Martha Stewart Would Know How

I just finished wrapping approximately half of the 76,000 presents that "Santa" will be giving to Ethan this year. Next year the gift theme will be "anything that comes in a square box." I mean, have you ever attempted to wrap a four-foot stegosaurus? I think it would be easier to wrap a live baby (not that I am suggesting this; the litigator in me feels compelled to state that I am in NO WAY CONDONING OR RECOMMENDING WRAPPING BABIES.) That said, if for some reason you did, it would easier than the damn dinosaur....

Off the top of my head, next year Ethan will be getting a box of tampons (square - check), perhaps a CD (square), and maybe I will even throw in a self-help book on how to deal with weird parents (I know, I know ... usually a rectangle - but you gotta live a little).

Gittin' Me Some Tail For Christmas!

I recently found out that my mother-in-law will be making a roast for Christmas dinner. But not just any roast ... a RUMP roast! Because I have the sense of humor of an eleven year old boy, I find this wildly amusing.

As Plato once asked: Will this be one rump? Or multiple rumps? Do I want to eat roasted ... rump(s)? I am a little concerned.

My family will be having lobsters and crab imperial for Christmas dinner. My guess is the seafood-y goodness will be accompanied by a big 'ol mess 'o butter. No judgment, just sayin'.

To be fair, one guess whose family has the "thin" genes?

SARS

My immune system is not what it should be. Every year, right around this time of year, I come down with some sort of full-on bout with something gross. Not the common cold, mind you, but a "sleep for 48 hours, cannot crawl out of bed expect if bed has actually burst into flames around me" sort of affliction.

I come down with this despite the fact that I am an avid hand-sanitizing geller and am borderline compulsive about hand-washing after "anything yukky" (define as you see fit). My husband, in contrast, probably drinks out of the urinals at work as a passive-aggressive display of control against my "it is cold and flu preventative hand-washing/gel season!" campaign of mild insanity. And ... who is the one that gets sick?

On Monday, I woke up and knew my pre-Christmas illness had arrived, like clockwork. 102 fever, chills, aches. I think I have SARS. Last year, I believe it was the the bird flu. Year before, Ebola.

So, Ethan dressed himself (plaid pants and striped shirt complemented nicely with plastic camo army boots, which he BEGGED for - nice, very nice) and we proceeded to school. Actually, first I called my dad and begged and pleaded with him to please please please pick up Ethan for me and drop him off at school because I, literally, did not have the strength. His response, "Sometimes as a mom, you just need to suck it up." Thanks, Dad! Your awesome Christmas present that I spent way way too much on - going back.

Normally, at our house, there is breakfast for Ethan and toothbrushing and other grooming and a bunch of general merry-making because I am so FUN in the mornings (or so it goes in my shiny, glossy fantasy world). This particular Morning morning, I simply threw a handful of dry mini-wheats into a Ziploc bag and grabbed a juice box, which I tossed to Ethan in the backseat before we started the drive to school.

I wish I had a photo of his face:

"This is breakfast???!!!! But ... but, I wanted pancakes....."

"That is breakfast - now eat it or you will be hungry."

And ... cue whining ... you would think I had run over the kid's puppy right in front of him. Or - ha! - set his cat on fire (only funny if you have read previous post).

So I convinced him that it was an extra-special breakfast because we are having a car PICNIC - which is super great fun!!!! He totally bought it. Which cracked me up. Then I went back to sleep, for two days.

Mommy: 1
Cranky Preschooler: 0

Let's Use The Good China

I am surveying the contents of our kitchen trying to find something to eat for dinner. Note that I specifically and deliberately did not use the word "cook" because I am not a very good one. Eating, however, is something I truly excel at.

My mom is a fabulous cook and at some point, tried to teach me. Her lessons did not really "take." I set off the smoke detectors recently reheating pizza in the oven. Come to think of it, just the other night, I set them off again when I started a (small) fire on the dining room table while sending out Christmas cards and burning candles (to be clear, I mailed the cards, not the burning candles).

Which reminds me - true story - several years ago, our then twelve-week old kitten caught itself on FIRE when he leapt over a lit candle on the dining room table. Because whatever entity in charge of things that happen in my life has impeccable comedic timing, this occured in the middle of serving brunch to my in-laws. There was black, singed kitty hair sprinkled all over the beautifully set table and brand-new wedding china.

Ok -now I am laughing out loud. No calling the SPCA, the cat was and is fine - just a surface wound. However, let it be known that Bath & Body Works will not likely be releasing a new fragrance called "Smoke and Burnt Cat Fur." Our apartment smelled like a taxidermy studio for weeks. My in-laws? Super impressed.

Despite the obvious deficiencies, my early New Year's Resolution (one of the many) is to have more meals at home that are not take-out, even if they involve cooking in the microwave or simply eating salads ... or ice cream. A fundamental flaw in my plan is that Jeff has been doing the grocery shopping recently. Why is that a flaw? I give you ... Ta Da! ... the actual contents of our pantry:

One economy-sized bag of mini-marshmallows

A case (!) of Red Bull

A jar of tartar sauce

One sad, lonely baking potato (slightly wilted, with sprouts)

Fossilized fluorescent orange Halloween "Peeps" in the shape of pumpkins

Wonder if Kraft.com has a casserole recipe for these ingredients? I bet Red Bull and Halloween Peep are a kick-ass combination.

Dog Party

It has been approximately one week since I learned the blob in my brain is not a brain tumor. More accurately, it has been one week, forty-eight hours and twenty-seven minutes. But, who's counting?

Conveniently, the day after I found about my non-brain tumor, the $300 in books I had ordered about, what do you know - brain tumors! - arrived from Amazon.com. I read them all. Admittedly a bit odd, I realize. But I have a curiosity in all things medical, even if such topics do not apply to me personally, so it is not that strange (for me) that I would devour stacks of med-type books. If I had been blessed with TWO extra brain blobs and a less squeamish stomach, I may have ended up applying to medical school.

The reason I went to law school is because I love to read. Love it. Always have. One of my earliest, happiest memories is being in bed as a young child, way past lights out time, reading books under the covers with a flashlight. I would start a story and want desperately to finish, struggling to keep turning pages until I could not hold my eyelids open for another second. I remember my dad taking me to the library where I would collect a towering stack to take home, only to be forced to set a dozen or so aside for our next library trip, since the policy allowed you to check out only twenty books at one time. Don't tell anyone, though, this bookworm nerd thing does not mesh well with the ditzy blond image I have worked so hard at cultivating over the years.

I am happy my ability to read is not in jeopardy. I am happy I can still read to Ethan, even if that means I am forced to read, "Go Dog Do!" for the thousandth time. Spoiler alert: It is about multi-colored dogs and where they go. There is a big "dog party" at the end. In a tree. With hookers (just seeing if you were still paying attention!)

But I digress ... after reading hundreds and hundreds of pages about the all-around ickiness of brain tumors, I realized that while it was awesome to not have my skull drilled into and fastened back together with titanium screws or go blind or lose my ability to speak or suffer grand mal seizures; I was most happy that (knock wood) I did not have to put Ethan through the trauma of any of that. Sick moms are hard on kids. He got upset the other day because I had on reading glasses and looked "different" - I don't think ICU tubes and such would sit well with a preschooler.

Even given the fact that I am borderline evil before 10 am and/or four strong cups of coffee, whichever comes first, Ethan declares ecstatically each day at breakfast that I am his "most favoritist." The other day he told me that "he loves Daddy one and Mommy a bagallion." He cried for half an hour last night when Jeff came home from work early and interrupted what Ethan thought was going to be a dinner "just for him and Mommy."

This mom-centric thing is sort of adorable when he is four - perhaps a tad creepy when he is fourteen. At this age, I'll take it. These moments of sweet make up for the other fourteen hours a day I am saying (yelling?) "No!" or "Stop!" or "What the hell are you doing NOW with that water from the toilet / the cat's head / that set of Ginsu knives!"

Did I mention Ethan weighed almost ten pounds when he was born? Uh-huh. Ten pounds. I will spare you the gory details about the damage inflicted upon a woman's body after delivering a baby the size of a Costco drum of industrial cooking oil, but suffice it to say that I probably deserve top billing for at least four to five more years. Jeff's role in labor: walking into the delivery suite with a twelve-inch meatball sub that reeked of garlic. For him. I got Jell-O, for eighteen hours. So, I am cool with being the favorite. Happy to be the healthy favorite, who can read. Go Dog Go.

Happiness Is A Boy And His Snowball

Ethan could not have been more excited to see the snow on the ground this morning. Magic. It was as if I had awoken to find our lawn completely blanketed with Nordstrom gift cards. For some reason, he would not stop eating the snow - which is weird, right? I mean, the kid has a pretty dedicated diet of chicken nuggets, cheese sandwiches, and the occasional, stray green bean that I force him to choke down after much negotiation:

"I'll eat one."

"No, you will eat four because you are four."

"Fine. I'll eat two because two twos equal one four."

And so it goes...

The snow tasting resulted in a semi-humiliating situation outside of Target (those who know me well recognize that it takes A LOT for me to reach full-on humiliation. Like naked with a flaming chicken on my head LOT.) So, Ethan wanted to taste the snow off of those big, red balls that, ubiquitously, border every Target parking lot across the country. I am not trying to be crass here but there truly is no other description for these, uh, structures, other than "big, red balls." So what did I yell, loudly, without thinking, when I saw Ethan LICKING one as we exited the store? "Ethan - get your mouth off of the .... !!!!!!" Well, there ya go. The guy walking out behind me was one of the parents from preschool, and he looked more than a little alarmed at my outburst. I just averted my eyes and mumbled, "Tourettes."

It was the same thing at home. Ethan wanted nothing more than to taste the snow from the communal sledding hill - but not the new, sparkly, pristine snow; he kept picking up all the public, tramped on snow to eat, which bothered me. When I told him not to eat the dirty snow he asked why it was dirty and I replied, "There have been tons of people here walking on this. And people walking their dogs ... what if a dog tinkled on that snow?" [A side note: Normally, I avoid explaining my rationale for "not." Explaining just opens up the window for pointing out a hole in your argument. And once they sense weakness, you are toast. Just a little unsolicited parenting tip. You are welcome.]

So - the threat of "tinkle snow" gave him pause for about a second and half. Then he looked me right in the eye and shrugged one shoulder in an avant-garde "Meh - I'll take my chances" sort of way before SHOVING another giant mouthful of (public, tramped on) snow into his mouth. Sigh. Boys!

I just realized that my first post after escaping a life-altering diagnosis is about big, red balls and dog tinkle. What can I say. This is my life. Glamourous, I know.

Neurosurgeon Appointment

My head is so full right now; I don't even know where to start. And, yes, it is 3 in the morning. I am too keyed up to sleep right now - in an awesome way.

Because I told many people that I would post the outcome of my appointment with the neurosurgeon today, I will cut right to the chase: the neurosurgeon (head of Hopkins - so he is probably not a very smart guy) does NOT think I have a brain tumor. I do have a mass in my brain, but his opinion is that it is simply a congenital deformity. Basically, I have an "abnormal" mass of extra tissue in my left ventricle, which reads like a tumor on MRI but is not tumor tissue, just "extra" brain. I think the clinical implication is that my brain has the equivalent of a third nipple. The mass is certainly strange and rare, but is not life-threatening or dangerous, if it never changes. I will be followed with periodic scans going forward just to make sure it is not growing or changing over the course of the next five-seven years, but the neurosurgeon is pretty confident it will remain static.

I feel like I just received a stay of execution. Two and a half weeks ago, my doctor called and said "You have a brain tumor." Not - I THINK or MAYBE or MORE TESTS TO CONFIRM, but "you HAVE." I had to repeat those exact words three times because it was such a surreal moment:

"You are diagnosing me with a brain tumor?"

"Yes."

"OK, to clarify - your diagnosis is ..... brain tumor? Really? Brain tumor!?"

The second I hung up the phone, I started researching immediately. I am a manic researcher - whether I am buying a vacuum cleaner or possibly getting my brain cut into - I want to know EVERYTHING about the pros, cons, insider tips, etc. While some of the medical journals were certainly over my head, the gist of what I could extrapolate was that almost any sort of brain tumor is bad and you die. Some types of tumor hasten death more quickly than others. My heart nearly stopped when I read that the average five-year survival rate was @ 30% for ALL brain tumors - regardless of whether the tumor is benign, malignant, treated, or untreated. Not great odds.

I had just gotten my head wrapped around this idea when we met with my doctor the day before Thanksgiving. She informed me that she and her colleagues had reviewed my films and had narrowed down the classification of tumor to three possible types: mengianoma (ok - can be dealt with - would be best kind to have out of the three, but they did not really think it was this one b/c of location), neurocytoma (also - not super-awful - exceedingly rare, so may be unlikely), and .... drumroll, please ... astrocytoma. I now know that "astrocytoma" is one the scariest words in the English language.

This sort of information kept me up at nights:

(Medscape) Astrocytoma: Malignant astrocytoma represents one of the most devastating tumors affecting children and adults. Surgery and adjuvant conventional radio- and chemotherapy have had minimal effect on changing the poor prognosis, which remains at a median range of only 9 to 12 months.

I was told that the neurosurgeon would review my new scans and make the call on what type of tumor I had, and what to do about it. First line treatment is most often surgery - to biopsy, get a tissue sample and remove as much as possible. For obvious reasons, brain surgery is not without risks. To add to the stakes, the Hopkins neurologist told me that there were only about 20 people in the country that are "acceptable" at removing intraventricular tumors because it is such a difficult area of the brain to access surgically.

As I began mentally preparing myself for my appointment, I played through the scenarios in my head: Worst case: Inoperable, astrocytoma, prognosis of months? Better case: Can remove through surgery, is benign, surgery not as risky as had been told, may have a few years ... maybe more? Best case: Think all can be removed, will have full recovery! Either way - I was bracing myself for the "surgery on your brain" news and all the inherent risks.

I did not tell Jeff or my family this at the time because it seemed over-the-top morbid, but I recently spent the better part of a day checking into options for hospice coverage. I got a packet of info from one of the brain tumor non-profits and was going through the checklist of things to do while dealing with a brain tumor diagnosis. Step Ten: Line up hospice care, now, before surgery, while you are healthy and have the strength. Wow. There are no words to express how chilling it is to call to inquire about your own hospice care when you are 32 years old.

So - the diagnosis of "line up hospice care" to "you have a brain nubbin" is a a pretty big discrepancy. When we had my appointment yesterday, we had already sent my scans and records to Mass General/Harvard and Pittsburgh (kind of random - but one of best intraventricular surgical guys is there) for second and third opinions. I am assuming all will we well with that. I debated calling those off but 1) it is my brain and 2) well, it is my brain. Want to be 110% sure ... maybe 120%.

I still have weird symptoms, which the neurosurgeon thinks may be a pseudotumor. Not super scary like the word would implicate - simply means elevated pressure in the CNS. Not a huge deal. He wanted me to have the lumbar puncture done to look for that and some infectious agents - will schedule that for post-Christmas/New Years. I think I have vastly exceeded my quota of medical drama for 2007 already.

So, my original post was correct - I have an imperfect brain. However, it is not an imperfect, lethal brain, and for that I am very, very happy.

At the risk of this sounding like an Oscar speech: Thank you, a thousand times over, to all my friends and family who read my notes, sent me wonderful mail and presents, called me over and over (even when I was not returning phone calls), and prayed for me or kept me in your thoughts. I can honestly say that I would not have dealt with this terrifying time so well had I not had your support and love.

Love, J

PS I ROCKED those lucky pants at my appointment .... in case you were wondering.

56 minutes ...

I cannot sit still - I just decided to run to the drycleaners to pick up my "lucky Court pants" to wear. That should help, right? Lucky pants - I am sure I read something about that recently in the latest issue of The New England Journal of Medicine.

Waiting

I have one hour before I head to the neurosurgeons to see about "options" and I am literally sitting here shaking. I have never been more nervous in my entire life - not in the days before the bar exam when I was convinced there was NO way I could pass (which I did, for the record) or during the 9th month of pregnancy when Ethan seemed to gain, like, three pounds a day, and I started to REALLY wonder if he was ever going to be able to get out of there (which he did, for the record). Right now it is 1,000,000 times worse.

57 minutes now......tick tock.

Well-Groomed

I am trying to compile an executive summary of tests/etc for my appointment tomorrow. All this medical nonsense started last summer, when out of the blue I was having problems with motor skills, like walking up the steps and picking up things and I just started to feel icky, all the time. I also had some speech issues. Once in court, I was called to the bench because I slurred my speech and the judge inquired whether I had been drinking. That, of course, was a ridiculous question. It was 9 am - I mean, I am a professional, it is absurd to think I would drink before a morning court appearance. Every good attorney knows the rule that cocktails are for NOON or later ... So, I started going to the doctor (to address the odd symptoms, not the drinking problem).

I started with my internist; conclusion: I was "stressed, working full-time, and a mom." Hmm ... is that diagnosis in the Mayo book? Then I saw a rheumatologist (Fibromyalgia? Lupus?). Then I saw a neurologist (infection? Lyme Disease? Myasthenia Gravis? MS?). I have complied quite the volume of medical records in the past year or so ... which I am now trying to put together and highlight, in pertinent part, for the "new guy."

If you have never had the pleasure of reading through your medical records, I highly recommend it as a fun activity for a rainy day. I never knew I was under such scrutiny when I went to the doctor. Some highlights:

"Patient is a pleasant 31-year old woman" [Well - that is nice!] "Patient is mother to a 3-old son, who has food allergies and asthma." [Ok - true.] The notes continue, "Patient works 60-70 hours per week, occasionally more if preparing for trial. Patient admits to a poor diet, infrequent exercise, excessive caffeine consumption, and occasionally heavy social drinking." Wow. He left out the part about how, "Patient enjoys littering in public places, as a hobby. Patient does not recycle, donate to charity or serve food to homeless people on holidays. Patient also admits to clubbing baby seals for recreation on weekends."

Here is another good, if perplexing, clinical note:

"Patient is extremely well-groomed." WTH? I cannot recall any special "doctor" preparations - did I have a fresh mani/pedi, a good hair day, a bikini wax in the shape of a unicorn?

And my favorite:

"Patient is well-nourished." Ok - well - that is a bit harsh. I suppose it is time to renew that gym membership.

Now - if you'll excuse me - I am off to lose 10 lbs, get my highlights touched up and kick my coffee/wine habit before my appt tomorrow.....

Planes, Trains, & Automobiles

Jeff and I were good, ambitious parents this weekend and took Ethan to DC and Baltimore to visit museums. Usually we are a little slack on the extracurricular activity front. We always have a pre-trip debate about whether the hassle factor will be worth the enriching/enjoyment aspect of said planned activity.

I think part of our hesitation is my own personal reaction to being dragged on multitudes of "enriching" trips as a child, like to see the "World's Biggest Ball of Twine" in Arkansas (I am not kidding - Scott, do you remember that?). I distinctly remember being an (obnoxious) teenager and pouting my way through the entire state of Colorado while my parents navigated the minivan and pointed out sights like elk amongst the Rockies. And, there was what I fondly refer to as the "East Coast Delusions of Grandeur Tour" when my dad dragged me to Princeton, Yale, Harvard, Dartmouth and the ilk while I was a junior in high school (resulting in not one teensy point higher in either my SATS or GPA, but substantially more pouting).

Point is - we choose our enrichment carefully. We ended up at the Air & Space Museum (DC) and then the B&O Railway Museum (Baltimore). Given that Ethan feels the way about planes and trains that I felt about ponies at his age - it was a good choice. When we arrived at Air & Space, he was looking in awe at all the planes suspended from the ceiling and said breathlessly, "This is FAN-TAAAS-TIC....."

The train museum was smaller in scale, but still impressed him because he got to CLIMB ON the trains (major mommy bonus points for anything he can climb on that does not result in me yelling "Get OFF of that! Get down NOW!" Yes, I am THAT mom). They had a huge holiday display of model trains -- the target audience was 4-yr old boys and/or 75-year old men, who seemed equally transfixed by the mini-trains. We culminated the trip by a trip to gift shop - more to placate me than Ethan - and Ethan picked out another train. He really needed another, because he only has 400 at home. He slept with his little engine on his pillow and then packed it up in his little backpack to take to school this morning. Awww.