When we bought our house 4 years ago, it came with some of the lousiest appliances around. The stove had to be replaced almost immediately since, when you turned the oven on to say 350 degrees the entire oven, inside and out, heated up to 350 degrees. So, after a few months of singing my pregnant belly followed by a few more months of fearing for Kieran's young life, our stove was replaced on my first maternity leave. Then mere days into my second maternity leave, our dryer stopped drying and with a baby due to born any second (seriously I had been on mat leave for such a short time the baby hadn't even been born yet) this was not the time to be running to the laundromat. And, since it's cheaper to buy these units in pairs, in came the new washer/dryer (and the new baby!)
Now, the two remaining large appliances, namely the Dishwasher and the Fridge, have been battling for the title of "worst performing" and "most annoying" for years. In fact, the dryer dying was a complete shock because it was not on the bottom of my most-hated appliance list. But, about a year ago, the dishwasher - ironically called something like the "Whisper 2000" - started to make a loud hour-long buzzing noise during its cycle. Noises which we studiously ignored and instead, just learned that it was best to run the dishwasher while not at home and definitely NOT while trying to watch TV or sleeping.
The fridge, which loves to freeze random items in the fridge part, but which cannot keep ice cream hard in the freezer to save it's pathetic life, has also been on a downhill slide. And here we learned that you had to 1) check if it was closed every time you walked into the kitchen because it doesn't seal properly and 2) to not keep anything that really "needed to be frozen" in the freezer door because they wouldn't freeze (which is why Kieran spend a lot of summer eating liquid freezies.)
Anyway, in recent weeks, the dishwasher's annoyingly loud buzzing noise has started to become increasingly more alarming and now whenever you open the dishwasher door this smell of something akin to animal feces would seep out. (Dinner at our house, come on over!)
However, Eric, aka "the man of-a-million-useful-contacts" has a client who works at a huge appliance company which, once a year, hosts a "friends and family" sale where they sell their appliances at employee pricing, minus 10 per cent. (40 percent off)
Anyway, even with Eric not working, our dying (if not quite 100 percent dead) dishwasher, made us decide to not skip the sale this year. After getting a babysitter and standing in the freezing cold for an hour and a half to get into this sale where we found the dishwasher (crazy cheap!) and figured that while we were there, we might as look at the fridges. Due to space restrictions, our fridge options were few to begin with - we basically had to buy the smallest one they sold - but buy it we did.
So, now since all 5 of our big appliances, all purchased at the worst times imaginable and therefore completely devoid of anything that could ever be called a "bell" or a "whistle", have finally been replaced. (Maybe in some other lifetime I will get my water-dispensing dream fridge
or have a washer with a superfluous "steam" cycle.)
Merry Christmas to me!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Parsley and Crossed Fingers
So, we waited for close to four hours in line yesterday to get our H1N1 vaccinations. I am annoyed? Yes. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.
I'm not so much annoyed that we waited for four hours...I was more annoyed that the municipality's fancy website said the wait would be less than an hour. We could have been prepared for 4 hours but weren't...we were prepared for less than 1.
The plan was for Eric to pick up the kids early from daycare and come get me at work and head out the clinic. I told him to pack drinks and snacks and toys - which he did. We had to make a stop at the garage to pick up our car that was being repaired and while Eric was inside I opened the bag to realize (although I should have known) that my idea of snacks (crackers, granola bars etc) was quite different from Eric's, which was Halloween candy.
Yep...the 18-month old holding a little bag of mini-Doritos and my three-year-old with a Halloween size Pringles with a Twizzler chaser? My kids. (Although they were very happy...so it wasn't all bad.)
Anyway we stood for two hours before being ushered into a waiting room for another half hour. Then we were called to register and ushered to yet another waiting room for another hour. At least the third waiting area was very spacious and even had a supervised play area for kids - complete with volunteers wearing rubber gloves and disinfecting toys every 30 seconds.
After the shot...both my kids screamed as though they were getting their arms cut off...we were ushered to yet another waiting area where we were handed a thimbleful of juice and told to wait for another 15 minutes to make sure we had no adverse reactions.
By the time it was done the kids were fine just plain tired and hungry. Kieran talked about food the entire way home. He wanted pizza, noodles and french fries with ketchup. "And when I get big like a grownup, I want to eat hamburgers, pop and coffee and drive a car." They fought over a single stale rice cake that was kicking around the van. We got home and while I was unbuckling Kaya from her seat, Kieran was standing in the rain on the doorstep eating the parsley that is (inexplicably) still growing in a pot outside the door.
But anyway...it's done (although the kids have to go back in three weeks for a second shot). I know the shot is not going to be everybody's choice. It's surrounded by controversy and mismanagement and some unknown risks...but I do know this. I know that if it was one of my kids who ended up on a ventilator in the ER I would never forgive myself. I do know that the regular seasonal flu that kill hundreds of thousands every year does not kill otherwise healthy 13 year old hockey players. So, I can wait 4 hours for a shot or wait 4 hours in an Emergency waiting room to see a doctor to get Tamiflu when they do get it.
It's a crapshoot and I made my choice. Fingers crossed that it was the right one.
I'm not so much annoyed that we waited for four hours...I was more annoyed that the municipality's fancy website said the wait would be less than an hour. We could have been prepared for 4 hours but weren't...we were prepared for less than 1.
The plan was for Eric to pick up the kids early from daycare and come get me at work and head out the clinic. I told him to pack drinks and snacks and toys - which he did. We had to make a stop at the garage to pick up our car that was being repaired and while Eric was inside I opened the bag to realize (although I should have known) that my idea of snacks (crackers, granola bars etc) was quite different from Eric's, which was Halloween candy.
Yep...the 18-month old holding a little bag of mini-Doritos and my three-year-old with a Halloween size Pringles with a Twizzler chaser? My kids. (Although they were very happy...so it wasn't all bad.)
Anyway we stood for two hours before being ushered into a waiting room for another half hour. Then we were called to register and ushered to yet another waiting room for another hour. At least the third waiting area was very spacious and even had a supervised play area for kids - complete with volunteers wearing rubber gloves and disinfecting toys every 30 seconds.
After the shot...both my kids screamed as though they were getting their arms cut off...we were ushered to yet another waiting area where we were handed a thimbleful of juice and told to wait for another 15 minutes to make sure we had no adverse reactions.
By the time it was done the kids were fine just plain tired and hungry. Kieran talked about food the entire way home. He wanted pizza, noodles and french fries with ketchup. "And when I get big like a grownup, I want to eat hamburgers, pop and coffee and drive a car." They fought over a single stale rice cake that was kicking around the van. We got home and while I was unbuckling Kaya from her seat, Kieran was standing in the rain on the doorstep eating the parsley that is (inexplicably) still growing in a pot outside the door.
But anyway...it's done (although the kids have to go back in three weeks for a second shot). I know the shot is not going to be everybody's choice. It's surrounded by controversy and mismanagement and some unknown risks...but I do know this. I know that if it was one of my kids who ended up on a ventilator in the ER I would never forgive myself. I do know that the regular seasonal flu that kill hundreds of thousands every year does not kill otherwise healthy 13 year old hockey players. So, I can wait 4 hours for a shot or wait 4 hours in an Emergency waiting room to see a doctor to get Tamiflu when they do get it.
It's a crapshoot and I made my choice. Fingers crossed that it was the right one.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Fishy, Fishy, Fishy Fish
We got Kieran a fish for his bedroom. And because Kieran is three, the fish is called Nemo. (Yes, we WOULD also let him name a cat Garfield and a dog Scooby Doo). Eric picked up one of those small little mini-aquarium starter sets meant for kids at some clearance place last week and thought it would be perfect for Kieran's bedroom. He then suggests a fun family outing to go to the fish store and pick out a new fish - yay says Kieran! -so one night after dinner, we pack up and off we go. Once we are all in the car, it's already getting sort of late and Eric mentions that he wants to go to a fish store in Chinatown that his brother has recommended. But is late and I think we should just go the the big box pet emporium that is 5 minutes from our house. Eric relents because, after all, we just need to get fish for a three year old and how hard can that be? (Yes, you do already know the answer).
We get to the store, find the fish section (where Kieran loudly announces that he would like to buy a whale) and wait 15 minutes for the lone saleswoman to give us some help. Eric has found a tank similar to ours on their shelf, and tells and asks her to recommend a good fish for that model.
With barely, and I mean barely, concealed disgust, she points to a large aquarium, swimming with literally hundreds of identical goldfish and says: "One of those." The box Eric is holding shows pictures of quite a few fish that would be suitable for the aquarium so we tentatively ask if that is our only option and she says, more snappily than necessary, that yes, a goldfish is all that will work.
So I tell Kieran to go to the aquarium and the lady will catch his new goldfish. She opens the tank and catches a random fish and I ask how long we can expect the fish to live.
"In ideal conditions, properly feed and cared for, these fish will live 30 years."
"Really?" I ask, quite surprised. "That long?"
"Well," she practically spits, "with what you are going to put it in, I would say it will live a year, if you're LUCKY."
Now, Eric tries. He had really been hoping for one of the funkier options that the box shows. "Well, is that our only option? We were thinking of maybe getting more than one." He is thinking that if we get a smaller fish we can maybe have more than one.
Again, she barely looks at us. "Uh no. That tank is too small for even one fish."
And so much for our happy little family outing to get fish. Now, which was surely her intention, we feel like bad parents and bad people.
But, then I look over at the tank that she has just taken the goldfish from. It is teeming with hundreds of fish and the irony seems obvious. Does this woman actually think that fish was better off where he was? Or was she still holding out hope for the one in a million chance that someone with a huge house with a lovely temperature-controlled indoor pond is going to come in and their drop 27 cents and spirit our little Nemo off to goldfish utopia?
Sheepishly, we grab our little plastic bag and make our way out of the store.
On our way home, Eric is completely annoyed. Not just at the horrible, scary saleslay, but also at me for squashing his plans for Chinatown to begin with. As it turns out, he had been warned to avoid the very store we had gone to.
To make matters worse, after Eric follows all the proper instructions and tries to make sure that the fish has a nice happy integration into his new home, in less that 24 hours Nemo is not only not moving, he is listing alarmingly sideways. Of course, now I feel twice as guilty (The lousy saleslady was right!We ARE murderers!) and worried (How are we going to explain to Kieran that his new pet is already going to be flushed down the toilet?) and sad (Poor Nemo.) But then the next day, we are witness to a fishy miracle. We wake up to Nemo swimming happily in his little tank. Well, I have no idea if he is happy or not...but he is upright and alive and he doesn't have to visit the "fish doctor" as I warned Kieran he might. Take that, Fish Lady.
Sushi anyone?
We get to the store, find the fish section (where Kieran loudly announces that he would like to buy a whale) and wait 15 minutes for the lone saleswoman to give us some help. Eric has found a tank similar to ours on their shelf, and tells and asks her to recommend a good fish for that model.
With barely, and I mean barely, concealed disgust, she points to a large aquarium, swimming with literally hundreds of identical goldfish and says: "One of those." The box Eric is holding shows pictures of quite a few fish that would be suitable for the aquarium so we tentatively ask if that is our only option and she says, more snappily than necessary, that yes, a goldfish is all that will work.
So I tell Kieran to go to the aquarium and the lady will catch his new goldfish. She opens the tank and catches a random fish and I ask how long we can expect the fish to live.
"In ideal conditions, properly feed and cared for, these fish will live 30 years."
"Really?" I ask, quite surprised. "That long?"
"Well," she practically spits, "with what you are going to put it in, I would say it will live a year, if you're LUCKY."
Now, Eric tries. He had really been hoping for one of the funkier options that the box shows. "Well, is that our only option? We were thinking of maybe getting more than one." He is thinking that if we get a smaller fish we can maybe have more than one.
Again, she barely looks at us. "Uh no. That tank is too small for even one fish."
And so much for our happy little family outing to get fish. Now, which was surely her intention, we feel like bad parents and bad people.
But, then I look over at the tank that she has just taken the goldfish from. It is teeming with hundreds of fish and the irony seems obvious. Does this woman actually think that fish was better off where he was? Or was she still holding out hope for the one in a million chance that someone with a huge house with a lovely temperature-controlled indoor pond is going to come in and their drop 27 cents and spirit our little Nemo off to goldfish utopia?
Sheepishly, we grab our little plastic bag and make our way out of the store.
On our way home, Eric is completely annoyed. Not just at the horrible, scary saleslay, but also at me for squashing his plans for Chinatown to begin with. As it turns out, he had been warned to avoid the very store we had gone to.
To make matters worse, after Eric follows all the proper instructions and tries to make sure that the fish has a nice happy integration into his new home, in less that 24 hours Nemo is not only not moving, he is listing alarmingly sideways. Of course, now I feel twice as guilty (The lousy saleslady was right!We ARE murderers!) and worried (How are we going to explain to Kieran that his new pet is already going to be flushed down the toilet?) and sad (Poor Nemo.) But then the next day, we are witness to a fishy miracle. We wake up to Nemo swimming happily in his little tank. Well, I have no idea if he is happy or not...but he is upright and alive and he doesn't have to visit the "fish doctor" as I warned Kieran he might. Take that, Fish Lady.
Sushi anyone?
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
People in Glass Houses Shouldn't Call the Kettle Black
A former co-worker of mine coined a phrase that I have more or less come to live by. She was having an argument with an employee in our accounting department and I remember listening to her side of an obviously painful phone conversation with said employee which ended with her slamming down the phone and then turning to me and saying: "Don't you hate it when somebody who you think is stupid actually thinks YOU'RE the stupid one?" And she had a fantastic point, because, yes, I DO hate that.
The same philosophy, I have come to realize, can be applied to parenting. It has come to my attention that someone who I think could probably lay off the reading of the parental manuals for a few minutes in order to properly apply the lessons, actually had the nerve to openly criticize the way I handle my kids. And this makes me crazy.
Let me explain. This woman is a friend of friends. We usually only see each other at a mutual friend's house where it is quite clear that we have nothing in common with each other save children who are the same age.
I could relay the entire story, but for the sake of brevity I'll just say this: Kieran still uses a soother. Yes, he's just past three and he uses a soother - not all the time, strictly for soothing purposes and at bedtime. I wish he didn't and I do understand that the permanent removal of said soother lies in my hands.
Anyway, by the time we had arrived at this party Kieran was already, God help us all, overtired and I could see we were likely going to wind up in some sort of meltdown, which we did. I tried to calm him but he was inconsolable and it was getting sort of embarrassing. Then I remembered with huge relief that I had Kaya's soother in my pocket, which I fished out and handed to him. It worked, as it always does, like magic. Crying stops, party resumes. Three minutes later I take the soother away and off he goes to play.
So apparently, in the world of judgemental parenting, allowing a three year old to use a soother is a transgression of relatively epic proportions. We left the party relatively early, I mean, after all, I had a clearly tired child on my hands who needed his own bed and a good night's sleep. And after we left, apparently, the woman who is, if I may borrow loosely from 30 Rock, the Patron SAINT of Judgemental Parenting (PSofJP), felt it necessary to point out to the other party guests, the colossal error of my ways.
Now, I'm not going to pretend that I have never been critical of anyone else's parenting. I am the first to admit that I have occasionally enjoyed the smug satisfaction that surely all parents feel when they hear of some serious questionable way that other raise their kids, but has it come to this? Party flogging over soothers?
I would have dismissed this episode as sheer bitchiness, except that this is not the first time I have borne the brunt of this woman's parenting wrath. The last time was because we were sharing an anecdote of Kaya waking up from a nap with a fever of 105.1. It had been the dead of winter and we didn't want to rush off to Emergency to sit there for four hours, so I had called Telehealth. I knew about spiking fevers and febrile seizures but I wasn't sure at what point we needed to get to a hospital, but the Telehealth nurse walked us through her entire checklist and by the time the nurse said that based on the symptoms we definitely did NOT need to go the Emergency, Kaya's temperature was already coming down.
Anyway, I was telling this story to our PSoJP and she couldn't seem to get OVER the fact that we didn't go to Emergency. She was citing seizures and brain damage and I told her that I thought brain damage didn't kick in until the fever was much higher, but since I hadn't been expecting any sort of inquisition on the matter I hadn't done any research, so I just said that we listened to the nurse and that Kaya was totally fine. But apparently, again after we left, I was told that a huge discussion took place about how horrible it was that we never took our poor sick baby who was possibly on the verge of death, to the hospital. Out of fury, I did an Internet search and for those of you who may be interested...I was right - the risk of brain damage starts at a temperature of 107.6.
Still, even though I think this woman could learn to be a bit of a nicer person in general, I actually do think that all parents - not just her - need to take a good long look at themselves before they so freely criticize others.
Parenting is not easy and every kid is different. It seems like every decision you make is fraught with the peril of potentially life ruining consequences for your innocent baby or child - it starts in the hospital with the old formula/breastfeeding debate and just goes on from there.
Do we really need to criticize others just to make us feel better about ourselves? What does it matter to her or anyone else if my three year old needs a soother now and then? This culture of "Holier than Thou" parenting is just annoying, because as far as I'm concerned we all live in glass houses.
All I know is this...my kids are loved and safe. They have bedtimes and routines, clean clothes and vegetables. They are happy. And if that isn't enough for you, here is a soother (not Kieran's because he might need it later) to shut you up.
Monday, September 21, 2009
We Must! We Must! We Must Decrease Our Bust!
So, I went back and forth on whether or not I should blog about this following subject. Its sort of personal - in an embarrassing, TMI kind of way. But then I thought about all the posts about childbirth and breastfeeding and thought that it can't get much worse than that, right?
So, here goes:
I had a breast reduction last week. It's something that I had been mulling over ever since the day I turned 15 and my favourite Hawaiian shirt (seriously, they were "in") refused to button. I have spent the last 20-odd years marvelling over the fact that people PAY to make their breasts bigger (and bigger and bigger) and thinking that the small chested of the world just don't know how good they have it. But a reduction, as any doctor will tell you, is major surgery....and I knew that if I ever had kids I would want to be able to breastfeed so I waited.
But I'm done having babies and any usefulness that these mamajamas ever had is finished. I want to join to rest of the world - a world of people who can wear only one bra to work out, or chase their kids in the park without winding up on YouTube.
So...off they went. Literally. OHIP approval was a breeze (trust me when I say there were no gray areas as to whether or not I would qualify. Dr's actual words when the gown was opened at my first consultation was "Oh my. Yes") and when his office reopened after their summer closure I was practically the first in line for the OR.
Its funny how when are 100 percent sure you are ready to do something how easy it can be. I wasn't worried or stressed. Kieran had his own Dr appt on the day of my surgery, so I had Eric drop me off at the hospital and as I waited by myself I was completely fine. Nothing could bring me down - not the check-in nurse's crankiness when I didn't have my company health insurance info, not the prep nurses sympathetic "you have NO ONE here who you could give your wedding ring to during the surgery?" Nothing. I was happy as a clam.
I was walked into the ER and my nerves flared a little bit when I saw the crowd of people in there waiting for me. I felt a bit like a fraud, like I'd pulled one over on everyone. After all, these are people who could have been helping save lives elsewhere. Even the plastic surgeon could be, say, grafting new skin onto a child burn victim or something and instead here they are getting ready cut my boobs off so I can do jumping jacks and wear an empire waist shirt? Seemed selfish.
But I sat up on the table and endured the final indignity of the surgeon using his black marker to draw plans onto my chest. (Nipple goes here. This moves here and all this...goooooesss).
The next thing I knew I was being shaken awake in recovery. The nurses very first words to me are odd. "What do you take for pain at home?" she asks loudly, cutting through my anaesthetic fog and even though I am only seconds awake I'm already sort of pissed at her. "I take Tylenol, but normally my boobs haven't just been hacked off. " OK. I only mumble the first three words aloud, but hopefully, the end of the sentence is definitely implied and I drift back out.
The next time I rouse I am being wheeled out of recovery and to my room, - which is apparently in another city. I mean, I know the hospital is big, but the trip feels like a joke. I am conscious of being in the elevator while an elderly Chinese couple stare down at me so I clamp my eyes shut again until I'm in my room.
The last time I was in a hospital was for the birth of my two children. Since they were both delivered naturally, I wasn't really prepared for how completely out of it I would be. Eric and Kieran came in but knowing that in order not to scare my three-year-old I had to put on the "Mommy is fine" voice, but I just couldn't. So, they dropped off my overnight bag and I stayed blissfully out of until quite late into the night.
When I did come fully awake I was in major pain. Nurses had been in and out of my room changing my IV, adding a Gravol drip several times because I was so nauseous. But at about 4 am I finally hit the buzzer. The nurse comes in and I ask her if I'm almost due for my pain medication. She tells me that I'm not on any and they only give you pain meds if you ask.
OK, so I'm asking, I say.
"What do you want? Tylenol or Morphine?"
Again with the freaking Tylenol. What do I have? Cramps? Obviously I want the morphine, but I something in her tone tells me that if I say that, then she is going to write me up as a junkie, so I stall.
"The Tylenol will take an hour to work." She says, and I can't take it any more.
"Just give me the morphine." I finally say.
"OK" - she says, and I swear she is smirking. "But, just so you know, you're not going home on that."
Seriously, did she think I just just endured a 3 hour surgical procedure just to get the pain meds? Do people actually do that? I have two hundred stitches, my nipples have been removed and reattached mere hours ago, the bed is covered in blood and its 4 o-freaking-clock-in-the-freaking-morning and I swear, this woman wants to hand me a glass of water and some regular strength caplets from the bottom of her purse.
Anyway, she finally adds morphine to my IV and, because I'm clearly going to be in rehab shortly anyway, she gives me an extra hit of Gravol in the IV too. And thankfully, I'm back out until morning.
The Doctor comes in with his med student and they ooh and aah over their handiwork. The med students clearly finds this awkward. He even trips on my IV on the way out. They tell me that I'm free to go home and the nurse comes in for the discharge. Except my blood pressure is really, really low so she gets the doctor back and he says that I need to eat and drink something and move around a bit, so they serve me these hideous concrete waffle sticks that I force myself to eat so that I can just leave, but the blood pressure is still low.
You need to walk around, says the nurse and then leaves.
I get up, get dressed. I'm dizzy (probably blood pressure related) and nauseous. I'm in gigantic amounts of pain because the morphine drip ended hours ago and I swear if they offer me Tylenol one more time I'm going to scream. So, finally, after I'm all ready to go, I lie back in bed and wait for Eric.
About 15 min later the nurse comes back in and says "I told you to walk around!"
Who ARE these people!? Do they hire their nurses directly from Hell or are they just leftover from Nazi concentration camps? What does she want from me?
I tell her that I WAS walking around,but she she's been gone for a half hour and I didn't have anywhere to walk to and that I just had a major surgery.
Thankfully, Eric finally arrives, and the nurse tells me that they normally provide a wheelchair for discharging patients but for me, well....they want me to walk. She reminds me of my mother, who would think that the wheelchair is lazy and that a nice long walk to the carpark a few blocks away will burn off those extra calories from the Waffle Brick I ate for breakfast.
But we finally make it out of the hospital and back to the burbs. We stop first and I fill my prespcription for, naturally, Tylenol and then we're home. I am sore, stitched, bruised, and tired, but at least I'm home.
So, here goes:
I had a breast reduction last week. It's something that I had been mulling over ever since the day I turned 15 and my favourite Hawaiian shirt (seriously, they were "in") refused to button. I have spent the last 20-odd years marvelling over the fact that people PAY to make their breasts bigger (and bigger and bigger) and thinking that the small chested of the world just don't know how good they have it. But a reduction, as any doctor will tell you, is major surgery....and I knew that if I ever had kids I would want to be able to breastfeed so I waited.
But I'm done having babies and any usefulness that these mamajamas ever had is finished. I want to join to rest of the world - a world of people who can wear only one bra to work out, or chase their kids in the park without winding up on YouTube.
So...off they went. Literally. OHIP approval was a breeze (trust me when I say there were no gray areas as to whether or not I would qualify. Dr's actual words when the gown was opened at my first consultation was "Oh my. Yes") and when his office reopened after their summer closure I was practically the first in line for the OR.
Its funny how when are 100 percent sure you are ready to do something how easy it can be. I wasn't worried or stressed. Kieran had his own Dr appt on the day of my surgery, so I had Eric drop me off at the hospital and as I waited by myself I was completely fine. Nothing could bring me down - not the check-in nurse's crankiness when I didn't have my company health insurance info, not the prep nurses sympathetic "you have NO ONE here who you could give your wedding ring to during the surgery?" Nothing. I was happy as a clam.
I was walked into the ER and my nerves flared a little bit when I saw the crowd of people in there waiting for me. I felt a bit like a fraud, like I'd pulled one over on everyone. After all, these are people who could have been helping save lives elsewhere. Even the plastic surgeon could be, say, grafting new skin onto a child burn victim or something and instead here they are getting ready cut my boobs off so I can do jumping jacks and wear an empire waist shirt? Seemed selfish.
But I sat up on the table and endured the final indignity of the surgeon using his black marker to draw plans onto my chest. (Nipple goes here. This moves here and all this...goooooesss).
The next thing I knew I was being shaken awake in recovery. The nurses very first words to me are odd. "What do you take for pain at home?" she asks loudly, cutting through my anaesthetic fog and even though I am only seconds awake I'm already sort of pissed at her. "I take Tylenol, but normally my boobs haven't just been hacked off. " OK. I only mumble the first three words aloud, but hopefully, the end of the sentence is definitely implied and I drift back out.
The next time I rouse I am being wheeled out of recovery and to my room, - which is apparently in another city. I mean, I know the hospital is big, but the trip feels like a joke. I am conscious of being in the elevator while an elderly Chinese couple stare down at me so I clamp my eyes shut again until I'm in my room.
The last time I was in a hospital was for the birth of my two children. Since they were both delivered naturally, I wasn't really prepared for how completely out of it I would be. Eric and Kieran came in but knowing that in order not to scare my three-year-old I had to put on the "Mommy is fine" voice, but I just couldn't. So, they dropped off my overnight bag and I stayed blissfully out of until quite late into the night.
When I did come fully awake I was in major pain. Nurses had been in and out of my room changing my IV, adding a Gravol drip several times because I was so nauseous. But at about 4 am I finally hit the buzzer. The nurse comes in and I ask her if I'm almost due for my pain medication. She tells me that I'm not on any and they only give you pain meds if you ask.
OK, so I'm asking, I say.
"What do you want? Tylenol or Morphine?"
Again with the freaking Tylenol. What do I have? Cramps? Obviously I want the morphine, but I something in her tone tells me that if I say that, then she is going to write me up as a junkie, so I stall.
"The Tylenol will take an hour to work." She says, and I can't take it any more.
"Just give me the morphine." I finally say.
"OK" - she says, and I swear she is smirking. "But, just so you know, you're not going home on that."
Seriously, did she think I just just endured a 3 hour surgical procedure just to get the pain meds? Do people actually do that? I have two hundred stitches, my nipples have been removed and reattached mere hours ago, the bed is covered in blood and its 4 o-freaking-clock-in-the-freaking-morning and I swear, this woman wants to hand me a glass of water and some regular strength caplets from the bottom of her purse.
Anyway, she finally adds morphine to my IV and, because I'm clearly going to be in rehab shortly anyway, she gives me an extra hit of Gravol in the IV too. And thankfully, I'm back out until morning.
The Doctor comes in with his med student and they ooh and aah over their handiwork. The med students clearly finds this awkward. He even trips on my IV on the way out. They tell me that I'm free to go home and the nurse comes in for the discharge. Except my blood pressure is really, really low so she gets the doctor back and he says that I need to eat and drink something and move around a bit, so they serve me these hideous concrete waffle sticks that I force myself to eat so that I can just leave, but the blood pressure is still low.
You need to walk around, says the nurse and then leaves.
I get up, get dressed. I'm dizzy (probably blood pressure related) and nauseous. I'm in gigantic amounts of pain because the morphine drip ended hours ago and I swear if they offer me Tylenol one more time I'm going to scream. So, finally, after I'm all ready to go, I lie back in bed and wait for Eric.
About 15 min later the nurse comes back in and says "I told you to walk around!"
Who ARE these people!? Do they hire their nurses directly from Hell or are they just leftover from Nazi concentration camps? What does she want from me?
I tell her that I WAS walking around,but she she's been gone for a half hour and I didn't have anywhere to walk to and that I just had a major surgery.
Thankfully, Eric finally arrives, and the nurse tells me that they normally provide a wheelchair for discharging patients but for me, well....they want me to walk. She reminds me of my mother, who would think that the wheelchair is lazy and that a nice long walk to the carpark a few blocks away will burn off those extra calories from the Waffle Brick I ate for breakfast.
But we finally make it out of the hospital and back to the burbs. We stop first and I fill my prespcription for, naturally, Tylenol and then we're home. I am sore, stitched, bruised, and tired, but at least I'm home.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Not Quite An American Tale
Our cat Wesley is a killer. When we first brought him home from the Humane Society we pretended he was a lazy house cat and kept him indoors for about a year. But once we moved from an apartment to our house and Wesley could see the outdoors, he started to dart outside faster than we could try to stop him (which was usually by wedging his head against the door frame with our leg while carrying 10 shopping bags. )We finally gave up and he's now an outdoor cat. He loves to be outside at night tormenting the birds and mice. I don't like it, but I have come to terms with Wesley's dual nature...part ruthless killer, part sweet lap cat who loves to snuggle up to the kids and eat his Friskies from a china bowl.
Last year there was a veritable Caribana-esque parade of dead mice and birds that wound up on our doorstep and driveway, but this year has been quite a bit less. Well, except for that harrowing incident where we were moving a wooden playhouse that was sitting in our carport to our yard. When we picked up the the playhouse, lo and behold, there was a veritable graveyard of mice carcasses inside where it would appear the mice were able to crawl in and die in peace while Wesley was too big to get inside.
Since then, the dead animal parade has been a bit less. Not sure why...but it's good. No evidence of bird killing and only a couple of mice have turned up in the driveway but were quickly disposed of before Kieran could see them. Until, that is, the other day...
We were heading out and loading the kids into the van. Kieran is lingering at the edge of the driveway while I buckle Kaya into the seat. I tell him to hurry up and then I realize what he is so enamoured with....the large dead mouse practically at his feet.
"Look Mommy!" he squeals excitedly.
I am, of course, instinctively grossed out and cannot hide my disgust. "Yuck! Don't touch it!!!"
Kieran looks up at me quite surprised. Clearly, he doesn't understand why I sound so...afraid. After all, mice in his world are quite removed from reality. To him, they all take ballet class, or are detectives, or have Grandma's who bake them chocolate chip cookies. They are not disease carrying vermin that make your mother scream in terror nor are they murdered by your own beloved house pet.
He doesn't really know what to do, but he looks at me sadly and says: "I think he wants his Mommy."
Seizing the opportunity to avoid any sort of discussion about death, I say quite loudly so Eric can hear. "Yes! He wants his mommy and when we get back from the store, I'm sure your DADDY will MAKE SURE that the mousey gets back to his MOTHER so he can go to his bed and sleep THERE. "
Kieran was satisfied with this and climbed happily into the van. He mentioned several times at the store that he wanted to go home and see the "mousey" (which suddenly turned into going home to see the "bunny" but I can see how he would be confused. They all dress the same and go to the same school).
Anyway, Daddy did help the mouse find his mommy (well, as long as his mommy lives under the hedges 10 feet away) and Kieran is none the wiser.
Crisis averted. For now.
Last year there was a veritable Caribana-esque parade of dead mice and birds that wound up on our doorstep and driveway, but this year has been quite a bit less. Well, except for that harrowing incident where we were moving a wooden playhouse that was sitting in our carport to our yard. When we picked up the the playhouse, lo and behold, there was a veritable graveyard of mice carcasses inside where it would appear the mice were able to crawl in and die in peace while Wesley was too big to get inside.
Since then, the dead animal parade has been a bit less. Not sure why...but it's good. No evidence of bird killing and only a couple of mice have turned up in the driveway but were quickly disposed of before Kieran could see them. Until, that is, the other day...
We were heading out and loading the kids into the van. Kieran is lingering at the edge of the driveway while I buckle Kaya into the seat. I tell him to hurry up and then I realize what he is so enamoured with....the large dead mouse practically at his feet.
"Look Mommy!" he squeals excitedly.
I am, of course, instinctively grossed out and cannot hide my disgust. "Yuck! Don't touch it!!!"
Kieran looks up at me quite surprised. Clearly, he doesn't understand why I sound so...afraid. After all, mice in his world are quite removed from reality. To him, they all take ballet class, or are detectives, or have Grandma's who bake them chocolate chip cookies. They are not disease carrying vermin that make your mother scream in terror nor are they murdered by your own beloved house pet.
He doesn't really know what to do, but he looks at me sadly and says: "I think he wants his Mommy."
Seizing the opportunity to avoid any sort of discussion about death, I say quite loudly so Eric can hear. "Yes! He wants his mommy and when we get back from the store, I'm sure your DADDY will MAKE SURE that the mousey gets back to his MOTHER so he can go to his bed and sleep THERE. "
Kieran was satisfied with this and climbed happily into the van. He mentioned several times at the store that he wanted to go home and see the "mousey" (which suddenly turned into going home to see the "bunny" but I can see how he would be confused. They all dress the same and go to the same school).
Anyway, Daddy did help the mouse find his mommy (well, as long as his mommy lives under the hedges 10 feet away) and Kieran is none the wiser.
Crisis averted. For now.
Monday, July 6, 2009
It's Summer!!
Summertime is the official reason I am giving to explain my longish absence from this space. I'm outside living the dream, folks. (Does that sound better than the reality, which may or may not be that I spent my computer time - some call it a workday - reading recaps of The Bachelorette?)
June flew by. Kieran turned three and we had an excellent party (by three year old standards at least). I prefer my parties to have considerably more beer and less escorting of three year olds to the bathroom. Anyway, he received a trampoline as a birthday gift, which he loves. I quickly realized that the trampoline, since it is completely enclosed by a large safety net, should really be marketed for its other latent purpose...a huge bouncing playpen. I can zip both kids up inside and putter around the yard and neither of them is aware that they are safely caged. (Kieran, who weighs all of 27 pounds doesn't have enough weight on him for his jumps to do more than lightly jiggle his little sister and even that light bouncing is enough to make her giggle uncontrollably.) We now call it the Trapoline (TM) and my garden is practically weed-free! Talk about a gift that keeps on giving.
We also just returned yesterday from a lovely week-long vacation in Massachusetts. The week started off with rain and more rain. Crazy downpours and nonstop drizzle. And just when we thought we had exhausted all rainy-day activities (otherwise known as shopping and eating and a semi-disastrous trip to the Boston Aquarium along with the entire population of the Eastern Seaboard), the rain cleared and we had nothing but heat and sun. Perfect really.
My children, as it turns out, are fantastic road-trippers. Not to sound like a broken record on the Kaya front, but the kid was happy as a sunny little clam during our 11 hour drive (both ways). Kieran is more demanding, but still really good. Just usual requests for juice or snacks and the occasional urgent need to pee, which necessitated one illegal roadside pullover and an Austin Power's comedy-length stream of urine.
I do want to take a moment to comment on my three year old. Maybe this is common and I have just been oblivious to this in other children, but I swear when he turned three he turned into a new kid. For the vast majority of his short life (certainly much longer than the terrible twos), he has been predictably awful around people. Not necessarily just new people or strangers, but pretty much anyone who wasn't Eric or I. He had a tendency to be whiny and difficult and I often felt like I was making excuses for him. (He's tired, he's hungry, etc. etc). But that kid seems to be more or less gone. Sure he has moments (you know, when he's ACTUALLY hungry or tired) but he's a lot happier these days. I am happy with the trajectory and am totally OK with it continuing on this way until he is nothing but charming and joyful all the time.
I do hate returning from vacation though. Our house, small as it is, always seems five times as cramped when we get back and have bags and coolers strewn everywhere waiting to be unpacked. Blech. That more or less what I have too look forward to tonight.
Although, more likely, if you need me, I'll be out on the Trapoline.
June flew by. Kieran turned three and we had an excellent party (by three year old standards at least). I prefer my parties to have considerably more beer and less escorting of three year olds to the bathroom. Anyway, he received a trampoline as a birthday gift, which he loves. I quickly realized that the trampoline, since it is completely enclosed by a large safety net, should really be marketed for its other latent purpose...a huge bouncing playpen. I can zip both kids up inside and putter around the yard and neither of them is aware that they are safely caged. (Kieran, who weighs all of 27 pounds doesn't have enough weight on him for his jumps to do more than lightly jiggle his little sister and even that light bouncing is enough to make her giggle uncontrollably.) We now call it the Trapoline (TM) and my garden is practically weed-free! Talk about a gift that keeps on giving.
We also just returned yesterday from a lovely week-long vacation in Massachusetts. The week started off with rain and more rain. Crazy downpours and nonstop drizzle. And just when we thought we had exhausted all rainy-day activities (otherwise known as shopping and eating and a semi-disastrous trip to the Boston Aquarium along with the entire population of the Eastern Seaboard), the rain cleared and we had nothing but heat and sun. Perfect really.
My children, as it turns out, are fantastic road-trippers. Not to sound like a broken record on the Kaya front, but the kid was happy as a sunny little clam during our 11 hour drive (both ways). Kieran is more demanding, but still really good. Just usual requests for juice or snacks and the occasional urgent need to pee, which necessitated one illegal roadside pullover and an Austin Power's comedy-length stream of urine.
I do want to take a moment to comment on my three year old. Maybe this is common and I have just been oblivious to this in other children, but I swear when he turned three he turned into a new kid. For the vast majority of his short life (certainly much longer than the terrible twos), he has been predictably awful around people. Not necessarily just new people or strangers, but pretty much anyone who wasn't Eric or I. He had a tendency to be whiny and difficult and I often felt like I was making excuses for him. (He's tired, he's hungry, etc. etc). But that kid seems to be more or less gone. Sure he has moments (you know, when he's ACTUALLY hungry or tired) but he's a lot happier these days. I am happy with the trajectory and am totally OK with it continuing on this way until he is nothing but charming and joyful all the time.
I do hate returning from vacation though. Our house, small as it is, always seems five times as cramped when we get back and have bags and coolers strewn everywhere waiting to be unpacked. Blech. That more or less what I have too look forward to tonight.
Although, more likely, if you need me, I'll be out on the Trapoline.
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