Out of Touch

Micah and I have been at my mother's in Maryland since Sunday.  My mother had surgery on Monday so we were on hand to be of whatever use, and Mom's home only has a dial-up modem since she is only about three notches above Amish, and I have little patience with dial-up at this point in my technology-spoiled little life.

Monday we had a early wake-up call so we could be on the road to Southern Maryland Hospital by 6:30 am.  Mom was supposed to be there by 7:30, three hours prior to her 10:30 surgery so that she could have some sort of tracer put in that would help the surgeon define if there was any lymph node involvement.

We showed up promptly, got her registered and sat down to wait.  Micah was along for the ride, so we were stuck in the solarium.  Times have changed, thanks to H1N1.  Three years ago Thea was with me for Mom's knee replacement and we were everywhere: the surgical holding area (because Mom's surgery was delayed for hours and hours), the recovery room, and her hospital room.  Now visiting hours are strict and no one under age 18 is allowed beyond the lobby and solarium.  People were wearing masks, but I couldn't tell if they were people who were fearing acquiring the virus or those who had some sort of symptoms.  Either way, the masks did not inspire much in the way of confidence.

We met Mom's surgeon when he came out to a) chastise yet another person (having already told Mom) that she was to have been at the hospital at 7:00 am, no 7:30 am, and to b) to let me know Mom would be sitting in a cubicle by herself because I could not go back there "because of the child" - which he said in a tone of voice one would use to say "blistering case of herpes."  He was not campaigning for the Miss Congeniality award, and I was left with the hope that he had phenomenal surgical skills to make up for his utterly lacking charm or people skills.

And in my mother's defense, NO WHERE on any of the the papers that she was given by either the surgeon's office or the hospital was the time written down.  So fault lies with the surgeon's office.  Period.

Meanwhile back in the solarium, after exhausting the markers and paper, the wooden trains and whatever else he could get into, Micah started working the crowd, making all sorts of new friends.  At one point he was on the loose, circulating throw the room giving everyone high-fives - which most people seemed to find amusing or at least a diversion while waiting to hear from their patients' surgeons.  A lady who sat at our table asked if Micah had microtia, and she had a niece who has unilateral microtia, so it was interesting to hear about her experience (the niece is now 19 years old or so, I think - my brain was only half-engaged in the conversation, the remaining bits were focused on keeping an eye on Micah and how long until we heard something on Mom), but she digressed into nursing, the National Archives, multicultural families and a myriad of other topics that my un-caffeinated brain failed to absorb.

On our way to Maryland we stopped at the AT&;T store because my wall-charger for my cell phone went missing - and my car charger ($4.99 on eBay) died months ago, and my cell phone's battery was near-depleted.  As we were leaving the store, the sales clerk offered Micah an old non-working cell phone, which for about the span of 72 hours was his prize possession.  We took a break from the solarium to go out to the car to find it and got to watch a LifeFlight helicopter take off from the landing pad near the ER entrance.  Micah was fascinated, and waved at the pilots until I thought his arm would fall off.  After it took off, we were back in the waiting area, ready again to torture the assembled masses.

After the surgeon came out around 1 p.m.  to say all had went well with my mother, Micah and I took off to get gasoline for the car and to head over to National Harbor.  We were going to hook up with my cousin who would take Micah for a few hours so I could go back to the hospital and see my mother.  He fell asleep in the car, but after he woke up we parked the car and went down to "The Awakening" sculpture and Micah occupied himself with that traditional little boy pastime of throwing pebbles into the Potomac.

Micah got handed off in the Fleet Garage at National Harbor, getting to ride in Thea's booster seat (exigent circumstances, I know how to get her seat in and out, his requires a degree in engineering which I do not possess) and I headed back to the hospital, arriving there with 40 minutes to kill. Visiting hours for the evening are 5:00 pm to 7:00 pm, and from the number of people hanging out in the lobby, exceptions to the rule were not being made.  So I twiddled my thumbs, figured out how to check my email via my cell phone (who knows what that will cost on next month's bill), changed my ring tone and cleaned out my purse.  And I still had 30 minutes to fritter away after all that.

When I finally got signed in and my visitor's badge clipped on, it was 5:05 pm.  I headed up to my mother's room, almost dreading what I would find - in 2006, after her knee replacement, she looked like death, was out of it from the medication/anesthesia, it was not pretty.

But when I got to her room, there she was sitting up, watching TV, looking pretty much how she did when I last had seen her that morning.  Minus the real estate removed by the surgeon, which wasn't really noticeable given the surgical drains in place.  It was a shock, a very pleasant shock.  So we hung out, she got to eat her technicolor liquid dinner (yellow chicken broth, green gelatin, red cranberry juice, brown tea) while we compared notes on the surgeon, etc.  Her nurse (Liz) was very nice, and while I was there the cardiologist came in to see her (when the surgeon mentioned that he would request that the hospitalist see her since Mom's physician doesn't come to SMH, I said to him I hoped it was someone with better people skills than the last hospitalist from her knee replacement, so the surgeon opted for cardiology to round on her instead.   Cardiology dude was very nice, was thorough and had some humor and personality under his white coated exterior.

I reclaimed Micah from my cousin's, he'd gotten a chance to play with Elise and Henry, and all the bopping around had taken its toll because he was asleep before I was over the Wilson Bridge.

Both the cardiologist and the surgeon said Mom could go home Tuesday or Wednesday, the surgeon thought she'd want to stay until Wednesday, but Mom got discharged on Tuesday, walked off the floor and down to the lobby to wait for me to pull the car up, and then when she saw the car, she came strolling out on her own, just about 24 hours after getting out of surgery.  Mom's neighbor was recruited to stay with Micah in the car, so we all had lunch together at Mom's.

She took it easy for the rest of the day, but the only pain medication she took was for her knee.

The next day, 48 hours after surgery, Mom wanted to go to the bank and check out the farmers' market at the St. Mary's County Library.  She was on the hunt for green beans.  Then we went down to another farm where we'd been a few months earlier to let Micah play on the wooden train.

While Mom was checking out the apples and pumpkins, we checked out the train and the goat pen and goat barn (or Goatel, as the farm calls it.)  Micah was trying to bond with the baby goats, but the baby goats were more focused on their meal plan, the udder.  And Micah sees a large pink, finger-like protuberance near the hindquarters and declares "IT'S A PE-E-E-NIS."  Which, of course, in his mind, it is.  Any dangling, wobbly bits between the rear legs MUST be one. 

So after trying to explain my mother's surgery to Micah - a necessity since he was right there while I emptied the drains and changed the dressings - and failing miserably to distill cancer and mastectomy into something manageable for the three-year old brain, I was now having to figure out how to explain that teats and udders are not penises and testicles.  Again, without benefit of caffeine for my aching synapses.

Anyway, I think he got the message because after the farm, we went to Applebee's for dinner and we were talking about what we saw on the farm and Micah looks at my mother quite earnestly and says in his loudest Micah voice, "And that NOT a PENIS, that where the MILK comes from."  Nice.

Meanwhile and far away, I spent the first three days off the electronic map before getting a little bit of time at Borders.  Free Wi-Fi, a beautiful thing,  free Wi-Fi and access to an electrical outlet, even more beautiful thing.

Go Away Week, I'm Done With You

If yesterday felt like Thursday, then today should have been Friday. I just want this week over and done with. And despite having a half day tomorrow, at 5 pm or so I will be on call through Monday at 8 am, and I have to work Saturday. Not fun. It's supposed to rain on Saturday, so everyone will be home contemplating their aches and pains rather than heading for the Shore.

Today I found out that one of Thea's best pals at school will be moving to Chicago in two weeks or so. Nuts. They're so cute together, they love Pokemon cards, knights (and running around with swords and shields), and just play so nicely together.

Micah is talking, talking, and cracking people up - today he came to the office andwhen I found him, he said "Hello, Daddy" knowing full well that he was being funny. Two days ago, he was sitting at my desk, drawing a picture and when Sarah asked him what he was drawing, he replied "Kitties." Except that he put a "T" at the front of the word and dropped the "K". So Sarah said, something to the effect of, "Oh, you're drawing a CAT." And he corrected her by saying, "No, I am NOT drawing a CAT, I am drawing KITTIES." Except with the T for K substitution, again. And more loudly than the first time, because she clearly didn't understand him, in his mind. He might have perfect diction by the time he reaches kindergarten or first grade, but he's not going to be living that one down for awhile.

The CT that wasn't to be, was - or ride 'em, cowgirl

The on again, off again, on again, off again CT of Micah's temporal bones was on, again.

Midmorning today when I found my cell phone (it was under the console in my car), there were two messages from Hackensack Radiology Group's office manager. Since I have had absolutely no luck whatsoever in my dealings with HRG, it was Steve's turn to try. He's much more patient and has a longer fuse much of the time (ten years of practice in dealing with me, he should have these skills down pat).

And it was ok to bring Micah in this afternoon, so we threw lunch together, hurried both kids through eating, and got ready to go.

Thea got balky at the idea of riding in the car for no reason other than to provide support to her little brother, the queen of the pre-preadolescent meltdown strikes again. So Steve and Thea got the shopping list, Micah and I programmed the GPS and off to Hackensack we went.

My comfort zone on the NJ Turnpike ends at Newark Airport; this was only my third time driving on my own above Exit 15 (first time in 2007, to Hackensack to USCIS or whatever Immigration is calling itself at the moment to be re-fingerprinted before going to China for Micah; second time in 2008, to go to Micah's ENT's office in Englewood).

We got to the outpatient radiology facility at 3:20 pm, got through the paperwork quickly - it was a bit of a hoot having the woman registering Micah to ask how long has he had this problem? Umm, how about since about day 41 or 42 in utero? It's a congenital defect, he didn't get mutilated by his barber, sweetie.

Despite spending an hour in the car talking about how we were going to have pictures taken for Micah's ears and there would be no owwies involved, when it came down to laying down and getting positioned for the test, Micah was upset so we had tears and snivveling to deal with. Rather than keep pushing him we went back out to the inside waiting area to get calmed down and ready for a second try. I used the "I'll do it first, then you try it" approach.

The second try started with me laying down, Micah sitting on my stomach and the tech using her controls to make the bed go up/down and back and forth. Despite agreeing to try it after I did it, Micah still wasn't thrilled, but we at least got him laying down and they did whatever initial check to check for positioning. More tears, wanting to go home, wanting Daddy, as well as willingness to give up the puppy dog promised him if he cooperated by laying still and quiet (my pediatric nursing professor said that bribes can be an effective tool, so bite me if you think otherwise.)

And then I decided to bag the lead apron, get on the bed with him and hold his hand and hold his chin up, using our Very Hungry Caterpillar stuffed animal to soften the pushing on his chin. Kudos to whoever came up with this toy idea, the curve of the catepillar back fits nicely under the three-year old size chin. Of all the useless stuff animals Micah owns, this was one who proved its worth.

The tech was ok with this unique and somewhat awkward set up and told me to watch my head as we moved in and out, and we were off. Giddy up and get it over with.

And it worked, at least that's what the technician said. No motion artifact blurring the images.

Score one for our team, no sedation needed!

The CT technician had the patience of a saint, for which I am eternally grateful. I am also glad she made no mention of the awkwardness of having to look at my rather abundant backside as I rode the scanner bed sidelying and sidesaddle while holding Micah's chin. A true professional focussing on the task at hand rather than the incidental ugliness that might accompany said task.
And she was good about me asking her no few than half a dozen times, "Are you sure that the images are ok?"

Micah was doling out high-fives and hugs to all as he got ready to leave and spent quite a bit of time saying how "big and brave" he was. He was very pleased with himself, and any memories of the tears and cowardice evaporated. We stopped to get his puppy at Barnes & Noble - he had picked one up a few weekends ago and I had ditched it at the cash register telling him it was broken and needed to go to the doctor.

And then we drove home, in near rush hour traffic, on the Turnpike and Route 1. And got a ticket for having the GPS unit on the windshield. Obstructing the view of the roadway. No good deed goes unpunished, at least in New Jersey, it seems. Bite me, Middelsex County.

Evil Moments

Today we headed down the NJ Turnpike and on to my Mom's house. The kids were relatively good in the car, on minor spat with the obligatory whining, but otherwise a smooth trip. For variety we took a vote and decided to go through the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel instead of taking I-695 and the Key Bridge. Thea thought the tunnel was pretty cool stuff. Score one for Mommy.

Since the kids only had one break at the Chesapeake House rest stop, the first order of business was getting some running around time in before dinner. And my mother's neighbor's dog is the perfect source of some exercise. Thea loves walking Chelsea (or being walked by Chelsea) because of the retractable leash. We start out by going up and down the fire lane exit to my mother's development so that Chelsea's done her business before walking through the neighborhood.

We also give Micah a chance to 'walk' Chelsea by putting him in the umbrella stroller and clipping the leash into the seat belt. Then Thea holds the back of the stroller so Chelsea (who is a Boston Terrier) doesn't take Micah on a wild ride. Though sometimes I think she loosens her grip on the handles to see what might happen.

OK, so that's the preamble and set up for the actual story. The three of us are heading back into my mother's little townhouse community with a dog that has done her business so thoroughly that there couldn't be a drop left in her if her bladder were wrung out like a sponge.

We start off down the little court, Micah and the stroller have the leash, I'm trying to keep Chelsea from running like a lunatic into the street because Micah has no grasp of how the retractable leash works. Pun intended. We pass a townhouse where a little Yorkie is at the storm door looking out, Chelsea spots her and makes a dash across the lawn to see the little yapping scrap of bad shag carpeting.

Then Yorkie owner comes to her door and tells us to keep 'our' dog off her lawn. With the little yapping provocateur right there. As I had just come from four hours in a car trying to keep two kids happy, I was not in the best of moods, so I just snapped and said, "Oh, get over it." Thea looked at the lady and said, "Yeah." And we kept walking.

Considering my employment history includes two years working in the NJ prison system "oh, get over it" is fairly tame. Nevertheless I immediately felt guilty because I don't want to cause problems for my mother.

After we finished the walk we returned Chelsea to her owner, and I had to ask her who lives at 203. And it turns out that the person I snapped out at is the neighborhood busybody who everyone in this little community despises for numerous and varied reasons. The infamous CeCe. I have hear so many CeCe stories, and I do remember a lady with a Yorkie stuffed under her arm barging in when Mom's neighbor was being treated by the paramedics and readied for transport to the local hospital. (Just what one wants is in the middle of a medical emergency to have someone come nosing around, and with her ratty little mutt, too.)

So after a brief discussion with Dorothy as to whether my mother has any inkling about her surprise birthday party (another vote for 'no'), I hightailed it back to Mom's to tell her about our encounter.

Needless to say, my stock in my mother's eyes rose and she was wishing she'd come out on the walk with us. . . .

And I'm glad we're at the hotel tonight. Mom's guest room faces the street, and I'd rather not be sleeping there when the Molotov cocktail a la CeCe gets lobbed through the window.

And while I'm on the subject of sharing what a horrible person I am, here's another foot-in-mouth-via-email moment:

The set up for this story is that Micah's ENT said last May that we would proceed with a CT scan after he turned three. Our only contact with him since that visit was via email to ask him for a letter supporting Micah's second BAHA (which he responded to in something under a nanosecond and had the letter sent out within a day or so of the request. He rocks.)

So I called the office on Wednesday to set the wheels in motion for the CT scan. And was told that we need to make an appointment for an office visit first. Whatever for? Until Dr. Choe has the CT scan results, another appointment is a waste of his time and ours. But I made an appointment anyway, and then emailed the doctor (who I was told was on vacation this week, but I figured it would be in his email in-box when he got back next week).

This is what I wrote:

"Thank you for your help with Micah's second BAHA; he is doing amazingly well and is now at Summit Speech School for its full-day preschool program for just under one month. I called the Englewood office today to ask about setting up the CT scan for Micah. The staff member I spoke with said that we would need to make an appointment first. I had been hoping that we could begin to make arrangements for the CT scan, and then follow up with you after you had had the opportunity to review the results. I attempted to explain that other than being a year older, a bit taller, a few pounds heavier and much more verbal, his atresia is unchanged. (She had asked,"How is Micah feeling?" which struck me as a slightly odd question; he's three years old, and blissfully unaware that he's any different than anyone else, atresia is his version of normal.)"

It's not all that bad,really, except that the doctor in his response to me saying we did not need to come in for an appointment until after the CT scan, also CC:'d the message to his medical assistant and asked her to pull Micah's chart and put it on his desk, with all of my entire message forwarded with his response. Ouch. The front desk staff is going to hate me, at least one of them is.

And he responded within a few hours of my sending the message to him. So much for his vacation, time to back away from the computer. Dr. Choe. . . . .

Thea's Birthday, Part 2

Today Thea and I met our former (and much missed) neighbors, Emily and Lauren at Red Green and Blue in Princeton for a craft shop birthday play date. Thea was excited because it was a girls' day out, no Micah; Emily was excited because it was a birthday celebration with a guest list of one.

They settled on projects to do - by virtue of RG&B being out of 5"x7" picture frames, both girls decided to paint and decorate little canoe (complete with little paddles). What RG&B does for you is get the kids into smocks, set up the paints, brushes and paper place mats, and then lets them have at it. The woman who was there Wednesday on my scoping-it-out visit was much more interactive; today the teen to twenty-something staff was more hands-off, way off.

Both of them painted and created, side by side. I got to have actual adult conversation with Lauren, which was nice. After all the painting was done, the staff reappeared to blow-dry the canoes, and then Thea and Emily selected mosaic squares to adorn their creations.

After the last tile was glued on, we left the canoes there to dry and went to Panera's for lunch, and then to Halo Pub for ice cream- and then back to Red, Green & Blue to reclaim their masterpieces. Then we walked over to see Emily's new house. Very cool third floor playroom, the two of them fell back into playing as if it hadn't been back in July when they last played together. (I'd had a moment of mild panic - what if Kindergarten, new schools, new friends and whatnot had changed them so much that the play date birthday bombed. One of those times when it's nice to feel silly for thinking such a thing.)

Thea and I walked back to the parking garage, stopping by the Princeton Library to look at the really neat tile wall. We also stopped in the restroom since we were passing by. As I was washing my hands, Thea was looking around and spotted a quarter stuck in the sanitary products vending machine. She looked at the label above the knob and asked, "Mommy, what does that say?"

So, like a dope who reads too many mommies magazines, I decided not to blow her off and answer, so I said it spells tampon. "What's a tampon, Mommy?"

Rethinking the strategy, I decided to go for deflection, "It's nothing you have to worry about for about....you're five...for another six or seven years or so." And of course moments like this are never unwitnessed or un-listened in upon, the other woman at the sink would have peed her pants had she not just come from relieving herself.

Considering she had no memory of our discussion about uteruses and babies from several months ago, I am hoping that this will fade to some obscure corner of her subconscious.

Note to WonderTime, Cookie, Parent and any other mommy magazine, there is NO good way to explain feminine hygiene products to a five-year old. End of story.