Day Three: I am Lance Armstrong

Last night I managed to get my hands on the ward stationary bike, which is apparently a hot commodity around these parts.  But that's the way things go here in the Big House; it's all about who you know.  So I hopped on this morning and took a little 25 minute spin.  It wasn't a cardiovascular workout by any shape of the imagination, but it did make me feel a little less like I am turning into Jabba the Hutt.

Tonight, my dad came by to sit with me, and we watched and discussed Dancing With The Stars.  No where else but in my surreal little universe called LeukemiaTown.

Yesterday was pretty uneventful except for the streams of visitors.  That left me pretty pooped (In my normal life, I am hardly a social butterfly.), and with no energy left to blog.

I got several presents from fellow bloggers/Pajibians yesterday.  Because YOU GUYS ROCK! I've enjoyed both the CDs this morning (Who knew Feist and Sufjan made for good hospital music?), and I can't wait to crack open the Farscape book.  YOU GUYS ROCK!  Did I say that already?

My chemo is marching on with little side effects thus far, but I am sure in a week's time I'll be having the REAL fun.  Whoop, whoop.  How excited am I for this?

Apparently, mouth sores are a common side effect of this chemo, so they've got me rinsing with this Listerine-on-steroids mouthwash to try and prevent sores.  It numbs the life out of my tongue.  This stuff better work because it is totally gross.

There must be a margarine protocol down in the kitchen because with nearly every meal I get there's a little margarine tub on my tray.  Peanut butter and jelly sandwich?  Little tub of margarine on the side.  Cereal and coffee cake?  Margarine.  Mac and cheese.  Margarine.  It's a mystery.

I'm trying to visualize the whole Star Trek metaphor so many of you suggested, and for some reason it's just not working.  I think I've got a new idea.  More on that tomorrow.  It's just about Ambien time.

Day One: Unleash the Chemo Warriors!

Hanging off of my IV tree are four, count 'em, four bags of fluid.  We've got sodium bicarb to support my kidneys and another unit of blood to bolster my numbers.  Then there's Ara-C which I consider my chemo infantry (I'll be getting Ara-C for seven straight days.) and another bag of fluid that combines with the chemo.  Earlier today, I got an infusion of this tang orange fluid, Idarubicin which I think of as my special forces unit of chemo.  Over the next three days, I'll be getting a dose of my special forces.  But because they are the stronger, more concentrated chemos, the special forces will also be wrecking my body with more intensity and causing the worst of the side effects.

My big question to all my dear readers is what metaphor should I use for Amanda and Her Chemo Army versus Stupid Leukemia Cells?  Humans  versus Cylons?  Elves versus Orcs?  Aslan versus The Snow Queen?  X-Men versus the Sentinels?  Give me some good ideas, my oh-so-creative compatriots.

For those of you asking about bone marrow transplants and the like: For me a bone marrow transplant is pretty far down the road and not a definite.  Still, if you would like to donate in my effort or honor, please by all means.  Just be prepared to give your marrow for not just me, but any needy stranger struggling with a bone cancer.  

If you aren't prepared to donate marrow someday, please, please PLEASE give blood.  So far during my stay here in LeukemiaTown I've had seven blood transfusions, and there are many more in store for this girlie.  Yeah, giving blood can be a pain and unpleasant, but right now it's literally saving me.  I've had seven strangers help me without even knowing.  Transfusions aren't just helping accident victims or surgery patients, but your truly and many other people fighting leukemia. 

Donate a pint of blood in my honor, and it would be a more beautiful gift than a bouquet of the most beautiful flowers.

For all you sending comments and messages of well wishes, as well as my interweb buddies who are recounting my plight on their blogs, THANK YOU!  XOXOXOXOXOX  All the virtual outpouring of love and support frustrates this Southern gal raised to send out Thank You Notes for every good turn.  There's just too damn many of you to thank individually, but know that every blessing and good thought that you send touches my heart, boosts my spirits, and sometimes makes me a little weepy.

Today is my mom's birthday.

Rally the Troops

If you're reading Adrian's blog, news has changed.  My attending told me that they are completely sure it's AML, just not sure of the specific subtype.  But they've ruled out certain subtypes that would change my course of care.

What does that mean for Our Beloved Heroine?

The induction of chemotherapy will be what's called "3+7".  Three days of daily dosing of idarubicin along with Ara-C given continuously for seven days.  I'll feel pretty good during this time.  Second week is when I feel like charred dog crap (nausea, fever, rash, mouth sores, hair loss, infection)  That's when the good times will be rolling.

Day 13 or 14 I'll be tapped for another bone marrow biopsy to see if my marrow is clean of The Stupid Cells.  If clean, I'm in remission.  If not, more poison juice in the bloodstream.  

But right now, I'm just thinking about getting through each day.

Before I go off to sleepytown, my eternal gratitude goes out to all of those who commented, e-mailed, called or dropped by.  Normally, I am a pretty introverted gal, but all this socialization has done wonders for my spirits.  All your prayers and good support is bolstering me for the battle ahead, in a way helping put on my armor and sheathing my sword for me.

Tomorrow, I mount my steed. 

Beginning the Battle Against My Stupid Cells

Prepare for a brief post, as I am eagerly awaiting my Ambien to start kicking in very soon.  Thanks to my smacktacular mom-in-law, I have a shiny iBook on my lap.  As long as I feel up to it, I'll be logging onto the interwebs and making my presence known.

Gratitude is pouring out of my soul for all the well wishes you've been posting here and on The Mister's blog.  You will never know how much the support you send us through the circuitry uplifts and envelopes us with the love of strangers with generous hearts.

I'm a wee bit sore from the installation of my Hickman line, but the percoset is taking some of the edge off.  Even though I'm sore and slightly immobile right now, I appreciate the fact that I am no longer a marionette.  The Hickman line is inserted beneath the skin right under my neck, and will allow not only the infusion of chemo, but also the withdraw of blood when they need it.  No more sticks and pokes!

This morning I had bone marrow biopsy Round Two, infinitely more pleasant than Round One.  Dr. Williams rocked my world by not only doping me with some happy juice, but he numbed me down to the bone.  I hardly felt a thing.  Now, on the other hand, my hip's feeling pretty rotten and sore.  But at least I didn't have to go through that previous nightmare where I felt like someone reached in a yanked on my pelvis bone.

Well, I've gabbed long enough.  I'm starting to get carried away to Sleepy  Town.  If any of y'all out there are cancer survivors or have experience with this hellish road I'll be traveling and have any advice you'd like to generously pass along, please e-mail me.  Also, feel free to e-mail me for my room number if you want to send me silly or mushy cards.  No flowers, though. Sniff, sniff.  

Love you guys.  Seriously.  We are family.

Acute Leukemia

Yup.

It's teh fucking SUCK.

And about the same time I am finding all of this out, The Mister points out that I have a huge hole in the butt of my favorite pj pants. Figures.

Tomorrow I am moving to a new hospital, MCV/VCU Massey Cancer Center. I'll keep everyone updated as soon as possible.

Oh and Chris D. from Pajiba, thanks for the flowers buddy. It was one of the brightest spots of my day.

This Sucks

Hey guys, quick update. I finally got free of my umbilical cord of saline long enough to type a bit on the computer here in my room. I'd like to get some valuable crappy cable TV viewing in before the Ambien kicks in, so this will be brief.

I won't go into too much detail about my experiences 'cause that would just rain on The Mister's parade over at his blog. He's doing a bang up job detailing my medical experiences over the past few months.

Here's the short of it: I'm severely anemic, more than likely aplastic anemia. The docs are searching for a solution to my severely low blood counts-which likely caused all the heart problems I've been having. Since I've been in the hospital, I've been pumped with four units of blood, bringing my counts up slightly, but not to the point where the docs feel good about discharging me.

Today I had a bone marrow biopsy . This was TEH BIG SUCK. I had a pathologist (who bore a striking resemblance to Oliver Platt) basically bore a hole in my hip and jam some big ass needle into my bone to pluck out some marrow. Fucking A that hurt. Felt like someone reaching into my body and yanking really hard on my hipbone. Then kicking me really hard in the ass a few times.

Y'all are all smart people; guess you can figure out the gist of the situation when bone marrow becomes involved.

There's all sorts of tales to tell about my experiences thus far, but I'm pooped from sitting on my ass all day on a hospital bed. At least I'm out of the hospital gown and into my own pj's.

From the bottom of my blood-deprived heart, I want to thank all of my interweb friends for their good wishes and prayers and love. I swear, when I get to the other side of this, I am going to save my pennies for a trip 'round the world to give each one of you a big ole' hug and a baked good.

Thanks to my Richmond friends who have been calling, stopping by, bringing me magazines and YUM doughnuts. I've got some of the bestest buds a gal could ask for.

Once all the news that is fit to print comes to light, I will try my darnedest to blog about it soon-ish.

Over and out from St. Mary's Hospital, room 618

My Son is Sweetness Personified

This week has been particularly rough for me, health wise. Monday night I started running a low-grade fever that clung to me like a tick until yesterday morning. I would randomly be overcome with chills and cold sweats. At night I could barely sleep for the sweating. I've also developed random bouts of light-headedness; yesterday morning it was so bad Adrian had to stay home for about a hour to supervise me because I was worried I was going to pass out.

Today was a similarly challenging day. In addition to my heart palpitations, I know wander around feeling like my head's in a fishbowl. Poor Little A is starting to become attuned to the fact that his mother is all busted up. He wants to play with the same passion and energy that he shares with his daddy, but more often than not he hears from me, "Mommy's sick" or "Mommy doesn't feel well." My patience with him is limited, especially when I'm spinning with dizziness or stricken with palpitations, and I find myself losing my cool more and more.

This morning we were playing in his room and getting ready for a trip to Target. Little A got up to go downstairs, and I asked him to wait a bit for mommy, that he needed to go slow for me since I didn't feel well. He came over and threw his arms around my neck for an embrace, then stood back and proclaimed with an enormous grin, "Mommy better!" He hugged me a few more times, each with the same satisfied grin that told me he was giving me the same comfort I give him when he bumps his head. And he was. For a few moments, that outpouring of love seemed to block out all the physical discomfort I was having.

I did feel better. For a little while anyway.

Tomorrow I go to a cardiologist for more poking and prodding. Maybe this doctor will be my fairy godmother. More than likely, as my pessimist mind likes to assume, I'm headed for more medical square dancing. Swing your partner! Do-si-do! Paging Dr. House?

Dear readers and interweb buddies, keep me in your thoughts and prayers. It's like I told The Mister: I want my old normal back. When normal meant climbing a flight of stairs without feeling like my chest was on fire and my heart was about to burst.

Good News; Bad News

This morning was my follow-up visit with my GP (who, by the way, had totally forgotten why I was even there until he opened up my file to look at my test results).

Breaks down like this:

1. My heart is fine. Not busted. At least those are the preliminary results based on my tests from last week.

2. The doc now has no idea why my heart is acting like a maniac.

He said his first inclination would be to explain it as poor fitness, but I told him that I used to run pretty regularly and this heart palpitation thingee has been stymieing any attempt I make at exercising. Shoot, I can't get up the stairs in my house or walk up a hill without my heart pounding wildly.

My doctor took my resting pulse (about 80 bpm) and then had me run in place. It took less than a minute for my heart rate to shoot up to 144 bpm. I explained to him that I've had lulls in my running and struggled with being out of practice with exercise. But this condition is entirely different. I can't push through the palpitations like I can when I'm a little out of shape. Plus it's affected my every day activities, making it uncomfortable to carry my son, vacuum, rake leaves, even take a stroll around my neighborhood. Plus, the heart palpitations came suddenly upon me. One day I was fine; the next day I felt like my chest was going to explode. (My layman's opinion still places the blame on that frakkin' decongestant I took for a few weeks.)

So now I am off to see a cardiologist next Friday. Hopefully this will get me closer to figuring out a treatment, or at least what the hell is wrong with me. My GP advised me to find some manner of activity that I can do without causing an inordinate amount of strain yet maintain my fitness level. Yeah, good luck with that one. Basically the 10K next weekend is out of the picture.

I'm trying to be optimistic about the fact that the test results were positive, but it doesn't get me any closer to feeling better. My biggest fear is that I'll be passed around from doctor to doctor while my condition remains a mystery. The worst words I could hear from a physician right now is, "Well, I can't find anything wrong with you."

There's Nothing More Sexy Than a Woman With Darth Vader's Control Panel Strapped to Her Chest

I survived.

Except now I feel a wee bit under the weather (or as my mother would call it, "peakid"), and the blame probably falls on the irradiated isotopes that are coursing through my bloodstream. Yep, folks; I'm irradiated. Like Spiderman. Except instead of climbing up walls or having super sensitive hearing, I have the chills and managed to puncture my frakkin' tire coming out of my driveway this afternoon AND snap at my kid. Yeah, I'm an awesome superhero.

The testing was weird. With confidence I can attest that I was the youngest patient there by at least twenty years. This resulted in more than a few sideways glances and "What is she doing here?" looks in the waiting area. My first test of the morning was vascular, like an ultrasound for my legs. The results were mixed; I don't have any clots in my veins, but I am indeed, for reasons yet unknown, retaining fluid. After this fairly painless venture, I was whisked into a cubicle where I was instructed to remove my bra (GOOD TIMES). A nurse came in a few minutes later to stick an IV in my arm and shoot me up with the aforementioned isotopes. In this same little room was a posted sign warning of travel by train or plane for three days after testing. Apparently, the levels of radiation in my body could be enough to trigger alerts at safety checkpoints. (AWESOME)

Once enough time had passed allowing the isotopes to reach my heart, I was escorted to a half-breed MRI machine. I laid down on a small bed, was covered with a blanket, and instructed to hold my arms over my head. Then what can only be described as a giant Pac Man attached to a robot arm floated over my chest and took some pictures. I kind of dozed off and on, but I think the whole thing took about 15 or 20 minutes. These were images of my heart at rest, and so logically the next pictures would be of my heart after exertion.

I was taken to a curtained area with a treadmill where a cheery, chatty nurse attached a bunch of electrodes to my bra-less chest. (Nothing like flashing your tits in the face of a stranger. I almost asked for some beads.) She took my BP, and in a rare moment of good news proclaimed that my pressure to be right at 110/60, just slightly above corpse levels. All wired in, I got up on the treadmill and proceeded to walk briskly as the nurse slowly increased the incline. Only a few minutes in and I was already having an episode: shortness of breath, chest pounding and tightening. The nurse was practically squealing with joy at the amount data coming so quickly from my electrode-studded chest. Meanwhile, it's 10:00 a.m. and I had not eaten or drank a single thing. Compounding my palpitations is the fact that I am on the cusp of having a blood sugar episode, potentially resulting in a face plant on the treadmill. Thankfully the torture lasted only a few more minutes (Another nurse came over and shot me full of some more irradiated goodness while I was still jogging.), and I was rewarded with a bottle of orange juice. Then I was off for some more time with Robotic Pac Man. As I laid out underneath the slowly moving Pac Man mouth, the thought, "I took out all of my earrings for this?" ran through my mind.

Final stop on the Cardiac Testing Train was to get outfitted with a Holter monitor. Yes, one of these. But at least I got to put my bra back on. The Hollter monitor was a wee bit bulky and the tape was itchy, but it wasn't too terrible. I had five electrodes stuck to my chest which were connected to a box that hung around my neck. I had to wear this charming device for 24 hours, including while sleeping, and keep a log of my activities and when I felt symptoms. I was totally bringing the electrode hotness, hence the title of this post, a quote from my dear husband regarding my robotic appearance.

Well, there's the story in a nutshell for those of you interested in my medical (mis)adventures. I go back to the doctor next Thursday to discuss the test results which will either show a biological issue with my heart or that my ticker's A-OK and the cause of my palpitations is something else, more than likely hormonal or chemical in nature.

Thanks again, dear readers, for your kind words and prayers of support. I can't describe the sheer awesomeness of having a this network of people flung about the world who care about me.

You are all Teh Rock Saurs in my book.

Mix Tape Monday: Long Distance Requests and Dedications

First, thanks to everyone who expressed their concern regarding my crappy ticker. I have my good days and bad days. As long as I relax and get plenty of sleep (Both of which are contrary to my nature.) I seem to feel okay. Bright and early on March 17th I will report for my series of wacko tests, so I'll be celebrating the Feast of St. Patrick by running with some electrodes strapped to my chest. I'll be sure and wear my Guinness shirt for good luck.

I've decided to add a regular feature to my blog. I was doing pretty well with Five for Friday, and then I guess my brain ran out of steam. Maybe it'll pop back up now and again, however I'd like to dedicate Mondays to making mix (blog)tapes for my friends. Seeing as I like being all secretive and shit (Something which is contrary to the nature of blogging.), I won't name names. I have no clue who of my friends and acquaintances have stumbled upon my on-line babbling, so I'll keep things purposely vague. It's more fun that way.

And please don't expect a lot of indie or obscure stuff. My taste in music runs through a tributary just a hair off of the mainstream. I had a roommate in college who worshiped Pavement, Dinosaur Jr., and Sebadoh, and I liked that shit about as much as I liked the fact that she once knocked over a giant, butt-filled ashtray all over our carpet and never bothered to clean it up.

This Monday I'll be dedicating songs to my readers/commenters/fellow bloggers. Some of these songs have historical relevance to our friendship. The others... well, hit up iTunes and figure it out on your own.

And if I've left anyone out, let me know so I can put another dime in the jukebox for ya, baby.

Husband: "Superman" R.E.M.
Alex: "Ladykiller" Lush
Boo: "Fire With Fire" The Goxxip
Girl with Curious Hair: "Buenos Aires" from Evita
Jamie: "Cherry Bomb" The Runaways
Kim: "Friday I'm in Love" The Cure
Kolby: "Intergalactic" Beastie Boys
Mariah: "Sugar Magnolia" The Grateful Dead
Miss V: "Sea Lion Woman" Feist
Evie: "Human Behavior" Bjork
TK: "Sunday Morning Coming Down" Johnny Cash
Vermillion: "Got to Give it Up (Part 1)" Marvin Gaye
P'Nut: "I Don't Feel Like Dancin'" Scissor Sisters
Neal: "Battle of Who Could Care Less" Ben Folds Five
Stacy (AKA Lightlysalted): "Love Me or Hate Me" Lady Sovereign

No cause for alarm. I'm just dying.

For the majority of my life, I've been a healthy person. Thanks to a combination of good genes and being raised by a mother with strict hand-washing policies, I don't get sick very often. I've never suffered any chronic conditions or diseases or even serious injuries. Twice have I been admitted to the hospital: Once to be born and once to give birth.

Naturally, it's disconcerting whenever my body is not performing on par. About three or four weeks ago, I started experiencing some weird heart business. Just exerting myself slightly, like going up and down stairs, sends my heart into overdrive-WHAM, WHAM, WHAM! I feel it in my chest as well as "hearing" it in my inner ear (The hearing of my pulse in my inner ear is practically a constant thing.). When I run, it's a hundred times worse; I can't make it but a few blocks before the sensation that either my heart is about to burst out of my chest or a vein explode in my neck totally overwhelms me. And I have a lot of trouble breathing, like Juggernaut has pummeled my chest and I can't get a bit of air up under my ribcage. There are bouts with lightheadedness as well. It's as though the minute I lace up my sneakers, I transform into a 500 lb asthmatic.

Last time I got off of the elliptical machine, I was a spectral shade of gray and doused in cold sweat. That can't be good.

Then there are the occasional periods of squirrelly anxiety. I'm jittery, short of breath, and feel as though a hummingbird has lodged in my chest. I wake up on most mornings with a pounding headache and jittery nerves. Last night, I discovered after sitting for a long period of time that my ankles were swollen.

Originally, I chalked these symptoms up to taking too much decongestant, but it's been almost two whole weeks since I came off the allergy medication and my condition has, if anything, only gotten worse. It's been tremendously annoying this inability to run (my preferred form of exercise and stress-relief), and I've been on edge this past week, short-tempered and grouchy.

At the behest of my husband, I went to the doctor this morning. (Much prodding was required; I HATE going to the doctor's.) I got hooked up to an EKG machine that looked older than me, got my blood pressure checked, and was generally poked and examined. The doctor couldn't say what's been causing my heart weirdness because everything checked out normal, but the prospect that I've inherited a bum ticker was of some concern to the doctor. My maternal grandfather died of a massive heart attack before he was seventy; maternal uncle died of a heart attacked at 52; and my other maternal uncle had bypass surgery this summer, and he's only 42.

Within the next day or so I should be receiving a phone call from a cardiovascular specialist to schedule some tests. Namely, a nuclear stress test which goes something like this. Cool, huh? Just like a patient on House except there probably won't be a cranky, crippled genius doctor there.

One of the downsides of my body deciding to stop cooperating is that running has now been kiboshed by my doctor. In all likelihood, this means my race schedule will have to be amended. including omitting the Monument Ave 10K next month. Bummer.

For once, Momma A's health woes trump Papa A's. As typical of my life, I don't get sick often, but when I do it's a dozy.

Here's to bringing the Medical Hotness!

***Update: The internet is a dangerous thing to an overly curious self-diagnoser with a Hugh Laurie fixation. I've been doing some Googling about, and the condition that seems to match the most of my symptoms is the charmingly named aortic regurgitation. Wicked, huh? Share my excitement here and here. How typical would it be for me to have HEART VOMITING? Only in my world, peoples. Only in my world.

But let's all hold off our judgments until I have to undergo a bunch of bizarre-ass tests.

HEART VOMITING

They had a white pony in the stable; They ride it when the doggie's not able.

Today was one of those rough days. Alastair seemed to be in a grouch mood from the moment he woke up, incorrigible and disagreeable. Then he decided to lunge at me while we were playing with his drum and pop me right in the eyeball with his drumstick. Scared the living snot out of me, hurt like a bejeebus, and knocked my contact lens clean out of my eye (Contact was recovered from the carpet many panicked moments later.). Needless to say, I expelled a few harsh words and shook him roughly off of my body. Knowing he had both hurt and angered me, Little A laid prostrate on the floor in silence while I search for my contact and swore under my breath.

We reconciled and got going to the grocery store where we had a smashing time until I reached into my purse to pay for the groceries and discovered my wallet had gone AWOL. Fortunately, the folks at Ukrop's were kind enough to hold my bags to let me rush home and get my checkbook.

Where was my wallet? In Adrian's car. Of course.

I've been snippy and on edge for the rest of the day. To offset the ickiness of today, I will hearken back Sunday's trip out to Adrian's mom's farm. Alastair had a grand old time hanging with the turkeys, chickens, kitties, bunnies, horses, and cows. (Yes, my mother-in-law is Dr. Doolittle.)

Of course, the farm equipment rated pretty high on Little A's excitement-meter. Here he is hanging out in "Frank", otherwise known as the combine harvester.


And posing with the bulldozer.

Of course, we had to take a stroll about the farm on Snowball.


Little A also loved on grandmommy's newest kitten, Rudy.


A feisty feline indeed, as this picture was snapped moments before rescuing Little A from some pretty sharp kitten claws.

Adrian's mom took us out into the fields in her new John Deere Gator. We drove past the horses in the pasture; especially lovely was a flaxen-haired mare and her sire. The cows and calves in the field went galloping as we drove through. Man, if there's one animal that the Creator didn't intend to move at high speeds, it's the cow. And I thought I looked goofy when I ran. Little A was elated and kept clamoring to jump out of the Gator and get a closer look at the livestock.

Lunch at a local joint was followed by treats back at the farm in honor of my mother-in-law's birthday. While we were eating, she decided to let her pet squirrel out to roam (See? Dr. Doolittle all the way.). Squirrel Girl is normally shy and won't have anything to do with anyone else but her mommy. Stupidly, I put my hand down to see if she would sniff me, and sure enough, she sniffed me. Then she jumped on my hand, dug in her claws, and bit the shit out of my finger.

Ow.

I yelped and flapped my hand until Squirrel Girl disengaged. The bite was a narsty, painful bleeder. Adrian's mom was pretty flustered and shuffled the manic squirrel back down to the basement, reassuring me there would be no reason to worry about rabies. Maybe it was an attempt to distract us from the squirrel attack that she decided to share moments later her theory regarding her husband's (Not Adrian's dad, mind you.) asshole behavior and how it was the result of brain damage suffered from a tree falling on his head. Were it not for the fact that my hand was pulsing with pain and visions of squirrel germs were boogieing in my head, I might have suggested with sly sarcasm that he was a high-functioning autistic, just to set her wheels spinning even more.

Moral of the story: No such thing as a fucking tame squirrel.

My finger's fine now, healing up nicely with no signs of infection. No foaming of the mouth either.

The Chocolate-Kahlua Brownies with Sugar Cookie Crust that I just baked are calling me. Baking always brightens a bad day for me.

Though now I am a starting to worry about rabies again...

Nurse Manda, You're Wanted in Sick Bay

My husband has already blogged about our family's recent spate of illness and injury. Well, the sick train just keeps on rollin' here at Casa Amos. Adrian is finally getting past the bronchitis that has been plaguing him since Christmastime. This morning, we were hit with a double whammy.

No heat. The furnace had been blowing cold air all night.

Adrian's sick again; this time it's some sort of gastroenteritis. We can't figure out if it's viral or a food poisoning of some sort. If it's viral, good times are sure to follow as the germs make their way through both myself and Alastair. This I am not happily anticipating.

Oh and the furnace thing? Pilot light went out. Rather embarrassing to have a repairman come out and charge you for this assessment (That and the rather obvious, "Wow, your furnace is old."), but at least I know how to light the damn thing now. And it's warm in the house again.

Sigh. I'll be snoozing on the couch tonight since my bed is contaminated. No rest for the wicked, eh?

Worst Mom Ever-Nursemaid's Elbow Edition

Friday started off splendidly; there was a morning haircut for Little A (Being such a brave little toaster, he only briefly shed tears.) and a visit to Crossroads to see one of Little A's girlfriends, Miss Olivia. We enjoyed hot chocolate (for Momma A), milk (for Little A) and split a tasty muffin. Upon arriving home, we puttered and played for a while until it was time for lunch. I came up behind Little A and took his hands to pull him to his feet from his seated position. At the last moment, he pulled in the opposite direction and immediately let out a bloodcurdling scream. When I asked him what was hurt, through his howls and tears, he could only respond with "Hand hurt."

Because I am a brilliant medical professional, I examined his arm and hand for signs of injury. No blood, no scrapes, no swelling. But there was much howling and keening and tears. And he refused to lift or move his left arm and hand and shrieked if I tried to touch that part of his body. The only thing I could was a dislocated shoulder. After calling Adrian and informing him that we were on the way to the hospital, I wrapped Little A in a blanket and whisked him out the car.

While trying to maneuver my sobbing toddler into his seat, our nutty neighbor Bill decided it was a good time to chat with me about how pretty the light-festooned evergreen tree in our front yard had been. Not a good time old man, I thought behind my smiles and niceties.

Once at the hospital, the ER staff did a great job of whisking us through check in and getting Little A into the x-ray room for a nice amped-up howling session of x-rays. Then we were taken to a cubicle of an exam room. Where we sat. And waited. And waited. And waited.

Let me add here that neither Little A nor Mommy A had eaten any lunch, and Little A was fast approaching his nap time.

And waited. And ate a pack of peanut butter nabs and a nasty energy bar. And waited. And sang every Sesame Song we knew. Several times over. And waited. And tried not to move Little A's wounded arm. And waited.

Forty minutes later, a nurse came in and said the x-rays had been examined. She also said she had an idea of what was wrong with Little A, but couldn't be sure and since she wasn't a doctor, she wasn't able to perform any kind of fix, no matter how simple, on him. But she thought that perhaps removing his shirt to put on a gown would correct his problem. So we undressed him to more howling and protestations. This didn't seem to make any difference as Little A continue to complain of pain and refused to move his arm or hand. The nurse told us that often small children will continue to remember the pain of an injury long after it resolves and be afraid to move or touch the healed body part. We could only wait and see if his injury resolved itself.

So we waited. And waited. And paced the hallways looking at the murals. And waited. And Momma A began to go bat-shit insane from being cooped up and from having a suffering, tired toddler who was apparently not important enough for treatment. And then more waiting.

Finally after watching his bug-eyed mother lose her grip on reality, Little A reached out to me and said, "Big hug." Lifted both arms, mind you. Adrian rushed him out to the nurses station to show them the latest development. When Little A didn't perform, the nurse gave him a double Popsicle which required the use of both hands to eat. Did he eat it? Using both hands? With no screaming or tears of pain? Yup. All better.

According to the LPN who came in a few minutes later, Little A had a radial head subluxation, a fairly common injury in small children. I'm lazy, so Google it if you want to find out what that entails, but basically it's a small dislocation of the radius. The injury is also known as "nursemaid's elbow" and needs only a slight twist of the child's forearm to correct.

Ten minutes later, we get our discharge papers, and Adrian takes a passed out Little A to his car for the trip home.

Total time spent in the ER to discover our child has an easily cured dislocation without ever seeing a doctor: 3 hours.

Yeah, I was thrilled.

For his bravery in the face of medical inefficiency, Little A was rewarded with a showing of his current cinematic treasure, Cars. For her bat-shit meltdown, Momma A got another night of joyful insomnia and a bad case of indigestion.

Fun times, y'all. Fun times.

Weird Ass Holidays

It has been a strange holiday season here in Casa Amos. I'll say that this year Little A was much more aware of the goings on than he was last Christmas. Any drive after dark became a tour of the local Christmas light displays with our guide gleefully exclaiming, "Christmas over there! Christmas over there!" at every decorated yard. He can now also identify the infant in the manger as Baby Jesus and tell us that Baby Jesus' mother is "Maawee". At the sight of wrapped gifts, Little A will also inform us that it's "present time". He got a lot of great gifts, like new additions to his cast of Cars characters, a large stuffed (and ridable) horse he's named Seabiscuit, and a leather jacket.

This past week, however, has also been an exceedingly trying one. A narsty cold swept through the family right before Christmas, affecting Little and Papa A pretty badly. As a result of his sickness and the general excitement of the season, Little A decided for the first time in 23 months to stop sleeping through the night. In fact, he's decided to awaken several times throughout the night, a trend which has kick-started Momma A's long dormant insomnia. I think I was averaging about three hours of sleep per night during Christmas week. By Friday, I realized that if I didn't get a good night's sleep by the weekend I would probably start hallucinating and possibly offer my son as a sacrifice to the Sandman.

Sunday morning we were greeted with complaints from Little A about hurting ears, and so we spent a few hours in Patient First for a prescription of amoxicillin. Good times, y'all. Good times.

The same cold has also put Adrian completely on his ass with raging headaches, congestion, and a hacking cough. So Momma A's been working overtime on the nursemaid duties, all on very little sleep.

Needless to say, I felt like I was slowly losing my mind.

Last night we scrapped plans to enjoy the calamity of the ball rise in Carytown and have a low-key evening of dinner and a movie (I Am Legend which I liked more than I thought I would. Will Smith was quite captivating and some of the imagery of an abandoned New York was stirring. But the last third was weak and yes, the CGI sub-par.). We returned home with Little A tucked into bed, and I started pulling laundry out of the dryer only to discover that in my haste to juggle the needs of a demanding toddler with finishing the laundry, I had accidentally tossed my lovely sapphire blue J Crew sweater into the dryer. My wool-blend-dry-flat-no-heat-dry-clean-recommended sweater. It was ruined.

This mishap stirred up all my frustrations and resentments of the last few weeks and prompted a tirade of my misgivings about parenthood. That having a child was the biggest mistake of my life, that I have lost all my independence, my happiness comes in tiny inconsistent spurts, I feel like hired hand paid in room and board, and that in my child's eyes, I could honestly be interchanged with any female willing to feed and play with him and make sure he gets to watch his beloved Sesame Street tape.

I went to bed angry and depressed only to be awakened less than two hours later by Little A having a coughing fit that surprisingly didn't wake him up but did guarantee I'd get only a few hours sleep.

Today we opted to hang at home, watch the Rose Bowl parade and lots of football, and wrestle about the den. Adrian thinks he is on the mend, and Little A seems to be perking up. Tonight we had the traditional Southern New Year's Day meal of hoppin' john and rice along with chicken and greens. Hopefully I'll get a solid six hours of sleep tonight.

Happy New Year everyone.

Here's hoping 2008 starts off better than 2007 ended. I'm staring down the barrel of the Terrible Two's and not liking the looks of it.

BOOM

Alastair loves fireworks. And when I say love, I mean LOVE. We weren't terribly close to the demonstration so the noise didn't bother him at all. Actually it seemed like he pretty much enjoyed the sound effects that accompanied the sky flowers (Thank you, George Romero.) . He would follow a particularly lovely set of fireworks with a big grin and a "Boooom!" When the lull between sets was just too long for his taste, he'd let out a few whiny, "Boooom?"s.

After the demonstration ended, Alastair continued to "Booooom?" all the way back to the house and through the bedtime rituals. Unfortunately it didn't help that the local rich bastard with a beef against the Tides Inn (Provider of official local show) continued with his own private fireworks extravaganza that carried on for well over an hour.

But Little A is a fireworks fan indeed.

This week I am attempting the single parent thing while Adrian is away for a training class in NC. So far so good in the first 24 hours. My parents are whisking us away for a few days in the mountains which means it won't entirely be Amanda Solo. But I can say with certainty that I would never be one of those single women who chooses to have a kid sans partner and raise it on her lonesome. No way.

On my way to extract Little A from his car seat this afternoon, I had a minor altercation with the edge of my car door. Basically, I slammed my eye into it. Now I have a semi-black eye.

I am so bringing the hotness.

Fortunately the incident occurred in my driveway, allowing me to have a private moment of profuse swearing whilst holding my injured eye socket. Alastair looked on with this expression of , "Lady, what's your problem? Get me out of this car seat. It's hot as balls out here."

This is what happens when Adrian goes out of town.

Entourage

Man, my freakin' left leg is killing me. I don't know if it's due to the massive bruise I picked up by banging my thigh into the side of a metal seat at W&M Hall or if toting my 25lb son around on my left hip has finally caught up with me. But bands of pain radiate around my thigh and knee; particularly sensitive is my knee area. Shoot, and the Komen 5K is this weekend. I thought I might have a chance at running a decent time this year. Grrrrr. I'll pop some Naproxen and settle in with the heating pad while I watch TiVo'd Heroes.

Yesterday, the Foley/Amos clan made the annual pilgrimage to Richmond's Arts in the Park. While breezy and a tad chilly, the weather was significantly more friendly than last year when it was freezing, windy, and raining. Poor Little A was barely three months at the time, but was a total trooper.

Normally just my mother and I go to Arts in the Park, but Adrian and my father joined us to share in Little A duties. It continues to amaze me that this one small creature commands the attention of four grown adults. During the three hours we toured the festival, we all took turns carrying Alastair, walking with him, feeding him snacks, or just generally amusing him. My dad did primary Baby Sherpa duty, lugging Little A about in his backpack carrier.

With his posse of handlers, my son is the toddler P. Diddy, except without the bling, the Cristal and some random dude who to carry his umbrella.

Outside of a few fusses, Alastair seemed to really enjoy Arts in the Park. There were lots of other children, doggies, and a trio of singing wenches to amuse him. The bus ride back to the parking lot seemed to be the highlight of his entire afternoon. Adrian and I got home slightly sunburned and exhausted. Even with two extra pairs of hands to wrangle his cute little butt, Alastair still wears us out. Sigh.

How is it that families of four or five or more children function? Is it that the oldest ones eventually function as babysitters for the youngest? Where do these parents get their energy? Exercise... Power Bars... crystal meth?

In other Little A-related news, Alastair is revealing himself to be a true Aquarius. He has discovered the joys of sticking his face into the bathwater and also loves to be dunked, baptizing-style into the water. He's also figured out how to squirt himself in the face with his little squirting alligator toy. For some babies this would be a source of frustration, but for our water-baby son, it just cracks him up.

Snotty, Itchy, Hoarse Holidays

With the Twelfth Night passed, the Amos household is slowly dismantling Christmas and returning to our regularly scheduled decorating scheme. The tree is gone, leaving a wake of needles and a hole in front of the living room window.

It was a good First Christmas for Little A. Frantic, yes, and fraught with illness, but he seemed to enjoy the presents and all the familial attention. His big wins were a Roll-Arounds Dinosaur, zebra rocking horse-type thing, Little People's Noah's Arc, lots of clothes, stuffed animals, and his favorite new companion, The Monkey. Being my kid and thus a total weirdo, Alastair didn't really go in for the ripping of the wrapping paper like most babies do. He wanted the play with the toys. This made for some panicky moments as mommy rushed to unleash Noah and his pals from their plastic and twisty-tie prison whilst Little A worked up a mild fit. I swear, somewhere in China there are severely underpaid factory workers intentionally bolting these toys down in unimaginably complex packaging as a form of revenge against American Imperialism.

As with most holiday seasons, this one was not without the requisite sickness. The week before Christmas morning, Alastair and I both came down with nasty head colds. It's a good thing we buy our tissues in bulk at Cosco.

Just as I was getting over the cold, I wake up Christmas Eve with leprosy...a nasty rash on the inside of my thigh which continued to spread over the days following-across my chest, stomach, back, arms and legs-until most of my body was covered in tiny red bumps. Yeah, hawt. Seems my skin did not really appreciate it when I goofed and mixed two detergents in a load of laundry. Yes, my skin is really that sensitive. It's been over two weeks, and the rash is finally clearing up which means the bumps are drying out and becoming itchy. All over. Damn this is fun.

Then right before New Year's Eve, Adrian developed a nagging cough and his voice dropped a couple of octaves. By New Year's Day, he could barely speak above a whisper. It's only been in the last few days that his voice returned to normal.

Aside from the medical maladies, we enjoyed the holidays with Little A and each other. We exchanged our usual gifts of books. Ma Amos received BeeBoo Bling (a lovely garnet pendant) and Pa Amos got big boy toys (tools for an air compressor). Finally got to take in Casino Royale which we adored. I heart Daniel Craig. We had some great family time. Enjoyed the chaos on Cary Street at New Year's Eve.

Alastair is right around the corner from his first birthday. Can't hardly believe that it's almost been a year since he came into this world. He's managed to survive our fumbling attempts at parenthood, and we haven't taken him back to the hospital for a refund. Alastair continues to be a joy, a mystery, and a royal pain in the ass. Sometimes all the same minute.

The elliptical machine beckons...

I can't feel my teeth

Or my lips. Or the left side of my tongue. No, I am not drunk. And no I did not have a stroke. I am paying the price for having, as my grandfather called them, Bad Irish Teeth. I had to get a filling in one of my back teeth this morning. First one in four years, I might add. So for a procedure that took all of twenty minutes, my mouth is numb for three or four hours. Sweet. I get to drink my lunch from a straw! When this shit wears off my jaw will be sore where the dentist shot me full of Novocaine and I'll probably have gnawed bits of the inside of my cheek off.

On the plus side, if Alastair takes a whack at my face, I won't feel a thing.

Election day has come and gone, thank God. I swear I got no fewer than seven recorded phone calls pitching me one candidate or another. All on election day. The brouhaha over the congressional shift in power has me scratching my head. C'mon folks: meet the new boss; same as the old boss. It's becoming difficult, beyond the rhetoric, to distinguish one party from the other. Both are dedicated to appeasing the interest of major contributors and special interest groups that support them, and they engage in pork barrel politics to protect their own incumbancy. Personally, I just wish the governement would back the f*ck up and stop wasting all the tax dollars it siphons off of my family on a regular basis. But then that's just the anarchist/libertarian in me.

Last weekend was a great time with the Amos Family, as well as proof positive that we couldn't have hatched a baby better suited to us. Friday, Adrian took off from work, and capitalizing on the fantastic weather, we got together a picnic lunch and packed up the Little Man for an afternoon at Maymont. I knew how much he adores animals, especially kitties, but I was not prepared for how freaking excited he would be. Starting in the nature center, we took Alastair past the tanks of turtles and crazy-huge fish. He squealed and pumped his legs in joy. Out at the petting farm, he was totally enthralled with a huge bull, goats, sheep, chickens, and pigs. He threw out his arms trying to hug every creature within three feet of him. Man, he is a trip. Hopefully, he continue to stay an animal lover as he grows up. The jaunt was so exhausting he crashed almost immediately upon getting into the car and snoozed for almost three hours.

Sunday, we all piled into the MINI to participate in MINIs on a Ferry down at Jamestown. For those of you here in Central VA know that the weather on Sunday was total shite. Chilly temps, high winds, soaking rains. Fun times. The event was kind of crazy and a somewhat poorly planned, and Little A was in and out of the car several times facing piss poor weather conditions. He slept through the ferry ride (his first!) and tolerated his snack being fed to him in transit. But he was an absolute doll. Never once fussed (except for having his diaper changed in a public restroom which he hates) or got cranky, napping very well in the car coming home. Plus, he charmed the whole table at the Virginia Diner (Yum, tasty Southern country cooking!), especially with a demonstration of Fists of Fury. This kid was total made for Adrian and I: laid-back, sweet, friendly and most importantly, tolerate of his parents' bizzare life.

Off to find some food to eat that requires minimal chewing.

Never Again

No, never, ever, EVER!

In this lifetime, I will never again eat funnel cake.

Since we missed the State Fair and our beloved Fried Oreos, Adrian and I sought out our yearly Fair Food Fix in funnel cake from the National Folk Music Festival. I enjoyed probably the first half of the fried sugary goodness, but I should have listened to my stomach when it started to whine, "No more, please." Heck, the last of what I managed to consume of my funnel cake didn't even taste all that good. But Stupidhead was determine to eat as much as I could. Fried Fair Food Fix only comes but once a year, you know. Immediately after eating the funnel cake, I knew that my stomach would make sure I lived to regret it.

Fast forward to a few hours later and I am sitting on my couch, eyes closed, while a massive riot goes on in my stomach. I'm talking Parisian housing project riot, complete with flipped over Citroens on fire, tear gas clouds filling the skies, and gendarmes in full riot gear. I couldn't tell if I was going to pass out, explode, or throw up. They all felt like suitable options for relieving my misery. Eventually, the intestinal pandemonium passed and I was able to eat a few pieces of lukewarm pizza. But damn.

Never again. Certainly never funnel cake on top of chicken curry and a samosa. Bluh. Bad burps, man. Bad Burps.

Anyway, the festival was fun. We didn't get to enjoy as much music as we did last year mostly due to Little A's schedule and his extreme dislike of loud applause. Plus, the musicians seemed to be just as enamored with talking about folk music as they were with playing it. But what we did hear was awesome and has inspired us to look into purchasing some new and interesting music. Like AltaiKAI, whose seriously funky throat singing produced funkier sounds than anything Paul Oakenfold has put out in a while.