Like a rolling stone...

...except this one is stuck.
My absence of the last few weeks has been due in large part to the kidney stone that has lodged itself in a place it shouldn't be. After waiting a couple of weeks, and getting false information from the supposed doctor at the ER, it has been determined that the best course of action is to remove this sucker. So, on Tuesday, I will be knocked out, and a tube/scope will be sent up my body through a normally exit-only location. The stone will be caught in some kind of basket mechanism and removed, and hopefully, in a day or to, I will be fine. My husband thinks we should just have our neighbor, who is a master at the claw machine, remove it for me. With my ever-decreasing confidence in the medical field, I may just consider that option. Would I also get a prize? And would it only cost 50 cents? And seriously, if it were between him and the ER doc I saw last week, I'd go for Mike. My ER visit last week was my second in nine days. It was a different ER from the first, because I swore I'd never go back to the first hospital, and my urologist's office is in the second hospital. Great! I was the only non gang member under the age of 80 in this particular ER. After a two hour wait to be taken back, I was placed in a broken bed with no blanket. I had to lay flat on my back covered with just a thin sheet, and when I say this hospital was drafty, I am not kidding. After having my bp and temp taken, I was left alone for an hour. Finally, a doc arrives and send me off to be x-rayed. She returns to tell me that the stone is no longer visible, so I must have passed it. (Likely during my three-hour wait to be seen.) I go home. My pain level is decreased, but I am not pain-free.
I make an appointment with the urologist for a follow-up. On the way I pick up copies of the EXACT x-ray the ER doc looked at. My urologist takes a peek and tells me that indeed, my stone is still there. Confused, I relay the ER doc's declaration that I am stone free. Nope. Urologist takes me to view the x-rays and says, there it is, plain as day, in the same exact spot as before. He actually has the first set of x-rays as well, and the stone is actually more visible in the x-ray where there is no stone. I guess the ER doc missed the class on reading x-rays. I fear for those with life-threatening injuries and ailments. And someone should really do something about med student absenteeism.

Birthing a bicycle

This morning I gave birth to a bicycle. At least, that's how I felt at several points during the spinning class I took this morning. I will be more specific since I've already made an ass out of myself once today (that I'm aware of). After the class, in the locker room, several of the women who had attended were discussing the class and its intensity and how much the saddle hurt. And I piped up with "I don;t think it hurt that much when I gave birth." I realize that made it sound as if bicycling were akin to labor and delivery of babies. That wasn't exactly what I meant. I meant that, post-childbirth, my hoo-ha wasn't nearly as sore as it felt while spinning away on the stationary bike. I should point out that I'm only referring to the birth of my second child. When Thing 1 was born, despite her minuscule, barely over 2 1/2 lb. size, there were stitches, surgery, catheters involved, and it didn't feel good...at all. But with Thing 2, despite her being a pound bigger, I felt fine as soon as I was allowed out of bed. Pregnancy wreaks havoc on my poor old body. Childbirth, well, that I can do alright. The L & D nurse told me, just after delivering thing 2, that I was made for birthing babies. Course, that can evoke images of a portly woman squatting in the fields to deliver her tenth child, then packing new baby in a sling and continuing her field work. I ain't that kinda woman.

Pondering

I have decided that this blog isn't the best place for my ponderings on being a preemie mom. I have copied the post below and used t to begin a new blog. Visit me there!

Happy Birthday Baby Girl

Today is the anniversary of the day that I became a Mommy. Three years ago, I gave birth to my first child, a daughter. We had waited for this day for what seemed like forever, but it was sooner than we had thought, sooner than we had hoped, sooner than we had wanted. Our daughter’s due date was May 26^th. This day was 82 days too soon. At 28 weeks 2 days gestation, she was a good size at 2 lbs. 12 oz. She was a mere 14 ½ inches long. I had to take the word of my husband and my mother when they told me how beautiful and perfect she was. At this exact hour, 10:55 p.m., she was just over 19 hours old, and I still hadn’t seen her. Well, I guess one could argue that that may not be entirely true. As she was wheeled out of the delivery room in her little incubator, I was allowed to take a peek. The doctors were still attempting to deliver the placenta, and I was in a Stadol induced haze. I saw mostly blanket, with a little bit of pink. I assume that was her face, but from a few feet away, it was nothing recognizable to me. Our daughter was here, and then she was gone. I heard her cry, a teeny tiny wisp of a cry, before they took her away. I exhaled, for just a moment. I remember asking the nurse just as she emerged if she had chubby cheeks. They must have thought I was crazy. “No, honey, she doesn’t have chubby anything.” And off my little bundle went.

Off I went in another direction, to the operating room to have a D & C. I couldn’t keep my daughter in, but I couldn’t get the placenta out.

I had developed preeclampsia a few days before her birth, and as a precaution, was put on magnesium sulfate after delivery to ward off any post-childbirth seizures. Mag is a horrible drug. You feel as if you will spontaneously combust, and your muscles feel like they are melting. You are not allowed to eat for fear you will choke and aspirate your food, and you must remain in bed. My baby had been taken to the NICU, a floor above me, and I was stuck in a recovery room. My husband, my mother, even my friend and her daughter, all saw my tiny baby while I lay a floor below. The NICU sent down some blurry Polaroids. Looking back now, I can see how terrible the pictures are. In a digital world, they were almost primitive, but they were like gold to me. I propped them up on the bedside table and stared. It was the closest I was going to get to my own daughter for now. When I finally saw her, she would be nearly 24 hours old. It was the middle of the night and I could barely stand on my own two feet. My husband wheeled me up to the NICU and helped me into Nursery 3, where our little baby was. I stared at my child, hooked up to a ventilator, with intravenous lines in her umbilical stump and monitor leads stuck everywhere. Her diaper was laying under her, open but unfastened. She was no longer in a cozy little incubator. She lay in an open bed, a warmer a few feet above her little body keeping her from getting cold. Machines were beeping and hissing. The nurse told me what they were doing for her and how she was faring. I’m not sure I heard any of it. At that moment, I was unable to let any of the delicacy of her situation overshadow the joy I felt looking at her. Maybe it was the drugs, but I like to think it was a mother's love.

After a relatively brief visit, my husband brought me back to my room, and he went home, both of us exhausted. I quickly fell asleep, only to be awakened an hour or so later by a nurse, who informed me I would be moving across the floor. Off I went, into a new room and a new bed, my baby's pictures still with me. Sleep did not return easily. My mind had begun its race, winning out over my exhausted body. I stared into the dim light above my bed and recalled my visit to my newborn daughter's bedside. Suddenly, the euphoria had worn off. I realized she was in a grave situation. The next couple of days were critical, and even then, if she’d made it through, she wouldn’t be out of the woods. I surrendered and the tears fell. I lay in my hospital bed, on the day I became a mother, shaking and sobbing, trying not to make a sound. I was all alone. I was terrified. And all I could do was cry.

What is this world...

...coming to???

These were taking up two shelves in the freezer at the grocery store...TWO SHELVES????

The real question is whether or not voter turnout will exceed that of the last presidential election.

Now when they had the election for the new M & M color eons ago...that was a worthy election.

How to Cross-Country Ski without Skis

Saturday afternoon, Dorothy picked up Lola, Astrid and me in her husband's truck and we met Starr and Cookie for a trek to the lake for some cross-country skiing.
It's been years since I cross-country skied. Definitely before Thing 1 was conceived, so it was early 2003 , probably. Ski pants...waaay too tight. But I refuse to buy more, even as I stuff another Oreo into my face. I wasn't sure where all of my gear was, even. Gloves and hat...found...appropriate underclothing...found, in the form of old running tights with holes and a too small thermal undershirt. Who the hell cares?! I'm going out!!! No kids!!!! Ski boots, found...I trip over them in the basement every once in a while, so that was easy. Skis and poles...hmmm. Darling hubby, in his eternal efficiency (or attempts at such) has stored them in the basement rafters. After moving a large pile of crap and balancing on a chair, I free skis and poles from the bondage of the rafters. Put them on porch so as not to forget. Lola meets me here...Dorothy picks us up. As we skip to the truck (okay we weren't skipping, but our glee at being out sans children was pretty evident nonetheless) We meet the others and make the trek to the lake, about a half hour away. Woo-hoo!! We unload the truck...skis for Lola, skis for Dorothy, skis for Astrid...no skis for me. They are on the porch...at home...a half hour away. I am tempted to drive all the way back home (even though neither of the vehicles at the lake are mine) and retrieve skis. But that's ridiculous. They'll be done by then. I envision myself sitting on the gate of the truck in my ski boots, drying my tears as I watch the others ski into the distance, when Astrid pulls out a pair of snowshoes and saves the day. I have never snowshoed before, but it beats being the only attendee at my pity party, and it means I can accompany the x-country ski group. Yipee!! So off we go, me with my tennis racket feet and them with their skis (Star with her vintage skis, circa 1900, which Dorothy was required to repair in the middle of the woods when the bindings burst off) .
The snowshoeing was fun, and I must say my fears of falling and bursting open my skin-tight ski pants while peeing on myself (again the lack if Kegels haunts me) were dispelled. Apparently I became too relaxed, because, despite no skis, I fell twice. Once I was walking sideways on a slope. Understandable. The other time I was talking to Dorothy and swore I caught sight of a handicapped sign on a tree in the middle of the woods. Intrigued, I turned only to discover it was merely a blue and white trail marker, but stepped on my own snowshoe in the process and fell, much to Dorothy's amusement.
Apres ski, we proceeded to a lovely English tavern ( we are located in rural upstate New York.) There is something very wrong with that. The menu was a virtual contradiction of itself, offering such authentic fare as the Middlesex sandwich, intermingled with Steak-umms and Dynabites. My dining companions felt that Dynabites were in order, and we were served a smallish plate festooned with about 8 or 10 Dynabites and a small cup of Ranch dressing. I jokingly dared Cookie to drink the Ranch dressing, and tempted her with the reward of a crisp dollar bill. She declined, but counter offered, telling me she would give me five bucks to down said dressing. Ah, Cookie, ye have only known me a short time. Were Andie with us, she'd have warned you. After dramatic pauses for prep time, perhaps invoking images of an Olympic diver on the platform readying herself, I ceremoniously drank the dressing, all at once, shot-style. And Cookie promptly paid up. Good thing, as I was short on cash (see entry regarding wallet loss).
The novelty of being out without children had yet to wear off, and after Dynabites and dinner, we proceeded to a diner for dessert. Yummy. We amused the waitress with obnoxious and inappropriate comments about things. And finally, as all good things must, our evening came to an end. I can't wait to do it again, but this time with my skis!!!

Holy crap!

So I lost my wallet...a story for another day. Someone found it and was kind enough to call me and tell me. I went to the projects, where she lives, to pick it up. The woman, who seemed very nice, was admiring (well, maybe she was just commenting, but I like to think she was admiring) my girls. She then somewhat casually stated, " I'm a mom of fifteen." It took me a second. I wasn't sure if she said "I'm a mom of fifteen" or "I was a mom at fifteen." Either one would be a bit of a shocker, but I realized, when she called several of them downstairs (how the hell big is this duplex??) and then proceeded to pull out pictures of the others, that she meant "a mom of fifteen." No twins, triplets or otherwise. I commented "Wow, so you've been pregnant fifteen times." "No, I've been pregnant twenty times." (which I guess is to be expected given miscarriage rates.) When she told me how old her oldest was, I realized she may have also been a "mom at fifteen." Either she missed some vital lessons in biology, or she is a glutton for punishment.
Everything was in my wallet except for the $30 in cash. I don't know if she took it or not, but hell, if she did, she probably needs it more than I do.

Pony up...

..more fun at the fitness center folks!
This morning, my friend Andie and I went to the fitness center for their advanced step aerobics class. Andie has been to this class before. I have had every intention of going, but have been thwarted by sick children, sick self, birthday parties, out-of-town trips, etc. But finally, I made it! And let me tell, you, this was more than just a fitness class. This was, yet again, entertainment combined with fitness.
The instructor of this class apparently takes this whole thing very seriously. Dare I say too seriously?? When I arrive, a few minutes early, there are several other attendees already there, including said friend Andie. She directs me to the closet where the steps and weights are. I grab three pound weights because they are a nice bright green color and color is the most important factor in deciding which weights to use, is it not? Next time I might try purple.
The instructor is fiddling with her Britney Spears headgear, which appears to be attached to an Olivia Newton John Physical-style headband. I am green with envy as I wonder if I can get one for my karaoke machine. It would so free me up to include my more intricate dance moves. But I digress. When Britney/Olivia (or shall we call her Brolivia?) spots me, she approaches, clipboard in hand and asks me if I've been to this class before. I tell her no, and she inquires if I've been to any step class before. I reply that I have, and she says "Okay, cuz you know this is an advanced step class. I won't be going over the moves." I nod and smile, assuring her that I'm aware of that. She thrusts her clipboard in my hand and waits for me to sign it. I assume it is merely a sing-in sheet and oblige her. Ah, not so, but I don't know that until later.
Andie and I are directly in the path between Brolivia's step and the sound system, so we are ripe for reminders about the apparent many rules this class has, and hoe we are breaking them. Brolivia breezes by "weights crossed girls." Yes, all weights must be crossed in from of your step when not in use. Does it look more lady-like? Whatever. The other newcomer, who apparently has not attended step class before ever, anywhere, is escorted to the front of the room so she can follow along more closely. I am spared. Just as Andie begins to inform me of all said rules, the music begins and we are instructed to march it out. We spend the next hour doing cross-overs, ponies, crunches, bicep curls and countless other moves, none of which are explained to me, but, amazingly, I catch on and appear to be in no worse shape than the others. I must say, I truly did enjoy the selection of 70s music that accompanied the instruction, most notably "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?" and an inspiring Donna Summer medley.
Intermittently we stop aerobicizing and do heart rates...everyone counts then shuts out numbers. One sixty, one seventy. I'd love to scream out "three!" but I don't want Brolivia to kick me out. About halfway through the class, we change gears from a toning/sculpting/ step routine to strictly step. We are instructed to put our weights away, and then Brolivia circles the perimeter of the room, instructing everyone to remove all remaining mats, water bottles, clothing items, keys, (dust bunnies, imaginary friends) and any other item that could be a tripping hazard, from the floor. Balance all personal affects on the barre...mmm..safe place with all the bouncing going on. Now the real fun begins...ponies and cha-chas and over and under and around the step, wind and unwind and thigh lifts times three and hip extenders to the corner and everything else abound. The real advanced part has started. And ends after seven minutes. Cool down...WTF???
Heart rates everyone. Apparently, if yours is above 30 you can't go home. I don't know how long we counted for, so that could be 30 beats a second, a minute, an hour. Who the hell knows. I'm at thirty, so I just pass. No heartrate hostage session with Brolivia for me today.
We thank Brolivia and leave, and Andie and I discuss the true level of this class...definitely not advanced...intermediate on a tough day. But we broke a sweat, and that's what we had hoped for. Better than nothing.
As we're leaving the building, Andie informs me that the paper I signed was not simply a sing-in. This is apparently a franchised class, and I have signed indicating that I will not be copying their moves/classes, etc. I think if I did I might be subject to fines. Dammit. My black market aerobics video fortune is not to be. But what about the rules? Are they franchised?

Ah-choo

Woo-hoo...someone found my blog through a search for "sneeze bladder."
Do you think I'm what they were looking for?

Hey Carly

I was eating a chocolate covered strawberry tonight and the chocolate all fell off in pieces onto my shirt. My darling hubby reached over, picked some off, and ate it. Twice.