There good, there's bad and there's I'm not sure.

Good, I have an interview on Monday with the ambulance!  WOOO!  Bad, I don't have anything to wear.  Good, I have an excuse to go shopping :-) (but with wal-mart as my only choice)

Good, my position and proposal paper is done.  Bad, I don't think I'll do very well.  Good, it only counts for 10% of my entire grade so even if I do poorly hopefully my other stuff can pull it up.

Good, the nursing department has put a hold on accepting any new transcripts until the morning after grades are due.  This is so that it doesn't put people like me, who's last final is at 4 pm on Friday, at a drastic disadvantage.  Bad, this means I may be camping outside of the nursing department in the middle of december to get in line.  How sad is it that I am having to compare something that is important part of my education to standing in line for concert tickets or a Harry Potter book.

And not sure, we may be moving.  Good points would be moving away from the neighborhood that we are liking less and less.  Bad would be we would have to go back to renting and it would be from someone other than Dad.  I'd have a kitchen floor again.  I'd be heartbroken if the kids had to switch schools though :(

I got into a conversation earlier about Rita's impact on gasoline in the US.  An 'inside source' told them that Rita could almost completely wipe out all of the gasoline.  Conversation turned to just how everyone would be affected.

I'm not pessimistic enough to think that there will be no gas, but it got me wondering what would happen if we woke up tomorrow and there was no gasoline.

Even those who are lucky to be within walking distance or have alternative transportation to stores etc would soon not have anything to buy at the stores.

I can't even begin to imagine the huge impact that something of this nature would cause.

I'm dreading the reality of what Rita will do to gas prices since we have to go to St. George on Friday for more testing.  I don't know yet if we'll try our car going there via the backway or what.  I'd love to go the normal way and get some photos of where the fire was.  It's interesting right now with all of the burned trees and then the green grasses that have been growing since.

I just wonder how much more I can take.

Mom called Saturday when I got home from doing a photo shoot and told me that Karen had passed away earlier that afternoon.  It's not a surprise, she was in ICU on a respirator for a while then was staying at Kolob for a brief stint when she had a stroke.

Why do people think that knowing makes it easier.  I have a harder time before, and a harder time afterwards if it's been expected.  NOTHING can make death easier.

Karen's funeral is tomorrow, just barely before Paul's Dr's appointment.  I'm not looking forward to either, but have a little bit of that Christmas Eve anxiety feeling going on. 

Grandma is having hospice care now and it's not expected to be long for her either.  *sigh*

Me:  It's time for homework guys.  Mike, get your backpack;  Charlet we'll start your reading time

Charlet:  Can I read this?  (holding up way too easy of a book)

Me:  No, pick something from Dr. Seuss

Mike:  Mom, I don't want to do homework sheets can I listen to Charlet read?

Me:  No, not for her 20 minutes.  If she wants to read after that then yes.

Mike:  I want to listen to Green Eggs and Ham!

Me:  No, you need to do handwriting.  It's C and C is in your name!  (he's learning to write Michael, not Mike)

Charlet:  I want to do handwriting!  Can I do Mike's homework?

Me:  No, you need to be reading.  Not silent reading either.

Mike:  I want to listen to Charlet read.  Can I listen to her read?

Me:  No, your homework is handwriting and then we'll read.

Charlet:  I want to do handwriting!

AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH

Ok, I've cried, broken down, gotten mad, had a nap and now I think I can finally think straight enough to write about this.

Last night I started thinking, "Hmmm I wonder if Dr. M would finish out the ER doc's orders"  I was fairly sure that he would and wouldn't have a problem with it and it was $15 co-pay compared to $250 + 30% of whatever was left.  Even if Dr M told us he couldn't/wouldn't/shouldn't I figured that it was worth the copay to try.    So we did it.

Dr. M listened to Paul's heart, then his lungs, then his heart again.  He had him climb up on the table to lay down and listened to his heart.  He was hearing an arrhrythmia and ordered an EKG.

The EKG showed that he was spiking Q waves and every third beat was coming prematurely.  YIPES!  So now we're going to be off to see the cardiologist.  I hope and pray that we can get in and have him seen and treated before our insurance lapses.  We might have to be finding someway to pay for COBRA insurance on just him so that it's not labeled as pre-exsisting.

Paul's Dad died very young from a heart attack so I am scared.  I'm just a little more calm while I'm scared than I was earlier.  I'm also avoiding google and just sticking with my pathophysiology book.

I woke Paul up as I left for school today.  I had a neighbor walking the kids to school so he didn't need to take them either.  I called as I was sprinting across campus to get to class on time to make sure he called the doc's office as soon as it opened.

They were full.

He explained the situation and told them that he was instructed to be seen on Monday, no matter what.  They still wouldn't see him.  GRRRR.

So I have him call back and say they told me if I had this, that, or the other symptom to come back to the ER, can I please be seen.  Our doc's office has always had a policy of if someone is sick enough to go to the ER and it's not life or limb threatening have them come to the office first, we'll make them fit.

Nope.  We're full.

UGH UGH UGH UGH UGH UGH

So we went back to the ER and they changed his meds, put him on IV Rocephin.  We also have to go back out for the next 3 days.  *sigh*

Just like the documentary about 9/11 that we watched in class last Wednesday this one had recorded phone calls home and personal stories about the passengers on the flight.

It's the phone calls that did me in, both times.

I remember how long it took for us to get a call back to NY to see if Paul's family was safe or not (we figured they would be, they live on Long Island but they were too close for our comfort) and how much that phone call meant when he finally got through.

I can't imagine the phone calls, and the ones who weren't there to answer the phone so it was recorded on the answering machine or voice mail.  At the very end one of the family members said something along the lines of "if you get my voicemail it's because I can't come to the phone not because I don't want to talk to you.  I never know if it will be the last time I talk to someone or not and I don't want to miss that opportunity"

When I left for work yesterday Paul said he didn't feel very well and it hurt to pee.  Lovely.  We are quickly coming up to having no insurance, he's been at his job 1 week and it's not the best time to be calling in sick.

When I got home he said his back hurt and he thought that *maybe* he had seen some blood.  It took me until 8 that night to convince him that waiting until Monday to go to the dr's wasn't a good idea.  Turns out I was right. 

He has a bad kidney infection.  They gave us 6 Lortabs to get him through last night until the pharmacy opens today and told me he can take up to 2 every 4 hours.  That's a lot more frequent than when I've had my c-sections, poor guy.

He hasn't needed them that often, but everytime the tylenol/ibuprofien wears off his fever bounces right back up.  If we can't get it down and keep it down they want him back at the ER.  Oy.

*I will not live in a pig sty.  I will not be fun to be around if I am.  Ever.  I won't fake being happy I won't fake being pleased.  No one else will be happy either.  I will guarantee it.

*"Cleaning off the desk" does not mean putting everything that was on the desk in the pile on the floor next to the desk so that you are trapped by junk and crap if you are sitting here.

*I am not your maid.  Not in the past, not in the future and definitely not now.

*If you want something go get it yourself.  Other family members are not your servants nor should you treat them that way.

*No one will be outside doing anything when the livingroom looks as if it has been looted. 

*I will throw away people's stuff whether it's a cherish treasure or not if you don't care about it enough to take care of it.  If it's that special to you it does not belong in a pile on the floor.

*Telling me "you're just stressed" does not go over well.  I'm not stressed, I'm tired of being treated like I'm the only one in this house who knows where the garbage can lives.

"The Quilt of the Unknown" is the short story for my English class.  I need help with it, please.

If you read it, I'd like to know what you think is the message of the story, what is the plot, and what is the setting, what is the climax (or anti-climax)

I didn't think of the quilt metaphor until partway through the story so I still have go tie the quilt (ha ha) into the first part of the story, as well as some other big concept type problems.

I'd love some suggestions on how to make any of the critical points stronger.

Quilt of the Unknown

            I woke from a catnap and threw off the old worn quilt.  I instantly knew that my life was never going to be the same.  I am still not sure what initially woke me, but I will never forget the next few moments.  My eyes focused on Mike, my newborn son, who was sleeping peacefully on the sectional sofa.  His body began to tighten and the color drained from his skin.  Moments later what become known as “the Mount Vesuvius impersonation” began.  He was vomiting so forcefully it was reaching the ceiling.  Seconds seemed like hours as I orientated myself enough to go to him.  When the vomiting ended he went limp as a rag doll.  His only noticeable movements were infrequent, shallow breaths; he wasn’t even blinking. This was the instant when my logic decided to bind with my mother’s instinct. 

            My mother’s instinct had been warning me that something was wrong ever since we first brought Mike home from the hospital.  My logic had just about convinced my mother’s instinct that nothing was wrong, I was merely overreacting from him being dehydrated and needing an IV and hospitalization at about 7 days old.  After all, I was postpartum and the doctors had been reassuring me that he looked good and they couldn’t find anything wrong.  It seemed vastly more logical to trust well-trained medical professionals over a sleep-deprived mother full of fluctuating hormones.  Previously there was nothing to indicate that there was anything wrong besides reflux -- except for my mother’s instinct.

            After rushing to the ER and watching Mike lay motionless while several nurses and doctors poked his arm repeatedly, trying to start an IV then needing to milk his arm to get enough blood for the blood work that was required, I became afraid.  Not from the type of fear that makes up fireside ghost stories on camping trips, but the kind of fear that gives a mother a lump in her throat.  I was afraid of the unknown, whatever it was that had made him so sick so quickly.  Simultaneously I was afraid to know.  Like the colors of a quilt, opposing fears were forming a very organized and meticulous pattern.  If I didn’t know, if the unknown was never named, I could attempt to deny the reality that was racing towards me.  I began to personify the unknown in an attempt to have something or someone to direct my anger towards.  I shared these fears with both Dr. Smith and Dr. Melling, our family doctors.  What I never told anyone was my biggest fear; that Mike would never come home again.

            The doctors’ calm and confident personalities were not reassuring to me.  They remained calm and constant, yet I could detect a sense of urgency.  The blood work and stool samples told them nothing of value, but the scales did.  Mike was not thriving.  Not only was he not gaining weight, he was losing weight.  Just over a pound since he had last been weighed.  He was sick, very sick.  I already knew that, but now the doctors could quantify it.  IV fluids and medication that stopped the vomiting allowed us to take him home within a few days.

            Even with Mike at home we were never far away from our next appointment.  Scheduled weight checks, more lab work, and follow-up appointments were never more than two days away.  If I ran into one of the doctors in public they would come over and subtly check him for what I came to recognize as tenting, a sign of dehydration.  Dr. Smith would kiss him on the forehead anytime he saw us but he was a friend of our family and I didn’t find anything alarming about it until I heard that it was a way of checking for saltiness on the skin, a sign of cystic fibrosis.  Phone calls or visits at the house from the doctors on days I didn’t have an appointment added to the sense of urgency.

            It was time to move beyond our loved and respected small town family doctors and travel to Salt Lake City, Utah to see a specialist at Primary Children’s Medical Center.  Four hours of traveling, just Mike and me.  I remember stopping at the doors into the west side of Primary Children’s Medical Center for several seconds to refocus.  I had been ignoring haunting memories of sitting with my best friend when she told stories of being at Primary Children’s for chemotherapy, stories of wonderful doctors and nurses who cared for her when others had abandoned her.  It had been about 15 years since she lost her battle to leukemia.  I didn’t want to be here and I was afraid of the answers that I hoped were waiting inside.  After gathering some courage together I went inside the hospital and up to the second floor and the pediatric gastroenterologist’s office. 

It was Follow-Up Nutrition (FUN) Clinic day, and I thought I was prepared for was about to happen, or what a misnomer the clinic name was.  I had my stack of paperwork filled out, details of what Mike ate, when he pooped, and when he’d vomit.  Details about family life and our home.  Once our appointment began I realized I was not prepared for what was happening.  I was anxious and unsure of everything, like a Kindergartener on his first day of class.  We talked with an entire team of health care professionals:  A social worker, a pediatrician, a medical student, a registered dietician (who would quickly become a very dear friend), and Dr. Jackson the pediatric gastroenerologist were all part of Mike’s team.   They all had 20 minutes worth of questions for me, and left me not knowing enough to ask a question.  I never did get any answers that day, but I did come home with something, a new schedule for our life.  A schedule that much like small scraps of a carefully pieced quilt makes a meticulous pattern.

            Our daily pattern was one of obsessive note taking and journaling.  We recorded such things as what foods Mike was offered, how much he ate, how it was prepared, how long it took him to eat, in detail.  I was grateful to be doing it for an infant that was exclusively on prescription formula rather than for his older sister who ate a large variety of foods.  Not only did I journal what went into Mike, but I also journalled what came out.  I noted when he would vomit, poop and pee along with a description and amounts.  I wish I had been as good at journaling the details of his life as I was his biological functions.  At some point we also added a new color to the pattern with regular breathing treatments.  They became as second nature as changing diapers.

            The quilt blocks were a regular repeating pattern as well.  Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday we had weight checks at the local clinic.  Wednesday we drove 3 hours to Orem so that a therapist could teach him how to eat again, because months of refusing food had caused him to forget how to eat.    The quilt was bound with monthly visits to Dr. Jackson at Primary Children’s, and 3 times each year we saw Dr. Broadbent at her allergy clinic.

            The stitching for the quilt was my fear.  The fear that we would never know what was causing his problems, the fear that we would know and that it would be terminal, the fear that if I skipped a piece of the pattern something would happen that should have been noticed sooner and Mike would suffer because of me.

            He was frequently in severe pain that I couldn’t fix or make go away.   I dealt with the constant crying by going outside at night and sitting in the snow and crying.  I dealt with the unknown by gathering together an army of knowledge.  I learned to search the Internet and how to use the resources at the public library better.   Even with my new knowledge I went to each appointment both hoping for and fearing a diagnosis.

            On Mike’s first birthday I dressed him in my favorite clothes, denim overalls size 0-3 months.  It was around this time that we made even more drastic changes as a family.  Mike couldn’t tolerate any milk, soy, wheat, eggs, and for safety sake we stayed away from peanuts, nuts, and shellfish.  We ate lots of rice with very little variety in how I was able to prepare it.  Family pets were given away or banished outdoors, and unfortunately we forgot how to have fun and make memories.

            Of course I have some memories of those first years, but they all fit into the pieced quilt of the unknown.  The names of the nurses I liked the best, which medications I preferred for him to have if he needed to be sedated for a procedure and the fear that an asthma attack the morning of a procedure would force us to reschedule it yet again.  I don’t remember when he first found his shadow, bounced a ball, or went to the playground.  I know he did all that and much more, but they aren’t in my memory quilt.

            It was on Mike’s third birthday when I had the epiphany that would finally finish the quilt of the unknown.  Not only had I brought Mike home from the hospital that horrible spring night, but he was still alive and slowly improving.  My baby had grown into a preschooler without me realizing it.  By doing what I thought I needed to do to survive I’d forgotten to live and enjoy life.  I’ve tucked away the quilt of the unknown and have started a new memory quilt for Mike.  It’s filled with pieces of soccer, t-ball, bike riding, and Kindergarten.  We still have more doctor’s appointments and medications than I’d like but they are no longer my driving force.  Whether we fear death or not it will find us all one day, and until then I have a life to live and so do my children.  So for now my quilt is filled with learning, fun, and happy anticipation of what tomorrow will bring.  It is much more beautiful than the Quilt of the Unknown.