So it has come to this, has it?

I had an appointment with my "lady parts" doctor the other day, and in the days leading up to the appointment, I realized something... I was actually looking forward to it.

Because let's face it, laying half naked in "the position" covered only by the thinnest wisp of paper all the while getting cozy with a speculum, is about the closest thing I'll have to a spa day anytime soon.

Don't get me wrong. I love my kids. They're awesome kids. In fact they are the greatest kids since the invention of kids (and yes; they are better, smarter, and more adorable than your kids)... It's just that they're always... there.

In fact, I don't even get to pee alone anymore. The other day, as I was sitting inside the toilet room (that itty-bitty room that houses your toilet inside the bathroom), I was joined by two kids and a 50 pound dog while trying to empty my bladder. It was all very cozy. A little too cozy for someone who used to have trouble peeing in a public washroom if someone else was in there.

And yeah, I hear those of you who are saying, "well, that's what you sign up for when you have kids."

Except that those of you who are saying that either don't HAVE kids, ergo have no voice whatsoever in this. Or you live in the land of grandparents and caregivers and you can leave your tiny shadows whenever it pleases you.

When you have a chronically ill child that needs specialized care, plus a 1 year old who I like to refer to as my "baby-on-crack", time without them just doesn't happen. "Date-night" around here includes two children, three bags and lot of screaming.

"Joanne," you say, "you sound so bitter!'

Nope. I'm really not. I'm just tired. And in need of some "me" or "me and the husband" time. You know that saying, "how can I miss you if you never go away?"

Yeah. It's kinda like that.

In the meantime, it is with great anticipation that I'm awaiting my sono appointment in a few days.

I gotta date with a wand wearing a condom.

Listen to your gut... before it tells you goodbye

I like my gut. It's been good to me through the years, so I try to be good to it. I feed it when it's hungry. I try to keep in reasonable shape so it looks good. And I try to listen to it when it talks to me. Except this time I didn't. And I'm so mad at myself I would kick myself in the groin if it was physically possible.

And, if I had a groin.

Anyway, if you read my last post, you know my Mom, who is in town visiting, became sick and I took her to the ER on Saturday to be checked out. The diagnosis came back as a bladder infection, even though my Mom was telling the ER doc that the last time she felt this bad was when she had a kidney infection. And I at one point I remember asking the doctor if a bladder infection would make someone as sick as my Mom.

It was at this point my gut was telling me to push the issue. Except that I didn't. I know my Mom doesn't like confrontation, and at this point it was after midnight and we were pretty tired. Besides, my gut doesn't have a medical degree, so I let it go.

Fast forward to Sunday and my Mom isn't doing any better. She's had flashes of okay-ness, but for the most part is pretty sick. I try to convince her to go back to the hospital because my gut keeps poking me, and it's getting annoying. But we figure she just needs to stick with the antibiotics she has and give them time to work.

On Monday it's clear things are getting worse, so I take her back to the ER. Since it's a Monday and a holiday, I figured it would be pretty light.

WRONG.

We wait in the ER for 3 and 1/2 hours, all the while my Mom is getting worse and worse. Finally they take her back, but they have no rooms, so she has to lay in a bed in the hallway. It seems we have found a competent doctor who tells us that, yes, she does have a kidney infection and it has gotten so bad that they need to admit her.

At this point it's about 7:30 at night, she's STILL in the hallway, and I need to go home to eat and put Elise to bed. After we get all that done, I'm exhausted, so Fred goes back up to the hospital to spend some time with my Mom. It's now 10:00 pm, and she's still sitting in the hallway of the ER.

Thankfully, they get her into a room before she was discharged, and ends up staying for three days. I am so mad at that first doc who didn't listen to my Mom, and even madder at myself for not listening to my gut.

And because every story should have a moral (or two), here are mine:

Listen to your gut (duh)

You make sure you buy travel medical insurance when you travel to another country. Do it. Don't argue with me and don't be a dummy about it. I shudder to think of what it would have cost my Mom if she didn't have it. I'm betting it would have been cheaper to fly her back to Vancouver first class, than to admit her to the hospital.

So now you know why things have been so quiet around here lately. You don't think I finally just decided to shut up, did you?

Edited to add: I forgot to say one very important thank you to my sweet friend, Liz, for bringing us dinner when we were in the midst of all of this, and for bringing my Mom flowers when she went to visit her in the hospital. So, thank you Liz... you have no idea how much you blessed us!

A post where I complain... a lot

If I were the superstitious type, I'd be wondering if my daughter was ever meant to have a birthday party.

Take for example, last year's "party"; interrupted about 30 minutes into it by Elise's doc telling us to take her to the hospital, she's just been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. Pretty sucktacular.

So this year, as we were away for the actual day of birth, we decided to throw Elise a party for the weekend after we got home. It was all planned; people invited, food bought, decorations thought of... blah, blah, blah.

Then on Wednesday, I got sick. Not just sick, but dear-Lord-of-all-things-good-and-right-everything's-going-dark-no-wait-I-see-some-light-and-I'm-heading-towards-it-sick. But it's okay, I still have my main man Fred to help get things together for the party.

Then on Thursday, Fred starts heading towards the light. The guy who has been sick a total of 3 times in 11 years, who has managed to dodge all sorts of crud that I have incubated including about three rounds of strep throat, Mr. I-doan-need-no-stinkin'-Advil. He's got it too.

At this point, we start contemplating that the party needs to be cancelled, or at the very least, moved to the next weekend. Mother Nature decides to get in on the act, and it's predicted that there's an 80% chance of rain on Saturday. In Texas. In September. My friends, that just doesn't happen here unless it's biblical times and God has just had a little heart-to-heart with a guy named Noah.

And just in case we get any ideas about going forward with the party, Elise then gets sick on Saturday morning, and it rains here like it has never rained before. Talk about twisting the knife.

Do I sounds bitter? Probably... probably. Chalk it up to frustration, I guess. I do have one rather funny tale from when I went to the doctor to see if my crud had a name (and hopefully not one that sounded like Swine Flu).

Fred made the appointment for me, and when the receptionist asked why I needed to be seen, he replied, "she's sick". Straight and to the point, that's my Fred.

So somehow I slipped past all the superb screening, and was sitting in the room waiting to be seen, sans mask. The doc walks in, notes my temperature on the chart (101.6), and asked me if I had been coughing. When I said yes you would have thought I told him I was there to pluck his eyeballs out with my thumbnails.

He jumped up, tore open the door and yelled, "nobody told meeeeeeeeeee", as he ran down the hall. I sat there, feeling very much like a leper.

He returned, from what I am presuming was a Lysol-shower, about 10 minutes later wearing a mask and with one for me. It turns out that I didn't have the flu, just one of the second-rate, run-of-the-mill viruses that doesn't get any press. Poor, un-named virus.

Have we always been so crazy when it comes to germs, or its it just lately that people are going off the deep end? I remember when I was younger, you got the flu, you threw up a little, and drank some ginger ale. At some point, you manage pass it onto your friends and family who threw up and drank ginger ale. Nobody went to the doctor, let alone the press.

Now, I must admit, I'm not so relaxed when it comes to sick people being around Elise, but unfortunately, diabetes makes things a little trickier. But shouldn't we relatively healthy people be a little less freaked out?

Okay, I think I'm done grumbling for now. Keeping my fingers crossed for Saturday. Time for Elise to have a birthday party, even if it is one year and three weeks overdue.

I think I'll call him Harold

My ulcer that is. What? How do I know I have an ulcer? Because I googled "unbearable gut-wrenching fire-ball of pain in my stomach", and that's what came up.

Because WebMD told me so. And we all know that WebMD is, in fact, a fine replacement to a living, breathing, real-life doctor.

Because, although I'm not a doctor, I do play one in my head, and after waiting 45 minutes to see me for a quick 5 minute visit where I pretended to intently listen to all my symptoms, that's what I told myself. I also wrote myself a prescription on the wrapper of a chocolate bar, but the pharmacy wouldn't take it.

Actually, the truth is, I've had one before, and I can remember all too well the pain that drinking my morning glass of orange juice brings.

My blog has pretty much been doom and gloom lately. And I hate that, but I can't pretend that everything is shiny and happy when it's not.

Yesterday we found out that Fred's company is changing health insurance plans. And while I am so thankful that we do have insurance, this change had caused the pain in my gut to reach new levels.

It wouldn't be such a big deal, but having a child with a chronic disease that needs constant medical monitoring, makes it a big deal. This new plan is definitely not as good as our old one (we have to pay more out of pocket, and the coverage isn't as good), and there are a lot of unknowns. Namely, will all our docs take the new insurance. Will it cover a pump for Elise in the future (they can cost upwards of $5000)? There are so many other questions, but the more I think about them, the more stressed I get.

I know that not thinking about it is not a good thing. But it's my coping mechanism for right now.

I'm seriously thinking that it's time to high-tail it back north for some good, ol' socialized medicine...

Big Ball of Crazy, Thy name is Joanne

I think I may just have a nickname at Elise's pediatrician's office. It's nothing bad, but in the fashion of Prince or Madonna, it is a one-word moniker, albeit without the fame or talent. I think they simply refer to me as "She", or "Her".

As in "She's on the phone... something about Elise's poop again". Or, "Oh no, it's her! Everybody hide!" I say this mostly as a joke. I LOVE Elise's pedi and her staff and think they are amazing, incredible and wonderful. And no, I won't give you her name because then it just makes it harder for me to get in to see her on a weekly basis.

But I have become something I never wanted to be... a High Maintenance Mom. Not by choice, but Elise has had her share of strange things in her short little life, and of course her diabetes makes me extra cautious.

So I go out of my way to not be a pain in the butt when I take Elise in for her appointments. I'm extra polite, I try to be nice to the office staff, I have my payment ready when I check in... stuff like that. The one thing I try to do without fail, is BE ON TIME, because I understand how that can mess up a doctor's schedule.

This usually means I run into their office, about 5 minutes before the appointment time with Elise precariously tucked under my arm, panting from the exertion of it all. Neither of us will have our hair brushed. I may or may not be wearing matching socks, and I'm usually trying to remember if I put on deodorant; making a mental note not to raise my arms too much while I'm there. My shoes are untied, Elise probably isn't even wearing shoes and if I remembered to zip up my pants, it's a good day. It's a pretty image, isn't it?

So I was very pleased with myself today when I managed to leave the house 30 minutes before her appointment time of 10 AM. With the 15 minute drive, this gave me ample time to saunter in; calm and cool with my jeans zippered up.

Well, the devil is in the details, isn't he? Because when I arrived, a full 15 minutes before Elise's appointment, the entire parking lot was full. I mean FULL. There were about 10 other cars circling the lot like hungry sharks. I don't mind parking far away and walking, but that wasn't even an option. To my delight, I saw not one, but TWO people walking to their cars that were parked in the very aisle I was in. I put my turn signal on and waited.

Both of these people decided to get in their respective cars, turn them on, and just sit there. I waited about 2 minutes, and still they sat, oblivious to my growing contempt for them. Five minutes. At this point I was debating about leaning on my horn and yelling expletives out my window at them, but I remembered that little eyes were watching; very impressionable little eyes.

Elise's appointment time was growing closer, as was my boiling point. Just as I decided that my SUV could totally crush the one guy's tiny sport car, leaving enough space for me to park; he backs out and leaves. A full 7 minutes after he got into his car.

So began my 100-yard dash to the pedi's office. I made it with 2 minutes to spare, and my jeans were done up. Thank goodness for button-fly.