My husband pointed out to me not long ago, that I always get sick in March. I thought about it and realized Heck, he is right.
So, in keeping with my annual lemon and honey ritual, I got sick last Tuesday. Just a head cold, nothing major, but it does knock the stuffing out of one. I hate that glue-mouth I have on waking.
I have a magic potion which I invented to treat my annual cold, and I'm sharing it with you now.
1 organic orange
2 organic lemons
2-4 T honey
2" organic ginger root
Scrub the citrus well with a brush. Dry on a towel, then zest finely over a small saucepan. Halve and juice the citrus into the pan, without straining. (You want all those crazy bits of solids...that's the magic part.) Peel the ginger (scrape with a spoon works well, or use a little extra ginger and just slice off with a knife. You'll lose more but it's faster.) and grate it into the pot. Throw that honey in there, and heat it to a low simmer. (Don't boil it - too much heat kills Vitamin C.) Test it for sweetness -- this is a super powerful mixture and it can be pretty potent. You might need more honey!
Drink it while hot, stirring occasionally so you don't end up with a quarter cup of pulp and zest to eat at the end. Then, have a nap and wake up feeling a little better! Repeat at least twice a day, though 3-4 is better. (The nap, too - repeat the nap.) It's surprising how many people have said to me, "Oh, you have a cold?! Take some Tylenol and then at least you can get on with your life!" I recoil visibly - when I am sick, I don't want to get on with my life. That's the point of being sick - a virus takes you down because you won't go down voluntarily, and your body has had enough of getting on with things, and wishes to be laid down on the sofa for a few days with a heavy blanket, the ringer off, and a cup of magic potion.
You can put more citrus in there if you like: I use whatever I have and often end up with a grapefruit or two as well, though for no good reason I don't use the peel from those. You can also throw some stick cinnamon in, if you like - cinnamon is wonderful for respiration.
Yum!
(Probably not too good if you have diabetes, though.)
Showing posts with label Panaceia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Panaceia. Show all posts
Monday, March 03, 2014
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Remembrance of Things Past
I spoke to my homeopath last month, and ended up rhapsodising on the subject of ice cream. I guess I got a little carried away, because he suddenly leaned across the table and said "This is your next career."
I laughed in his face.
Nothing daunted, he repeated "This is your calling, I'm serious. Look how passionate you are about ice cream!" Which, in itself, was a little depressing.
But really, he might be right: I can't stop thinking about it.
Today I am finishing off an experimental batch of [deep breath] Spiced Brandied Plum and Vanilla Bean. I got two bags of Italian plums from my neighbour last week, and used a pound or two to make a cinnamony, anise-scented compote, which I then pureed and chilled while I made a base custard with 5 egg yolks and 2 cups of cream. Today is churning day: whisk the two together, add a few tablespoons of St Remy VSOP, and freeze for a few hours.
I'm a bit worried - is it spicy enough? Maybe I should have infused the cream with anise, too? Did I use enough clove? It's all very fraught.
I will take a picture of the finished product to show you guys next time.
The reason for all this ice cream nonsense, and my incredible preoccupation with things like exactly how much alcohol can a custard hold without losing its body, and whether my next boozy batch should have 6 or 7 yolks instead of 5? is that Avery has been on an insulin pump for one week and it has been a traumatic transition. As my homeopath asserts, my consuming obsession with ice cream is just a manifestation of my longing for simpler times.
The pump itself is awesome. The sites are so-so. The BG numbers are HORRIBLE and I wish the docs would change things up so she is not running in the high teens all the time. But it's early days yet, and they need to get some baselines established, so.
Both my kids are terribly sick with a viral cold, and that skews the glucose too. Luckily, the kids HATE my special ice cream flavours, so at least I can congratulate myself, in that respect, for not exacerbating the problem. (It's all for me! All!!)
And, this past week was the beginning of fall and the anniversary of Sandy's death. I find myself wishing she were here again, just so she could feel sorry for us, spoil Avery (her goddaughter), and eat ice cream with me.
DARN it all, stupid cancer anyway.
I laughed in his face.
Nothing daunted, he repeated "This is your calling, I'm serious. Look how passionate you are about ice cream!" Which, in itself, was a little depressing.
But really, he might be right: I can't stop thinking about it.
Today I am finishing off an experimental batch of [deep breath] Spiced Brandied Plum and Vanilla Bean. I got two bags of Italian plums from my neighbour last week, and used a pound or two to make a cinnamony, anise-scented compote, which I then pureed and chilled while I made a base custard with 5 egg yolks and 2 cups of cream. Today is churning day: whisk the two together, add a few tablespoons of St Remy VSOP, and freeze for a few hours.
I'm a bit worried - is it spicy enough? Maybe I should have infused the cream with anise, too? Did I use enough clove? It's all very fraught.
I will take a picture of the finished product to show you guys next time.
The reason for all this ice cream nonsense, and my incredible preoccupation with things like exactly how much alcohol can a custard hold without losing its body, and whether my next boozy batch should have 6 or 7 yolks instead of 5? is that Avery has been on an insulin pump for one week and it has been a traumatic transition. As my homeopath asserts, my consuming obsession with ice cream is just a manifestation of my longing for simpler times.
The pump itself is awesome. The sites are so-so. The BG numbers are HORRIBLE and I wish the docs would change things up so she is not running in the high teens all the time. But it's early days yet, and they need to get some baselines established, so.
Both my kids are terribly sick with a viral cold, and that skews the glucose too. Luckily, the kids HATE my special ice cream flavours, so at least I can congratulate myself, in that respect, for not exacerbating the problem. (It's all for me! All!!)
And, this past week was the beginning of fall and the anniversary of Sandy's death. I find myself wishing she were here again, just so she could feel sorry for us, spoil Avery (her goddaughter), and eat ice cream with me.
DARN it all, stupid cancer anyway.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
And then you shift your priorities.
This blog has been pretty quiet for the past month. Sometimes I get busy and I post a lot, and then sometimes I get busy and I don't post at all. Most of the time it's because life has gotten hectic with small things - rarely with One Big Thing.
But this time it was One Big Thing. My daughter Avery, whose real name I'm using here for the first time, got very sick on the last weekend of April, with what I thought was a stomach bug. On the third night, when the vomiting started again and she had been hyperventilating for several hours and the bad feeling I had just wouldn't go away, I took her to emergency.
Within about 3 minutes the triage nurse had it figured out. At first he thought she was hyperventilating from anxiety after all the vomiting. You could see, too, that she was badly dehydrated. She breathed into a paper bag for about 45 seconds while he was asking me her date of birth and so on, and suddenly she took the bag off her face and gasped, "I might throw up." He smelled her breath and reached for a glucometer.
Do mothers go into denial sometimes? Absolutely we do. I had noticed the frequent urination over the past couple of weeks, but I had put all my anxiety into the kidney disease basket...in fact I had decided to ask her doctor to order a 24-hour urine collection.
But as soon as I saw what he had in his hand, I knew what the bad feeling was. Once or twice over the past month I thought "She's been up to pee twice tonight. Diabetes? No, don't be silly. Don't overreact."
Her blood sugar was 23.5.
It's a surreal feeling to see an entire emergency room unit scramble into action at 3 AM, because your daughter has a stomach bug. It's a surreal feeling to sit next to your 9 year old - whose eyelids are barely visible, her eyes are so sunken - biting your tongue because all you can think to say to the doctor is "You must be mistaken." It's a surreal feeling to watch them, when they can finally get a line in to her shrunken and dehydrated threads of veins, put insulin into her IV.
And then to watch the colour and the life come back into your daughter, and to know it's not just the saline, the phosphorus and the potassium, but because she is getting dextrose and insulin.
Insulin. "But - but -" I think to myself stupidly, "Insulin is only for diabetics."
It can't be. It can't be. She's perfectly well. She has always wasted away when she has a virus - all her life whenever she gets a cold she shrinks down to a wisp, and then within a few days she plumps back up. You must be wrong. There's some other explanation, I know it.
Can't we talk about this?
I want what's behind door number two.
But what we got was Type 1 Diabetes. And what nearly killed Avery that night was diabetic ketoacidosis. She had every one of the symptoms on that linked page, except for coma and, thankfully, some of the symptoms listed under 'cerebral edema'.
We spent five days in hospital while they slowly brought her blood sugar down and her electrolytes up. I only realized how close she had been to fatal complications when the doctors and specialists who visited her every day would mention small things: things like "I haven't seen a child that sick from diabetes for a very long time." (That was from the pediatrician - himself a Type 1 diabetic.) "Avery, today is the sickest you will ever be in your life, I promise. You will never be this sick again."
And "She was very sick," said one nurse to another, then the diabetes nurse educator added to both of them, "She was incredibly sick."
We have been home now for 12 days. Our whole life has changed. From a household that would lie reading books in bed until 10.30 in the morning, shuffle into the kitchen and throw a few pieces of bread into the toaster, we have become a family who does sugar checks every four hours at minimum, and schedules (unbelievably balanced) meals for 9:00, 1:00, 6:00 and 9:00. Nothing gets in the way of mealtimes anymore - because I can't manage it all, in my own mind, unless there is some predictability built into the system. I have to know exactly what is going in to her body, and administer insulin within a certain timeframe around her meals.
My crappy little entry-level Samsung Galaxy smart-phone has become my bestest, best buddy. I have alarms set for 2 AM, 5 AM, and 8 AM. I have an app that links to a website where I log every single thing Avery eats, with a carb count for all of it, as well as the result of every finger-stick blood sugar test she does (we're averaging about 8 or 9 a day), and every injection she gets of both kinds of insulin. I had to get a text plan so that I could contact the pediatrician four times a day with her pre-meal blood sugar numbers, and he could text me back with the dosage.
Will we be okay? Yes. We will be okay.
Will this settle down so that I don't need to keep such obsessive records of her food? Yes. I'll get used to it.
Will I eventually know the insulin dosage myself, so that I don't need to text the pediatrician? Yes. In fact they're giving me "the math" tomorrow, and then I'll be doing my own insulin calculations.
Will I ever, ever get used to the fact that my daughter has Type 1 Diabetes?
I'm sure I will. The disease is manageable, if not controllable. The daily grind of it will be exhausting, but we are willing and able for it...after all, we still have Avery with us. The tests, the injections, the careful juggling of food and exercise and meds...all of that is cake compared to my child nearly dying.
The question is, will I ever forgive myself for not seeing the signs of it, and therefore allowing her illness to progress long past the point of danger. Will I ever forgive myself for all the ginger ale and popsicles I fed her, thinking her blood sugar was low after all that vomiting?
I'm not holding my breath.
But this time it was One Big Thing. My daughter Avery, whose real name I'm using here for the first time, got very sick on the last weekend of April, with what I thought was a stomach bug. On the third night, when the vomiting started again and she had been hyperventilating for several hours and the bad feeling I had just wouldn't go away, I took her to emergency.
Within about 3 minutes the triage nurse had it figured out. At first he thought she was hyperventilating from anxiety after all the vomiting. You could see, too, that she was badly dehydrated. She breathed into a paper bag for about 45 seconds while he was asking me her date of birth and so on, and suddenly she took the bag off her face and gasped, "I might throw up." He smelled her breath and reached for a glucometer.
Do mothers go into denial sometimes? Absolutely we do. I had noticed the frequent urination over the past couple of weeks, but I had put all my anxiety into the kidney disease basket...in fact I had decided to ask her doctor to order a 24-hour urine collection.
But as soon as I saw what he had in his hand, I knew what the bad feeling was. Once or twice over the past month I thought "She's been up to pee twice tonight. Diabetes? No, don't be silly. Don't overreact."
Her blood sugar was 23.5.
It's a surreal feeling to see an entire emergency room unit scramble into action at 3 AM, because your daughter has a stomach bug. It's a surreal feeling to sit next to your 9 year old - whose eyelids are barely visible, her eyes are so sunken - biting your tongue because all you can think to say to the doctor is "You must be mistaken." It's a surreal feeling to watch them, when they can finally get a line in to her shrunken and dehydrated threads of veins, put insulin into her IV.
And then to watch the colour and the life come back into your daughter, and to know it's not just the saline, the phosphorus and the potassium, but because she is getting dextrose and insulin.
Insulin. "But - but -" I think to myself stupidly, "Insulin is only for diabetics."
It can't be. It can't be. She's perfectly well. She has always wasted away when she has a virus - all her life whenever she gets a cold she shrinks down to a wisp, and then within a few days she plumps back up. You must be wrong. There's some other explanation, I know it.
Can't we talk about this?
I want what's behind door number two.
But what we got was Type 1 Diabetes. And what nearly killed Avery that night was diabetic ketoacidosis. She had every one of the symptoms on that linked page, except for coma and, thankfully, some of the symptoms listed under 'cerebral edema'.
We spent five days in hospital while they slowly brought her blood sugar down and her electrolytes up. I only realized how close she had been to fatal complications when the doctors and specialists who visited her every day would mention small things: things like "I haven't seen a child that sick from diabetes for a very long time." (That was from the pediatrician - himself a Type 1 diabetic.) "Avery, today is the sickest you will ever be in your life, I promise. You will never be this sick again."
And "She was very sick," said one nurse to another, then the diabetes nurse educator added to both of them, "She was incredibly sick."
I can't even describe how much better she looks in this photo.
I wish I had taken one 12 hours earlier - you wouldn't think it was the same child.
We have been home now for 12 days. Our whole life has changed. From a household that would lie reading books in bed until 10.30 in the morning, shuffle into the kitchen and throw a few pieces of bread into the toaster, we have become a family who does sugar checks every four hours at minimum, and schedules (unbelievably balanced) meals for 9:00, 1:00, 6:00 and 9:00. Nothing gets in the way of mealtimes anymore - because I can't manage it all, in my own mind, unless there is some predictability built into the system. I have to know exactly what is going in to her body, and administer insulin within a certain timeframe around her meals.
My crappy little entry-level Samsung Galaxy smart-phone has become my bestest, best buddy. I have alarms set for 2 AM, 5 AM, and 8 AM. I have an app that links to a website where I log every single thing Avery eats, with a carb count for all of it, as well as the result of every finger-stick blood sugar test she does (we're averaging about 8 or 9 a day), and every injection she gets of both kinds of insulin. I had to get a text plan so that I could contact the pediatrician four times a day with her pre-meal blood sugar numbers, and he could text me back with the dosage.
Will we be okay? Yes. We will be okay.
Will this settle down so that I don't need to keep such obsessive records of her food? Yes. I'll get used to it.
Will I eventually know the insulin dosage myself, so that I don't need to text the pediatrician? Yes. In fact they're giving me "the math" tomorrow, and then I'll be doing my own insulin calculations.
Will I ever, ever get used to the fact that my daughter has Type 1 Diabetes?
I'm sure I will. The disease is manageable, if not controllable. The daily grind of it will be exhausting, but we are willing and able for it...after all, we still have Avery with us. The tests, the injections, the careful juggling of food and exercise and meds...all of that is cake compared to my child nearly dying.
The question is, will I ever forgive myself for not seeing the signs of it, and therefore allowing her illness to progress long past the point of danger. Will I ever forgive myself for all the ginger ale and popsicles I fed her, thinking her blood sugar was low after all that vomiting?
I'm not holding my breath.
Saturday, March 02, 2013
Feel Better Slow
Well, Susie pointed out the other day that if I am feeling better, it is now time to lace up the ol' running shoes again.
I'm a big believer in convalescence. Our culture hasn't really respected it for a long time - in the old days, you'd have been sent to the seaside for six weeks after the flu, and if all you had was a cold you'd at least have been well wrapped up and taken on gentle airings until all danger of relapse was past.
Fast forward to the past fifty or so years. It seems that, for decades, people have been taking just a day or two off, and coughing and sniffling their way through the surrounding weeks of work. They spend those weeks broadcasting their viruses to the rest of the people in the office, or the kids at the school, or whatever. Ads used to focus on drugs you could use to deal with your symptoms so you'd be able to go to work. (Anybody else horrified by that commercial? Imagining yourself on that very same plane, unknowingly breathing in all of her recycled air?)
I think modern medicine is starting to get back on board, though, judging from the number of times in the past few years that I've heard medical professionals talking about the "postviral state". The aforementioned ads, too, have begun to change. Some now suggest that you take the drugs for symptom relief so you can get a better, more healing, sleep. An improvement.
Anyhow, it has been four mornings now that I have woken up without a sore throat or a headache, so I think I'm going to follow Susie's direction and start up the 10K training again. I'm three weeks behind schedule, so I don't know whether I'll be able to finish the entire program - I am in week 4 of 14, but there are only 8 weeks left until the race. My daughter is also recovering from the cold, so she will be out of action for at least a few more days.
Unsurprisingly, I have already gotten out of the habit, and going for a run tonight seems like a total drag.
I'm a big believer in convalescence. Our culture hasn't really respected it for a long time - in the old days, you'd have been sent to the seaside for six weeks after the flu, and if all you had was a cold you'd at least have been well wrapped up and taken on gentle airings until all danger of relapse was past.
Fast forward to the past fifty or so years. It seems that, for decades, people have been taking just a day or two off, and coughing and sniffling their way through the surrounding weeks of work. They spend those weeks broadcasting their viruses to the rest of the people in the office, or the kids at the school, or whatever. Ads used to focus on drugs you could use to deal with your symptoms so you'd be able to go to work. (Anybody else horrified by that commercial? Imagining yourself on that very same plane, unknowingly breathing in all of her recycled air?)
I think modern medicine is starting to get back on board, though, judging from the number of times in the past few years that I've heard medical professionals talking about the "postviral state". The aforementioned ads, too, have begun to change. Some now suggest that you take the drugs for symptom relief so you can get a better, more healing, sleep. An improvement.
Anyhow, it has been four mornings now that I have woken up without a sore throat or a headache, so I think I'm going to follow Susie's direction and start up the 10K training again. I'm three weeks behind schedule, so I don't know whether I'll be able to finish the entire program - I am in week 4 of 14, but there are only 8 weeks left until the race. My daughter is also recovering from the cold, so she will be out of action for at least a few more days.
Unsurprisingly, I have already gotten out of the habit, and going for a run tonight seems like a total drag.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
When is a good day a bad day?
Yesterday was my Dad's surgery, and thanks to all the prayers, good wishes, positive vibes, and possibly chickens sacrificed on his behalf, it looks like "they got it all".
"They" meaning the surgeons et al, "got" meaning removed, "it all" being every last scrap of cancer.
Yay!
And that, my friends, is a cute little summary of a hellish 16-hour day during which, at every trip to the hospital bathroom (because, lots of coffee), I noticed my hair was greyer.
But the surgeon says "no trace of cancer anywhere else", so even if all my hair were to turn snow white before dropping off my head and leaving me bald as an egg: Great! it's a bright, bright sunshiny day.
I cast on a vest for Dad (at his request) last week, and (power knitting) finished it before the surgery. It just needs the ribbing at neck and arms...I forgot "Folk Vests" at home so couldn't do the ribbing at the hospital as I had planned.
Next post - knitting news and pictures. I have finished so many projects in the last few months, you'd be surprised.
Onward!
PS: My sister is here to be with my parents and me this week, and she wrote a beautiful post for Dad yesterday before the surgery. If you would like to read a bit more about my lovely Dad, and even seen a photo of him in his preferred habitat, click over to Blethering Spot and bring Kleenex.
"They" meaning the surgeons et al, "got" meaning removed, "it all" being every last scrap of cancer.
Yay!
And that, my friends, is a cute little summary of a hellish 16-hour day during which, at every trip to the hospital bathroom (because, lots of coffee), I noticed my hair was greyer.
But the surgeon says "no trace of cancer anywhere else", so even if all my hair were to turn snow white before dropping off my head and leaving me bald as an egg: Great! it's a bright, bright sunshiny day.
I cast on a vest for Dad (at his request) last week, and (power knitting) finished it before the surgery. It just needs the ribbing at neck and arms...I forgot "Folk Vests" at home so couldn't do the ribbing at the hospital as I had planned.
Next post - knitting news and pictures. I have finished so many projects in the last few months, you'd be surprised.
Onward!
PS: My sister is here to be with my parents and me this week, and she wrote a beautiful post for Dad yesterday before the surgery. If you would like to read a bit more about my lovely Dad, and even seen a photo of him in his preferred habitat, click over to Blethering Spot and bring Kleenex.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Hm.
Now that I've been nearly three weeks without posting, I'm getting this awkward-silence vibe from the blog.
To break the ice: here's my new haircut.
Apparently, it's been too long since I had one, since I've emailed this picture to probably three people already. Inordinately pleased with this minor change in my appearance. (Same, but a little shorter.) And next time I put a picture of myself on the blog, it'll be one where I'm wearing makeup and therefore actually have features. And maybe I won't use the bathroom mirror and a flash.
* * *
To break the ice: here's my new haircut.
Apparently, it's been too long since I had one, since I've emailed this picture to probably three people already. Inordinately pleased with this minor change in my appearance. (Same, but a little shorter.) And next time I put a picture of myself on the blog, it'll be one where I'm wearing makeup and therefore actually have features. And maybe I won't use the bathroom mirror and a flash.
* * *
Okay, here's the news.
January 3rd my parents came over and my Dad told me he has been diagnosed with aggressive prostate cancer. It seemed to be stage 4: a biopsy found 9 of 10 possible sites affected. My Dad is 73, and has no real health problems - Type 2 diabetes, which he manages by walking about 6 hours a day to stabilize his blood sugar.
Heart disease runs in his family, so if you asked me what I feared for my Dad, it would have been that. Cancer wasn't even on my radar.
On January 5th my friend Sandy came over and told me she has been diagnosed with lymphoma, thought to have been caused by the radiation therapy she received for her colorectal cancer of two years ago. The cancer is too diffuse to radiate, so she was waiting on a biopsy to determine a course of treatment.
Hearing about Sandy was bad, but so much of my mental energy was taken up with worrying about Dad, I coped with Sandy's news pretty well. In fact, I told a family member in an email, "if YOU have cancer, now is a great time to tell me. I'm on a roll."
I spent the next two weeks feeling like all my life force had drained away. I stood around, looking out through rain-slicked windows and crying.
We were waiting for a CT scan and a bone scan, scheduled for the 11th and 14th, to tell us how far the cancer had spread. Last Tuesday the results came back in - no metastases. (Excellent.) They offered Dad a choice between radiation and removal: he opted for removal.
Dad's surgery is scheduled for February 1, next Monday. Once the cancer is out, a pathologist will be able to tell what they should do next - whether chemotherapy would be beneficial.
Sandy had a needle biopsy yesterday - through her back to take cells from lymph nodes located behind her sternum. (Ouch...) Now we just wait for a few days until those results are in, and her year will take shape - whether it will be a chemo year, or something else.
* * *
I don't want to bring too much of this onto the blog. Not because I feel private about it (obviously I don't) but because I've been eating, sleeping, and breathing Cancer for nearly three weeks: I want to talk about something else. I won't be posting long cancer updates, though I will put a line or two in a post, if something major happens.
So thank you for all your good wishes on my last post - it was really great to hear from everybody. It was a comfort to know that you care.
* * *
Coming soon: more fun, less cancer. Can I get a "HELL yeah"?
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Cudgelled
Almost didn't post today even though
because I am so very, very sick. Just today I came down with a screaming virus - I mean to say, a virus that is loud, proud, and means business, not a virus who shrieks. I'm supposed to meet someone important tomorrow for lunch and at this rate I am not, definitely I am not, going to make it.
So if I'm supposed to meet you tomorrow, you know who you are, and if I don't show up, I am so very very sorry. Comfort yourself with the knowledge that I feel worse about it than you do. Plus I'd hate to pass this bug along - it's a real beyotch.
And to all the girls who went to Fun Knits with me yesterday - I really hope I didn't breathe on you. Karen, I hugged you on Wednesday at knitting - I apologise. Maybe you should take some echinacea.
it's my two-year blogiversary
because I am so very, very sick. Just today I came down with a screaming virus - I mean to say, a virus that is loud, proud, and means business, not a virus who shrieks. I'm supposed to meet someone important tomorrow for lunch and at this rate I am not, definitely I am not, going to make it.
So if I'm supposed to meet you tomorrow, you know who you are, and if I don't show up, I am so very very sorry. Comfort yourself with the knowledge that I feel worse about it than you do. Plus I'd hate to pass this bug along - it's a real beyotch.
And to all the girls who went to Fun Knits with me yesterday - I really hope I didn't breathe on you. Karen, I hugged you on Wednesday at knitting - I apologise. Maybe you should take some echinacea.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Sting, Stang, Stung
More on this fuzzy fellow later. Click to embiggen.
My sister has been asking what Piper looks like now, at the age of four months. He's gotten a lot taller:
but mostly he has become kind of a handful. You know how puppies chew, right? Well, Piper doesn't chew so much as he eats. The other day he was lying beside me in the living room when i heard a funny swallowing sound. Sticking out of his muzzle were 2 inches of a 12 inch collar. I had taken it off him earlier and put it in my cardy pocket, and he pulled it out and swallowed most of it before I caught him.
Dealing with that was disgusting, really (kind of foamy-slimy), but the larger issue is that we have to be awfully vigilant about this dog. Stupid animal has a death wish.
Our house has also become home to another kind of pet: honeybees have set up a hive in our crawl space, between the floor and the insulation. I first noticed them coming and going out their front door, a gap in one of the wall vents to the outside...
We have called the local beekeepers' association, and they gave us the names of five beekeepers who would probably love to come and collect the hive. I don't know how long it will take but the bees are not bothering us - I quite like having them there actually.
However, on Saturday Emily fell down into a patch of clover in the front yard (our lawn is about 70% clover now) directly on top of a bee. She got a bad sting in her leg, which got red and hot very quickly. Within a few minutes she had an alarming network of welts all over her calf.
My mother is anaphylactic and carries an Epi Pen for bee stings, and I was a bit concerned about it as Emily has never been stung before. I had homeopathic Apis in the house, so I gave her three of them within ten minutes of the sting. The welts disappeared completely, and by the next morning all that was left was a tiny little stinger hole.
So I'm definitely keeping that remedy in the house. It's part of my growing Family Kit. So far I keep Arnica (for trauma, bruising), Apis (for stings and bites), Aconite (for panic), Influenzinum (flu), Hepar Sulph (for earaches, congestion and infections) and Ignatia (for worry and stress).
The last thing I wanted to show you is Charlotte's Christmas stocking. Remember this?
I have picked it up again, realising uneasily that it is halfway to Christmas and I've barely touched it. I really need to get it done this year, but at this rate I might not make it. I'll have to sacrifice some knitting to the cause, eventually, but I'd like to finish the Cap Shawl first.
Maybe I'll show you guys a picture of this thing every week, and if there isn't enough progress you can set up a hue and cry in the comments to get me going.
Now I'm off to clean up that coffee table...it's moved to the top of my priority list because I want to knit for a while and I need a place to set my teacup.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Celebrate, Commemorate
Today is May 29, Ian and Gwen's two-year anniversary.
Thank you Gwen. Thanks for keeping our family alive.
Thank you Gwen. Thanks for keeping our family alive.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Woman Against.
Edit:
All's well that ends well
although he hasn't finished with the rocks yet...there are three still to be passed. I have to watch for them. Goodie.
Two things happened to me today.
I refused to turn a blind eye.
and
I realised I love my dog.
Poor little Piper started having some problems this afternoon. He was acting funny: weak-legged and faint, he staggered around the yard listlessly, drooling copiously and crying actual tears out of his eyes. He wouldn't eat and he kept retching up water. When he started having a bit of diarrhea I phoned the vet and took him down.
I was afraid it was Canine Distemper Virus. I looked at the symptom list online and saw that he had all but one - the fever. The timeline for CDV didn't really match up, but since the breeder had told us that he didn't have his full immunity until his second shots (which were scheduled for next week), I was paranoid.
First of all, I have obviously been spoiled by the beautiful and wondrous thing that is the Canadian Health Care System (although I did get a $57 ambulance bill once when my daughter and I were taken to hospital following a cataclysmic car wreck), because when the vet told me it was going to cost $300 just to DIAGNOSE the problem, I almost fell over sideways.
After some bloodwork (all perfectly normal) and some x-rays (perfectly NOT normal) they phoned to tell us that he had been eating something he shouldn't have.
Our puppy is basically a warm, furry bag full of rocks.
Thankfully, in the course of nature the rocks have already begun to return to the outside world. There is no blockage. HOWEVER, the poor little thing is dehydrated and has a very irritated and inflamed GI tract, so he has been HOSPITALISED FOR THE NIGHT to be administered IV FLUIDS AND ANTIBIOTICS.
So here we are at 10.00 PM, and the house is quiet. We had the sliding doors between the kitchen and the living room open tonight because there was no little furry, foxy muzzle poking around the corner looking for his chance to bolt out of his puppy-proof area. I left my shoes right inside the back door, with no fears that they will be reduced to a few fragments of damp, shredded canvas.
And you know what? I miss him. I miss him a lot. I am worrying about my poor little pupster, separated from his family and stuck in the animal hospital overnight, where he will probably be bullied into doing the bigger dogs' chores and have his, you know, kibble money taken or whatever. Alternatively, he'll cry through the night and be convinced, by tomorrow, that he'll never see his family again. In the morning he'll be practising his hitchhiking technique and tying his few meager possessions into a bandanna on the end of a stick.
Seriously, I'm so anxious...do you think he'll be okay?
And when I go to pick him up tomorrow afternoon I'm going to let him lick my pewter inukshuk necklace as much as he wants to, and I'm going to let him have Lean Cuts for breakfast AND supper.
Okay, now the not-so-nice part.
I was sitting on a sunny bench outside a local elementary school today, reading "A Thread of Grace" and waiting for my daughter's Guide meeting to finish. Suddenly I heard banging and yelling coming from a house a few doors down the street, then a woman screaming. I looked up to see a man forcing his way into the house, shouting something I couldn't hear. Through the front window I could see a woman leaning against the door trying to keep him out. She was crying "No!! No, don't!! Get out!" He pushed her backwards into the house. I could still hear her screaming.
I immediately reached for my cellphone and called 911, just as I heard another male voice shout "Get your hands off her, @sshoIe!! Get your hands off her!!" The speaker was a neighbour, running over from across the street and following the first guy into the house. The dispatcher answered and I told him everything as it played out. He asked me to get the address...I had to walk down most of the length of the field to see the number. He asked whether there was a vehicle - I couldn't see past the hedge.
Just as he was finishing up my address and phone number, the first guy - the violent, abusive oppressor - came out of the house. I heard a truck start, then saw a beat up Range Rover pull out of the driveway and take off down the street. I told this to the 911 dispatcher who seemed, unlike me, completely NOT relieved by this latest development.
His voice became suddenly sharp. "Can you see the female?"
No.
"Can you hear the female?"
No.
"Can you see the other male who entered the house?"
No.
"Can you hear anything at all?"
I can hear a baby screaming. Maybe a toddler. (And now I've just realised what he is thinking.) You should hurry.
"The boys are on their way, I promise you. Please tell me anything that happens."
It seemed like a really long time. I mean.....a really long time. But it was only a few minutes. Two cars came roaring up, with huge men in bulletproof vests who strode into that house like they owned it, to find who-knows-what. They were unafraid, but wary. I tell you this: in my entire life no man has ever laid an abusive hand on me, and even I was relieved and reassured to see them.
I don't know what happened, but judging from the lack of an ambulance, all was (physically) well with the woman. I hope all was well with the child, too.
I could write a lot here about what it must be like for all these people. The girl behind the door. The children in a house where such things happen. The dispatcher who gets calls like this every single shift. The "boys", heroes of our time, who jeopardise their marriages, their sanity, their health and their lives following up on every call. They go right up, knock on the doors, walk through the house room by room, check on everyone. They ask the woman if she's okay, if she knows her attacker, if this has happened before.
If she wants to press charges.
They look at the little tear-stained child keeping well back, or maybe sitting on the couch with a neighbour or a sister, and they ask if she is all right. They assess. They think about Victim Services, wonder if a call is appropriate. They ask about license plate numbers and places he might be found. They take names, and numbers, and talk about restraining orders and safe houses and shelters and do you have someone you can call?
And then the worst part - or what I imagine must be the worst part. They give one last piece of advice, take one last look around the place. They glance over at that little person who has seen what no person should have to see, and they walk back out the door. Drive away. Make their report. Finish their shift.
None of us can really do anything, can we? I mean, nothing changes. This probably won't be The Last Straw that causes a complete break between them. This probably won't be the thing that convinces her that he's a worthless sack of shit who should be kept away from her and her child. The best I can hope for is that they track that abusive bastard down, arrest him, and in the process intimidate the hell out of him. I can hope the coward realises that someone will hear, someone will see, and he will have to answer for it.
But, whether it changes anything or not, by God no man gets away with that kind of crap anywhere near me.
All's well that ends well
although he hasn't finished with the rocks yet...there are three still to be passed. I have to watch for them. Goodie.
===============
Two things happened to me today.
I refused to turn a blind eye.
and
I realised I love my dog.
Poor little Piper started having some problems this afternoon. He was acting funny: weak-legged and faint, he staggered around the yard listlessly, drooling copiously and crying actual tears out of his eyes. He wouldn't eat and he kept retching up water. When he started having a bit of diarrhea I phoned the vet and took him down.
I was afraid it was Canine Distemper Virus. I looked at the symptom list online and saw that he had all but one - the fever. The timeline for CDV didn't really match up, but since the breeder had told us that he didn't have his full immunity until his second shots (which were scheduled for next week), I was paranoid.
First of all, I have obviously been spoiled by the beautiful and wondrous thing that is the Canadian Health Care System (although I did get a $57 ambulance bill once when my daughter and I were taken to hospital following a cataclysmic car wreck), because when the vet told me it was going to cost $300 just to DIAGNOSE the problem, I almost fell over sideways.
After some bloodwork (all perfectly normal) and some x-rays (perfectly NOT normal) they phoned to tell us that he had been eating something he shouldn't have.
Our puppy is basically a warm, furry bag full of rocks.
Thankfully, in the course of nature the rocks have already begun to return to the outside world. There is no blockage. HOWEVER, the poor little thing is dehydrated and has a very irritated and inflamed GI tract, so he has been HOSPITALISED FOR THE NIGHT to be administered IV FLUIDS AND ANTIBIOTICS.
So here we are at 10.00 PM, and the house is quiet. We had the sliding doors between the kitchen and the living room open tonight because there was no little furry, foxy muzzle poking around the corner looking for his chance to bolt out of his puppy-proof area. I left my shoes right inside the back door, with no fears that they will be reduced to a few fragments of damp, shredded canvas.
And you know what? I miss him. I miss him a lot. I am worrying about my poor little pupster, separated from his family and stuck in the animal hospital overnight, where he will probably be bullied into doing the bigger dogs' chores and have his, you know, kibble money taken or whatever. Alternatively, he'll cry through the night and be convinced, by tomorrow, that he'll never see his family again. In the morning he'll be practising his hitchhiking technique and tying his few meager possessions into a bandanna on the end of a stick.
Seriously, I'm so anxious...do you think he'll be okay?
And when I go to pick him up tomorrow afternoon I'm going to let him lick my pewter inukshuk necklace as much as he wants to, and I'm going to let him have Lean Cuts for breakfast AND supper.
===============
Okay, now the not-so-nice part.
I was sitting on a sunny bench outside a local elementary school today, reading "A Thread of Grace" and waiting for my daughter's Guide meeting to finish. Suddenly I heard banging and yelling coming from a house a few doors down the street, then a woman screaming. I looked up to see a man forcing his way into the house, shouting something I couldn't hear. Through the front window I could see a woman leaning against the door trying to keep him out. She was crying "No!! No, don't!! Get out!" He pushed her backwards into the house. I could still hear her screaming.
I immediately reached for my cellphone and called 911, just as I heard another male voice shout "Get your hands off her, @sshoIe!! Get your hands off her!!" The speaker was a neighbour, running over from across the street and following the first guy into the house. The dispatcher answered and I told him everything as it played out. He asked me to get the address...I had to walk down most of the length of the field to see the number. He asked whether there was a vehicle - I couldn't see past the hedge.
Just as he was finishing up my address and phone number, the first guy - the violent, abusive oppressor - came out of the house. I heard a truck start, then saw a beat up Range Rover pull out of the driveway and take off down the street. I told this to the 911 dispatcher who seemed, unlike me, completely NOT relieved by this latest development.
His voice became suddenly sharp. "Can you see the female?"
No.
"Can you hear the female?"
No.
"Can you see the other male who entered the house?"
No.
"Can you hear anything at all?"
I can hear a baby screaming. Maybe a toddler. (And now I've just realised what he is thinking.) You should hurry.
"The boys are on their way, I promise you. Please tell me anything that happens."
It seemed like a really long time. I mean.....a really long time. But it was only a few minutes. Two cars came roaring up, with huge men in bulletproof vests who strode into that house like they owned it, to find who-knows-what. They were unafraid, but wary. I tell you this: in my entire life no man has ever laid an abusive hand on me, and even I was relieved and reassured to see them.
I don't know what happened, but judging from the lack of an ambulance, all was (physically) well with the woman. I hope all was well with the child, too.
I could write a lot here about what it must be like for all these people. The girl behind the door. The children in a house where such things happen. The dispatcher who gets calls like this every single shift. The "boys", heroes of our time, who jeopardise their marriages, their sanity, their health and their lives following up on every call. They go right up, knock on the doors, walk through the house room by room, check on everyone. They ask the woman if she's okay, if she knows her attacker, if this has happened before.
If she wants to press charges.
They look at the little tear-stained child keeping well back, or maybe sitting on the couch with a neighbour or a sister, and they ask if she is all right. They assess. They think about Victim Services, wonder if a call is appropriate. They ask about license plate numbers and places he might be found. They take names, and numbers, and talk about restraining orders and safe houses and shelters and do you have someone you can call?
And then the worst part - or what I imagine must be the worst part. They give one last piece of advice, take one last look around the place. They glance over at that little person who has seen what no person should have to see, and they walk back out the door. Drive away. Make their report. Finish their shift.
None of us can really do anything, can we? I mean, nothing changes. This probably won't be The Last Straw that causes a complete break between them. This probably won't be the thing that convinces her that he's a worthless sack of shit who should be kept away from her and her child. The best I can hope for is that they track that abusive bastard down, arrest him, and in the process intimidate the hell out of him. I can hope the coward realises that someone will hear, someone will see, and he will have to answer for it.
But, whether it changes anything or not, by God no man gets away with that kind of crap anywhere near me.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
And they say homeschoolers are lazy.
So just to give you an example of what the BC government wants to know (i.e., wants me to demonstrate on paper) about the effectiveness of my daughter's education, get an eyeful of this. These are just a few outcomes, by the way, in one area (of 12) of one subject - specifically, Language Arts: Writing and Responding, Purposes. (There are other outcomes in this area, and twelve areas in the subject. And there are eight subjects.)
create imaginative writing and representations, often modelled on those they have read, heard, or viewed, featuring - ideas represented through sentences and images that generally connect to a topic - developing sentence fluency by using simple sentences, dialogue, phrases, and poetic language - developing word choice by attempting to use new and descriptive words - developing voice by showing some evidence of individuality - an organization that generally follows a form presented or modelled by the teacher; stories include a beginning, middle, and end
create straightforward informational writing and representations, using prompts to elicit ideas and knowledge, featuring - ideas represented through words, sentences, and images that connect to a topic - developing sentence fluency by using simple sentences, patterns, labels, and captions - developing word choice by beginning to use content-specific vocabulary and some detail - developing voice by showing how they think and feel about a topic - an organization that follows a form modelled by the teacher, such as a list, web, chart, cluster, or other graphic organizer
create straightforward personal writing and representations that express simple ideas, feelings, likes, and dislikes, featuring - ideas represented through words, sentences, and images that connect to a topic - developing sentence fluency by using simple sentences that relate to each other - developing word choice by attempting to use descriptive words and interesting details - developing voice by showing some evidence of individuality - an organization that follows a form or text presented or modelled by the teacher, such as a list, card, or letter
Okay, first of all? Judging by the criteria above, the asshats who wrote these outcomes don't even have a Grade One education, because to finish Grade One you apparently have to have "sentence fluency", and use "straightforward information writing". Neither of those things are apparent in the outcomes as listed above: therefore, or as they used to say back in Clearihue B, quod erat demonstrandum, they must not have finished Grade One.
Second, SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME. My brain hurts from devising worksheets targetted at satisfying multiple outcomes for eight subjects. I've been at it all day, and off-and-on for the last three days, on very little sleep. My little one is sick and is spending half the night coughing and whimpering.
Third, want to see what I had for dinner last night? (Mr HalfsoledBoots had Mini Wheats and the kids had homemade macaroni and cheese.)
I firmly believe there is no trouble so great that it cannot be helped - however slightly - by a piccolo of Henckell. The cool round grapes, Saltspring Island garlic-rosemary chevre, roasted onion & garlic jam, and fresh baguette didn't hurt either.
Anyway, back to being the principal, the teacher, the janitor, the librarian, the burly woman with a whistle who runs PE, the school nurse, the Board, and the Parent Advisory Council. See you on the other side.
create imaginative writing and representations, often modelled on those they have read, heard, or viewed, featuring - ideas represented through sentences and images that generally connect to a topic - developing sentence fluency by using simple sentences, dialogue, phrases, and poetic language - developing word choice by attempting to use new and descriptive words - developing voice by showing some evidence of individuality - an organization that generally follows a form presented or modelled by the teacher; stories include a beginning, middle, and end
create straightforward informational writing and representations, using prompts to elicit ideas and knowledge, featuring - ideas represented through words, sentences, and images that connect to a topic - developing sentence fluency by using simple sentences, patterns, labels, and captions - developing word choice by beginning to use content-specific vocabulary and some detail - developing voice by showing how they think and feel about a topic - an organization that follows a form modelled by the teacher, such as a list, web, chart, cluster, or other graphic organizer
create straightforward personal writing and representations that express simple ideas, feelings, likes, and dislikes, featuring - ideas represented through words, sentences, and images that connect to a topic - developing sentence fluency by using simple sentences that relate to each other - developing word choice by attempting to use descriptive words and interesting details - developing voice by showing some evidence of individuality - an organization that follows a form or text presented or modelled by the teacher, such as a list, card, or letter
Okay, first of all? Judging by the criteria above, the asshats who wrote these outcomes don't even have a Grade One education, because to finish Grade One you apparently have to have "sentence fluency", and use "straightforward information writing". Neither of those things are apparent in the outcomes as listed above: therefore, or as they used to say back in Clearihue B, quod erat demonstrandum, they must not have finished Grade One.
Second, SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME. My brain hurts from devising worksheets targetted at satisfying multiple outcomes for eight subjects. I've been at it all day, and off-and-on for the last three days, on very little sleep. My little one is sick and is spending half the night coughing and whimpering.
Third, want to see what I had for dinner last night? (Mr HalfsoledBoots had Mini Wheats and the kids had homemade macaroni and cheese.)
I firmly believe there is no trouble so great that it cannot be helped - however slightly - by a piccolo of Henckell. The cool round grapes, Saltspring Island garlic-rosemary chevre, roasted onion & garlic jam, and fresh baguette didn't hurt either.
Anyway, back to being the principal, the teacher, the janitor, the librarian, the burly woman with a whistle who runs PE, the school nurse, the Board, and the Parent Advisory Council. See you on the other side.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Five by Five
Thank you for your comments on the last post. I think it's the first time in my life I read a poem over the next day, and desired to make neither additions nor deletions. Everything I have felt for the last four days is right there, buried in those three cryptic stanzas.
Last Friday my dear friend was diagnosed with cancer. By the end of September she will have had 5 days of radiation and a surgery to remove the tumour in her colon. She will be in the hospital about a week.
Friday night I didn't sleep, so Saturday was a bit of a sinkhole for me, but I drove to Village Yarns and headed straight for the Mission Falls 1824 washable wool. After her surgery my friend will need something to pull around her at 4.40 AM in the halflight, when she is awake and fearful and hurting, and her family and friends are all sleeping in their own beds.
The kind, sympathetic, supportive and incredibly helpful owner had 19 balls of this colour - I bought them all, drove home, and started flipping through the books: Cables Untangled, Aran Knitting, and Viking Patterns for Knitting. I did some haphazard math, double checked it as well as my distracted, exhausted, grief-stricken, fearful brain would allow, and cast on.
This takes precedence over everything else in my life at the moment, so the house is a mess and the lace, four days from completion, is resting for now. I am trying for 1.5 balls per day, hoping to be done in about two weeks. Finished dimensions will be about 28" by 80".
The central cable is just a vertically-symmetrical closed celtic knot from Starmore, and the edge is a mirror-image three-bight Norse happiness symbol on a four-stitch, four-row rope cable. I would have liked to have designed something more meaningful for the centre but time is of the serious essence here and I had to use what I could find that would fit the dimensions I was hoping for.
Originally I had chosen more of a taupe colour, but the shop owner gently suggested that a strong green would be more appropriate for a "wellness blanket" (thank you Karen for that phrase). I think she's so right and I'm glad she brought me up short before I bought depressing beige yarn for my friend's recovery.
I'm trying to be positive and happy as I knit this for my friend. I don't know how well I'm succeeding on the happiness thing but I do know that I'm thinking of her and wishing her healing, and praying all I can, with every wrap of yarn and sweep of needle.
Friday, June 22, 2007
And now back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Today Em gets her stitches out. I took the bandage off this morning; a moment I've been dreading. It's not as bad as I feared it might be, but neither is it my beautiful unblemished child of five days ago. But I'm hopeful: I'm thinking regular application of lavender essential oil in some Vitamin E will work wonders.
and am quite happy to see these for the first time in two years. The deer got them last year but I carefully fenced them this time. Take that, you ravenous bastards.
I'm in high hopes that with a few days of sun I will see my echinacea purpurea magnus open...I can't wait for that.
Also, I should have a few shasta daisies soon. There's a story behind this. I put these in a year ago, but didn't get any flowers on them because they were first-years. I was very excited to see them this spring, and watched with glee as they got higher and higher. One day a month or so back, I came home from somewhere and did my routine check of the garden. I was devastated to see all my shasta daisies cropped off close to the ground. I stood there in shock, and of course started cursing the deer in every tongue I know (so, English). Mr HSB came to the door, saw me, and said, "Oh.....so those weren't weeds, then." Apparently that's what I get for nagging my husband to please, please weed-whack the edges of the driveway. Luckily, a few of them hadn't really stuck their necks out yet, and those ones have grown and put out a few tentative flowers.
Please note the lack of any bruising or bumping -- and for that we thank homeopathic Arnica, administered within half an hour of the accident and again at bedtime.
As to Mr Half-Soled Boots, a biopsy was performed on Tuesday morning, but we haven't received the results. Officially, we don't even have a diagnosis yet, although the heavy-dose steroid treatment is in full swing (wow, there goes Mr HSBoots, leaping tall buildings in a single bound!!). Thank you for your prayers and good wishes. And I must say it was a novelty to receive 17 actual comments. I felt faint for a minute when I saw that.
______________________________
Now that I'm home and everyone is recovering, I am starting to feel a bit more Myself. I have a lot to do this summer, once summer actually begins (and yes, I know it was the solstice last night - doesn't change the fact that I have the heat on today, people). I have put a few things into the island bed:
and am quite happy to see these for the first time in two years. The deer got them last year but I carefully fenced them this time. Take that, you ravenous bastards.
I'm in high hopes that with a few days of sun I will see my echinacea purpurea magnus open...I can't wait for that.
Also, I should have a few shasta daisies soon. There's a story behind this. I put these in a year ago, but didn't get any flowers on them because they were first-years. I was very excited to see them this spring, and watched with glee as they got higher and higher. One day a month or so back, I came home from somewhere and did my routine check of the garden. I was devastated to see all my shasta daisies cropped off close to the ground. I stood there in shock, and of course started cursing the deer in every tongue I know (so, English). Mr HSB came to the door, saw me, and said, "Oh.....so those weren't weeds, then." Apparently that's what I get for nagging my husband to please, please weed-whack the edges of the driveway. Luckily, a few of them hadn't really stuck their necks out yet, and those ones have grown and put out a few tentative flowers.
Lastly, I was pleasantly surprised to see the first flowers I've had on my rambling rose. When we moved into this house I thought it was one of those little volunteers that don't put out blooms, so for two years I tried (and failed) to rip it out from amongst the root base of the ornamental cherry in which it grows. Last year I didn't quite get all of the branches cut, and Lo and Behold, roses. I looked it up, and it turns out that particular plant is a biennial, which means it blooms on last year's canes. Trial and error, people: this is why learning to be a gardener is a lifetime study.
Tomorrow (yes, really: tomorrow edit: make that today), I'll show you what I've been working on, needle-and-thread wise.
Monday, June 18, 2007
"Trouble Comes in Threes"
First, on Wednesday last, Mr HSBoots got a call from the renal clinic after his routine bloodwork, to tell him he appeared to be in "acute transplant rejection". We worried for two days while more tests were done, then they phoned again to tell him to please be in Victoria in a few hours to be admitted there for biopsy and treatment.
I took him there on Friday, returning the same day to be with the kids.
On Saturday I planted like mad. The moon was in 1st phase Cancer, after all.
Today, I packed up the kids and headed back to Victoria. We saw their dad for dinner (he feels fine, by the way - no symptoms) then took him back to the hospital.
While playing in the waiting area, three-year-old Emily tripped mid-run, and went headfirst into a steel chair, laying open her forehead to the bone.
It was maybe the quickest trip to emergency ever.
I've never seen so much blood.
We sat in ER for 90 minutes while they treated a drunken softball player who had stepped on a ball and hurt her ankle.
Em had 6 stitches and a vomiting episode, then I gathered up my poor children, said goodbye to my husband who headed back to the renal unit, and made my way downtown to the hotel.
I broke down a bit at the hotel, crying for a few minutes. I feel unqualified for this job, now. And afraid of what might happen to my children. I may turn into one of those mothers who says "Oh, be careful! Don't run there! Don't climb that!" But I don't want to see her skull anymore, nor that little bubble of fat layer protruding from a 3/4 inch gash.
I got the blood out of Emily's hair, washed her face, chest, hands and arms, and my own face, neck, hands and arms. I got everybody settled into bed, Tylenol at the ready on the nightstand, for when Em wakes up in a few hours screaming with the pain. After a struggle with yet more tears, I fell into an exhausted sleep.
Fifteen minutes later, I was awakened by the sound of something being chewed, right under the head of my bed. When I finally got up the nerve to get right down on the floor and look under the bed, I met our roommate. Just a mouse, not a rat.
But still.
I have just finished moving all our belongings and two heavily sleeping children into another room. This one is across the hall, looking over Blanshard Street rather than the courtyard with the quietly playing fountain.
To add insult to injury, upon arriving at the hotel tonight I got my........um.......well, I'll just say moon dark was two nights ago. If you know what I mean.
I don't know whether the mouse counts as the third of the three, or just as comic relief. I hope it's the former.
For those of you who may know in what hotel I can be found, I'm in 212 now, not 203.
And yes, in case you're wondering, I am worried, nervous, tearful, exhausted, and terrified. I just want to go home.
I took him there on Friday, returning the same day to be with the kids.
On Saturday I planted like mad. The moon was in 1st phase Cancer, after all.
Today, I packed up the kids and headed back to Victoria. We saw their dad for dinner (he feels fine, by the way - no symptoms) then took him back to the hospital.
While playing in the waiting area, three-year-old Emily tripped mid-run, and went headfirst into a steel chair, laying open her forehead to the bone.
It was maybe the quickest trip to emergency ever.
I've never seen so much blood.
We sat in ER for 90 minutes while they treated a drunken softball player who had stepped on a ball and hurt her ankle.
Em had 6 stitches and a vomiting episode, then I gathered up my poor children, said goodbye to my husband who headed back to the renal unit, and made my way downtown to the hotel.
I broke down a bit at the hotel, crying for a few minutes. I feel unqualified for this job, now. And afraid of what might happen to my children. I may turn into one of those mothers who says "Oh, be careful! Don't run there! Don't climb that!" But I don't want to see her skull anymore, nor that little bubble of fat layer protruding from a 3/4 inch gash.
I got the blood out of Emily's hair, washed her face, chest, hands and arms, and my own face, neck, hands and arms. I got everybody settled into bed, Tylenol at the ready on the nightstand, for when Em wakes up in a few hours screaming with the pain. After a struggle with yet more tears, I fell into an exhausted sleep.
Fifteen minutes later, I was awakened by the sound of something being chewed, right under the head of my bed. When I finally got up the nerve to get right down on the floor and look under the bed, I met our roommate. Just a mouse, not a rat.
But still.
I have just finished moving all our belongings and two heavily sleeping children into another room. This one is across the hall, looking over Blanshard Street rather than the courtyard with the quietly playing fountain.
To add insult to injury, upon arriving at the hotel tonight I got my........um.......well, I'll just say moon dark was two nights ago. If you know what I mean.
I don't know whether the mouse counts as the third of the three, or just as comic relief. I hope it's the former.
For those of you who may know in what hotel I can be found, I'm in 212 now, not 203.
And yes, in case you're wondering, I am worried, nervous, tearful, exhausted, and terrified. I just want to go home.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Just What the Doctor Ordered. (Dr Fowler, that is.)
And, in an unrelated story, paramedics were called this morning to a small house after neighbours reported hearing a muffled explosion. A woman was hospitalized with undisclosed symptoms but, despite the best efforts of the medical team on call, the woman died shortly afterwards. Her two young children appeared to be unharmed by the incident, except for extensive singeing of their nosehairs. The woman's name is being withheld until all the family members have been informed.
__________________________________
I will be healthy or die trying.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Pulsatilla C30, How I Love Thee
It turns out I was mistaken about my two-year-old being convalescent - she actually got worse over the day or two following my last post. Here's what she looked like yesterday morning:
Note the cracked, bleeding lips (from mouth-breathing all night long); the swollen nose and face (sinuses were absolutely plugged); the hopeless, apathetic expression.
And, continuing the theme of home remedies not involving drugs, note the open Tupperware of chopped onion beside her. That's right, folks: chopped onion - nature's decongestant. It brings the mucous Right. Out. So, have a Kleenex box handy. Obviously, the stronger the onion, the more effective this is... I imagine a red onion would result in a veritable Snot Storm (Dad, pardon my language. I really couldn't think of anything more evocative.)
I am informed that, in addition to the decongestant effect, the onion also has disinfectant properties when breathed in. So if you suspect you might be starting bronchitis, pneumonia, a middle-ear or sinus infection, start chopping and breathe deeply.
__________________________
Now onto something a bit more cheerful (but less useful). I am a bit worn out with all this intensive, Tylenol-and-pseudoephedrine-free sickbed attendance, so I had to get an hour last night to go to Knitting. (And, you'd better believe it: I got a cell call after exactly ONE HOUR had passed, from Mr HSBoots, desperate for my return.) It was fun as usual, but too short. I thought I'd give you a little glimpse of what everyone is up to - forgive the lack of faces: apparently I can't photograph people worth a tinker's damn.
My dear Kate, the hostess, circular shrug in progress.
The innovative, positive Karen, working on .... well, I don't know what it is, but the interesting part of this picture isn't the knitting, it's the notebook. The woman actually translates all her charts line by line, writing them out by hand. This strange and wonderful habit has resulted in many a conversation about visual thinking, linear thinking, and just plain queer thinking.
The serene and softspoken Sunmi, and a self-designed striped woollen cardy for her little girl.
The hilarious and pragmatic Dolores, cardigan in hand.
I brought the Ogee Tunic, and managed two entire rows of it (!!!!!) before getting paged. I'll spare you another picture of my barely-progressed knitting, and will entertain you instead with a glimpse of my latest venture in training up my children in the way they should go. (Emily is much improved today, thank you, as a result of a homeopathic remedy given to her yesterday on the advice of the Venerated Homeopathic Practitioner -- all hail Tony, the Wizard King, He who first prescribed the Vinegar Sock and the Onion Inhalation.)
Note the cracked, bleeding lips (from mouth-breathing all night long); the swollen nose and face (sinuses were absolutely plugged); the hopeless, apathetic expression.
And, continuing the theme of home remedies not involving drugs, note the open Tupperware of chopped onion beside her. That's right, folks: chopped onion - nature's decongestant. It brings the mucous Right. Out. So, have a Kleenex box handy. Obviously, the stronger the onion, the more effective this is... I imagine a red onion would result in a veritable Snot Storm (Dad, pardon my language. I really couldn't think of anything more evocative.)
I am informed that, in addition to the decongestant effect, the onion also has disinfectant properties when breathed in. So if you suspect you might be starting bronchitis, pneumonia, a middle-ear or sinus infection, start chopping and breathe deeply.
__________________________
Now onto something a bit more cheerful (but less useful). I am a bit worn out with all this intensive, Tylenol-and-pseudoephedrine-free sickbed attendance, so I had to get an hour last night to go to Knitting. (And, you'd better believe it: I got a cell call after exactly ONE HOUR had passed, from Mr HSBoots, desperate for my return.) It was fun as usual, but too short. I thought I'd give you a little glimpse of what everyone is up to - forgive the lack of faces: apparently I can't photograph people worth a tinker's damn.
My dear Kate, the hostess, circular shrug in progress.
The innovative, positive Karen, working on .... well, I don't know what it is, but the interesting part of this picture isn't the knitting, it's the notebook. The woman actually translates all her charts line by line, writing them out by hand. This strange and wonderful habit has resulted in many a conversation about visual thinking, linear thinking, and just plain queer thinking.
The serene and softspoken Sunmi, and a self-designed striped woollen cardy for her little girl.
The hilarious and pragmatic Dolores, cardigan in hand.
I brought the Ogee Tunic, and managed two entire rows of it (!!!!!) before getting paged. I'll spare you another picture of my barely-progressed knitting, and will entertain you instead with a glimpse of my latest venture in training up my children in the way they should go. (Emily is much improved today, thank you, as a result of a homeopathic remedy given to her yesterday on the advice of the Venerated Homeopathic Practitioner -- all hail Tony, the Wizard King, He who first prescribed the Vinegar Sock and the Onion Inhalation.)
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