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...

Worry; the Ugly Baby

I have this inherent need to be prepared for the big things in life...natural disasters, medical problems, work issues, emergency situations, and of course, big life changes.  Flashlights at the ready, extra warm blankets on the beds, epi-pens and band-aids, stocked pantry...Mr. Man's cape ironed.  You know, regular emergency stuff.

The moment I became a mother, I swear I gave birth to not only a beautiful babe, but to two other ugly babies: Guilt and Worry.  I had been given such a great responsibility that I Worried I wouldn't be able to handle it or to keep the baby safe, and then I, of course, felt Guilty for being imperfect and for Worrying.

Worry is the bigger "ugly baby" for me than Guilt.  If I am not careful I can be consumed by it.

Even now as my kids are school-aged, I worry about crazy stuff.  Are my kids going to get lost today? Are they going to fall off the sidewalk as we walk down main street?  Will someone take their pizza money?

Am I feeding them enough meat?

Do I need to spend more time reading with them, or doing math flash cards?

I just have to be ready for anything.

What will happen if there is a fire?

What will happen if I get sick?

It can really get me down.  Tell me I'm not the only one.

I honestly don't know how many times I have asked Mr. Man what to do if the car drives into the lake. Do I roll the windows down or leave them up?  Do automatic windows even work when they are wet?  

I just have to be ready for anything.

GAAAHHG!

So now I have come up with a remedy to clear my mind when Worry tries to take over.  I start an anti-worrying game, kind of like positive thinking, but sillier: The Positive "What ifs".

"What if... Little Miss was labelled a genius?"

"What if ... the person we helped on the street was a billionaire looking for an heir?"

"What if ... I got a call from a school that said I was the only person qualified to do the teaching job?"

"What if ... God sends us to Peterborough?"  "Or Africa?" 

The closest I got to a real adventure was a phone call one night in which the person at the other end was asking me to judge a cake competition in Arkansas.  I said, "What?"  And the lady went on and on about their culinary school, and how they need a fourth judge and someone gave them my name...

"Oh, wait." I said, suddenly realizing what was going on, "You need the Cakes by Erin from Illinois.  You are speaking to the Cakes by Erin in Canada."  And as she went on to appologize and try to get off the phone, my shoulders slumped, I hung up the phone, and kicked the sofa.

"I could've done that you know!" I said to Mr. Man.  "Crap!"  And I continued on making boring chicken with boring rice, in my boring corningware, in my boring house.

So, hey! What if I hadn't told them I was from Canada?  What if they hadn't believed me and paid thousands of dollars for me to fly down there, stay in a hotel and pretend I know something about culinary arts?

Could've happened.

One day I decided to engage Mr. Man in my game.  I threw some of these ideas at him, "What if a baby got dropped off on our front step?"  "What if it was an heir to billions?" "What if you became a volunteer fireman?"  "What if you became MAYOR!!"  He ignored me at first, then went a bit pale, then put a pillow over his face.  Eventually I could tell he had something to say;

"Oh, I know!" he said, excitedly, "What if everything stayed the same?" And he waved his hands in the air like it was some big deal.

Hmmph.  Well, that's no fun.

I'd like to think that I would be calm and controlled if something terrible ever happened.  Perhaps I could be the woman who steps in to take care of any situation, but probably not.  It doesn't matter how many flashlight batteries are in the cupboard, or how many cheese strings I pack in my purse.  Shit happens.  And of course, the Lord holds me and my family in His hands.  And I know that Worry is a sin.  SO WHAT if I drive really slow around lakes and rivers?

But the fact is that Jesus says, "Do not worry about tomorrow, for today has enough trouble of it's own.  Take heart! I have overcome the world."  So today I will try not to fret over wee things and focus on the tasks at hand. Tomorrow?  I won't worry about it.  I will focus on the positive "What Ifs".

"What if ... the day is perfect?"

Well, who knows?

"What if ... Mr. Man joins the church council!!"

What Erin Forgot

 I recently pulled a book off the shelves of the library, took it home and after reading the first chapter, took it back.  This doesn't happen very often.  What Alice Forgot, is about a 39-year-old woman hitting her head and losing ten years of her memories.  She forgets her marriage, her three children, and anything that went on between the ages of 29 to 39.

Can you imagine??  Forgetting your children?  Or if you do not have children, look back on the last decade of your life and run through all of the changes that have happened. Your job, or jobs.  Your relationships, friends...bad dates.  Places you've lived.  People you've met.  Any wrinkles?  Weight gain?  If I woke up today, I would be shocked by how long it takes me to get out of my arm chair.  And why the heck am I making cakes, instead of teaching math?  But I digress.

Another book, Remember Me? by Sophie Kinsella, is about a young woman waking up in the hospital having forgotten three years of her life.  She discovers she is in extraordinary shape (she can do the splits), is the boss of her company, and is married!  This book, perhaps because it is more entertaining than disturbing, I did not put back on the shelf.

Both my mother and I, at different times, experienced the eery feeling of deja-vous when we read the first chapter of Remember Me?  The idea of losing ones memory for exactly three years is not too far from home.

Although when I woke up I couldn't do the splits.

I joke about my husband being a superhero: an insurance salesman by day, a secret caped crusader by night, Mr. Man.  But really, he has had to be.  Less than a year after he marries the girl of his dreams (ahem) she is rushed to the hospital with what is called a tonic-clonic seizure (previously grand-mal) and wakes up without any memory of the previous three years, forgetting him, their wedding day, and their life together.  

He says he was just happy I wasn't a vegetable.

When the attendant asked me if I knew who Mr. was, I said his name was Robert.  

His name is NOT Robert.

I seemed to know he was important, though, and asked him if we were married.  Strangely enough, I seemed okay with the fact that we were.  We are?  Okay, well then, on to the next thing.  Why does my dad seem so old?

It must be because Mr.'s so darn cute.

We've been married eleven years now, (I remember ten - ha, ha) and have been through a lot together.  And even though I will never be able to do the splits, be the boss of a big company, and never planted a yard full of sunflowers (you need to read the book), our story will always be pretty interesting.

But it's still not funny when I call him Robert.  

Kijiji Ad: ONE FREE DOG

Today I went for a walk - three times.  Once with my two kids and the dog, once with my two kids and an empty dog leash, and once with my two kids, my husband, and the dog looking forlornly at us through the fenced-in yard.

Sigh.  Dogs.  You love them and they love you.  You hate them and they love you.

Do you remember my story of our date night? When all we did was search for our dog, and by the end of the terrible evening, we still didn't find him?

We found him the next day in the POUND!  He looked pitiful.  And of course I started to cry.  I hate that I started to cry.  Most days I want him to disappear, and the one time he does, I cry with relief when I find him.  I hate that.

We should've known he was a runner since the first day we got him eight and a (long) half years ago.  We brought him home, just 1 1/2 yrs old, with his sad, dark eyes, sleek fur and happy smile.  The next day he jumped through a small window, right through the screen, and disappeared down the road.  Our neighbour eventually found him and brought him back.

The following week while we had company over, he escaped, and we spent our evening driving around town looking for him.  He was waiting for us when we got back home. "Where'd everybody go?" he asked.

I have written and rewritten the Kijiji ad SO MANY TIMES, that I have it memorized:

FOR FREE: one ten-year-old black lab-retriever mix, male, indoor/outdoor dog needing constant companionship, a warm place to sleep and a high fence.  Will pay for allergy medicine, ear cleaner, even dog food and vet bills.  Will not pay the $80 'get-out-of-pound' fee any longer.  Come get him.

But then Mr. hears of somebody having an intruder enter their home.  "The dog stays," he says.

So he stays.  He scares away squirrels, the local groundhog, and various tomcats who torment our kitten.  He also scares the papergirl, the woman collecting for diabetes, and any potential cake customers who may come when the shop is closed. He steals the kids' breakfasts, barfs on the rug, gets ear infections in both ears (and therefore can't hear burglers), has major seasonal allergies, and steals pizza.

BUT, he's so sorry.  He loves me.  He follows me everywhere and needs me during a scary storm or when the kids go off to school, and he reminds me of times when we played 'catch the stick' at the beach.  He is greying now, and slow, and sleeps most of the time.  If we sent him anywhere, I'm sure he would die of heartache, and that I could not handle.  One night away from me in the pound showed me that.

So do I let him back inside tonight, out of the doghouse? Do I let him eat his supper even though he ate the neighbour's garbage? Will I look after him through the night as he gets sick in the backyard?  Umm, well, maybe not...

But I'll put an extra blanket in his doghouse and I'll let him in the house if it starts to thunder.

I can do that.

He needs me, you know.

Geriatrics, sheesh.

The Beauty of Hands

Hands.  Five fingers, 14 knuckles, and five nails.  Some are tanned, some are fair, some have wrinkles, and some are soft and dimpled.  We wave with them, we greet with them.  Deal-making handshakes, secret handshakes, high fives, and fist pumps.

I hold my child's hand crossing the street, I pinky swear that I will bake her favourite cookies.  I pinch her cheek and tap her nose.

How many times have I created something beautiful with my hands?  We craft, draw, paint, cut, eat, and drink with them. We knead dough, form clay, sculpt and turn pottery.

You can tell a lot from someone's hands.

Worn hands from age, from weather and washing.  Mechanic's and welder's hands with permanent oil marks in their nails.  Wounds from tools under a workman's lazy eye.  Medics who wash away germs, dishwashers in steaming hot water each hour.  Housekeeps who sleep wearing gloves and hand lotion.

They are an extension of our looks.  Pretty nails, long and red, or trimmed nails, conservative and clean.  Nail biters, ingrown nails, and dry, chipped nails.
Rings galore, or one simple wedding band.  Or perhaps the remaining tan line of one.

Scolding finger, pointing finger, ring finger, pinky finger, swearing finger, sucking fingers (first 2 or one thumb).  We salut to our soldiers, hold our hearts during allegiance, and raise them to praise our Lord.

Shadow puppets, rabbit ears, talking hand, and an entire signing language.

Teeny tiny newborn hands, and large, grown man hands.

We rub them, snap with them, clap with them, wave them to the music.  We mitten them, carry with them, pet with them, and push and pull with them.

We love with them.  We fight with them.

Imagine yourself without hands.  Like the man on our street who will only nod to you when you wave hello.  His hands are replaced with metals clamps.  Yet he drives his van, he cares for his yard and home, and enjoys life with his family.  He is also a fantastic furniture refinisher.  His only worry, that I know of, is that he may scare the children.

Or the boy born with a defect in his fingers.  A sweet, sweet boy, who manages quite well in everything the other children do, without the freedom of all of his digits.  The other children hold his hands during circle games, and help him put his mittens on.  How long will it be before they won't hold his hands anymore?

Oh, the things we take for granted!  How I love my hands.  

In stories they are made of scissors and hooks, are seven-fingered, broken and mended, invisible, removed, and formed into a V.

And of course, in the Great Book, they were nailed.  The ultimate Potter.  He touched, mended, healed, lifted, praised, fed, nurtured, prayed and rebuked with his hands.  And then were wounded.

Hands.  They have to be one of the most used part of our bodies.  Except maybe the tongue - but that's another story.  How do you use yours?

Tougher'n Nails

This morning in church I was reminded of my later teen years, when I was "gung-ho" for Jesus.  The unabashed, blatant love for Christ that many church-going teenagers and young people can have.  In fact, my sister and I both had these gruesome, Good Friday-themed t-shirts with the saying "Jesus, tougher'n Nails" written on them.  They seriously grossed out my mother.  We have a picture of at least one of us donning it proudly.

After years of being raised in the United Church, dad let me venture out to other churches in search of young people and youth groups provided they were teaching about Jesus.  My mother, built of a mixture of worldly knowledge, girly knowledge, and incredible worry, sat me down and said, "You better know what information's coming at you, or you'll up in some cult like David Koresh."  Of course I rolled my eyes, but I never forgot it.

Over the years, I have met many wonderful caring people, in several different congregations.  I have also met several rather misguided, and perhaps scary, individuals who had "great" ideas in healing, and getting to know the Lord.  With my mother's words in my pocket, I managed to keep to the straight and narrow.  I surrounded myself with the Word, teachings of Christ, and the Apostle Paul, and books by Phillip Yancey, Kay Arthur and Max Lucado.

With years of real life chipping away at me, I confess that "gung-ho" attitude has been replaced with a more cautious and serious yet still sincere belief in Christ.  I have many more wounds on my armour than I did back then, but I still believe He is tougher'n nails.

So this morning when our pastor spoke of cults, their leaders, and misguided faith, I thought about the big "doomsday" billboards in the U.S. that proclaimed the end of the world.  Sure, they were wrong, and misguided, and a good laugh, but shouldn't we believe every day is going to be the end of the world?  Shouldn't we live our hours as if He is coming to meet us tomorrow morning?

Now, in hindsight, I do not mean spend all of your money, skip work, or don't have a shower.  I mean spiritually, folks, let get ourselves in gear!  How do we do that? I am probably not the best one to ask, but I know it starts with the little things: saying sorry to your kids for freaking out about something ridiculous; smiling at your neighbour whom you've never really enjoyed; or listening instead of talking.

Think about this: when you meet Christ, and He asks you, "What did you do yesterday?" what will be your answer?

Cookie Puzzles

Last night was the first night a long while that I woke up unable to sleep because of work.  In my dreams I was trying very hard to fit heart cookies of assorted sizes perfectly into a box.  They weren't shift around, and if the box tilted, they were not to disentangle themselves and break.  No matter how I tried I could not fit them in.  There was still too much space in the box.

Sometimes when my mind goes like this, nothing can stop it but to go down to the shop and solve the problem in reality.  As dreams go, it stemmed from reality:  the boxes had arrived the previous day, in the wrong size, and the cookies I had already painstakingly baked.

In church on Sunday, I was volunteering in the age 3-4 room where puzzles are big deal.  They don't like it when you put the puzzle together for them so you watch their precious little hands move pieces around and around until they fit just right.  Some give up, but some work at it, even if it takes awhile.  And I sit beside them, ready to help.

Nicely, there is a set pattern for each cardboard puzzle; a picture to follow and only one way to complete it.  Unfortunately, this makes it very disappointing when, after all of your work, a piece is missing.  At least with cookies, there are different sizes to work with - at least in my batch.

I realized while laying their looking at all the possible mathematical arrangements of cookies on my bedroom ceiling, that there are several things in life that involve putting pieces together to fit.  And I do not mean linen closets.  People tend to fill in those missing places in our puzzles, sometimes surprisingly.

In running a business, I know where I am gifted and where I am terrible.  An employee or two, may be gifted at those places in which you are lacking.  Voila! Puzzle pieces put together.

Marriage is a huge example.  Two people from different ways of life, come together, and with hard work, they make it fit.  When it's working, it feels like a well-oiled machine.  When one is down, the other is up (and can pick their partner up!)  When one is tired of the kids (and this never happens to me), the other can step in.  And when it comes to extended families, sometimes it's the grandmother who steps in take up the extra piece, or an aunt or a really great babysitter (or wow! even a housecleaner)!

But I know the biggest piece of the puzzle in everything is our Heavenly Father who is watching over us and divinely guiding us to the right people for the right needs.  He wisely designed us with unique gifts and talents, whether to help run a business, sit in Sunday School, or be a part of a family.

And since it is He who made my never-sleeping brain, I put it to you:  Who is the biggest cookie in your box?

My List of 2011

It's taken me three days to absorb the idea that we are in a new year. Life has continued in it's busyness, and although we celebrated thoroughly, I woke up this morning, three days late, ready to start afresh, and look at my future with a new plan.

When I was younger I used to keep a diary. I've looked back on them recently and laughed at all the "important" things in my life at the time. Dreamy boys mostly. LOL. Times have changed, certainly, but the one thing I always did on New Year's Eve, and on each birthday, was recount the special things I had gone through leading up to that date.

Many blogs I have been following list the crafts they've done, or the posts with the most "hits". Fun, certainly, but lacking substance in my opinion. Even in my teenage lists, it was friendships, accomplishments in my education, and places I'd travelled that were most memorable. As well as the significant moments in my family's life.

I won't bore you with my list, as I'm sure most people will actually click to the next blog to look at the furniture that's been weathered, or the best handmade cards made in 2011. Just know that on my personal list, you'd see things like my children's accomplishments, family losses, and personal goals achieved.

Of course, perhaps in my next post I will list 'The Best Coffee I Drank' or 'Things the Dog Ate' in 2011. That would definitely bring on the post "hits"!