in surgery for a minimum of two hours, and that for an hour after I was done, I could not have visitors.  We knew I wasn't going to die or anything, and we live 15 minutes from the hospital I was at, so he went home.  He had breakfast, puttered around for a while, and went back.  He was at the hospital for over an hour before they let him back to see me.  So it's not that bad.

He did tell me that if I had died, he had already planned to use my life insurance money to buy a pimped out VW bus and take the kids on a vacation to Alaska.  And he would have, too.  But I don't think that was his first choice of outcomes.

Anyway - part one of the heart surgery can be found here.  On to part two.

I get wheeled into the cath lab, and the staff transfers me to a metal table that has a weird blue blanket thing on it that looks like a bowling alley when there are those bumper thingies in the gutters.  Except my bumpers were flowing with hot air to keep me warm during the surgery.  That plus the warm blankets they piled on top of me made me pretty sure I was going to pee myself.  I didn't really care though because it took them about twenty seconds to start pumping my IV full of drugs that made me quite sleepy and also removed any sense of the possibility of impending death.  I didn't care what they did to me.  La, la, la. I'm still not sure if I peed or not.  It's entirely possible.

I was at a university hospital, so while my doctor was in the room during the surgery, a fellow actually performed the closure.  Scary, no?  Again, I didn't care.

The most painful part of the ordeal was when they stuck needles in my groin to numb my legs so they could insert the catheters into my femoral arteries.  I remember the needle going in and my back jumping off the table a little bit.  Then a nurse said that she was going to give me another dose of drugs and that was the last thing I felt until she had her fist shoved into my groin to stem the flow of blood after they pulled the catheters out.

I was awake for parts of the procedure.  I remember watching the catheter in my heart on one of the six or so TV screens.  I thought it was kind of weird that there was a foreign object moving around inside my heart and I couldn't feel it.  

Another time I woke up and heard my doctor say to the fellow, "You see that flap there at the top of the atrium?  What is that?"  And the fellow thought and thought - but I knew right away what it was.  I tried to say "Atrial septal aneurism", but it wouldn't come out of my mouth.  The fellow got it not long after.  If it had been Jeopardy, I totally would have kicked his butt.

Then the thing was over and I made small talk with the nurse who was applying pressure to my arteries.  We talked about kids and homeschooling and cool places to go in Portland...  And then they lifted me ever so gently back onto my bed, I prayed that my tampon wouldn't fail me just yet, and we went back to recovery where my prayer went unanswered.

Stay tuned for Part 3 - The Inconvenience of a Room With No Toilet

The Surgery - Part One

I've sentenced myself to a nap every day this week.  I figured I need it since I'm still so exhausted from last week.  I'm not sure if it was the surgery or the anxiety that wiped me out so completely, but I'm withering.

I thought I'd tell you all the gory details.

I got to the hospital with my husband last Thursday morning at 6:30.  They gave me a designer gown with a slit right over my right bosom.  I think the only purpose for those slits in the front of the hospital gowns are to give the nurses nipple flashes of all the patients, and to provide you a place to stuff your heart monitor cords when you need to hobble to the bathroom.

(File photo.  Andrew won't take pictures of me in the hospital.  So this one's from January when I could have died.  Almost.  But not really.)

Anyway, I laid there in pre-op while a parade of lab techs, nurses, and CNAs did their thing to me.  

One guy came in to draw blood and hook up my IV.  He sprayed about a pint of my blood all over the sheets and then fumbled around trying to clean it up, apologizing and muttering about "covering his sins".  Poor guy.  It wasn't the only time that day that I had to wonder how the laundry staff gets all those blood stains out of the sheets.

Another nurse came in to ask me if I needed to be shaved.  How should I know, right?  How far in are they going to need to go?  So she sent someone in to "access the situation".  That was awesome.  Turns out I only needed a navel to knee iodine bath - I had tamed the beast to their satisfaction.

Then another nurse came in to ask me if I had any questions.  I did actually.  I knew that after my surgery I had to lay perfectly still for six hours - no head lifting, no leg bending, nothing.  (That's so that I wouldn't bleed to death out of the veins/arteries they were going to shove tubes up and then apply compression bandages to.)  So the problem was that my Aunt Flo had come to town, and I wanted to know what the plan of attack was for dealing with that issue for operation time plus six hours...without moving my head or legs.  Turns out the nurse was stumped.  Honestly, how have they not run into that issue before?  The whole thing did not turn out well. It was gory.

Then a doctor with a huge white head on the end of his nose came in to distract me.  I have no idea what he said.  I couldn't stop staring at his massive zit and wondering if it was going to explode while he was leaning over me with my groin exposed.

Finally they wheeled my bed back to the entrance of the cath lab and two doctors, two nurses, and some guy who was presumably there for a purpose stood over me, introduced themselves, and made sure they all knew what they were there for.  This is the part where Andrew was hoping they would all mistakenly think I was scheduled for a breast augmentation.  No dice.  It was confirmed that I was in for a PFO closure.  I told them not to screw it up, and in we went.

To be continued...unless I tire of the subject.

Be Still My Heart. Wait, No. That's Wrong.

I don't know if he thinks he's still making up for missing my birthday or if he's pampering me in case I die during heart surgery on Thursday, but Andrew has been super, over the top chivalrous lately.  

Yesterday he vacuumed the living room.  Wow, right?

Today he did the dishes twice, cooked all three meals, took the trash out, and stopped at Dairy Queen on the way home from running errands.  This last he did because he said it might be my last Snickers Blizzard before I die.  Such a thoughtful guy.

I know I keep mentioning this heart surgery and it sounds pretty heavy.  I suppose any heart surgery is, but this one is minor when you compare it with major heart surgeries...like a transplant, or a quadruple by-pass.  I'm about to explain it to you in very short, simple terms.

The 2 upper chambers of your heart are supposed to be separated by a wall of tissue.  That wall keeps the dirty, used blood separate from the clean, ready-to-go-out-to-the-body blood.  

My 2 chambers are not separated by a wall, but instead, I have a "flap" there which creates a tunnel, allowing used blood to come on over to the "clean side".  This used blood can potentially have clots in it.  

Back in January a clot got through that tunnel in my heart and traveled to my brain which caused a tiny stroke.  The stroke caused paralysis and numbness in my left arm and the left side of my face, including just half of my tongue.  That was weird.  My risk of having a second, much worse stroke is now too big to ignore.

Strokes are bad.

So on Thursday, my cardio surgeon is going to put a clamp of sorts around that flap to close the tunnel.  My heart tissue will grow around the clamp, and after about 6 months, I should be just about as normal as any of you.  Well, as far as the heart is concerned.

My chest does not have to be butterflied in order to do this procedure.  The doc is going to go through my femoral arteries.  One artery for the camera or ultrasound device or whatever it is, and one artery for placing the device inside my heart.  

Easy, peasy.  In and out.  

We hope.

So there you have it.  Wish me well, because my husband has no idea what our bills are or where I keep the extra baby wipes.

How To Go To The Hospital

When I had that stroke last month it happened at 12:30 in the afternoon.  I had not showered yet that day, and I was kinda smelly.  As in, "Crap, I have that 'not so fresh feeling' and I'm headed to the hospital where body prodding is sure to take place."   But there was no time to stop for a shower, so I just had to make excuses for my smell to every doctor, RN, CNA, LPN, neurologist and intern who came within two feet of me.  I was hooked up to heart monitors all night and all the next day, so I didn't get to shower until about dinner time on day two.  When I was all lovely and clean and back in bed, a nurse came in to hook me up to monitors again, and she said, "It smells good in here!  Did you take a shower?"  Yes, she really said that.  I told her that I had in fact showered, but that she was probably smelling the roses my sister had brought me.

Hospital tip #1:   Murphy's Law sort of dictates that no one will be going to the hospital when they are looking their best, so if you end up in the ER smelling like a homeless person in July, just take a look around you and feel better.  It's likely you aren't the most disgusting person in the room.

2.  Even in a serious situation I cannot help but making stupid, inappropriate jokes.  Such as:  When finding out I have a nodule on my thyroid, (totally unrelated to reason for being at the hospital, but a favorite topic for Idiot Doctor), I asked him if that's why I was fat?  You know - "It's my thyroid."  And then taking bets for when the doctors were going to ask me when I'd had my double mastectomy.  Flat chested jokes are sometimes just wrong.  Also, I was so bored at times that I had to fight off the urge to fake a seizure for the entertainment of...Ok, I suppose just for my own entertainment.  Also, once you've had thirty or so neurological tests and you have the questions and movements memorized, you start to feel like slurring your speech and poking yourself in the eye just to give the nurses something different to do.

Hospital Tip #2:  Think before you speak.  And if you're well enough to be joking, even inappropriately, that would be a blessing, so don't be too hard on yourself.  But when you're perfectly coherent and sane and a nurse asks you if you know where you are, try not to spend too much time thinking of comedic responses, because when it takes you a while to come up with an answer it starts to look like you really might not know the right one.

3.  Some doctors do not know as much about your condition as you do.  He won't like to admit this, so he will go home at night and Google what you told him is wrong with you.  He will come back the next morning and tell you that he "did some research".  Then he will draw a picture for you of what you already knew.  It will look like a picture of Spiderman.  The doctor will feel like he is educating you, and it's ok to roll your eyes and call said doctor a dumb ass.  Some doctors need a little humility.

Hospital Tip #3:  A medical degree does not an intelligent person make.  If you think your doctor might be a moron, demand a new one.  You have that right.

4.  This one's important.  If a whole heap of people are going to be working on your chest doing ultrasounds or EKG's or whatever, you should make sure you don't have two nipple hairs growing out of your right mammory.  And no, I do not speak from personal experience, I have no idea what you're talking about.

Hospital Tip #4:  When you do those self-breast-exams monthly like you're supposed to, be sure you check for unwanted hair.  Cause, Dude.

5.  When you're bored your sister might help you take pictures that you think are funny, but those pictures will not amuse your husband in the slightest because he is still stuck on the fact that you could die at any moment and won't be ready to laugh yet.  His lack of a sense of humor in this situation may actually make you love him more.

Hospital Tip #5:  Bring a person with you to the hospital who will keep things light, and another who will act like the world will stop moving if you die, will swear at Idiot Doctor, and who will later tell you that you can't post a picture of yourself drooling because not only is it not funny, it's also insensitive.

My Brain On Drugs

Today I had a trans-esophageal echocardiogram.  Which basically means a doctor stuck an endoscope down my throat to get a closer look at my heart.  I went into it thinking that if nothing else, it would at least be good blog fodder.  

Unfortunately, all I can tell you is that I came out of it with the mother of all sore throats, because the doctor had to drug me half to death to get me to relax and I don't remember a thing about the procedure itself. 

I know I was awake because I had to swallow the scope until it got to the right spot and I had to cough when the doctor told me to, but all I remember is my throat being sprayed with some numbing junk and then I was on my back and it was over.

Such a pity.

The doctor said he had to keep upping my drugs because I wouldn't just chill.  He also said that happens with a lot of mothers because we're so used to having to remain alert at all times.  Sleep with one eye open and our ears on hyper-scan, right?  

Now I'm feeling the loss of what surely would have been a great story.  I might have puked on the doctor when the scope went past my uvula or said something inappropriate when the tube was pulled back out through my mouth, and we'll never know.  

So, to make up for it I've compiled a list of hospital survival tips, should you ever find yourself in need.  But you'll have to wait until the next post to get the scoop because this one is already too long.  But be sure to check back because there's pictures of me in a hospital gown, and you know you want to see those.  

Now I'm going to go eat some ice cream and hope it puts out the fire in my throat.

Mourning My Good Metabolism

Let's talk about food, shall we? I love to eat. The best time of day for eating is about 5 seconds after all the kids are in bed. It's the first moment of the day when I can completely relax, and relaxing sometimes equals food.

When I was a child, my parents would send my sisters and I to bed and then waste no time in plugging in the hot air popcorn popper and pulling out a bag of MnM's.  They always poured the candy into a GLASS bowl so that we could hear them chink-chink-chinking into the dish, and our mouths would water as soon as we could smell the butter melting in the microwave.  Sisters and I would lay there in bed, sure that Mom and Dad did this just to show us how much they despised us.  It was pure mean. We whispered to each other that if they couldn't indulge while we were there to share the feast with them, then kinder parents would have at least waited until we were asleep and oblivious to the prepping of goodies.

Now that I'm the parent, I have to admit that there are foods I won't share with my kids, either. It is a sad day around our house when Drew has committed another atrocity and there is no candy or chocolate to provide comfort after cleaning up whatever disaster has occurred. Chocolate is therapeutic, but I must admit that anything conceived of Mr. Wonka is also uplifting. I never grew out of my appreciation for Nerds, or the giant, soft SweetTarts that come in a four pack, (and, unfortunately, two of the flavors have to be lemon and green. That's right, Green. I'm not actually sure what fruit flavor it is supposed to be, so it is referred to as Green).

While we're on the subject, why do food manufacturers insist on putting undesired flavors in the packages with the good flavors? For example, does anyone ever go for a Lime Popsicle when there are still Banana and Root Beer to be had? Not in our house. We push and shove and knock each other down to get the Root Beer, and then we let the kids choose from whatever is left. 

My mother is a fantastic cook. In my youth she treated me to many fabulous dishes, all of which I loved.  Except for the grilled cheese, which she will burn even if she stands right in front of the stove, spatula in hand, staring, waiting for the perfect moment to flip. It's an unfair curse, really. 

Worse than the grilled cheese though, was the meat loaf. 

I can't tell you how much we dreaded meat loaf when we were kids. The meat loaf itself, was always fine, no complaints. But meat loaf always meant lima beans. Mom put the meat loaf, potato wedges, and lima beans all in an electric frying pan together, and fried it until the meat loaf was done. That meant the potatoes were crisp on the outside and perfectly soft on the inside, but the lima beans were usually blackened. And not in a spicy, Cajun way. They were just black and hard and covered in grease from the meat loaf. We ate them because we were afraid not to, but we hated it. And yes, I can speak for myself and every one of my siblings on that one. Years later, I realized that fried to death and covered in grease is actually the best way to eat a lima bean.

I grew up never having to worry about how much I ate and where on my body it might land. I was blessed with a metabolism that loved to work over-time. 

In high school I weighed around 120 pounds. Then came my early twenties and giving birth to two children. About 2 months after Ethan was born, I settled in at an acceptable 135 pounds. Then came Drew, and exactly 10 months after he was born, I finally got back to that blessed 135, and I got there without exercise or dieting. Patience and time is all it took. (Go ahead and hate me now if you want to, but rest assured, my comeuppance is hurtling towards me with frightening speed.) Exactly one week after I returned to that 135 pound pre-baby weight, I found out I was pregnant with a very unexpected fourth baby. (Curse my body for spontaneously deciding to ovulate again without the aid of medication, and curse myself for being so stupid as to think anovulation is acceptable birth control. Not that we don't love Trent to death.)

So here we are, another ten months after child birth, and I cannot get below 142 pounds. Fine. I can live with 142. What I cannot live with is where those 7 extra pounds decided to set up camp. - Right behind my belly button. Standing naked in front of the mirror is now comically sad. I look like a character from a Dr. Seuss book - dangly arms with a narrow chest which slopes down into a round, protuberant belly, then back into skinny legs. I take comfort that at least I am not as hairy as a Seuss creation.

So if the trend continues; 120's in my teen years, 130's in my twenties and 140's as I creep up on my thirties, then I will weigh 180 pounds by the time I am seventy - but it will all be in my mid-section so that my stomach will enter a room before I do, and may in fact be able to flip light switches up or down of it's own accord if I should happen to turn around too hastily.

And that, Dear Readers, is the plight of me with my super powered metabolism that died off on me after I've lived 29 years.  Twenty-nine years of bad habits that I will now have to break if I ever want to fit back into my jeans.

I am going to have to start exercising. I am going to have to stop eating every time I walk through or past the kitchen. I am going to have to change everything I have taught myself about self control, which so far has only been something that other people have to worry about.

Crap.

*Update:  Since this was written one year ago, I am still at 140 and I have back fat.  Age is the Achilles Heel of a good metabolism.*

Crazy Diet

My poor husband has those crappy genetics that mandate he battle his weight his entire life.

Don't get me wrong - there's some good genetic code in there, too.  I won't go into that though.

It's just sad that he has to go to the gym or hit the pavement every night to keep his waistline below a size forty, and I get to sit on the couch eating a giant bowl of Reese's Puffs cereal while watching Master Chef, and not gain a pound.  (Almost.)

Just watching Master Chef has the potential to make Andrew gain weight.  

Several months back, Andrew decided he needed to be at a respectable weight before we go on our annual salmon pilgrimage to the Pacific NW.  He started out by watching what he ate and working out six nights a week.  

I helped out by baking peanut butter chocolate chip cookies to tempt him with.

After a few weeks, he decided that his plan wasn't drastic enough, so he started to eat rice.  And nothing else.

He ate rice for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for two solid weeks before I finally convinced him to eat a banana for breakfast, or an occasional packet of oatmeal.  I honestly thought he was going to get scurvy or something.

And he wasn't even eating brown rice!  He says he doesn't like it.  So white rice, (empty carbs), only.  And it really did work.  He was burning every one of those empty calories, and then some.  He dropped about twenty-five pounds in three weeks.

Finally, I got sick of cooking the rice, (broke my rice cooker lid quite a while ago, so I was doing all of this on the stove top, poor me). I did a little poking around online and found a super easy recipe for refried beans that aren't fried.  Slow cooker all the way.  They are delicious, have almost no fat, and they are actually pretty full of nutrients.  Everything from fiber to protein to magnesium.  

And believe it or not, I convinced Andrew to switch from rice to beans, and now I'm only cooking for him once a week.

I made a fresh batch of beans tonight, and I added in some cheese.  Don't tell Andrew, or he won't eat them.

The Inconvenience of Poop

I am a nervous pooper. Anxiety gets the better of me, and I instantly have diarrhea. This rather inconvenient issue flares up whenever I have to speak in public, when I do something bad and am facing exposure, (yes, this still happens to me), and whenever a certain family member of mine calls on the phone or sends me an e-mail. In fact, just thinking about all this is making my guts rumble.

Excuse me - I'll be right back...

Okay, all better now. Where was I? Oh - right.

So I'm learning to deal with this side effect of my personality, and giving myself an internal therapy session, I suppose it's a sign of weakness. But this is not the case with my husband.

You see, he has the same disease, but his takes effect whenever something needs to be done. Nice, huh?

I ask him for help with the dishes, and POOF! he has to poop. It hits really fast - almost like magic. By the time he emerges, dishes are done.

Today we decided to clean up the backyard, and as I'm headed out the backdoor he hollers to me that he'll be out after he uses the bathroom. He eventually showed up after I had already gotten all the toys put away in the garage, the tent taken down from the boys' backyard camp out, and nearly had the picnic table dragged back to it's proper place.

I've decided that he's brilliant, and next time I get a disease, I'm going to make sure it suits my purpose.

Mind Over Uterus (Alternatly Titled "Shameless Overshare")

*A disclaimer. If you are a male relative of mine or are bothered by discussion of female anatomy or visits to gynecologists, please skip this post and come back tomorrow, when I promise to discuss none of those things.*

The mind is a powerful thing, and I hope that mine doesn't qualify me as crazy - but after this last week I may have to embrace the truth.

On Tuesday I once again convinced myself that there was something very wrong with my insides. Specifically, my reproductive system. The pressure, the bloating, the (excuse me for saying) excessive vaginal discharge, the heavier than normal menstrual bleeding... It had to be bad.

Normally, I try to stay away from any websites like WebMD or diagnose me dot com because I know that I am a raging hypochondriac and I need to just chill out. But this time I thought that one of those symptoms was so far out of my norm that I couldn't ignore it. So I googled my little heart out.

No one should ever google the things I googled.

I soon discovered that I had all the symptoms of ovarian cancer, (which are basically anything from abdominal pressure to eyeball twitches), and I panicked and called to make an appointment with a gynecologist.

This morning I stood in the bathroom ready to prepare for my appointment, and I had to wonder what was the appropriate level of personal topiary? You don't want to leave things untidy, but you also don't want to look like you're trying too hard. I spent a good hour in the bathroom shaving to perfection, taking extra care to avoid a repeat of "the Soul Patch Incident of 2007".

At 11:30 I headed out to the gynecologist. Part of me knew that I was about to have a very routine visit, the other part was wondering if my life insurance company would grant me an advance on my death benefit so I could take my kids to Disneyland before I succumbed to the inevitable.

I walked into that doctor office and wondered if I had gotten the wrong building. It was like a posh ski lodge with muted lighting, huge wood beams in the ceiling, a separate room for kids complete with two story play structure, and everywhere I looked there were women who resembled models from Hustler Magazine, except that most of them had baby bumps. That was the only indication that I was in the right place.

I approached the reception counter and told them my name and who my appointment was with and while I watched the girl type in my info, I gazed down the counter and noticed that all of the staff looked like Bratz dolls. They had gobs of make-up accentuating big eyes and full lips, their hair was teased into playful, spiky messes of intentional seduction, and not one of them could have been over the age of twenty-five.

I started to wonder if I had walked into some kind of cult reproduction of the Playboy mansion.

Then the receptionist handed me one of those vibrating pagers that you get at Olive Garden on Friday nights when 600 people all decided at 7:00 that they wanted crappy Italian food.

"I'm sorry? What's this for?", I asked.

"We'll page you when it's your turn," said Miss Thang.

"My turn to eat? Can I see a menu? I should have brought my husband."

Unamused, Miss Thang went back to her typing.

I sat down and tried not to look at all the pretty women sitting around me. Where were all the old people? The women with hairy upper lips or so many piercings and tattoos that it almost certainly guarantees some kind of diseased pustules on their girl parts? You know - the women who make you feel better about a stranger poking around in your downstairs because nothin' you got is going to be as bad as what the doc will have to deal with on them.

I realized that on this day, I must be that woman for all the sex kittens there.

Not that they were worried about anything with their perfect skin, stilettos, and expertly applied make-up. I actually felt kinda bad for the doctors and hoped they had some kind of system in place to keep themselves calm.

I tried to keep my eyes on my Parent and Child magazine, but I kept stealing glances at the other waiting patients until I felt my pager buzzing on my lap.

Dinner time!

I collected my things, met the nurse who was waiting for me in the hallway and was led to a scale that is not as polite as the one I have at home. I decided to take five pounds off for clothes. And another two for shoes.

Blood pressure, check, then into the exam room. I was given a lovely paper gown and blanket and was told to put on the gown so that it opened in front and lay the paper blanket across my lap.

And it's always a race, because some of those doctors, I swear they try to catch you standing there naked, trying to slip your arms into the holes without tearing it. Give a girl a minute to make herself presentable!

I had barely gotten my rear onto the table and the blanket around my legs when the doc knocked and opened the door. Phew!

He came into the room, and good grief, even the doctor was beautiful! A nice looking man with gray around the temples, dark eyes and a gentlemanly southern accent. He sat down and asked me all the standard questions, including whether I had any questions for him.

This is the part where I had to say things like "discharge" and "bowel movements". I tried to tell myself that he deals with this stuff all the time, but I couldn't look at him while I talked.

What on earth makes a man want to become a gynecologist anyway?

The doc took it all in stride, performed a thorough exam, including one of those obscene ultrasounds that do not take place on top of your stomach.

At the completion of his time with me he pronounced me completely healthy from a gynecological standpoint and suggested I go to see a gastroenterologist regarding my bloating, pressure, and general feeling of constipation in spite of my normal bowel functions.

Turns out I don't have ovarian cancer - just irritable bowel syndrome.

Which means a lifetime of Metamucil staring me in the face.

But at least I got my annual Pap taken care of.

So tonight the muscles in my left arm are sore, even though I haven't used them for anything out of the ordinary. I bet it's the onset of something sinister.

Damn that WebMD!

A Different Kind of Age Spot.

There are quite a few downsides to getting older, and I have to apologize for my self-obsession over the next little while. It's going to get worse until I actually hit thirty and then can stop letting the occasion envelop me as though Death were giving me a big hug and saying, "See you soon!"

I know - thirty is not that bad. If fifty is the new thirty, then thirty must be the new puberty. Maybe my pituitary gland will kick it into high gear and I can do away with those padded bras! And hey, it could actually only be that a third of my life is behind me. Oh my gosh. A third!

The wrinkles started to set in a while ago, and I think I'm okay with those because they mostly just mean that I've enjoyed some sunny days and laughed a lot.

Constipation isn't such a welcome thing. IBS and colitis run in my family so I figured I would eventually be plagued with either eternal diarrhea or blockages worse than rush hour traffic in L.A. Even with my refusal to go the Metamucil route, I think I'm better off with the constipation because the other option could be a lot messier.

I found a gray hair the other day and was naive enough to assume it was the only one. Upon further inspection, I found an entire crop of them thriving under the stress of four male children and one husband who sometimes acts like a child. (But don't they all occasionally?) So I hit the head with a bottle of mahogany dye and now I will have to keep up the ritual until I keel over or figure out how to go from dark brown to salt and pepper without that horrid growing out phase.

But the worst of my ailments caught my eye a day or so ago when I had stripped to get in the shower and caught sight of a portion of my back in the mirror. I swear there are about ten moles there that didn't exist a year ago. Is that normal? I was horrified and wondered how long they'd been there making my back look like a connect the dot page in a coloring book. I wanted to ask Andrew if they'd popped up recently or if they'd been there all along and I just hadn't noticed them, but who wants to draw their husband's attention to those kinds of things?

"Honey, is my back a grotesque farm of newly sprouted moles?"

"No, Babe, those things have been giving my gag reflex a workout for years now."

"Oh, good to know!"

Yeah. I think I'll just keep playing dumb and be grateful that none of these things have cropped up on my face. Yet.

I'm Still 29!

This is the gray hair that I plucked from my head this morning.  Time has absolutely no patience. 

Notice the confused look on Drew's face?  I felt the same way.

Woes From the Sick Ward

I honestly thought I was getting the bug this morning. Stomach pains whenever I ate anything. But so far, so good. I think I have more mental issues than anything else, but we knew that - no need to elaborate.

Drew was the first to be hit on Tuesday, Ethan followed Saturday afternoon, Trent on Saturday night when we found him sleeping in a puddle of his own vomit, and Cameron succumbed around noon today. (Sunday) You should smell our house. Whew! That's what vomit and diarrhea for 6 days times four kids will do. Blame the laundry pile. Andrew and I have nothing to wear because we can't get past the sick laundry long enough to get the regular done.

Ethan asked his Dad and Grandpa to give him a blessing last night, so he's actually felt great all day. I can't get him to tell me what's going on in the bathroom, and he's so modest that I can't bring myself barge in on him to inspect the contents of the toilet when he's done. He goes off to school tomorrow.

Cameron seems to be on the mend. We're going on seven hours with no vomit, and he learned the valuable lesson today that when you have the stomach flu, you should never trust a fart. He will be staying home tomorrow to give him 24 hours sans vomit before chucking him back into the world.

Trent is past the worst of it and just needs to overcome the diaper filling issues. He is eating, sleeping and acting normally otherwise. Thank goodness.

Drew is still my problem child. Always making things exciting. We haven't had any vomit from him since Thursday, but he continues to have diarrhea. About four or five times a day we are alerted to it's reappearance by the stench, and his poor, little bottom is speckled from cheek to cheek, top to bottom with the red bumps of a nasty rash. All that acidity had to catch up to him eventually. Baby powder is working best to combat that. The real issue with Drew is his appetite. All day today he ate one bowl of soup and half a slice of toast. That is it. I tried everything else from pizza to crackers to MnM's to bananas and the kid will not eat. I actually stuck him on the scale today to make sure he still registered. So I'm pushing the liquids, but Drew will only drink Sprite. Figures, huh? Very little water, no milk (which is probably a good thing), no juice, not even popsicles. So he's had two or three cans of soda today. I have no desire for this child to turn into me, so the kids don't get soda very often at all. But since I'm trying to keep him hydrated, I'm pretty much letting him have anything he will drink. If Sprite is it, then that's better than nothing. But if he thinks that that is going to continue after the diarrhea clears up, then he has a rude awakening coming his way.

Seriously hoping that this will be the last posting about any kind of excretions for a long, long time.

Akin to the Bog of Eternal Stench

Drew has had what the doctor called a "stomach bug" for four days now, and I can't go on without sharing some of our experiences with you. And you know you can't live without reading about our household's bodily functions.

Drew has had the flu before, so this is not the first time he's experienced vomiting, but his reaction to it is always the same: run. My queue to grab the barf bucket is when Drew is laying lethargically on the couch or recliner and he suddenly jumps up and starts running around in circles. By the third time he pukes, I usually have the moves mastered to ensure that at least some of his stomach bile doesn't hit the rug.

We were doing fine with this routine all day on Tuesday, and then Wednesday came and he was fine! Hooray! I was no longer glued to Drew's side, ready to whip the bucket under his chin. (Asking the kid to run to the toilet would be completely insane at this point.) And then Thursday came and we had diarrhea to deal with. It wasn't anything that his diaper couldn't carry the burden of, and I was glad to have only been 12 hours into potty training when this whole thing started. If we'd been on day three, this episode would have been a huge set-back.

Half-way through Thursday, the vomiting decided to make a come-back and Drew and I handled it like pros. At that point, I had washed my hands so many times that I'd gone through two bottles of liquid anti-bacterial soap and all the skin on my knuckles. Stinking dry weather. So I knew I could live through it as long as nobody else caught it, whatever it was.

Today came, and we were once again free from any symptoms of flu or various "stomach bug" until about an hour ago when I was monitoring lunch in the kitchen, and I heard an eruption in Drew's pants. We're talking Mount Etna. I asked Drew if we could go change his diaper, and he yelled, "No, I not. I draw!" And he pulled out the crayons and some paper. I decided it was just as well, I would pull Bryan and Trent out of their high chairs and put them in their cribs before I attempted disaster clean-up. I managed to get Trent down and was headed back for the kitchen when I heard Drew crying, "Owie!" in the kitchen, trapped by the baby gate. I could tell just by the way he was standing there that we had a major flood on our hands. Or running down his legs, rather. He said he could wait right there while I laid Bryan down, because the last thing we needed was a curious toddler's help.

I knew when I smelled it that I should have undressed him in the tub, but I ignored that instinct and laid him on a towel to change his diaper. When I lifted his shirt, it was too late for any kind of civilized clean-up, so we did the best we could with the tsunami of yellow filth sloshing all around, and all the while, Drew kept crying, "Owie, owie.." I pulled his shirt off as carefully as I could, and then the cries of owie became even louder. He pointed to his mouth, and sure enough, his mouth was covered in diarrhea. It's really hard not to laugh when someone else has diarrhea in their mouth. I should have just cut the shirt off.

I got him into the shower and cleaned up with a nice, baby fresh smell which was contained to just the bathroom, and I left him there, standing in the shower stream, soaking in the heat and steam, while I went out and stared at the pile of soiled clothes sitting on the towel. I couldn't make up my mind if I should just dump them all in the trash or try to salvage them. In the end, I decided that the orange shirt was one of my favorites and needed to be passed on to Trent because it would match his hair so nicely, but I couldn't stand the thought of rinsing the clothes first, so I just shoved them all in the washer by themselves for a double wash, double rinse in hot water.

I am really finished with this "stomach bug". Drew's docile temperament while sick is no longer worth the smell, or the hand scrubbing, or the general state of heightened tension as we wait for the next explosion from one end or the other. On the up side, if he has to be hospitalized for dehydration, then the nurses can take a turn at clean-up! And now, I have to go light every candle in the house.

Holey Heart, Batman!

Remember that surgery I mentioned my dad needing a while back? It's happening on Monday morning. I know he isn't excited about it, I don't think any of us are, but I am glad that it's going to be taken care of.

He has one of the best doctors in the country doing this surgery for him, so we take comfort in that.

We're hoping, praying that all goes well.

Say Aaahhh!

The last time I went to the dentist was when I had my wisdom teeth extracted in 2005. Yikes, I know. So it was with a fair amount of trepidation that I went to have a cleaning and exam this morning.

Usually I enjoy going to the dentist. Obviously not as much as shopping for a new pen or going for a chocolate-dipped chocolate cone at Dairy Queen, but it's always been sort of relaxing for me to sit in a chair while other people work on my mouth and I drift in and out of coherency. (That's without nitrous oxide.)

Side note: When I needed to have my wisdom teeth pulled, I went to see the dentist who's kids I used to babysit. (If any of you live close enough to visit him in Gresham, OR, it would be worth giving him your business. He's an excellent doctor with great prices, and he ain't bad to look at while you're staring straight up with your mouth pried open and drool sliding out anyway...) I knew I would be getting my first dose of "laughing gas" on that visit, but had no idea how that might make me react. I'm sure it was similar to most other's experiences. They hooked me up with the mask blowing the gas into my nose, and then left me there to inhale to my heart's desire. About three minutes later I was in a hysterical panic because I couldn't stop giggling, and I knew that Dr. Westover would be coming back any minute to yank my teeth from my skull. I had to think about something terrible.

The cost of tooth extraction.

Family reunions.

Nope, I tried to hold it in, but more giggling erupted from me.

Dead puppies.

Bill collectors.

Tried to hold in the laughing, which resulted in snorts.

Then I thought about Dr. Westover and his assistant possibly standing behind me and watching me convulse with snickers.

That embarrassed me enough to sit up straight and try to hold still. I pulled the mask away from my face, feeling relaxed enough that Dr. Westover could have come at me with a steak knife and a pair of pliers, and I would have been more than happy to "open wide".

And then I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window, sitting so rigidly and trying to keep my mouth shut, and lost it all over again.

When the doc finally came back, I was exhausted from laughing at my hysterical self and tried hard to remember not to say anything at all, or I might just divulge my darkest secrets. When my teeth were removed, I yelled, a little too loudly, "You're AMAZING!" And then I tried to figure out how long I might have been laying there because my head felt like a balloon floating a few feet above my body, weightless, and somehow filled with lead at the same time. I was struggling to keep it upright.

That one experience helped me understand the appeal of illegal drugs.

Ok, where was I? Ah, yes. Today's visit. Today I was suffering from a bout of anxiety over how much money I would have to fork out to pay for not having had my teeth checked for so long. The really stupid thing is that I've had insurance for almost four years that covers cleanings 100%. I was certain that I would be told that I had set a new world record for most amount of cavities in one mouth, and my only comfort came from the fact that I had no pain anywhere.

That was not the case two months ago. Two months ago, I had terribly sore gums in just one spot between my two back molars on the top right. They were sensitive to the touch, and bothered me when I chewed on that side. My hypochondria kicked in just a bit and I became certain that I had gum disease and all my teeth were going to fall out. I looked it all up on the internet, inspected the color of my gums in the bathroom mirror, and became a very paranoid religious flosser. I flossed every day for six weeks, and my gums were still bothering me in that one spot.

That pain is what finally convinced me to schedule a check-up. The day after I made the appointment I was walking through Wal-Mart and my gums began to bleed in that upper right side. I was a bit freaked out as the taste of blood coated my tongue. I didn't want to reach into my mouth to see if I could feel some kind of nubbin' or abscess that might be causing the bleed because I had been pushing a Wal-Mart cart, and who knows what kind of plague-ish germs are on those things? So I felt around with my tongue, and what do you know? A tiny piece of a popcorn kernel slid out of that space between my teeth where my gums were irritated. I hadn't had popcorn in about six weeks - like since my gums became sore. How disgusting is that?

Boy, was I was mad! All that daily flossing, and the kernel had just been shoved further and further up until it had set up camp where I could no longer get to it. What a sham! I know I was flossing the right way - I had watched videos of what to do and what not to do on the internet! So I quit flossing after that. I felt like I'd been tricked!

I had three cavities filled today, and was told to start flossing again, or I would have three more to deal with in no time. It's a conspiracy.

Take that, Burton.

Yesterday Cameron called from school and told me that he was sick and needed to come home. I talked to the school secretary and she confirmed that she thought he ought to be picked up. Well, I had 2 sick toddlers and no car, so my mom took a break from work and collected both my older boys from school. That way, I wouldn't have to walk with the sick-o's to pick Ethan up later, either.

Turns out that Cameron's cold was so mild that I would never have thought he needed to come home. But, obviously the school thinks that any child with the sniffles should be kept home. So I kept them home again today. For no reason other than it is colder than a mother-in-law's kiss out there, and we wouldn't want anyone to go from sniffles to full on sneezing, now, would we?

We're enjoying our Christmas Vacation preview.

Ouch, Part Two

So, in spite of the crippling back pain, I had to make turkey soup for dinner. So I hunched in a half-standing position at the kitchen counter and chopped carrots and celery and cabbage for the soup. I knew that cutting myself would be unavoidable because I couldn't stand with normal posture and kept jerking involuntarily every so often with little spasms of pain. So when I did cut a little slice into the tip of my thumb, I managed only the one swear word, (being unprepared for it would have warranted two, at least), and then, my sweet, sweet Ethan walked alongside me as I hobbled/crawled to the bathroom for a band-aid, and he insisted on getting it for me and unwrapping it. Cameron was too busy laughing at me to be bothered with helping. And to be honest, I was laughing too, because I felt ten degrees worse than ridiculous, whatever that might be, for having to crawl to the bathroom for my first-aid. On the bright side, the flap of skin I cut was still attached to my thumb, so nobody had to worry about eating my flesh with their soup.

So, soup simmering on the stove by some miracle, and into my living room comes Dr. Hull, the world's best chiropractor. He set up his portable adjustment table as I looked on with something akin to fear swelling inside me. I hurt so bad all on my own, I knew he was going to be torturing me - for my own good, of course.

Let's just say I cried. A lot. And with a little bit of hysteria that would normally not be me at all. And I couldn't even muster up the decency to be embarrassed that he had to touch my sweaty back, and who knows what else. (I hadn't yet been able to figure how to take a shower.) I should have thought to tell him that I wouldn't be offended in the least if he wanted to go wash his hands when he was done. Hey, Matt...next time, wash your hands when you're done. I'm good with that.

So Dr. Hull left, and I felt a million times worse than when he arrived. But that happens with chiropractors. They poke you, or turn you, or put pressure where you feel they really should not, until you want to die...or they just make you touch your toes without bending your knees and remind you how inflexible you are. And then a few hours later, you can magically walk again, or squat down to wipe up the milk that someone let dribble from their mouth onto the floor. And in all fairness, Dr. Hull was very gentle, and even helped me turn over and sit up when I found that I could no longer move any part of my body below the second lumbar and was stuck. Course, I suppose he had to help me, or he wouldn't have gotten his table back.

So, I need to thank my posse for their help in getting me through my night. I thank Ethan, who took care of me like a pro. I thank Cameron for keeping me laughing. I thank Drew, Trent and Bryan for not pooping their diapers after I got to the point where I could no longer move my back without shouting, "Holy sonnofa mother lovin' frishterbaza!" I thank David, who kindly stopped at the store and bought rolls and ice cream and cake when I found that I couldn't stand erect or even semi-erect in the kitchen anymore to make the garlic cheese biscuits that I had intended to go with the soup. Oh, and for emptying the dishwasher this morning, too. And I thank Andrew, who stopped pretending that he didn't know how to change a dirty diaper, brought me my dinner in my chair, plugged in my heating pad, made me an ice cream cone, and told me that, no, he would not come save me if he heard a huge ker-thumpity bang! from the bathroom while I was taking a shower, but then told me that I shouldn't lock the door, just in case. Oh! And he also didn't call me a drama queen even once. I would have found a way to punch him in the face if he had. And, in case I haven't actually given real praise yet, I thank Dr. Hull, who punished me just enough to have me walking entirely upright this morning, and almost without that, "I have something stuck in my fanny cheeks" look. And, if he refrained from doing a mocking imitation of my overwrought sobbing for my parents and siblings when he got home, then I thank him for that, too.

And now, I am going to get out of my chair, with only one brief wince and a grunt, and see if I can manage putting a load of laundry in the washing machine. Wish me luck!

Ouch.

I did something to my back today. Not sure what exactly, but I find myself incapable of carrying anything and walking at the same time. For instance, I SLOWLY lifted Trent from the floor to take him to his crib for a nap just a bit ago, (back already hurt at this point, it was not caused by lifting Trent just the one time), and when I got him into my arms, my lower back refused to allow nerve signals past it, thus preventing my legs from taking the necessary steps to travel from the living room to the bedroom. I shuffled, tiny little spaces, cringing and moaning, hardly able to hold on to Trent. The pain in the lower back was trying to convince me to drop him. After about a minute, maybe two, I found myself halfway down the hall, almost to the door I needed, and the moaning seemed to be causing Trent a case of the giggles, which made him harder to carry, and made me start to laugh, which increased the difficulty of the task as well as the pain. Somehow, I made it to the crib, and lowered Trent in, only dropping him the last couple of inches, which he enjoyed. But then I couldn't get back upright. Hmmm... I was sorta OK to just hover there, bent like a cripple, but at some point, I'd have to exit the room if Trent were ever to fall asleep. I backed off the crib, (glad that I have no breasts that would have gotten hung-up on the railing), and left the room, closed the door behind me, and shuffled back to the living room, where I tipped myself onto the couch and spent five minutes straightening out, one millimeter at a time. I'm good now. I just can't lift anything, carry anything, or bend over. The babies are going to have to stay in their cribs until Cameron gets home to lift them out.

In case you hadn't heard enough from me lately...

I just got off the phone with my mom, and I've decided to hell with the fear of a reprimand.

My dad just got out of his first leg of tests, and it appears that he has a hole in his heart which is causing air bubbles to get into his brain. I don't understand it any better than that, but the doctors say that it could be the cause of his recent memory problems. More testing to be done tomorrow.

He may or may not have to have surgery to repair it, but my mom said that surgery would be likely since the size of his hole is a 5+ on a scale of 1-5. Luckily, modern science has made advances allowing this to be done via a vein in his leg rather than butterflying his chest like a stuffed pork chop.

Either way, we are all a bit freaked out by the whole thing and would appreciate any prayers or other such good thoughts from anyone who might want to take the time to send them our way.