getting flak

Comes Around Once A Year

2011-05-28T04:32:00.000-07:00

A repost for this day.

The phone rang while I was shaving. It was quarter of seven in the morning, but a phone call wasn't uncommon at that hour. I would frequently get early calls from the office to let me know if there were problems waiting for me when I arrived. However, after the long Memorial Day weekend I really didn't want to start the week with issues. RC got the phone. She said it was for me. "Is it Tracy?" I asked as I walked to the phone. "It doesn't sound like her," RC answered, sotto voce.

"Hello?" I said putting the phone to my ear.
"Lex?" asked the voice at the other end.
"Yes."
"You don't know me, Lex. I work with your mom. My name is Rick," she said.
"Hi, Rick," I said.
"Kind of a weird thing to ask, I know, but do you know how to get a hold of your mom?"
"Uh, I think she's still in Washington. She took a long weekend there with a friend," I answered.
"Yeah, we can't reach her."
"I have a phone number she gave me. Let me get it." I flipped through the pad next to the phone and recited the number to her.
"That's the one we have, but no one is answering," she said.
"I'm sorry, that's all I have. They probably took the phone off the hook."
She was quiet for a while.
"Are you still there?" I asked, finally.
"Lex, I know we've never met, but I have some bad news." she said quietly.
"Oh," I said, a little confused, "What happened?"
"There's been an accident," she said.
Oh God, I thought, one of my grandparents has fallen and broken a hip. Great.
"I feel weird telling you. I've never met you," she said, obviously nervous.
"Well, you know, just tell me, I guess," I said, a little befuddled.
Her voice broke. "Your brother was in an accident yesterday."
"Lee?" I asked.
"He... he was killed."
"What?" I said quietly.
"Lee was killed."
"What?" I said, a little louder.
"An accident, yesterday, Lee was killed."
"What?" I yelled.
"On his motorcycle, yesterday, in Denver. I'm so sorry."
"What!" I screamed.
RC stood next to me and asked me what was I talking about. I said the words: "Lee is dead."
RC screamed, "Oh God!" and collapsed against the wall before sliding to the floor, her head in her hands. I turned back to the phone. Rick was just saying how sorry she was. I don't really remember listening to her much after that. I just remember mumbling, what, over and over again; a gut-wrenching mantra.

There was for me the sense of walking on a seabed in an old diving suit, the clunky lead boots tied me to the muck below as my body's buoyancy fought to push me to the surface. It felt like I had forgotten the helmet and I could not breath.

That phone call came 18 years ago today, May 29th, 1990. It was a stone thrown in a pond, changing everything, the ripples of which continue even now. Of course, it wasn't the phone call that did the changing; it was the previous day's death the phone call reported that did the destruction. Although Lee died on that Memorial Day, it's always felt to me like he died the day after, during that early morning phone call. It was as if all those whats I kept repeating were my desperate attempts to save him: a verbal defibrillator that failed.

By September of that year I would be running through most of Europe on a three month odyssey to escape that which I could not fix, could not manage away. It was a failed solution, the first of many, from alcohol to hermitage; none of which could make the pain stop (I even made a bitter and angry list, pages and pages long, of everyone that I thought a more just universe should have killed before him - in hindsight, a rather funny roll call).

For so many years after his death I saw the loss of my brother, my dearest, closest friend, as something I must get over - must move beyond - as if it were separate and distinct from myself, some obstacle thrown up in my path to be pushed aside or navigated around. That proved impossible, not just because my grief was so devasting, but because it would not be left behind. Only when I realized that it would always be with me did I see my way forward. The tragedy would be a sledge I hauled behind me for the rest of my days in exhaustion, or even an anchor that eternally tethered me to a horrible moment; or I could pick the grief up, pare it down, and stow it in a pack, to be carried forever as part of my baggage. I choose the latter; better to bear it on my back than drag it through the dirt.

Over time its added weight has strengthened me and expanded my endurance. The weight also means I move more deliberately and, on some days, more painfully, but I move. As I grow older I find, like backpacking through the mountains, I must rest more frequently as I tire more quickly. On the worst of days it can make me gasp for air, but that, at least, is breathing.

My son's middle name is my brother's first. My Boy looks very much like his uncle and his best qualities - his sweetness, his empathy, his laugh - remind me of his namesake. I see my sibling every day in my child. That makes the load both heavier and lighter. That is my life, after.

So, today, it is with me, as it is every day, and like that heavy backpack in the mountains I must shift it as needed to ease its burden, to maintain my balance, but I can not leave it behind. It is part of who I am and who I will always be.

And, on this day, I miss him, a lot.

Our Year

2011-01-01T20:32:00.000-08:00

Obligatory

2010-12-22T11:13:00.000-08:00

Taken just before the screaming began from threepeat

Merry Christmas

2010-12-22T08:10:00.001-08:00

from us to you

The Long Break

2010-10-21T16:32:00.000-07:00

The dearth of posts here over the last two months has not necessarily been by design so much as imposed. I knew the Fall would be busy - I just had no idea how busy. Doctor's appointments for the Boy, the Girl and myself have been ongoing and the accompanying tests involving needles and urine cups and electrical leads and eye dilators and contrast dyes and giant scanning devices and healthcare professionals (both the sympathetic, informed variety, as well as the idiotic and disinterested type) have seemed endless. And we aren't done yet.

Keeping a household running with three young kids is trouble enough, but add appointments out the wazoo and the whole house of cards comes tumbling down. Add to that a little viral bug that had the house upchucking and a PC that finally breathed its last and needed to be replaced, well, the blog got the short shrift. Most of my family updates have been reserved for short bursts on Facebook (it's not bad for that.)

I wish I had something to post re the Ehlers diagnosis but we have yet to finish all the appointments and collate the data. The Boy and Girl have been given a thumbs up from the cardiologist and have no heart issues... yet (they'll get echocardiograms once a year till they're 18 since the problems usually develop in the teens.) My eyes are fine - at least medically - and I'm cleared there until next year.

I'll try to be more vigilant in posting especially as more results show up, but bear with us - this is taking a while.

Gene-y Out Of The Bottle

2010-08-25T10:48:00.000-07:00

We paid a visit to the friendly geneticist yesterday. In case you've never done this sort of thing let me offer this bit of advice: Make plans for a long day.

Three and a half hours was about how our appointment timed out. That's a long time to hang out in an exam room with a 5 year old, a 3 year old, and a 1 year old, even with crayons, coloring books and assorted diversions. They began to erode about an hour in and continued to do so until the end. Parental patience was tested.

There was a lot of talking. Family histories were detailed to the extreme. The slightest medical note was explored. Every facet was investigated. It's weird to fine tooth so many lives and have the results charted into their appropriate slots on an ever growing family tree (in our case, a bendy willow.)

By the end we had three demonically bored kids, two frazzled parents, and one remarkably patient physician.

We also had confirmation of that which we already knew.

In thirty years of practice the Doctor has had, by her estimate, roughly a thousand or so Ehlers Danlos patients and is quite familiar with the disorder. She also has EDS herself and she, like myself, begins each day with 800 mg of ibuprofen. She gets it.

So...

She's taking care of referrals for the Girl and the Boy to a pediatric cardiologist, orthopedist, rheumatologist, and a pediatric genetic opthalmologist because detached retinas and other eye issues are apparently more common than we thought. Annoyingly the Boy must first be "officially" referred by our pediatrician to the very same geneticist he just spent 3.5 hours with so that everything is copacetic with the insurance company since the appointment was "officially" only for the Girl.

I'm scheduled to visit my own doctor next week to get the referrals I need to the same specialties.

I tell you, it's one thing having to schedule one family member who suddenly has to see a host of physicians; it's an organizational nightmare when we have to arrange those appointments for three of us.

I have the distinct impression we'll be busy this autumn.

The Beautiful People, The Beautiful People

2010-08-18T09:41:00.000-07:00

With all our worries about the recent EDS diagnosies I would be remiss if I didn't point out the advantages of having the disorder.

You can, for example, entertain your friends with freaky body manipulations - always a hit at parties.

With EDS, yoga is a breeze.

The disorder makes washing one's own back effortless.

And then there is the more superficial advantage: EDS has been called, accurately or not, "The Beautiful People's Disease." It seems that actors and models have it (or the associated, but somewhat more benign, Joint Hypermobility Syndrome) in a greater proportion than does the general population. The disorder tends to make those who are afflicted slender, longer-limbed, with delicate, long fingers, and with skin that is often quite soft and flawless. In runway models, the loose joints allow for that classic cat-like walk with hips that swing easily from side to side.

A quick google brings up articles speculating that Micheal Jackson had it. Johnny Depp is said to have been diagnosed as well. Mary Louise Parker, David Caruso, Gwenyth Paltrow, and Katie Holmes have been discussed. Two of the tween sensation Jonas Brothers are mentioned. British model Erin O'Connor is one of many, many models that are frequently part of the conversation (the young model Marissa Irwin lives with the rare and painful Arnold-Chiari malformation - a direct result of her Ehlers-Danlos syndrome.)

Certain athletes, particularly swimmers, benefit as well from the anatomical oddities conferred by EDS. The great Australian swimmers Ian Thorpe and Jodie Henry have it and gold medalist Micheal Phelps is rumored to have it as well.

My wife and I had discussed the Girl's unusual attractiveness before all this. We've joked nervously about the strangely womanly way she tends to pose or stand - hand on hip with palm turned out, leg extended, and opposite hip pushed out. It looks very modelesque and isn't a typical pose for a preschooler. It now makes sense and seems quite natural for someone with joints as loose as hers - it offers more stability and comfort. Her skin has always been smooth as velvet with a flawless purity that more than a few people have coveted. It isn't hard imagining her becoming one of the "Beautiful People." So perhaps all the pain, misery, and discomfort she'll face will be worth it in the end...

But I doubt it.

T and A

2010-08-18T09:05:00.000-07:00

The Boy got his tonsils and adenoids yanked yesterday. It had to be done. Although he hadn't suffered chronic infections, the glands were so naturally large they interferred with his breathing leading to apnea.

He took it like a trooper. He was understandably nervous and the surgery center was a bit intimidating for him.

When the doc came out to let me know how it went he said that based on the size of the tonsils and adenoids he suspected that the Boy's breathing had probably only been 50% effective. When the anesthesiologist intubated him he commented to the surgeon: "Wow! I can see why you're taking them out."

Freaky kid.

One of the things I never knew is that kids don't come out of anesthesia well. They scream and kick and flail. There was actually a drug protocol just for kids who are "agitated." The nurse said that effect continues into the teens and that can be hard to handle. The Boy lived up to that billing and it was not pleasant at all.

When he recovered finally we headed home for a couple of weeks of R&R (for him.) He dug the jello and sherbert and seemed fine. But about two hours into his afternoon of movies and soft foods he suddenly started hiving over his face, developed a fever and got seriously groggy - unable to stand.

I called the doc and was told to drag him back. They checked him over looking for any reason for the change. Eventually the hives (or just seriously fluching) subsided, his fever dropped, and he returned to his senses. No one could explain it. The best explanation was a possible allergic reaction though he had taken nothing that he hadn't had before.

We watched him throughout the night but it never reappeared. The anesthesiologist called this morning checking to see that it hadn't occured again.

Otherwise he seems to be on the mend and he isn't complaining about the jello.

The Home Stretch

2010-08-08T08:24:00.000-07:00

I'm quite bendy. I always have been. I can, for example, bend at the waist and, with straight legs, lay my palms on the floor. For an overweight guy who never stretches and is closing in on 50 that ain't bad. Every year at my annual physical my doctor comments on how strangely flexible I am. For most of my life I assumed that I was normal, if perhaps a bit more flexible than others.

My mother is pretty bendy as well. With her 69th birthday only a couple of weeks away she can still put her foot behind her head - seriously. My brother was bendy too - a gymnast. And according to the family stories, when she was younger, my mother's mother - my grandmother - could have worked as a contortionist.

The Girl is rather flexible as well - much more so than I. That has been part of her problem as her joints are so flexible she tends to be unstable. Every professional who has examined or worked with her has noted it. The term they have used is "hypermobile," though the cause has gone unexplained. It has just been part of her package - another aspect that unfortunately makes her other problems like dyspraxia more pronounced. The bendiness hits another generation.

We are a bendy little family - a virtual carnival troup. That's just the way it is.

Last week while the Girl worked with her physical therapist, Jonna, I took the opportunity to ask Jonna what she saw longterm for the Girl's progress. Jonna has been working with her for 3 months now and we really hadn't discussed how she felt the Girl was getting along. Jonna took a deep breath and then said, "I think this will be a ongoing for her. Have you ever heard of EDS?"

"EDS? No. What's that," I asked.

"It's a disorder - Ehlers Danlos Syndrome - and I believe that's what she has," Jonna said calmly.

I had never heard of it.

"With EDS," Jonna continued, "The body doesn't produce collagen properly, collagen that is used in ligaments, tendons, skin, organs - virtually everywhere in the body. The primary aspect is usually very loose joints - hypermobility."

"What makes you think that's what she has," I asked with a great deal of interest, as you might imagine.

"There is something called the Beighton Scale that is used to determine flexibility in various joints. There are nine separate observations made and for every positive observation a point is given. They include bending the wrist forward and the thumb down so it touches the forearm; hyperextending the elbows more than 10 degrees; hyperextending the knees more than 10 degrees; and the like. A score of 5 out of 9 is a positive for EDS. Flyn scores 9 out of 9."

And then she showed me as she bent the Girl's thumb down and laid it comfortably upon the Girl's forearm. "She meets all the criteria," she said.

"So what does this mean?"

"It means she won't get better and will probably suffer a great deal of pain as she gets older," Jonna told me.

"But how, how do you know she isn't just, you know, bendy," I asked.

"Because EDS is hereditary and when we diagnose kids, who are naturally more flexible and therefore hard to test, we have to use their parents," she said matter of factly.

"So then how do you know?"

She looked at me and said, "Because you have it."

"Me?"

"I've watched you work with her for 3 months - climb on the floor, stretch, roll around, play. At first I thought you were just a little flexible but I can see you meet the criteria as well. You have it and so does she, though I suspect hers is more severe."

And so our weekend got more interesting in a hurry.

Jonna discussed the nature of the disorder. She filled me in on the details, the other diagnostic criteria, the various types of EDS (Hypermobility EDS III is probably our type), and the delightful consequences.

Ehlers Danlos Syndrome is rare and hereditary, afflicting perhaps 1 in 5000 to as few as 1 in 15,000 people. It is lifelong and there is no cure. Severity, even within the same type can vary from mild to severe and can also vary from generation to generation and even between siblings that have it. Treatment consists primarily of pain management, because pain is its primary effect.

There are other effects: skin is unusually smooth and elastic - stretchy, wounds take longer to heal, hypotension (low blood pressure) is common making fainting or dizziness when standing a regular feature, mitral valve prolapses (heart valve defects) show up often which can lead to heart infections. Migraines are common. A resistance to local anesthetics has been shown in studies of EDS patients. Numerous sleep disorders, perhaps from pain, though there may be something else at work, are reported. Depression is more prevalent (how could it not be?). In some forms the vessels and organs blow out and in those cases death before age 40 is expected. In some forms humpbacks and scoliosis are the central feature. In others the skin is so soft that sutures placed in it rip through it "like butter" and bandaids can rip the skin away when removed. In one form not one person diagnosed with it has ever been born without both of their hips dislocated (as the Girl's were).

But the single feature that stands out in all the types is the pain, a lot of pain.

I have lived with joint pain all my life. From the time I was a child I sprained my ankles on a regular basis, spent untold school days at home with my foot propped up, ankle swollen and iced. I could not ice skate like the other kids from my midwestern childhood because I had "weak ankles," that rolled over every time I attempted to hit the ice. I complained thoughout my childhood of "leg pain" that was usually dismissed as "growing pains." My own stepfather, a physician, determined it was the result of a "calcium deficiency" and would resolve itself. I learned to just live with it; learned early that the pain I felt was no different than what anyone else felt. Pain was normal.

I often had weird injuries that could not be explained, although numerous tests would be performed in the search for bone cancer or severe hematomas. They would happen and I would move on as they healed slowly. I assumed it was just a bit of bad luck.

When I approached 40 I noticed my joints, particularly my ankles, knees, and hips, hurt more and more. I would bring it up at annual physicals - "I seem to be sore more often anymore, doc" - and was told that pain was the price for growing old. We all get aches and pains as we age and once again I assumed I was no different than anyone else.

Into my 40s I discovered I could no longer run in the mornings with my dogs as had been my habit for a number of years. It hurt too much, and I chalked it up bitterly to age. I began to take 800 mg of ibuprofen most mornings to start my days. My pain was usually a 2 or a 3 on a 10 scale, but it was every morning. There were days it was worse. And there were some days it was awful, yet I thought that was normal.

In the meantime I blew out my ACL and destroyed my wrist, which both chronically added fuel to the fire, even after being repaired, but that was how life worked for everyone, right?

A couple of years ago on the eve of a family vacation to Hawaii I developed unexplained pain in my upper back and neck so severe I could not lift my children or even move very well. I was prepared to send the family on without me as I could not imagine carrying luggage let alone helping with the kids. Only intensive manipulation by a chiropractor along with TENS treatment and heat packs the day before our departure relieved it enough for me to risk the trip.

By the time this last year rolled around I had stopped doing my brisk 5 mile walks with the dog every morning - my ankles couldn't take it.

But that is just what happens when you age, isn't it?

Apparently not.

I score a 7 out of 9 on the scale and only miss hitting 9 out of 9 because my elbows don't hyperextend a full 10 degrees (remember, I can bend at the waist, legs straight blah, blah, blah.) I have this condition and the chronic pain I have experienced for so many years is the result of the joint degeneration and the ligament laxity that accompanies the disorder.

My mother was diagnosed in childhood with "idopathic scoliosis" - a curvature of the spine for which they could find no cause, but is a side effect of EDS. She has broken her back 3 times and her joints from hips to ankles hurt daily. She has had migraines so bad that I carried her into ERs (just as my wife has done with me when I've had them.) My mother has a mitral valve prolapse, a common feature of EDS, and her bones are so brittle with osteoporosis I swear the wind whistles through them.

My grandmother, mom's mom, at age 89 can also bend at the waist and place her palms on the floor. She knows she can do this because that is the only way she can pick objects up off the floor - her knees hurt too much to bend them. She has already had one knee replaced and the doctors want to replace her other one, and both her hips.

The list of EDS symptoms confirmed in my mother's, my grandmother's and my cases is far too long to list, but suffice it to say it was actually funny to just keep checking them off over the weekend. We are a family of circus freaks for a reason.

The Boy is having his tonsils removed next week. We visited with the ENT on Monday to do pre-op. During the conversation I brought up the possiblity of EDS to the doctor, pointing out that even though we had no confirmation (at that point,) I wanted him to be aware that it was a possibility. He said he was quite familiar with the disorder and had patients who had it. "Let's check," he said as he bent the Boy's thumb easily and laid it on the forearm. He checked some other flexibilities and then felt the Boy's skin. He asked me to perform a few circus tricks and then announced, "Yes, he has it." He said that he would put extra sutures in and to expect a longer recovery period for the incisions to heal. He added that he didn't think the Boy's case was severe. For those of you counting, the Boy scored a 7/9.

Yesterday we had an appointment with our pediatrician. She examined the Girl thoroughly and took a look at me (more circus tricks). She listened to our family history and then said it was pretty clear to her. She is arranging for us to see a geneticist to hopefully rule out any of the more life-threatening types. From there we will see cardiologists, rheumatologists, and more than likely end up visiting the Connective Tissue Disorder Clinic at Cedar Sinai in Los Angeles. The pediatrician said that in Girl's case we should plan on a visit to that clinic, or a similar one, about once every 3 months for the foreseeable future, perhaps for our lifetimes.

So what does all this mean?

Well, we don't know. The possiblities run the gamut from a fairly normal life, albeit with substantial restrictions, to a remarkably painful one.

For the Boy, who seems to be the most mildly affected, his soccer plans are cancelled and most sports will be limited. Swimming seems to be his best option. Even with that he could see joint degeneration well before most people, following a pattern similar to mine. He will have to be taught to move his body differently and to protect his joints from dislocations and hyperextensions. He could also develop any number of other complications that seem to turn up regardless of the disorder's severity.

For me the object is to stop any further damage. I know now my experience with joint pain is not normal for a 49 year old, but is closer to that of someone in their 70s. With a great deal of care and caution I could make it deep into my 60s without ending up in a wheelchair. And like the Boy I will have to be thoroughly examined and followed by a host of specialists to make certain I don't develop the nasty stuff.

The Girl is the real problem. The severity of her diagnosis would be bad enough, but other factors make it much worse. Children with EDS have to be taught, as the Boy will be, to protect themselves. to move differently, to not extend their joints too far, to not put too much weight upon them, to be careful... always to be careful. That is hard enough to do with typical active youngsters, but the Girl is not typical: she has dyspraxia. She has difficulty with motor-planning, coordinating her movements, not walking into walls. How do we teach her to move carefully when teaching her to move at all has been so difficult?

Because of the severity of her diagnosis with the overlaying dyspraxia her prognosis is loaded with landmines. She could end up with osteoarthritis by age 20 even in the best of circumstances. She could experience the degree of pain I do by the time she's in her mid 20s. Osteoporosis in her 30s. Or worse. As a girl she could also see difficult pregnancies should she decide to have children. Female EDS patients deliver prematurely more often than the general population. They suffer ruptured membranes in the uterous more often. They experience pelvic prolapse more commonly. And in general, women with EDS seem to experience more pain than males, either because women are naturally more flexible to begin with, or perhaps because men are more likely to be socially discouraged from expressing their pain. Regardless, her row will be hard to hoe.

Jonna, the physical therapist, has made it clear that Flyn can never participate in contact sports. She can never even ride a roller coaster because the joints in her neck and back are so lax that a sudden violent movement, one that might at worst cause a sore neck for most people, could sever her spinal cord.

Both the Boy and the Girl will, once they reach adulthood, have to grapple with the knowledge that any child they bring in to this world has a 50/50 chance of having this disorder, the severity of which could be considerably worse than their own. They will need to make decisions with that knowledge that makes me grateful for the ignorance I had of my condition when I started my family.

I should note that we do not yet know if the G-Thang is affected. She is still too young to make a determination, as babies under two are remarkably bendy and she is no exception. But it goes without saying we hope she won the lottery.

In less than a week our lives - all of our lives, including my wife's - changed radically. It is strange to realize that many plans, and hopes, and dreams have vanished or are at best on hold. We had, for example been working on a long range 5 year plan to eventually buy a large sailboat, load the family aboard and cruise the world for 2 to 4 years. We loved the idea of giving our children an adventure - an epic childhood. We felt that the Girl would benefit most of all from the enormous sense of self-confidence, self-reliance, and the general wonder of it all. She would escape the preconceptions and peer issues that would accompany a more traditional "special needs" life, and when she finally returned, ready for middle school, not a soul would have the power to discourage or limit her. She could look at the critics, naysayers and cruel peers of her age group and say confidently, "I sailed the world. What have you done?" But that is no longer possible because the risk to her life in a boat on the sometimes violent, open sea is simply too great.

Even if we decided the risk was worth it, my wife's employment and the health insurance it provides can no longer be traded for an adventure since private insurance would simply be too costly, assuming it could be had at all.

The damage to our bodies and our longterm prognosies will be revealed over the next several months, but we are beginning to measure the damage to our collective psyches. My mother and grandmother have been informed that all their lives they have had a disorder that is more than likely responsible for the substantial pain they feel now and have felt over the course of their lives. I in turn have an uncertain future that threatens me with something similar to that of my mother and her mother. My dear wife is trying to cope with a family, 3/5 of which has suddenly been diagnosed with EDS and that she may one day be charged with caring for alone.

And my precious children, to whom I unknowingly bestowed this curse, and from whom I would now take all of their future suffering upon myself if only I could - my beautiful kids that see only the loss of soccer or the suddenly more insistent and concerned parental demands to "Settle Down!" - their lives have been changed before they've barely begun.

We are all changed now. And the home stretch is a long way away.

Into The Woods

2010-07-27T12:08:00.000-07:00

Last week I dragged the Boy out of his summer stupor, threw a childsized backpack on him, slathered him with sunscreen and repellent, and headed for the hills. It was his first backpacking trip. I had chosen a relatively easy hike for his first time - a short 3 miles in and with only minor elevation change - 800 feet or so. The way in was unusual as it was almost all downhill. I figured that would be easier and the way home would then be uphill leaving him little choice but to trek on.
We weren't 100 yards down the trail when he began to complain about how hard it was. His feet hurt. It was hot. His pack was uncomfortable, despite the fact that it only carried his sleeping bag and clothes. I offered to carry his pack for a while. He agreed and was happier. After a quarter mile I offered it back to him. He once again carried it, but soon enough it was "too heavy." This was our long hike in. Back and forth his pack was traded until I finally gave up and just hauled it. So much for that idea.

It took 3 hours to make those 3 miles.

I picked a site close to the stream, both for the ease of water hauling and to keep him occupied with water play. He wandered and helped as best he could as I set up the tent and kitchen. Eventually as the mid-afternoon heat set upon us we slipped into swimsuits and frolicked. He could not have been closer to his ideal of heaven. Rocks were skimmed. Dams were built and destroyed. Objects were tested for their floatiness ("Rocks don't float! No really daddy, they don't"). He acquired all manner of filth that could not be washed away by stream or scrub or wet ones. But through all that dirt he beamed.
As dusk set in and dinner was served he chatted incessantly about how amazing it all was. He looked for bears and chipmunks and birds and other wildlife (but mostly bears.) He kept wondering when the stars would finally come out. He laughed... a lot.

I gave him the camera and re-trained him in its use. He snapped without reservation - went all Galen Rowell on me.

He loved the tent - its open air feel and the sense of adventure it promised.
As night fell so did the clouds and the stars he so longed to see remained hidden. He decided to sleep instead. Some time in the middle of the night, he awoke. He looked up through the mosquito netting of the tent and the clouds had cleared. "Daddy! Stars!"

That was sadly not the only time he awakened me. He tossed and turned, flailing me every so often with an errant arm or elbow. I slept very little.

In the morning, after a hearty breakfast of pancakes (and a doe and fawn sighting 10 feet from our tent - "Daddyyyyyyy! Deeeeers!") we wandered around a bit and then broke camp. I rearranged his pack, putting his sleeping bag into my pack, but told him that I expected him to carry his pack out. It was all uphill and if he wanted to go backpacking he was responsible for carrying something. He said he understood.

The little dude trekked. Not one word of complaint. No request to have me carry his pack. He asked if we could rest often, but he never whined. He had changed in that one day. I was pretty proud of him. By the time we made it to the car it was 92 degrees and sweat had soaked us both. Still, he was chipper - weary, but chipper.

My little boy had grown up a lot over the course of 6 long miles. I was beaming.
Of course, then he got carsick on the winding ride home and threw up all over the backseat, but what the hell... he's only five.

Raindrop

2010-07-06T15:36:00.000-07:00

The Girl, in spite of all her therapy, continues her stumbling ways. She continues to be difficult to understand. She continues to be plagued by the same things she has endured all along. She is getting better... slowly... incrementally.

I schlep her to speech therapy twice a week and to physical therapy twice a week and to occupational therapy once a week. She works with me or my wife at home on various and sundry specifics and I have gotten quite good at turning the most mundane of tasks into genuine workouts for her. It's tiring for her... and me.

A couple of weeks ago I was forced to do some more research into her specific condition - dyspraxia - while dealing with an insurance issue. I found myself reading more than my fair share of non-layman type documents that left me glassy-eyed, but more deeply informed. One of the more interesting items I culled from that numbing experience was that many researchers in the field are arguing that dyspraxia be shifted into the spectrum of cerebral palsey as a form of that disorder with more mildly manifesting symptoms and usually lacking tremors or spasms. It makes sense.

Dyspraxia can be defined as:
A non-contagious, non-progressive, life-long neuromuscular disorder centered in the cerebellum.

Cerebral palsey can be defined as (you guessed it):
A non-contagious, non-progressive, life-long neuromuscular disorder centered in the cerebellum.

In any case, the treatment she receives would be the same no matter what it's called or the spectrum it is placed within. The insurance company tried to tell me that what she had is categorized as a "Learning Disability" which therefore limited their monetary responsibility in any given year. I informed them that they were wrong. It is in fact a physical disability that often has learning disabilities as comorbidities. As I explained to them, it's as if they saw Christopher Reeve in his wheelchair, breathing with the aid of a ventilator, and defined his problem as a "resperatory one." He was paralyzed in fact, and his need for a ventilator was a comorbidity of that paralysis.

Plenty of people have dyspraxia and do not suffer speech difficulties. The actor Daniel Radcliffe (Harry Potter) announced recently that he has dyspraxia, though he was quick to point out that his symptoms were very mild and in no way were representative of the much more severe symptoms experienced by the majority of those with dyspraxia. Nonetheless, at the age of 20, and even with the relative mild nature of his condition, Mr. Radcliffe still can not tie his own shoes... at 20!

This is a physical disability that will profoundly affect the Girl for the rest of her life. We are only now accepting the idea ourselves - that she may not drive a car, that her speech may be difficult to understand throughout her life, that injuries will be all too common, that there may be psychological issues resulting from the actual dysfunction or simply from the everyday struggles she will endure.

It's her lot in life.

And how does she take all this at not quite 3 and a half years of age?

She fell the other day for the millionth time in a day. I asked, as I always do, if she was ok. She said she was. And then she added this little gem which stole my heart:

"I just a big raindrop. I always fall."

Perhaps it is the poet in her that will be her salvation.

"Look What I Made!"

2010-06-01T09:21:00.000-07:00

The little victories are all you can cheer when you're dealing with kids the ages of mine. So...

The Girl is potty trained. Her obstinance (and that's precisely what it was) was finally overcome with a series of carrots and sticks. She just caved, and discovered it wasn't as bad as she had assumed. Been a week and not one accident. The huge gushing sound you may have heard was no doubt my sigh of relief at cutting my diaper load in half.

Sadly, this phase always comes with its own set of peripheral annoyances. She must describe - in detail - her every moment of waste removal. She raced out to me the other night after using the facilites to tell me she had just made a "giant breadstick in the potty." Thanks for the visual, honey.

The Boy was similarly inclined at that point in his development, however his descriptions followed a different criteria. Everything was described as letters of the alphabet - "I just made a 'J'!" or "That was a big 'W'." I became worried at one point he was trying to complete the entire series and feared he would forever be frustrated trying to achieve the very difficult 'B'. I had visions of a five year old squirming for hours on the seat in a desperate, sysiphusian quest to finish his perfect design, but fortunately that phase passed.

I'm hoping his sister will forego any attempt at completing a series of bakery items, and that the descriptive narratives will end mercifully soon.

Patio

2010-05-10T08:23:00.000-07:00

Bluestem's comment on the previous post pointed out that I never really showed off the results of the patio remodel we suffered through last summer.

It didn't turn out badly. I like the benches - I sent off a design to the manufacturer that they liked so much they added it to their catalog. They asked me to name it so the design is officially called the Arlo bench.

Pics - Mothers Day And Stuff

2010-05-09T11:23:00.000-07:00

The Little Wars

2010-05-02T07:10:00.000-07:00

My blogbattical is still in place, but I thought I would drop in this post.

The Girl...

On February 25th we had our first IEP meeting regarding her transition from Early Intervention to the school district. Some of you may recall the battle fought to get the district to step up and take her in. The little visit to Palo Alto in January for substantive clinical diagnosis, though costly, forced the district to see the errors of its ways and grant the Girl an IEP.

We (my wife and I) have been told by friends within the program that the district has a term for parents such as ourselves: "high profile". Essentially we're informed, know the law, prepared, fiercely advocating, and not easily dismissed. There are probably less polite terms they use to describe us.

At the IEP, the plan was laid out for the services the district would provide for the Girl. Most prominently was Speech Therapy twice a week. The district asked that they be permitted to do further assessment to determine her needs for Occupational Therapy and Physical Therapy. As the district does not have a physical therapist on staff (physical therapy is rarely granted due to the difficulty in justifying it "educationally), they agreed to contract with a private PT for the assessment. They have 60 days to do the assessments and adjust her IEP according to the results.

All in all we were tentativly pleased with the services offered and the general outcome of the meeting. We were told later by several people in attendance that it was unlike any other IEP meeting they had ever been to. When I asked why, they laughed and said, "because you got so much." Evidently the district tends to run roughshod over a lot of parents who, perhaps less informed, less fierce, lack the means to dedicate one parent to exclusively fight the dragons, or in some cases having poor english-speaking skills, are left to accept much less than their child needs.

The OT assessment took place the following week and the district's OT agreed with the Palo Alto assessment that the Girl would need at least on session of therapy per week. The district was to get in touch with us once the PT assessment was scheduled.

Weeks passed - 6 weeks to be exact - and no word. In a desire to keep from coming across as genuine pains in the ass we waited for the call rather than harping, but after 6 weeks I dialed them up. "You haven't heard from the therapist yet," they asked incredulously, "We faxed them the request. We'll look into it."

We heard back from them with an appointment scheduled and an apology - the district had just forgotten to make the request. They also added that they doubted the assessment would justify therapy.

Last week we (the Girl and I) toddled off to the private physical therapist to see what she thought. I stayed relatively quiet, only answering her questions regarding the Girl's history, in the desire to get an unbiased opinion. Tough luck for the district - the therapist said she felt two sessions of therapy a week were absolutely needed if the Girl were to have any hope in succeeding in occupational therapy or to be safe in a school (the therapist mentioned the simple liability aspect if the district denied her therapy and she got injured at school).

So there you have it. ST, OT, and now PT - the district has little choice but to provide the Girl with what we requested.

The speech has been going on for 8 weeks now and we have seen a little progress. Certain sounds are now being made (not necessarily well or consistently) that weren't there before and we can hear her throughout the day trying to make them as she speaks. Cheer the little things.

Her shins are a roadmap of bruises, new and old, from falls 3 or 4 times a day. Her elbows and arms also show the details of her disasters. She goes down, cries, gets up, moves on. It's suprising how it is such an accepted part of our days now.

We have no doubts that the wars regarding her and the district have just begun or that the services provided will remedy her in anything approaching an expedient manner, but we are on the road now, have our cannons loaded, and have finished our basic training.

Game on.

The Dream (un)Deterred

2010-04-05T07:22:00.000-07:00

The Boy has big plans. He informs us of them regularly. His plan to become a songwriter remains in effect, but he's added the vocation of beekeeper to that. His spare time will be spent teaching doctors how to give shots. He will own a castle in San Francisco, the bottom floor of which will be devoted to an eating establishment that will sell "popcorn pizza" exclusively.

Big Dreams.

He informed us last night that he also intends to have five offspring (brave, naive kid), divided into 3 girls and 2 boys. "I have a plan," says he.

In case you're all wondering, he added that he already has names for these future spawn. For the girls: "I Love You, Dearly", "Easter Bunny" and "Tabitha"; for the boys it's been decided - "Charlie Brown" and "The Rookie".

Isn't life simple when you're five?

Pics

2010-03-29T12:52:00.000-07:00

Birthday season has come to a close here, so...

Griz's 1st birthday

The Girl's 3rd

Ma & Griz

Griz

Griz attempts to retrieve an icecube with her mouth

Boy

His Garbo Moment

2010-03-28T07:31:00.000-07:00

The Boy's big birthday bash took place yesterday. Festive and active, with a Wonderpets theme ("What's gonna work? Teamwork!"), exhaustion prevailed by the end of the day for all involved.

Among the assorted guests were members of the Boy's all girl fan club that I have mentioned before. At one point during the party I saw the Boy race from the bouncy house into our home. He was followed by the fans. I wondered if he was retrieving some toy. After a length of time and no return I slipped into the house to investigate. I heard laughter from the bathroom. When I opened the door I found the Boy seated upon the throne taking care of his business. Three girls were seated along the edge of the tub like birds on a wire devotedly watching the Boy. The expression on the Boy's face was not one of delight.

There is such a thing as too much attention.

Ode To Boy

2010-03-23T10:09:00.000-07:00

He dances frequently with abandon,
likes to shimmy his behind
His hair all tends to fly away,
never staying where assigned

He chooses colors oddly
when taking crayons in hand
Sky is often purple
and pink his choice for sand

The things he'll eat have limits,
pretty much pizza and hot dogs and chicken
What kid won't eat pasta?!
Yeah, he's one, for instance

He talks and talks and talks and talks,
Good God, it never ends,
As if his brain types away all night
and with morning light hits "send"
And he sings a lot throughout his day
It's an opera - his life -
An aria of the mundane
with crescendos for highlights

His laugh can be infectious
"Tickle me," his battle cry
And when your fingers finish
his cackle turns swooping sigh

He's taller than his peers
all skin, sinew and bones
Not so much as a trace of fat,
and muscles all postponed.

Though I love my children very much
His sisters both, and he
There's something about this firstborn boy
that's a little special to me
Perhaps it's that we almost lost him
five years ago today
when he slipped from womb to delivery room
and his palor from pale to gray.
I doubt it comes from manly pride
(take a look at him in those antlers)
No, I suspect it's something else
that makes him my enchanter.
If I met him on the street
or struggling on a swing,
a complete and total stranger
unrelated at all to me,
I still believe he'd take me in,
smile and win me from the start
It's some magic thing in his perfect soul
which levers up one's heart.

Not a thing in the world I wouldn't do for him,
and none of it would repay what I owe
So Happiest of Birthdays to you my son
You've five candles for wishes, now blow.

Happy Birthday, Arlo.

Nuts

2010-03-22T11:43:00.000-07:00

It started at Christmas. It was a simple airing of a ubiquitous holiday special that seems to have instigated it. Ever since then the obsession has grown. Who would have thought an animated, bald headed kid named Chuck could inspire such a habit?

A Charlie Brown Christmas is to blame. The Girl saw it and demanded more. So her jones was fulfilled with It's the Great Pumpkin, and then the Valentine's Day, and the Thanksgiving, and then the holiday-less You're a Good Sport. This weekend added You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown to the repertoire. It never ends. Over and over and over again they run in the dvd player. When one ends the Girl demands yet another, or a replay of the one that just ended. It is ghastly.

Even the Boy has reached his limit: "Good Grief," he shrieks when she requests yet another play, the phrase itself evidence of his own overexposure. She is never done with it.

She has taken to hauling a blanket around, telling us when she grows up she wants to be Linus. A kid who has never felt a profound attachment to any object now drags a filthy blanket hither and fro, unable to part with it.

What she gleans from it is beyond me. Peanuts was never truly a children's comic, its little observations better absorbed and reflected upon by those with a more experience under their belts than kids. Yet there she sits, motionless, absorbing it all, occasionally laughing.

Her television time-limits, and our stamina, are the only thing that keeps her from a 24/7 cycle with Lucy, Chuck and the Red-headed girl. I'm sure it will pass but for the moment, well, maybe dvds can wear out.

Memory Lane

2010-03-13T11:24:00.000-08:00

Me in 1986.

Cardigan.

Ripped jeans.

I was all Cobain before Cobain.

Three!

2010-02-27T13:01:00.000-08:00

A little late in the day with this but went out to breakfast and had to buy a lawnmower so, bloggus interuptus.

The second birthday in three days for our brood (tis the season here - the Boy has one coming up as well). The Girl is three today!

For some strange reason it feels to me as if she has been three for a while. Not for her though: she is proud of the fact, even if she can't get her fingers to display the proper count.

The angry photo is not so much an insult to her as it is a display of her classic emotional state. She is just mad or sad more frequently than the other two. And, to be honest, she is just so cute when she's pissed.

Happy Birthday, Little Girl. Daddy loves you... even when you're steamed.

And a Happy Birthday to RC as well, sharer of this birthday, though not birth year.

Tempus Fugit, Grizz

2010-02-24T07:15:00.000-08:00

After a delay that seemed to last forever, it was one year ago today that the youngest member of our clan finally made her debut.

I rarely post much about her. The Boy is coming into his own and his incessant (and I do mean incessant) chattering tends to make good blog fodder. The Girl's issues command a lot of our time and concern - the squeaky wheel, you know. So the Baby is left to her own devices. Part of it is that by number three parenting tends to run on autopilot. You stop sweating the little stuff. You are (sadly) less amazed by the everyday miracles. Three kids means less time is devoted to each one individually. It isn't just us; the grandparents and friends spend less time doting upon the youngest. We are simply used to it by now. It helps that unlike the Girl and her speech, or the Boy and his early health issues, the Baby is damned typical with her biggest problems being rather run-of-the-mill colds. As a result she gets less press, less concern. Such is the lot of the last born.

That does not mean she isn't a story unto herself. She is ready to walk. She cruises, does her squats, prefers to "take a knee" when resting. She is much more troublesome than her predecessors. She ignores all admonishments regarding those things she should not touch, sometimes with a haughty shrug. She eats anything she finds - we call her the roomba. She is incredibly strong and will defend herself and her possessions from interloping siblings with force and an occasionally vicious bite. She has, of the three, the most delightful smile and cheerful personality, that can turn Mr. Hyde with alarming suddeness, usually around 5pm.

She refuses to sleep all through the night, preferring to awaken sometime around 1 or 2 and demand action from weary parents. Baby food has fallen completely by the wayside, her nose turns up at the mere sight of it. She demands instead, whatever else is on the menu for the rest of the clan.

She's incredibly loud, regardless of mood. If happy she yells with delight. If unhappy she screams with a volume that even the most jaded parents have commented upon. She can literally wake the neighbors.

So far her vocabulary consists of not much more than Mama and Dada. The Girl has us on edge regarding speech so we are keeping a watchful eye on the Baby to make certain this minor delay in word acquisition (by now she should have 8 to 10 words) is not a sign of something more substantial.

She growls. Even when happy she moves through the house growling at things. The Boy has taken to calling her Grizzy.

Her laugh is easy and infectious, like one of those ubiquitous youtube baby vids. She will laugh heartily at anything and she gets a lot of playful jokes. She frequently demands (and I do mean demands) to be entertained.

She is a wonderful mimic. At five months or so, while changing her diaper, I stuck my tongue out at her. She watched me carefully and then did it herself. I moved my tongue from side to side. She followed suit. Everything I did she imitated. It was on of those embarassing "My God! She's a genius!" parenting moments. Genius or not, she's one smart cookie.

She has taken a while for me to get used to. The extra work and lack of sleep left, I think, a small grain of resentment inside me for her. That's a hard thing for a parent to admit. Her inate charms and winning personality have worked hard to counter it however, and have ultimately won me over.

So one year on, one year old, and today she'll blow out her first candle... or she'll just frickin eat it.

Happy Birthday, G.

Grrrrr.

For My Wife

2010-02-14T07:07:00.000-08:00

For Valentine's Day, a repost. Only because two years on the sentiments have not changed, but only grown stronger.

In that beat icon masterwork, On The Road, Kerouac said, "The prettiest girls in the world live in Des Moines." Having spent part of my life in Des Moines, I had always assumed that was the booze talking. Eleven years ago, however, I had a change of heart. It didn't matter whether or not all the prettiest girls lived there; the prettiest one did. You see, Des Moines is where I met my wife.

My wife is beautiful. From her flawless, alabaster skin to her big easy smile; from her warm blue eyes to her long, but childlike fingers, everything about her says, "heaven, right this way." Even if she weren't so lovely she would still win you over. She is sweetness incarnate. Gentleness, understanding, caring and thoughtfulness, are all facets of her being and as natural to her as blinking to me. She can make my worst day seem silly with a pat on the back. Yeah, she's that good.

Then there is that laugh, that easy, unjaded, welcoming laugh, that perfectly complements my rather ham-like qualities. It isn't just me upon whom that warm laughter is bestowed. No, she can find humor in the kids even on those occasions when all I glean is annoyance. I roll my eyes, but she laughs with no reservations. She laughs at herself, recognizing the silly or the foolish in her actions and racing with it. She doesn't fear her own childishness, a trait not a few of us could benefit from acquiring.

She supports us; tramps off to work everyday to earn our daily bread. When we had children we decided that one of us would stay home and the other would not. Her profession, more lucrative than mine, gave her the wage-earner slot. That is hard on her. I take nothing away from myself, as raising kids is the hardest thing I have ever done, but her lot is harder still. She must tear herself away each day from the children she adores, knowing that some little miracle will invariably occur while she is gone. On her days off she will often excitedly point out some task or achievement by the boy or girl and, insensitive fool that I am, I will reply, "Yeah, he/she did that the other day." And still, she takes a clod like me in stride and thinks nothing of it.

Younger than I by quite a bit, she seems unconcerned with the prospect that, not long after we have ferried the last of the kids out of the house some twenty years hence, she will face an aging spouse who will probably be in need of care himself. She accepts that - it was part of the package. It's another unselfish part of her character - another reason she is wonderful.

My life is so much better with her than it would have been without that I can not measure the difference. There isn't a device to quantify it, only the acute sense that I was fortunate beyond what I probably deserved and will remain so as long as she will have me.

The word love will get tossed around a lot today. I won't toss it for fear of losing it. Instead, I hold it aloft, a boast, I suppose, that I have it and she is grand.

Ullman

2010-02-12T07:00:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I forget how amusing Tracy Ullman can be.
Her Arianna Huffington kills.

Modesty

2010-02-08T11:09:00.000-08:00

We are, by nature and habit, a rather free thinking family as regards our bodies. Wandering about the house with little in the way of clothing is, if not common, certainly not aberrant. The children too, often parade through the various rooms in various stages of undress. It is just the way we do business. We all have a body and within the confines of our home we have no issues with letting it all hang out.

So it came as something of a shock last night when the Boy, who heretofore has shown no reluctance to saunter through the living room at 7 in the morning with nothing on but a smile, demanded he be allowed to shower rather than share the tub with his sisters. The Boy has always feared and hated the shower. The enclosed space, the water pouring down from overhead, and the echo of his own unceasing voice have all made the prospect of showering seem unlikely for him in our lifetimes. Yet there he was last night announcing that he had no intention of bathing with his siblings and would instead be stepping into the shower to clean himself. My wife and I were both amused and curious regarding this development. He had, just the night before, bathed with his sisters with great enthusisasm and no complaints, as he did almost every other night. Why this sudden transition? Enquiring minds wanted to know.

He explained. He thinks his naked body looks funny. He doesn't want to be seen with no clothing. He would prefer to clean himself in relative privacy. "I look funny with no clothes."

Huh? From whence did this overdeveloped sense of modesty (shame?) derive?

We have no idea. And it apparently did not last as he was up at 6:30 this morning galavanting sans clothing in front of the living room picture window with usual lack of propriety. Funny yes, but our laughter had nothing to do with his actual appearance, so who knows.

In the meantime he remains steadfast in his desire to continue his showering routine, though with the added reasoning that it is actually warmer than it is sharing a bath with two bouncing (and crowding) sisters.

We'll watch and wait... and wonder.

Swap

2010-01-19T07:46:00.000-08:00

Wow! Long time no blog.

We have been busy over the last two weeks since returning from the SF. In our ever more futile effort to make do with our limited bedrooms we performed the "Great Bedroom Swap" last week, giving the kids our "master" bedroom and taking theirs in return. Our old one is about 30% larger than the kids' old one and since all three offspring will soon be sharing one room it seemed logical. Both bedrooms are larger than average (the house, although only 2 BR, is nearly 2000 sq ft) so we aren't all that cramped in our new space and the kids have more room to spread out.

The Boy got his new bunkbed, which is pretty good looking and solid as a rock. It is currently in its loft configuration which will allow the crib to slip in below once the baby gets booted from our room (soon, soon). Once the baby is ready for a big bed the lower bunk will be installed and she will be de-cribbed.

In the meantime, the Girl has moved to the Boy's old big bed and is pleased as punch. All grown up and no longer trapped, she has adapted without a hitch.

Both the Girl's bed and the Boy's bunkbed are made by Argington and though hardly inexpensive they are built to last and look great. With luck they'll hold up well into the kids' late teens.

As for the grown-ups, we're adjusting to the move to our new, less spacious, surroundings. We have accepted the deal - what choice did we have?

Photo Of The Day

2010-01-08T07:48:00.000-08:00

Great Britain entirely covered in snow.

Lest someone imagine that this argues against global warming they should realize that warming melts the Greenland icesheet which in turns stops the Gulfstream current from warming Northern Europe. One of the results of climate change is a much colder England.

via JMG

Sheer Beauty

2010-01-07T10:28:00.000-08:00

I hate auto-tuning. It's annoying and rarely worth the laughs it engenders.

Welcome to its application as art.

Magnificent, beautiful, wondrous and genuinely moving.

We're Baaaaack

2010-01-06T11:58:00.000-08:00

Back from our little trip to the Bay Area. Festivities at an end and now on to the regular life. The evaluation was long and exhausting for everyone but answers and analysis abound. I'll post once I've decompressed. We have some firm(er) diagnosies.

Hoping everyone's New Year was safe and delightful.

Top 25 Selling Songs Of 2009 Mashed

2009-12-30T09:17:00.000-08:00

Earworm's annual mash

Christmas Here

2009-12-27T07:04:00.000-08:00

"Um, is that all?"

First Christmas

"Thank God, you found more"

The Boy

The unhappiest little Girl in Toyland

"Pumpkin Pie!!"

Ahhh

From All Of Us...

2009-12-24T06:57:00.001-08:00

Our best wishes to all of you for a safe and happy holiday and a very bright New Year!

And If You Ever Saw It...

2009-12-23T19:24:00.000-08:00

A moment of substantially selective scepticism from the Boy was displayed tonight when he expressed his total belief in Santa, but denied the existence of Rudolph - "He's just made up for a movie. He's not real."

Not to be denied, I suggested that when we leave cookies for Santa tomorrow night, might we leave a carrot for Rudolph too. "If it's gone in the morning won't that prove that Rudolph exists," I offered.

"No," said the Boy.

"But if it's gone then Rudolph ate it, right," I countered.

He shook his head, "Nope, it just means one of the REAL reindeer did."

Kids are so jaded.

The Accidental Attraction

2009-12-22T17:13:00.000-08:00

After this morning's emotional turmoil I was left to haul the Boy to a birthday party for one of his "girlfriends", the delightful Brienna. As we left I dropped the address into the GPS and it didn't show up so I called to get directions. Brienna's mother said she was glad to hear we were coming and added that she had been worried the girls would be disappointed if the Boy hadn't made it (the baby was seriously ill over the weekend and I had called then to say we might not make it if she ended up in the hospital).

We arrived a little early and the Boy was the first guest. He and the birthday girl played as I made small talk. As the other guests began to show a curious pattern emerged. First, all the guests were preschool girls. Second, almost every one that arrived entered the door with the phrase, "where is he?" or something similar. They would then race through the house until they located the Boy. They were accompanied by their mothers and as I introduced myself the moms would say, "Oh yes, Arlo's dad."

The Boy was the only representative of his gender at the party - a swarm of preschool girls and him. Later another boy - 7 or so - showed up, brought in tow with his younger sister, but he only cared about the pizza. I got the distinct impression my son was the "entertainment".

As I stood in the kitchen chatting with the moms I happened to notice the refrigerator. It was like ours, covered in photos and kid artwork. And then a small construction paper xmas tree caught my eye. It had the Boy's name on it. "Is that my son's artwork," I asked. Brienna's mom looked and said, "Yes, he made that and gave it to Brienna. She insisted we put it on the fridge."

Later I told the Boy that it was nice of him to have made that for her. He said he hadn't actually. He said he had done it at school but didn't like it and was going to throw it away. Brienna had asked for it. He had said sure. I told him it was nice anyway and he smiled his sweet smile.

I have written about his apparent ability to inspire an odd degree of fandom (for lack of a better term) amongst the girls his age, but today took it to a whole other level. If I could figure out a way to hire him out, trust me, I would.

In the meantime, he remains oblivious regarding his legions and just has himself a grand time. His biggest thrill today was the pencil and eraser he got as party favors.

Hell Hath No Fury

2009-12-22T06:52:00.000-08:00

I have heard over the years stories of insurance company evil - we all have heard them. I was always thankful that I didn't deal with that kind of company. Surprise! Our turn came around.

The Girl has an appointment on January 4 at a clinic that specializes in developmental disabilities. The clinic has been doing this for 60 years so one can assume they've got their act together. The doctor heading up the Girl's evaluation is a developmental psychologist who is affiliated with Stanford's Lucille Packard clinic for children. She is a graduate of McGill, did her residency at Yale, is board certified in developmental disabilities, and actually teaches seminars on how to diagnose speech disorders. In other words, she is exactly what we are looking for.

Sadly the developmental clinic does not take insurance. We will need to get reimbursed by our insurance company for the very expensive daylong evaluation ($3700!). In order to get the reimbursement we must get a preauthorization for it. The request was sent in to the insurance company by our pediatrician with the important details. Yesterday the insurance company informed us they were denying the authorization, saying that there are doctors in our network we can see and so we can not see one that is "out of network".

I called the insurance company and asked for a list of of developmental psychologists that were "in network". The woman I spoke to, Christy, put me on hold and after a bit returned and gave me the name of a psychiatrist. I told her that was not the same thing - we want a developmental psychologist. Christy put me on hold again, longer this time. When she came back she said that she was certain that Children's Hospital in Fresno had one on staff and I should call them. I asked her for a name. She said I would have to call Children's, that it wasn't their job to find me a doctor. I said that since they were the ones claiming there was a doctor "in network" they should prove it to me by giving me a name - it was impossible for me prove a negative (that there weren't doctors in network) especially without a list; it was their job to prove there were. She said she did not have access to a list; only their medical director did and he did not speak to patients. He only spoke to providers. I told her that was nonsense since she had just given me the name of a psychiatrist with no problem. She essentially told me, tough - call Children's.

So I checked. Children's hospital is a first rate facility dealing with many issues and we have availed ourselves of their services before. However, even though they have four psychologists on staff, none of them are developmental psychologists. In fact there hasn't been a developmental psychology department at Children's for five years. Some additional investigation showed there is only one developmental psychologist in our entire area, and she only takes patients assigned to her by the state. That's it.

Insurance company lied. End of story. They compounded their lie by covering it up. This little sham of theirs is the equivalent of me needing heart surgery, them having no cardiac surgeons in network and so requiring me to see a general surgeon for my bypass... or a dermatologist. And they would claim the general surgeon or dermatologist was a cardiac surgeon.

They are scum of the first order.

Though I can fight them, it won't be in time as, sadly, by the time I do ultimately win the appointment will have taken place and they will be able to deny the claim because it wasn't "pre-authorized". Nice little scam they've got, huh?

We are dealing with my child here so mark my words: You don't want to mess with my kid.

I'm coming for you and, to quote a movie, I'm bringing hell with me.

Addendum:
The battle royal began this morning with phone call after phone call to no end. Recommendations for child psychiatrists were the best thing offered. Finally I was provided with the phone number of the CEO of the insurance company. He took my call and listened patiently as I told him the story from beginning to end. He asked me two questions and when I had answered them he told me that he would approve the payment and it would be taken care of within the hour.

I was stunned for a moment and then, through my tears, I thanked him and told him to have a merry christmas. I don't think I have ever said it with more sincerity.

Seriously, Knock It Off

2009-12-16T09:59:00.000-08:00

For those of you keeping track, first there was this incident, and then this one. Today was the third abuse.

While at the carwash, the Boy in tow, I approached the cashier to pay for the auto-cleansing. She bantered with the Boy: "Are you excited for Christmas? Are you getting lots of toys?" She then turned to me, "Is he your grandson?"

"No," I said, and left it at that.

And this woman was my age, with, as she told the Boy, two kids of her own, aged 9 & 11.

Helpful hint: If you're going to ask the question, err on the flattering side - "Is that your son? No?! Why you're too young to have a grandson."

I'm losing my sense of humor, people.

PLeaSe

2009-12-15T08:09:00.001-08:00

I've been saying the Girl is bright, that were it not for the speech issue we would have ourselves a regular genius on our hands. Actually that's not accurate. We DO have a genius on our hands. It's just hard to know it when her ability to communicate is so diminished.

Yesterday the speech therapist began to administer an assessment of the Girl called the PLS-4 (Preschool Language Scale.) It's used to determine cognitive skills and both receptive and expressive language ability. The first portion yesterday was cognitive and receptive language. My wife took her to the appointment and gave me the report. The Girl began to run out of steam toward the end, no doubt the result of her recent illness, but the results were rather astonishing.

The test can be used for children 3 to 6 years of age. The Girl is not quite 3 yet so expectations were a little low. Surprise! She showed stunning ability. The speech therapist has been administering the PLS for quite a few years, but she had never had a child reach the level the Girl did before they called it quits for the day - never. When they left off she was already testing at a five year old level of cognition, reasoning, and understanding of instructions. Again, the therapist had never even administered that portion of the test because no child had ever gotten that far. She was blown away. She speculated that the Girl's reasoning skills had actually been enhanced by her diminished skill with speech: the Girl must figure out alternative ways to express herself and that had developed her problem-solving skills far beyond her age.

What does this mean?

Expressive and receptive language skills should go hand in hand, with expressive ability lagging somewhat behind receptive ability. That's typical. There should not be more than a 6 month deviation between the two. If the child is only understanding at a 3 year old level than that's where their expressive skills should be as well (minus no more than 6 months or so.) As long as they are together it indicates (though doesn't assure) a simple delay and not a major problem. The school district wants this assessment done to determine her eligibility for services. The fact that her understanding and reasoning are far beyond her age and that her expressive skills, when tested, will probably be a year or so less than her age will mean a gap between the two of 3 years (or more); not the standard 6 months.

Hello, real problem, and hello services (we hope).

She is one smart cookie and my sadness that this bright and well-reasoned view of the world can not escape from her is overwhelming.

The only greater tragedy would be if no remedy was offered.

For The Next Birthday

2009-12-12T09:16:00.000-08:00

Totally Awesome Dinosaur Bed

2009-12-12T07:55:00.000-08:00

To Boldly Go... To Temple

2009-12-12T07:44:00.000-08:00

Star Trek Menorah - Kind of a niche market.

Better Writing

2009-12-11T11:48:00.000-08:00

You know I write this blog with a little of this and a little of that. I try to do it well - try to tell the little stories about myself, my life, my kids. I have, I think, upon occasion nailed it with a nice bit of wordsmithing (though I doubt I've done so recently) and I've been satisfied, but there are days when I just want to throw my hands up in the air and chuck it. One of those moments was this morning when I read a recent post on Sweet Juniper. It was simply dazzling and wonderous, so much so that I am rather awed by its beauty and honesty.

If you want to read a really good blogger, this is your stop. Read as he takes a funny, "god, how kids can kill you" tale and makes it so much more without ever cheating it for effect.

A portion (his daughter threw up on his laptop the night before visiting family for Thanksgiving):

In the morning the laptop is dead.

Overnight the acids corroded something essential. My brain can't help working through the justifications and rationalizations of replacing it. I hate nothing more than spending money. I mope for a bit on the couch and my daughter comes over and snuggles up to me and sits there for a while, vaguely patting me on the head and singing me a song. It was quite touching. And it was time I would have ordinarily spent typing...

...We keep our eyes on the kid every time she makes a sound, knowing that the only way this could get any worse is if she fills the car with that sickness. It turns out she's already over it, but when we get to Pittsburgh no one's there for dinner because my wife's stepbrother has overdosed on heroin and everyone is with him in the ICU. When his mother returns she sits with my wife in the kitchen over cold stuffing and an uneaten turkey and I listen to her fall apart, a bit drunk, her son in a coma with machines breathing for him, at a loss for what to do with the child she found choking on the vomit in his lungs and a needle still in his hand.

* * * * *

It's just a goddamn computer, says the universe. You complain to the universe that she could have done it a few steps away; her aim could have been a bit to the right; she could have skipped the strawberries altogether. The universe gently presses your lips together, shushes you. You could have put the computer down for once.

You watch your children sleeping in the car on the way back home. Your brain returns to the $1700 emesis. Years ago something like this might have made you angry. If your college roommate had done it, you might never have forgiven him. But how could you be mad at her? You might as well be mad at the wind.

They will change you in ways you'd never expect. They will puke all over everything and it will do nothing to change the fact that you would tear out your own heart to see them go unhurt.

The lingering odor of dried vomitus. You never knew love could smell this bad.

But read the whole thing.
He really is that good. I hope he knows that.

Blow Out The Candles

2009-12-11T08:31:00.000-08:00

And a big Happy Birthday to my lovely and extraordinary wife. 29 years old... again.

Where would I be without you?

Love you.

The Theocracy

2009-12-10T11:39:00.000-08:00

This is one crazy country.

It seems that 6 - count em, 6 - of the states in our "United States" have laws on the books that ban anyone from taking elected office, or in some cases even testifying in a state trial, if they deny the existence of God. Seriously.

North Carolina is one of them and a recently elected city councilman in Asheville has some citizens trying to keep him out of office by using that old law because the guy is an athiest.

It doesn't stop in the Carolinas though. From the Arkansas State Constitution, Article 19, Section 1:

"No person who denies the being of a God shall hold any office in the civil departments of this State, nor be competent to testify as a witness in any court."

Of course the Supreme Court of the U.S. struck down all such laws in a ruling against Maryland in 1961. They said in part (and rather emphatically):

"We repeat and again reaffirm that neither a State nor the Federal Government can constitutionally force a person 'to profess a belief or disbelief in any religion.'"

They based that decision on Article VI of the Constitution, which says:

“no religious Test shall ever be required as a Qualification to any Office or public Trust under the United States.”

Don't see any wiggle room there. Thank you, Founding Fathers!

The fact that the laws are still on the books is one thing, but that there are folks out there still trying to enforce them is just batshit crazy.

Welcome to the Dominion.

Mono

2009-12-08T18:56:00.000-08:00

The Girl has it.

The rapid mono test came back negative, but the doctor warned me before we did it that they have 25% false negative rates - even higher in kids. All the other symptoms (swollen tonsils, high fever, puffy red-rimmed eyes) and blood work (atypical lymphocytes with high white cell count) point to classic mono. The titers for Epstein-Barr will be back by the end of next week which should settle the matter (probably) and more blood work in three weeks should show the antibodies and confirm it once and for all. In the meantime our pediatrician is treating the Girl as if it is... because that's what our pediatrician thinks it is.

The Girl can expect misery for another week and general unhappiness for as long as a month.

Fortunately it's not an easy virus to casually share, so most people need not worry. Odds are my wife and I have been exposed in our lifetimes (most adults have) and so we should be relatively immune. The baby is still breastfeeding so she is getting her immunity from mom. The Boy is the problem. Since he and the Girl frequently share a bath, and all its intrinsic water fountain spitting at one another, I suspect he might get nailed as well. The damned virus has a 7-8 week incubation period so it could hit him in February for all we know.

As for the Girl currently - she's a trooper. From hardcore sweat it out fevers to teeth-chattering chills; from tonsils so swollen you can't see past them to eyes so sunken she looks dead; from a pale ghastly complexion to one nasty snotty nose (she has a secondary sinus infection), this kid is suffering, but taking it all in stride, and pretty grateful this means popsicles and apple juice. She doesn't even complain or whine. I'm just falling in love with my daughter for her hang-in-there spirit.

She napped for 4 hours this afternoon and wanted more when I woke her. She was off to bed an hour early tonight and asleep before I turned off the light. She is one tired 2 year old.

And I'm a pretty tired dad.

The Anvil

2009-12-07T10:49:00.000-08:00

A weekend with big plans deteriorated swiftly. We had scheduled our annual tree grab for Saturday, but the poor health of the brood postponed it till the next day. By mid-afternoon Saturday the baby was utterly miserable, tugging at her ear and screaming. The wife bundled her up and made her way to the Urgent Care facility. After a relatively brief wait they confirmed our suspicions that the baby had a nasty ear infection - the second one in a month. More antibiotics, please.

Meanwhile, back at the homefront, the Girl spiked a nice fever for the second day in a row. We knocked it down with tylenol and ibuprofen and decided to keep our eye on her.

Sunday the baby's misery continued, as did the Girl's fevers, so the tree hunt was again postponed. By noon, the Girl's fever was climbing and fearing another bout of kidney infection it became my turn to bundle a kid up and head off. I opted for the ER knowing that they would be able to check her urine.

Four hours later we left - no kidney infection, but a nasty set of tonsils. Kissing tonsils is the term used when they are so swollen they touch one another. That's my Girl. Strep came back negative, but the rapid test can give false negatives 15% of the time. In any case, there was more amoxocillin added to the kitchen counter in addition to the steroid they gave her in the ER to reduce the swelling.

Today her tonsils are just as swollen and her misery index (self and inducing in others) is pretty high. My great fear is that she has mono.

As she and I sat in the waiting room yesterday amongst the sick and wounded, a father carried in his son. The kid was roughly 9 or 10 and had a bloody towel wrapped around one foot. A sister, perhaps a year or two older than the kid, accompanied them. There seemed to be no sense of panic amongst the three and they waited to be seen with the rest of us.

In the exam room later, seperated from others by the complex of curtains, the Girl and I awaited the results of her various tests. The kid with the bloody towel was wheeled in and slipped into his partition, his father and sister by his side. Eventually, they began to treat him and it was obvious from the overheard conversation they were going to inject a local anesthetic to start the process. As they inserted the needle the kid began whimpering horribly, "Daddy, Daddy!" It was gutwrenching to hear. The medical staff and his father tried to calm him, but it sounded pretty painful and his cries continued. It almost made me weep for the kid. When they finished, one of the staff asked the father what happened - "Did he drop a bowling ball on that toe?" "No," said the father, "It was an anvil." There was an audible gasp - "An anvil?!" The father added, "I told him it was too heavy, but do kids listen?"

I was so glad the towel was wrapped around that toe.

And despite the cries from him when he got the injection, I stand in awe of that boy's calm demeanor for the whole time he waited. That was one tough kid.

This Way Lies That

2009-12-04T17:37:00.000-08:00

Life creeps by on a day-to-day basis and you just don't realize that, in spite of the seemingly slow crawl of minutes in those days, it is moving really swiftly. It just doesn't seem that long ago - half a lifetime?! - that I graduated from high school or indulged my (semi) punk life. That is the disturbing nature of time.

In a convergence of both (high school and punk) comes this brutal slap to the head - a reminder that those days are further behind than I remember.

Seattle punks photographed by Lavine in 1983

Michael Lavine and Thurston Moore have released a new book, Grunge. Moore supplies the essay for the piece and the photos come from Lavine's shots of street punks in Seattle during the early 80's and from his work shooting the Subpop bands that followed in their wake. It's a little bite of history - the taste of bittersweet nostalgia.

Moore is, of couse, the leader of the deified, Sonic Youth. Lavine is a leading commercial photographer having shot numerous album covers for Nirvana, Soundgarden, Beastie Boys, Jay-Z, Notorious B.I.G., White Stripes, and Sonic Youth, among many, as well as being a video director. He has in recent years become a much sought after advertising and magazine shooter for Vogue, Esquire, Outside and the like. The two of them, Moore and Lavine, are neighbors in Soho and the idea for the book came to them one day when Moore stopped by to borrow Lavine's fax machine. An old portfolio of photos was sitting out and one thing led to another.

Nirvana photographed by Lavine in 91

Michael Lavine and I went to high school together (the other half of the convergence). I doubt he would remember me, but he and my brother were pretty good friends - fellow photographers and classmates who shot together often. Over the years I had heard that Michael had found some success in his field - that he was described as "the guy who shot Nevermind" - but I wasn't aware he had reached the "top of the call list" level.

Mike, then

The fact that I recall Michael as just a young friend of my little brother in a time long before the one we currently live within has a certain absurd dissonance when I try to reconcile the memory and the present. We were young together, shaped by many of the same cultural changes (though he was much closer to those forces than I), and our lives - mine, his, and those of our peers - have become fat and padded since those days. I feel out of sync with how much thread has wound around the spindle of our lives, how long ago so much of what seemed to matter took place, and how strangely sad that fact is.

Michael, now

I am not alone in my inability to reconcile the space between what was and what is. Michael gets it too. As he says regarding Kurt Cobain:

"My association with Kurt has been so potent that much of my career has been framed in his shadow. I am regularly introduced as “the guy who shot Nevermind”. I am trying to figure out a way to develop a legacy that is not dictated by my connection with him but it seems highly unlikely that I will manage. Not that its so terrible to be in my position but I do wonder if I will ever be able to accomplish anything of any greater value. I had my 15 minutes already. The reason that I bring this up is because I am feeling guilty about the prospect of landing a book deal with Abrams partially because they will be able to put Kurt on the cover."

In any case, it's a beautiful book. So think about it as Christmas approaches for those whose lives might be as distinctly out of sync as mine.

Michael also has an interesting blog, My Aim is True, that's worth a read.

Poison Ivy and Lux Interior shot by Lavine in 91

A gallery of more mainstream Lavine portraits is here. (Lest you think him an egomaniac, the title of the gallery, Michael Lavine Knows More People Than You Do, is not of his making. The gallery was put together by a third party.)

Prohibited Items

2009-12-01T11:26:00.000-08:00

Been doing some research regarding a cruise for the family (pretty pedestrian, I know). The Disney Cruise Line has a helpful FAQ that includes some answers about prohibited items and, more specifically, prohibited toys on board. It included this passage:

"Balloons are not permitted on board the ship due to environmental concerns. If a Guest arrives with a balloon, the balloon is tagged with the Guest's name and can be picked up after the cruise. Disney Cruise Line is not responsible if the balloon is deflated upon pick-up."

I have this vision of a locked room filled with sad balloons hovering low to the ground, strings entangled, awaiting their young owners' return.

Favorites

2009-12-01T10:29:00.000-08:00

We really never ran into it with the Boy. He seemed happy to go with the flow - whatever. But the Girl is hitting the phase. She is making demands. She is getting choosy. She wants what she wants.

She now has favorite clothing and everything else sucks.

The horizontal striped shirt of of yellow and red is a must have. Almost all the time. Put together with overalls it is her go to ensemble. Sure the lime green pants and the mushroom shirt are great fallbacks. The purple pear shirt works as well. But God forbid you get between her and that shirt. Hell hath no wrath as a toddler scorned.

It isn't so bad - kinda cute - but it does get old. Really old.

The Girl

2009-11-29T09:47:00.000-08:00

Is it just me or does she look all liquored up?

The Boy Completes A Puzzle

2009-11-29T09:45:00.000-08:00

The Girls

2009-11-29T09:43:00.000-08:00

A Little Late, But...

2009-11-29T09:40:00.001-08:00

Halloween, the brood as Super Heroes.

It's Bad Out There

2009-11-19T07:32:00.000-08:00

The city of Detroit has just sold the Pontiac Silverdome (cost to build $56 million) to a private group for $580,000, the price of a nice home.

And you thought you were underwater on your house.

The Worst Thing You Will Read Today

2009-11-18T18:40:00.000-08:00

His own son.

Special Notice

2009-11-14T17:57:00.000-08:00

The wife stood in line for three hours today to get the baby a pug vax. We hadn't planned on it taking that long so she brought the Girl with her. The line stretched around the block at a local middle school. I sympathize with my wife and felt badly that she was stuck with the girls alone.

As you can imagine, three hours leaves plenty of time to chat with your fellow vax waiters. At one point a woman was walking down the line and my wife asked how far the line went back. The woman answered my wife and then stuck around a while as she and my wife shared their gripes about the whole process. During a small lull in their conversation the Girl piped in, talking about one thing or another. The woman listened to the Girl intently and then asked my wife discretely, "Is she "special needs?" She didn't say it rudely or obnoxiously, just understandingly. My wife said yes and explained the Girl's circumstances.

When my wife told me this story I found myself asking for details: what had the Girl been saying? how did she speak? did the woman ask knowingly or curiously? I needed to know what this stranger had used to glean her perception of my daughter.

We discuss the Girl's issues in our home regularly, hardly a day goes by without a conversation about it. We have talked to her therapists and doctors about it over and over. We are fully aware of the extent of her problems. We are not in denial. However, when my daughter's disability is obvious to a total stranger during a brief meeting, well, that is something akin to a punch in the gut. It is no longer our problem - mine and my wife's - to worry over, plan for, contend with. It is now my daughter's problem, and no matter what we do the world will notice it more and more. And the world has never been known for its kindness.

I told my wife I was glad it was her that spoke with the woman. It it were me I think I would have started crying.

An addendum: My wife told me that as they waited their three hours in line today many of the kids ran and played on the large grassy knoll next to the line. Two girls, sisters, joined Flyn in a game. As Flyn began telling them a story of some kind the younger of the two girls said, "What? I can't understand you." Her sister stepped in and informed her younger sibling, matter of factly, "It's ok. She still talks baby."

Dumb

2009-11-14T15:35:00.000-08:00

These identity thieves really are dumb as a box of rocks.

Got this today in my junk mail:

Dear Bank of America Cardholder,

This is your official notification from Bank of America. Your online has expired. If you want to continue using our service you have to renew your online. If not, your online will be limited and deleted.

To continue click here and complete the renew form with your current information.

Thank you,
Bank of America Online Banking Support

"Your online"?
"complete renew form"?

Idiots turn to crime precisely because they are idiots. They can't even do this well.

Science Fair Projects From Hell

2009-11-14T14:23:00.001-08:00

Seriously...

And a boatload more here.

Finger Tutting

2009-11-11T13:31:00.000-08:00

Yeah, it's new to me.

Oops!

2009-11-10T10:14:00.000-08:00

Hey, everybody remember my rant regarding the county health department's failure to deliver pug vax in a timely and effective manner? And the fact that my wife's hospital had requested 3500 doses for staff and patients and received only 50 doses? For everyone?!

Well, we now discover why.

It seems the State of California, responsible for distributing the vax throughout the state, just forgot. According to the infectious disease pharmacist at the hospital, California just plain forgot that our county existed. We weren't included on the distribution list. We didn't show up on the spreadsheet. We didn't count. Only last week did someone in Sacramento realize we were here and now the county gets its vax. Seriously - they freaking forgot half a million people who live smack dab in the middle of the state.

If you live in the county, by the way, vaccination clinics begin today. Call public health to determine where, but beware that they are only dosing 6-24 month olds and care providers for those under 6 months. Pregnant women (the group with a death rate of 1 in 9) are on their own.

Hell of a way to run public health, if you ask me.

How Dey Do Dat?

2009-11-09T08:16:00.000-08:00

Courtesy of my uncle Richard, I received this photo this morning. I had never seen it. Taken in 1935, it shows my father's brothers and sisters - before my father and his youngest brother, the afore-mentioned Richard, were born.

From top to bottom, left to right, Robert, 14, Helen, 12, Roger, 10, Don, 8, Doris, 6, Dorothy, 4, and Ted, 2.

My father would come along 4 years later and uncle Richard in 1941.

Of the 9 total kids born to my grandmother, only 5 are still living. (For some reason I think I remember hearing of yet another child who died at birth but can't be certain.)

I feel overwhelmed with 3 kids. How in the world did families cope with this many children in the midst of the Depression?

All of them look healthy and happy here - except for little Teddy. That scowl must be because of the overalls.

Age

2009-11-05T07:58:00.000-08:00

Got a friend request this morning from an old high school classmate. She has an abundance of photos from my recent 30th high school reunion - a reunion I didn't attend.

There is nothing - and I mean nothing - that will make you feel older than looking at pics of one of these things. It's like a freaking AARP convention. You can delude yourself when you look in the mirror, but that is entirely shattered when you see your contemporaries 30 years on.

Man, we're old.

Are We The New Conservative Parents?

2009-11-04T10:15:00.000-08:00

Papa W assists young W with "the Tie"

I recently jumped on the Facebook bandwagon at the urging of my beloved wife. I had hesitated for a long time even though I had an account with FB because I couldn't imagine finding the time to maintain a page there let alone follow the pages of others. But here I am - once you are sleep-deprived what's a little more deprivation?

In the process I have reaquainted myself with some pals (hey all!) and enjoyed gandering at their photos of their growing families.

One picture got me thinking. It was a school pic for the charming boy produced by some wiley characters. In it he is wearing a tie. Based on the other children pictured it did not seem to be a requirement. A tie. It got me thinking.

There's a trend I've noticed. Just hints mind you, but it indicates something interesting to me.

Most of my friends have now produced offspring. Many of them came late to spawning, like myself (though none as late as I), and so I base my thoughts on them. The same may not hold true of younger parents.

It seems to me that as left-leaning as we all are, we seem to be rather conservative regarding our children. The tie is a useful symbol of that.

Most of us were ourselves raised in a rather liberal atmosphere, our parents having broken the bonds of the traditional family ideals they themselves were raised within. They eschewed ties and other conservative trappings favored by their parents for indivdual freedoms. We in turn took advantage of our parents' liberal ethos. Divorce and family dissolutions were commonplace in our generation and provided even less opportunity for parental supervision - more freedom. We galavanted and experimented and explored and indulged. We did not suffer rigidity.

Are we blowing back? Have we re-upped our stakes in more trad values regarding our own kids? Is this, consciously or not, a backlash against the tenor of our own unsupervised youth, the lack of dress codes, the absence of curfews, the latchkey childhoods?

I don't have the answer, nor am I making a judgement one way or the other.

But I will say this: if what we are doing includes the simple perfection of teaching a son how to tie his tie, then that's a good thing.

I should know - I learned to tie mine from a book.

Wow

2009-11-01T10:11:00.000-08:00

Hate to steal another's post, but it's just too good.

As Sully says,
"An actual animal - from Earth."

Halloween Parenting Tip

2009-10-28T08:08:00.001-07:00

"Helloooo Travis"

Eating Their Own

2009-10-27T08:44:00.000-07:00

The Atlantic collects an interesting sampling of opinion from far right pundits on the possibility of Newt Gingrich running for the Republican Prez Nom in 2012. It seems they hate him. They think he's too liberal. Seriously.

Newt deserves the abuse - he is reaping what he's sown - but the GOP is coming apart at the seams. They are eating their own. The evangelical, tea-bagging, conspiracy touting, wingnuts are off the deep end and destroying one of the two major parties of our two party system.

I consider myself fiercely independent - left-leaning, but unaffiliated with any party. I like it that way. I don't believe in party lines and good ideas can come from anywhere. It's hard to be independent however, balancing arguments from both sides, when there is basically only one party. The Dems, though not loved much more than their counterparts, are at least cohesive. I dread the idea of a failed GOP. I dread the idea that a party that produced the likes of Senator Alan Simpson could instead find its voice amongst the Malkins and the Becks and the Bachmans. I didn't often agree with Simpson but I always thought he was reasonable, that he could be swayed with intelligent argument and above all remain cordial and respectful of those with whom he disagreed.

The GOP as it exists today has nothing to do with intelligence, nothing to do with reason, and as for respectful and cordial - forget it. It is cannabalistic in the extreme, feeding on its own anger and the flesh of those that dare slip out of line. It has become a vicious, anti-everything mob that offers no reasonable alternatives and instead waits breathlessly for the next mindless twitter from Palin, or marching orders from Limbaugh. It's leaders no longer lead. It's remaining thinkers like Snow are marginalized and abused. It is dying an agonizing and bitter death. I am reminded of a passage from Eric Larsen's An American Memory where he discusses his father, but could just as easily be describing the GOP:

How much anger there was in my father: something in him made him wish to destroy himself, to destroy others as well, to pull down the world around him and trample it in angry spite... My father agonistes: his emotional life a ganglionlike bondage of knots that grew tighter and more unrelieving with the struggle. There were times - in winter, on the farm, in the bottom of despair - when I imagine, had my father been an animal, that he would have devoured us one at a time, then shrunk into his lair to gnaw slowly with sullen and furious spite at his own limbs and flesh.

This is the party of Lincoln today, and one imagines it will only get worse before it gets better.

Memo To Health Department

2009-10-26T12:18:00.000-07:00

Hey, County Health Department:

Maybe you wouldn't have been so "shocked at the low turnout" for the pug vax clinic last Saturday if every time anyone called for info you didn't tell them you were out of it and had no vaccination clinics scheduled.

Oh, and when your people on the phone say you have no vax but we go ahead and come on down to your regular once-a-week vaccination clinic just in case, perhaps an address that faces the street and not the back of the building would be nice too.

And you might want to think about an entrance next to that address that isn't blocked with a cage so people like me must circle the enormous old structure with kids in tow in order to find another door.

And how about setting it up in the children's health clinic where we finally ended up, instead of having them look at us as if we're morons and saying it isn't in this part of the building, but in the hospital portion.

And perhaps if that previously mentioned hospital in another part of the building had an intake area where staff didn't say they had no vaccinations and had no affiliation with the Health Department and had no idea what I was talking about things might go more smoothly.

And how bout something to avoid the maze of halls, dead ends, double doors, "employee only" areas and annexes that must be negotiated just to get to you in spite of the idiots in the intake area.

And finally, maybe some clearer signage on your door besides just "TB Testing".

Of course all the obstacles might explain why there was no wait at all when we found you after an hour and twenty minutes, so bonus points to us for enduring the nonsense.

That box of vaccine still looks pretty full and the staff looks pretty bored. Hmm, can't understand why.

Bring Out Yer Dead!

2009-10-25T08:35:00.000-07:00

Pug Panic!

The country is going nuts right now, terrified of getting swine flu - Pug (a typo in a text with curry has led to our official designation for the virus - Pug!) People in NYC and Chi were turned away when supplies of the vaccine ran out. Anxious crowds in Fairfax county, VA lined up with camping gear to be certain they got theirs. Women are lying and saying they're pregnant in order to obtain the precious noseblow.

Can I just say something here?
Whoa.

The pug is the flu, misery-making in the extreme perhaps, but for most people not life threatening. If you are immuno-compromised or pregnant, it is a real danger, but everybody else - just don't blow your sick time off on a World Series day and you will get through just fine.

California has been pretty thick with the stuff. In our little town the first death was reported this week. But it's pretty much being taken in stride with just a little more handwashing and care (which should be customary anyway).

The Boy's school last week posted a note on the board in the entry saying be careful and keep the kids home if their sick. They announced several confirmed cases in the school as well. Guess what? Nobody is going overboard. School is open. Kids go everyday. Not a big deal. (Though in the interest of full disclosure my wife is getting a little twitchy re the kids.)

My wife says the hospital has seen an increase of cases, but that the only bad ones have been pregnant women, who have gotten really sick. Other than that, no problems. Hell ,the hospital hasn't even gotten the vax for staff yet!

If you have kids under six months, you should get vaccinated. If you're pregnant, get it. Kids should get it. If you have immune issues, get it. If you care for the public in a healthcare capacity, get it. Otherwise? Ease up, ok? The mortality rate is less than 1/10 of 1%. That's miniscule. This is not the great culling.

Oh and if you are over 50 get out of of line! You probably have antibodies in your system already.

Be smart, wash your hands, cough into your elbow, stay home if you're sick. But really, don't clog the line or lie about your health to get a vaccination that someone else might really need. That is just pure assholism.

Odds are karma will kick you in the ass anyway.

this has been a public service announcement on behalf of Pug Panic Pointers Inc.

I'm Saving The Human Race...

2009-10-24T05:22:00.000-07:00

...just by being an old tired father.

"While it used to be that men had many children in older age to many different women, now men tend to have only a few children at a younger age with one wife. The drop in the number of older fathers has had a major effect on the rate of mutation and has at least reduced the amount of new diversity - the raw material of evolution. Darwin's machine has not stopped, but it surely has slowed greatly."
- Steve Jones, evolutionary biologist at University College London

I will remind myself of that on mornings like this one, where a 7 month old awakens me at 3 am by crawling on my face, growling and hooting, looking for a playmate or any orifice in which to dip its finger, all the while confirming to me that sleep will remain a pipe dream.

My utter lack of desperately needed rest at this rather advanced age is my sacrifice for you, the Human Race.

Tom Cruise-esque

2009-10-23T16:17:00.000-07:00

We find out this week that Christian Bale's model for his character in the movie American Psycho was Tom Cruise.

So, in a moment of perfect meta-celebrity mashing, we get this:

Actor Miles Fisher promoting himself as Christian Bale as Tom Cruise in American Psycho (with Talking Heads thrown in for good measure.) It doesn't get odder than this... or as well executed.

Warning: probably NSFW

The Magnet

2009-10-22T16:41:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks back I picked the Boy up from school. When I hit the playground I searched the flurry of kids racing back and fourth for my son but didn't find him in his usual spots. When I finally caught sight of him he was holding hands (he holds hands with everybody) with a stunning classmate. This girl will, no doubt, grow into a very attractive woman. She came with the Boy when I called him and I asked who his friend was. He said her name was Jordan. I said hi to her and she smiled before looking earnestly at the Boy and saying, "Bye, Arlo," in a manner I can only describe as flirtatious. She added a little wave with her fingers. I looked at the Boy and knew instantly that he was smitten.

Every day after that it was the same. They would be together playing... just the two of them.

He made her a card. He made her another card. He made her a third card. For the last one he requested the correct spelling of the word "love" and laboriously scripted the letters at the bottom of the card.

I laughed nervously, hoping that he was too young to have his heart broken by the fickle playmate choices that accompany a preschool playground, but what's a dad to do.

Then last week I arrived and there they were, but there was a third - another gorgeous kid, with pale skin and jet black hair. I had seen her before. She plays on his soccer team and the two of them are frequently holding hands on the field (ignoring the game.) She too raced over to make her good byes to the boy. She was introduced as Brienna. In unison, she and Jordan waved and said more flirtaciously than you could imagine 4 year olds being, "Goodbye Arloooo."

It was weird.

Cards were made for Jordan and Brienna. Birthday party invitations were planned. They were frequently the topic of conversation. And every day they were all together, or if I arrived late and one of the girls had already been picked up he would be with the remaining one. No one else was ever a part of their play.

Until today...

I arrived to find the Boy climbing up the monkey bars, Jordan to one side and Brienna to the other, the three of them delighting in one another's company. But following close behind was a girl both my wife and and I had noticed before. A beautiful child with very light brown, creamy caramel skin and a stunning head of curling, dark brown hair that any woman would die for. I looked over the entire playground. The three girls with my son were the prettiest little girls there, without a doubt... seriously.

When the Boy saw me he leaped down and raced over to me, followed by Jordan and Brienna. The new girl stayed behind, looking on, as if taking notes on the ritual.

After Jordan and Brienna had made their standard flirty byes the Boy climbed from my arms and said he needed to say goodbye to Regan. I asked if that was the other girl's name and he said yes. The three raced back to the bars and the Boy hugged the new member of the group. She smiled broadly. The quartet completed their farewells.

I had this vision of these three cute girls plotting to rip my poor innocent boy's heart out of his chest. I imagined it all as some flirting playground joke with my son as the butt. I saw the worst for my kid - after all, cute as I might think he is, three pretty girls fawning over him to the exclusion of all others seemed absurd.

I turned to one of the teachers standing behind me and who had been watching the scene unfold. "Ok, what's the deal with him and all the girls anyway," I asked her.

"Oh come on," she said as if I was some kind of idiot. And then she added with a sly smile, "The boy is a total magnet."

Great, more worries.

addendum: It occurs to me that it is not the Boy who is being led on, but that he is doing the leading. He will be the one to crush playground hearts under foot - the object of preschool catfights. "Now girls, there's plenty of me to go around."

Much worse than my original concerns.

Update

2009-10-22T11:08:00.000-07:00

Regarding yesterday's post about the Girl.

I had another conversation this morning with the Girl's OT. She is new to the Girl's case, brought in when the previous OT had left during the budget cuts. I asked her if she would describe the Girl's condition as possibly being apraxia. She said that Occupational Therapy uses the term dyspraxia and that apraxia is used by Speech therapists, though they refer to the same things. And then she got a quizzical look and added that she wouldn't say "possible" in the Girl's case; she would say definitive - she thought we knew that. I told her that no one had officially described it with that term though I had been asking about it for 8 months. She said that she didn't care what anyone else thought, it's classic dyspraxia.

The speech therapist has avoided the term, and though I have great respect for her and her work, I have wondered why. If the Girl is apraxic she is probably atypical. She can do things with speech that a typical apraxia case can not. Nonetheless, motor planning is involved in both movement and speech and if it is the problem with her body it is more than likely the cause for her speech problems.

What does this all mean?

It means in a classic good news/bad news scenario that she should qualify for services. It is a substantial learning disability so special education and instruction should be put in place when she turns three (just try to keep her out, just try and see what happens!).

However, dyspraxia is almost always life-long. Most dyspraxics have poor short-term memory making following instructions difficult (though ironically long-term memory tends to be better than average.) Most dyspraxics have trouble writing or even using writing utensils. Some dyspraxics also have dyslexia and dyscalculia (difficuty with mathematics), though some have excellent reading and mathematics skills. Some have ADHD. Many never learn to drive a car because of poor spacial perception and difficulty combining a series of physical motions. They have difficulty distinguishing right from left.

Combine that with her hypotonia and life isn't going to be easy for her.

It is ghastly to imagine that we are in a sense relieved that she has officially been pinned with this.

She should get services - Yay!

She will probably need them for her entire life - ...(there isn't even a word to describe it).

The Swiss Girl

2009-10-21T12:00:00.000-07:00

She is bright beyond her age. She understands complex instructions and situations. She is empathetic and sympathetic. She has a great sense of humor about herself and others. She laughs and plays and does her best to share her thoughts about the world as she discovers it. She is (more often than not) a delightful human being with enormous capacity for subtlety.

She stumbles. She walks into doors. She falls, often while simply standing still. She is barely understood when she speaks. She is easily frustrated with herself and others. She is becoming aware that she is not like her peers, that she can not do the things that they can do, can not say the things that they can say (at least not so she is understood.) She is sad more often than the boy for no apparent reason. She loves to dance, but it makes for fearful viewing for her parents - the threat of injury all too real. She is trapped inside a body that does not obey her commands.

My daughter remains a mystery to us, and to her various therapists, and doctors, and diagnosticians. The official description of her condition (and that's what it is - a description; not a diagnosis) is hypotonia, low or weak muscle tone, and a problem with her praxia foundation: the motor plan is lost or distorted on its way through the brain or to the muscles. In other words, she is weak and floppy and can not get her body to do what whe wants it to do.

In her speech she is difficult to understand, even by us. If she says something out of the blue without the benefit of context as toddlers often do we are lost. She must repeat it and repeat it until we get the gist, or until either she or we just give up. We have found ourselves nodding in agreement upon occasion without understanding her just to avoid the mutual frustration. Some words are quite clear and would give the impression she is a typical two year old. But usually there is something substantial missing: a consonant is absent, a vowel is altered, the word is utterly mangled.

She uses long complex sentences. They have clauses, qualifiers and grammar beyond her age, but it would be hard for anyone but those that know her to hear it. There are words that she has never been capable of saying, certain letters she has never mastered, even after nearly 8 months of therapy and countless hours at home with us working on it. There have been improvements but not what we had hoped for, not what would be expected even from simply getting older.

She wants the words to come out. You can see her concentrate to make herself understood. But the signals her brain sends to her mouth are not translated into muscle action. Those muscles just don't get the message right.

She can't jump. She winds up, bends her knees, springs upward, but her feet never leave the ground. She can bounce on a trampoline but her feet never leave its surface. By her age or a little younger she should be able to jump over a string 8-14" off the ground. Being able to jump with both feet leaving the ground is a development that should be seen at around 18 months. She is 32 months old.

She can not pinch a clothespin, let alone work scissors. She runs with a painfully awkward gate: arms high and pumping, legs swinging to the sides, a sense of disaster with every step. She can not control her body in space, is not aware of her physical self in a way the rest of us take for granted. So she walks into things that she sees, that she is aware are there, but can't move to avoid. She falls down while standing because she suddenly stops sending the unconscous signals to her legs to keep a group of muscles tensed and remain erect.

Even when the signals arrive the muscles themselve are weak, not because they are unused, but because an inexplicable genetic mutation that is as yet unknown simply makes the muscles fail to work well. She has a difficult time sitting up from a prone position - it requires enormous effort. She feels floppy in your arms when you lift her. She is not strong. We exercise her regularly to increase her strength to its potential, but that potential is considerably less than that of a typical child. Athletics are unlikely for her despite her great enthusiasm for physical activity. Sadly, an increase in her boldness has not been equalled by an increase in capability. She has gone from skinned knees to genuinely dangerous falls from height. The threat of injury seems to have grown exponentially. She is cautious, but two year olds are not known for their decision-making skills. She may be bright, but she still does stupid things.

The State of California has provided her with occupational therapy, physical therapy, speech therapy, group therapy and special education visits. She has been shuttled to her various appointments day in and day out. But when she turns 3 next February she is kicked out. She is not considered profoundly delayed enough to qualify for services. She must be 2 years behind, cognitively disabled in some way. So at 3 she must be functioning at the level of a 1 year old to stay in and she is further along than that.

Her occupational therapist described her this morning as a block of swiss cheese: she seems fine at first glance, but then you discover all these holes in there. She can, for example, throw a ball overhand with great accuracy and force, something she has been doing since she was 1, but for most children is not mastered until 3. Yet, she can not walk up or down stairs alternating her legs as she goes. She can draw delightful circles, yet a vertical and horizontal line crossing one another is beyond her. She can kick a ball and chase it easily, but is utterly incapable of standing on one foot for even a moment. She can ride a push car at great speed and turn it on a dime, narrowly avoiding collisions, yet she can not get down from a chair without falling half the time. She can do many things, and some things she can not do at all.

We are at a loss. We have had tests done and evaluations completed and work-ups performed. The testers and evaluators and work-upers, the doctors and therapists and diagnosticians are all vague regarding the causes and just as vague regarding possible outcomes. It could resolve with therapy and disappear in a couple of years, or it could never get much better and she may spend her life similarly delayed - always with the swiss cheese holes, always behind in some way. So we have more tests scheduled at a facility that specializes developmental disabilities in children under five in the hopes that they can find what others have not. We may come up empty in our search for answers, diagnosies and prognosies, but we can't whistle through the darkness any longer.

We feel we are in a very dark pit and though I think we can deal with the hole, without some light - some illumination - we can never know where the walls are, how deep the hole is, and ultimately if there is a way out.

She is joyful beyond measure. She is profoundly worrying.

And we have begun to feel desperate.

The Boy's Question Of The Day

2009-10-21T08:12:00.000-07:00

From this morning at breakfast:

"If rocks don't grow then how do we get big rocks?"

Guess I'm A Sap

2009-10-21T08:06:00.000-07:00

A genuinely sweet story with some good-natured, stereotypical humor. After months of bitterness re gay marriage/adoption it's just nice to see something like this.

The Threats Are Real

2009-10-19T12:27:00.000-07:00

Listing of places the Department of Homeland Security deemed likely targets of terrorism and the funding they got as a result in 2007:

The World's Largest Ball of Paint in Alexandria, IN ($12 million)
Barney Smith's Toilet Seat Art Museum in Alamo Heights, TX ($10 million)

Carhenge in Alliance, NE ($25 million)

The Giant Lava Lamp in Soap Lake, WA ($143 million)

In the interest of full disclosure I should note my wife and I honeymooned at Carhenge... seriously.

The Problem With Speed Reading

2009-10-17T20:48:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week a man named Jack Price slipped down to the 24 hour grocery on the corner near his home in Queens New York for a pack of cigarettes. As he left the store he was jumped by two men and beaten senseless - nearly to death - and is hospitalized with a broken jaw, fractured ribs and a lacerated spleen. He was in an induced coma until yesterday.

Jack Price is gay. The two attackers beat him because of that. They have since been arrested, but claim their actions were in self-defense - that Price attacked them first. Sadly for the two men a security camera shows their claims to be utterly false and that they were entirely unprovoked.

After their arrest a friend of the two attackers was interviewed on local news. He claimed that Mr. Price was homosexual and deserved what he got. He then showed off his tattoo. It is from the Old Testament, Leviticus 18:22. The verse is commonly used as evidence of homosexuality's evil.

You know, I don't really care what one believes. If one chooses to think that homosexuality is an abomination, that is one's right. I can not change another's deeply held beliefs with legislation, nor should I try. But if that man so deeply believes in his bible, if he considers the words therein so profound, if he feels so strongly that they should govern not just his life but all of our lives - if he thinks it's so important that he would have those words inked upon his body... well, maybe he should have bothered reading the very next chapter of that Book of Leviticus...

Leviticus 19:28
“Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you: I am the LORD.”
- King James Bible

Or perhaps the New King James' more precise:
"You shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor tattoo any marks on you: I am the LORD."

Or how about the New International Version:
"Do not cut your bodies for the dead or put tattoo marks on yourselves. I am the LORD."

I can add more but any way you look at it the very book of the Bible that our inked prophet uses to defend his bashing buddies and displays proudly upon his arm also specifically forbids him from getting that tattoo in the first place.

Don't care what you believe, but hypocrisy in any form is pretty much bullshit. Soooo...

Shut the fuck up!

Oh and as a side note an anti-gaybashing rally was held in Queens today to support Mr. Price. There were actually counter-protestors... at a rally against beating people senseless without provocation... seriously. People protesting because they favor bashing! Best of all though? One of those counter-protestors was, yeah, you guessed it, Mr Leviticus Tattoo.

Potency

2009-10-16T11:58:00.000-07:00

There are blog posts that fall under "too much information" and I've hesitated for a while on this as a result, but the situation has become so bizarre and frustratingly comical that... well... live with it.

The Norse God of male fertility is plucky little bugger named Freya. He's responsible for the rain and sunshine and thus, the fertility of the Earth. He's also the god of love. Despite being of Norse descent myself, I had never heard of the guy. But he's apparently taken a real shine to me.

You all may remember a little procedure I underwent just prior to the Super Bowl this year. Three kids was my absolute, no-going-back, limit and so I got fixed. The whole thing was pretty simple and aside from a urologist who insisted on showing me the items he was snipping from my nether regions, and the running commentary he provided (in his West African accent) as he did so - "You have enormous vas deferens! Biggest I've seen." - it wasn't bad.

Six weeks post I had to provide him with a "sample" to be certain I was in fact sterile. The whole sample thing is... well... weird. Here's a cup. Do your business. Deliver cup to lab. When I visited the doc for that appointment the count was <1 per ml, which is right on track but it isn't zero. So another appointment was scheduled for 6 weeks on, and another cup was provided. I dispatched my cup to the lab and went to visit doc again. This time the count was 98 per ml. "Have you been having sex?" the urologist queried.

"Yes, I have," I snapped, defensively.

"Well, it sometimes takes a while to clear it out. Just keep using birth control and we'll see you again in 8 weeks. Here's a cup."

Two months later I deliver my cup to the lab and go see my doc. "I am baffled," he said as he studied the lab report. "How can you have 1111 per ml? That is just a strange number. 1-1-1-1. We will have to do it again. Let's see you in 3 months."

"But it's increasing," I said, just a wee bit concerned. "Should that be happening?"

"Well, if it was anything more than just clearing it would be in the millions, so don't worry. I once had a patient go a full year before we got to zero. Here's a cup."

So three months go by and I take my cup over to the lab last Friday. I get a call late in the afternoon. "Hi, Lex. I'm terribly sorry but something happened with your sample. It sort of spilled. All over. Everything. We'll need another."

"I have an appointment next week," I said, "and I can't do it right now. And I need another cup!"

"Well the hospital's open tomorrow. You could just do it down there," she suggested helpfully.

"It's a sperm sample. It's not like just peeing in a cup. It's a little more involved than that and the hospital is less than ideal for the process. I'll just deliver another to you on Monday."

"Ok then. Sorry again," she said, and hung up.

I had my wife bring home a specimen cup from work and bright and early Monday morning I did my duty... again.

Today I saw the doc.

"Do you remember the last time the count was 1111 per ml," he asked. "Well, this time it is 2222 per ml. Do you know what the odds are for that? I think they are getting the counts wrong. I called the lab and they claim the numbers are right, but really, 1111 and then 2222? Come on. So let's try a different lab."

"Ok, whatever," I sighed, "But what if those numbers come back and they say I really am at, I don't know, 2498 or something? What if the number actually is rising? What then?"

"I have been at this a long time," he said, "and I have never seen this before. Never. If somehow there was a reattachment we would see huge numbers, and we aren't. But we should not be seeing increasing numbers of any size, so I'm at a loss. The only thing I can think of is this lab just can't do their job. That's my only explanation."

I threw my hands up. "Well I'm getting a little tired of it," I whined.

"I understand," he said sympathetically, "Here's a cup."

I have an appointment with him (again!) in two weeks.

In the meantime I remain a medical freak.

And that Norse God of fertility had better find somebody else to work his mojo on cause my cup runneth over, thank you very much.

Wild Gift

2009-10-08T09:49:00.000-07:00

At the risk of sounding as if I'm shilling for a product here I'll go off on a bit of promotional overkill.

Spike Jonze film adaptation of Maurice Sendak's classic, Where The Wild Things Are, will hit the screens a week from tomorrow. When I first saw the trailer early this year, I actually wept. I was moved to tears by a movie trailer. I sent the trailer to Curry. He wept. Two middle-aged men crying at a trailer for movie from a children's book.

Imagining the book as a film has been a ghastly exercise over the years. To take something with such simplicity and "Hollywood" it with CG and cuteness has been an enormous fear for those of us that grant the book its pedestal status. Those fears have been quelled. Sendak has given his blessing. Jonze has battled the studio (and I mean really battled) and won.

I watched a making-of documentary last nite on HBO. I cried again. I am going out on a limb, but if the promise is fullfilled this may be one of the best films of the year.

When Jonze and co-writer, Dave Eggers, say that they have not made a children's movie, but instead a movie about childhood and its confusion, anger and fear, you know the book is in good hands.

a sidenote: the soundtrack of songs by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Karen O, and a chorus of Langley School-like kids, is fantastic and excruciatingly beautiful. And yeah, even the music made me cry.

Justice

2009-10-07T09:41:00.000-07:00

Let me start by saying that I am not a violent guy. Usually I find it abhorent, but...

Video captured by police closed circuit on street in the UK of three thugs obviously looking for a fight. At about one minute in they find their marks: two transvestites walking down the street. Except they aren't transvestites; they're professional cage fighters out in drag that night for a party. The thugs are dispatched in no time at all and as they stagger away in obvious pain (the shirtless guy got the worst of it) one imagines they will not be so quick to victimize others next time.

I'm sorry, but this is hilarious.
And you have to give props to the guys in drag for doing the minimum and walking away (after retrieving the handbag of course.)

Awesome

2009-10-05T15:34:00.000-07:00

Moms and dads, back in the day.
From the "God I wish I had thought of that" blog, My Parents Were Awesome

No doubt my kids will place this in there at some point in the (distant, I hope) future

That's The Way The Cookie Crumbles

2009-10-05T08:57:00.000-07:00

Conde Nast announced they're shutting down four magazines today. The venerable food-porn, Gourmet is axed, but the "parenting" mag, Cookie, is also getting the boot. Good riddance.

Parenting mags are for the most part not what the category name implies. They are usually mothering mags. They are aimed almost entirely at women. There's rarely an article that focuses on fathers, unless it involves an idea for a mother to engage a dad in more active parenting, or something of that ilk. The mags are often fashion rags for mom and adorable offspring. Cookie was the worst of the lot.

At its inception Cookie had instituted a policy that none of the child models used on its covers or in its contents should in any way appear to be fat - not even healthy, baby-type fat. The children were idealized and the "mothers" accompanying them in the photos were never the children's real mothers (unless it was a celeb and their fabulous spawn.) Its conspicuous consumption mentality was annoyingly standard for the genre, but Cookie took it to a Robb Report level.

But the thing that irked me was that it had been launched just as more fathers had begun to take a deliberate place in the the home with more and more of us becoming the primary care-givers. It was an enormous opportunity for Cookie to apply itself equally to both parents. Instead it opted for the easy, and ultimately financially ruinous, tradition.

I rarely bitch about the short shrift stay-at-home dads get in the media. It's the way things are and I don't expect much more than the tired "Mr. Mom" approach. Magazines are no exception and have often shown themselves ridiculously behind the curve when it comes to actual reporting of the substantially changing domestic paradigms. They just don't get it.

Cookie deserves its fate.

Running Into Its Embrace

2009-10-03T07:48:00.000-07:00

Been indulging myself this week with Ken Burn's latest opus on the National Parks. It's been a slog. Roughly 5 hours too long and reduntant (I think we get that the parks are beautiful, Ken) it's nonetheless filled with historical sideroads that make for moving and fascinating rides. Burns did this in the Civil War where the listing of the items in Lincoln's pockets at the time of his death brought what had been rote gradeschool history to life and made it immediate. Burns has a knack for this, understanding that history is about real people with real lives.

Last nite I slid into the Tivo for an episode from earlier in the week. Dealing primarily with the 1920's, one of the stories offered was of Glen and Bessie Hyde and their honeymoon from hell.

Bessie had been a flighty bohemian who had dabbled in art in San Francisco. She had eagerly sought something different in her life. She met Glen on a cruise and had married him the day after her short-lived marriage to her first husband was finalized in divorce. Glen had been a potato farmer in Idaho and also ran rivers in the Northwest.

Their plan was to raft down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon for their honeymoon, a feat that had been acomplished at that time by fewer than fifty people, none of whom were female. They would document the trip with photographs and copious notes, write a bestselling book, and make a fortune on the vaudeville/lecture circuit.

They set off in October of 1928 in a scow that Glen had built and that, although appropriate for rivers in the Northwest, was not of good design for the more violent Colorado. They packed homecanned vegetables, a rifle for shooting game, a camera, staples, and Bessie's diary. They were warned by many on the river that they should not attempt the run, that it was foolish to not have a larger party and a second boat. But they did not listen and instead used as their inspiration the famed Kolb brothers, who had run the river years before in one boat. The Kolbs however were quite familiar with the river, having spent a good portion of their lives exploring it before they set off. In keeping with a tradition of Northwest river runners Glen saw no need for life preservers - something even the most experienced Colorado River runners used.

Initially, Glen and Bessie had a grand time, slipping idly downstream, camping at night along the banks. It was all too easy. When they finally entered the Grand Canyon they were again warned that what they were attempting was beyond their capabilities, but they ignored the naysayers.

As the riffles became rumbles and the whitewater spilled over the sides of the boat the adventure became more frightening, but they soldiered on. Bessie was swept over the side several times and rescued by Glen. At one point Glen was knocked from the boat. Bessie managed to throw him a line, but that incident had terrified her. She had begun to see the errors of their ways. Glen just laughed at her as he dried off.

They made a stop where Bright Angel trail meets the river and hiked up to the rim where they had a meal at the hotel there and stayed overnight. The next morning they visited the famous Kolb brothers at their photo studio and had their portrait taken. After the portrait one of the Kolb's young daughters came to bid the Hyde's goodbye. According to Burns, Bessie commented on the young girl's shoes and then said wistfully, "I wonder if I will ever wear pretty shoes again."

The Hydes hiked back down to the river, accompanied by a wealthy tourist who had paid them to take him for a day's ride downriver. The following morning they let the tourist off and before they left he snapped another photo of Glen and Bessie. It would be the last taken of them.

6 weeks later a search began in earnest when they did not return home to Idaho. It became a national headline and President Coolidge ordered the Army Air Corps to fly the canyon looking for them. On Christmas Day their scow was found, its bowline snagged in some rocks, but otherwise intact. All their supplies were in the boat - their food, Glen's rifle, clothing, the camera and 6 rolls of film, and Bessie's diary. The last entry was dated November 27th and merely read, "More than 24 rapids today." No sign of the couple could be found. Bessie was 22, Glen, 29.

Over the years the story has popped up. In 1971 an elderly woman taking a commercial raft trip down the Colorado announced she was Bessie Hyde. She said she had stabbed Glen when he had become abusive on the trip and simply disappeared for forty years to avoid prosecution. She later recanted her claim. Remains found in 1972 along the river were originally thought to be Glen's - a bullet wound through the skull - but they were proven not to be.

I spent most of last night haunted by the story. The idealized thrills and get-rich scheme aside, Bessie and Glen struck me as tragically romantic figures: Bessie in her desperate search for something other than a pedestrian life that awaited most women in her day, and Glen in his pursuit of a manly heroism that ultimately took his life and the life of his young bride. Fools with no sense of their own mortality, and a cold, lonely end, gasping their last as their lungs filled with water.

I think of the foolish and dangerous things I did in my youth - many of them in the wilderness. I am reminded of the moments when a slip or a failure to grasp could have ended it for me and the utter disregard I felt for the risks involved. Even after a close call I would laugh as the adrenaline slipped from my system and my heartbeat calmed. It left no lasting sense of what-might-have-been - barely a moment's pause before the next step or leap. Those were things I would never even attempt now, not because my body can no longer do so (though it really can't), but because I know now how closely death hovers, how happily it will welcome you into its embrace, how fragile and tenuous the thread of mortality.

Caution (and cowardice) are distinctly tied to aging, perhaps because the passing of years brings thoughts of death to closer to our waking mind. It's sadly paradoxical because the older one gets the less life one has to lose, the more of it lies behind rather than in front. Logic would dictate caution in youth and recklessness in old age, but that is not the way of things. Instead death only appears real through an ongoing series of encounters with it that slowly and imperceptibly add up until one morning we awaken to know it is real, not just for others but for ourselves as well.

The Hydes never got there, never made that connection. Their first real brush was their last.

Piling On

2009-09-30T11:33:00.000-07:00

The Girl woke up with really puffy eyelids yesterday morning. We were baffled. She looked like she'd just gone 12 rounds with Hagler. Otherwise she was fine so we had no clue what it could be about. As the day progressed her puffiness increased and then it dawned on us that she might be allergic to the sulfa based antibiotic she has been prescribed to prevent infection in her kidneys. A quick call to the doc and her prescription was changed. We also gave the Girl a dose of Zyrtec to smack down the allergic reaction.

But the puffiness didn't go away. This morning it was worse. So the possibility that it isn't an allergic reaction to the antibiotic is raised. What else causes puffy eyes? Ahhh, yes, how bout something else to frighten the hell out of parents who have so much to worry about as regards the Girl. How bout something like, say, Nephrotic Syndrome. Edema in the eyelids is a nice telltale sign of the condition, as protein leaches from the blood into the urine by way of a scarred kidney. Only one surefire way to know: test the urine for protein. So the Doc has ordered a urine test.

Doc still believes it's an allergy but best to make certain. We are hoping she's right. All we need right now is the recent infection to have so badly damaged the Girl's kidneys that they just don't work worth a damn. As it is the Girl is scheduled for tests in two weeks to determine the cause of her bout of pyelonephritis. Hell, the reason she is taking the antibiotic at all is not because she still has the infection; it's because she will continue to get them now and the kidneys get bitter about that - they make you pay for the abuse.

Maybe they weren't so patient.

The Girl ain't making our lives easy.

Ahh, The Nearness Of Death

2009-09-27T13:01:00.000-07:00

HelmetCam video of a skier caught in an avalanche. Being buried alive has never been more terrifyingly captured. He was dug back out after four literally heartpounding and gasping minutes Companions found him near where his lost glove had landed.

His moment of uncovering is worthy of Hollywood

What Does An Apocalypse Look Like?

2009-09-26T17:35:00.000-07:00

A dustorm in an Australian town in the course of one minute. Rather ominous.

So Good It Hurts

2009-09-23T10:31:00.001-07:00

The Girl returned to the Doc today for a follow-up re her kidney infection. She was promised no more needles but was nonetheless terrified upon entering the office. The pokes and proddings still fresh in her memory left her feeling less than trusting of her parents' promises. We were told that the flu shots were in and even though we already have an appointment scheduled for all of the kids to get their shots we were asked we would like the Girl to get hers today. Out of deference to her we declined - "no pain," we promised.

One of the things all parents wish for their children is that they do not hurt. We do not want them to feel pain. It is awful - for them and for us. It is also ridiculous to hope they never suffer. But what if it wasn't a pipedream? What if your child would really never feel pain?

Consider the case of the Gingras family. Their daughter, Gabby Gingras, was born with a congenital disorder that makes it impossible for her to feel pain. Though she she can feel heat and cold, vibration and movement, all the things we feel, the sensations of pain never reach her brain. This is not a good thing. Says her mother, Tish Gingras, "Pain teaches. Pain protects. Pain can save you from a lot of bad things in life."

She was always a delightful baby - she never had a moment of discomfort or pain. As an infant her parents would sometimes wake her on chilly mornings and she would be freezing - sleeping soundly, but stone cold. She was a blissful child. Nothing bothered her - nothing at all. Not even chewing her own fingers off. Gabby had to have all her teeth pulled because she mutilated her hands when her teeth began coming in. She lost an eye because she kept poking herself and must now wear googles to keep from losing her remaining eye. She fell and broke her jaw, but no one knew it until an infection had set in. She has had to be taught to say ouch when she bumps into things, not because it hurts, but to let her parents know they must check her for an injury. In short, she is immensely happy, and a terrible menace to herself.

Pain is crucial to our awareness of the world. Without it we are adrift, unable to discern the potential dangers that await us around every corner, unable to develop a set of skills to keep us out of harm's way. As horrible as it is to parents, our children must suffer to survive.

I'm reminded of an old science fiction novel, Ringworld, that I read in my youth. It takes place many years in the future and in it the main character is putting together a team to explore a new and very strange world. He gathers many experts in various fields but decides the important component for success that he is missing is luck.

In the story lotteries have been going on for many years so he begins to look for lottery winners who had offspring that were lottery winners who had offspring that were lottery winners and so on and so on in an effort to recruit someone who has a genetic predisposition for "luck". When he settles on a woman from a long line of lottery winners he is certain the expedition will be a success. But everything goes wrong. They crash. People get hurt. Nothing goes as planned. He just can't imagine that she could bring them such bad luck.

Until it dawns on him that she is lucky after all, but luck has determined that she must suffer a little to be better. Her good luck is the pain and loss we all experience - not enough to kill her, but just enough to save her from herself.

What we wish for our kids seems, in the abstract, to have their best interests at heart. In reality, however, the things we would keep them from are the very things they need to be complete, well-rounded, and happy human beings. I don't want the Girl to suffer needlessly. I don't want that for any of my children. But I would never wish them the life of Gabby Gingras either. Good luck sometimes hurts.

A new documentary about Gabby, A Life Without Pain, is set for release.

The Water Theater

2009-09-23T09:13:00.000-07:00

Revolutions in technology that literally change the world are rare commodities. If one is fortunate one might see a stunning breakthrough in one's lifetime, but they are not common. Welcome to ours.

Welcome to the Teatro del Agua.

British designer, Charlie Patton, has created a water desalination plant that produces fresh water from thin air. The water needs no treatment to be potable, is produced continuously, requires no fossil fuels to power it, and is not a pipedream.

The first will be built by the Spanish government in the Canary islands. Others are scheduled for the coasts of desert countries like Oman.

The plant consists of tall vertical pipes through which cold seawater is pumped and recirculated. Seabreezes loaded with moisture blow across the pipes and moisture condenses out of the air, dripping down the pipes into a trough where it flows away to storage. The pumps are powered by either solar or waves and currents in the sea. In the event that the humidity drops, seawater is misted on the front grid of the theater where it is evaporated by the breeze and then condensed (minus its salt) on the pipes behind.

It can provide enough fresh water for medium sized cities.

Traditional desalination plants consume fossil fuels at astounding rates in order to produce steam that is then distilled. The water must also be treated. And they are butt-ugly.

This building serves a practical purpose but also stands tall as a public structure, functioning as a naturally cooled ampitheater. It will provide one of the most precious vital resources needed in an era of droughts and climate change. It can be built virtually anywhere there is a coast and an onshore flow. It is a beautiful piece of architecture and not an eyesore. And it is dual-purposed as a public gathering space with the ambient sound of dripping water as a background.

This is our generation's revolution.

Bonnet Rippers

2009-09-22T09:11:00.000-07:00

The hottest selling sub-genre in fiction today? Amish romance novels.

Seriously.

The New Wave In Employment Security And Sacrifice

2009-09-22T08:57:00.000-07:00

The Italian Postal Service is the largest employer in Italy. Italy has an unemployment rate of nearly 10%. The Postal Service spends a lot on recruiting new employees. All this adds up to an interest in the benefits of nepotism.

They have proposed offering older workers the option of voluntary retirement and in exchange allowing the workers to cede their jobs (and permanent employment contracts) to their children. Said child must be 30 years of age and have a high school diploma. The postal workers union first introduced the idea in 1997 and it looks to be put in place by October.

Hmm, a permanent familial class of postal workers - this seems to require some more thought. Offhand it sounds just a little serf-like, albeit with benefits.

A Welcome Surprise

2009-09-19T11:15:00.000-07:00

A big welcome to the little surprise that popped out last night. Got a little text message this morning from Padre.

The Padre and his Mrs. got themselves another little girl at 8:04 pm last night. 6lbs, 3oz, 18" of a secret named Miriam. Mom and newborn are well.

The Padre gave me the news this morning, because he hadn't bothered to let me know from the start. I was kept in the dark regarding the pregnancy. Best friends for 25 years and he thought it would be funny to keep me out of the loop - "wanted to get your goat."

Consider my goat gotten.

The baby gift could be a little late.

Scooby Diver

2009-09-15T08:49:00.001-07:00

The Boy and I stopped by a sporting goods store last Saturday to pick up some shin guards for his first year of soccer. While waiting in the checkout line he noticed a manequin dressed in a wet suit, googles, flippers and an air tank.

"Look at that, daddy."

"Oh, yeah," I said, "That's a scuba diver."

"A scooby diver?"

"No, a scuba diver. They swim in the ocean and look at fish."

There was a pause and then he said with certainty, "They're mean."

"Huh?" I queried.

"Scuba divers. They're mean," he elaborated.

I was befuddled. Other than the black wetsuit and googles I couldn't imagine what prompted that. "No, scuba divers aren't mean."

"Yes they are," he said before looking at me out of the corner of his eye and adding, with a withering scepticism, "I saw Finding Nemo."

I had no response for that.

Mending

2009-09-11T18:03:00.000-07:00

The Girl is doing much better today. The doses of Rocephin have knocked the infection back and the amoxicillin will take over that duty now. The fever has receded, though not abated. We were told to expect it to continue to spike for the next couple of days before the infection really starts disappearing. She's not eating much, but is once again fighting with her brother (sickness had its advantages). We're keeping an eye on her and keeping her fluid intake high.

The whole episode had an otherworldly quality to it and I don't think I have quite absorbed it. When the Boy was born, and we were told not to expect him to live through the night, there was a similar feeling, but he was an unknown quantity to me. She has been here a while now, and even though I have often threatened to Ebay her, I am, upon occasion, quite fond of her.

I just see more trouble coming from this for her. Two weeks ago she went through a battery of tests ordered by her neurologist to try and determine the root cause of her speech and gross motor delays beyond the annoyingly vague "hypotonia". Those tests included the drawing of 7 vials of blood from her small body. There may be an MRI in her future as well to see if my fear of absence seizures has any substance. And of course there will be all the tests regarding the kidneys from this episode. The kid is taking a beating.

In the meantime we watch and hope and remain thankful that she is much better off than so many others.

Oh, and the Boy? Yeah, he's beyond hope :)

Crystal

2009-09-11T12:43:00.000-07:00

Spelunkers explore the Cave of Crystals in Naica, Mexico. Some of the crystals are 11 meters long and weigh as much as 55 tons.

Search Terms Of The Day

2009-09-11T10:19:00.000-07:00

Somebody hit my blog today by googling these search terms:

"childbirth imaages fuckings'"

Who are these freaks?

Biblical Plagues

2009-09-11T07:53:00.000-07:00

Absent I have been.

Two weeks ago my inlaws came a calling from halfway cross the country and indulged their grandchildren for a week or so. It kept us all busy. It was a good thing, though there was an undercurrent of dread because once they returned home my mother-in-law was set to undergo a procedure to see why she kept having blood in her urine as well as abnormal cells. Kidney stones could account for part of it, but you never know.

During their visit my father-in-law took a small fall in his hotel room. His hand felt numb for the rest of the week as a result. I assumed he had injured his wrist much as I had last year.

Once they got back, his hand began to hurt and a visit to his doc got to the root of it - he had suffered a stroke. The fall was not just a stumble and the hand was a consequence of dead brain cells. He has lost peripheral vision as well, but the pain in the hand indicates that feeling will return to it.

Meanwhile, the procedure on mom-in-law revealed no masses, but biopsies were taken to make certain that the big "C" is not present.

The final night of their visit with us I prepared a major grilling feast, but halfway through the cooking I was overwhelmed by pain in my back and flank. Long story short - I spent the following week enduring a kidney stone myself. Been there, done that, hoped I wouldn't ever again, but that's life.

Towards the end of my stony adventure last week, my wife, the Girl, and the Baby all developed a mild cold that seemed to be gender-specific as neither I nor the Boy were nailed by it. It wasn't a bad bug, but the Girl developed a decent fever on Sunday night. On Monday the fever seemed to be getting higher and by Tuesday she was spiking around 103 or above. It was unusual because neither my wife nor the Baby were showing any fever. Tuesday night my wife returned from work around 10pm and we heard the Girl crying in her room. When we got her up she was hot - really hot. Thermometer said 105.4. Back to the hospital goes my wife with the ember-like Girl in tow. Two hours later my wife texts me from the ER that they have done a rapid strep test and a test for influenza A and B - all of them negative. The ER doc says its just a bug, nothing to worry about, let it run its course, don't sweat the fevers, and sends her home. I say, "HUH?!"

The next day the Girl hits 104.8 and I yell bullshit. I call our pediatrician and get her in that afternoon. They take blood. They take a chest x-ray (pneumonia in infants and toddlers will often present with no signs at all except fever). They catheterize her (that's a delight) and take urine. They swab her throat for a standard strep test. While we wait in the exam room for results she starts to spike another fever and begins panting in my arms. Doc returns and says it appears to be a urinary tract infection - there's blood, white cells and bacteria in her urine. A massive injection of Rocephin is given as well as ibuprofen to knock the fever down. An appointment is scheduled for the next day to get the results of the culture. The Girl spends the night riding a roller coaster of fever.

I return the next day, feverish Girl in my arms, and am told that the tests have confirmed it all, but it's actually worse. She has a kidney infection - Pyelonephritis. It is massive, active and aggressive. This is bad. It is only because she is hydrating that she is not being admitted to the hospital. She is given another painful injection of Rocephin (the shot hurts so much they add lidocaine to it to ease the suffering). I am to call today to get the bacterial sensitivity results and the appropriate antibiotic to kill it. After the infection clears up tests are scheduled to look for a congenital defect - possibly vesicoureteral reflux - that may have caused this. She will undergo more catheterization, dyes, radioactive liquids and general misery. If the tests prove positive for a defect she will either go through daily antibiotics until it resolves itself - potentially years - or if it's severe she will require surgery.

In the discussion with our pediatrician yesterday I asked why this slipped through the ER. Our doc is about the calmest person I have ever met - like a still pond - and that's why we like her. But she was angry. If we had followed the ER advice and been average parents we might not have called about it til today or even next Monday. Doc put it simply: if we had waited another day to call, our daughter would be in the hospital; two days, she could have lost her kidney; called on Friday or Monday, well, you can't dial the phone with a dead child in your arms.

A UTI should have been looked for in the ER. A urine test should have been performed. It was discounted because Dr. Emergency tapped on her abdomen and the Girl didn't say "Ow." I might point out that she didn't say "ow" in the pediatrician's office either but that didn't stop our doctor from doing her job.

Our Doc wants us to make a stink. She says this isn't the first time she has seen callous negligence in that ER and it won't be long before somebody dies.

Kids get high fevers - very high, the highest they will likely have in their lives - but the textbook says if it hits 105, there is something dangerously wrong and a cause MUST be pinpointed and treated. No ifs, ands, or buts. Some idiot damn near killed my daughter. She still may have suffered permanent kidney damage because of his incompetence. My fury at this moment is exceeded only by my concern for the Girl's recovery.

Our recent Biblical plague is about to be replaced by some good old-fashioned Biblical wrath.

Related medical provider incompetence addendum:

I had a follow-up appointment scheduled today with my doc regarding my kidney stones. Last week he had said he wanted a spiral CT scan to check for damage in me. He would get it approved and scheduled, let me know, and the appointment today would review the results. I never got a call telling me when the scan was scheduled. Appointments can take some time, and the Girl's issues kept me occupied anyway. Last night my wife got an automated call reminding me of my appointment today. I called this morning to remind them I still hadn't had the scan. I was transferred to the office referral guy. After I explained he said he would get back to me. He called again while I was out and asked my wife how to spell my name. Uh oh. I called him back and after twenty minutes on hold (seriously) I spoke to him. He told me he was working on the scan appointment. I asked him if the doc had failed to let him know. He chuckled with embarassement and said, "No, I had it. I'm just backed up on my paperwork, but I'm trying to get the scan for you today."

I said, "Um, I can't do it today."

"But I thought you had an appointment with the doctor today?"

"I did - an hour ago," says I.

"Well I thought this scan was important," he counters judgementally.

"It is important. Just like it was important a week ago when you got the paperwork," I retort less than graciously. "Just schedule it next week sometime," I tell him.

Healthcare reform is about more than just paying for care.

As Long As The World Is Ending

2009-08-21T08:15:00.000-07:00

For a mere $110 an athiest group, Eternal Earthbound Pets, will save Fido. Christians who believe the rapture is forthcoming can rest assurred that their pets will be cared for.

We are a group of dedicated animal lovers, and atheists. Each
Eternal Earth-Bound Pet representative is a confirmed atheist, and as such will still be here on Earth after you've received your reward. Our network of animal activists are committed to step in when you step up to Jesus.

We are currently active in 20 states and growing. Our representatives have been screened to ensure that they are atheists, animal lovers, are moral / ethical with no criminal background, have the ability and desire to rescue your pet and the means to retrieve them and ensure their care for your pet's natural life.

Gloom And Watery Doom

2009-08-21T08:05:00.000-07:00

Here's some news to perk up your weekend.

Despite the cool summer in the East and Midwest, global ocean temperatures are higher than they ever have been since record keeping began... in 1880. The Gulf of Mexico is averaging 90 degrees, the Mediterranean is 3 degrees above the rolling 30 year average, the Pacific and Atlantic are at records, and the Arctic is 10 degrees above normal.

Have a great weekend!

Don't Let The Truth Get In The Way

2009-08-19T16:52:00.000-07:00

Snowbilly is at it again. First the lady goes nutso with her "death panel" lies, working the nation into a tizzy that grandma and Trig are headed for Soylent Green. Now she lathers it on with more lies.

The U.S Export Import Bank is considering a 2 billion dollar loan to the Brazilian Petrobras oil company to do more exploration of the coast of Brazil.

Palin said,

"the Obama White House is prepared to send more than 2 billion of your hard-earned tax dollars to Brazil so that the nation's state-owned oil company, Petrobras, can drill offshore and create jobs developing its own resources" and that Obama "chooses to use American dollars in Brazil that will help to pay the salaries and benefits for Brazilians to drill for resources when the need and desire is great in America."

Of course she's lying again. The bank doesn't use tax dollars from us. It's capitalized with it's own earnings. Secondly, the Export Import Bank's charter requires that any loan it approves must be used to buy American goods and services. The money will create American jobs. It is going to do exactly the opposite of what Caribou Barbie says it will do.

From Politico:

A spokesman for the bank, Phil Cogan, noted to POLITICO that the bank does not rely on tax money and that Palin's statement ignores the bank's central function: To lend money to foreign companies for the purchase of American goods and services.

"It has to be produced by U.S. workers," Cogan said. Palin's statement refers to "creat[ing] jobs and health benefits in the U.S."

"That's exactly what a purchase financed by the U.S. government would do," Cogan said.

Innocence And The Constitution

2009-08-19T15:59:00.000-07:00

Yesterday the Supreme Court in an out of session ruling sent the case of Troy Davis back to a federal court for re-examination. The vote was 6 - 2 (Sotomayor was not a part of the ruling) with the two dissenters being Scalia And Thomas.

Troy Davis was convicted of murder 20 years ago and sentenced to die. By all accounts his trial was fair and followed procedure, but in the intervening years 7 of the witnesses that testified against him have recanted their testimony saying they were wrong - it wasn't him. In addition several of them have said that the killer was in fact the key witness against Davis in the crime. Davis's attorney has tried to get a court to listen to this but to no avail. The Supreme Court yesterday ruled that the lower court must take another look at the evidence. This is very unusual.

The interesting thing is that Scalia, in his dissent said essentially that there is nothing in the constitution that says if a fair trial has taken place we can't execute an innocent man.

“This court has never held that the Constitution forbids the execution of a convicted defendant who has had a full and fair trial but is later able to convince a habeas court that he is ‘actually’ innocent. Quite to the contrary, we have repeatedly left that question unresolved, while expressing considerable doubt that any claim based on alleged ‘actual innocence’ is constitutionally cognizable.”

Yes, Scalia's argument is that it doesn't matter if you're innocent; if your trial was fair and you were found guilty you get to die.

Legally I understand his reasoning and he is right in as much as the constitution does prohibit punishing the innocent, But I think we can all agree that to execute an innocent man qualifies as cruel and unusual.

Today Alan Dershowitz weighed in and offered perhaps the easiest, funniest, and clearest hypothetical example of the breadth of Scalia's argument.

If a defendant were convicted, after a constitutionally unflawed trial, of murdering his wife, and then came to the Supreme Court with his very much alive wife at his side, and sought a new trial based on newly discovered evidence (namely that his wife was alive), these two justices would tell him, in effect: “Look, your wife may be alive as a matter of fact, but as a matter of constitutional law, she’s dead, and as for you, Mr. Innocent Defendant, you’re dead, too, since there is no constitutional right not to be executed merely because you’re innocent.”

Scalia isn't an idiot, just a man who believes the law should always trump justice, and doesn't that make a wise jurist rather pointless.