Grab a chair and a couple of root beers...

You know, my blog is beginning to look like the synopsis of a very bad soap opera! No, seriously!

Okay, so... two weeks ago, the Husbandly One came down with the shingles. Which... is weird, because it makes it sound like he was covered in roofing tiles, right? I even had a dream about that, that he was covered in roofing tiles and he was blaming me for it, and I was all O_o???

Anyway, he had the shingles, which is a variant of the same virus that causes chickenpox. It was painful, we both lost a lot of sleep, and he's getting over it.

How is this significant?

Well, last night, the Impossible Son came to me and asked me to scratch his back and get him an ice pack.

I frowned. "Um... sure, I'll scratch your back, but... why do you want an ice pack?"

"I have such a bad headache, I need an ice pack," he said, grimacing and squinting at me in a very familiar way. "I think I have a migraine."

Oh, crap.

So, I got him an ice pack and he said, "First, scratch my back?" and pulled up his shirt, and I started to oblige and stopped. "Um... Little Man... where did you get all these bites? Did you fall into an ant bed or get into a lot of mosquitos or something?"

"No," he said, frowning. "There's no mosquitos. Drought, remember?"

"Yeeeaaahhh," I said slowly, and the Husbandly One came in and went, "Uh-oh... that looks like chickenpox."

Crap, crap, crap, crap....

So, we inspected him and took his temperature, and he had a fever, and he had spots popping up, and yeah, lots and lots of fun.

Here's the thing: he's had the chickenpox vaccination. But not the booster, which he's due to get next year. And... it's only about 90 percent effective, anyway. However, having the vaccine is supposed to reduce the severity of the virus and also reduce the time he'll have it.

But... it's the second week of school!!!!

*sigh*

So, Dr. W. checks him over, and as she's examining him, little spots are popping up!! She brings in Dr. R., who has lots of experience of chickenpox over his years of practice and at first, he said, "Oh, these are insect bites! There's no fluid in these spots!" And then... he notices more popping up in places where there were not spots as he is looking at him and says, "Um...hmmmmmmmm... this perhaps is chickenpox. Has he had his shot?" And when I said yes, he frowned and said, "Let's get bloodwork, to be sure."

At which point the Impossible One howled, "NO!! I DON'T WANT TO!!!" and every variant in between. Both doctors were rather shocked because Mr. Impossible has always been very cooperative for them, and I had to explain why he was so upset over his protests.

And just to make things even more interesting, Mr. Impossible did have an insect bite on his forearm that the doctor looked at, because it was swollen and red, and I was worried about it being infected. She frowned and said, "Um... how long has it had this red circle around it?"

o_O???

I looked at it and said, "That wasn't there last night."

"Have you been camping recently? Hiking in the woods or the state park? Had any deer munching on your bushes?"

I knew where this was going. "Not been camping or hiking, and if there are deer munching on our bushes, I haven't seen them. I find droppings, but deer droppings and rabbit droppings kinda look alike, you know?"

"Uh-huh," she said, frowning even more at the red ring around the bite. "Just to be on the safe side, let's do a Lyme titer."

O_O!!

"Can we just cut to the chase and go on doxycycline now?" I said, remembering my own close call with Lyme disease and four weeks of doxycycline. Woo-hoo!! All kinds of fun!!!

"Let's just see what the titer shows. I mean, I'll probably put him on it, but let's get him through the chickenpox first!"

Okay, cool...

So, he's home, ensconced on the couch, playing Halo, and asking for something to drink every five minutes.

The good news is... exposure to my son having chickenpox is supposed to reduce my chances of getting shingles later. That's perfectly okay with me, because seriously, shingles looks very painful, and I don't want it!

Now, to prepare for the Impertinent One to come home from school. Yay, whoopee, yay!

Well, what a very intense two weeks it's been! Let's see... the Impertinent Daughter got cleated in the ankle during a game four weeks ago, and has never gotten better, despite rest (okay, as much rest as you can force on an active 14 year old), ice, and ibuprofen. So, I took her to our regular doctor, who immediately benched her and after reviewing x-rays, determined that while there were no stress fractures, she needed to see an orthopedic specialist.

In the meantime, soccer season opened for the recreation league on Saturday, so the Impossible Son had his first game. And it was cold, extremely windy, and a brief shower. Which meant we were cold, wet, and miserable at first. It only rained for maybe 8 minutes, but it managed to soak me from the knees down, and the wind blew it up under the hem of my jeans and completely soaked the ankles of my wool socks, which then seeped down into my shoes. Mr. Impossible was soaked through to his Under Armour cold gear and was shivering, even after I shoved his hoodie on him, yes, I literally shoved it on him because he didn't want to wear it!. The Husbandly One, being such a Killer Macho Dude, chose to acknowledge that it was chilly by wearing jeans instead of shorts, and only wore his light coach's shirt instead of putting on a jacket. Needless to say, he spent a great deal of time either rubbing his hands together, shoving them into his pockets while hunching, or shivering.

*insert eye-roll here*

Mr. Impossible started off as a forward, but seemed to slow down more and more as the first half went on. And the kid the coach had chosen to play goalie had never played it before and had all the attention span of a gnat, so he only noticed a ball coming into the goalbox after it got shot in. So, 5 goals later, she switched out GnatMan with Mr. Impossible.

Of course, after the game, we found out why he wasn't playing like himself. He changed clothes, curled up on the couch to play his DS, then came to me an hour later saying, "Mom, I have a headache." The next thing we knew, he was hotter than a baked potato. I stuck a thermometer in him and whoa, it was 102 F!!!

An hour after that, I was peering into his throat and wondering just how the hell he was breathing, because his tonsils were so swollen, they were almost touching! And everything in there was bright red! Hello, Benadryl!! I was pretty sure at that point our old friend Steve, the Strep Bug, had made yet another visit to our home.

So, Monday rolls around. Monday was the day the Impertinent One was supposed to go to the orthopedic doctor. So, bright and early, I started calling our regular doctor to get Mr. Impossible in because, yes, still sick, with the added attraction of a lovely bumpy rash covering his stomach, groin, and back. WOO-HOO!!!

They couldn't get him in until 1:30.

Miss Priss had an appointment in San Marcos at 3.

Oh, yeah, THAT was fun!

Dose Impossible with Benadryl for itching, run to freshman campus to pick up Impertinent, take both to Dr. W. here in town. Sit in the waiting room, twitching and looking at time, thinking, "I have to be out of here at least by 2:30 to be even close to not being late." Finally get in, they swab his throat, and he's so positive for strep, the tester starts changing the second they put the swab in the medium. So, I called the ortho, Dr. S, told him what was going on and said, "Okay, so... do I bring her in with Impossible in tow, or do we cancel and make another appointment?"

I hear a brief flurry of conversation in the background, and then he says, "Bring her in, but your son needs to have a mask on, and if you've got hand cleaner, use it!"

So that meant a swing by the pharmacy to pick up a small package of masks, and turn in Impossible's prescription, and I love my pharmacy, because they let me grab what I needed and not pay for it until I was back in town.

Dr. S, after an extremely paranoid look at my son, poked and prodded Impertinent's ankle and peered at the x-rays, and confirmed no breaks, no stress fractures... it was a badly sprained ankle that hadn't been allowed to heal, and he gave her a very stern look at that. She's off athletics for four weeks, and she's to go for physical therapy during that time. Seems the ligaments and tendons in her ankle are loose and need to be built back up and if she doesn't do it now, she'll be chronically prone to injuries in that ankle.

*sigh*

When we finally got home, I was ready to collapse. Two nights of little to no sleep, and then all of that? Yeah, I was wiped!

The Impossible Son went back to school today, and I'm hoping like heck the rash he has now is still from strep, and not because he's developed an allergy to the antibiotic he's on. And I'm hoping like heck I didn't get it from him, because I've got a fever and I haven't had a chance to buy new toothbrushes yet.

Oh, and the high school soccer team had their last game last night, which Miss Impertinent could not play in, and it was killing her to have to sit on the bench and have the coach turn to her, about to put her in, and remember that she couldn't play... she was not a happy camper when she came home after.

I need to call the therapy center today to set her up and get her started. And email her coach again about starting her on Pilates.

I think I'll be incredibly stubborn and just refuse to get sick. That'll work, right?

*falls face-first into bed*

What I really want to do right now is fall face first into my bed and pass out for the next... oh, 72 hours, maybe?

It's been a long, long day, because I spent most of it with the Impertinent Daughter in the emergency room of South Austin Hospital. She woke up with stomach pain this morning, then started throwing up, and got very dehydrated. I took her in to see our family doctor, who was worried about appendicitis, so... he sent us to the emergency room in South Austin.

Since she had no fever, and her labs looked good, only showing dehydration from the vomiting, they gave her anti-nausea medication, pain meds, and put her on an I.V. We came home around 5 p.m., and she's now in bed with her Calcifer curled up against her neck, a paw placed proprietarily on her head so he can keep an eye on her. She's basically on "watch and wait" status at the moment, no school tomorrow, plenty of rest, plenty of fluids, that sort of thing.

Are we having fun yet?

*looks longingly at the bed*

Y'all have any idea how uncomfortable the chairs in E.R. bays tend to be? And you can only knit for so long before you start going buggy. I'll just keep my fingers crossed tonight that she's over whatever this was, and we don't have to go back to the E. R. or the doctor any time soon. And now, I'm going to go face-plant on the bed. Good night, everybody!

ETA: I should add that I knew she was doing better when she sat up and said, "I feel like drawing." When we'd left to go to the doctor, she forgot her sketchbook (which she never, ever does. Ever.) and when I stopped at the house to pick up a few necessary items before rushing on to the E.R., she sort of listlessly picked up her DS bag out of habit... but not her sketchbook. It was profoundly disturbing!

Yes, yes, I know this post is long overdue.

Last week, I was having some major discomfort in my side. We thought it was my spleen, because of the fact that it felt like someone had jammed a softball up under the ribs on my left side. Not only that, but pain was radiating up behind my left shoulder blade, and down into my left arm.

The doctor poked and prodded me, much to my annoyance though I recognized the necessity. It could have been my spleen. It could have been a huge case of costochondritis, which I do get from time to time, thanks to the coughing I do because of asthma. It could have been any number of things, so she sent me to a surgeon who had his own ultrasound in hopes he would take a look and see what he could find. Well, after sending me to have a few tubes of blood drawn.

He didn't do an ultrasound on me. He poked and prodded even more than my doctor did, which hurt like... a huge frickin' amount, and after contemplating my family history, felt that my problem had more to do with G.E.R.D. than it did with my spleen, and started asking detailed questions about my asthma, like when did it start, how bad is it, when do I mostly have it, how does it act when I take antacids, do I have heartburn, etc.

The upshot is, I'm on a medication, Dexilant, to control the acid production in my stomach, and I'm going to be seeing a gastroenterologist of my own, and possibly have my very own endoscopy. Yay.

(just in case y'all didn't notice, I'm saying this with a marked lack of enthusiasm)

My mother waited until after all of this went down to tell me that the Blonde Sister has pre- Barrett's Esophagus, which is what my dad was diagnosed with (without the "pre" in front of it) before it developed into full blown esophageal cancer. Fortunately, the Blonde Sister is only showing the first signs of the precondition, and this means she can take steps to reverse it.

It's going to be painful, because she's going to have to give up Mexican food, by the way. Did I mention, her husband is Mexican?

*snorts*

So... I've been on the meds for about a week now, and the softball under my ribs feels more like a golf ball. It's still very tender, and Dr. W. is still very puzzled by it. As she said, it's too far over to the left to be my stomach, but... she's sending me to the stomach doctor anyway, because of my family history. I agree.

I have to say, though, it was awfully entertaining when the surgeon was asking me about my family history, and we were talking about my maternal grandfather. Grandpere had colon cancer, and the surgeon said, "How old was he when he died?"

"53 or 55," I said, "depending on which source you use to find out his birthdate."

He nodded. "What treatment did they use?"

"I think it was all palliative," I said, "because they didn't really have treatments back then for cancer."

He frowned and looked up. "Back then? When was this?"

"1927 Louisiana," I said with a grimace, because I was still hurting, dammit.

He boggled. "1927??? Wait... how old is your mother?"

"83." I watched him boggle some more. "She was 3 months old when he died. And the youngest of seven."

"And... how old are you again?" he asked, staring at my chart.

"47," I said helpfully. "My mom was 36 when I was born."

You should have seen his face when I told him my great grandfather served in the Civil War!!

*needs to get out more*

And in other news, my second oldest niece is getting married this weekend. Yes, this is the same niece for whom I bought the now infamous Pizza Pan.

Is it me, or am I including a lot of links in this post?

Anyhow, she's getting married this Saturday, and we have to go, except the Flaky Sister is being... very odd, and now the Husbandly One and I are debating... do we go to Houston tomorrow, spend the night, and have the general circus of trying to get ready in an unfamiliar house in the morning? OR... do we stay here, then drive in early Saturday morning, and run the risk of being late for some inexplicable but inevitable reason regarding either something we have to return here for, or some sort of bizarre traffic tangle between here and there involving an elephant, a Honda Civic, and a pair of fuzzy dice? No, seriously, y'all know what my life is like... what are the odds?

Plus, I made the bride's earrings, and scored these awesome garnets cut in the shape of leaves to add as dangles that matched some weird little bead and sequin pattern on her dress... and she said, "Um... I don't know if I am comfortable wearing dangly earrings. I'm just not a dangly earring sort of person."

Okay. Fine. That's... fine. Except... you approved the sketches of the dangly earrings! *sighs*

So, yes, I remade them. And I hope like hell she likes them, but just in case... I'm taking my tools and supplies with me.

Aw, geez... I just realized... I have to shave my legs.

*whine*

Tell me why I'm doing this again? Oh, right. I love her.

I must really love her, because it's a Catholic wedding, so... lots of upping and downing, and putting my hand across the Impossible Son's mouth whenever he pops out with the sorts of things a curious 9-year old boy is bound to say at the most inconvenient moments.

Did I ever tell y'all about the time I was at a wedding and was forcedblackmailed told to sit with Great Aunt Nosy and expressly charged with gaggingredirecting her if she started to drop one of her verbal bricks? As her name implies, Great Aunt Nosy was a major gossip, and had no tact whatsoever. So, we're at her next door neighbor's daughter's wedding, and we're watching the bride float up to the altar, a very vision in a frothing, fluffy confection of white, her face beaming with joy, her groom clearly stunned at the sight of his gorgeous bride coming to him.

Up to that point, I had done rather well at my job of cutting her off at the knees distracting her, but... I had relaxed. I thought she'd be as hypnotized at the visual of the bride as everyone else. But, in that moment of silence after the "Bridal March" fades out, and everyone is taking a deep breath for having managed to walk down the aisle without face-planting in the aisle, the unrepressable Aunt Nosy leaned toward my mother and said in a whisper that could be heard all the way to the back of the church (we were sitting in the front), "Of course, she doesn't deserve to wear white, because you know, S and R were living together, in sin, and you know, I don't think they were sleeping in separate beds at all!"

My mother and I were frozen in horror, me with my hand inches from Aunt Nosy's mouth because I was too slow to slap her muffle her, and we could only watch as the three people sitting in front of us turned slowly around to GLARE at her. And the bridesmaids turned to glare at her. And the groomsmen. The bride and the groom, the bride's face beet red with fury, the minister... even the flower girl and ring bearer were glaring at her with all the ferocity five year olds can muster.

Aunt Nosy looked around innocently, wondering what all the death glares were about. My mother gave me the Hairy Eyeball and not so gently kickednudged me with her foot, with a clear message of Fix this! And all I could think of to say was, "Hey, Aunt Nosy, why don't you say that a little louder? I don't think the people in the parking lot could hear you."

Everyone laughed, and Aunt Nosy's mouth closed up tighter than a miser's wallet at a Sunday meeting!

Okay, I'm babbling now. Time for me to go to bed!