not all boils are created equal

There is nothing quite like the smell of a hospital. In the ER, it is the smell of crisis and despair; an incongruous backdrop for the vibrant hope and innocence of a baby. That’s what I thought, among other things, as I sat halfway behind a faded powder blue curtain in room 7 of the emergency room two nights ago, awaiting some news about the prognosis for my suddenly and seriously ill baby and reluctantly listening to the growling arguments of our not-so-distant roommates on the other side of the uninspired fabric divide.

What began as a silly little boil on her tiny one-year old bottom, morphed into a hot and angry menace by dinnertime. A friend came by to pick up the sushi we’d brought her from town the night before and in our brief exchange, I mentioned poor Nola’s butt boil which this friend, luckily, couldn’t resist peeking at. Her medically trained eye recognized the growing threat and she insisted we take the now flat and feverish Nola to see Dr. Dick just down the road. We interrupted his dinner and with one glance, he sent us to the emergency room and called our pediatrician to alert him.

We did our best to maintain levity and calm for the sake of bewildered 3 year old who couldn’t conceive of this unprecedented spontaneous and hurried trip to town right at bedtime. I threw diapers, noodles, footie pajamas, and crayons in the car while tumbling through anxious thoughts of MRSA ravaging my sweet child. The winding 1.5 hour drive to town seemed eternal and I found myself silently bargaining with unknown gods to give up anything and everything in exchange for the health of my little one.

Ossian’s excitement erupted upon realizing that the hospital rooms were filled with band aids… one of her favorite things. By the time we reached the ER, Nola’s temp was 103.5 and she was miserable. Ossian and Blase headed to the freeway Best Western while Nola and I prepared for the invasive maneuvers ahead. We were, as Dr. Dick says, “inside the belly of the beast”.

First came the blood draw and IV. “We’ll need you to help us hold her down to the bed here”, the task focused nurse explained to me. It was horrible. She just kept crying in pain and terror and looking to me to save her. In went the first found of intravenous antibiotics. Next came the doctor with his various thoughts on whether to slice open the abscess and stuff it with gauze or to cut a piece away from her flesh, leaving a round hole thru which the abscess could drain. He decided on the latter and apologetically explained that the topical anesthetic that the nurse had rubbed on Nola’s wound would offer her almost no pain relief as he plunged his blade into her already excruciating owie.

She kicked and strained and yelled and sobbed in pain as he worked. I cooed and hugged and whispered in her ear. She was desperate for me to make it stop and I could not. All I had to offer was the boob. She seemed grateful and nursed like her life depended on it. Thus began our 22 hour nursathon as Nola did her baby best to cope with pain, fear, isolation, and heartache.

At about 11 pm, we graduated to the fourth floor pediatrics unit where Nola was hooked up to an antibiotic pump. She wanted to see what was outside our door but when we stepped across the threshold, we were quickly ushered back to our little sickly cell and told that we could not leave the room ….you know, because of the MRSA. All staff and visitors would have to don gowns and gloves before entering our room.

And so the nursathon continued… Nola and I clung to each other, just as we did when she was born. She was fragile and I had to be fierce.

The next day, Ossian and Blase returned for a visit. Ossian was given a special gown for big sisters but there weren’t any gloves that fit her miniature hands.

Blog posts are supposed to be short and it is nearly midnight. I still have to de-pan the fig walnut coffee cake for Cafe in the morning, stoke the fire, and brush my neglected teeth before falling into much needed sleep. This story to be continued very soon…..

less fun thing

blog neglect. that’s what I’m committing. It’s because I am doing a less fun thing by studying for my freaking licensing exam. My Washington state Clinical Social Worker license has reciprocity in all states EXCEPT, you guessed it, California. When I took the exam in Washington, I squirmed thru the entire unpleasant process of studying. I enjoy studying as an activity but studying for these licensing exams is not satisfying. Instead of measuring your competence, it seems to measure your ability to retain the random bits of esoterica contained in the volumes of study guides as well as your ability to divine the thought process of the test crafters. Neither of these abilities, in my opinion, are reflective of one’s skills and knowledge as a mental health clinician.

Anyway, all that these types of mini-rants do is divert scarce time from the necessary task of highlighting, transferring esoterica to blue and green index cards, and making eyes move across pages of monotonous text. I must return to reviewing “ventilation procedures”, “reflective discussion”, “disulfiram”, and “psychodynamic themes by stages of group development” in hopes of successfully cramming and putting this little era behind me.

Before doing that, I must report briefly on my children who are growing at astronomical rates. We had our maiden voyage in the double bike trailer resulting in gleeful squeals from the sisters in tow. Then, Osh and Nola were in the sandbox and Osh filled a dump truck with sand and said it was really “intense”. I asked her what “intense” means and she explained, “when you fill a truck with sand, that’s what intense is.” Then, she filled the sifter with sand and said it was “insensitive”. When I asked what “insensitive” means, she enlightened me by offering, “when the sand comes through here, it is really insensitive”.

For added cuteness, Ossian performs puppet shows for Nola.  Nola sits in the spiderman chair for most of the show.  Then, she rushes the puppet theater and climbs through the curtain, disrupting the show and enraging the puppeteer.

Stuck Out in Old Lodi

As part of our recent multi-week road-trip, we spent 5 lovely days in Lodi. Some of you may know this town through the Creedence Clearwater Revival song that immortalizes this funny place stuck in California’s vast central valley.

Why Lodi? – you might ask. Well, Blase went to attend the Salmonid Restoration Federation Conference and the girls and I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to languish in such an infamous locale. So, we tagged along.

Ossian’s fourth and final 3 year birthday celebration took place on Sunday. We left clusters of unswept cake crumbs, a battered pinata, and an oozing ooblek pit to head directly to town to stock up for Monday night barbeque. After serving 50 plus teriyaki burgers and mixed green salads to our beloved customers, the girls and headed back to town once again for tandem medical appointments and last minute trip preparation. Late night packing gave way to late night baking for Wednesday’s cafe. We decided to try opening cafe at a bit earlier, at 7 am to accomodate some elusive potential customers. Rubbing our eyes while grinding coffee and moving chairs into place, the cafe gals and I agreed that the 6 am arrival time to set up for 7 am cafe effectively sapped much of the fun out of our weekly event. Despite our reluctance, we sold out of all of our special (greens and cheese omelette) and nearly all of our freshly baked pastries (banana muffins, biscotti, and terribly flat cran-oat scones) by 9 am. I popped into the Community Center Board Meeting at 9:30, closed up cafe at 11 and was off to do crisis counseling at the High School at 11:30. My two little monkeys and their adorable father picked me up from school in a car laden with suitcases, peanut butter sandwiches, and Dora books that I’d crammed into the car the night before.

By 4 pm, just two hours into our 8 hour oddysey, the kids were asleep and in the quiet confinement of the humming car, I realized that I was ill. I’d been a little too busy to attend to the blood coming from my ears over the course of the past week and found myself repeatedly snapping at Blase to stop mumbling. Turns out, he was speaking quite audibly and it was my hearing that was the problem. We landed in lovely Lodi that night and I headed to Urgent Care the next day while Blase juggled our small charges during his lunch break.

Driving past Lodi’s ubiquitous strip malls and indecipherable apartment complexes with my brain pounding and fever peaking, I felt unabashedly excited by the thrill of momentary childlesness. Maybe I had faked the symptoms just for an excuse to have my first hour alone in weeks, albeit at Urgent Care in Lodi.

I arrived a little giddy and eagerly took my assigned clipboard to sit amidst the Christian Life and Diabetes magazines. In the blank asking for occupation, I brazenly scrawled “writer”. Why not… who was going to know the difference in LODI? If I couldn’t claim to be a writer there, then where? I was promptly taken back for my 3.5 minute visit with the doctor who diagnosed me with a severe double ear infection and handed me scrip for quick and dirty antibiotics. For once, I did not question the antibiotics. If he’d said that nibbling on elephant toenails would ease my pain at that point, I would have rushed to the nearest zoo.

I stopped at the check-out window where the receptionist stood up to ask me where I was from. I tried to explain our rural, small home but it is nearly impossible to paint an accurate picture. Then she said, “so you’re a writer?” “Um.. a little bit”, I stammered sheepishly. “You wrote a book or something?” she persisted hopefully. “Uhh…no,” I confessed. She looked concerned so I said, “Just some articles.” “Oh, like what?”, she perked up again as though ready to pull out something for me to autograph. ” Shit, I thought… “Nothing famous and NOTHING INTERESTING!”,  I blurted and scrambled for the door.

Not alone in my attempts to create medical problems to secure a break from parenting, Blase mustered up a noteworthy display of seeping poison oak blisters which covered his right forearm.  All it got him were some horrified looks from strangers and old hat empathy from his wife.