La La How The Life Goes On

Archive for December 2010

A bit irreverent, but totally on point. For instance, I spent Sunday congratulating myself on having a fabulous immune system even though I am still on ridonkulous quantities of immunosuppressives. My evidence? My fever, which had been dogging me since Friday PM, was only 100.4 and not the dreaded 101 that would require me to high-tail it to an ER for my standard three-day stay while they determine if I’m going to imminently expire from C. diff, dengue fever or SARS. By Sunday I was back to 98.8 and I was ready to pop that bottle of champagne.


Until Sunday night, when it went back to 100.4 and I began worrying, because for immune-suppressed people (and children, actually), the only thing worse than a fever that won’t go away is one that goes away and then comes back harder. It means you are in need of immediate medical counsel, which I got from my poor, put-upon, why-can’t-this-bitch-get-sick-during-business-hours transplant doctor who dutifully answered his pager at midnight. He confirmed that 101 was the point of jettison, and that if I wasn’t fever-free by morning to call him again for cipro. Which I am now on. Because the damn fever will not go down, even with tylenol and ibuprofen, and it will not go away. So I feel mostly craptacular, but functional.
The theory is some kind of bacterial infection, based on my high neutrophils, low lymphocytes, and huge monocytes. All indicators of a giant bacterial situation on the premises. All making me wonder if I will ever manage to get off these effing drugs so I can stop getting infections every 30 days.

On the bright side, I’m pretty certain that my recent tapering of prednisone down another notch is the reason I’m staying out of the hospital so far. Two months ago, that fever would have been 103 and I’d be writing this from the Brigham. So, I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.

On the bright side, it’s not viral gastroenteritis or food poisoning like November’s drama, so I’m blessedly not vomiting and pooping myself into cardiac arrest. So I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.

On the bright side, I’m finally allowing my kids to see me not at 100%. Since my transplant I’ve been herculean in my efforts to Just Do It no matter how I was feeling (with the exception of the medication-induced migraines; those made me want to blow my brains out, and I was completely useless until they passed). This time around, what with me just doing my daily thing with a fever and whatnot, I’ve been saying stuff like, “I’d love to read that story with you, but I’m not feeling great right now. So maybe another time.” And guess what?! The Kids Are Alright. Not meeting their every need while feeling like I slept under a car apparently does not damage them in any material way. They entertain each other while I just sit near them and make sure no one loses an eye. So I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.

Shifting gears–and speaking of losing an eye, Baby Sister has a giant bruise on her cheek. And I mean an Ike Turner-level bruise. Why? Because she is a NUTBALL, that’s why!! Stepped up on a stepstool to “dance in the spotlight” alongside Bambina, fell forward, but made sure to turn her face so she took the side of the (metal) stepstool on the face. Nice. I of course FREAKED OUT, having just watched a real life version of those slow-mo scenes where a guy is getting punched and you see the sweat and spit and facial contortions in macro detail. As always, however, she was fine after a few wails and hugs from Dada. Until she fell off the smaller stepstool–while SITTING. I shit you not, friends. I have said it before and I’ll say it again: this child is going to finish me off. She is the cutest and sweetest and funniest creature on the planet, but she requires 24-hour, nonstop, don’t even take a break to pee supervision or else she willl smash her face into a wall or break one of Bambina’s prized toys or randomly put something not electronic into the DVD player. And she does it in 5 seconds, so you can’t even pour yourself a cup of tea (did i mention that people born in Scotland have a genetic predisposition to putting on the kettle when things get rough?) lest you turn around to find play-doh jammed into the radiators or all of your elder daughter’s American Girl accessories about to be driven over by a tricycle. What makes it so difficult is that none of this is done maliciously. It’s all just of-the-moment curiosity and excitement, which are fabulous traits for a toddler to have. They just also happen to be alcoholic-inducing factors for a stay at home mother whose older child was a normal, crazy-making kid, but not anywhere near NUTBALL status like Baby Sister is.

Baby Sister is my payback for all those times I judged other parents when their children broke things or found a stick and immediately wanted to smack a tree with it. I, with my gentle and sweet Bambina, wondered why these miscreant parents felt no shame about raising such obvious hooligans and future serial killers. Aaaand….here’s Mama! With her hooligan. On the bright side, Baby Sister is indeed a pistol. But she is also my sweet, sharing, empathetic, funny hunkachunkasweetsweetlove. So I’ve got that going for me, which is really, truly, amazingly nice.


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