Posts Tagged ‘sick’

When Your Eye Is About To Pop Out Of Your Head, Go To The Doctor

Monday, December 20th, 2010

Here’s a fun piece of advice from me to you:  when your eye is about to pop out of your head, go to the doctor.  I mean, don’t wait until your symptoms are so severe, your teeth feel as if they might fall out of your face.  And seriously, when the hair on your head feels so heavy you think it’s an awesome idea to give yourself a buzz cut in order to prevent the pain, you should totally be popping a pill stronger than Tylenol.

So now that I’m taking an antibiotic for this raging sinus infection the doctor says I have, I’m beginning to feel a bit better.  I mean, at least my eye feels like it’s safe in its socket again. 

And that’s saying something.

If You Want to Lose Five Pounds, I Can Spit in Your Mouth.

Sunday, October 17th, 2010

You’ll be ecstatic to know I am among the living again.  Almost.  I mean, technically, I should probably shower off the two days of sweat, stink, and puke pieces I received as parting gifts from the most horrific case of stomach flu I’ve ever met before I actually see anyone in society again, but once I do, I’m pretty sure society, and by society I mean all the ladies who suffer along side me day after day, week after week, and month after month at the gym, will be quite impressed with what the disease did for me.  In fact, I’m seriously contemplating hocking up bits of the slimy stuff and bottling it.  I’m sure  if I send the specimen to a lab and get some science dorks to copy it exactly, I’d make millions selling the stomach flu strain at supplement stores nationwide.  Seriously.  I think they’d sell it.  Look how long those stores sold Fen Phen, the crazy diet drug which caused potentially fatal pulmonary hypertension and heart valve problems, before the Food and Drug Administration said it wasn’t safe.  I mean, at least my stuff is organic.

But here’s the thing:  I have a sneaking suspicion, I may not actually send off my sample and follow through with my multi million dollar weight loss idea.  I mean, that sounds like a lot of work, and frankly, I don’t have the time.  So here’s the deal:  if you want to lose five pounds in two days, I can totally come over and spit in your mouth.  Or, I guess if that grosses you out, I could just sneeze something  juicy in your general direction.  I think that would work, too. 

Anyhow, David says this post is gross.  And I agree.  But it’s nothing compared to the incredibly gross stuff that came out of me over the course of two days, if you know what I mean.  And my not sharing those gory details is my present from me to you.

Don’t ever say I never gave you anything.

You’re welcome.

The One About a Whiner and a Winner

Friday, September 10th, 2010

Have I Told You:

Reichen chipped my front tooth while trying kiss me.

Reichen and Latham have a serious case of diarrhea.  And I’ve been collecting stool samples for tests.  And changing diapers and underwear every 30 seconds.  And running never ending loads of laundry.  And incessantly disinfecting our home.

I totally flaked on a friend’s play date.  I thought the boys and I were supposed to be there Thursday at 11:00am, not Wednesday at 11:00am.  And to make matters worse, I didn’t even realize my mistake until yesterday.

We have not sold our home even though:

  • it’s been on the market 6 months.
  • we’ve lowered the asking price $40,000.
  • we’ve painted the entire interior.
  • we’ve replaced our awesome light fixtures with boring ones.
  • we’ve put in new landscaping.

How impossible it is to keep a house in ‘show’ condition while raising 2 toddlers.

David drives 6 hours a day, nearly every day, for work while we wait to sell our home.

This entire post deleted itself when I pushed the button to publish it.

Okay.  Okay.  Okay.  This concludes the whining portion of this post.  Here’s the part where I tell you who won The Great Give Away.  Shall We?  Let’s.

Andrea, you’re the winner!  I’ll be e-mailing you shortly with more information,  In the meantime, here’s how Andrea wants to customize her new Sigg Water Bottle from Cafe Press.

“I would definitely put a picture of my family on it so that no matter where I am or no matter where they are, I can always “see” them, especially since my oldest started Kindergarten.”

Thanks so much to everyone who entered! 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more stool samples to collect.  Lots more.  Have I told you the doctor wants 7 vials full of fecal.

Help. Me.

It’s Up to Us

Tuesday, April 6th, 2010

“Huh,” was the only sound she made, my doctor, when I told her my diagnosis.  “Toddler’s Diarrhea,” I told Doctor  Holly,  “I think Latham has Toddler’s Diarrhea.”

I had been researching my 23 month old son’s symptoms ever since our doctor said I should have him tested for Cystic Fibrosis.  Latham had been suffering with chronic diarrhea and severe weight loss for 6 weeks and after a series of tests ruled out viruses and parasites, Doctor Holly revealed chronic diarrhea and severe weight loss are also symptoms of  Cystic Fibrosis.

As soon as she said it, I freaked.  But the more I read about the genetic disease, the more I believed my baby did not have it.  So, I started researching what Latham might have.

I typed ‘diarrhea in toddlers’ in the google search engine and Cystic Fibrosis was the first bullet to appear.  The second: Toddler’s Diarrhea.  According to Keep Kids Healthy, Toddler’s Diarrhea usually occurs in children between the ages of 6 months and 3 years and causes loose, watery stools.  Although they have chronic diarrhea, children with Toddler’s Diarrhea have a normal appetite and grow and develop normally, and usually drink juice.


After nap, every day, Latham begs for juice.  Although I only give him about 4 ounces of apple juice a day, mixed with water, I was hopeful Toddler’s Diarrhea was the diagnosis, not Cystic Fibrosis.  I pulled juice from Latham’s diet immediately.  And immediately began to see results.  Less than 24 hours later, Latham’s watery diarrhea began to firm up; 48 hours later, he had nearly normal stools; now, 2 weeks later, not only are his stools solid, he has gained 4 of the 5 pounds he lost during the last 2 months.

When I told Doctor Holly about Toddler’s Diarrhea, we had just tested Latham for Cystic Fibrosis.  She was calling to say our son did not have the deadly disease.

“I haven’t given Latham any apple juice all day,” I said after she revealed Latham did not have Cystic Fibrosis and asked how he was doing, “and I think it’s working already!”

“Oh,” she paused.  “I guess we’ll keep an eye on that,” was her only response.  “Just make an appointment if you think Latham needs to be seen again,” and with that, she hung up.

I have never been so happy and so irritated by someone in my entire life.  Happy that she just told me my son does not have Cystic Fibrosis and irritated that she just went from saying he could have Cystic Fibrosis to saying we’ll just keep an eye on him.  She didn’t say a word about the possibility of him having Toddler’s Diarrhea.

Not.  A.  Word.

Well, I’ve got a word for her.  Three of them, actually:  Latham is healthy!  And we couldn’t be happier.

I’m also happy I didn’t just wait around for Doctor Holly to tell me what was wrong with him.  I can’t imagine how much more weight my son would have lost, how sick he would be, and how many more tests would have been run trying to find out the cause of his severe symptoms.

I listened to my inner instincts.  I discovered what has wrong with him.  I did something about it.  And I am proud of myself.

I’m not saying I’m a doctor.  I’m not saying I can diagnose every problem.  What I am saying:  we know our children better than anyone else, even our doctors.  And it’s up to us to listen to our instincts and fight for our babies, especially when they can’t fight for themselves.

It’s. Not. Right.

Tuesday, March 23rd, 2010

There are too many cars here, I think as David, Latham and I circle the 7 story underground garage until we finally find a place to park.  It’s early, only 9:15am and I shutter to think how many more cars will park in this place.  There are too many cars here, I think again, except this time my thoughts spill from my mind and out of my mouth since David quietly agrees with them.

“It’s not right,” he says.

“It’s not right,” I agree.

We don’t say another word.  We don’t have to.  Those three words say it all.  It’s not right kids get sick.  It’s not right kids hurt.  It’s not right parents have to watch their babies suffer.

It’s. Not. Right.

We find a space to leave our van in the children’s hospital garage, a place I never thought I’d have to park.  We’re here because a couple days ago, our family physician told us to test our 23 month old son, Latham for Cystic Fibrosis, a life-threatening genetic disease that causes mucus to build up and clog some of the organs in the body, particularly the lungs and pancreas which makes breathing extremely difficult.

She is concerned, she tells me because she can’t find the reason behind Latham’s chronic diarrhea he’s been experiencing the past 6 weeks.  She ruled out viruses and parasites through a series of tests she ran on his stool samples last week and since two of the symptoms of Cystic Fibrosis are extreme weight loss and diarrhea, she says we need to cross the deadly disease off the list of possibilities, too.

I.  Freaked.

What if Latham has Cystic Fibrosis?  What if Latham has Cystic Fibrosis?  What if Latham has Cystic Fibrosis?  The question swirls in my mind like a tornado.  I could barely eat.  I could barely sleep.  I could barely think.

I call the children’s hospital to make an appointment for the test our doctor said Latham needs, a sweat test.  It’s a no needle procedure that measures the amount of chloride in my little boy’s sweat.  The first date they had available the nurse on the phone informs me is April 2nd.  After I tell her in a very honest and teary way there was absolutely no possibility I could wait that long, she said she would squeeze us in Monday, March 22nd. 

4 days.  I would have to wait 4 days.  4 days.

My mind was mush as David, Latham and I stepped in the white lightening elevators 4 days later and ride our way up to the ground floor. 

“Where did we park,” I ask David.  “I didn’t even look.”  When David shrugs, the woman riding with us said, “Purple planes.  You parked on the purple planes level.”

I smile to thank her.  It’s so kind of her to notice.

After arriving in the lobby, we wind our way past the rain forest lunch room and radiology, through the working toy train station and the burn unit, then ride up 2 levels on the elephant elevators and walk across the hall to the main lab.  David catches my eye when we see the sign hanging on the lab door.


It’s.  Not.  Right.

Pam is the nurse who greets us when we walk in the room.  Her son is the quarterback for the University of Northern Iowa, she proudly tells us when David mentions the t-shirt she is wearing.  She smiles while talking non-stop about her family, the weather, and Latham’s curly hair.  She loves his locks, she says.  I’m so grateful for the chatter.  David and I are paralyzed with fear while she’s running the test on Latham and she knows it.

The test itself is painless.  Pam cleans our son’s right arm and places two electrodes on it which sends a tingling current that causes sweating.  When the 5 minute test is finished, she keeps chatting us up while she seamlessly repeats the same procedure on his left arm.  She then collects the two pieces of gauze which holds Latham’s sweat and says lab results would be ready that same evening.  She said she would page the results directly to Latham’s doctor.

I try to go about the rest of my day as usual while I wait for the results.  I feed the boys lunch.  I put them down for naps.  I go to Sonic for my route 44 daily dose of diet vanilla coke.  I soak up the sun and play with my boys outside for a couple hours.  I greet David when he gets home from work.  I feed everyone dinner.  I pick up the phone when it rings.

And I hear her voice, my doctor and I don’t even know what she is saying for the first few sentences.  GET TO THE RESULTS, I scream in my mind while I listen to her spout some random numbers and blather on about whatever else she said that I can’t remember.

This isn’t good, I think to myself.  Why is it taking her so long to tell me whether or not Latham has this deadly disease?

“…which means Latham is negative,” I hear her say all of a sudden.  I focus immediately.

“What does that mean,” I want to clarify.

“It means,” she says, “Latham does NOT have Cystic Fibrosis.”

I all but fall to the floor with relief.  And so does David.  While we still have to discover what is causing Latham’s chronic diarrhea, we at least so know what’s not causing it:  a deadly genetic disease.

But it’s not right other parents don’t get the same good news.  It’s not right their children have to suffer with Cystic Fibrosis.  It’s not right their family has to circle the garage day after day to park in the purple plane lot, ride up the lightening elevator to the lobby, wind their way past the rain forest lunch room and radiology, through the working toy train station and the burn unit, then ride up 2 levels on the elephant elevators to the Cystic Fibrosis unit for treatment.

It’s. Not. Right.

Finally. You Sleep.

Tuesday, February 16th, 2010


You sleep. 

But your slumber isn’t sound. 

It’s smothered in sickness.

So you barricade yourself  in a ball.

 The only weapon you have in this battle.

And you sleep.



There’s. Nothing. Funny. About. It.

Friday, January 15th, 2010

Reichen has been really sick the past 10 days.  He has hand, foot, and mouth, the same horrible disease Latham contracted just a few months ago.  And it’s been truly terrible.  Again.

For days and days, I’ve tried to think of a light, clever, and funny way to blog about the illness, but then I realized:  there is nothing funny about my 3 year old running a high fever, not eating a single bite, and sleeping constantly for 10 straight days. 


There’s nothing funny about my 3 year old losing 15% of his body weight, his repeated bloody noses, or having the worst case of blisters in his mouth and down his throat the pediatrician has ever seen.


There’s nothing funny about the sores covering my 3 year old’s mouth, nose, and lips, his gums being so inflamed every time I brush his teeth they bleed, or hearing him cry from pain in his sleep.

There’s.  Nothing.  Funny.  About.  It.


Wife Wanted: Please Apply Here

Tuesday, September 22nd, 2009

I’ve never really been into the whole polygamy thing, but I’m seriously considering it after what I’ve been through the past couple weeks.  Taking care of 2 toddlers with hand, foot, and mouth disease and 1 husband with a serious bacterial infection has really taken its tole.  If I wasn’t cleaning puke off of one kid, I was wiping an endless string of snot off the other.  If I wasn’t listening to my husband whine about how much his throat hurt, I was running to the store to pick up his liquid of lust.

Me:  “Why do you need Gatorade?”

Him:  “The doctor says I need to stay hydrated.”

Me:  “Why don’t you just drink water?”

Him:  “Because Gatorade is what I drink when I don’t feel well.”


I’ve seen those A & E specials on TV about polygamy, so I obviously know what I’m talking about and I think it could work.  I might need change my hair a little bit though.  I would probably have to grow it really, really, really long so I could wrap it in a lose bun on top of my head with my bangs cut short so I could rat them in that late 1980’s wave.  You know the wave I’m referring to – the ratted wave we all wore in high school.  The ratted wave that required a comb and a huge pink can of AquaNet to style it. 

Polygamy Fashion

I might even have to change the way I dress.  I’d be sad to see my MEK jeans and JCrew tops go, but I’d be happy when the other wife would have to clean the bath tub after my 17 month old pooped in it.  A top buttoned to my throat and a long skirt with black socks and shoes might be worth wearing when I’m trying to rock my baby back to sleep at midnight after he wakes up screaming from a fever and she’s the one who has to force antibiotics down my husband’s throat.  He refuses to pop his pills for two reasons: 

  1. He doesn’t believe medicine is good for him. 
  2. He thinks the more drugs doctors prescribe, the more money doctors and drug companies make. 

He may be on to something with that last one, but in this particular case when we know for a fact that strep throat can actually kill you if you don’t cure it, you would think he would take his antibiotics.  Nope.  He won’t even take his medicine when it’s life threatening.

I’m not exactly sure how one goes about getting another wife, but I thought I’d start with the following form:

  1. Will you change any and all diapers including the ones that seep out the sides so much so you have to strip down the baby and give him a bath?
  2. Will you do all household chores including fixing the garbage disposal after I’ve run a spoon through it?
  3. Will you get up every two hours when my toddlers are sick to dispense medicine and check fevers?
  4. Will you host play dates and make other mothers feel welcome in our home?
  5. Will you make all meals including a special brunch on Sunday?  (It’s a family tradition I still haven’t started, but really want to.)
  6. Will you listen to my husband go on and on and on about work and give me the cliff notes?
  7. Will you handle any and all extended family feuds and patch up the problems in a way that makes every one happy?
  8. Will you plant all Spring and Fall flowers?  (I love the look, but it takes a lot of time, energy and effort.)
  9. Will you push my son on the swing for hours every day? (If it were up to Reichen, he would swing all day every day.)
  10. And finally, will do everything else I’ve failed to mention and when I ask you to do it, will you do it with a song on your lips and a smile in your heart?

If you have answered ‘yes’ to all these questions, congratulations!  You’re well on your way to becoming the 2nd Mrs. Young.  I will be scheduling one on one interviews right after I do the laundry, take Reichen and Latham to a play date, make breakfast, lunch and dinner, work out, clean the bathrooms, dust, and buy a huge can of aerosol hairspray.

He’s a Little Peeved by my Post

Thursday, September 17th, 2009

My husband reads my blog about once a week, if that.  It’s not because he doesn’t care, it’s because he doesn’t have time.  His sales territory includes 4 states which means he drives a lot.  A lot.  There are days when David wakes up at 3:00am and drives 6 hours one way for a 9:00am meeting.  After doodling on the white board, explaining why his product is better than all the others, and giving the client a firm, yet not too firm of a handshake, he hightails it back 6 hours for a 5:00pm meeting here.  In other words, he doesn’t have a lot of extra time to read blogs, even mine.  So when he came home this afternoon a little peeved by my post, I was surprised.

Him:  “I was so irritated with you today.”

Me:  “Why?”

Him:  “I almost called you to take it down.”

Me:  “Take what down?”

Him:  “Your blog post.”

It’s my fault he read it.  When I took the picture of David passed out in bed from being so sick, he caught me.  I accidentally woke him after the flash went off in his face.  He told me he knew what I was doing just before his head plopped back on his pillow.  Honestly, I didn’t think he would remember.  I guess he did. 

Me:  “I was just trying to talk about the differences between men and women when they’re sick.”

Him:  “I know.  You just made me sound bad.”

Here’s the thing:  my husband is not bad.  I’ve got a good one.  A really good one.  My husband takes the boys and lets me sleep in every weekend.  He feeds them dinner and helps get them ready for bed every night.  When I need a break, he takes my two toddlers outside and runs them ragged.  He brings me flowers and cleans the shower.  He rubs my back when I ask and still  thinks I’m pretty.  When I leave him a ‘honey do’ list, he actually completes it.  He is the father and husband every child and wife could ever want.  Ever.

I certainly didn’t want to hurt David’s feelings, I just wanted to write about one of many differences in the way men versus women work.  So, I’m not going to write another word about it except these: the load of laundry is no longer hanging on our front door.  After reading the blog, guess who brought it in?  Here’s a little hint:  not me.

I Hope the Dry Cleaning Doesn’t Hang There That Long

Wednesday, September 16th, 2009

The dry cleaning has been hanging on my front door for 2 days.  David discovered the door to door service after our regular dry cleaner suggested it.  I think the guy was tired of David’s duds taking up all the room in his teeny, tiny store.  My husband has a habit of dropping off weeks of work clothes and leaving them there until the dry cleaner calls.  

I hope his pants, shirts and suits don’t hang on my front door that long, but they might.  I mean, he hasn’t carried them in yet.  He even passes them when he walks through the front door and up the stairs.  His excuse for not grabbing the load of laundry:  he’s sick.  And he is.


This is the only site I’ve seen of David in 3 days.  As soon as the boys pass out for the night, he does too.  He’s fighting a cold/allergy combo, I think.  I’m not a doctor, but he must think I am when he lists all his symptoms for me all day, every day:  congestion, fever, chills, aches, and pains. 

I know he feels bad, I do.  But why is it when men are sick, the world stops and when a woman is sick, we keep it spinning?

 He couldn’t feel as bad as I did for weeks and weeks when I was pregnant and blowing chunks every day while taking care of my 1 year old, making lunch, and dinner, and doing the laundry.  He couldn’t feel as bad as I did the other day when I felt so sick I had to lay down for 30 minutes while the boys played let’s jump on mommy, just so I could get enough strength to feed them lunch, put them down for nap, and play with them all afternoon.  There’s NO WAY he feels as tired as I did while taking care of of the world’s fussiest toddlers with hoof and mouth disease the past 2 weeks while cleaning non-stop to keep them from passing the virus to others, cooking and freezing weeks worth of dinners, and trying to organize a birthday party. (If you want to read more about this disaster of a disease called hoof and mouth my boys have been battling, click here.)

I’m not asking my sick spouse to do what I do.  I’m not even asking him to do what he normally does – like taking out the garbage and mowing the lawn.  I’m just asking him to do one thing:  take the dry cleaning off the door. 

But here’s the thing:  if David keeps his clothes at the cleaner’s for weeks when he’s healthy, how long do you think it’ll take him to remove them from our front door when he’s sick?  I guess I could do it myself, but now that I’ve posed the question, I want to know the answer.