Do You See What I See?

Today we're going to do that thing they do in movies where they show a shot of one invariably sad/brooding/pensive character staring at some celestial body or other, cut to a shot of the moon/stars/whatever, then cut to a shot of another character staring at the same sky, suggesting they're connected in some way, even when apart.  It'll be like you're right here with me in central Iowa just by forcibly looking at the same things I'm looking at.  Or something.


The view out our front door:

Leaves that I should probably rake up or mow over, but why the heck should I?  They're just too pretty.

The view when I wake Cade up from naptime:

I found these next to our sleeping four-year-old, and when I asked him what exactly happened to his sister's purloined Lip Smackers, he yawned and nonchalantly told me, "Oh, I ate them."  Right.



The view of our kitchen today:

Both the boys are now sick with whatever gunk Adelaide had, and they'll play with their usual vigor and energy until they collapse.  Then they'll play again, hunting for bad guys or fighting dust motes, then collapse.  Then draw and color in treasure maps to roll up and tuck into their belts, then collapse, because evidently even coloring will drain it right out of you when you're sick.  I keep finding them lying in odd places around the house and yard.  It's somewhat disconcerting.  

The view of me most mornings at home:

The morning after the half marathon, I was tidying up around the house, mostly trying to keep moving so my entire body didn't stiffen up and go all Petrificus Totalus on me when Caedmon asked me to kneel down to his level.  With great solemnity, he placed my finisher's medal from the race around my neck, then went back to playing.  I wore it for the next couple hours over my jammies while getting household stuff done- I mean, I already had it on, okay, and I wouldn't dare risk offending our youngest child, and it did lend a certain air of accomplishment to my highly important dusting of the blinds and reading of the picture books.  Cade, for his part, was tickled I'd left it on, and we've gone through a makeshift awards ceremony almost every morning since.  

The view of my garden's last offerings of the season:

Gourds.  Gourds coming out of my ears.  I had already foisted at least half of them upon unsuspecting friends, and this is what I'm left with, plus a few more I just found hiding among the weeds a couple days ago.  I ended up dumping most of them on the front porch, because Lord knows I needed some kind of color on there, what with the demon squirrels constantly uprooting all the ornamental kale I tried growing in my containers.  THERE ARE NO NUTS IN MY FLOWER POTS, SQUIRRELS.  TAKE YOUR DIRTY PAWS ELSEWHERE.  YOU'RE RATS WITH FANCY TAILS.  GOD REGRETS YOUR CREATION.

The view of our piano-top:

More late-season garden produce:  Ornamental eggplant!  Gracious.  Remember when the lovelies in the above two photos were just tiny little egg carton sprouts?

They just grow so fast!  *sob*

Wherefore Art Thou, Fluocinonide?

A while ago I came across a blog post that was entitled something like "Your Life Might Be Better Without Prescription Medication."  I chose not to read it because I decided I didn't want to spend the rest of the day angry.

For the next several days, however, at odd moments my mind would touch upon that unread post and stew.

It's easy to think no one needs meds when you've never suffered from a chronic condition.

I wonder how many people I know would probably be dead with prescription medication?  Let's see- one, two, three, four...

How about I invite the author of that post to come show me how to get through an asthma attack without my inhaler?  I'm sure she'd be super helpful coaching me through deep breathing exercises and "centering myself."  (I have actually had someone suggest this to me before.  Upon learning about my asthma- you know, the sudden inability to DRAW SUFFICIENT AIR INTO MY LUNGS, he wondered aloud if I'd ever tried taking a deep, soul-soothing breathe to help get my system back on track?  I had nothing nice to say and so kept my mouth shut and instead tried to communicate my utter loathing through a flat stare and arched brow.  I'm pretty sure he got it.)

I just knew this was going to be yet another poorly researched post on the idiocy of Western medicine and a general spewing of terrible grammar and bad syntax.

Now, before you get your panties in a twist, let me be clear:  I totally get the whole "We don't need as many meds as we're currently ingesting" movement.  I really, really do.  I can see the wisdom in trying every other- often natural- avenue to good health before turning to medication as a last resort.  This is generally what we practice with our family.  So disengage those negative emotions you feel rising before you have a stroke and potentially need (gasp!) medication.

I did eventually read the article.  It wasn't at all what I had expected.  For the most part, the author was talking about taking meds to prolong your life for a short time- often at the cost of quality of life- and about taking one pill after another, treating the side effects of each drug with yet another.

That's a whole different ball of wax.  I didn't agree with everything she said, but I could certainly understand where she was coming from and respect her decision-making process.


Strangely enough, through the whole thing, the one prescription I thought I really wouldn't want to live without (including even the potentially life-saving inhalers and EpiPens) was my beloved Fluocinonide.

Oh, Fluocinonide.  If I were a poetess, I'd write a sonnet in perfectly balanced iambic pentameter to you.  Because I don't want your feelings to get hurt and make you feel invalidated, I'm going to make sure everyone knows how to pronounce your lovely name (say "flew-oh-SIN-oh-nide").

Do I need the Fluocinonide?  I suppose not.  Does it greatly improve my quality of life?  Oh, yeah.

Fluocinonide (okay, that's way too long for me to keep typing.  It needs a nickname:  maybe Flo?  Nidey?  Can you tell nicknames aren't really my thing?) is a topical ointment for eczema.  It's really been on my mind here lately because I've been so busy manual labor-wise, which obviously involves heavy use of my hands (and anytime you're working with your hands a lot, you're also having to wash your hands a lot, and as far as eczema is concerned, prolonged exposure to water is the devil) where my eczema is concentrated.  While this isn't exactly devastating as far as chronic conditions go, it is annoying to sit down and try to write a letter only to have the paper smeared with blood and ooze all because I had the audacity to try and bend my fingers around the pen, causing my skin to crack open and the blisters to burst.  No one wants to receive that letter in the mail.

As long as I have that ointment (and put it on every night.  I've discovered that it doesn't actually help just to have it, you also have to apply it.  Because I'm brilliant like that.), I can function completely normally.  I can curl my hands into fists without wanting to cry.  I can bathe my kids and wash their hair without pain.  I can garden and cook and write letters and type this post, all because of beautiful, greasy prescription Fluocinonide.


Do you have any meds you can't live without (literally or maybe just my-life-would-kinda-suck-without-this)?  Or do you think I'm going to hell in a handbasket for not just using prescription meds, but writing a blog post about my love for them?

Silver Linings

I gotta tell you, today has been one of those days.  The kind where, in order to convince yourself that Yes, you should get out of bed tomorrow morning, you have to mentally gloss over all the negative aspects and accentuate the positive.

On that note, I give you all the great things that happened today:


This morning, Caedmon greeted me with a great big smile when I walked into his bedroom.  See?  That's a terrific positive.  He also gestured grandly like a miniature, male Vanna White while standing in the corner of his crib and proudly cried, "See what I did?" in order to properly showcase the vomit covering his sheets and blankets, his own clothing, and the bars of his crib.  I'm guessing he didn't point out the puke crusted in his hair simply because he couldn't see it.
Positive:  Caedmon's cheerful morning greeting and his channeling of a glittering game show model was a terrific way to start the day.  As long as you ignored the powerful stench.


This evening at the supper table, I got three whole bites of food into my mouth before Atticus brought forth a truly impressive amount of vomit before bursting into hysterical tears.  He was also kind enough to turn to the side immediately before doing so, saving the table and its spread of freshly prepared food from mixing with Atticus's slightly less fresh, already-digested food.
Positive:  I did get a little supper, and most of the puke landed on the laminate flooring.


Five minutes later, while I was working on cleaning up the aforementioned well-placed mess and Adelaide and Caedmon were plowing through their supper, astonishingly unaffected by their brother's impressive display of regurgitation, I could hear Derek leading Atticus toward the stairs to head up for a bath.  They made it all the way to the staircase before another chorus of heaving and splashing echoed through the house.
Positive:  It was in the front room, which is all wood flooring; easy clean-up.  Plus by this point I was giggling a bit maniacally, which Adelaide questioned.  I gave her a little history lesson and hit her with an Abraham Lincoln quote:  "I laugh because I must not cry.  That is all.  That is all."  While cleaning up vomit.  Parenting Level "Supreme Awesomeness": Unlocked.


I got to go to the library for a while this evening, which I believe gave me the fortitude I needed to clean up the mess I found in one of the children's bedrooms upon my return.  I won't burden you with the knowledge of exactly what it was, but I will say it was a puddle of a common byproduct of illness other than vomit nestled in a Vikings cap.  Evidently it magically appeared there, as none of our three children have any idea of its origin.
Positive:  We live in a time and place where modern plumbing exists.  I was able to throw the hat, a befouled teddy bear, and a number of pieces of less-than-pristine boys clothing into the washer with only minor clean-up beforehand, dump in some soap, turn a knob, and walk away.  Straight to the kitchen sink where I viciously scrubbed my hands.


Yup.  It was a good day.

It's Not a Tumor

I was friends with a girl in high school who acted like she was on the brink of death at least once a week.

While she did have one (minor) genuine physical ailment, for the most part, it was all exaggeration and moaning on her part.

It felt like every other conversation we had went something like this:

"Kristy, look at my eye.  Do you see my eye?"

"I see your eye.  It's definitely there."

"Do you see all that inflammation and pus?"

"I guess so."

"I have bacterial conjunctivitis.  I went to the doctor [who either hated her because she wouldn't leave him alone or loved her because she helped pay for his boat] this morning, he took one look, and sure enough:  bacterial conjunctivitis."

"So... you have pink eye.  Don't touch me."


Having a school nurse for a mother often came in handy with my dealings with her:  I was hard to impress when it came to medical ailments and rarely doled out any sympathy.  (Hey, Mom, remember that time I broke my hand, and it looked like a surgical glove that had been inflated and was all black and blue and nasty purple, and you were all, "No, you don't need to go to the hospital- oh, FINE, here's some ibuprofin"?  Have I mentioned that a time or twenty lately?)  Strangely enough, this only seemed to make her more desperate to impress me with the fact that her body was surely falling apart at the ripe old age of 15.


Well, if my relationship with my mom was training for that high school friendship, then that high school friendship was definitely training for my relationship with my daughter.

I'm starting to think Adelaide is a hypochondriac.

Every third day or so, she's coming to me with a different complaint:  "My left cheekbone feels swollen.  Does it look swollen to you?"  "My elbow joint feels a little loose today,"  "My stomach hurts,"  "My back hurts,"  "My knee hurts."

If I'm feeling generous, I'll give the ailing body part a cursory inspection, tell her to take a shower or go for a walk.  If I'm busy dealing with genuine emergencies, I'll tell her to lie down or to go do something worthwhile if she's that hungry for attention.

After arriving home from school yesterday, she spent most of the afternoon limping around, complaining of pain in her heel.  I finally had her lie down, took her sock off, and did a brief inspection.  It looked like a heel.  When I told her the shocking diagnosis, she asked if maybe I could call Grandma Lorri (AHAHAHA, like there's any sympathy to be gained in that quarter!) or look online.  I tried to explain the harbinger of doom that is WebMD and that there was no point in looking there, unless we wanted to convince ourselves that she has cancer of the heel or something.

In the end, she made do with a heated rice pack (we use those things for absolutely everything: headaches, stomachaches, cancer of the heel, etc), and seemed to be walking normally by bedtime.

I did feel a little guilty last night, wondering if six-year-old's could suffer from bone spurs or plantar fasciitis, thinking that maybe this time I should have done at least a little research before brushing off our daughter's pain.

First thing this morning, however, Adelaide announced that she had figured out what was wrong with her foot:  Growing pains.  I was relieved by this sudden but vague announcement, right up until she told me about her newest problem.

She jammed her right pinky finger while eating breakfast this morning.  Could I maybe have a rice pack ready for her when she got home from school today?

I guess it's cheaper than drugs.

Perspective

I didn't post yesterday.  Sue me.  I didn't feel well.

Actually, this cold that has zapped all my energy got me to thinking.  Maybe it's just me, but when I'm not feeling so great or am just having a less than stellar day, it's pretty easy to go down a woe is me, it's my pity party and I'll cry if I want to-kind of path.

Then I remember that I can't stand whiny people, which means I can't be whiny, because I also can't stand hypocrites, so I play a little game with myself.


Generally before bedtime, Derek or I will read Atticus and Adelaide a little snippet from their VeggieTales devotional.  Every once in a while, however, I like to mix things up a bit, and I'll read from Little Visits With God, a book I remember well from my childhood.  In addition to having a slightly different tone from VeggieTales, it was first published in the 1950's, so it has a different perspective, as well.

A while back, I opened Little Visits at random, found an illustration of a smiling boy in a wheel chair, was intrigued, and decided that would be our devotional for the evening.  An excerpt:

"A woman was coming down the sidewalk, pushing a wheel chair.  In it sat a little boy who couldn't walk.  He couldn't even move his hands very much.  He had had polio.  But he was smiling all the time.
     'Look at that boy; he's always smiling,' said Allan.
     'I'd cry if I couldn't walk,' said his sister Margie.
    "But he's doing right by smiling,' said Allan.  'Don't you remember what our minister said about being happy all the time? 'Be glad in the Lord always.' That's a Bible verse.'"

The story continues a bit about remembering Jesus' sacrifice and what it means to be glad in the Lord.  It reminds me a bit of that children's song and game "Count Your Blessings," where basically you name ways you're fortunate and blessed to get your mind off your own petty troubles.

That's the game I play with myself:  "Count Your Blessings."  Although I usually call it "Shut Up, You Big Sissy."

Sometimes you have to be firm.