Snow "Pees"

See note.

Because those fat "riendeer" can't fly as well as the skinny ones.

Last Minute

Just in case you are still shopping for that person who has everything, may I suggest a gift idea?

They also come in red.

You are welcome.

Palinesque In My Articulance (Shh, That's A Word!)

Behold my new toy. I have been taping everything. Which is interesting to replay, because isn't it true that you think you sound different in real life? Then you see the video? Hm. I now know how Sarah felt. The only thing I left out of this atttached masterpiece of eloquence was, "YOU CAN SEE RUSSIA FROM MY HOUSE!"

Eleventy hundred feet of snow (or two, same difference) in Maryland + three (big) glasses of wine at neighbor dinner + my new early Santa gift + crazy Blair Witch angles = Spike Jonze should be calling any minute.

Please note the consistent parenting on display:

J: "Don't let him play in the snow!" [Volume setting: Normal person.]

Me: "Whatever!' [Volume: thunderous earthshaking heavy breathing.]

J: "He'll get cold!" [Volume: Regular.]

Me: "Whatever!" [Volume: Waking the dead.]

J: "I am going to be useful and shovel the walk." [Volume: My wife is crazy.]

Me: "OH MY GOD, YOU ARE GETTING SNOW ON ME AND I AM MELTING." [Volume setting: Serious drama queen.]

J: "I am about ready to dump snow on your head." [Volume setting: Unspoken.]

PS We did not ALL get into the bathtub once inside, that would be weird.

PPS Ethan really does think he is King Of The World, Ya People. It is an only child thing.

Counting Our Blessings

(Our Foyer 2009!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Dear Family and Friends,

Happy Holidays 2009! I know you cannot wait to hear what our brilliant family has been up to the past twelve months! It has been a whirlwind year filled with joy, magic, wonder and blessings!

Ethan started first grade in September. His teacher reports that in her twenty-three years of teaching, she has never met a smarter student. Even though he is only in first grade, he is reading at the eleventh grade level and just finished his class math project on fluid dynamics and string theory (*the other first graders in his class are still learning to count change! Bless their little hearts!). There were some rumors that MIT may be approaching us to ask permission to use Ethan's math project to teach their incoming freshman class, but that is, as of yet, unconfirmed. I'll be sure to let you know with a mass email with many exclamation points and capital letters when I hear more.

Ethan's interests this year are not limited to advanced math and reading Jane Eyre, he also enjoys his share of enriching extracurricular activities. We make sure he never has more than fifteen minutes of unscheduled time. To quote Chaucer (just like Ethan did in last night's homework assignment!), "An idle mind is the Devil's workshop."

Ethan played basketball this summer, not long ‘til the NBA scouts come knocking! He made fifty baskets in the first half-hour of practice! Because he is so gifted and naturally coordinated, the team voted unanimously to move him up from youth player to assistant coach on the second day of practice. And then they gave him a giant trophy and gold medal to commemorate his achievement, which we now display in a specially-made custom case in our foyer (*See above!). Moving him up to assistant coach was an excellent choice, since our son has natural-born leadership tendencies! We are so proud!

While Jeff(y) and I appreciate the importance of athletics, we both agree that well-rounded children are the best! With that in mind, for the spring, we have signed Ethan up for conversational Mandarin lessons, sous chef instruction with Chef Michel Richards of Citronelle (never too early to learn to deglaze!), and advanced falconry at the Greenbrier Resort.

Because Ethan has SO very many diverse interests and natural talents that keep our family busy, I made the tough decision to leave my law firm this year. The official word on the street is that I am “taking a sabbatical” (wink, wink). It turns out that this was the BEST decision EVER because now I get to support Ethan’s formative development every minute of every day! Of course, my Jeff(y) makes tons and tons of money at a job that he LOVES, so now we have the best of both worlds!

A Christmas letter would not be complete without mentioning my fabulous hubby! Speaking of my Jeff(y), his office recently offered him even more money! In fact, his boss offered to quadruple his salary for being so amazing and brilliant and because he liked the blue tie Jeff(y) wore to work that day! How exciting! But my Jeff(y) just had to say, enough is enough. He told them that he could not possibly accept, because he just loves his work, and would do his job for free! So, he told his boss to please send all that extra money to homeless pets in the Sudan since they need it more than our family does. Ethan and I are truly blessed to have such a special and selfless Hubby/Daddy!

Jeff(y) and I keep reading that the economy is suffering, but since we are so blessed, this national economic downturn has not impacted us even one little bit. I am tempted to say this may actually be due to our brilliant financial planning in the past. Even with me being on "sabbatical" (wink wink), we have not had to go without any of life's necessities, such as luxury SUVs with leather interior, weekly dinners at French Laundry in Napa (we take the company jet so we can be home to tuck Ethan in, we've never left him overnight with a sitter! Can you imagine?), or Christian Louboutin glitter shoes (Santa, are you listening!??! I have been a VERY good girl this year!).

When Jeff(y) is not at the office doing important work being The Vice President of Awesome at a Very Prominent Prestigious Firm, we enjoy spending time together taking long walks hand-in-hand through the countryside, enjoying picnics, tasting vintage wines, and planning Ethan's extracurricular activities on our Blackberries.

We wish all of you a wondrous, prosperous and BLESSED holiday and perfect New Year!!!!!

Blessings and Hugs from Our Super Incredible Amazing Family to Yours,

JS

Strict

Ethan spent Sunday with my parents decorating their tree and making cookies while Jeff and I went shopping for presents.

I was told he did not have his listening ears on while he was over there.

When I downloaded the pictures from my camera, I came across these ...

I think this explains an awful lot about why I turned out so well.

Gender Equality

Given the nature of my last post, this post should be titled Wash Your Mouth Out With Soap: The Sequel.

Ethan's homework last night was to create as many words as possible out of the word "peacock."

Guess the first word on his list?

It made my heart skip to see him printing it in block letters. All earnest, tongue between his teeth in concentration, spelling aloud as he went, "C ... O ... C .... "

Not wanting to call attention as to why this word would be so interesting to his teachers and other students, and possibly, the principal, I tried to be cool in my reaction.

"Um, maybe try another word?"

He was annoyed, "Why?"

"Well ... that is not really a ... um ... word."

Exasperated now, "Yes, it IS a word. It is like a chicken," looking around for support, "Right, Daddy, a C-O-C-K is a special kind of chicken?"

And then I gave up. And told Jeff to handle it. Good parenting.

I am expecting a call from the principal any minute.

Story to come: When Ethan announced to a packed restaurant that his eye hurt "because Daddy poked him in the eye with ... " For real. This was last week.

Actually, that is the story, we had enjoyed a lovely day. We went ice skating and then out to dinner. I had a lobster roll. Ethan had been remarkably well-behaved and pleasant during the meal.

Time to go. We were in a booth, me on one side, boys on the other. Ethan slid over and stood up to exit the booth. As Jeff slid over to exit, he stood up right in front of Ethan, who was hovering close, as he tends to do. As Jeff stood, the pant fly/zipper of his jeans bumped Ethan in the eye.

Ethan yelped, covered his "broken" eye with his hand, started crying and yelled, "DADDY JUST POKED ME IN THE EYE WITH HIS PENIS!!!"

{Crickets ...}

I suspect we might not be welcomed back at that particular dining establishment.

Important World Issues

Do you read Cosmo? I did in a past life and now I find the publication to be, well, exhausting. So much to keep up with. Did you know that your "Hoo-Ha" (their phrase) needed its own handbook? Well, neither did I, and now I have one more thing to add to my to-do list, which is already plenty long.

Do you read www.gofugyourself.com? You should, it is a riot. I have to say I do enjoy Amanda Bynes. I think she is fresh-looking and adorable, and I have never come across photos of her on the Internet that only her gynecologist should be privy to. Obviously her Hoo-Ha has read the handbook on how to be polite in public even though it is associated with a young Hollywood starlet. Good for it. To those other stars without such discerning Hoo-Has, you should be ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES and DIDN'T YOUR MOTHERS TELL YOU TO ALWAYS WEAR UNDERWEAR WHEN YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE?! ESPECIALLY WITH SKIRTS THE SIZE OF NAPKINS!? NOT OPTIONAL, LADIES. IT IS LIKE WEARING SHOES. TAKE THAT TO HEART. PLEASE. Someone should start a foundation to address the growing epidemic of wayward Hollywood Hoo-Has, and if you do, feel free to steal that phrase as a name for your charity.

Which brings me to my next point, I spit coffee on the monitor this morning after I read the second paragraph from www.gofugyourself.com, below. Fair Warning: If the word "vagina" or slang lingo thereabout offends you in any way, then I suggest you stop reading now and delete me from your Facebook friend list. Things would never have worked out between us and frankly, I am sure I find your status updates boring.

[Required Lawyer Copyright Warning: Italicized text lifted from http://www.gofugyourself.com/. Their words, not mine. I am not this witty.]

Fug the Cover: Amanda Bynes

I...have so many words about this cover. First, she's wearing my jeans from '93. Second, as one of the many readers who emailed us about this pointed out, she's wearing Pamela Anderson's face from '96. I must add that she's also wearing Pamela Anderson Lee's wig from '95, and Marie Antoinette neck's from 1794, otherwise known as none.

Third, according to this cover, now I have to get a sexy VAGINA? Are you SERIOUS? SERIOUSLY, COSMO, ARE YOU SERIOUS? Worrying that your vagina is not sufficiently sexy is like being concerned that your ear drums are flabby: IT IS RIDICULOUS. Don't we have enough to worry about -- unemployment, teen pregnancy, insufficiently voluminous hair, and the possible resurgence of clogs -- without being told we need to be sitting around wondering if our vagina looks frumpy? STOP THE MOTHERF' ING MADNESS. EVERYONE'S VAGINA IS FINE. WORRY ABOUT THE CLOGS.

And the fact that Amanda Bynes is now a Botoxed 42 year old Malibu matron who is totally wearing Uggs with those jeans.

Off topic: I am totally wearing Uggs right now with my pajama bottoms, mainly due to the fact that my husband thought he could fix the malfunctioning furnace last night. With two Q-tips. You may be shocked to learn it did not work. I could not help with this project because I was busy compiling my Hoo-Ha to-do list, which took hours.

Speaking of the bajingo, I will now share a holiday story from this weekend that warms the cold, dark cockles of my very heart. It snowed this weekend, Ethan had rain boots from the fall, but not warm snow boots to play outside in. There are several friends of mine that just read this sentence about my child's lack of snow footwear and are clutching their chests in pain. Their children have had appropriate snow gear since August, and it is color-coded, and sorted by size (*March snow gear will be one size larger than December). Should the Iditarod dog sled team call because one of the dog handlers dropped out, then such moms could rest assured that their children could fill in and mush with the artic hounds for three weeks in -22 degree weather without so much as suffering a snip of frost nip on their little toes. I concede it is good to be prepared. But how does this relate to the subject of vaginas, you ask? I am getting there ...

I am not that Iditarod-inclined Mom. But, I do feel better that I was apparently not the only mom in Maryland to discover that the winter closet coffers ran empty when confronted with actual snow on the ground. There was a run on boots in our area as the flakes were fluttering downward, judging by the barren boot aisles at three separate Targets, one Kohl's and one Old Navy. I knew desperate times called for drastic measures. Are you ready for this?

payless. Shh.

Your eyes do not deceive you. Payless. OK?

PAYLESS!

I was there, and I am proud. Well, I was there.

For the sake of my child's snowy enjoyment, I summoned an inner strength I did not know I had to withstand the overwhelming aroma of fake leather made in China and hundreds of sweaty children feet, and bravely navigated the Payless children's boot aisle. Along with fifty other (slack) parents and their delightfully well-behaved and quiet little sprites.

I discovered two pairs of children's snow boots still left on the rack and was delighted that my mission was not for naught. Only two pairs of boys' snow boots remained for the taking in the entire store; one pair black pleather with red cars, one pair black pleather and mostly plain. Another mom and I both had our eyes on the plain boots. I knew Ethan would tolerate pleather, but knew the car decals would be considered tragically uncool, and he'd have none of it. All of this was running through my mind as I reached for the plain boots at the exact same time as that other mom. We will call her The Lady On Left.

My finely-honed shopping reflexes were just one hair faster than hers. The result of the epic Payless Boot Duel 2009 was that The Lady On Left stood sadly looking at the pair of car boots, while Lady On Right (me) had possession of the plain pair. Lady On Left's adorable little pixie took one look and declared the red car boots "soooo disgusting", so patently offensive, that he refused to even try them on his cute little feet. Lady On Left looked at me and asked if I was planning to buy the plain pair I now held in my hands. Lady On Right (me) responded that (she) I was.

Lady On Left felt that The Universe owed her child a plain pair of pleather boots and here I was upsetting That Universal Master Plan. She was displeased at my audacity, so much so that she could not contain her ire, and wanted to eloquently convey to me how fundamentally unfair she found this development.

This is where we get interactive, readers. I know it is now Tuesday, but it might as well be Monday, since we have all had long holiday weekends involving champagne and neighborhood parties and that creepy weirdo named "Newman" hitting on you by telling you "how he lives alone in his 4,300 square foot house and has a hot tub" while his estranged/not-yet-ex wife glares at you from across the platter of cocktail wieners and scallops-wrapped-in-bacon and you wonder where your husband went because is it not true, ladies, that we all got married so we would never have to have another conversation at a party with the Newmans of the world? He is the cousin to the guy at the gym that wears one-size-too-small yellow Viagra t-shirts and Umbros and tells you, "You look good in those pants ...ya know, for being a mom and all!" I think his name is Bernie. Anyhow ...

Brace yourselves, it is now interactive game time, and I have faith you can keep up. Ready for a fun fill-in-the-blank the whole family can enjoy? Print this out and sit down with your small children because this is an important lesson. When it became apparent I was not relinquishing the boots she wanted, The Lady On Left called me a "C - - - [ rhymes with blunt!]" The three small children she had in tow were, I am certain, pleased to add a new word to their, no doubt, already dignified vocabularies.

It is just a word, I know, but allow me a sentence or two on semantics. If THAT particular word (*rhymes with blunt!) DOES NOT offend you, then please delete me from your Facebook friend list. Things never would have worked out between us and frankly, I am sure I find your status updates scary.

Since it was difficult to hear over the crowd of shoppers and the din of children and the strains of Silent Night on the store radio, I thought she might have misspoke. So I said, stupidly, "What?" She repeated it again, much louder this time. Which I thought was just plain thoughtful. Because what if I had been hard of hearing? Really, what is being a mom about if not a series of teaching moments? Because I would like to think she was using this chance to teach her children about disability awareness. "See, kids, maybe this lady holding the boots cannot hear very well, so we need to use a louder voice when calling her filthy names in public to make sure she does! It is all about respect for others!"

In order to foster some holiday peace and love, I will assume that her ultimate goal in this exchange was demonstrating tolerance and consideration to her little children. Because otherwise, I am left thinking this woman is just a giant bajingo (rhymes with blunt!), and that is just not very Christmas Spirit-y of me.

Happiness

Go ahead and call me shallow. I can take it.

http://www.zappos.com/luichiny-pick-me-up-pewter

A special shout-out and happy holidays to The Wilson Street Girls.

You are fabulous!

XO,

J

Bitch, Please

So November made me a wee bit, um ... stabby. You may have noticed.

I am now officially over myself. No more wallow. It is not becoming. Besides, it is December, month of things shiny and sparkly and snowy and wrapped in Tiffany boxes.

(JEFF: Hint. I programmed the nearest location into your GPS in case you were in the neighborhood.)

Wallowing in December is like a crime against nature. December is the month of joy and giving and human goodness ... and Tiffany boxes.

(JEFF: Are you reading this???!!!)

I will be done with this depressive thing until January. January is an inherently depressing month. There are no Tiffany boxes in January, for one.

(JEFF: Unless we want to celebrate the first day we met?? Jeff?! Because I know a good gift, if you were looking. See, Tiffany Box, footnotes 1 and 2.)

So, Santa, go ahead and bring it. And all your reindeer friends, too. I'll pour the eggnog and get some hay.

Game on, holidays. Game ON!

Heartbreak

I want to express my deep sorrow for a family who is dealing with the unthinkable. My sorority sister from college is a kind, thoughtful person. She always has a smile on her face and has been a source of warm encouragement for me as I have dealt with health challenges. She deserves good things and happiness.

Her first baby was born this weekend and he passed away after delivery. Please say a prayer for her baby boy. His name is John Matthew.

Her touching letter to her son is linked below. I read it ten minutes ago and am still crying. There are no words.

http://www.loridoesmd.blogspot.com/

Rest in peace, sweet boy. Your parents loved you very much.

Lori and John, I wish there was something I could do to make it better for you. I am so very sorry.

Goodbye November

I have to say that November is not my favorite month. Frankly, I am just not in the mood for holiday spirit. I will get there, but as of today, so many things are weighing heavily.

*****************************************

November 16th

I recently received terrible news impacting my entire family. Incidentally, I learned of this news on the anniversary date of when I was first diagnosed with a brain tumor (16th). The impact of this "new" news on my entire family will be profound and I do not how I will cope.

The worst case scenario is so devastating I cannot even wrap my brain around it (I dislike that expression, by the way, but am not at my most articulate at the moment). The best case scenario is still pretty bad and I feel sick just thinking of it. I have not eaten in a week, save for Thanksgiving, where I ate enough to last a week.

I saw my therapist (expect upcoming posts to reference my therapist a lot) and she just shook her head. One of the take-away points from our session was this: "You cannot do anything but take it day-by-day, you could get hit by a truck tomorrow and all your worry would be wasted." My life is so screwed up right now that the idea of suddenly getting hit by a truck provides some dark, bizarre comfort. Twisted, I know.

I wish I could say more about what exactly I am facing ... because I have a big mouth. I cannot, right now. I am not trying to be cryptic, but for reasons of privacy, life insurance, and family; I cannot. As I go forward and deal with this, I will figure what I can and cannot say. Right now, I am still guarded.

A handful of very close friends know what I am referring to. To those people, thank you for your support and your love. I am fortunate to have such wonderful people close to me. Your support has helped me through so much.

*****************************************

Neurology

My neurologist is not encouraged by my latest neurology reports.

My fine motor skills in my left hand are decreasing, I have trouble typing with the left, and my tremor is increasing. My gross motor skills are not looking much better, I trip often and bump into things with my left side. (You would think that I would have stopped wearing high heels, I have not. I told Jeff if high heels are going to be my ultimate downfall, so be it.)

My speech seems impaired; occasionally, I mix-up words and slur. My thoughts, both internal and spoken, are not as fluid as I would like them to be. I am mixing up peoples' names, I keep calling Jeff's boss the name of his former boss, from seven years ago. I cannot add in my head or spell out loud. Whether this is clinically significant or not remains to be seen, I could never really add in my head; it is a well-known fact lawyers are miserable at math. My short-term memory is shot, I cannot recall things from hour-to-hour. I am scared of losing my mental capacity and of increased cognitive decline; if I can brag about one thing, I would say that I have a good brain (well, except for the tumor and cognitive impairment).

My driving skills are questionable. I have stopped driving at night, because the headlights are disorienting, or on highways. There are no mandated medical limits on my driving, at this point, my restrictions are self-imposed based on what I feel comfortable with. This varies day-to-day depending on how my vision seems.

There will be more testing. I should know more about neuro deficits in upcoming months. Before, I'd sort of mentally delineated my life in six-month chunks, between serial brain MRIs. I could plan six-months at a time and that helped me not to get overwhelmed with the enormity of the unknown future beyond that.

For the foreseeable future, I think my long-range planning will be in three-month intervals. I can deal with three-months at a time. The thing with neurology is that there is a lot of watching to see what will happen, what will the brain do over time? How bad is the recent test result compared to several months ago?

That is hard for me. I am not a good watcher. Or waiter. I am a big fan of instant immediate gratification, and that is not how this medical speciality works, much to my frustration.

*****************************************

Housekeeping

The name of this blog may soon be changing. Since I am not currently practicing, it seems inaccurate to hold myself out as a "lawyer." That is the least of my worries, right now, though ... but just an FYI for some housekeeping detail in the future.

I miss my practice. I really do. I miss feeling useful and having clients and person-to-person interaction and having an income. I miss arguing with people that are not Jeff; I am sure he misses that too. I had hoped to get back into it in 2010, but I am not sure, at this point, if a return to practice will ever be possible. This is a loss that I am still grappling with.

*****************************************

Pain

I am hoping to shift my thinking to a more holiday-oriented frame of mind in upcoming days, but I am not there yet. Many people have remarked that I am usually a positive person, but I am human. And right now, I am overwhelmed, and grieving, for so many things.

And it hurts.

Culinary Genius

Ethan, how do we cook a turkey?

First the farmer catches it with a bow and arrow and then you put it in the oven and then you call a chef to come over and cook it.

Exactly. Smart boy.

Happy Thanksgiving!

XOXO,

The Master Chef (Caller)

Strong

This weekend I finally completed my long-pending sleep study. I might have mentioned one or twice - or seven-thousand times - that I am tired, all the time, no matter what. Like difficult to push a cart through Target tired. Not eating tired. I always feel like I am just recovering from a three-day bender (minus three days of fun). I try to fake being OK around people that are not my family, but cannot always. Daily tasks seem like climbing a mountain. One idea is maybe if I have better sleep, I will feel better. Lumps in your brain can throw off your sleep patterns, your oxygen processing, among other things.

As far as medical tests go, the sleep study was a snap. I was hooked up to about four-hundred belts, leads, and brain wave sensors, had some probes stuck up my nose and then told to go to sleep. Which I did.

At 4:45 AM, I was jostled awake, unprobed and unbelted, and unceremoniously kicked out with my slippers and pillows to wait on the street corner for Jeff to arrive. The medical equivalent of the walk of shame. The sleep tech had a great time last night, but now had an early meeting to get to. She'd call me! I still have not heard from her, going on five days now. (Do you think there is someone else? I KNEW I should not have fallen asleep on the first study, but I just felt so COMFORTABLE around her. We had a real connection).

This morning, I scheduled my six-month brain MRI at Hopkins for a date to be announced later. I was on the fence about whether to do it before the holidays or after. Given the flu going around, I am not all that psyched about heading to the hospital. And after recent complications I had due to a simple IV, my needle phobia has spiked to a previously unforeseen level of fear. Wild horses may need to be involved for this pending test.

Assuming mustangs are not permitted in the hospital, I will likely pop some Vitamin Z (Xanax) before IV placement. Last time, I took the higher dose and Jeff had to practically fling me over his shoulder to get me out of there. I was having the BEST time! The upside was that I was not worried about that IV, not one little bit. I may or may not have given the IV tech my phone number and told him to call me at home later and I'd make dinner for him and his wife. I get friendly when drugged.

I've had a down sort of week thinking about scheduling this MRI and the trip to the hospital, waiting for phone calls, vetting opinions. I've found that the more specialized the medical speciality, the less likely you are to find two doctors who agree. One wants to cut off the offending organ, the other wants you to take some multivitamins and do yoga.

It is exhausting to try to advocate for yourself as a patient in that scenario and make the "right" decisions, when most times no clear-cut "right" answer exists. As someone who spent almost twenty years in school (math majors out there: I am counting studying for the Bar, anyone who has done it knows that counts), I *like* right answers. Especially when the wrong answers have such potentially devastating consequences.

I am wallowing a little. OK, a lot. I was first diagnosed on November 16th and the thought of that date approaching is making me ... something. I cannot even put my finger on what it is. Complicated things. Full of loss, regret for things I took for granted "before", angry, grateful to still be here, frustrated. I know wallowing is not attractive, and I do not do it often. But when I do, I commit. Wallow hard or go home.

The brain surgeon I saw several months ago had only seen one other tumor like mine. ONE. (She was still alive, too, after two years). And he see twenty tumors a week, does hundreds of brain surgeries a year. It makes it hard to know what the typical path is, what the right treatment is and of course, what the prognosis is. What is that quote in the medical field for low-hope cases?: "You are a statistic of one." It is extremely lonely when you actually are a statistic of one (or two).

When I was first diagnosed and hit the computer for manic research, I was astounded by how cruel this disease is. You have surgery and if the surgery goes "well", in brain surgery speak that means it does not kill you, you likely still end up with severe deficits. And then the tumor has a high likelihood of growing back, more surgery ... more risk, more deficits.

A year ago, I was in a much different mindset. I wanted this thing OUT of my brain, no matter the cost. If the surgery killed me, so be it. I could not live with watching and waiting ... hoping for what? Wondering if every headache is a brain bleed or just a headache (sometimes it is just a headache). Jeff pointed out that there was not a surgeon we'd seen who would do it, I countered that we could find someone. One surgeon to agree to a risky surgery. Just one risk-taker was all we needed, we'd travel and have it done. He gently reminded me that the outcome was 50-50, meaning we'd been quoted that rate of survival for the surgery. A coin toss.

And the risk for coming out of it blind, paralyzed, or brain dead was even higher. I replied, "I'd sign a DNR and you would pull the plug if my brain did not make it. That is what plugs are for." (I have never been one to mince words). He looked horrified and conversation was over.

I thought I would give it six more months and then - maybe - find someone to do the surgery. I did not know how I could be strong for a year. I did know how I could keep going knowing that there was something growing inside of me that could kill me, at any point. I did not think I could be that strong ... I did not know how I could get up in the morning, every day, and keep moving. How do people do this? That was last year.

Now I am switching gears a little, sorry for the whiplash. I have been reading the website below for a long time, since I was first diagnosed. There is not a lot of information out there about patients' experiences with adult ependymoma (of which I likely have a subcategory - the subependymoma). This website is the one I have found about a patent's experience with this particular type of tumor.

Here is the link. I quote below from several sections of her website, the italicized text below are her words, not mine. I encourage you to take a look at her website and read through it. This woman is the very definition of strength. Her story resonated with me (for obvious reasons). If you are inclined to pray, add her name to your prayer list. If you are inclined to send encouraging email, her email is on her site.

http://www.adultependymomabraintumor.com/

Welcome to my website! My name is Carol Welsh and I'm a nine-year survivor of an adult ependymoma, a rare brain tumor. I've had three brain surgeries, a placement of a shunt, a course of radiation and oral chemotherapy called Temodar which did not stop the growth of my tumor. On March 22, 2005 I started a different "heavy duty" chemotherapy regimen, a combination of IV carboplatin and IV etoposide (VP-16). I completed three more rounds of the chemo (April 12-14, May 7-9 and May 28-30) to buy some time while I investigated the possibility of a third surgery, which I eventually had on December 13, 2005. With the recurrent tumor I had headaches, balance problems and severe double vision. In fact, I had so many physical complaints that I was overwhelmed. For over eleven months I took a daily dose of Decadron which has its pros and cons - it is a vital steroid to control edema (swelling) around a brain tumor but it has horrible side effects. Since my third surgery I have struggled to both accept and overcome my deficits.

According to the American Brain Tumor Association and the National Brain Tumor Society, ependymomas are glial tumors which arise from ependymal cells which line the ventricles (spinal fluid spaces) of the brain and the center of the spinal cord. Ependymomas make up 3 - 6% of the estimated 52,236 primary brain tumors diagnosed in the United States in 2008. Ependymomas occur at the peak ages of 5 and again at 34. While they are rare in adults, ependymomas are the third most common brain tumor in children. Most occur in the posterior fossa (the lower back portion of the brain) and of these, nearly all occur in the fourth ventricle. A 2002 eMedicine report states 5-year survival rates of 76% for adults and a dismal 14% for children. According to the Chicago Institute of Neurosurgery, about 10% of brain ependymomas will spread to the spinal cord through the cerebro-spinal fluid.

Ependymomas are classified in four divisions:

1. ependymoma (the general term for the tumor)
2. anaplastic ependymoma (more aggressively growing cells)
3. myxopapillary ependymoma (occurs more often in the spinal cord)
4. subependymoma (grows slower than a typical ependymoma)

Ependymomas are graded using the World Health Organization (WHO) standard - grades I and II are considered benign and grades III and IV are considered malignant or "anaplastic." However, benign ependymomas can be anything but benign. "Low grade" is a more descriptive term than "benign." As space-occupying lesions in an extremely limited space, often they are malignant by location, and sometimes they can recur, perhaps not as fast as might be the case with anaplastic ependymoma, but they can recur nonetheless. Mine recurred the first time after three years. The location of a brain ependymoma can be devastating. Think real estate as in, "location, location, location." Where the tumor is and the skill of the neurosurgeon in attempting to remove it are most important. Some people are wrecked from the surgery to try to remove an ependymoma that might be attached to one or more cranial nerves on the brainstem. The cranial nerves are twelve pairs of nerves that are the critical sources of a person's ability to breathe, smell, see, chew, taste, move and hear. My surgeries resulted in several deficits because of the "insult" to some of these nerves. Fortunately, I have regained these abilities at least partially. Some patients, though, never regain some vital functions, such as their swallowing, breathing, walking or speaking ability.

On December 19, 2008, I had sudden respiratory arrest. Fortunately, I was in the ER already, because I had gained 20 pounds in about a month and had grown increasingly confused, exhausted and was hallucinating at night. The CO2 level in my arterial blood was a whopping 75 and it's a miracle that I wasn't in a coma. I was intubated, ventilated, and ultimately ended up with a tracheostomy. It appears that damage to my respiratory center in my brain stem from the 3rd surgery and/or the radiation caused chronic central sleep apnea and/or hypoventilation, which is shallow breathing at night. My right heart failed because of pulmonary hyptertension caused by repeatedly low oxygen levels at night.

I am presented with two nightly solutions- a mask with bilevel ventilation support or a trach with ventilation support. I have several head and scalp issues related to my tumor, plus a not-so-subtle tendency toward claustrophobia, that make the mask option more complicated than it might seem initially. Meanwhile, I can barely withstand all the physical problems I face every minute. My breathing crisis is a prime example of the sinister nature of brain tumors - and the key factor of tumor location and resulting damage to the most sensitive area of the brain, the brain stem.

October 30, 2009 Update:

Oops - today I spent some productive time in an ambulance. A sinister piece of chicken salad got me during my lunch! Fortunately immediately I took my trach cap off so I could at least get enough air and finally dislodged the devil just as we rounded the corner into the hospital. I tried everything at home - swallowing some water, coughing, hard swallows - it just wouldn't budge and it was uncomfortable. I was so grateful for the trach (I got air through the tube) and grateful to the EMT squad - and to Mom for calling 911 for me. It was scary to be sure, especially when I detected the telltale plastic-y smell of the oxygen in my nose - it reminded me of all my times in the hospital and I felt that fear I have when I'm there. The exciting thing is that one of the paramedics suggested I try and breathe slower, and I consciously tried my diaphragmatic breathing techniques - and they worked! Thank you Robi for teaching me this!

I am still stuck stuck stuck - the Bipap is not working for me and with the CO2 in my arterial blood gas creeping up - it was 58 on 10/15/09- I don't know how long I can wait. Meanwhile, I'm feeling lower and lower, weaker and weaker. I don't really know how I'm making it. Thanks for everyone's help.

I read this three times, and then a fourth. And cried. Selfishly, as much for me as for her. And then I made a donation to the American Brain Tumor Association in Carol W's name. If you have read all the way to the bottom, I encourage you to do something in the name of someone else today. Pay the toll, send a card, make a donation ... or just smile at someone you pass. Whatever. One thing for someone else. It will make you feel good. Much better than wallowing.

Criminal Mastermind

My recent attempt at sanity and home organization (at which I am failing miserably, both counts) is a giant whiteboard calendar that hangs on the kitchen wall. Reminders of mundane daily life are recorded. Pizza day at school! Pack $1.

Pending social events are recorded. Birthday party at Ice Rink. Anniversary party at Ruth Chris.

And, of course, the medical appointments.

This month, Ethan is fortunate enough to have two doctor visits looming. The first with his allergist and the second for a booster dose of the H1N1 vaccine. Unlike his mom, he is a brave patient and does not cry during shots. However, visiting the doctor is still not high on his list.

This morning, I was peacefully drinking my coffee and pondering the calendar. Something was different ...

The majority of the calendar dates were intact, however, Ethan's doctors' appointments had spontaneously disappeared. In their places on the schedule, the evil genius who had devised this plan of imbroglio had carefully illustrated line drawings of giant orange turkey heads with cartoon bubbles overhead, "GOBBLE GOBBLE."

I assume the perp must have thought the plan would go something like this. On doctors' appointments days, I will refer to the calendar, get confused and think, "No appointment today? But I see it IS The Day of The Turkey." And instead we would roast a big bird. Or pay a visit to a farm. Or perhaps book an Aeroflot flight to Istanbul. The plan is brilliant in its ambiguity, really.

I am sharing this with you, the Internet public, so that you will be aware. Obviously there is a home invader preying upon innocent kitchen calendars and disfiguring them for his own twisted purposes (i.e. to avoid shots).

Please be advised and protect yourselves accordingly. There is no telling when or where he might strike next.

Life, Liberty, And The Pursuit Of Sugar

Most families now have enough left-over Halloween candy to last through the first spring thaw.

Not us. We have always given away the trick-or-treat candy as soon as Ethan returns home. Let me explain: I am not one of those no-sugar moms. My dad, the dentist, tried to prevent me from having sugar when I was a young child. NO sugar at all. I think he realized this was a bit strict when I was so curious about that which was forbidden, that at the age of three, I began scraping used gum off the sidewalk to chew. So that backfired.

Ethan cannot eat 99% of the Halloween loot he brings home since most of it has some type of peanut or treenut (all the good stuff, anyway ... Dear God, what I would not do for an Almond Joy) and he is allergic. When he was a toddler, we questioned whether or not we should even take him trick-or-treating. He'll get all this stuff and then bring it home and won't be able to eat any of it? That seems like a let down for a kid.

So a new tradition was born. Ethan tromps around the neighborhood and collects whatever is being distributed (even all the Reese's, Snickers ... again, all the good stuff ... can you tell I like nuts?). Then when he arrives home, he just leaves the full basket on the doorstep. While he is out, The Great Pumpkin visits and leaves a basket of safe-to-eat treats and miniature toys on the kitchen table. A good trade!

The off-limits basket is then taken home by Grandpa to rifle through and do what he wishes with. I have not heard from Grandpa since Saturday night. He may or may not be in a diabetic coma at the moment.

Ethan has always been excited to see The Great Pumpkin haul, therefore he has never before cared about the missing basket of off-limits candy. Out of sight, out of mind. Except for this year. It took him three days to notice its absence, but once he did, his objection was swift and fierce.

WHERE DID ALL MY CANDY GO!

The Great Pumpkin left you safe candy with no nuts, remember?

WHERE DID THE OTHER CANDY GO?

We sent it home with Grandpa.

(It took him a full minute to process this violation and come up with an appropriately indignant response.)

I HAVE A FUNDAMENTAL RIGHT TO THAT CANDY.

Let's see? Right to freedom of speech, right to equal protection under the law, right to freedom of thought, right to vote in general election ....

Nope. I must have skipped that law school lecture about the right to miniature Milky Ways.

Secure In His Masculinity

I wasn't planning to dress up this year, but when you find a $2 platinum Sharpay from High School Musical hairpiece, complete with tiara, you buy now and ask questions later. Feel free to write that life lesson down and stick it somewhere important for future reference. I think the hair looks real, don't you?

One guess which NFL player could not wait to get his hands on my costume. Like any true performer, the attire was all he needed to assume character ...

Hola, adoring fans! I am waiting for my bottle of Evian after a taxing night of trick-or-treating. Evian is key, the French just know their water. Of course, it must be chilled to 71-degrees --- not 70-degrees, not 72-degrees --- really, not so much chilled as merely kissed with a touch of refrigeration. Must respect the vocal cords! Please maintain your patience, fans, I will prepared to greet the masses after proper hydration and a brief consult with my astrologer.

So much better! That Evian does wonders for my dewy complexion, no? Did I mention it must be 71-degrees? Very important. With a bendy straw. Pale blue to match my eyes.

You'd like a profile shot? Sure. This is my best angle, it highlights my bone structure.

THAT IS IT! Press session OVER!

Did my PR Agent (aka Mom) not specifically warn against asking about That One Incident From When I Was Five Years Old That Shall Not Be Mentioned? Whatever happened to the concepts of journalist integrity and respect of privacy?! FAME is SO HARD these days. I give and give and give and the public just takes and takes and takes.

C'mon PR Lady (Mom), time to duck into the limo and go somewhere better. Somewhere without the commoners, where people respect my craft and delicate temperament.

Mom?

Mommy?!

MOMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Do not forget my bottle of Evian. Or you're fired.

XY Versus XX

I just watched Ethan run head first into an interior wall with his Halloween football helmet on, so hard he fell down.

Since this is something that would never cross my mind to do, I was confused. I asked WHY?

He looked at me like, is the answer to that not obvious?

"First I was trying to walk, then my legs wanted to run, then I crashed because I felt like it."

If you have a little boy of your own, you are shaking your head in agreement. If you have a little girl, you are shaking your head in confusion. Don't tell me that XX and XY parenting is the same. It is not.

On the flip side, yesterday at the school Halloween party, I watched a little girl in a sparkly princess dress tell her friend that she could no longer talk to her because said friend dressed up as Ariel The Mermaid and she knows that Ariel is not a REAL princess, but a mermaid, and so now Sparkly Princess Girl will need to find a new best friend.

The betrayal was forgiven over juice boxes and cupcakes, but it left me thinking that maybe dealing with head-on wall trauma is easier to navigate than the underworld of the female psyche.

BOO !!!

Happy Halloween!

Enjoy the sugar rush! This one sure is ...

That's What I Get For Waking Up in Vegas

Or doing school Halloween party bags .... really, the same thing?

"The thing about glitter is, if you get it on you, be prepared to have it on you forever. Because glitter doesn’t go away. Glitter is the herpes of craft supplies. "

— Demetri Martin

Happy Halloween Weekend~! Enjoy!

Inspiring

If you read nothing else today online, read the article below.

Consider buying the Notes Left Behind book or making a donation to The Cure Starts Now foundation for pediatric brain cancer? (By the way, can you think of a worse phrase in the world than "pediatric brain cancer"? Few come to mind right now for me.)

Now hug your kids.

www.parentdish.com/2009/10/28/dying-girl-left-secret-notes-behind-interview-with-parents-authors/

And, again. One more hug.

Now, go get a tissue.

People ...

... some things are not crafts. They just are not. That is all.

I am deeply suspicious of people that spend many hours "crafting." While I do appreciate art and a nice watercolor or charcoal drawing, craft projects using recycled kitchen products, hot glue guns, and glitter do not do it for me.

Have you ever seen me with a hot glue gun? Not pretty, especially with the hand tremor. That said, I can handle making things with Ethan using egg crates, milk cartons and yogurt containers, but this is absolutely where I draw the line:

http://www.tamponcrafts.com/

No, just no. Some things should never be turned into ghosts, table centerpieces or Christmas ornaments.

Or for that matter, pan flutes.

The Fish Stick Is Key

I received this email awhile back and read it again on this blog that never fails to crack me up:

http://letshaveacocktail.blogspot.com/

How does one know when they are ready for children? I think a good place to start is this list. I, personally, have passed the Toy Test, the Night Test, and the Automobile Test with flying colors. Don't even get me started on the Physical Test. Summer = Skirt Suit. Enough said.

THE CHILD READINESS TEST

(original text from author at http://www.azrahn.com/humor/humorfiles/childtest.html)

MESS TEST Smear peanut butter on the sofa and curtains. Place a fish stick behind the couch and leave it there all summer.

TOY TEST Obtain a 55-gallon box of Legos (or you may substitute roofing tacks). Have a friend spread them all over the house. Put on a blindfold. Try to walk to the bathroom or kitchen. Do not scream because this would wake a child at night.

GROCERY STORE TEST Borrow one or two small animals (goats are best) and take them with you as you shop. Always keep them in sight and pay for anything they eat or damage.

DRESSING TEST Obtain one large, unhappy, live octopus. Stuff into a small net bag making sure that all the arms stay inside.

FEEDING TEST Obtain a large plastic milk jug. Fill halfway with water. Suspend from the ceiling with a cord. Start the jug swinging. Try to insert spoonfuls of soggy cereal into the mouth of the jug, while pretending to be an airplane. Now dump the contents of the jug on the floor.

NIGHT TEST Prepare by obtaining a small cloth bag and fill it with 8-12 pounds of sand. Soak it thoroughly in water. At 3:00p.m., begin to waltz and hum with the bag until 9:00p.m. Lay down your bag and set your alarm for 10:00p.m.Get up, pick up your bag, and sing every song you have ever heard. Make up about a dozen more and sing these too until 4:00a.m. Set alarm for 5:00a.m. Get up and make breakfast. Keep this up for 5 years. Look cheerful.

INGENUITY TEST Take an egg carton. Using a pair of scissors and pot of paint, turn it into an alligator. Now take a toilet paper tube and turn it into an attractive Christmas candle. Use only scotch tape and a piece of foil. Last, take a milk carton, a ping-pong ball, and an empty box of Cocoa Puffs. Make an exact replica of the Eiffel Tower.

AUTOMOBILE TEST Forget the BMW and buy a station wagon. Buy a chocolate ice cream cone and put it in the glove compartment. Leave it there. Get a dime. Stick it into the cassette player. Take a family size package of chocolate chip cookies. Mash them into the back seat. Run a garden rake along both sides of the car. There, perfect.

PHYSICAL TEST (Women) Obtain a large beanbag chair and attach it to the front of your clothes. Leave it there for 9 months. Now remove 10 of the beans. And try not to notice your closet full of clothes. You won't be wearing them for a while.

PHYSICAL TEST (Men) Go to the nearest drug store. Set your wallet on the counter. Ask the clerk to help himself. Now proceed to the nearest food store. Go to the head office and arrange for your paycheck to be directly deposited to the store. Purchase a newspaper. Go home and read it quietly for the last time.

FINAL ASSIGNMENT Find a couple who already have a small child. Lecture them on how they can improve their discipline, patience, tolerance, toilet training and child's table manners. Suggest many ways they can improve. Emphasize to them that they should never allow their children to run wild. Enjoy this experience. It will be the last time you will have all the answers.

And how did you know when you were ready for kids? Because as you may be aware, most children come with very poor return policies.

Tropical Depression

That Prada gauze and all of the Internet threats from friends must have worked their magic. The rogue Left Arm has listened and is now starting to behave like a proper appendage with some manners. The situation has been downgraded from a Category Five to just some plain, old nasty weather. No MRSA. No spreading into other tissues. Now just an "ulcer ... like a bed sore."

You know what I thought when I heard that? Damn, am I sorry that I do not have an eHarmony profile!!! Because if I were online dating right now, I know that would be a big draw. If I had a nickle for every time I heard my single friends lament that there are just not enough young people with seeping open wounds on the market.

I'll have to keep arm wrapped and continue antibiotic #1 for another week, but am off the steroid and antibiotic #2. I have clearance to resume most normal activities, including DRINKING WINE and typing and walking AND DRINKING WINE and carrying things *(No scrubbing toilets or cleaning, I checked). But did I mention the WINE?

I was warned I would probably have some scarring that I may want to follow-up with a plastic surgeon. I think I will pass on that. Optional medical procedures are not on my holiday schedule this year. Besides, I don't think he or she will be able to do anything to erase the mental scarring. That is what the wine is for. Have I mentioned the wine? I might have.

Open Letters

Dear Body:

I am starting to suspect that you enjoy going to see doctors and visiting hospitals in the middle of the night. I, however, do not enjoy such activities.

There are many more entertaining and relaxing ways we can spend our time. I would wager there exists a worthwhile hobby that we could both enjoy? Karate? Tennis, perhaps? Yoga?

After twelve years of competitive horseback riding, I gave it up in college so that I could focus on more pressing pursuits (boys, hangovers and, when time permitted, studying). I have often talked of resuming riding again as an adult, it was a true passion. Maybe that would be good. Would you cooperate?

Surely you remember the good old days. We took a lot of wear-and-tear together. When the horse would refuse the jump, we would flip off onto hard wooden fences and get right back on after a quick limb check. The stirrup leathers would rub open wounds into our calves that would burn like venom when we took a shower that night. Even with a protective helmet, we suffered the occasional concussion. We broke every single one of our fingers, the pointer on the right will forever be bent at a fifteen degree angle. We got bitten. We got kicked. We had a horse fall on us when she slipped in the mud.

I know this was a long time ago, but the point of this story is that no matter what came our way, we healed. We got better and moved on! I do not understand what is going on with this arm situation. WHY ARE WE NOT GETTING ANY BETTER? We have been on three steroids, four antibiotics, I don't even know how many doctors' appointments -- something should be working. I am starting to worry. We have spent twelve days now with a three inch X two inch hole in our arm. That is too long.

Maybe this is your wake-up call to me and you are suggesting that we sit down together for a more formal negotiation. What do you want? More vegetables? Done. More consistent exercise? Fine, that can be arranged. Whatever your terms are, I will agree. Your part of the bargain is this: start acting like you are in your mid-thirties, not your mid-eighties. Deal?

We are missing all sorts of fun stuff this weekend. A Tri-Delt reunion tailgate. A wine and cheese social at Ethan's school. True, we have caught up on excellent television programming that we previously did not know existed: Bridezillas, Toddlers & Tiaras, I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant. All enriching viewing, no doubt, but starting to get a tad repetitious.

And a word about that allergic reaction to the new antibiotic that almost put us back in the hospital Thursday night. That was bullshit. All I am going to say about that. Cut out the monkey shines. Are we clear on this?

Sincerely,
Your Owner

Dear The Left Arm:

I know The Owner called you a bitch in her prior post. I am sure she did not mean it. I am sure she is just frustrated.

There has been some discussion of hospital admission and surgery if you do not get better this weekend. Maybe MRSA that is not responding to antibiotics? That will not be fun for you (or for me). So, let's do what we need to do to get this under control. Like, ten minutes ago.

I know I am the dominant one and have to do all the writing and the utensil holding and picking up of the stuff, but we are a team. I cannot pull the weight of two arms. You are needed. And truth is, I miss you.

Fondly,
The Right Arm




Dear Nurse/Husband:

Thank you for all your efforts to take care of me when what with the pain/the rest/and the multiple doctor runs, I have morphed into a character from Where The Wild Things Are (and not the cute kid one). One minor point to note: In the future, when I request "healthy food" from the store, mashed potatoes and pizza ("but it has green peppers") are not really what I had in mind. But good try!

Love,
The Management

Dear GP,

Even if this "type of IV injury" has resulted in "tissue necrosis and eventual amputation of hands and fingers" you did not NEED TO TELL ME THAT. You especially did not need to TELL ME THAT TWICE.

Best Regards,
Jenny

Dear Readers:

Do not Google "photos of tissue necrosis from IV infiltration" unless you want to wish you had been born without eyeballs.

.....................................

You Googled it, didn't you? Please do not call me at 4 am when it appears in your nightmares and you wake up in a cold sweat crying for your Mommy. You were warned.

Warmly,
JS

Dear Ethan:

When I told you last night I was sorry that I have not spent much time with you these last two weeks you said, "I get it. You're trying to tell me that you love me. I know. Don't worry, no damage done," and gave me a hug, taking special care not to bump my wonky arm, my heart about melted.

Love,

Your Momma

still typing with one hand

there will be no capital letters today. sincere apologies to the ocd contingency, myself included.

now on steroids and two pretty hard-core antibiotics. for the first time since the er, this b---c (that means you, left arm) is looking - maybe - 2 percent better. and the pain is a manageable six out of ten. more than a cavity, less than labor. it is a start, hope it is enough to avert a hospital stay. not my cup of tea.

we have spent $160 on different types of gauze, wraps, and bandage sort of paraphernalia in the past week. gauze! i know. and yes, i fully realize that that is the cost of a pair of shoes i have been coveting at nordstrom.

a special thanks to excellent friends. especially those two that suffered through years of medical school and sleepless residencies solely so that i could call you at 3 am with my questions about neosporin. you know who you are. i appeciate your efforts on my behalf.

All Sorts of Awesome

Typing is illegal right now (but I am bored).

This will be short.

Three weeks ago: Flu.

One week ago: CT Scan with IV contrast for complications after flu. Pneumonia? P/E? Chest looked fine but IV infiltrated *(blew a vein - ew) and contrast dye leaked into arm. Bad. Sent home from radiology with scary instructions and threats of doom and gloom.

Monday night: ER. Secondary infection from IV. Cellulitis. Disgusting. And scary. And disgusting. And painful! http://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/ency/article/000855.htm

Now: Oral antibiotics and strict rest. No work, typing, etc.

Antibiotics do not appear to be doing the trick. Very worried. And disgusted. And worried. Keep fingers crossed the drugs start to do their thing. Really do not want to have to end up in hospital again. That would involve another IV.

A Cautionary Tale

Would you call this a farm (fat arm) or is it more of a felbow (fat elbow)? In either case, I do not proclaim to have a dedicated enough gym routine to enjoy defined arm muscles, but this is three times normal size. The IV exploded. No, for real. Exploded. In my arm. They are not supposed to do that.

The fashionable Sharpie marks are courtesy of the radiologist, who told me to head straight to the emergency room for surgical drainage if my felbow swelled outside of those marks. Three times normal size is OK; four is not.

One word. SERIOUSLYOMGFORTHELOVEOFOUCH. There was some crying.

This was yesterday. Today f[arm/]elbow has shrunk to human proportions but is black and blue and purple and green and feels like I lost a kickboxing match to a Clydesdale.

Story to follow, of course, but right now, my farm says it would like to stop typing and watch Tyra.

He Likes To Move It, Move It

Shaking his "maker of money." His words, not mine.

Unicorns And Fairies

If you follow any of my comments on Facebook (and if you don't, I do not mean this to be accusatory, simply a statement), you may have noticed that I have had the flu for the past week. Because I have posted 897 times about the flu. Because I have been home for going on ... 4,678 hours now. Or close to it. I never claimed to be a math major. I never even took Tax Law in law school, which took some serious schedule finessing to get out of. And may or may not have involved a lap dance with one of the deans, but you did not hear that from me.

So. Back to the flu.

Which, as I type this, of course I had it. Because like most other people, when the seasons change, I get sick. Or when I drive through a yellow light and don't tap my brake to make it look like I will stop but then decide to take my chances and accelerate instead of actually stopping, I get sick. Or when I am standing within a two-mile radius of someone who has a nose itch and is considering sneezing but instead just wrinkles their upper lip and makes a weird O-Face, I get sick. [An important sidenote: Mom, I am not going to explain the meaning of "O-Face" to you, so don't even ask. Love, Your Daughter.]

I also made a crucial error last week that stupidly, brazenly tempted fate. I might as well have yelled Macbeth in a packed theatre on opening night. Per the CDC's urging, I dutifully made an appointment and paid fifty dollars for my flu shot. Fifty dollars that could have used to feed the homeless. Or knit scarves for the disenfranchised. Or buy ten pumpkin spice lattes. WITH WHIP! Two days before I got sick. I want a refund, people.

Apparently, I have the worst immune system in the entire world. I'm sorry, please excuse me for one moment ... so, my immune system just informed me that it will now be filing a suit for libel against me for $40 million dollars. Upon advisement of counsel, I officially retract that statement, perhaps worst in the entire world is a bit of an exaggeration. I will concede that it is not as bad as that boy from the 1970s who had to spend his entire life in a bubble. Though it is undoubtedly in poor taste to make that comparison because 1) he had to live in a bubble and 2) I think he passed away. And now I feel mean for even saying that and a little depressed for him ... moving on ...

Several people have inquired whether I had the lower-case flu or scary horror movie music and scenes of The Impending Apocalypse FLU? I am not sure if it was the "meh" flu (sooo 2008) or swine/H1N1/whatever the kids these days are calling it FLU.

When I came down with a fever of 102, a rib-breaking cough, and sundry general awfulness (on a Saturday, natch), I called my doctor to inquire, So, about this thing? I was a bit reluctant to make that call because I assumed she would want me to come in and stick things up my nose, or at least, take some blood. Lady LOVES her some blood, she cannot get enough of it, this one. I called last week to get a copy of one of my lab reports from three years ago and she greeted me with unbridled joy, "Oh good! We are going to need some more blood!" I like to think such preferential treatment is because I am one of her favorite patients. I am sure this has nothing to do with the fact that my co-pay amounts cover a large chuck of that shiny Mercedes SUV lease.

When I called last Saturday, she could not have more emphatic about the fact that I was not to come into her office, or she would have no choice but to fumigate the place and then light it on fire. And then sweep all the ashes up while wearing a biohazard suit and moon boots.

NO NO NO NO. You and your flu stay far away from me and my office here.

Really? I'd thought you'd want to see me? And you know, test me for stuff? Don't you test for flu?

Hello? Have you not been listening!? FLU. You. Have. The. Flu.

Um-kay ... ?

Stay home - for five to seven days - do not leave the house, you are contagious. I will call in an anitviral prescription. Go to bed. DO NOT BRING YOUR FLUNESS INTO MY OFFICE. Oh, and shop at Banana Republic and Pottery Barn on-line for symptom relief. As much as possible over the next week. I find that my patients recover faster that way.

My husband debated the fact whether she actually said that last part, but I told him you do not argue with someone that has a 117-degree fever. Did I just write 102-degree fever a minute ago? Yes, I did. Whatever. I was hella hot. Point conveyed.

A word about TheraFlu tea. Have you ever tried that stuff? Me neither. You might want to. For your next date night or something. I swear it has absinthe in it and the FDA does not yet know about it. I would drink a cup of its lemony hot waterness and then be all, HEY JEFF! LIKE OMG!!! DID YOU JUST SEE THAT SPARKLY UNICORN!?? IN THE KITCHEN! NEXT TO THE BREADMAKER!?? TO THE LEFT OF ALL THE FAIRIES!??

And he'd be all , Exactly how much tea HAVE you had today?

And then he'd hide the tea box. Behind the fairies.

I will miss that lovely tea. The rest, not so much.