Last night Shawn and I both "saved" the snack from our meal plan so we could eat it after dinner. It was frozen yogurt and sliced strawberries.
I was allotted 1/2 cup of frozen yogurt. I smashed as much yogurt as physics would allow into the measuring cup filled the measuring cup with yogurt. As I scooped the yogurt out of the measuring cup into the bowl, the smallest drop of yogurt fell on the counter.
I looked at the more-than-ample amount of frozen treat in my bowl.
I looked at the drop on the counter.
I looked at the more-than-ample amount of frozen treat in my bowl.
I licked the counter.
But, you already knew that was how this story was going to end. Didn't you?
Shawn turns forty in a month. He decided that he would like to face the next forty years without encouraging one of the myriad of familial illnesses that plagues his gene pool. So, he is willing to try eating healthier. A serious commitment from someone who has spent the past forty years fine-tuning the delicate skill of vegetable-avoidance.
But, I'm on-board! I would love to eat healthier and have a buddy to help encourage me when I don't feel like encouraging myself. Also? If this is his version of a mid-life crisis and it doesn't involve a girlfriend, ridiculous sports car, or plastic surgery, I'll eat bok choy every day for the rest of my life. So, I signed us up for a meal plan on-line. It counts our calories. We sit down every Sunday and choose what we want to eat for breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks. It gives me a grocery list. I shop. We eat.
I've only had to yell at one of the children one time when he wouldn't stop calling this "your diet." We had a discussion about what people think of as "diets" are just radically changing your eating habits for a temporary time to lose weight and then going right back to eating like crap (I didn't use that word, I promise). And, that this was Mommy and Daddy learning how to eat healthy. Forever. He said he understood. Although, he really may have just wanted the lecture to stop...
I hang my head as I tell you how foreign it was for me to buy healthy food - like fresh fruit and vegetables. (I think the first trip to the grocery store took me an hour and a half.) And how eye-opening it was when I started comparing labels to decide which brand of different foods would be the healthier option. (For example: Wheat Chex. A "whole grain wheat cereal." Must be healthy, right? Second ingredient? [And, we all know ingredients are listed in the order of predominance, right?] SUGAR. Straight up "sugar." In "healthy" wheat Chex. Damn.)
But, it's amazing how much we're learning already. After a week, I can already cut up a cantaloupe like a pro. Learning portion control has been huge for us, too. Turns out a 12-ounce piece of meat isn't in anyone's healthy diet. We've also learned how bad some of our "go-to" options are. Pizza? French fries? Salad dressing?! Oh my. But, with the variety this meal plan offers us, there are lots of things that we like that, eaten in the proper amounts, are good and good for us. And, there are healthy ways to prepare some of the ol' favs like hamburgers, pasta, etc.
We have stumbled upon one meal that made us throw up in our mouths. Luckily, it wasn't one of our first meals. We already had enough good dinners under our belts (no pun intended, ba-dum-cha) that we didn't ditch the entire "healthy" concept altogether and run for the nearest Mexican restaurant. But, that meal made it to the "Never, Never, Never, Again" List. We do already have three on our "Put in Heavy Rotation" List. So, the ratio of good to bad is quite acceptable.
It's actually been kind of fun to work along-side each other in the kitchen, too, measuring and cooking. And, I send Shawn to work with his "snack" every day. It's very Donna Reed.
But. (And, we all knew there was a "but," didn't we?) Here's the thing. He gets many more calories than I do. He gets so much food, that many days he can't eat it all... or feels like he's being force fed if he tries. Me? Not so much. I want to kick him in delicate places when he says things like, "I just can't eat my cheese and crackers."
It doesn't hurt while you are getting a root canal. Still. I would not suggest requesting one. That's all I'll say about that. You're welcome.
Recovery from a root canal, however? Ho.ly. #@$%! I slept 20 of the first 30 hours I was home. I looked like someone punched me in the upper lip... or like I had a terrible allergic reaction to something... or like I got some horribly ill-advised Melanie Griffith/Lisa Rinna lip procedure. And, it hurt to smile. And, talk. It just hurt. And, I kept having PTSD from the feeling of the procedure. But, now I'm saying too much. Just don't volunteer for a root canal. Promise?
On a positive note: My husband? The greatest. He was Dancing-Daddy-Monkey Extraordinaire! He entertained the kids the entire weekend - except for the few hours my in-laws took over so he could take me out for a quiet dinner. I married into the BEST. FAMILY. EVER. Let's have a competition! ... I win!
And, now. I give you... A few things you never want to hear from your Endodontist:
[As another doctor passes in the hall] "You have got to come in here and see this case I'm working on!" [You never want to be that case.]
Doctor: "This is like working in concrete." Me: "Well, huwee up. It fees gwoss!" Doctor: "Don't worry. It's not exactly making me hungry either."
"I never prescribe pain meds. But, I'm going to prescribe some Hydrocodone for you."
"We're gonna hope that heals up just fine and we don't have to go back and do surgery." [Yep. That's exactly what we're going to hope for.]
And, here's something you do want to hear when he's looking at an x-ray of his work after the procedure: "Oooh! That's so pretty!" [This man and I have very differing opinions of "pretty."]
On a another note: Lulu's custom-made splint? Lost. Already. So, I get to see about buying another one of those today. I'm really excited about that.
She headed out the door ahead of her brother and turned and stuck her finger into the hinge-side of the door while he slammed it shut behind himself.
It's Thursday night as I write this. The "incident" happened Tuesday night. I put ice on it. And gave her Tylenol. I did tell her teacher about it the next day in case it bothered her while she was at school.*
But, today, when I was relaying the story in passing to the orthopedic surgeon's wife, her reaction may have been something along the lines of, "It looks like WHAT?! You're going to need to go get that x-rayed [as she's on the phone making the appointment]."
Sure enough. BROKEN.
But, now, she has the cutest, tiniest, little custom-made splint you ever did see.
But, also? Now. When I tell you people that this girl is tough, you'll believe me. I was only telling my friend about it because it was so gross looking. Elizabeth has never complained about it unless she knocked it into something or... *cough cough*... her mother tried to grab her by the hand.*
*I have "Mother of the Year" forms here. I'll send you one so you can nominate me.
I also have Daughter of the Year forms, too. Because it's only just occurring to me that every. single. grandparent is about to find out about this wee BROKEN BONE via this blog post. Oh, well. Grandparents - you have to cut me some slack. I'm getting a root canal. That seems like punishment enough. Call Shawn and yell at him...
She was just a little girl circa 1980. A little girl with new roller skates. She lived in a green house with a steep driveway. She fell on her face while trying to skate up the driveway. But, don't worry, she caught herself. With her front two teeth.* One was chipped. It got filed flat again.
Over the next thirty years, though, those teeth slowly... well... died. There was some cosmetic dentistry involved so she wouldn't look like this:
But, overall, she and her dead teeth got along quite well.
Until. Last week. And, the dentist said, while looking at her x-ray, "See this dark area? That could be where it's beginning to necrotize because your body is trying to reject that tooth."
Awesome.
[I'm tired of talking in the third person...]
So, I went to the endodontist (Fancy name for "Root Canal Doctor." I think they're smart to go with "Endodontist.") They performed a test wherein they applied what I can only assume was liquid nitrogen sprayed on a gauze to my front two teeth while asking, "Feel anything?" Nope. They pressed the same gauze to my "live" teeth. I sat up out of the chair it was so. freakin'. cold. I lied back; they applied the gauze to the dead teeth for.ever. while it sizzled. Nothing. They finished. I lowered my lip over my teeth. My teeth were TOO COLD FOR MY LIP TO TOUCH. I had to let my teeth warm up before I could lower my lip over them. Those are some dead teeth.
But, as the endodontist said, "Dead teeth do not necessarily mean infected teeth... We might just watch them... Call you back in in six months." Yay!
Then he did an exam. And, up on my gums where they hook to my lip. Hurt. Like a bruise. He said, "I take it back. You have to have a root canal." On Friday.
Or be the girl who one day just has a tooth fall out of my head.
"Did you stick something in your ear?" the doctor asks sweetly with a smile.
To which Lulu smiles back and coyly answers, "Yeeeeees."
We are at the pediatrician's office for Elizabeth's 5-year-old well-check. Everything looks perfect, until... I'm sorry. Did you just say there's something in her ear?!
The doctor continues in her loving manner. "What did you put in your ear?"
But, by now Elizabeth has sensed that it isn't really an okay thing for one to have something in one's ear. So, she doesn't want to talk about it anymore.
The doctor tells me it looks like a rock or a pebble. But, it is really crammed in there. She says she can't believe Lulu can even hear out of that ear. She is going to send the nurse in to try to flush it out, but she doesn't know if it will work. And, the "hook" she has to try to get it out would hurt because the ear is so sensitive and the "thing" is so wedged in there. So, if the flushing doesn't work, we're going to have to go see an ENT.
Awesome.
The nurse comes in. She covers Lulu to keep her from getting wet. She starts flushing. Lulu is a trooper, but even this hurts.
My in-laws brought dinner last night. Holla! I made Lulu show Shawn and my mother-in-law the "bite" on her knee. The way they both reacted (neither of them being prone to over-reaction... EVER) made me want to flip out just a little bit. Instead. We ate dinner. :-O
But, then Shawn took Lulu to the walk-in clinic. (Can I tell you how happy Shawn is that he's the only healthy member of the family, so he gets to take care of the rest of us?) *Grossness Alert* When they got back to the exam room, the P.A. took the band-aid off of Lulu's bite. It was so swollen that her skin ruptured - like two inch-long tears. Shawn said pus just poured out of it.
Give me a minute. I have to go vomit.
Okay. I'm back. Diagnosis? She got a bug bite that got bacteria in it (aka, cellulitis). The P.A. said it's always worse on kids around their joints because they move so much and there is so much blood flow to the area to help it spread. I don't care how you describe it. I'm just gonna need you to fix it!
She's gave us some antibiotic. Lulu came home with a circle drawn around the swelling. If the swelling got bigger than the circle, we had to go back to the doc. But, this morning, it's already drastically diminished in size. Praise God!
And, here's the other awesome part. Shawn said Lulu... absolutely unfazed by any of it. That's my tough girl! He said she just wanted to hurry through it all so she could have the cookies out of the vending machine he promised her when they were done. Sweetest father/daughter team ev-ah.
Now the update on me... me me me me me me me...
We have an amazing friend. A-maz-ing. (I won't call you out by name, friend, because I don't think you would like that. You're welcome.) But, people? A.maz.ing. Above and beyond. And, conveniently... a doctor. He's shown my films to I-don't-know-how-many-doctors, and talked to his friend - the ankle surgeon. The prevailing opinion...
Let it heal three weeks and see where we stand. (bu-dum-cha! Thank you, folks. I'll be here all week.) We'll see if maybe, just maybe, this little ol' tendon of mine might heal itself. (Heal, tendon! *said in my best Southern Revival Preacher voice while flat-hand-smacking my ankle - well, no... not smacking... that would hurt... how about... waving vigorously*)
Then I locked my keys in my car - again. While a wildfire was raging all around our house. And, this time the "top window" (aka, sunroof) wasn't open. I had to pay a guy to break into my car. And, you know? He may work for a "business" of "locksmiths," but he's still really good at breaking into cars and that's just really disconcerting.
Then I got a ticket for having an expired license plate registration - the renewal for which was sitting on the desk at home. (So Shawn told me after I got the ticket.) Awesome-sauce.
But, I was too busy to blog about most of that because I was getting the kids through their last days of school and getting all of us ready to depart for our annual Memorial Day family gathering.
And, well, you might have heard what happened while we were there... And, y'all? I'm trying to be a good sport. But, THIS. REALLY. BITES. I mean. Have you ever thought about how you would put your underwear on if you couldn't put any weight on your left foot? Have you?! It involves your bare butt having to touch stuff.
Thus, began the journey of physical catastrophes for the Johnsons.
The very day we returned from the Emergency Room in Austin, Elizabeth shrieked with pain if you so much as tried to tuck her hair behind her ear. Well, I absolutely know what that means when a kid has been spending every waking moment in a swimming pool. Swimmer's Ear. We tried to treat her with the home-remedy of 1 part white vinegar/1 part warm water in her ear for five minutes twice a day. That did... absolutely nothing. The night we returned home, Shawn went to check on her before we went to bed ourselves. She was whimpering in her sleep. So. heartbreaking.
So, off to the pediatrician's office we go the next day. Me on crutches. And, no pain medicine because then how could I drive?
Subsequently, this update:
The Johnson boys were walking around pretty cocky about their grasp on physical well-being. Until... Spencer jammed his thumb so badly riding his bike that it swelled up to twice its size.
Ok. That's it. What more could possibly happen? Oh, funny you should ask.
This morning Elizabeth was putting on her shorts and something on the inside of her knee caught my eye. It was a huge boo-boo. I'm sorry. Did I say boo-boo? I should have said abscess. With red, puffy swelling about an inch and a half around the infection. Awesome. Let's just say she wasn't a fan of me knocking the top off of that pus scab and dousing it with hydrogen peroxide for about 15 minutes.
Oh, yeah. And, then? The ankle surgeon we were hoping to see here in town? On vacation for the next three weeks.
All these things? They led to this update this morning:
So. That's it. My big complaining post. Thissucksthissucksthissucksthissucks.
I'm done.
Now. Off to find some silver linings, some half-full glasses, some this-too-shall-pass. Because, somewhere? There is someone whose health is being threatened with things that won't mend. Worse. There are people whose baby's health is being threatened with things that won't mend.
So, this cross of mine? Not quite so big after all. (But, I do need to figure out how to pay that ticket. Because, I'm not going to be able to run very far if they come after me with a warrant for my arrest.)
Like. I guess I could need my foot amputated. I don't. So, there's the silver lining.
The facts we know so far? I tore a tendon. And, it took a jaunty little trip around to the "other" side of the fibula (or tibia - I can't keep those bones straight). Thus, the "snap" heard round the world 20-yards away.
Unfortunately, this will require just a touch of surgery. We've been told that, as far as ankle surgeries go, this is a relatively simple one. Yay?
That's that. I'm sitting on my a$$ while Shawn works his off taking care of the kids and me. The pain meds and anti-inflammatory drugs they gave me make me so zoned-out and sleepy, I think I may have drooled a few times.
So, don't expect blogging gold from me. I'm only one (very medicated) person. And, now I've got a bum wheel.
But, I do have one cute anecdote to share. Spence and I were sharing a quiet moment sitting on the couch yesterday morning (the morning after "the incident"). I asked him, "Were you worried yesterday or did everyone do a good job of letting you know I would be okay?"
His answer?
"Yeah. They told me about every ten seconds."
We're all just moms and dads at heart, son. It's best to figure that out now...
Checking in! Thanks for all the laughs, thoughts and prayers. So far we know that my ankle is not broken. I have a splint and crutches for the time being. When I get home, I'll see some doctors to see if I have torn ligaments, tendons or just a bad sprain.
For those of my friends who have know me for a lifetime, this IS my bad ankle. Poop. For those of you who don't know my medical history, I had my ankle reconstructed when I was 12-years-old. If I was bound to take out an ankle on vacation, you KNOW it would be that one, right?
Anyhoo, as much fun as a football-team-worth of morphin is in the moment, it has a tendency to make you feel horrible as it wears off. Double-poop. So, I'm off to let my awesome family wait on me hand and foot a little longer. (And, speaking of them... I'll put my family up against any family for BRINGING IT when the chips are down. You have never seen a family rally in the moment like mine did today. I really, really love you guys. Thank you for the ice, for the support, for keeping the kids calm and entertained, for running errands... well, for everything.)
As always, I'll keep you up to date with all the over-sharing I can!!
So, I can only guess that most of you have not been obsessively googling "spitz nevi" like my step-mom and I have. In that case, let me tell you that they are most commonly found in people under the age of twenty (and I know what you're thinking, but regardless of how young I look, I am over twenty. You're sweet, though). One site even suggests, "As a rule, a pathologist should always thinkthricebefore diagnosing a Spitz nevi in an adult over 40 years of age." (I instinctively got a little miffed that my step-mom was so brazen to point out that my age was "close enough" to 40. Rude... But, accurate... Now I don't want to talk about it anymore.)
Oh, and by the way, the alternative diagnosis: melanoma. Yay!
The doctor walked into the office today and I said, "So, I know you probably hate it when your patients say, 'I've been googling...'"
And, he said, "But, spitz nevi is a very unusual diagnosis for someone your age."
Um. Holla! to the doctor that can read your mind!
Then he said, "That's why we're going to treat this like a melanoma today. That way, even if we do get another diagnosis on this new pathology, we will have already taken the most cautious approach."
I may have said, "Do it!" or "Yay!" or "You can have my whole knee cap, just make sure I'm here to watch my kids grow up," I'm not sure. But, now I look like I went off to war and got triaged in a battlefield tent.
Don't even care! I feel like a thousand ton weight is off my chest.
During the procedure I said, "So now at least we know my skin is trying to kill me."**
He said, "That's a very good way to look at it."
WHAT?! No it's not. You clearly don't read my blog! That is a sample of my self-deprecating defense technique. Your response is supposed to be, "No. No. This will probably never happen again." Geez. Your office is really bad at knowing what your lines are!
P.S. After having to get the kids off to school single-handedly for the second time in two weeks, Shawn's response to the idea that I need to be closely watched for melanomas: "Knowing what it's like taking care of these kids without you, if I see anything weird on your body, I'm cutting it off myself."
I was zooming around the house yesterday trying to get a million things done. I had a 2-hour bookfair shift to get to, followed by reading with Spence's first grade class. I was trying to get the breakfast dishes put away and dinner in the crockpot. The phone rang. It was the dermatologist's office.
"This is Ali."
"Ali. This is Dr. P's office. We've got the results of your biopsy."
"Oh, great!"
"Well..."
I stopped dead in my tracks.
(I'm getting that call. I'm getting that call. I'm getting THAT CALL.)
She did a great job of making sure I knew it was not melanoma. It is a spitz nevus... often called Juvenile Melanoma (ok, you're going to have to stop using that word)... more worrisome in children (well, I act a lot like a child, should we take this into consideration?)... does mean cells are changing... need to go back and make sure they remove it all.. bigger incision... couple stitches... will call in prescription for antibiotics and pain medicine (wait! pain medicine? just how much cutting will we be doing here?!*)... have a 7:00am appointment this Friday...
To say my emotions are a little raw, my nerves a little exposed would probably be an understatement. I know I do not need to worry about this annoying little mole. But you know, now is really not a good time to get proof that my skin actually wants to kill me...
*Maybe the cutting won't be so bad. Maybe pain meds are just the party favor/consolation prize for having to get "that" call...
I drew the short stick when God was doling out skin. I'm under no delusions. I am pale. And, I am not gloriously, china-doll pale like Nicole Kidman or Gwyneth Paltrow. I am pale in a red splotchy, covered-in-moles, see-my-veins, crypt-keeper kind of way. I am pale in a think-about-going-out-in-the-sun-without-sunscreen-and-get-a-sunburn kind of way. I am pale in a work-out-and-turn-purple, get-a-blemish-and-it-might-as-well-have-its-own-spotlight, bump-yourself-and-see-the-mark-instantaneously kind of way.
My complexion combined with the kind of moles I have, combined with blah, blah, blah puts me at an alarmingly high risk for melanoma. Yay, me! But, it's actually not that big of a deal if you're proactive about it. If you catch melanoma early, it's usually easily treated. So, I go to the dermatologist every six to eight months to have my existing moles examined and my entire (yes, I mean entire) body checked for new moles.
Ewwww. Moles. Ewwww. My body observed in detail under florescent lighting (the horror of bathing suit shopping times 100, anybody?)
Anyway, the doctor always asks if I've noticed any new or changing moles. I always point out "this", "that" or "the other". But, since it's common to grow moles as you age, they always turn out to be nothing.
Today I casually answered his question with, "Yeah. I think this one on my knee is new."
He looked and said, "Oooooh!"
Excuse me. Did you just say, "Oooooh!"?!
Then he told me we have two options. We can wait and watch it or we can remove it.
What I said silently in my head: "Yeah, um, since you just responded with 'Ooooooh!' I don't think 'watching' it for six months is gonna be an option. Because what I can promise is that there will be elaborate charts and measurement techniques and mole-watching-parties at the hands of my obsessive nature. There may even be time-lapse photography involved.* For the sake of my sanity, my family and my friends, this mole is going to have to go."
What I said aloud: "I don't mind if we go ahead and remove it."
So the cutting began and the doctor tried to reassure me with, "Moles this small can be melanoma. But, when they are, they are almost never fatal."
Ummm. Great? Never mind that someone checking your butt for moles is enough to make you break a sweat; you'll sweat in places you never even knew had sweat glands when they tell you that (while simultaneously cutting chunks off of your person).
I'll get the pathology report back in a week. But, don't worry. I'm probably not gonna die. Yay! In the meantime, I already have my appointment for six months from now.
*It would be similar to this. Less the fetus.
(I almost couldn't bring myself to post this video for the word "stretchening" on the first screen. "Stretchening?" Well, if their aptitudes don't lean toward literacy, at least they're good with mechanical things, like cameras. And, they know how to post stuff to YouTube. So, there's that.)
