In My Next Life, I’m Coming Back with a . . .
I was completely beat and my leg was really bothering me yesterday afternoon. I had just started making dinner when Mr. BBM called to tell me he was feeling awful. Headache, body aches, fever, nausea. I guess he wasn't going to be able to go to the grocery store for me after all.
He came home, went immediately to our room, changed into comfortable clothes and took up residence on the sofa. Within minutes, he was asleep.
While I certainly have an appreciation for a good stomach virus, I was about to burst into tears. My leg was throbbing and I needed to sit. Now I had to serve dinner, clean it up, get the kids ready for bed, put them to bed, and go to the store, when all I really wanted on my agenda was to sit down and ice my knee.
I cleaned up dinner, even made some quick dessert for the girls (and me-hell, I deserved it), and then headed out the door for the grocery store. I picked up the staples I'd need to get through the weekend. You know, beer, wine, vodka, milk, juice, tissues, lots and lots of tissues with lotion in them because Lil C is starting to look like a chapped Hitler from using up about eight boxes of tissues per day. I really hope child services doesn't get their undies in a bunch over her chapped lip or I'm in big trouble.
I was talking to my fantastic friend, Renovation Girl, on the way home from the store and I told her that in my next life I'm coming back with some enhanced anatomy. That's right people, I'm coming back with a penis.
It doesn't matter how nauseous I am, how high my fever is, or whether or not I have a serious case of peeing out the heiney. Life goes on as normal for me. I still have to get up and get Big I off to school. I still have to play the part of a short order cook for Lil C all day long. I still have to help Big I with homework, tend to the laundry and keep the household moving. There are no sick days when you're a Mom.
Even last year, when I was in agony after ACL surgery, I would sit in my bathroom while drying my hair and wipe the counter down. I can barely get people in this household to rinse their toothpaste down the sink when they're healthy. It's frustrating to say the least.
This morning, Big I and Lil C were up by 7:30. I was trying to keep my eyes closed for as long as possible when Lil C tossed two hard backed books at my face and demanded I read them to her. She struck my nose and made it bleed a little. It hurt enough that I teared up, and then, while standing in the bathroom, I just started to cry.
Later, as I was sipping some coffee, Mr. BBM told me how lousy he's still feeling. "Great," I said, "I'll probably get it just in time to start the new semester this week."
"Well if you do," he said, "just lay down and go to sleep it off," he said.
I started to laugh. "Mom's don't get to lie down and go to sleep. That will never happen."
I'm telling you. In my next life, there will be some new equipment to learn how to use.
There are some great new reviews up at The BBM Review, including Wii Fit and some other fitness equipment, the new Incubus CD, plus a website that helps you organize your life. Check them out!
The Anti-Sympathy Gene
Maybe it's because my Mom, a registered nurse, always required "proof" in order for me to stay home from school. Maybe it has nothing to do with nurture and everything to do with nature and it's just not part of mine. But for whatever reason, I sort of lack that sympathy gene when it comes to my husband.
When we were in college, I was sick for my birthday. We had been dating only about three months at the time. I had a nasty sinus infection and bronchitis. He brought me all kinds of vitamins and I'm pretty sure he also brought me soup. Had the roles been reversed, I probably would have thought his sickness was overkill and that he was just trying to avoid seeing me or something.
Fast forward to Mr. BBM's 30th birthday. For the weeks leading up to his birthday, I went into mad planning mode. I booked a limo large enough to fit us and many of our friends who were coming in from out of town. Since we had an apartment that couldn't fit everyone, I reserved the apartment's guest suite for the out of towners. I made a reservation at a restaurant, had a cake made and even arranged for my parents to come in from out of town to babysit Big I who was only about to turn two. The plan was to have dinner with everyone, and then go out on the town in the limo. It was going to be a blast.
On the Tuesday before the big night, Mr. BBM came home from work early. He looked green and thought that he either had food poisoning or the flu. Instead of getting him soup or a drink, I scolded him and told him he had only a few days to get better. The whole weekend was a surprise, but he had no idea how much I had planned for it.
Wednesday rolled around and he was worse. I was getting really frustrated, but was still determined to have the birthday bash go forward. Thursday came and he was even worse. The party was just two days away and honestly, I was getting really upset. I mean, sure he was sick, but all the planning, the reservations, the money, the birthday bash people! I thought that clearly, he was overreacting and was just afraid of what I had planned for him. I'll admit, I was giving him a hard time.
As Thursday evening rolled around, he said he thought that maybe I should take him to the hospital. I threw my arms up in frustration! What were they going to do at the ER for the flu? He called a doctor and since they were closing, they said he should just go to the ER. Fabulous.
He had been pretty much stationary for two and a half days at this point and mentioned that he didn't know if he could get his socks on. Please. I mean, seriously, a stomach flu and he couldn't get his socks on. Come on already!
So, I retrieved a pair of socks for him and tossed them in his general direction, ok, pelted them is more like it. I was frustrated. I had had no help with the almost 2-year old for several days now. Did I think he was milking it? Absolutely.
As we were getting ready to leave our third floor apartment, he said he didn't think he could walk down the stairs. Oh for God's sake-is he serious? What did he want me to do, call an ambulance? He eventually made it down the stairs and we arrived at the hospital.
When we arrived at the ER, he was put at the back of the queue. It was a flu-like illness after all. There were people with cuts going in front of us. There were people with coughs going in front of us. We arrived at around 4 p.m. and it was absolutely no fun with an almost 2-year old.
As the hours wore on, Mr. BBM was not looking good at all. The color was completely gone from his face. He said he was in agony. He was in and out of sleep, propped up in an uncomfortable chair and I was starting to get a little concerned. I kept asking when we were going to be seen, and they kept blowing us off.
Finally, around midnight, they called us back. The ER was packed. They didn't even have a room for him. We were camped out in a narrow hallway in the ER and it was miserable. Big I had fallen asleep in my arms and I was exhausted from holding her for so long. There was nowhere to even sit down with her.
Mr. BBM was hooked up to an IV. They wanted to do a CT scan as a precaution. The doctors and Mr. BBM told me to go home and get Big I in bed. The hospital was right down the street from our apartment. If anything major was wrong, they said they would call.
By the time I got home, it was around 2 a.m. and I was exhausted. I went to bed expecting to pick Mr. BBM up in the morning after he was rehydrated.
Instead I got a phone call.
I think it was around 6 in the morning and the call was from my mother-in-law. She sounded upset, but like she was trying to keep it together. She said something to the effect of, "Honey, we're on our way. I'm stopping to pick up Grandma too and we'll be there for you. And if you're not happy with this hospital, we'll find a specialist and have him transferred."
I interrupted her. "Wait, you're coming all the way out here for a stomach flu."
"Honey, when did you last talk to Mr. BBM?"
"Last night, when I left the hospital," I said, still groggy from sleep and completely confused.
"Oh honey," she said, "they found a mass in his abdomen."
The next few minutes were a complete blur. I was simultaneously getting dressed, grabbing Big I, and calling the hospital. The hospital couldn't "find" Mr. BBM so I was really freaking out. Finally, after about three calls, I got through to his room.
There was a mass, a complete bowel obstruction and he needed emergency surgery.
Mr. BBM's dad was calling on the other line to tell me he was coming as well; and I was calling my parents to ask them to come earlier than we had planned so they could watch Big I.
As I was running out the door, I called the limo company and while sobbing, told them I had to cancel our reservation. I gave them the short version of all that was happening in between sobs. "You're not going to charge me, are you?" I cried. They said they wouldn't. I quickly set up a phone tree and told everyone not to bother coming and I was gone.
I arrived at the hospital and was in utter disbelief. What the hell had they done to him? Mr. BBM was hooked up to tubes coming out of his nose. He was barely conscious. ER nurses were buzzing around him and I told them I wanted to speak to a doctor, stat.
His surgeon came in, dressed in scrubs, with a team of ER people. They didn't even see me. They started wheeling him out and I started having a fit. "Wait, I need to know what you're doing and what's going on before you take him!" I screamed.
The surgeon stopped for a brief second, just long enough to say, "Look, I can either talk to you about what's wrong with him, or I can go save his life." He didn't wait for my answer, although I said a very quiet, "just go" as they were rushing him down the hall.
I remember sitting in the OR waiting room, sobbing. Big I sat on the floor playing with something I bought her in the gift shop. The ER people told me it was going to take hours to get him in there, explore what was wrong and fix the blockage.
Only 45 minutes passed and I saw the surgeon slowly walking down the hall towards the waiting room. He had his surgical cap in his hand. He didn't look encouraging and I started imagining the conversation we were about to have. It wasn't much of a stretch to assume I was now a widow.
Instead, he told me that the mass was benign. Mr. BBM had what is called a meckels diverticulum. Only 2% of the population has this condition and usually it makes itself known during the first few years of life. Mr. BBM's waited until his 30th birthday so it could wreck his party and scare the crap out of his family.
Mr. BBM's had been sucked back into his intestine which caused the blockage and the "mass" on the CT scan. They were able to remove it, resect the affected area, and he was going to be fine. I couldn't believe I had thrown socks at the man.
I spent the next week while he was in the hospital (for his 30th birthday) being as nice as I possibly could until the day that Big I drooled on his bed sheets. Mr. BBM was on some heavy pain meds. After all, he had staples for probably six inches of his abdomen. He was in a lot of pain. While visiting him one day, Big I fell asleep and I asked him if I could just lay her down on the foot of his bed for a bit. He said I could, but he wasn't happy about it. After days of visiting with her, I was ready for him to come home. It's no fun being in a hospital with an almost two-year old.
While sleeping, Big I drooled on his sheets a little and Mr. BBM got annoyed. He wanted this sheets changed. He acted like she had just pooped in his bed. I took her and went home. Other than that ridiculous afternoon, I tried. I really tried to be more sympathetic towards him. I spent weeks while he was on disability, catering to his every need. I really did my best; and thankfully, he made a full recovery.
Does this mean that today, I have sympathy for him and treat him accordingly when he has a pulled muscle or a cold, or even the flu?
Sadly, no. Despite the fact that the man would literally carry me around if I asked him to, I still lack the sympathy gene. Thankfully he tolerates me as I am.
What's the moral of this story?
I made a good effort, but it didn't stick for long. I think it's just a part of my DNA.
This is the back story from my post from the other day and it's especially for my good friend Dee. 😉
Mixed Messages
You know you're in for it when the nurse who's about to take your stitches out, takes one look at your leg and says, "Oh, you have one of those. . . I'll be back." My surgeon does this running loop stitch thing and it mimizes scarring but stings a bit more than normal stitches when it comes out. When it comes out, it's one piece and you can feel it tugging underneath your skin.
She came back a few minutes later and peeled up the steri-strips. "Oh" she said, "I'm going to need to go get him. It's still open." My surgeon came in, took a look, and told her to go ahead with taking them out. It looked so disgusting that I wasn't sure if I wanted to gag, throw up, or pass out. With all the mixed signals, my body just decided to ramp up the heat as it began to feel like I was in a sauna and I broke out in a serious sweat. The bonus of having an incision that isn't completely closed yet is that the stitches don't pull as much coming out. Still, I couldn't watch.
Instead of watching the nurse pull out the stitches and put more steri-strips on the incision, I concentrated on my surgeon's face. He said that he removed part of the sheath, and all the scar tissue that had built up all around it. He said there was a lot of fluid in there too and that I should be good to go now.
Of course, there are limitations. I'm supposed to take it easy for the next 7-10 days and avoid doing any type of activity or stretching that would widen the incision and subsequent scar.
When all was said and done, he told me that in a few weeks I can get back to normal. We talked about pivoting, twisting, kicking and sparring and he made it quite clear what he thinks about me sparring again.
"Three step sparring is o.k. but if I were you, I wouldn't do anything beyond that. Revision surgeries do not have a good success rate, and we're talking about your leg and the rest of your life here."
Truly he's right. It's just not worth it.
As I was leaving he smiled and said, "I'll see you around, just hopefully not here." I should have invited him to my birthday party.
On the way home, I stopped at the gym to ask them if they could put a medical hold on my account. In total it will probably be about three weeks that I'm out of commission. At first, they seemed really willing to help. Then she said she would need 20 days prior notice to put it on hold. "I don't think I even had 20 days notice that I was having surgery," I told her.
I asked for the guy who signed me up and he saw me coming as I walked back to his desk. "Remember that free month you promised me when I signed up? I never got it. I've been paying every month since I signed up. I'd like you to put that free month through now. I threw my leg up on the chair and pulled my pant leg up.
He wrote down my membership number and said he'd take care of it. I figured that flashing a little leg would work, just for different reasons than one would think.
Apparently, the 20 days prior notice business is somewhere on my contract, in microscopic print, on the backside of the paper, written in Arabic code, and requiring a decoder pen from a cereal box. I would just like to know when helping people became secondary to screwing people.
“Little Cooker” and the Cold
Last week, Lil C and I spent our afternoons (and many evenings) watching The Food Network. She calls herself the "little cooker" and I am strongly encouraging her in this interest since it may limit the time I have to be in the kitchen in the very near future. Plus, if she gets her own cooking show someday, she can buy me a beach house to thank me for all the patience I've shown in the kitchen over the years.
I imagine her starring in a show as a little ninja chef. Kicking recipe butts and taking names. Plus, she's really anxious to get her hands on my knives so it fits. Yesterday was not her best day in the kitchen, however.
One of the shows we watched last week was "Semi-Homemade with Sandra Lee." Lil C liked her show so much that she kept asking me when it was going to be back on. I don't think she bonded with Sandra Lee so much as she just liked that the first episode we watched was all desserts. Since last week, she's been bugging me endlessly about making one of them so we decided to tackle what seemed like the easiest (the wine dumped over frozen yogurt recipe doesn't count because she couldn't eat it).
So, we went to the store yesterday and searched endlessly for phyllo dough. I can't imagine many people come looking for it because it was like going on a treasure hunt trying to find it. The recipe is called "Chocolate Mocha Phyllo Cups" and it looked super easy on TV.
We came home, washed our hands, and got to work. Phyllo dough is delicate so I peeled each of the three layers we needed off and put them in front of her. I sprayed them with cooking spray and let Lil C sprinkle them with cinnamon sugar. When it was time to cut them up and delicately place them in the cupcake holders, Lil C was a little antsy, and I spent my time doing damage control. We put them in the oven and got to work on the pudding.
Meanwhile, Big I confiscated her computer and closed out my recipe page. I knew they had to be in the oven for a couple minutes but I was going to check the details after I got them in. Needless to say, I couldn't find the page again soon enough so the kitchen's sweet cinnamon smell soon became a burnt nightmare and I knew the first batch was done for.
Lil C was busy stirring the chocolate pudding when I removed the burnt phyllo cups from the oven. It was as I was dumping the last one into the trash can and subsequently burning the skin right off my hands, when Lil C started sneezing. . . right into the pudding bowl.
Big I clutched her stomach and sort of groaned. I did the same and the pudding was dumped down the sink. So much for that.
I checked the pantry closet and found a package of vanilla pudding and changed the plan. "Let's make vanilla berry phyllo cups," I said.
This time, I did the cups and the pudding on the other side of the kitchen. It was obvious Lil C was breaking out quickly with a cold and I wasn't going to toss two desserts in one day. One is already a crime. She did help decorate the cups since she promised not to breathe while doing so, and after we washed her hands again for about 10 minutes straight.
With no additional "ingredients" this batch turned out perfectly. Plus, we created our very own recipe and they were absolutely delicious.
Today the little ninja chef is super sick with a nasty cold. I think we'll put the cooking lessons on hold indefinitely.
Party Like a Martial Artist
February 7th. . . Another misssed opportunity to test for Shodan.
On February 7th, three will have passed me by since my ACL tear back in October of 2007. There are only two opportunities each year. My next chance is in June. Testing in the summer usually occurs in August. Once again, I doubt I'll have enough training time in to be ready, even if I get back right away. What I thought was going to be a six month delay has turned into a two year delay.
It sucks.
So, while some are in the Big Easy testing for Shodan, I'm going to be partying. I may not be doing kata, but I'll be dancing.
Many years ago, I planned a really fun party night for Mr. BBM. It took me weeks. It involved friends coming from out of town, dinner and a surprise cake, and an eventual limo to take us for a night out on the town in Philly. Four days before the birthday bash, he came home from work sick with what he thought was food poisoning.
24 hours later he was having emergency surgery to save his life. It was a nightmare. He had to go on disability for a while and the birthday bash never happened. He didn't seem to care. Truth be told, his idea of a perfect birthday is a home-cooked meal and quiet.
Mine is different.
So this year, I'm planning my own party. Mr. BBM said he couldn't do it himself. I talked to a friend who knows where to go and she had a great idea. We're going to reserve a VIP room at a dance club and I am going to celebrate my solid-ready-to-get-back-to-karate-knee with some serious dancing.
You in?
Apparently it's Delurking Week so delurk already and say hello!
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