Girls Week

Our “Girls Week” ended this morning at 3am when I dropped off my mom and sister to catch their flights back home. Today went better than Sunday when I did the same thing, only to pick them back up a few hours later after they were both bumped from their flights. I didn’t mind – a few extra girl days are never a bad thing. Their husbands didn’t agree.

This brings an end to hours of eating, laughing, and watching a stack of estrogen enriched movies. I might have withdrawals.

I get to keep the little one for a little longer.

Its 9:45, she still sound asleep without a hint of waking. What 4-year-old would sleep through plans of making cookies, finger painting, running through sprinklers and playing playdoh? Attacking a craft box with as many pipecleaners, stickers, pompoms, felt squares, colors of glitter and jars of paste any 4-year-old could dream of? This one, who has been sick for the last 4 days. For the sake of summer fun, hers and mine, I am hoping that the antibiotics kick in and she is back to being her normal, bubbly, funny, energetic, makes-me-laugh, little girl.





I would definitely loose the “favorite aunt” award if these are her only memories of her summer with me.

4th of July

I know it was a while back but we are still feeling the effects of it.

I am always up for some good 4th of July celebrations. In fact I was the one that prodded my Sweetie out for some tasty BBQ and dazzling fireworks, but my dear neighbors are the champs of 4th of July celebrations. In fact, they are still celebrating. Every night they put on their own little firework show. Every night.

Now that sounds fun, huh?

Well it would be if it didn’t scare the bejezus out of my 100 pound German Shepherd. Every night they start their post independence day celebrations and my poor dog starts shaking….and panting, and pacing, and whining, and passing gas. Lots and lots of dog gas.

To Tarzan

Only crazy people have parrots and only weirdoes celebrate their pet's birthday. Whatever, commit me.

Happy 1st Birthday Tarzan

Kid Doctors

Another note on my Holiday at Cedars Sinai

Also known as interns, residents, fellows or as they like to introduce themselves, just generally as “part of the thoracic team”. Don’t trust them, or any other “doctor like” person who is not your doctor. They really don’t know what’s going on. Sure they glanced at your chart for a full 4 seconds before sauntering into your room – but just listen, nod your head, and ignore what they say.

I had some kid about my age walk into my room shortly after I arriving in my room from the recovery room. He didn’t give a title but muttered something about being on the “thoracic team”. I assume he was some kind of soon-to-be-full-on-doctor. He asked me if I wanted to go home. Dumb boy, my reply – “sure, spring me”. He told me I could go as soon as I could walk, eat, and take oral pain meds. “Bring it on” was my higher-than-a-kite response. Come to find out when I asked for a meal and to have the tube in my chest and IV taken out – kid doctor was wrong and I was held captive for a few more days.

Another kid doctor was seeing me before I went into surgery. He requested to write a “yes” on the side of my chest that the surgery was to take place on and a “no” on the other side. Kinda scary that surgeons rely on kids with magic markers for surgical instruction, but I thought, hey what's the harm. Well the harm was that kid doctor didn’t believe me when I told him they weren’t going through the front of my chest, but through the back. Trying to explain to trust-me-I’m-almost-a-real-doctor kid that your chest can be accessed from the front and back isn’t as easy as it sounds. We compromised and he wrote on both the front and back of my chest on the respected sides “yes” and “no”. I think he was happy – he got to do more coloring and I let him pick the colors. I was happy just to see a big fat scar running through the “yes” on my back and not on my front.

Everything’s Under Control

I am an “in control” type of person. Sometimes this characteristic of mine comes in handy – like when I’m at work and crap is hitting the fan, you need someone to call the shots. But sometimes it’s a nuisance, it causes me to bite my tongue and/or just be completely annoyed. A short hospital stay proved sometimes things are out of my control – I didn’t like it.

After having a mass plus a couple of ribs removed from my chest I laid in a hospital bed completely annoyed. Not at the fact that I couldn’t breath or much less move without pain, but because they had put these ridiculous leg squeezers on my legs. I’m sure they have a more medical term for them, but that really describes them – they were hot, itchy, plastic things strapped around my legs and at completely random intervals they would inflate squeezing my legs. As much as a wiggled and kicked I couldn’t get them off. My caring Sweetie wouldn’t take them off for me either (wait till he asks me to do something for him).

I immediately asked if I could have them removed and Nurse Crotchet acted as if I had asked her to actually saw my legs off. She gawffed a mumbled something about them being “critically important”. I wondered if she had read my chart correctly and known that I had chest surgery and that my legs were just fine. I did take my oxygen off despite her scolding. I tried to bargain with her – leg squeezers off and oxygen on – but she wasn’t having it. Regardless, I was too drugged up to argue.

Which brings me to my second point of contention.

I had an IV in my arm, (actually the inside of my wrist right below my palm – and coming from a person who starts IVs everyday at work – it was lame placement). Through this IV flowed regular doses of Dilaudid. Whether I needed it or not that little pump was relentless in keeping me in a foggy stupor. I also had “little button guy” (I named him, thanks to the Dilaudid) that I could push if I wanted more, but there was nothing I could push if I wanted less. No control. I would just start to wake up and get my bearings when I would hear that little beep, the Dilaudid would drip, and I would be fading out again.

Again I called on Nurse Crotchet. I told her that I wanted to get rid of the Dilaudid drip but keep “little button guy” so I could get how much I wanted when I wanted it. “The doctor ordered it so you get it” was nurse Crotchets reply. It was obvious, she likes to be in control just as much as I do.

I think she pushed “little button guy” for me because I just remember dozing off again annoyed and a little smug. She hadn’t noticed that I conned the CNA who had wondered into my room to check my vital signs to also to remove my “critically important” leg squeezers with the promise that I wouldn’t tell Nurse Crotchet and I would keep my legs a’movin’. (I said “a’movin’" thanks again, Dilaudid.)

My Husband

He’s had a birthday so I thought I would reflect on why my favorite guy is my favorite guy.

To be honest, I just love him. When most women gripe and complain about their better halves, I get to sit there without much to say. I think that says a lot.

He has all the redeeming qualities one would list as preferable in a husband – he is loving, caring, sweet, funny, handsome, and smart. But there is much more to him than the generic list.

He is lovingly gentle. He knows when a I need to be hugged a little longer than usual. He knows when I need him just to listen and sympathize – not analyze and strategize. He has never raised his voice in our home. He complements freely and shows appreciation for what I do.

He is fun to be around. We laugh at ourselves and each other. Its him who initiates the adventures we go on. He likes toys and to have fun.

He has never shown resentment towards me when I haven’t been able to provide him with the family that we’ve dreamed of. He has endless patients when my mood swings would give most people motion sickness.

He balances me. When I want to throw caution to the wind and hope for the best – he’s there with a security net and a back-up plan.

He pays attention. He knows my favorite singer, type of pizza and flavor of ice-cream. He knows my shoe size and which t-shirt is my favorite (its really ugly, has a few holes, and has been around as long as he has and he never complains when I wear it to bed).

He is a good person. He works hard for what we have. He is honest and moral.

He loves me and that makes me one lucky girl.

Happy Birthday to my Sweetie Sweetie!

Oh, and he lets me call him “Sweetie Sweetie”

Utah or Bust!!!

We are off to Utah.
Here is to a week of dresses, flowers, family, and a wedding. Sounds pretty unbeatable to me!

A Word of Caution

I’ve never thought of peppers, jalapenos to be exact, to be dangerous, but ask my partner he will tell you otherwise - from experience.

He was chopping up jalapeno peppers to put into a salsa he was making when nature called. He went to the restroom, washed his hands, and came back to making salsa. Moments later he was shifting his weight from side to side, clearly uncomfortable.

It instantly made sense to him – he had jalapeno pepper residue somewhere it should have never been. He bolted to the shower room and according to him was undressed and showering within a few seconds.

Here’s the second note of caution – water makes the burning worse.

Frantically my partner called on another guy that was at our station to Goggle an antidote for the burning. Milk and butter where shuttled into the shower room and only he knows what he did with them, but he says butter works better than milk.

My stomach hurt from laughing, his boy parts just hurt, and he now is the owner of many nicknames that are not appropriate to post.

The Wedding

T Minus 2 Weeks till Casey and Shawna's big day!!!

The flowers are done - well, ordered and paid for.

Hopefully they will arrive from the growers all ready to be arranged. I've never ordered wholesale flowers online so my fingers are crossed that they will be delivered alive.

If everything works out this is what they should look like -






The little ones dress is still under construction if we're lucky it will be wearable in two weeks.

A Day (almost and entire day) at the Doctors

Random thoughts of a day in the doctor's office...

The big sign stating that they ONLY validate your parking ticket for 2 HOURS should have been my first clue about how things were going to go. Appointment time? 10:30 Saw the doctor? 12:30 Time with the doctor? About 40 seconds. Waiting for referral information? Another hour.

Still cost me $13 dollars to park – no insurance coverage there.

Why was my appointment at 10:30 when I didn’t see him till 12:30? Although the waiting room is inviting, comfortable, and well decorated, I have better things to do than read through 2 copies of Good Housekeeping, 3 Parent Magazines, 1 Highlights (I hate when the little brat before you circles all the objects in Can You See It), play at least 10 games of Tetris on my phone and send a few texts to my Sweetie.

A phone call saying something to the effect of, “you’ll be here a while, you might want to show up an hour after your appointment time or bring rations” would have been nice.

You still pay a specialist copay even if that specialist only spends 40 seconds with you referring you to another specialist. That was a dollar a second I paid for his time. If I made that kind of money I would rake in about $10,713,600.00 year, not including overtime.

I am thankful for my specialist's honesty and humility – I think it takes a good doctor to admit someone else, in the same specialty, can do a better job. I would rather hear, “I’m going to refer you to Dr. Better-than-me” than hear, “let me give it a try and we’ll hope for the best.”

Now that I am home I have a little more perspective. I am fortunate enough to have good medical benefits and have access to good medical care, and even more fortunate that I rarely have to use it.