At Least a Year and a Half, Maybe Five

My ongoing breathing problems may have found a solution this week. Not a quick solution, but maybe a real one for a change. The Laryngopharyngeal Reflux turned out to be a bust. The acid blockers and the elevating the head of the bed did just as much nothing for me as asthma inhalers. Aerie is glad that we're back to a level bed with no more toe-bashing going on.

So the next step was allergy testing, which I did on Wednesday. Thumper came with me. Once he was thoroughly reassured that he would not, in fact, be getting a shot himself, he was cool. He watched Monster House on the portable DVD player while I sat still and itched. I got 38 allergens scratch-tested on my forearms, 2 "control" injections on my left shoulder, and 38 allergen injections on my right upper arm. When the tech lined up all the bottles and needles on the counter in preparation for my injections, Thumper said, "Wow! I think that's 52,000 shots!" I thought he'd be more impressed with my machismo in getting 40 injections without crying, but he was more interested in watching Bones get lured into the house by his long lost childhood kite, then eaten.

The end result of all those sharp pointy things with goopy allergens dripping menacingly off their tips was that I am allergic to 14 different grasses, trees, and molds that span the entire seasonal cycle, which is why my symptoms are more or less constant. Cedar and one of the molds were the big winners. I'm glad that "cat" didn't swell up at all. If it had been a cat allergy, I'm not sure what the solution would be. Hold off on breathing freely until our two current kitties passed on, I guess, which might be awhile since the most recent addition is only two years old. Anyway, bygones, as Fish used to say, and it's entirely Aerie's fault that I know that.

The course of treatment, since I've worked through every over-the-counter allergy medication available to no avail, is allergy shots. Weekly allergy shots. For possibly three to five years. They tell me, though, that if I haven't seen any improvement after a year and a half, I can pretty much stop because it isn't going to work. Apparently they mix up a cocktail of all 14 of my allergens in small doses, and inject it into me in gradually increasing doses over a long period of time in order to desensitize me and reduce the severity of my body's reaction to those allergens. They usually max out a shot at 12 allergens, but since I'm barely above that, they're going to give 14 a shot, so to speak. I had to get an EpiPen, in case I react badly to the injection. When I picked it up from the pharmacy, I asked the pharmacist how to use it, and she said, "Uh, there's a trainer in there. You pretty much just stab it into your leg." I hope the instructions included are a little more specific.

Since this is all based on the Central Texas panel of common allergens, I guess I'll never be able to move again. That's OK with me, though, because Austin is the coolest. Excepting, of course, the 108 degree weather in which I'll be working outdoors tomorrow. That's not the coolest. But, you know, cost-benefit.

I Get Smells Stuck In My Nose

The internet tells me that I have cysts, or brain tumors, or who knows what else. Never consult the internet for medical advice.

Seriously: I get smells stuck in my nose. It's been happening for a couple of years now. Some time during the course of each day, there will be a smell that catches my attention, then it will come back again and again and again throughout the day. It's not, I think, in my hair, or on my skin, or in my clothes. I can shower and change clothes, and it will still be there. Often it's the meal that they're serving for Meals on Wheels. I'll smell fried chicken all day long.

A couple of months ago, I accidentally left a bag of frozen chicken breasts in the trunk of my car. In the Texas heat, in a little less than 36 hours, it went from frozen to rotten. The smell has lingered despite every effort I've made to clean the trunk. Some days, even far from the car, even after Aerie has said that the car doesn't smell bad, that horrible, rotten chicken stench will stay with me, all day long.

Sometimes it's the dead skunk we drove past. Sometimes it's the compost pile or the trash can. I think it's not always an actual smell, because I can sniff, drawing air across my olfactory nerves, and it doesn't provoke a response. It's often not so much a smell as a feeling. Or a memory. Well, not a memory; it's a real, physical sensation. But not always so much a scent like holding an onion to my nose and breathing deeply. It's just sort of there, even if I'm not breathing in. It's there, in my nose.

There's no telling what scent will stick. I've tried countering an offensive smell with a strong, pleasant smell, to no avail. And it doesn't go away with any predictability. Only sleeping and waking up seems to reset my brain or nose or whatever it is that holds on to the smells.

So do I have a brain tumor, or cysts in my sinuses, or what? This is kind of starting to freak me out. I guess I should mention this to the ENT doctor I'm seeing for my respiratory/allergy problems.

I acknowledge that I may just be crazy.

Just Breathe

By the way, Mom, that's a reference to "Breathe (2 a.m.)" by Anna Nalick, a song which Aerie quite likes.

I've had a lifelong struggle with my lungs. It was, of course, complicated by my smoking for more years than I care to remember, but it began, so my mother says, from scar tissue left in my lungs when I had pneumonia at the age of two and was hospitalized, oxygen tent and all. In the intervening years, I've repeatedly tried to get various doctors to help me find a solution to improve my lung function, but each one, each time, either has or has not administered a breathing test and has, in either case, diagnosed me with asthma and prescribed an inhaler. I've tried Primatene, Ventolin, Albuterol, Advair... Maybe more. Never has an inhaler helped. Never has an allergy med or Bronkaid or guaifenesin helped.

After another bout with bronchitis last week and a 2- or 3-week struggle with running because of breathing problems, I thought I'd try again. My primary doc referred me to a pulmonologist. He talked to me about my history, mentioned "bronchi..." something-or-other, which can result from lung infections at a young age, administered a breathing test, and diagnosed me with asthma. I'm not sure how I can have asthma when I never have anything like an asthma "attack;" he explained that the ONLY (and he emphasized "only") lung disease consistent with my breathing test, which was essentially normal, is asthma. Therefore I have asthma. QED. And he prescribed Symbicort, one I haven't tried, but which so far seems to have zero effect, just like all the others.

So in the midst of all this, I got an email from Active.com. One of the 5K or 10K races that I signed up for used Active.com for their online registration, and I've been on their email list ever since.

It was an article entitled "Breathing Tips for New Runners." I certainly never considered myself an "elite" runner, but I didn't think of myself as a "new" runner either. I didn't think it would have much to offer me, but I clicked it anyway because the timing seemed like kismet.

The article suggested that it was possible to breathe slowly, deeply, and regularly, even while running. I scoffed. I disbelieved. I thought, even if it was possible for other runners, it certainly wasn't possible for me and my damaged, weakened, and, despite what the breathing test said, definitely sub-normal lungs. When I run, I huff, and puff, and wheeze, and gasp, and suck, and blow.

Turns out, it is possible. I tried it today. I was amazed. I couldn't believe it. I still ran out of wind and had to walk for 3 or 4 brief stretches through the 5K, but it may have been because I tried a faster pace than I'd done on Monday. But by filling my lungs deeply and pushing the air all the way out on each breath, I breathed slowly. I didn't fall back into rapid, shallow breathing.

I'm choosing to accept that maybe this is a turning point for me, both in my running, which has been declining lately, and my breathing, which has been a constant irritant to me for my entire life. Maybe it's time to accept that my "normal" breathing test may be correct and that my lungs are not as awful as I have believed them, for my entire life, to be. I want this approach to breathing during exertion to be my gateway to actually achieving the improvement that I've expected since I first began running a couple of years ago. Maybe I should finally read that Pranayama book that I bought years ago, too.

Happy Birthday to Me

I am soon to be 39, and naturally that makes me think of 40. If it's to be ready in time, I should get started on the birthday present that I want to give myself for my 40th birthday: a me that's not overweight for the first time in about 20 years.

I've done this so many times in my life that I'm going to try not to set my goals too high. Mostly I want to return to some idea of reasonable in portion control, alcohol consumption, and exercise. The portion control part will be in the vein of Weight Watchers. Weight Watchers has been the most effective weight loss program I've ever tried, but it's tedious and joyless and I've never been able to keep up with it for very long. I'm going to try again, though, and if I can stick with it long enough, maybe I can establish a new pattern for myself.

I'm also going to try to eliminate alcohol, not from my life but just from my routine. It's a part of my routine, which doesn't make me proud, but it does make me fat and sometimes surly.

And exercise. I was doing well on the exercise portion of the program for quite awhile, losing weight when I ate right and maintaining weight when I didn't. Then I broke my finger, and got pneumonia, and Thumper got sick, and Thumper got sick again, and now I've been over a month out of the gym and have put on 10 pounds or so.

When I think about maybe finally being healthy when I turn 40, it's great to have the inspiration of Greg Moyle, who's following a Couch to 5K program, and Captain Carl, who's posting weigh-in pics and talking openly about his struggles. There's also Le Trevolution, the father of a smart, funny, and pretty darn cute little girl just a little older than Thumper. He's doing Crossfit and following the The Paleo Diet and looks amazing. I'm doing physical therapy for my finger at a facility that also offers Crossfit, and his name is all over the bulletin boards there that show off the weekly standings. I went to a Crossfit session with him in October, and though the puke bucket and the manly yelling weren't for me, it was a great reminder that a narrow focus in exercise, like running on a treadmill over and over, is a quick path to boredom and doesn't create the broad-based strength and endurance that helps one succeed at all sorts of physical activities, like keeping up with a three-year-old.

So, there you go. My mid-range goal will be to improve on my Warrior Dash performance in April, and my long-range goal is to weigh around 200 pounds by the time I turn 40. If my sidebar becomes a list of short-term goals, successes, and failures, you'll know why.

A Name to Strike Fear in the Hearts of Evildoers

On December 8, I broke my little finger. The urgent care clinic took three x-rays, taped my pinky to my ring finger, and advised me to see an orthopedic specialist the following week. On December 13, the orthopedic specialist repositioned the finger, splinted it, took 3 more x-rays in the process, and told me to come back in a week to verify that it hadn't moved. On December 19, I became convinced that I had pneumonia (again), and returned to the urgent care clinic, where they gave me two chest x-rays and confirmed my suspicions. Today, I returned to the orthopedic specialist, who took three more x-rays of my hand, was unsatisfied because of an obstructed view, and took two more.

So that's thirteen x-rays in twelve days. When I mutate into a superhero from all of the radiation, I shall call myself Iron Lung.

I'm not sure how this works. Does bronchitis left untreated become pneumonia? Would you Google that for me? Or are pneumonia and bronchitis separate and unrelated conditions? I suspected a couple of weeks ago that I might be developing either bronchitis or pneumonia. I had a little pain in the right side of my chest, but nothing terribly alarming. I remember telling my Primary Care Physician once that I had heard that untreated bronchitis will not resolve on its own, and he told me that wasn't true, that it may or may not. So I thought this time I'd wait and see what happens. I ran a couple of 5Ks in the meantime, which, I reasoned, I'd never be able to do with a serious respiratory condition. The pain improved, in retrospect largely because of the Vicodin I was taking for the broken finger, so I thought I was on the mend. When I stopped taking the Vicodin, the chest pain returned, along with an alarming spot of blood, prompting me to seek, at long last, medical attention.

The problem with having a wonky pair of lungs is, you never know when it's regular wonky or serious wonky. Even with pneumonia confirmed by chest x-rays, I don't feel that much different than I do on any given Monday evening.

Yes, We Read the Grinch, Too, Even Though It's June

This week, in addition to trying to control my calorie intake and workout every day and just generally try to be a better person, I'm trying to remember that despite the ear infections and Terrible Twos and tantrums and the retorts of "no, I'm just tryin' to do this" when I tell him to stop doing something and the several thousand times a day that I say, "Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on." and the throwing of toys and the bashing of various household objects with his officially licensed Texas Longhorns baseball bat, that doing this job really is fun and exactly what I wanted for my life.

Wow, that was a really long sentence.

Tonight, as I was reading him his bedtime books, I thought about what a strange and wonderful experience it is watching him turn into a real person. Anyone who sees my Facebook status updates knows I talk about him a lot, and post ad nauseum all the funny things he says and does as we go about our daily routine. He gets a lot of attention wherever we go. Just as a fer instance, we went jogging Saturday morning, and as we passed the tennis courts, he pointed and yelled, "I want to watch tennis!" So we paused and sat on the little bleachers with a couple of moms who were watching their kids receive tennis lessons. He had an entire conversation with one of the moms, completely independent of me, asking her name, pointing out what a funny name "Dixie" is, telling her his name and age, discussing the hummingbird on her shirt and what exactly a hummingbird is, telling her about his recent haircut and the birthday party he'd be going to later. She told him he didn't get a hair cut, he got 'em all cut, then snorted out a laugh and apologetically told me her humor was about at a two-year-old level. He told her Daddy cut his hair, and she said she bet I'd done it with clippers rather than scissors because that was a lot of ground to cover over his big ol' brain.

When the tennis lesson was over, and Thumper ran out onto the court to help the kids pick up balls and rackets, The mom asked me if he was really two, which we get a lot. She repeatedly marveled at how smart he was and how well he spoke, which we also get a lot. As often as I report encounters like this, and how often I'm reminded of how special he is and how lucky we are, it's still easy to forget and get bogged down in the challenges, the less pleasant aspects of taking care of him day after day.

So that's what I was thinking about while I read him his books. Because I've read all of those books so many times, I began changing We're Going on a Bear Hunt up a bit to amuse myself. I sang the first two sentences; he turned and gave me the Upraised Finger of Discipline, that I apparently use on him, though I'm not aware when I do it, and said, calmly, "No, you don't sing it. You just read it." I began reading from where I left off, and he said, "No, you missed some words." So I started over. Then I began changing some of the words. I turned the thick, oozy mud into thin, squeaky mud. I turned the whirling, swirling snowstorm into stinking, creeping smog cloud. At each point that I wandered from the printed text, he patiently brought me back, explaining that it wasn't woods, it was a forest, it wasn't a squeaky, wooden door, it was a narrow, gloomy cave.

And my heart grew three sizes that day, swelling with love for this remarkable, adorable, maddening kid who knows much more than he should, and who is, after all, only two, and is exactly where he should be, doing what he should be doing, just as I am.

A Rainy Afternoon

Jolted out of his nap by a combination of rumbling thunder, a rumbling trash truck, and a horrible wracking cough, Thumper called for me. "Daddy!" It was too soon, and he was clearly not ready to be up yet, so we sat together in my chair, with the lights off, listening to the rain and the thunder and the ticking of the clock. We both dozed and woke and dozed again. And I remembered a night some seven years ago, when I babysat a sick Robert McGee. He was, I think, about nine months old. He was feverish and unhappy and didn't want to do anything but sit with me in a rocking chair. The first couple of times he fell asleep, I tried to transfer him to the crib, but he wouldn't stand for it. So we just sat and rocked, his heat baking into me.

I've thought of that evening now and then over the intervening years, and it was in my memory a sort of pietà that represented my desire to be a parent, to be the one that little voice is calling to when he calls out for Daddy. And this afternoon I got to live it again. When he was ready, we shared an apple and some goldfish crackers, and now he's running around the house yelling, "Give it me! My chair!" So the moment is passed. But I loved it while it lingered and made a gloomy, rainy afternoon glow golden for an hour or so. Thanks, Thumper. I love you.

Waiting for the Call

It's been a tough week. Aerie had foot surgery last Thursday, and she isn't happy as a mobility-impaired patient on medical leave from her job. Her boss keeps telling her she hasn't been released to light duty yet, and then giving her more projects to work on from home. You know, in the "You shouldn't be working, but there's this, that, and the other thing still to do" vein. She doesn't like being reliant on anyone, but taking care of herself while rolling around on a knee scooter and putting no weight on her foot makes everything a huge undertaking. She doesn't like taking the pain pills because she doesn't want to sleep all day. It's going to be a fun several weeks for all three of us.

Thumper and I dropped Aerie off for surgery on her other foot this morning (even more fun!), and we've been waiting for the call to come pick her up. We went to the park and played. We wandered the neighborhood examining fire hydrants. Now he's sitting in a pile of Lincoln Logs while I blog, wearing nothing but a diaper. I mean him. He's wearing nothing but a diaper. I'm fully clothed.

Sometimes this week has been difficult. Thumper's independence is expanding, which can be trying. It's manifesting as a lot of yelling and whining, by both of us. He has three recent obsessions. Well, four. The first is fire hydrants. I don't know why. When we drive, he chimes in from the back seat: "Hydrant! See it? I see it! 'Nother one? There it is! Red! 'Nother one? See it? There it is!"

The second is his penis. 'Nough said. Well, almost enough said. When I put a diaper on him, he says, "Bye, penis! Fun penis." Which is pretty entertaining, but I probably shouldn't tell you these things.

The third is removing his clothing. He doesn't want to wear clothes anymore, which is why he's sitting in a pile of Lincoln Logs in a diaper. When it's time to go pick up Aerie he will have a fit when I torture him by putting a shirt and pants on him. Shoes are OK, as long as there the new shoes.

And the fourth is Mama. Since she's been home all day every day, he's become constantly concerned with her location. "Are you coming, Mama?" is his mantra. When I take him into his room to change his diaper: "Are you coming, Mama?" To the bath: "Are you coming, Mama?" To the playground, to the store, to bed. And if the answer isn't, "I'm coming," he expresses his displeasure.

So it's a houseful of cranky folks. Yay! Want to come over?

So I Took That Popsicle Advice

Cranky

I am enjoying a week of horrible, debilitating back pain. I can barely move. It's great. Perhaps not coincidentally, Thumper's going through a whiny, clingy period where he wants to be picked up and carried around a lot.

Hoisting him into and out of the car seat and laying him down in his crib are the worst. He's beginning to imitate the sounds I make. Would anybody like to buy me one of these? I'd appreciate it. And yesterday's afternoon of climbing, crawling, ducking, sliding, swinging, and yes, more hoisting at Zilker Park didn't improve things much, so would anybody like to come over and play with the boy while I sit as still as possible and moan and read a decreasingly pleasurable series of books?

You know, it's funny, but it turns out that pain does NOT actually increase my levels of patience and tolerance. So more yelling this week. I'm sorry, Thumper. If you do your best stop touching that, stop stealing that, stop throwing that, stop jumping on that, and stop loudly demanding that, I'll do my best to stop yelling those curse words at you.

Time Keeps on Slipping, Probably on Thumper's Cars

Almost every day this week, Thumper's only had one nap. One nap. That's two hours of time that just no longer exist. It's like when Mr. Dark is tempting Jason Robards in Something Wicked This Way Comes.

"Second nap? Two more hours every day to write blogs and to read them. To write copy. To do laundry and dishes. Second nap? Speak now. Going... Gone."

I'm dreading the day when he tears the page on that first nap.



(Jump to about 5:40 to see the moment without watching the whole scene.)

I'm getting caught behind. I haven't worked out all week because now that my pneumonia is resolved, I'm having bronchitis problems. Of course! I'm behind on a copywriting project. I'm behind on a database project. And I haven't posted anything to my silly blog in almost a week. I'm already sick of my new header up there, but I haven't had time to make a new one.

It's a good thing my main job contains a large concentration of fun and smiling and laughing, or I'd be feeling stressed out. I had a pulse of 64 and a blood pressure of 110/70 at the doctor today. That doesn't sound like a stressed out man, and I think it's mostly because Thumper consistently makes things easier than I expect them to be.

Exception: after a long day yesterday that started on campus picking up my new "Supervisor" uniform, then our first Austin-SAHDs playdate in almost a year, then a nap in the car, then babysitting the cousins, he was pretty much an emotional and exhausted wreck by the time we got home. I'm having trouble working on the timing of snacks and lunch these days when his one nap falls right across the meridian line between morning and afternoon. But on the plus side, an exhausted baby means: he fell asleep in the 10-minute car ride home from the doctor this morning. An early nap! So I have a pretty good chance of getting a second nap out of him this afternoon! Time! To work! And I'm squandering it on my silly blog! I best get to being all productive and whatnot...

Follow-up

The doctor gave me a clean bill of health, but wants another chest x-ray in 4 weeks. He offered to write me a note so that I could go back to work; as I dragged Thumper away from the trash can marked "Biohazard," I said that I was already back to work. In fact, I'm working right now!

Pneumonia?

I made a follow-up appointment with my regular doctor for Tuesday. He's requested the records from the Emergency Room, because he was unsatisfied with my report on their diagnosis. He said that if they thought it was contagious, and they did suggest masks and limiting contact with little Thumper, that indicates that they thought it was viral and antibiotics would be ineffective. Yet they prescribed antibiotics, which indicates that they thought it was bacterial, which would not be contagious. He expressed his dissatisfaction with the treatment provided by that particular ER in previous cases, too. So I don't know. Is it pneumonia? Is it not? I'm on my fourth day of antibiotics, and I don't feel much different. Not that I felt particularly bad to begin with. With apologies for being gross, I am still coughing up globs of blood, but they're much darker, not the cheerfully bright red they used to be. Is that a good sign? A bad sign? I don't know. I'll wait and see. I'm thinking it would be a good thing to take myself off of the usher roster for the football game on the 13th, though, since after 5 o'clock Monday, I'll be committed to working it. And Aerie's got Crimefightin' to do tomorrow, so the boy will be back in my hands. Guess I'll keep wearing the masks and taking the antibiotics, just to cover my bases.

Pneumonia

This will be a boring post, but I feel like I should write about my adventure yesterday, and mitchellkt wanted a history:

When I was two, I had pneumonia. I believe I spent a couple of weeks in the hospital, some portion of that in an oxygen tent. According to my mother, that experience left me with scar tissue in my lungs that has apparently been the root of a lifetime of minor respiratory difficulties ever since. After passing out while running laps in 7th grade off-season football training, I was diagnosed with "activity-induced asthma," but the medication did nothing for me, and I am currently and have periodically since demonstrated my ability to engage in activities like jogging without inducing asthma. I've at least twice since then been told by doctors that I have asthma, but the prescribed asthma medication has virtually no effect. My lungs, to me, do not feel constricted or inflamed, as TV commercials for various asthma medications describe the symptoms of asthma; they instead feel obstructed, or partially flooded.

When I was a teen, my mother told me that I should never smoke, because my childhood pneumonia experience had left my lungs in such a state that smoking would be very dangerous for me. So of course I eventually took up smoking. I was usually a 1/2 to one pack-a-day smoker. I quit for 4 years in my 20's, then let a single stressful day start me up again. I've now not smoked for two years and have no intention of falling back into it.

I've had occasional bouts of bronchitis in the intervening years, usually accompanied with pleuresy, the inflammation of the lining of my lungs causing them to press into various pointy parts of my skeletal structure and causing pain. That's what I thought was happening again on Sunday night. But while driving young Thumper to the playground Monday after lunch, I coughed up 4 or 5 bright red chunks of blood, so I turned around, took the boy back to his Mama, and drove myself to the hospital.

Ever since I started smoking, my mother's admonition has whispered in the back of my head, making me sometimes certain that I will end up with lung cancer. It was never enough to make me straighten up and fly right, but it was enough to make me now and again sure that I would get my just come-uppance for acting the fool. So for a few minutes, I thought the time had finally come. Of course! I'm finally a father. I'm working on improving my health and my weight. I'm trying to be a better person. Of course now I've got cancer! But then I told myself to stop being dramatic, and I told my wife that it was probably pneumonia.

So when the doctor talked about a chest x-ray and a blood test and a CAT scan and tuberculosis (probably not) and a blood clot (let's rule it out) and probably pneumonia, I actually chuckled. My mood improved dramatically. I smiled. I joked with the lady who came to take my insurance information. I suppressed the urge to make a joke of an inappropriate sexual nature when the nurse, looking for a vein from which to draw blood, exclaimed, "Wow! It's huge!" I chatted amicably with the x-ray tech and the CAT scan tech. I showed my nurse photos of Thumper and made her tell me how adorable he is.

So I dodged a bullet again, this time. But that little voice is still there, telling me I screwed myself through all those years of self-indulgent self-destruction. It's coming eventually, it says, and I'll deserve it.

Coxsackievirus. Not Herpes.

Herpangina. The doctor said, "Wow, he must be pretty stoic about pain." Maybe she said it to make me feel better about the fact that I hadn't noticed the blisters at the back of the boy's throat. The ones that bled when she took a culture.

I mean, if you had painful, bleeding blisters in your throat, when you ate, wouldn't you give some indication of pain greater than some mild fussing? I just thought he was telling me he was full. He ate almost all of his breakfast this morning while we chatted about balls and bananas and made goofy faces at each other. Never once did he say, "Damn, Daddy, my throat hurts like hell." Not once. I almost didn't even take him to the doctor today, since his fever was gone when he woke up (but back again at the doctor's office). I thought, "Guess we might as well go and make sure he doesn't have an ear infection since he keeps shoving his finger in there deeper than one might think was even possible. Besides, I can ask her why this kid poops so much." And surprise! Herpangina!

Ah well, yet another point of stupid, macho pride: the boy can suck it up when it hurts. Yeah!

Die! No, Don't Die.

This is a post about mixed emotions and guilt. It is not a post about what a horrible, callous person I am. I promise.

Sometimes I wish the cats would reach the end of their lives already. I don't feel good about it, and I don't really wish they would die. But sometimes I really do. Sort of.

Before we had a child, I almost felt like the cats were our children in a way. We took care of them because we loved them. They helped to fill our home with a little more love and affection, a little more cute and fuzzy. They filled a need deep in Mrs. Rodius' heart. And they killed bugs.

Then Cat #1, who had colitis and an unpleasant tendency toward diarrhea and a willingness to express his unhappiness at feeling poorly by peeing on our possessions while angrily staring right at us, developed diabetes. Shit, piss, vomit, and now injections! Yay! And as a bonus, the guilt for choosing not to move him across the country with us and not wanting to continue trying to control his uncontrollable roller coaster blood sugar numbers. Mrs. Rodius still occasionally sheds a tear for him.

Then Cat #2 was murdered in our living room. Cat #4 demonstrated a life-long tendency toward struvites and infections despite the expensive surgery that saved his life. That surgery has prevented subsequent blockages, but he still gets at least 2 or 3 bladder infections per year.

Cat #3, perhaps in solidarity with Cat #4, has also decided that regular urinary tract infections would be a wonderful way to spice up life. She also has seasonal allergies that give her rashes, making her scratch her ears to scabs and overwash so that she has bald spots. It's wonderful to wake up at 3AM to the relentless "flapflapflapflapflap" of a cat obsessively scratching her ears. She also hates Cat #4 and likes to have screaming fights with him. Also at 3AM.

Now Cat #4 has been acting, well, a little iffy. He's been vomiting white foam. He's breathing heavily. He's spending more time alone under the bed. He may have lost some weight. Thumper and I took him to the vet this morning, and now I'm waiting for them to call and tell us what's going on. I'm hoping he'll be OK. I'm hoping that it's not that he scratched a big wad of carpet fuzz off of the scratching post and ate it so that he has an intestinal blockage that will require surgery to remove. I'm hoping it's just a minor, easily correctible problem so that he'll be back under the bed tonight, back attacking Cat #3 and puking on the patio. But part of me, just a small part of me about which I'm not proud, hopes that it's something catastrophic. Something big and incurable. Something fatal. Something painful so that we won't feel as guilty about euthanizing him. And maybe, and don't tell Mrs. Rodius I said so, but maybe something contagious.

I know, that's horrible. And not just to the cats, but to Mrs. Rodius. Her cats are a part of her. Each one owns a little piece of her heart, and she will hurt so whenever they meet their ends, however it may happen. But I think maybe her need for them has abated somewhat. That if these cats move on to meet their maker, perhaps she won't need to find new cats to save. Because, yeah, they're our cats, and I love them too, blah blah blah. We made a commitment to them when we took them in. But now, with Thumper, the coughed-up furr balls and the scratched-up furniture seem less endearing somehow. The constant cat litter maintenance seems more tedious. And with the reduced income that came with staying at home with the baby full-time, the regular expense of vet bills and antibiotics and prescription food seems extravagant. Irresponsibly extravagant, even.

I know, I'm going to hell. Definitely going to hell.

Return of the Contagious Conjunctivitis

This time, it's personal...

Blowin' in the Wind

Sometimes when Thumper is weary of playing, and he has that dreamy, far away look, we go out on the back porch. He stares thoughtfully at the wind blowing through the trees and the green beginning to peek through the brown in the garden, and he contemplates the cyclical nature of time. Then he softly blows a raspberry to communicate his disdain for this material world, and we go back inside for a nap.

It is day 7 of cold #1. The conjunctivitis is gone, though we'll probably continue through a couple more days of eye drops, just because I enjoy tormenting him. This is also why I wipe his nose so often. His snot production is still at full capacity; he wakes up with a dried, crusty coating all over his face and hands. A good sneeze can produce six-inch streamers, and it's always good for a hearty, heartfelt "Eeeeewwwwwwww!" from his nine-year-old cousin. His cough, too, is not relenting, though miraculously, he seems to sleep through the many wracking fits he has at night.

Aside from the humidifier, does anyone have any suggestions for relieving the upper respiratory infection symptoms of an unmedicatable infant?

Our Weekend Started Like This, and Went Downhill from There...

FRIDAY:

7:00 a.m.: "His eye is a little red and goopy. Maybe it's just allergies. If it doesn't get better, we might have to take him to the doctor tomorrow."

1:15 p.m.: "I think we'll stop by the pediatrician's office on the way home."

2:30 p.m.: "He was coughing a little bit this afternoon, and it sounded kind of phlegmy. And he was snoring in the car on the way over here, so I think he's a little stuffed up."

"It's conjunctivitis, all right. It's highly contagious, but you and your wife have probably already had it. He's probably got a little cold on top of it. He sure is a happy little guy, though! And what a flirt!"

4:15 p.m.: "He woke up from his nap, and his temperature was 102.9, and he's just laying here, moaning. He looks absolutely miserable."

5:15 p.m.: "Wow, that Children's Tylenol is amazing!"

We've sort of been riding the Tylenol cycle ever since. He's up! He's down! He's up! He's down! He's quite the trooper. Depending on where he is in the cycle, he tries to have fun. He wants to see the humor in the belly raspberry. His eyes still light up when Mama puts her hair down.


I'd like to share with you these valuable lessons that our experience has taught us. I may be the first person to come to these realizations:

1. Having a sick baby is stressful. And tiring.
2. There's no effective way to explain to an infant that he should blow his nose.
3. When the doctor says "conjunctivitis," one or both of your eyes immediately start to feel a little funny.
4. Taking a baby's temperature rectally kind of sucks. Probably more for him than for me, but still. Also sucks: watching the numbers creep up. And up. And up. Also sucks: giving a baby eye drops.

I'm glad I can share these little nuggets of wisdom with you guys.

The Streak Is Over

After nearly seven months, the previously never ill Thumper has finally demonstrated that he is not, in fact, Unbreakable. And the winner is...

Conjunctivitis! With a little dollop of cold on top.

The doctor said that they're seeing a lot of conjunctivitis going around, and so, apparently, are the chains on the swings at the playground. Mrs. Rodius may never let us out of the house again without a can of Lysol.