Little Miss and the Medical Tests

When I look back on the beginning of this "Crackerjacks and Nutters" blog, it was meant as an outlet for me to find humour amidst a life of frustrating allergies, other illnesses and self-inflicted sleeplessness.

It is easy for me to find laughter with such a delightful family and my uncanny ability to bring drama upon myself. Sawing up dressers seems to be the one instance most people are talking about.

The year 2013 has certainly brought on more medical appointments, rushes to the hospital, and, as a dear friend stated, a good use of OHIP.  But lately, it has to do with Little Miss.

I've tried to keep my chin up, but frankly, I don't do well with faking it. I've never been able to keep a straight face, or hide my dislike about something. The one thing that kept me going was the pure delight in her eyes each time she was going to try something new at the doctor's office or hospital.

"I want a picture of my brain to take to show and tell," she'd say, and of course, she would be so interested in every detail of every test.  We watched youtube videos over and over of EEG's and MRI's and we explained the "caterpillar" marks on her arm she'd get during the allergy test.  She explained in detail to my mom how they took her blood with a prick and a poke and got three bottles, covering it with a bandaid from left to right...

She was sad she didn't ask for a copy of the x-ray like Franklin the Turtle did in "Franklin Goes to the Hospital."

She told the EEG technician how to do his job, correcting his placement of the stickers and lying so still to prove she could do it.

And oh, the questions.

"How do spell MRI, mommy?" and her brother would snort with laughter.

"Do they show movies in the MRI?"

"What do my brains look like?"

And then, frustration set in.  Everything was going wrong. It was all a waste of time.  Friends were praying for answers, and there were none. There weren't any conclusive pictures at all.

Five minutes in the MRI machine, and they pulled her out, saying the pictures were too blurry.  In fact, they weren't prepared for a child at all.  They had expected a 40-year-old woman.  You've got to kidding.

The second MRI involved proper care with a paediatrician, two sedation nurses and enough sedative to knock out a horse (if you ask me).

But as I posted that afternoon on Facebook:

Apparently sedative can either knock you out to sleep through your MRI or it can make you completely manic, shaking, climbing the walls, seeing things and trying to escape from the hospital room.  Guess which one is Little Miss?

She even tried to pour apple juice in her eyes to clear out the blurriness.

So no MRI. Instead, she wolfed down a cheeseburger, passed out on the couch, and then threw up.

Funny at first, but now, not so much.  Seeing your daughter with eyes so dilated, and in such fear, is not funny.  And I can't get it out of my head.

The doctor's office called and wanted to try again in Kingston with anaesthetic. I said no.  With our luck she'd be allergic.

And finally this week, after waiting for months, Mr. Man took her to her allergy test.  Perhaps it was the gory pictures I sent of the horrible rash she'd had for nine days, or the long list of health problems and allergies in her mother's medical history, but in any case, they didn't want to test her.

Sigh.

Mr. says it's a sign from God that she is fine and we don't need to put her through all of these tests.

I tend to think there is something He is protecting her from.  A wild monster lurking in the MRI machine, or some evil doctor has infected the allergy lab samples and she was about to be poisoned.

But that's just me.  Instead of holding my chin up I make gigantic "what if?" statements and fill my crackerjacks blog with another dose of crazy.

We don't know what happened back in April.  We don't know if it will ever happen again.

And that sucks.

But she is still smiling, still bossing her brother, still bossing the world, (and I don't think the sedative ever totally wore off) and I am thankful for that.  Thanks to everyone who has been with us through this.  Let's hope this blog continues to be filled with fun and crazy, and not anything so forelorn.

Just wait to see what I've done to the bathroom...

*****

Twice I have asked people to pray for NO DRAMA: once was just before the allergy test (obviously it worked), but the only other time was when I was pregnant with Little Miss.  After an ambulance ride with our son, and the need to get quite a distance to the hospital, I really needed NO DRAMA.

So there I was, as big as a house, 11 days overdue, on the phone to my friend calling off the prayer.  "I can't take it anymore!! No more praying - it's working TOO WELL!"  And then, soon after, my firey red-head was born with an over-dramatic, four-minute KA-BANG!

Sigh. Prayer works.  Even when you don't really want it to.

Finding Humour in the Storm

I haven't wanted to post about this as we are in the middle of a storm of ill health, and there is no telling what the outcome will be, but, as I told one mom last week, if I don't find humour in things I will go crazy.  I spent the afternoon with my head down on a friend's kitchen table as Little Miss bounced back and forth from bouts of hives and thought, it's time to search for humour.

After six days of doctors, enormous amounts of Benadryl and steroids, Little Miss is screaming bloody murder, refusing to take any "yucky" medicine and scratching her feet until they bleed.  With bribing and a forceful voice from Mr. she takes her prednisone "shooter" and sits in agony, listing off all of the toys she deserves for all of this suffering.

And the whole idea of oatmeal on her skin completely pisses her off.

As I sigh for the millionth time this week, my son starts his one man comedy show, including farting noises, in order to cheer her up.  Rude sounds, goofy faces and throwing himself on the floor over and over forces her to laugh, pull of her anti-scratching mitts and join in with the magic of farting with hands and lips.

"All right, this one time ONLY, let's have a farting contest," I suggest, slugging back the last of my coffee. Laughter fills the room, apart from the eye-rolling of Mr. Man, and we have a bit of respite from the stress and tiredness we are all feeling. Finally Mr. joins in and pulls out his cellphone which has a farting app.

I can leave the room and hide knowing he's got it under control.

****

Earlier this week, while sitting in the doctor's office, Little Miss's hands and face start to swell.  I race her next door to the pharmacy and ask where the antihistamines are.  As I yank open boxes, and struggle to rip the protective cover off the bottle, I realize there is no cup included.  A scene from the movie, Hitch, comes to mind and, sorry to say, a part of me, deep down, had to smile. But to excuse my inappropriate humour, by that time the pharmacist had jumped in, handed me a cup and a glass of water, without questioning about the possibility I may not purchase the magical bottle.  LM's swelling went down, and I paid $13.99 for the Benadryl (and kept it in my purse).

For those of you who may not have seen the movie, here is the clip:

*****

With the unpredictability of Little Miss's reactions, I obviously cancelled all that I could in my schedule.  Unfortunately it meant missing a funeral I had wanted to attend. Since I ended up racing her to the hospital that same day, it was a good decision, but it left me completely depressed and feeling defeated.

At the end of that tedious day, just as I was getting the strength to start supper, I looked out the window to see a dear friend stopping by after the funeral, carrying flowers for Little Miss. I ran out the front door with a big smile on my face with not only the joy of actually seeing another person, but one who so easily cheers me up. I hugged her and did not let go for quite some time.

After recapping my day, while still standing in the driveway, finally able to breath easily, her husband suddenly asks, "what's that noise?"

The smoke alarm was going off.

You're kidding me.

He and I run in, finding the kitchen filled with smoke, and struggle to turn off the detector as more alarms go off in the house.

The supper that I had attempted to make was not burned, but the supper spill from the day before certainly was.

We got everything back to normal and I turned to find my friend cheerily putting flowers in a vase, as if nothing was out of the ordinary, and that everything was under control, and I wished she would stay forever. I was a huge mess.

That night, Mr. cancelled his meeting, and came home with strawberries, chocolate sauce, a movie and two cases of Corona.  I think I cried.

We got the kids to bed, checking on Little Miss every so often, and I was able to relax.  But looking back I don't remember having supper...

A Crazy Afternoon with Vertigo

Vertigo |ˈvərtəgō|
- a sensation of whirling and loss of balance, associated particularly with looking down from a great height, or caused by disease affecting the inner ear or the vestibular nerve; giddiness.

Well it sure wasn't giddiness.

More like the "swirly vortex of terror," Marlin, the clown fish sees in the East Australian Current.  

For anyone who has chronic vertigo - I salute you.  It is awful.

Now perhaps with a bit of panic thrown in I was my own worst enemy but after two hours on the bathroom floor in the fetal position, I wasn't sure what was happening.  I rested my head on the floor, waiting to see if I was going to be sick or faint or explode and decided to self-diagnose:

1.  I was awake all night and drank five cups of coffee this morning:  therefore I was suffering from dehydration and exhaustion.  But why was the ceiling swirling around in my eyes?

2.  I made and ate scrambled eggs from a box for lunch: therefore I have food poisoning.  But Little Miss had some and she was happily watching movies...

3.  I have something called vertigo.  ["What's vergo?" Mr. asks.] "No, vertigo! V..e..r.. moan.."  But I can't even sit up to google it on my laptop.

4.  In my sleepy stupor this morning, I accidently took too many milligrams of my anti-seizure medicine.  This has to be a drug overdose.  It has to be.  I can't see straight.  I feel like I'm going to be sick.  My arms are numb and my back is tight (forgetting I had also been in the fetal position for an hour and a half).

Mr. called the pharmacy and they said I would be fine, it couldn't be the drugs.  The paramedics said it couldn't be the drugs.  The doctor said it couldn't be the drugs.

Once the ambulance arrived and checked me out they said it would be up to me if I wanted to go to the hospital. 

Hmm, a quiet room? A ride in the ambulance? Time away from my kids?

"And two good-looking ambulance attendants?" Mr. says.

I THINK I'LL GO!

*****

I will say ambulance attendants work hard to cheer up their patients.  Of course they both wanted to talk cake once they figured out what I did.  One spoke of the wedding cake that never showed up:  

He was from Trenton. ["Sorry 'bout that," I said, grinning.]  He and his bride were taken in by a wedding cake scam where they had to pay everything up front, and on the day of the wedding, the baker calls, says he was in a bad car accident, and that the cake is destroyed.  No refund.

The following week my new paramedic friend says he hears this same story again, and realized it was a scam.  Needless to say, he marched in, ripped the baker's musty, worn neck brace off and introduced him to several of his officer friends.  Everybody got their refund.  Excited stuff for a cake decorator to hear!

Our next conversation involved his line of work, and I told him of the last trip in an ambulance which was from Napanee, where I grew up.

"You're from Napanee?" he asked, grinning.  "Sorry 'bout that."

*****

The doctor at the hospital came in the room right away, shook my hand and said, "Nice to meet you, Janet."  

"Um, my name's not Janet."

She ran right out again.  Then I looked up and saw a poster directly in front of me: We check your identity several times during your visit here at our hospital.  Have your wrist band ready.

I had no wrist band.  Geez, I hope they don't give me the wrong drugs...

Hours later, after watching Mr. Man play Angry Birds on his phone, pace the room and ignore the sounds of stomach flu out in the hall, the doctor came back in again and checked me over.

"Other than epilepsy, do you have any other health problems?"she asked.

"I have a heart murmur, but it's not serious.  I've just always had it." I assured her.

She checked my vitals, made me touch my finger to my nose, my foot to my opposite knee and walk in a straight line.  Then she listened to my heart.

"You know you have a heart murmur?  It's not serious, though.  Fairly normal," she said.

Mr. and I just stared.  She looked over at her chart.  "Oh, you told me that."

Mmhmmm.  And I'm the one worried about drugs...