Yes, I am posting two days in a row. Hold on to your heartbeats.
Before I forget (again), here is an excellent story about my son, which I intended to share in last night’s post.
So there we were at the glasses store, and the girls had chosen theirs, and the Boy had broken his, and we were sitting with the lady starting all the paperwork (read: payment of gigantic amounts of money), and the Boy was distressed because we wouldn’t let him play with any more frames, and I attempted to distract him by introducing him to the lady.
“Boy, this is Janeen. Can you say hi to Janeen?”
He stared for a moment, then gave in. He can never resist new people. “Ha Daneen!”
She beamed at him (good customer service), and said “Hi! You have pretty eyes.”
His hands flew to his eyes, and he nodded. She continued: “Can I have your eyes?”
His response was instantaneous. He shook his head and said firmly “No. Dat’s MINE.” Hee hee hee 
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Speaking of my supposedly upcoming supposed MA exam, today I emailed my professor. Here’s what I wanted to write:
Dear Professor,
My kid had a stroke a year ago. Ergo I have been a wreck for about a year. I also suddenly discovered I hated my career right when the economy tanked. Ergo I’ve been unemployed and trapped in this house and ergo miserable for TWO years. Baruch Hashem I am also pregnant. Ergo I have been sick and even MORE miserable for the past five or so months. All this adds up to really suck a lot. Plus I had been under the impression for the last 7 or so years that I didn’t need to take this stupid exam. So let me get right to the point. I’ll sit and pretend to think, but please just pass me regardless of what I write. Just think; if I graduate, you won’t have to deal with me anymore, except when I email you friendly little questions about various Jewish history matters. So passing me is win-win. On the other hand, if you fail me, I might die. I have done (almost) no studying whatsoever, but could YOU study if your kid had a stroke? Come on, a stroke. You can’t even imagine, can you? Didn’t think so. So, do we have an understanding? Thanks so much.
Miriam
What I actually wrote:
Dear Professor [actually, I forgot that part, though I don't think he'll care],
Still hoping to blah blah take my exam blah blah format how many essays how long will it take blah blah blah. Thanks,
Miriam
[No, I am not concerned about him possibly seeing this blog. He doesn't know about it, but even if he somehow does see it, I am not worried. I have my reasons. And I do NOT think he'll pass me if I don't deserve it, nor do I think he'll fail me just because I wrote this.]
I also need to continue my harassment of the morons at the Dept of Education. The person who used to be the private school liaison chairlady just retired. Some dude has taken her place. I don’t have his email or phone number, but I started making attempts to get them. I could just call the general number, of course, but that might actually lead somewhere, and guess what? I’m scared. 
I also want to call one or two of these lawyers whose names I’ve gathered. Actually, I don’t want to call any of them; I want to already know them, and already have had a conversation with them, preferably over email, because if I use the phone, I might die. But the point is, I need to communicate with one of them, somehow. But I don’t want to have to pay any of them, see, because WOW are we broke. Heh. So what I need to do is find out which of them is most likely to enjoy doing free favors for rabbis. How does one go about determining that? Unfortunately all I have are phone numbers, not email addresses; otherwise I could send out a mass email and just ask all of them. “Whoever makes the first pro bono offer gets ten extra points with God! Twenty, if we can swing it!” They’d be biting like sharks. But I can’t do that. So now what? Should I examine each of the names and try to see which one sounds the most like a person who would do something free for a rabbi? There’s one named Christina; is that a better or worse bet than Joseph? This sort of thing is really hit or miss.
What I COULD do, of course, is quit sitting around writing procrastinating blog posts, and actually do one of these things. Any of them. Or I could study. Of course, I have to leave in about half an hour to retrieve my children from camp, so oops — looks like there’s no time to really sink my teeth into any of these pressing matters. Too bad.
Tags: Dept of Ed, Stroke, The Boy
Making lists is boring. We leave, please God, for our annual road trip to good old St. Louie in approximately three weeks. I figured since all I’m really good for these days is sitting in one place, I could get a nice big jump start on the lists of things to bring (plural listS because there are many different categories, and each gets its own list), and that way G could get a jump start on the shopping, and then the packing (under my patient and gentle supervision, of course), and by the time it was time to load the car, maybe everything would be ready to load into the car. So I sat down to make the lists and quickly discovered that making these lists becomes sort of routine the sixth time around. Ziplocs, plastic silverware, grapes, DVDs, blah blah blah. Tell me something I don’t know. The medications list is slightly longer this year — we’ve got aspirin, psychostimulants, melatonin, useless anti-heartburn stuff, monstrous revolting pre-natals, iron supplements, etc. to add to the Tylenol, Benadryl, and other boring first aid stuff — but the whole exercise still took me less than 15 minutes. Feh. Now what?
What if I conveniently “forget” to tell Babysitter Allison that she shouldn’t do any laundry (our laundry, I mean; did I mention that she’s been doing our laundry since I’ve been sick? feh) during the 9 Days, and she “accidentally” continues to wash everything in the house, so that it’s all sort of done when the 9 Days are over? That would be just awful, wouldn’t it? Cackle
So it didn’t take long into this whole miserable IEP business before I started emailing all sorts of people and asking for names of special ed lawyers. I’ve learned a few things, see. One is that the Board of Ed appears to exist for the purpose of being unimaginably incompetent. At a certain point, you just have to laugh. Another thing I’ve learned is that people are wonderful, and they truly care about R. They even love R, and they definitely, definitely want what’s best for R — but at the end of the day, they get to go home, and R is not there with them. Because they are not her parents. And that means that as much as they care, they ARE capable of forgetting things that we are NOT capable of forgetting (ever). This means that we should never, ever assume that anyone else is “taking care” of anything. We can never, ever assume that R and her needs are EVER at the forefront of anyone else’s minds. Because nobody else is her parents. So, to skip over some idiotic stories, we’re now being told that the services that were supposed to start in April might not start until October. HA! Know what I say to that? Bull freaking s. October, my outsized rump. You can take your October and stick it in your….
Heh. Right. Hence: lawyer. I haven’t called one yet — there’s an itty bitty chance I may not need to — but I got numbers. Boy, have I got numbers. And I’m not afraid to use them.
[P.S. That was a lie. Just now, when I said I'm not afraid to use the numbers? I actually am afraid to use them. Very afraid. In fact, I'm afraid of all of this stuff. But that doesn't really make a difference, does it?]
The twins got their glasses. We went to Ye Big Ole’ Chain Store yesterday, and they both had their frames picked out within minutes. The Boy picked a few out also, and even broke the most expensive ones he could find, but for some reason they didn’t make us pay for them. I have no idea why. The twins both look adorable, especially YS, who actually looks like the frames were made for her face — or at least, I thought they looked adorable, until I picked them up from camp today and saw them for a split second before I registered who they were. And you know what I thought when I saw them? I thought the following: “Dorky little kids.” Then I felt awful, first for thinking that, and then about the fact that they don’t look like MY kids anymore. Feh. I miss their soft little faces. The good news is, aside from now being able to see, they seem to have adjusted to them extremely quickly. Here’s hoping I’m next.
I discovered something yesterday when we were in the mall. I caught a glimpse of my nice pregnant self in a wall mirror, and I discovered that I look like a big, lumbering, inflated pregnant balloon. I almost cried. I’d already noticed the difference in my face, but I suppose it’s the same sort of thing as when I saw my twins today at camp. When you see something familiar from an unfamiliar perspective, perhaps you see it the way others do, rather than in your familiar way. And you know how it seems other people see me right now? As a big, lumbering, inflated pregnant balloon. But there’s nothing to be done about that, is there. On the flip side, I’ve been feeling the baby a lot more, which is nice. It feels pretty cute. 
Want to hear my future? YS forced me through this painful game this afternoon called “MASH”, wherein I had to name things, such as two boys I like and two boys I don’t like. I named G, of course (as one I like), and then I told her there are no other boys I like. She said it could be a brother-in-law, so I chose my non-baby brother, Uncle Y. Then I told her I couldn’t think of any boys I don’t like (this was a lie, of course, but I was trying to set a good example). She asked if there were any boys who used to annoy me when I was a kid. HA. Were there?! Then I had trouble keeping it down to just two, but I gave her the first two names who entered my mind. I named the first one, and told her he really used to annoy me, and she said “Well, he’s probably grown up by now.” Heh. Probably. Then I had to name some other stuff, and I had to pick some numbers, and the result of this exercise was… an outline of my future. Want to know what it is?
I’m going to marry my non-baby brother (fat chance; damn fool won’t even give me Botox).
I’m going to live in a mansion (apparently my non-baby brother is going to pull in some cash).
I’m going to have a golden retriever (so long as I have a mansion, I can live with that).
I’m going to have five children (sounds familiar).
I’m going to drive a Camry (oooh, exciting).
I’m going to be a teacher (HAHAHAHA).
Then she provided an illustration, as follows:
I hope that comes out ok. I’m the one holding the teacher’s pointer. That’s my mansion you see in the background.
In other news, my grandmother sort of randomly ended up in rehab, and she may or may not be moving to an assisted living facility when she gets out; my father may or may not need inpatient surgery to clear up some sort of icky infection deep in his ear; my mother may or may not be losing her mind (heh); my baby siSter and her family have already spent their last Shabbos in my shul (WAAAAAH), and are leaving for dumb old Cleveland in about two weeks; Babysitter Allison’s mother is recuperating nicely but still needs other stuff that won’t be nice at all; my son’s vocabulary continues to grow rapidly and he continues to be the funniest and cutest thing ever to exist; I’m still a cranky antisocial heartburn-plagued source of joy to all who know me; my dear, wonderful friend YK made a special משברך for R the other day at a special location in the Holy Land; and I still flatly refuse to study for my supposed MA exam, which is supposedly supposed to be administered before we leave. Before we leave on August 1, I mean. Heh. There are 23 books on the reading list my dearly beloved professor sent me. By the time I take the exam, it’s possible I might have finished one of them. There are hopeful signs. That doesn’t count what I read back when I was in grad school, of course, because that was a long time ago, and I don’t remember squat. So this ought to be quite fun. Oh yes, and I borrowed and read the other Twilight books. I’ll tell you about them some other time. Maybe they’ll show up on my exam?
Tags: Dept of Ed, Kids, Pregnancy, Relatives, Stroke
It has not escaped our notice that yesterday and today were/are… the anniversary of R’s stroke. Of course it would be swell if it DID escape our notice, or if our notice would (could) escape IT, but that isn’t how it goes. There is no July 6 or 7 anymore; there’s just, well, you know. Of course I have warehouses full of all sorts of things to write about these two days now that it’s been a year, but you know what? I’m writing from my phone, which is too annoying, and I’m also tired. Maybe later, then. Meantime, o happy day.
Tags: Stroke
Want to know what never, ever stops going through my head? This:
Hope that works. If it didn’t, here’s the link, so it can go through your head as well. My son is ADDICTED to this video. Addicted. He will sit and watch, and has sat and watched, for an hour or more. Bear in mind the video is only 2 and a half minutes long. This from a kid who won’t watch an entire Wiggles song from beginning to end, even though he loves it and sings and dances along, because he prefers to keep pressing all the buttons on the DVD player (much to the irritation of his sisters and the Nephew). There are dozens of YouTube videos he’s been enjoying for months. He won’t sit through most of them without wanting switch to another one, but for some reason, this 1, 2, 3, 4 thing has him hooked. “Watch one-two-fee!” he’ll shout joyfully, running to the couch where my computer is parked. If I say no, and stick to it, he’ll say “Aks Abba,” and go running to find G. I tell you, he’s obsessed. Of course, the result of this is that this song is constantly running through my head. Always, always. Last night at about 11:30 (I think I wrote this on Friday), when I couldn’t fall asleep in spite of having taken my pill an hour before, I texted G to complain, and then I texted him “1, 2, 3, 4 monsters walking ‘cross the floor!” So someone sing me a song, quick. I need a replacement.
(”Whoa oh-oh, counting to four! Whoa oh-oh, let’s count some more!”)
Have I mentioned that both of my twins need glasses? They went for their regular vision checkup last week after school ended. We were expecting R to need them, since she’s always been the one with iffy vision, even before the stroke, and she’s been complaining for a while about things being blurry. But we had no idea anything was wrong with YS’s vision. Neither did she, apparently; she never mentioned a thing. She also has regular eye doctor appointments like a kid should, and her vision was recently tested in school. So imagine our surprise when she sat there in the office and could see even less than R could. G is the one who took them (I was busy groaning, plus staying home with the Boy), and he was completely shocked, as was I when I got his text message. Then suddenly something hit me, and I texted back “Could this possibly explain the dizziness and headaches and nausea?” And lo and behold — yes, it could.
See, YS has been complaining approximately every day after school, for months, about being dizzy and nauseated and having a headache. We brought her to the doctor; nothing. Had her blood tested; nothing. Made sure she drank enough, slept enough, etc. Yet the complaints continued. She was driving the school nurse so crazy that eventually we and the teachers made a rule that she would not go to the nurse unless the teachers judged her to be genuinely sick. It wasn’t exactly that we didn’t believe her; we had just concluded, along with everyone else, that it was probably a combination of stress and attention seeking, and that she was probably exaggerating the sort of minor thing everyone gets at the end of a long day. We were nice to her, gave her Tylenol, etc., and I felt sorry for her and everything, but the complaints sort of faded into the background along with the rest of the whining (including mine, of course) that goes on in this house.
Well, color us a couple of surprised idiots! We know we didn’t do anything wrong — she has had appropriate eye care, and we did investigate the symptoms and follow up and so forth — but all this time, it was her eyes! If only we’d known! She’s so relieved — “Ima, the doctor said it should help my dizziness! Thank GOODNESS!” — and G and I feel like a couple of well-meaning fools.
The next step, of course, is to take both her and R to pick out frames. This, of course, has to be done by me, rather than by the color blind (for real), and also male, individual who lives in this house. But — wonder of wonders — we haven’t been able to go yet, what with camp, and me being sick at very inopportune moments. Thankfully, since school has been over R hasn’t complained about blurriness and YS hasn’t complained about dizziness, which makes perfect sense, but that doesn’t mean we should put it off. Bli ayin hara I’ve been feeling about 5% better in the last few days — I even called my grandmother, something I haven’t done since Pesach (bad Miriam) — so we ought to be going sooner rather than later.
I should add that I’m rather sad about this glasses business. See, both of my twins have the most beautiful, adorable, delicious faces in the world, especially their eyes. I don’t want any foreign objects on their faces. I don’t want anything blocking my hands or my view. Their faces are perfect the way they are. It’s like when the Boy puts on his new kippah. He might look cute to other people, but to me, it’s this strange obstruction that doesn’t belong. Not to mention that both of my twins, one of them in particular, are definitely going to lose their glasses at least once a day. Sigh. I figure the second they’re old enough, we’ll force them to get contacts.
On my list of stories to share, lest I forget them for all eternity, is the story that took place about a week and a half ago, in which R left the house wearing a pair of turquoise sandals that we (of course) inherited from my niece. This was the first time anyone had ever worn them; I’d just brought them down from storage that day. I believe this was last Sunday, when G and the girls went to the open house for the girls’ day camp. Anyway, when they got back, the Boy decided that these sandals belonged to him. We have no idea why; he had never seen them before, and he doesn’t own anything remotely like them. But the second he saw R, he shouted “Dat’s MY shoes!” Everyone, especially R, informed him that they were not his shoes, but he got extremely upset and howled “No, dat’s MINE!” over and over. When I got to the living room, where this was taking place, R had sat down and the Boy had grabbed hold of both of her feet and was angrily trying to pull off her sandals. R was screaming — “Boy, STOP it! They’re MINE!” and the Boy was wailing and shrieking “MY SHOES! DAT’S MY SHOES!” It was probably one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen in my life.
On one of the three days between school and camp, we took the girls to see Toy Story 3. G and I were in stitches the entire time. Much of the humor, it appears, was designed for our generation. RS claims she liked it and wants to buy the DVD, but she never wants to watch it at night. R claims she loved it. YS announced that she hated it and never wants to see it again. I have to say, there was an extremely scary part that did seem somewhat over the top for a kids’ movie. I don’t really blame YS. But G and I loved it.
Of course, the second it was over, all three kids started to whine, about one thing or another, and any patience I might have had evaporated immediately. I proceeded to snap at everyone until we got home, at which point I said to G “I have to get upstairs. I can’t stop yelling at them.” I also said to him “Please tell me this is pregnancy related and will be over when the baby is born.” He said he truly hopes so. So do I.
On Friday before camp started, we did something MUCH more fun than sitting in a movie theater. Determined to have a do-over of our beach trip last year, by which I mean I was determined to go to the beach with cash so I could make up for the lack of cold water, lack of ice cream, and the meltdown (heh), I made plans — weeks in advance — to go to the beach with my kids, Baby Sissie, Baby Sissie’s kids, and (duh) Babysitter Allison. Of course, Babysitter Allison’s mother has been sick (she had surgery on Thursday and thank God the prognosis is very good, though she’s got recovery and other stuff ahead of her), so at the last minute Allison wasn’t able to go, but thank heavens JM the Awesome was available instead. So we went. The weather was beyond perfect — no clouds, mid 80’s, zero humidity.
The Boy’s first reaction upon encountering the sand on his feet was “Too hot.” However, this didn’t disturb him for long. About 30 seconds later, he was tearing across the sand at lightning speed, as if he’d been doing it his entire two years of life. Once we were all set up under the shiny new beach umbrella, he saw sand on the beach towel and said “Mess!” He then grabbed a shovel and pail and announced “I keen up.” This, of course, was very funny. My son was planning to clean up the sand at the beach. Ok then. He continued focusing on this goal as we moved closer to the water:
RS and YS spent most of their time digging gigantic pits in the sand, for which they needed to carry buckets of sand and/or water back and forth, over and over and over. Apparently they found this to be outrageously fun. Must be an age thing. R spent most of her time sprawled out in the sand, burying herself and/or making sand angels. All three of my girls plus the Niece also did plenty of swimming. Alas, I can’t show you any pictures of any of this, because they’re all, you know, wearing bathing suits, and between wanting to white that out and white their faces out, well, what’s the point? I suppose pretty soon I’ll start whiting my son’s face out as well. Sigh.
But here, I don’t have to white this out (Baby Sissie told me so):
Heeheehee. That, of course, is the Nephew (he has long hair because my non-baby brother is under the illusion that he is Hasidic), and what he is doing, if you couldn’t tell, is showing off his belly. He greatly enjoys doing this. He routinely yanks up his shirt and points out his belly, as well as his belly button, to people. Naturally this makes people extremely happy.
Here, in case you didn’t get a good enough look:
Feel free to come back and look at it as many times as you want.
Here, I can also share these. The one of them looking down is when they both discovered that the Boy’s feet were sinking into the sand. They found this very intriguing.
Anyway, it was the greatest day that ever was. I had afterglow until Saturday night, even though my sister almost killed me because we left the beach somewhat late.
So I think that just about wraps up the list of things I wanted to get down. I will add that yesterday was the Fourth of July, in case you didn’t know, and last night we had an almost precise repeat performance of this, complete with the very same friend sleeping over. I will also add that today is July 5, and we have not exactly had a repeat performance of this — for one thing, the weather is atrocious this time — but the girls have been outside swimming for quite some time with the Niece and two little girls from shul, so that’s all fun and everything. I have not been able to go outside because I cannot tolerate the heat, which is less fun. I went outside yesterday for less than five minutes, and (this is not an exaggeration) I was still overheated and panting three hours later. Heh.
I will also add that the anniversary of the stroke is coming up. Well there’s something to write about! But I think this post is already long enough.
Happy Fourth. May all our truths continue to be self-evident.
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** Afternote: I applaud the restraint everyone has shown by not asking me personally about the disease I apparently carry. However, asking my sister about it is not all that much better (it’s also rude and unfair to her). This thing is not a big deal. My doctor even rolled his eyes at it and said “Everyone is a carrier for something.” In addition to not being a big deal, it’s also none of your business. Things about my life are only your business if I say so, and if I wanted you to know what it is, I would have posted it. Sorry if mentioning it but not naming it violated some rule I don’t know about, but that doesn’t give you the right to ask, either my sister or myself. Good? Good. Glad we had this talk.
Yesterday started out with something malfunctioning with G’s alarm, causing him to miss davening. Recall that it was a fast day, and he’s the rabbi. Not good. No one was coming after him with a pink slip or anything, but he was quite disturbed on a number of levels. Oops.
As for me, I started out by helping to herd the girls out to camp, and then removing the soaking Boy from his crib, getting him and myself dressed, and calling Baby Sissie and begging her to come over with the Nephew. So she did. I felt ridiculously sick for a change, and Baby Sissie also wasn’t feeling perfect, what with the miserable weather, the packing stress, and the fact that she woke up with this stupid bad neck pain that she gets every now and then. So the two of us sat there being miserable, while the boys alternately ran around together being cute, and attempted to kill each other over toy phones, kitchen chairs, air molecules, etc. The funny part of this was that every time the Nephew did something the Boy didn’t approve of, the Boy would threaten to put him in time out. “No! Kahm-out!” To which I would say, “You don’t say time-out to the Nephew!” But he mostly ignored me. G, meanwhile, got home from bringing the girls to camp and commenced dying from lack of caffeine (fast day, remember). The saving grace was going to be the fact that Babysitter Allison was going to come whenever she got home from the doctor with her mother (her mother is having surgery tomorrow), and she had promised to stay until bedtime. Phew.
So Baby Sissie and the Nephew left. I had a 1:30 appointment for the big fat ultrasound. I force-fed myself lunch, which I knew would make me feel better but which I did NOT want. Because of the fast, the girls were finishing camp at 2:00, so G couldn’t accompany me to the ultrasound because he had to pick them up. 
Though with no babysitter, I suppose he couldn’t have come with me anyway.
So G dropped me and my tissues and my garbage bag and my new non-Droid phone off at the doctor (the old old car is at the mechanic being examined, so only one car), and left with the Boy to pick up the girls. I proceeded to sit in the waiting room until after 3:00, attempting to gchat on my new phone with BFFD, with whom I had some absurdly critical catching up to do, and spitting madly in spite of the gum I was chewing. SO annoying. I don’t know what was up with yesterday, but I was spitting twice as much as usual. Feh. Finally they called me in at 3:15, and I lay on the table spitting and watching my kid’s body parts on the screen (hee hee, ten little fingers and ten little toes ) while the friendly tech smeared me to death with ultrasound jelly. While I was lying there a text message arrived from G. Apparently Babysitter Allison had texted him to say that her mother’s doctor’s appointment had taken all day and they now had to go do other stuff (meet with anesthesia, get more blood drawn, blah blah blah), and she had no idea when she’d be available. Oops.
Doc came in, told me that thank God all is good with my baby, told me about being a carrier for whatever, etc. All finished. I called G. He’d gone the wrong way on the way to camp and gotten lost (we haven’t replaced our GPS yet) and was half an hour late to pick up the girls. He was also absolutely miserable from lack of caffeine. I was quite sick, made more so from lying uncomfortably on the table. It was horribly hot outside. Both of us were in nasty moods. There were four kids to take care of and no Allison available yet. “Can you call a cab?” G asked me. He was too unconscious and irritable, apparently, to load all the kids back in the car and come to get me. I was mad, but I said fine, I’ll call a cab. Feh. I called the cab, then had no choice but to stand outside in the heat and wait for it. There was nowhere to sit anywhere where I’d be able to see when it came. The cab didn’t come for more than 15 minutes. I realize this does not sound like a long time, but recall that it was over 90 degrees outside, and I’m pregnant. Luckily I survived. The cab came. Driver was a hyperactive lunatic who yelled and swore at every other car we passed. “I swear to God, some o’ these people musta got their licenses from the Cracker Jack box!” That’s probably the cleanest thing he said. I got home and saw that Allison was back with her mother. Hallelujah! I came inside. G was in a mood from hell. I was in a mood from hell. Allison came over about 20 minutes later, and left with the kids about 5 minutes after that so the girls could swim in her hot tub. I changed my clothes and sat down to finish off the post I put up yesterday. Apparently, all this time, my dear friend Some Guy was experiencing an emergency with his daughter. His gchat status message supposedly announced this, but I barely glanced at my gmail screen. Oops again (I believe she is fine now).
Suddenly I got a text message from G (I was in the living room and he was in his study; who wants to use vocal cords?). Babysitter Allison had just informed him that she would not, after all, be staying until bedtime, but had to leave at 6:30. Um. This propels both of us into a much, much worse mood, G because he feels like such kaka but will now have to stay out of bed and deal with the children, me because I want to take over for him so badly, but I am much, much too sick. My mood and I sit there finishing up the post when the phone rings. It’s my mother, who already tried to call the night before. I picked it up, not bothering in the least to hide the irritability in my voice.
“Well you don’t sound very happy to hear from me!”
“I’m not happy about anything.”
“You have four beautiful children! Why don’t you be happy about them?”
“Great idea, Ma. Why didn’t I think of that.”
“See, there you go!” She starts (apparently I have just switched to present tense instead of past) asking me things about the girls and camp. I’m barely listening. Suddenly I see the time — 5:50 PM — and something hits me like a ton of bricks. I am supposed to be somewhere with YS at 6:00. It’s a 20 minute drive. Holy freaking s. I gasp, cut my mother off, and say, swearing only a little, “I forgot, I have to be somewhere. Bye.” I call to G. He has the same reaction I do. We get YS back from Allison’s. She gets dressed very quickly and she and I pile back into the car. I’m so sick but I’m able to drive. The box of tissues I brought with me was new when I went to the doctor; it’s now almost finished. What gives??
We make the turn to get onto the Hutch. Oh no. Bumper to bumper cars. Barely moving at all. I make some phone calls. “If you aren’t going to be here before about 6:45, forget it.” At 6:35 we are approximately one third of the way there. Guess we’re forgetting it. I call G and tell him what happened. “I’m right at exit 17. Should I pick up something for dinner?” We decide I should pick up sushi. He tells me which combo platter to order. We get there and I order it. YS and I sit and wait for it to be ready while she reads the menu, tells me what her favorites are, and adds up and compares the costs of various combinations. Finally the sushi is ready. On the drive home, YS constructs an elaborate scenario wherein a person moves to New York from Paris and brings his all-glass car with him. His favorite food is pizza and the car is so full of pizza boxes that it’s all anybody can see when he drives by. We discuss this for a while until it’s determined that the man is named Pierre Picasso (YS insisted on Picasso because pizza is Italian), and he becomes famous for his pizza car, and a movie is made about him. YS describes the movie trailer in great detail. I am totally going to see it when it comes out. We get home at about 7:20. G is now in a worse mood. I am in a worse mood. G has already reminded me several times that he has to be at shul at 8:00 for mincha. Given what happened this morning, he is particularly preoccupied with this. The sushi is removed from the bag and it quickly becomes clear that G and I had a lack of communication. When he told me which combo platter to order, he was only thinking of the girls, and assuming I would order whatever I wanted for myself. I, for some reason, had assumed the combo platter would have enough for the girls and for me.
Oops.
I sit in the kitchen and attempt not to melt down. I’m pregnant, see, and I thought I was having sushi. This means I have to have sushi or I might die. I already feel sick enough without trying to eat something that isn’t what I thought I was having. Nevertheless, there is nothing to do about it. I’m a wreck. I try to hide my wreckness behind my already foul mood. It’s 7:30. G, knowing how it is to be pregnant (this is because he’s a very empathetic soul, and because I tend to, um, share my feelings a lot), and being a prince among men, tells me I should go back and get sushi for myself. The place is about a 7–10 minute drive. If I call it in and leave now, I’ll be back in time for G to go to mincha.
“But G, the Hutch north is bumper to bumper. It was still awful when we were coming home.”
“That’s no problem, you can take the streets. I’ll tell you how to get there. It’s very simple.”
“Ok, thank you….”
*** WARNING WARNING WARNING ***
Miriam has no sense of direction
Miriam always manages to get lost
Miriam is operating on about one-quarter capacity, on account of the pregnancy, the very bad mood, and all the running around she has already done
This is a bad idea
G gives me directions. It is indeed very simple; a left, a right, another left, another right (I think). I leave, still sick and miserable but knowing I’ll soon have sushi.
You already know what happened, of course. But I didn’t just get lost. I got lost about five or six different times. At every single point when I was supposed to do something, I somehow — and I still have NO idea how this happened, any of the times — managed to do something completely different. This was on the way to a restaurant that is about 7 minutes from my house, a restaurant I have been to several million times. The streets I was attempting to take — even the streets I got lost on — are streets I have used many times. The problem is, I’ve always used them for other things. I know how to get to those places using those streets. I just do not know how to get to the Chinese restaurant using those streets. We call people like me visual thinkers. We also call people like me people with zero sense of direction.
We also call people like me morons.
I got to the stupid restaurant. I got my stupid sushi. I brought it home and ate it, and it was very good. G did not make it to mincha. I got home after 8:30. One of the times he called me to see what was happening, I was downtown in a completely different town/neighborhood/whatever than the one I was supposed to be in, having no idea how I got there or how I was going to get out, and I was crying. “I’m so sorry,” I sobbed. “I thought I did what I was supposed to do.” I had asked someone for directions, and I still think I followed them precisely. I still have no idea how any of this happened. The prince among men was sweet, supportive, and sympathetic. I have no idea why. He stayed on the phone and directed me, better than any GPS. After I got home and ate my sushi, I actually felt well enough to get some towels into the laundry, which saved G from doing it, so that made me feel 1% better.
So, that was my bad stupid day. Maybe the written version doesn’t seem as crazy as it did when I was living it, but at the time, it was bad. And there was aftermath. Presumably because of the sharp uptick in physical activity — I can’t think of any other reason this would have happened — I was still drugged out the wazoo when I woke up this morning, which was especially strange since I took my sleeping pill earlier than usual last night. I couldn’t wake up, and G had to take the Boy along for the ride to camp. I was still quite out of it when they got back at 10:00, but I got up and took care of the Boy while G went to a meeting and some other places. Bizarre. At least my spitting is back to “normal” today. Ha.
Hey, look at that, it’s 3:34 PM and I haven’t yet made a pest of myself to the Board of Ed. Today, I mean. Better go do that. This time, we use the phone. Cackle.
So sick. Soooo sick.
Feel like I’ve been bursting with stories to tell, things to post, etc., but posting is much too annoying from my new non-Droid phone, and now that I have my new non-Droid phone and can check email and whatnot while lying on my side, it’s been difficult to get myself to sit upright and use both hands at an actual computer. Lying on my side is MUCH better as far as various pregnancy symptoms are concerned. But here I am, though if I haven’t mentioned it yet, I feel sooo sick.
No stroke yet. Dr. SuperStroke read the MRI, finally, and called us back, finally, and… had nothing to say. Apparently the stupid arteries look the same as they did in January. You know, the last time she had a TIA. Feh. Oddly, Dr. SuperStroke kept saying they look “good.” I suppose I’m glad about that — who doesn’t want their kid to have nice-looking arteries? — but lady, if she’s still having TIAs, the arteries are not “good.” So, there’s no news. Just like I said there wouldn’t be. No news until the next one, that is. And I shall insert my requisite “God forbid,” though I confess it’s more than a little forced. In the meantime, my evil explosive mood has abated (I do not say “improved”) perhaps 5%, and I don’t think I’ve bitten anyone’s head off in at least three days.
Girls started camp today (this was written yesterday, i.e. on Monday). Boy quite lonely. It’s pretty sad. “Goze?” he asks (= “girls”). “They went to camp,” we tell him. But it isn’t long before he asks again. Poor kid. Anyway, turns out the twins were put in the same bunk because they don’t have quite enough post-second grade girls in attendance to fill up two bunks. So they’re together again. Feh. We were really, really hoping to get the ball rolling on having them each fend for themselves, especially YS, who we believe could use some space from R. We felt like camp was the perfect place to start, especially right before they’re holed up on top of each other for three weeks during our annual road trip. Heh. Meanwhile, counselors, division head, and nurse have all been prepped about R. “Here’s what to watch for. Here’s what to do. Also be sure she drinks a lot.” Of course, the nurse and division head know all about her from last year, unless for some reason they forgot (HAHAHAHAHA).
Speaking of last year, know what tonight is? 17 Tammuz. Remember what I did last year on 17 Tammuz? Broke my fast, among other things. R was having her angiogram, see. So on the Jewish calendar, it’s been a year since the stroke. Shudder. Don’t want to think about it. (HAHAHA, good one)
Hey, here’s a funny story from the hospital last year. So among other things, R had to have an EEG, by which I mean lots of wires attached to her head and hooked up to a computer that recorded her brain activity, in case she had a seizure (she didn’t). Now when you have an EEG, you also need to be watched by someone’s eyes, because if the computer records seizure activity, it’s important to also see what the person’s body is doing. In some cases R has been put in a monitored room, by which I mean there’s a video camera recording her and it’s all visible from the nurse’s station. But when she had the stroke in July, none of the monitored rooms were available. So this funky spherical thing was attached to the computer instead, looking sort of like a lamppost, but really it was a video camera that recorded everything in the room at once. You couldn’t duck out of its way; it covered every corner.
So there were G and myself, sitting in the room with our six year-old daughter who had just had a stroke, and no one knew why, though there were a few theories based on the MRI, and it was nighttime and R was asleep, and G and I were of course in total shock and still reeling. We had decided I would stay at the hospital and G would go home, and suddenly I realized something — it was the night of 17 Tammuz, which meant the 3 Weeks were starting the next morning, which meant no haircuts, and my hair (such that it is) was already a straggly overgrown mess. “G, you need to cut my hair,” I said. So we got scissors (from where? who knows) and I yanked off my handy dandy bandanna, and I realized something else — the spherical camera thingie was recording this, i.e., me with my hair all naked and visible to the world. GASP And I don’t do that, see.
Of course, the problem was that as I said, this particular camera recorded the entire room. There was no escaping it. I don’t remember why we didn’t duck into the bathroom, but we didn’t; I’m sure we had a reason (maybe not wanting to leave R alone? who remembers). So — I ended up taking a blanket and throwing it over the sphere while I bared my head and G did his usual bang-up job of making my hair look like it’s been chewed up by chipmunks. Heehee. But then again, if I wanted to marry a hairdresser, I’d have married a hairdresser.
So I thought this was pretty funny, because how many couples do you think throw blankets over the EEG camera for a few minutes of privacy, and how many of them do you suppose do so in order to engage in a romantic moment of haircutting? I remember being distantly amused somewhere in the back of my frozen mind, trying to imagine what we must look like to people outside of our loop. Of course, I ended up sleeping in that room that night with my bare naked head on my pillow, perfectly visible to the camera. Oops. I realized this as G was getting ready to leave, and we had a brief conversation about it, and whether we were just too drained to care, or we actually decided it was ok for some reason, I really couldn’t tell you.
Anyway, this year I ain’t fasting, but not because I completely lose it after waiting for my child to come out of her somewhat invasive brain procedure. Even if that does happen again (heh), I will not have been fasting in the first place, on account of my being sick as a dog with this pregnancy. Whee! There are perks to pregnancy illness after all.
Ok, now it’s Tuesday evening, and guess what? I have heartburn! And here’s a somewhat new one — I’m also cramping. Nice (ouch). But I don’t need to call the doctor, because I just came home from the doctor about an hour ago, having had the major ultrasound, or “anatomical scan,” wherein they check all the baby’s organs and bones and fingers and toes and eyeballs and who knows what, and they actually saw me cramping, and they didn’t seem to care. Sure they don’t care; they aren’t the ones in pain. Feh. So baruch Hashem it all looks fine. Baby has everything it needs and it’s all good. They did, however, tell me that I’m a carrier for some disease I never heard of, and they’re making G come in to be tested to see if he’s a carrier too. This irritates me for all sorts of reasons. First of all, I’m sick of all the paranoia in this world, especially when it comes to pregnancy, and second of all, they never tested me for this before, so why am I supposed to think this is a big deal? The doctor told me they keep expanding the “Jewish panel,” or the number of genetic tests they do on pregnant Jewish women. Now call me some sort of liberal maniac or whatever, but my instinct, which is probably stupid, is to immediately bristle at the idea of someone testing me for something just because I’m a Jew. Did I tell them to do this test? Truth be told I probably did; I pretty much sign everything they stick in front of me. But still. Who are they to screen my blood just because I’m a Jew? Isn’t this what we call racial profiling? Yes, thank you, I know it’s for my own protection, and more importantly the baby’s protection, but I can’t help feeling instinctively uncomfortable with the idea. Even if it supposedly a good idea for which I should be grateful. Maybe if I’d ever heard of this disease I’d feel differently. I suppose I’ll look it up. (No, I am not going to say what it is.)
There are other matters afoot that I don’t feel like writing about, such as the unimaginable bizarre incompetence at the Board of Ed (short version: R’s services never started, and things are still not in place for them to start in the fall. Yes I am making a pest of myself. No I am not going to get into it), and my son’s obsession with girls’ shoes, and the fact that after years and years and hundreds of transactions on ebay, we were actually ripped off for the first time a few weeks ago (not with the car!), and it looks like I might have just been ripped off a second time. ?!?! What’s that all about? But I’m going to go take my heartburn and abdominal cramps and lie down instead of writing. Have an easy rest of the fast.
Tags: Dept of Ed, Holidays, Pregnancy, Stroke
Posting from my new phone! Not in love yet but it’s growing on me. Stay tuned.
I found the Boy’s sandals! Didn’t even have to do the גורל הגר”א. Two friends to whom I was miserably complaining over the last 1+ weeks about how I couldn’t find them had suggested I check the hamper in the living room, because, as you of course already know, the Boy spent two Friday nights ago filling a hamper in the living room with all the shoes he could find. I replied to both of them that I HAD checked the hamper (duh). I’d also checked everywhere else I could think of, by which I mean I had Babysitter Allison check everywhere else I could think of, on account of my not being able to move that much. The sandals were nowhere to be found, and I was quite upset, and had already told G that unless he helped me turn our bedroom upside down looking for them, I was going to have to go ahead and order new ones. We both knew that that would probably immediately cause us to find the old ones, but what were we supposed to do; the Boy needs sandals. Then this morning, while G went off to his morning job, I was home with the Boy, since Babysitter Allison had some lame excuse for not being available, and the morning babysitter the Boy has been going to since I got sick has up and left for the summer to Athens. The one in Greece, I mean. There was no telling how long I’d be able to manage the Boy on my own, but we figured G would come home when necessary.
Anyway, the Boy did this bizarre and wonderful thing called “sleeping until 10:00,” probably because he had no nap yesterday and had been up extremely late on Saturday night. Ergo I was able to sleep off ALL of my sleeping pill, and spend some extra time lying in bed vaguely wondering whether he was dead or had been kidnapped, before I had to get him. Of course, when a child in diapers sleeps for 14 hours, the likelihood is that the diaper will become full, and possibly overflow, which my son’s does at night 50% of the time anyway. So when I did go to get him, his pajamas, and more to the point, his blankie, were completely soaked through (gross).
“Bay-kie awwet,” he told me gravely, when I came into the room.
“Your blankie is all wet?”
“Yeah. Dah-bahs awwet.”
“Your pajamas are all wet?”
“Yeah.”
So — we are nearing the ultimate point of this story, which, as you have probably forgotten, is the finding of the sandals — I was forced to put in a load of laundry. He won’t sleep without the blankie, see, and (shh) we have already allowed him to sleep with it on one occasion when it was soaked with urine, because we’d forgotten to wash it, and he was screaming bloody murder and was unlikely to stop. So, not wanting to resort to that again, I knew it had to be washed and dried so it would be ready before his nap, which meant I had to do it. It being relatively early in the day, I didn’t feel like total kaka yet, so I managed to get the load in. (”Ima wan-dee! Woun-woun!” “Yes, Ima’s doing the laundry, and it’s going round and round!”) Then, since there was still room in the washer, I decided to look around the basement for some more stuff to put in, and I opened the lid on a brown wicker hamper which is a duplicate of the one that’s currently in the living room, and….
…there were the sandals. In a hamper, of course. As Babysitter Allison said when I texted her the exciting news, “Why didn’t we think to check all the hampers in the house?” So, all’s well that ends up saving me $35. (We buy the good stuff when it comes to our kids’ shoes. One of probably two things we actually spend money on. Stride Rite, mostly, which these are, and all leather, too. See why I wasn’t pleased about losing them?)
So that’s my story. In other news, R has not had another stroke yet. Dr. SuperStroke received the disk with the MRI on it on Friday, but has not read it yet, and it’s unlikely there will be any real news even when she does. Also, I managed to only bite off two people’s heads yesterday, though come to think of it, I didn’t communicate with many more people than that, so maybe that’s not such an accomplishment. The kids finish school tomorrow and start camp next Monday. As usual, I have mixed feelings about this, especially given how different R is, and especially since we plan to be separating the twins — i.e., different bunks — for the first time since they were born. Nobody knows how that’s going to go. Of course, the camp seems not to have received the email I sent two months ago about this, and we got their stuff on Friday and they are in the same bunk. Grr. So I’m going to have to call, which I hate doing, and God help me if they ask me anything on the phone about R’s health. I’ll have to prep myself beforehand, because my biting off the camp directors’ heads would not be in anybody’s best interests.
Tags: Keeping house (or not), Stroke, The Boy
We’re going to try to write something without swearing. Ready? It won’t be easy. If you want to know how I’m really feeling, imagine that everything you read here is laced with profanity.
Wouldn’t it be swell if my heartburn went away? Yes. That would be swell.
Of course, I’d never use such language on a public blog. Because it’s inappropriate, see. HA. Want to know what I feel like saying to anyone who thinks my language is inappropriate?
MY CHILD HAD A %$#@ STROKE. AFTER YOUR CHILD HAS A STROKE, PERHAPS I’LL ALLOW YOU TO TELL ME WHAT IS AND IS NOT APPROPRIATE.
That’s probably not playing the stroke card. Or is it? I’ve been extremely wary of playing the stroke card for, well, almost a year. And by playing the stroke card, I of course mean silencing everyone into submission, and/or getting things from people, by mentioning that my child had a stroke.
It scares people, you know. Because it’s something that doesn’t happen much. 6 and 7 year-olds having strokes, I mean. “Ooh, I can’t imagine what you must be going through.” First of all, I know you can’t, and who really cares? Who’s asking you to imagine anything? (Of course, I’ve said the same thing to millions of people over the years. Getting irritated by kind, well-intentioned people is one of the things you’re allowed to do when your child had a stroke.) And second of all, yes you can. It doesn’t take much imagination, especially if you’re a parent. Just think for two seconds. Think of it happening to your kid. Right; the thought paralyzes you with terror. So what? Think of it happening anyway, no matter how paralyzed you are. Think of watching it happen. Think of staring at your kid in the back of an ambulance. Think of suddenly realizing, far more acutely than ever before, that no matter what happens inside her body, that child is yours. It’s her body you’re responsible for, first and foremost. It’s her body you brought into the world. Of course, you’re responsible for her happiness, emotional well-being, etc., too, but some things can suddenly throw into sharp relief the fact that whatever inhabits that body, that is what you must take care of. That is what, to be blunt, you’re stuck with. No matter what happens, no matter how it changes. You can imagine that, can’t you?
Not doing the best job explaining what I mean. But I don’t have to explain what I mean, because my child had a stroke.
“Ooh, we can’t pay all that tuition. See, my little girl had a stroke [sniff, sniff], and, well, the medical expenses — you know how it is — [break down weeping].” I was exceedingly uncomfortable when we (by which I of course mean, G) were filling out the tuition assistance applications. Not one thing he said was a lie or exaggeration — not one thing — all he did was relate the facts, along with the numbers, in a completely straightforward, non-emotional manner — and the facts are that there are a lot of expenses, even with our (thank God thank God thank God) health insurance. But I still felt uncomfortable, because what could the schools possibly say? “Stroke, huh? Yeah, well, we all have problems. Pay up, please.” Maybe they should say that, but I knew they wouldn’t. Because it’s a stroke. This is a family whose child had a stroke. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were somehow using R’s stroke for personal gain. I know, we weren’t. But something about it still didn’t feel right.
There have been other examples. I can’t remember them right now. This subject has been on my mind as a possible post topic for a long time, because it feels so conflicting. On the one hand, shut up, all of you idiots, my child had a stroke. On the other hand, yes, my child had a stroke; that doesn’t mean you should leap out of our way and treat us with kid gloves. That doesn’t absolve us of other responsibilities. It doesn’t mean everybody has to drop everything and give us whatever we want. Does it?
They do drop everything, of course, and they did drop everything. My in-laws. “Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day.” Both of my in-laws are somewhat important people in their professions (and in the Jewish world, for that matter, and in the world in general, but who’s keeping score?). People and institutions depend on them, in extremely concrete ways. Cancel your afternoon? Every time? Every day? Well, sure; my child had a stroke, see. My sister. “Come over right now.” Our friends and neighbors. “Pick up our kids. Bring food to the hospital. Come by my house and do this and that and the other thing.” They will, of course, and they did, and they have, because my child had a stroke. But it starts to feel wrong.
Hey, can I try this on my professor? “You know that stupid exam you don’t remember telling me [hey, that post is also somewhat about swearing] 7 years ago I didn’t have to take, and it turned out you were mistaken, so now I do have to take it? Well, you see — [sniff, wipe eyes] — my little girl had a stroke — three, in fact, if you count TIAs — and, well, it’s a bit difficult to study [commence bawling]…” Do you think he’d say “Oh, I think we can waive the exam requirement this time. Congratulations, here’s your MA!”? Maybe he would. Because my child had a stroke, see.
Of course, that’s somewhat true. I can’t study. I can’t make chicken soup (though I did, somehow). I can’t read a bunch of academic books and remember what they say. Want to know what I can do? I can sit and stare. I can sit frozen on a stool in my kitchen while my baby siSter fries eggs for lunch for her son (the smell almost killed me. Heh), and I can text a few people — “R can’t talk again. On her way to the ER with G. SuperStroke has been notified” — and then I can sit some more. With my nausea and heartburn, of course. Because the Small Gestating One doesn’t know its sister had a(nother) stroke-like thing. The Small Gestating One has work to do — it has to gestate, see — and that work doesn’t stop. So I can sit, and feel sick, and continue to sit, and stare, and not move. I can mumble self-flagellating things to myself, so my baby siSter can say to me harshly “You didn’t do anything wrong.” Oh YEAH?? My child had a stroke. Don’t try to tell me what I did and didn’t do. I can wonder why I’m not davening. I can try to whisper my child’s name, but of course I then immediately have to spit.
Know what I can’t do? Cry. I can’t cry when I need to spit so much. I can’t cry when I already have a sticky painful wad of phlegm in my throat (going on 3+ months now). Crying makes the phlegm 100000 times worse. So what I can do is sit, and stare, and berate myself, and spit, and not cry, and feel sick, and my head can explode with rage and fury, and I can swear in my head. I can swear at God. I can swear at myself. I can swear at R. I can do anything I want in my head, except study for my exam. Because my child had a stroke.
Of course, that’s all a description of what took place in my kitchen two days ago, between the hours of 12:45 and 1:53 PM (that start time may be wrong). But to a lesser degree it’s what happens every day, whether she’s having a TIA or not. Because she did, and she could, and when people ask how she is, we can only really answer about the past. She hasn’t had another one, yet. You can ask me again in five minutes. No stroke yet. No stroke yet. No stroke yet. Repeat from January until June. MRI scheduled for July 6. Maybe she’ll make it until then? Maybe she hasn’t had anything for so long because… she’s better? Because the arteries are no longer bad? Maybe the July 6 MRI will give us… good news?
HA!! HA HA HA!! June 16, sucker!! TIA!! 1+ hours of paralyzed terror until she suddenly starts talking again! And you thought there might be good news. You thought it might ever be over. Time to rev up all that stuff that’s always, always in the back of your head, and bring it to the front. Time to swear some more. Time to… well, we know the drill.
“Anything I can do?” texted more than one person.
“Yes,” I responded to one of them. “You can run me over with a truck.”
(She declined.)
“Don’t throw yourself in front of a truck,” advised another friend.
“Why not?” I demanded. “You think it may not work?”
I yelled at RS and YS last night. They were supposed to be in bed, of course, and they came out, of course, because they wanted attention, of course. I yelled at them both. I suck. I can’t do this. Someone run me over now. Either that, or cure my pregnancy symptoms. “Hey kid,” I said last night, to the Small Gestating One. “Do you think there’s anything you can do about the heartburn and the nausea? I’m having a hard time coping right now, and, well, it would be best for everyone if I felt a little better.” No response. Kid hates me already.
No, I am not in danger of hurting myself. No, I am not in danger of hurting my kids. I’m an irritable basket case, perhaps, but they’re fine. There is no need for concern.
Except about the stroke, of course. Because my child had a stroke.
Don’t be afraid of me. You might be afraid of me after you read this post. But I’m not completely unapproachable. Completely irrational, yes, but you can approach me. I (probably) won’t hit you. I might bite your head off, internally or externally, but please be assured that this has nothing to do with you. I’d probably bite your head off no matter what you say or how you say it. Because I’m sick, and I don’t feel good, and my child had a *&%$# stroke.
Here’s wishing for a peaceful Shabbos. And if you’ve seen my son’s sandals, please let me know where they are.
Tags: Stroke
Vote in the comments section. If you want to see me swear on this blog — I mean really swear, not the usual somewhat inappropriate language I might use, but really bad words, not becoming — well, anyone, really — say so, and if enough people vote in favor, perhaps I’ll post what I wrote last night, without editing it first. Heh.
Remember the TIA? Sure you do; who could forget the TIA? So she had another one, yesterday afternoon. Couldn’t talk for about an hour and a half. Spent the night in the hospital, is back now, tired but otherwise apparently normal. Sure. All 7 year-olds who have strokes are totally normal. They did an MRI last night, G got the CD, and we’ll be overnighting it to Dr. SuperStroke today, and she’ll read it, and… uh oh, I’m about to start swearing again.
I have nothing else to say at the moment, except the usual thank God it resolved, thank God she’s ok (for the moment, anyway), she’s back here where she belongs and maybe she’ll be alright. Those are all the things I have to say that don’t involve swearing and/or heresy and/or super offensive things. So I’m going to quit before it’s too late.
Tags: Stroke
