Sugar Rush

Ethan's fifth birthday party is this weekend. Last year I went a bit overboard on the food, goody bags and all related stuff. I promised my husband this year I would NOT "overdo it" (despite an almost pathological inability to not overdo it).

I just received this e-mail about the cupcakes I ordered:

This message was sent to you at the request of Divvies LLC to notify you that the package information below has been transmitted to UPS.

Scheduled Delivery: 29-February-2008

Ship To: ATTENTION: [Deleted]

Boxes: 2

UPS Service: GROUND

Weight: 28.0 LBS

I think 28 pounds of cupcakes may count as overdoing it.

Back To The Drawing Board...

I saw a new GP yesterday, which might prove to be a mistake. My old GP was fine, I suppose. My only complaint about him is that he is young; he graduated med school the same year that I graduated law school. And while I am perfectly competent to handle a divorce or adoption or breach of contract dispute; I can even show up in court in a dark, serious suit and say most of the right things in mostly the right order, if you showed up in my office with capital murder charges, I'd refer you out. Same concept applies in medicine, in my mind. The young GP has handled my sprained ankles and mild anemia just fine, but given that my recent medical history has been - shall we say, a bit checkered? - I decided to find someone, going forward, who has kicked a few more medical tires.

The reason for my appointment is that I needed to get my permission slip signed. I dragged a friend of mine (one of the other preschool moms) to a fundraising meeting with me and somehow ended up signing up for a half-marathon to raise money for cancer. As a precaution, all participants have to have their docs sign off on a form that says, in pertinent part, "If [Patient X's] heart explodes during the training or the race, I will not sue you."

First of all, my new doctor's name - without divulging new doctor's privacy, I'll just say he has a designer last name. Let's call him Dr. Dolce & Gabbana. My husband saw his business card sitting on the coffee table (where all important filing goes in our house) and burst out laughing, "The name of your new doctor is DOLCE & GABBANA!?"

This is amusing to him because I am a card-carrying snob. I like my shoes from Italy, my water from Fiji, and my men from Sweden. (Alright, the water part is a stretch, I really don't have a preference about water. Though I did recently buy a case of water from said tropical island simply because of the lovely photos on the label and gosh darn if it does not make me happy to look at while hydrating.) The part about Italy and Sweden, however, is true.

I show up for my appointment and the first sign that this is not going to go well is the scrimmage with the nurse. She calls me back and hands me the sample cup (know in Florida as "dat der cup you take a TANKLE in!"). I politely decline and tell her, "No thank you." And then she says, firmly, "Just try." This goes back and forth for a few more seconds before she gives up and writes something mysterious in my chart, likely something along the lines of "Patient refuses to pee. Use extra sharp needles as punishment for non-compliance."

Then there is the blood. (Let me digress for a moment: Why are only the MIDDLE of those medical tables covered with the paper? Why do the sides not also deserve their own covering? It seems to me that it is only logical that most of the patient ick would spill over onto the sides of the table, and not stay neatly ensconced in the middle? Just a thought.) So I settle myself squarely on the middle of the paper, trying my best not to lop over on to the sides, where all the germs lie in wait, beside themselves with excitement at the chance to infect me with my 200th cold of the winter, when I see out of the corner of my eye - to my horror - that Nurse Tinkle is removing scary rubber tubing and vials out of the cabinet! Using my superlative powers of deduction, I say, "You draw BLOOD in the room, RIGHT NOW, before I even see Doctor Dolce & Gabbana? What if he does not want any blood samples?"

"Oh, he'll want blood. Arm please."

I protested that I have been known to pass out and really really needed to lie down and really, couldn't I just see the doctor first before we made this rash decision? She was unmoved by my plight. When I reported that, "It hurt!" she informed me, not overly warmly, "Well, there is a needle in your arm."

As I am recovering from this battery, Doctor Dolce & Gabbana enters the room. His shoes did not match his bag, in case you were wondering. I hand him my three-inch stack of medical records and then tell him I am just here so I can get my form signed so I can enter a half-marathon. He looks me up and down: "Are you a runner?"

"Nope, it is for fundraising - not really much of a runner."

Flipping through my chart: "A half-marathon is a long way ..." And then more than a tad derisively, "Oh, I see, an attorney. One of those overachievers .... " I bite my tongue and do not point out that all the doctors I know are WAY more overachiever-ish than the lawyers. But, I keep quiet, because after the extra-sharp needles, I do not want to know what else he has up his sleeve for the difficult patients.

We go through the basics. Let me tell you, if you want to get your new doctor's attention and fast, tell him or her that you have a brain mass. But that it is really nothing. And no, you have not had a biopsy to "label it" because it is really nothing. Oh, and you haven't gotten around to seeking a second opinion yet because your husband travels a lot for work and you have not wanted to go alone and it IS REALLY NOTHING!

I left the appointment in tears. Not only did he NOT sign my form (apparently, I also have an "odd" heart murmur which needs a scan and my heart may, in fact, be in danger of exploding during distance running. Since I can only deal with one major organ falling apart at one time, heart takes a back seat for the time being. I bet Jeff is PISSED right now that he did not sign up for the extended warranty wife plan when we got married - at this rate, there is a good chance our new dishwasher will outlast me), BUT Dr. Dolce insisted that I see a second neurosurgeon immediately, if not sooner. In fact, Dr. Dolce was about to call from his office to set up the appointment for me to ensure that I did it RIGHT NOW.

He explained that because the mass is in my ventricle, even if it is benign and non-cancerous, even if it is not growing, even if it is congenital and has always been there, there was a good chance that at some point, it would impede my flow of cerebral spinal fluid and cause blindness and brain hemorrhage. So, it would need to come out before that happened.

He also told me that I was very pale and correctly assumed that I did not spend much time outside (Duh? It is February!?), so I was probably lacking in Vitamin D. I was warned that if I did not take a supplement now, "my bones would rot ... someday." Now I am not a medical professional, but since my brain is in danger of bleeding, my heart may be failing and I am in desperate need of either a Caribbean vacation or a serious slather with some self-tanner, rotting bones in the far-off future seems like kind of a minor thing to nitpick about.

After my appointment with Dr. Dolce, I did what any reasonable person would do and went to Trader Joe's to pick up some lobster bisque and multiple artichoke products - pesto (no nuts, of course), tapenade, dip, and marinated hearts. My love of the artichoke knows no bounds.

In case anyone is still reading, my appointment with Hotshot Neurosurgeon # 2 is this Friday. Will keep you posted.

Are You Kidding Me?

This morning while exiting my car in front of my office I slipped on a discarded banana peel and fell a$$ over teakettle in the middle of the lot. Seriously, who DOES that?! - unless, of course, you are a cartoon character and then it happens several times an hour.

Crazy Like A Fox

I have not posted in awhile. I have been busy setting up my office. After working for a big firm and a small firm and a judge and even the Discovery Channel (Yes -- I am name-dropping and No -- I did not get to go down in those cool shark cages with the Great Whites), I am out on my own. For better or for worse. If you have a phone, you have a lawyer. Call me.

On a non-self-promotional note, I have also been busy helping my son apply and interview for colleges. And by colleges, I mean kindergarten. Haven't you heard - first grade is the new Masters program? To those who have children still sucking on pacifiers, you'd better hurry up and make sure your kid has all of his or her pre-reqs completed. AP Physics by age three is de rigeur, these days.

Of course, my husband and I have different philosophies about private school v. public school. We, in fact, have different philosophies on pretty much anything involving money. He thinks public school is superior because it is - in a word - free. I think private school is superior because it is - in a word - expensive.

Actually, truth be told, public school would be fine and dandy for our little Einstein if safety were not such a concern. Serious issue alert: Ethan has a life-threatening allergy to peanuts and tree-nuts. This means that if he eats even a minute smidgen of something with nuts or that "may contain" nuts or that has rubbed against a nut and has some nutty-like residue on it, his whole body can crash, resulting in shock and heart-stopping, throat-closing death within minutes. Emergency treatment of such an allergic reaction requires giving him a shot in the thigh (or many shots in the thigh) of epinephrine and calling 911 for advanced life support. My little guy does not go ANYWHERE without four syringes of epinephrine and a cell phone.

My issue with the public school is that they agree to keep his epinephrine but will LOCK it up in the nurse's office, which is open at all times, EXCEPT when the door is shut and locked for one hour a day while the nurse is at lunch. I get it - they lock it because it is a needle and medicine and kids will be kids - BUT if your kid were on the ground turning blue, would you be happy about this? What happens when the nurse calls in sick and nobody can find the key? Or is out having a smoke and nobody can find the key? Or her car gets a flat and she is five minutes late and nobody can find the key? It is simply unacceptable.

There are a couple of private schools that do not lock up the epinephrine but instead will keep it on the teacher's person. And can provide a nut-free cafeteria. And seem more than willing to work with us on not killing our kid. It took the public school FIVE days to call me back and then I was told they understand Ethan has a life-threatening medical condition and want to meet with us to review emergency plans and are really happy to do so - but they are currently busy with testing - so maybe we can get together in mid-May?

So, now all my lawyer-like hackles are raised, combined with all my mommy-like hackles. I am yelling "ADA and 504s" and want to take reasonable steps and start writing letters and calling higher-ups and storming the Board of Ed and setting fires, but Jeff placated a bit. This, I should note, AFTER he said that I need to calm down because "confrontation is my middle name [direct quote]." To which I calmly and rationally replied, "What the F*** do you mean by THAT?!!!!!" And then he hid in the guest room. For the next three weeks. So, that went well. Communication is the key to a healthy marriage.

But now we are all "Look, schools! Happy happy family!" and are moving on to the parent interview section of the private school admission process - meaning schools interview the parents, not the other way around. I really hope there will not be an oral math section; I am not strong with computing fractions in my head. Jeff got new shoes and I got eight new suits because nothing I owned matched his new shoes. I hope they like us!!!

If not, have you heard about that lunatic setting fires at the Board of Ed? A travesty, really.