Right Idea, Wrong Reason

My mother is quitting smoking. But that's not the point of this post. The point of this post is why she is quitting smoking.

Guesses?

Did you say because of her health? You're wrong.

How about because the price of cigarettes is going up, and she is trying to save money? Nope, wrong again.

Did anyone say doing it to help her best friend who is also trying to quit? Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner.

Now, can anyone guess why the friend is quitting? I'll give you a hint, it's not health or money.

Oh, and it's not because smoking is becoming totally socially unacceptable.

Or because it's just generally gross.

Give up? You might as well, because you are never going to guess it.

My Mother's best friend is quitting smoking, and taking my Mom along for the ride, because she is sure the world is going to end on December 21st 2012.

Now, I am sure you are saying "well, if the world is going to end, why doesn't she just enjoy her cigarettes?" After all, that's what I said. You see, she doesn't plan to die in Armageddon, but instead to take off with her family in their RV for a safe place to ride out the storm until society is ready to rebuild.  And in that safe place? It will likely be very hard to find cigarettes. She's quitting now so she won't have to deal with both the apocalypse and nicotine withdrawal.

It would be a brilliant plan if it wasn't so totally and completely insane. And it's led to a brilliant plan of my own.

I am going to start stocking up on cigarettes. If the end of the world is coming, there have got to be some people out there not as prepared as my Mom's friend. There have got to be even more people who will want one last drag before they hurtle out of existence. At the end of days I will be queen -- because I will have all the smokes.

And if the world does not end on December 21st?

I will have one hell of a Christmas present for my mother... and her friend.

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Emergency-ish

Monday was Meg's first trip to the emergency room.

No one is really quite sure exactly what happened, except she was chasing after Luke and his friend, tripped on a stair and somehow hit her head. She never lost consciousness, she wasn't bleeding or vomiting, and the paramedics my Mom called said all her of vitals looked fine. So, why did we go? Because she also didn't cry when she fell and hurt herself, was dazed and kept nodding off, and because her response times were really slow to stimulus and questions. She just wasn't herself. We called the pediatrician to get her take, and she said a head injury is nothing to mess with -- get Meg to the ER.

The emergency room is maybe a 10 minute drive from my Mom's house. On Monday it seemed to take FOREVER. Oh, and not just because we were on our way to find out if Meg had a serious head injury, but also because she was requiring we play a "Yo Gabba Gabba" album at full blast because it "made her feel better." Yet, even with the obnoxious music blaring, she could hardly keep her eyes open.

Once we got to the ER though, everything changed. It started when we sat down in the waiting room. Meg was curled on my lap, kind of dozing, when she put her head up and said "I want to go look at the fish." At first I thought she had really lost it. Fish? I saw no fish. Was this like her version of seeing stars? I wondered if I should call the nurse. Before I could Meg was down off my lap and walking away. Then I saw it: the fish tank in the far opposite corner of the room, probably 30 feet away at the least. That's when I knew Meg was going to be just fine.

Over the next two hours of waiting, being seen, waiting more, and being seen again, Meg improved rapidly. She started asking questions, singing songs, and playing shy when anyone who looked doctorish spoke to her. The doctor decided she probably had a mild concussion, and asked us to wait and let Meg have something to drink to just make sure Meg didn't need a CT scan. They brought Meg a lemonade slushie, which I am pretty sure she now thinks of as one of the greatest things to ever happen to her. I think of it as the most expensive frozen treat she'll ever have. When she didn't throw it up, or go back into drowsy mode, they let us go home.

It was only as we were walking out that I realized how truly lucky we were. The doors of the other rooms were closed, but all had windows on them, and I'm nosy, so I looked in. One kid bleeding from the mouth, at least three were being given oxygen, and most of them were crying. Outside one door that had it's window covered a group of probably ten crying adults were gathered. I quietly thanked God Meg just had a little bump on her head.

Meg is now recovering nicely. She says her head hurts at times, but it's nothing a little Motrin can't fix. She keeps asking if we can go get slushies again. I tell her yes, but this time let's just go to 7-11.

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How to Deal with Crazy

I like to think I have experience with crazy. After all, I've been living with it for more than half my life. At times I have truly believed my biggest accomplishment is not letting anxiety and depression crush me into a cube like a cosmic garbage compactor.

Since I have had to live with crazy pretty much anyone who has wanted to be even a semi-permanent part of my life has had to deal with it too. I known people who have dealt with it well. I have known with people who couldn't deal with it at all. The best ones, though, are the ones who don't deal with it at all, but deal with me instead and help me come through it as unscathed as possible.

So, how does one do that, should one encounter someone suffering from crazy? After years and years of research I think I have come up with a short list that may help...

1. Never assume it is about you. It isn't. It's crazy. Even if the person in question is going on and on about how their life sucks, and you are a big part of that life, it STILL has nothing to do with you. Trying to determine what role you play in causing the crazy, or how it is affecting your relationship is for later, not in the moment. In the moment it will just make the crazy person crazier because they will assume they have hurt your feelings, or that you hate them. Both are rocket fuel for crazy.

2. Don't try to force them to stop being crazy. If they could stop the crazy, they would. Telling them are being embarrassing, or unreasonable, or ridiculous, or that they just need to "knock it off" will just reinforce the thoughts they are already having, and prolong the crazy.

3. If you are worried about saying the wrong thing, don't say anything. You never know what a person in the middle of crazy is going to take the wrong way. Sometimes just being there, and letting them know you aren't leaving is the best thing you can do.

4. Let them cry. Sometimes it is the best thing to wash all the crazy away.

5. Let them know you still see them through the crazy. This is the big one, and the best way to make crazy go away fast. Let them know, in any way you can, that this is temporary, that it is something they are dealing with, and not who they are.

There are other little things to do, like making sure they have taken their meds, telling stupid jokes, eating carbs, and making sure they are cool with the term "crazy" before using it (I, myself, have embraced it), but those are the big five.

Oh, and when all else fails, remember, this is someone you care for, crazy or not. Fall back on that to guide your actions, and everything should be okay.

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There is Nothing Wrong With Me

Want to know a surefire way to make sure a health complaint isn't something serious?

Go to a doctor and tell him you think it's something serious.

Or, if you really want to be sure? Go to the ER.

Works every time.

Take, for example, my recent stomach woes. They had been going on for about a month and slowly getting worse. I had tried a litany of medicines, and cutting a number of things from my diet, but nothing seemed to work. My stomach hurt, my back hurt, and it felt like nothing in my digestive tract was working properly. I walked around all day with a look on my face suggesting I had just smelled sour milk, or been told Sarah Palin was up for a Nobel Prize. If I ate, the pains got worse. If I drank, the pains got worse. If I moved around a lot, the pains got worse. Luckily, the moving thing doesn't happen that much, and slowly I stopped really taking anything in besides Pepto.

My Mom was convinced it was my gall bladder.

Ryan was worried it was my pancreas.

Tara said it was the crazies. Oh, and then she said I probably had a wheat allergy, because she's mean.

Meg just wanted to know why the milk was sour.

I called doctors. The earliest anyone could see me was July. I made an appointment and decided I could stick it out. Then the pain stopped being annoying to being disruptive. Yesterday I came home from work trying to convince myself I had a stomach bug Ryan had been carrying around. By mid-afternoon I knew it wasn't. By six last night I had agreed to go with my Mom to the ER this morning, and had called work to tell them I wasn't coming.

This morning I woke up feeling pretty good. Still a little sore, but better. I called my Mom to tell her I was not going. She reminded me that I had felt better before, and it had gotten worse.

So, I went.

Four different people asked me about my symptoms. They felt my stomach. They took my vitals. They drew blood. They took other fluids. They did an ultrasound.

They found nothing.

My blood work was fine.

My gall bladder looked "perfect."

I started to cry because nothing was wrong with me. I am still not sure if they were tears of joy, or frustration.

At least they didn't say it was the crazies.

The doctor thinks it could be all of the supplements I have been taking. Or maybe a bad reaction to a medication. He also says he can't be sure. I am supposed to stop taking everything not absolutely necessary and see what happens. He might have a point. When I woke up this morning, feeling better, I had taken a single pill in more than 48 hours.

Of course, he says if that doesn't work I can always go back.

After all, that seems to do the trick.

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Depressing Little Secret

About two weeks ago, for reasons that I thought were good at the time, I decided to go off my antidepressants and try to "tough it out." It was not a smart thing to do, and I am now back on them after a crash that should be called impressive to say the least. However, while I am very glad to be back on the right path, and not running into the bathroom at work to cry when I read something sad (which is a A LOT, people really suck sometimes), I have to say, it wasn't all bad.

That's the dirty little secret about going off meds when you have been on them so long. There are moments when it is the best feeling ever.

Now, I am not saying that being suicidal, or crying uncontrollably, or thinking that everyone is out to get you is fun. Those are the reasons for medication. At least the reasons for my medication. However, the medications also dull the other emotions that can be larger than life for a person with depression -- like joy, and love, and excitement. Once the meds are gone those feelings are so overwhelming it's like no one else has ever, or will ever feel them that way ever again. You kind of feel bad for people on an emotional even keel.

For instance, last Thursday Meg and I were playing some stupid game, and she crawled into my lap and put her cheek against mine. I breathed in the smell of her hair and my eyes filled with tears because I love her so much. At that moment I KNEW no Mom could love a child more. With that feeling I really believed I could balance out the absolute emotional destruction when the pendulum swings the other way.

Wait, no it didn't. That's just crazy talk.

While those feelings are wonderful, and exhilarating, and make you think life is dull without them, they are just a trick. A mirage to bring you in that leaves you sucking sand. And in the end, feeling pretty good all the time, instead of feeling either stupendously terrific or world endingly bad, is an excellent trade off -- especially if you have a kid.

I'm glad to be back.

I mean, not crazy glad -- after all, I'm on meds.

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Bad Trip

I have spent the last week sick as a dog, and refusing to go to the doctor. You know, because that's how I roll. I sounded like the love child of Harvey Firestein and Selma from the "The Simpsons," and had no idea how my body was producing so much mucus when it had so little energy to do anything else. I was gross, I was suffering, and the last thing I wanted to be told was that I had "just a cold." We all know there is a whole aisle at the grocery store devoted to treating those. So, to that aisle I went.

First I tried Sudafed. Nothing. Then I coated myself in Vick's Vaporub. Ryan threatened to sleep on the couch, but I still didn't feel better. NyQuil. DayQuil. Mucinex. Nothing, nada, zilch. I was close to the end of my rope when, on Friday, I pulled a bottle of Robitussin off the shelf on my way to work.

I took a dose in the car as I drove. I waited. Nothing. I got to work. I waited. Nothing. After about an hour I decided to take another dose, and see if that did anything. It did. Suddenly I was high as a kite. A kite that still had cold symptoms. I turned to my friend Irinna.

"Irinna, I am totally high," I said.

Laughter.

"Don't laugh, this is serious."

"Well, don't take any more."

"But I still have my cold."

"Don't take any more."

I'm not quite sure how I go through the rest of the day, but I did. On the way out to my car I started to crash, and by the time I got home I had a hangover similar to those I had in my 20's, only worse, because I had no funny memories to go along with it.

The next day I went to the doctor. Damn it. Well, at least the antibiotics she gave me won't lead me to a 12 step program.

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The Secret Recipe

The television channel has changed! Hurray! No more learning as I try to work out! Hurray, hurray! Oh, and the new television channel has introduced me to my new hero: Judie Byrd.

Isn't she perky? As you can tell, her show is all about cooking -- and cooking fun things to boot! Truly, I don't think she made a single dish she didn't say was fun. Chicken salad? FUN! Cabbage salad? FUN! Noodle salad? FUN! Now, I have only seen the one show, but I am guessing if she thinks salads are fun she is extra pumped about other foods.

Oh, and Judie is not only perky, but adventurous too! Now, don't be too afraid, but one of the salad dressings she made had -- wait for it -- sesame oil. WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? HOW DO THEY GET THOSE TINY SEEDS OPEN? Plus, and this may actually make you quiver a little bit, it had rice vinegar too. THAT'S RIGHT, VINEGAR MADE OUT OF RICE! NOT EVEN KIDDING! I was pretty shocked when Judie pulled out these "ingredients," but luckily she let me know that they really weren't all that odd, and that people all over Asia (her implied italics, not mine) use them every day. Asia? I'm just going to have to take her word for it.

While she may use crazy ingredients, don't fret, Judie is all American. Not one of her recipes included less than a half a cup of oil. She even used it to fry those crazy sesame seeds, because we all know while toasting them might make them just as, if not more, delicious, it would also make her a communist. Oh, oh, oh! She also added salt to a dressing that had a third cup of soy sauce in it! Only in America can you get a salad that gives you hypertension.

Seriously, Mr. T should have been hanging his head in shame when his "fat cutting" oven infomercial tried to follow her show. I pitied that fool.

I might now actually miss learning about WWII weapons.

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The Suction Shack

No, it's not what you think. Sickos.

Meg has had a snotty nose since January 3rd. I know the day it started, because that is the day we all ended our holiday vacation bliss. The first day Meg was back at daycare she greeted me with a booger filled nose when I picked her up. Her first post-break gym and music classes just multiplied the problem. By the end of that week Ryan and I were armed with tissues at all times, all three of our bulb aspirators were continually in the dishwasher, we had bought enough Vicks products to have stock in the company, and Meg looked like she was sporting a bright red mustache because of all the wiping. We figured once all of the germs were once again acquainted with her body, the snot would stop.

We were wrong.

We went to the doctor. She said Meg just had a snotty nose.

Things continued to get worse and worse, despite our growing arsenal of defenses. In addition to the vapor rub, we added vapor baths and vapor steam at night. We started wiping hands and everything else down with sanitizer at every opportunity. We stopped using normal tissues for lotion ones, and began slathering Meg's face in Aquaphor so the skin would not end up peeling off.

I took Meg back to the doctor yesterday. The other parents in the waiting room looked at me like I had brought really gross napalm in the room. I understood, but having wiped her nose 3 seconds before, and knowing I was going to have to do it three seconds later, I figured they could cut me some slack.

This time the doctor had answers: Meg had an ear infection, as well as a mild case of bronchiolitis. She needed antibiotics, and a trip to the "suction shack." It took everything I had in me not to ask why she wanted me to take Meg to a gay bar. She got the last laugh though when she told me what it really was, and that I was going to have to take my baby -- MY BABY -- to the hospital to have her nose and chest sucked out.

I'm not even going to go into the panic I suffered in the next 24 hours. I worried about how it could scar her psychically if we did it, and that it could lead to pneumonia if we didn't. I called everyone we know to get a second opinion, and my Mom to get her opinions on all the opinions. I monitored everything coming out of Meg's nose, hoping it was decreasing. Then I noticed that while I focused on my suffering, I had forgotten about Meg's -- and the fact she needed this to end -- NOW. I called and made the appointment. Ryan, worried I might pas out, or punch someone, said he would meet us there.

Honestly, the worst part of the "suction shack" was the stupid sign on the door. Apparently "outpatient respiratory therapy" isn't cute enough, so handmade sign with it's nickname and a picture of a "Gilligan's Island" house adorns the door. I was not amused.

The treatment itself was really quick. A tube up the nose, suction, and done. Meg wasn't pleased, of course, but no more upset than when we use the bulb aspirator. The stuff that came out of her was really impressive. I mean, if you are into that kind of stuff.

Oh, and now? She can breathe. We've only wiped her nose once since then.

I don't know if I'm ready to give up the Vicks, though. I've really started liking the smell.

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Worry, Worry, Worry

Parents worry about kids. It's just how it goes. Everyone knows that from the moment they consider becoming a parent. What no one tells you is just how much you worry. It never stops.

Since Meg was born I have worried about things I never thought possible. I have worried she is eating too little. Eating too much. Eating too much of the bad things, and too little of the good. Worried we are not diverse enough. That we are pushing diversity too much. That she isn't reading enough. That we are forcing books on her. That we spend too much time with her. That she spends too much time entertaining herself.

I could go on and on, but I think you get the picture. Or maybe you don't. I will worry about that later.

Of course, nothing makes worry worse than a sick baby -- and Meg is sick right now. I am monitoring ever move she makes. Her eyes. Her appetite. Her sleep patterns. Her ridiculously gross runny nose. When she is clinging to me. When she is not. Every slight change in temperature.

Again, I could go on.

Here's the thing though: I don't want to stop worrying. While it drives me crazy and makes me pull out my eyebrows (topic for another post), I can't imagine not worrying this way. Not wanting to worry this way. This child is the greatest gift I have ever gotten, and I want to be present at every moment -- even if some of them make me want to scream.

I guess I actually don't mind the worry. It is outweighed by so many other things.

Now, the biting, and the eye poking -- those I could live without.

Actually, probably not.

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Cat From Space

The cats are the toughest members of our household. I have to throw water on either Alice or Olive at least once a week because they are either starting a fight, or trying to kill something. Two weeks ago I awoke to a robin flying around our bedroom and Ryan trying desperately to catch it. Olive hadn't harmed it at all, just brought it in for us to see. For the rest of the day, after Ryan got it back outside, that bird sat in our front tree and glared at us all. Olive glared right back.

Of course, the rule in life is that if you are going to be tough, you are going to get hurt. Right now, Olive is hurt. She came in three weeks ago with a bite wound. It was treated, she took antibiotics, and we thought it was over. Then, last Friday, she came inside with what really looked like Halloween makeup on her side. A wound the size of a quarter had opened, with various parts and whatnot visible underneath. I tried to clean it up. There was no cleaning. We took her to the vet. Even the vet recoiled. When she finally came home, Olive had two drains, 17 staples, and was wearing the cone of shame.

She has been wearing it since.

While the cone may be difficult for Olive, we are enjoying it quite a bit. It's really funny when she thinks she is licking her wound, and actually is just licking the inside of the cone. Oh, and it is great watching her thinking she can walk past something, only to get her cone hung up. The cone also makes it much easier to give Olive her super-duper antibiotic because, when she spits it out, it lands in the cone and we can just put it back in. Perfect. When it seems like it is really bugging her we just give her some of her painkiller. The beef flavored pain killer. No one better tell Anthony Bourdain about it, or that might kill his sobriety.

Really, the only problem with the cone is when Olive wants to cuddle -- in the middle of the night. There is nothing quite like being awakened with claws in your arm, and a cone scraping your face. Oh, and the drool spilling out of it due to her sleepy state from the painkillers. Beef flavored painkillers.

After all of this Ryan suggested just keeping he cats inside. No fights. No stitches. No drugs. No cones of shame. No 200 dollar vet bills.

I don't think he realizes that the current situation is much less complicated.

After all, we aren't that tough.

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She's Sick, I'm Tired

I used to always envy people who got to take sick days when their kids were ill. I thought they got to stay home, nap, and just have a nice day. They didn't feel sick, so they could just relax.

I know better now.

Meg is sick for the second time in three weeks. Not little sick. Big sick. Runny nose. Fever. Not eating. Sleepy, but not wanting to sleep because she can't breathe. There is not a part of her that is well. Even her hair looks sick.

Oh, and she is crabby. Not just crabby, but craaaaabbby. Meg is never crabby. She is always in a good mood. Nothing ever seems to bug her. Even when she gets angry, or upset, it is only for a moment, and her good humor is restored quickly. It's like she can't help but smile and giggle. For the past 36 hours, though, smiles and giggles have been replaced by whines, and eye rubbing. I haven't seen her cry this much EVER. Cuddling seems to help, until it doesn't. Then she screams like my arms are made of cactus. She was happy with a popsicle, until she started crying like she was being fed fire. I tried to bribe her, but she wouldn't take a check without two forms of ID.

I feel like I have been running my butt off, even though I really haven't done that much. I haven't washed my hair, or put on real clothes. I haven't cleaned. I haven't really eaten anything. I've only Tweeted three times. Still, my feet hurt, and my mind is mush.

I need a cocktail. A big one. It will help while I write "I'm sorry" notes to all my former co-workers with kids... I just hope I can finish them all before I fall asleep.

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You Told Me So

I am not a fan of doctors.

It isn't that I am scared of them, or that I think they are ineffective. I just think most doctors are douchebags. Yes, there are exceptions. My Ob/Gyn. Our friend Andrew. Doctors Zhivago and Doolittle. Actually, scratch those last two, they both have MAJOR issues.

The douchiest of doctors, I have found, work at "urgent care" clinics, or "Instacare." Really, it's as if in the interviews these doctors are asked if they have any sympathy or respect for patients, and, if they answer yes, they are told to find employment elsewhere. The last time I was forced to go to such a clinic I had contracted a parasite in Mexico. I was having my period at the time of my visit, and yet had to answer numerous questions about whether or not I was pregnant. I almost showed him my tampon. I know, gross, but he pushed me.

Last week, when this cold started, I assumed it would just run it's course. I would spit gross things in the shower every morning, snore like Darth Vader at night, and in four days it would be over. And it was -- in a way. The snottiness left, as did the sneeziness, but they were replaced by a headache that would not quit, teeth that felt like they were about to come out, achy ears, and dizziness. Tara said I had a sinus infection. My friend Christy concurred. I scoffed at both, as I had never had a sinus infection, and realized it meant I would have to see a doctor. Oh, and I already knew I wasn't pregnant.

This morning, I knew I had no choice. I wished I could take my head off. I couldn't bend over. Sneezing, coughing, and blood running through my body hurt. I couldn't dry my hair. I went to work, but found myself crying at my desk. I knew what I had to do. I had to seek help -- at Instacare.

I could give you a blow by blow, but that would just be more annoying that the actual visit -- and it was very annoying. When the doctor entered I told her I thought I had a sinus infection, and needed antibiotics. I said my head and upper jaw hurt, and they still hurt even when I took cold medicine. I said I was dizzy. She then explained back to me exactly what I had said, only as if she was showing a two year old how finger puppets work. She then asked to listen to my chest. I told her it hadn't gone into my chest. She then told me my chest was clear. Oh, and added "sweetie" on the end. She was my age.

I could have forgiven all of this if, when I came out of the exam room to get my prescription, she had either looked my way, or said something to me. However, she was too busy dishing about a previous patient (hello, HIPAA) to another doctor, and basically threw my prescription at me over her shoulder.

I wish I had licked all of her pens.

At least she gave me antibiotics. They would be better with Vicodin mixed in, but who am I to complain... No one in her eyes.

Next time I am just calling Andrew.

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The Bright Side

I am totally sick. I am coughing, sneezy, and stuffed up. My ears are so plugged that I really wouldn't be surprised if spiders crawled out of them, and gave me the finger. My teeth hurt. I am very tired, and very whiny. I kind of worry that Ryan is going to smother me with a pillow so he doesn't have to listen to my bitching and hocking any more. Only kind of worry because the other part of me thinks at least then I could sleep.

I have tried EVERYTHING. Sudafed. The Sudafed you can only get behind the counter after being strip searched. Mucinex. DayQuil. None of them really touched my symptoms, but some made me tingly enough that I didn't care. I have even tried irrigating my sinuses, something I said I would never, ever do. I didn't care how people swear by it, or if it makes them see unicorns and fairies, I thought it was gross. When I finally did it? It was gross. And it didn't work.

This afternoon, when Ryan got home, I was just about at the end of my rope. Meg hadn't napped, the cats were fighting, and it was raining. I was just about to give up when I noticed the sun was coming out. It was still pouring, but the sun was out. I yelled to Ryan, he scooped up Meg, and we went outside.Yep, Meg's first rainbow. And, you can't really see it, but it was a double rainbow. There was a double rainbow on the day that Ryan and I were married. Perfect.

I guess life isn't so bad. Of course, that could be the pharmaceuticals in my system talking.

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Tara the Soon to be Pirate

I know I mentioned that while Tara was here we went and got pedicures. What I did not mention is that during said pedicures the technician working on Tara got a little overzealous working on her callouses, and scraped off some of Tara's skin. Tara immediately stopped the woman, asked if they should continue with the pedicure, and was assured her that it would be fine if she put some antiseptic on the wound.

That was almost two weeks ago, and the scrape is not fine. In fact, according to Tara, it is not healed and slightly red and puffy. When she told me that this morning alarm bells started going off in my head. We've done investigative reports on the horrible bacteria that can be found at nail salons, and how people have gotten ill, and lost toes because of the infections they have gotten. I told her to go to the doctor immediately. I even used CAPS to text my advice. She was unmoved.

Tara: I think its a little infected but not that bad.
Libby: Go to the doctor. Don't mess with staph. I am SO not kidding. Can't you just go to Instacare?
Tara: I'm sure its not staph infection. There are many, many kinds of infections that are not staph. I don't have that. Plus it would take all day
Libby: Well, at least I can call you stumpy later.

I let it go then, because if there is one thing I know about Tara it is that harping on something you want her to do means she definitely won't do it. I know that because I am the exact same way. However, a little later my new found Mom side collided with my perpetual bossy side. Oh, and my sarcastic side chimed in too.

Libby: Did your foot fall off yet?
Tara: Not yet. I figure if that happens I'll save money on shoes.
Libby: Killing me.
Tara: I can also shoplift shoes from Nordstrom Rack.
Libby: Keep it up, funny girl.
Tara: And also I could get a parrot.
Libby: You can have my Mom's.  But you have to take the pigeon too.
Tara: There is no literary precedent for a pigeon.
Libby: There are no pirates who lost feet to pedicures.
Tara: That you KNOW OF.
Libby: Yeah, Captain Ahab just wanted his hands to look nice. 
Now, we are at an impasse. I keep picturing the horrible agony awaiting Tara if she doesn't see a doctor about her foot,
and she keeps picturing the horrible agony awaiting me if I don't stop bothering her about it. I can't really decide who's
agony will be worse.

Either way I guess I'll have something to blog about.

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Snot City

For the past four days I have done very little other than thwart the attempts of my lungs to escape my body. They have tried to get out through my nose, through my mouth, and, in one spectacular display, tried to burst through my chest wall via explosive coughing.

Now, normally when I am this sick, I will take time off of work, climb into bed, take enough cold medicine to risk blindness, and sleep until I am either better, or until my upper lip is so desperately in need of a wax that I look like Sancho Panza. Or, rather, that's what I used to normally do -- P.M. No, not Tylenol P.M., though I do love that shit. By P.M. I am actually referring to "pre-Meg." Because of my adorable, daughter, I took a completely different tact when dealing with this illness: washing my hands forty times a day, taking NON-DROWSY cold medicine, and chanting the words "please don't let the baby get sick, please don't let the baby get sick."

Yeah, that didn't work. Meg is now fighting her own lung battle.

Luckily, she could no be more different than me when it comes to dealing with a cold. Really, I have never seen anyone so chipper while sick. The only time she isn't smiling is when we have to suction out her nose so she can breathe without sounding like an asthmatic pug. She is sleeping more than usual, but when she's awake she is just as smiley and chatty as normal. If I didn't love her so much I would swear she is trying to make me look wussy. I mean, Ryan hasn't come out and said it yet, but I pretty sure the thought "why can't Libby be more like Meg when she's sick" has crossed his mind. I can see it in his eyes.

Yeah. Well we'll see how judgy he is when his lungs decide to pull a Steve McQueen. I'm giving him 48 hours before he is begging for NyQuil.

And then Meg I will just laugh until we cough.

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Mapping the Terrifying

"I think I felt something in your breast last night."

I was undressing Meg, getting her ready for her shots, when Ryan said those words to me last Friday. It was the doctor's office that made him think of it, he had wanted to mention it to me the night before, but we had fallen asleep too quickly. We were already stressed (taking a baby for shots will do that to you), and now the room was super charged with anxiety.

"What do you mean? Which breast? How big?" I handed him the baby, and reached into my shirt, hoping the nurse wouldn't pick that moment to reappear. I put my hand behind my head, like I had seen on the charts in my gynecologist's office, slowly palpating the tissue. Ryan came over to guide my hand, showing me exactly where it was. Meg, thinking we were playing a game, reached out too. Pretty soon, the entire family was copping a feel, and I was almost positive the nurse would forget to knock first before coming in.

We couldn't feel anything. It wasn't until that night that we figured out it was a vein that occasion gets a little bulgy, but for several hours, I was in a complete panic. What if I has cancer? What would I do? What doctor would I see? What would my insurance cover? Who would take care of the baby? How would I know what treatment options were best? I felt like I was just told I possibly would have to go to Asia, without knowing where the hell Asia is, or what I would need for the journey.

And that's when I remembered about Navigating Cancer. My bloggy friend Snotty had just told me about it, and asked me to write something for it. I said no, I had no cancer experience, and the only thing I could write about was how much I hate awareness ribbons. Now, I found myself poring over the site, looking at all of the information, and feeling a bit calmer. This is an amazing resource, not just for cancer patients, but for family members as well. Really, I don't know why, in this day and age, someone hasn't thought of something like this before.

So, I am writing about this. First of all, because I am just so glad I am not going to an oncologist this week, waiting to hear if I have something deadly in my breast. Second, because I know people who have, and I know how they could have used a site like this. And third, because now the power of Snotty scares me. If you, or a loved one has cancer, check out Navigating Cancer.

Actually, check it out anyway. If nothing else, it will comfort you knowing that it's there.

It did me.

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Missing Links

If you are in New York and happen to see a hipster sprinting across the park, chasing a squirrel, don't call Bellevue. No, he hasn't escaped from a mental institution, he's just on a diet.

Yes, those wacky kids with too much time and too little disposable income have come up with a new fad: the caveman diet. I'm guessing it's for the people who thought urban chicken raising and only eating food they could grow in between sidewalk cracks in Brooklyn is for wusses. The principle tenet of the diet is that cavemen were much healthier than we are now, and that by living like them, we will extend the length and enrich the quality of our lives. To this end, they eat large amounts of meat, and then fast for long periods. They don't go for runs, they go on "hunts," where they chase their prey and try to jump up trees in pursuit. They say the diet eliminates digestive problems, clarifies their mental state, and makes them smell really funky. Well, they didn't say that last part, but you know it has to be true.

Look at those abs...

This diet is most definitely doing good things for these people. I mean, I am sure at least one will get a book deal because of the article in the Times, and one or more might get laid, despite the funky smell. However, I don't think I will be trying it, mainly due to one fact: evolution.

We are not the same creatures we were thousands of years ago. If we were, I wouldn't be so concerned about plucking my eyebrows. Also, I wouldn't be whitening my teeth. Oh, and I definitely wouldn't be saving for retirement, since the average lifespan of a caveman was around 16 years. That's right, go to prom and die. But hey, at least you got to wear a loin cloth and eat raw meat.

I am 35 years old. I have outlived any caveman. Oh, and I have done it by eating processed food, and by not hunting my neighbor's cats. No, I might not get a NYT spread about my dining habits, but really, isn't the dining habits section just their version of a sideshow? It's like "we have the best food in the world and this guy is gnawing on frozen venison."

Well, maybe they could at least sell the concept to an ad agency. Or to ABC for a sitcom. If they add the live squirrel hunting it would be a huuuuuge hit.

Oh, yeah, cavemen didn't have sarcasm either.

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What Could Go Wrong?

I would love to say I haven't been writing much lately because of the baby and the holidays, but really, it's because depression has been kicking my ass. No, I am not talking about seasonal blues, although I am not discounting that, because I know it is serious. My depression comes from the fact that for the fourth time in my life I am having to change anti-depressants, and the switch is killing me.

I have a very good reason for switching, or at least my insurance company does. They have decided that the pills I have been taking for six years with no side effects no longer work for them. I am sure this is probably harder on them than it is for me. I mean, while I am suffering panic attacks, crying jags, physical symptoms like dizziness and heartburn, they probably have a ton of paperwork to do. Oh, and they probably had to hire extra security in case I reach DEFCON 4.

There is something I can ado though. While they no longer cover the medication that was working for me, my insurance does cover the generic version of a similar medicine, and Abilify.



Yeah, did you watch the end? The side effects? Headaches. Anxiety (um, shouldn't that be fixed?). Insomnia. Nausea. Suicidal thoughts. Blurred vision. Cough. Pain. Difficulty swallowing. Shakiness. Uncontrollable muscle movements. Stroke. Coma. Oh, and, yeah, death.

I just hope my insurance covers those... Or at least the generic versions of them.

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Living in the Yuck

Salt Lake City is normally an absolutely beautiful place to live. Actually, beautiful doesn't even cut it. Gorgeous, picturesque, and panoramic are more apt to describe the surroundings in which we live. Mountains rise up on all sides of the valley, there is a glistening lake off in the distance, and the sky goes on forever. Really, the surroundings almost make up for the politics of the people who live here.

Of course, on the days that the surroundings aren't so nice, they are downright gross. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the inversion.

I am down below.

What's the inversion, you may ask. Well, because the Salt Lake valley is ringed by mountains, sometimes the air just stands still. Yep, that's right, the warm air rises to the top, and the cold air stays down on the bottom -- with all of the pollution. As the days go on, and the air stays stagnant, the situation just gets worse and worse until it is like living inside a vacuum bag that needs to be dumped. You can actually taste the air. The first breath taken outside is usually followed by coughs only heard in an emphysema ward. The sun is barely visible, looking like something out of a post apocalyptic movie. It's pretty damn grim. And right now? The inversion is in full effect.

There are ways to escape the inversion. Going up into the mountains is the best. Drinking copious amounts and refusing to look outside works too. Of course, I can't really do the latter with an infant in the house. Of course, we could all make it a lot better by not driving, therefore not upping the pollution in the valley. That would mean walking though, and right now, the air conditions are so bad people are advised against doing that outside.

This is why we pray for snow. Wonderful, white, glistening, air pushing snow. Of course, then we all bitch about that, but that's a topic for another blog...

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Bread Alone

I am (once again) on Weight Watchers. For those of you keeping track at home this is the fourth time, and the second time I have actually lost weight. It is also the first time I have ever gone to the meetings. I blame that on my friend Meghan, and her sick sense of humor. Doesn't she know it's much easier to lie about your weight when you do it at home and enter it on line? Well, if she does she doesn't show it.

The meeting we go to is full of crazy people, including one woman who yells out "steamed vegetables" whenever the leader asks for weight loss tips. Actually, if the people in the meeting weren't fat, I would swear it was a meeting of people with eating disorders, and who don't want to get rid of them. Really, you should hear them talk about how to lose weight. All of the "tricks." You know, like only eating the egg whites. Filling up on water before you eat so you can't eat much. Taking bites of a forbidden food and then spitting it out. I am expecting a lecture on laxatives any day now the way things are going.

I am not saying that I haven't learned anything useful. For instance, I have found that I actually prefer olive oil on pasta instead of butter. That there are ways to prepare vegetables that makes them not taste like vegetables. That there are whole wheat pastas that don't taste like whole wheat pastas. Oh, and that there is no real substitute for bread -- no matter how hard they try to pretend.


Above is the bread Weight Watchers recommends. Sara Lee "Delightful." You can eat two slices of it for one point. For those of you who don't know the system, I won't explain it so your head won't explode. Just know that normal bread is one slice for two points. Really good bread (like Great Harvest) is three points. So, I could trade one slice of really good bread for six slices of the Sara Lee. Oh, and then I could use those six slices as coasters.

The people at Weight Watchers claim this bread is "just as good" especially when it comes to making sandwiches. Well, I guess, but in order to make it palatable I had to greatly go over my point with fillings. Mustard is supposed to be a "zero points" add on, but I had to put so much on it counted as seven. I am guessing the people who like it are not really carb addicts like me, and are willing to eat this so they can enjoy things like bacon. I, personally, would rather have the turkey stuff, and eat real bread.

And I am not even going to spit it out.

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