You know what the worst part of motherhood is? 

It’s not the vomit, although that ranks right up there, or the potty training or the southside real estate I gained during (and since) my pregnancy.

It’s the helplessness.

There is no worse feeling in the world than when you see your child in distress and are unable to help, to soothe, to make it go away.

If you have a child who has night terrors, then you know what I’m talking about.

One night this past summer, about an hour after I had put Sean to bed, I heard a blood curdling scream coming from his room.  I ran down to his bedroom to see what on earth was going on and found him sitting up in his bed on his knees, seemingly wide awake, breathlessly screaming and pointing at something in the corner.

He was not just crying — he was wild-eyed and shaking like a leaf.  He was terrified in every sense of the word. There was nothing that I could see in the corner.  Nothing in the room was amiss.  He didn’t even seem to notice that I was in the room.

He got out of his bed and with both hands clenched into tight trembling fists to his chest, he started backing away as though there were a vicious dog in the corner. I tried to pick him up and comfort him, but that just seemed to agitate him.  He thrashed and twisted and kicked trying to get away.  He was sweating and his heart was racing.  His eyes were open, but he was not awake.  He wouldn’t respond to my voice.  There was nothing I could do to help him.

After about 15 minutes, I got him back into his bed and within seconds he fell back to sleep, but I felt like I had just outrun a hungry bear. The next morning I asked him if he remembered anything unusual about the night before or if he remembered having a bad dream or anything at all, but he didn’t recall a thing.

Then it happened again the next night and the night after that.  He might skip a night or two, but all summer, every night after we put him to bed, we sat on pins and needles, waiting for the screaming to begin.  We were baffled.  We had always had a good bedtime routine with Sean.  He had always been a good sleeper. We had never had any sleep issues.  Nothing had changed in our household. Why was this happening all of a sudden?

I read up on night terrors and I learned that they are not unusual and not a result of my inept mothering.  Typically, children between ages 3 and 6 have them. They usually happen early on in the sleep cycle, an hour or two after they go to sleep. They usually last 15 to 30 minutes, sometimes longer. And there is nothing you can do but stand helplessly by and wait for them to pass.

The episodes are fewer and farther between these days.  Eventually Sean will outgrow his night terrors, but I suspect that as long as I’m a mother, this feeling of helplessness is not going to go away.

I was paddling merrily down the River Denial on my way to osteoporosis, when my OB/GYN ripped the oars out of my hands and whapped me upside the head with them. The recent bone scan he had ordered revealed I had osteopenia, the first port of call on the way to osteoporosis. I needed to get serious about taking calcium without delay.

I have nearly every risk factor for osteoporosis. Let’s review: I am 47 and post-menopausal. I am the whitiest white girl ever, or as I like to say “the fairest of them all.” Because of a chronic inflammatory condition, I have a long history of steroid use and thanks to cancer I no longer have a thyroid and have enjoyed a dose or two of radiation. On the other hand, my 73-year-old mother has the bones of a bone-o-saurus. So that’s 1 in the Yay! column and 7 in the Boo! column netting me a score of six. Anyone with a score of six or below is destined to become the nursing home mascot, which is a bowl of lemon jello.

I knew I needed to take calcium pills long before the bone scan revealed osteopenia. I bought every calcium pill on the market, each one bigger and more nauseating than the next. Every morning, with good intentions, I would put three pills out on the counter in the hopes that they would somehow make it to my mouth. But they never did. Just the thought of taking a calcium pill makes me turn green. I even bought the caramel chewy kind, but after a week or so of those, even those turned my stomach. I just could not make myself take the calcium I knew I needed.

After the last bone scan revealed osteopenia, I tried to come to terms with the fact that if I didn’t want to become the nursing home mascot, I was going to have to get used to being nauseated every day for the rest of my life. I registered this complaint with my OB’s nurse, Tabitha, and she told me about Adora calcium supplements — little chocolate coins that have 500mgs of calcium plus vitamins D and K! Yes! Chocolate! She convinced me that they really do taste just like chocolate. I was skeptical, but I bought a bag and now I heart Tabitha. If I can stay on top of taking my calcium and continue with weight bearing exercises (does lugging around a 3-year-old count?) I should be able to increase my bone density.

The only downside was that in my area, I had a hard time finding them. But being the super-hip-computer-savvy-chick-hell-bent-on-increasing-bone-density that I am, I ordered them on line.

Ladies, you need to take your calcium. You know you do. And if you are like me, you don’t really need an excuse to eat chocolate three times a day.

Now if they can just come up with a multi-vitamin in the form of a glass of Merlot that you can order on-line.

Edited to add: If you decide to order them on-line, you can get a $2 discount by entering the discount code adora2 when checking out.

Recently Sean had an appointment with the pediatrican for the umpteenth time this year to see about this chronic cough he’s had since 1983. I keep telling him that maybe he should consider cutting back on the cigarettes. Or breathing. The air in north Texas is constantly laden with pollens and allergens making breathing dangerous to your health.

Antique Daddy and I have always taken Sean to the pediatrician’s office together. I go in and sign in and Antique Daddy and Sean wait outside in the hall and watch the elevator go up and down until our name is called. And the reason we do this is because – think about it – the pediatrician’s office is full of sick kids. And all of those nose picking, germ spewing sick kids are putting their snotty, sticky, germy hands all over everything in sight. And if there is anything Sean wants to touch, it’s everything in sight. So it’s just better this way for germophobes like us.

As I sat there waiting, I looked around the waiting room and I realized that you can always tell the new parents with their first child. The new mother has her newborn all decked out in a matching shirt, bib overalls, sweater, hat, socks and shoes thinking that she will impress the pediatrician. Because he has never seen a cute baby before. At least not one as cute as hers. She also has a list. The list details the number of times little snookum’s has pooped, what color/shape/texture it was, and what time in military time the pooping event occurred.

I know this because I had that same list. And on the first visit, with Sean decked out head to toe in Osh Kosh, the doctor took the list from me and ripped it up. Right before my very eyes. And I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was my grocery list and that the poop list was in the diaper bag.

At any rate, as I watched Mrs. Newmom hold up the Baby Einstein book and say “Dog! Dog! Dog!” over and over, I became exhausted just thinking about getting that adorable bag of flour dressed and undressed. But — because of all that dressing and undressing, all the rest of the appointments behind her would be running 30 minutes behind. It’s very inconsiderate to dress your baby in cute matchy stuff with an 8:30 am appointment. Oh sure I did that too. Once. Then the rest of the first year of Sean’s life, I just put him in zip-up sleepers because I figured that a doctor who would rip up your grocery list isn’t worth the Osh Kosh effort, b’gosh.

When our health insurance changed a while back, one of the things I was required to do was select a General Practitioner. Prior to that, I never saw a GP. I have so many quirky medical issues that I employ an army of specialists and I have no need of a GP.

I took a lot of time selecting my GP. I thumbed through the insurance directory and narrowed down the list to doctors in my geographic area that claimed to speak English as their primary language. From the long list of two, I settled upon a doctor who was nearby and I put in a call to his office. “And it says here that the doctor speaks English, is that correct?” I ask the nurse. “Oh yes!” she says proudly, “He was born and raised right here in Texas.” And not one red flag went up, with or without a lone star.

Lest you think I have an attitude against foreign doctors, let me say here that my Ob/Gyn, to whom I pretty much owe my life and Sean’s life, is Iranian. And I do have difficulty understanding him sometimes, but he is so good, that I don’t care what he’s saying. I just trust him. After he leaves the room, sometimes I ask his nurse, “Now what did he say? Is it anything I really need to know? Do you think he noticed the Dr. Pepper on my legs?”

Nonetheless, communication is important to me and even though it was a doctor that I probably would never see beyond the initial visit, I wanted a doctor who spoke English with a degree of fluency. So I made an appointment for a complete physical.

The walls of the exam room in which I waited were lined with professionally taken pictures of Dr. Texan on his ranch, Dr. Texan and his children in a field of bluebonnets, Dr. Texan standing next to a longhorn steer. As I’m looking at the beautiful photos, I’m thinking this is great! A genuine US citizen!

About that time, Dr. Texan knocks on the door and comes in.

“Howdythayerleetlemissyimdoctorafixintotakealeedlelookieyahoodoggy. Okiedokie?”

“Um yes! Or hi? Did you say hi? No, my name is not Missy. You want to fix whaa? Did you just say hoo doggy?”

It was Dr. Suel Forrester from SNL.  He checked my blood pressure, listened to my heart and whacked my knee with a rubber mallot. He checked here for a lump, there for a lump, everywhere a lump lump. He talked the entire time. And I understood not one word. And then he left.

And then I turned to the nurse and asked, “Now what did he say? Is there anything I really need to know?”

Two of the worst things that have ever happened to my child have happened when he was sitting on my kitchen counter and I was standing less than one foot away from him. Which is probably an indictment of my kitchen counter style of parenting.

I wrote about The Goose Egg Incident recently. Apparently falling off the kitchen counter and whacking his head on the floor hasn’t impaired his memory as just yesterday when I hoisted him up onto the counter he advised, “You need to watch me better. I could fall off of here and get hurt!” It was the finger wag in my face that I thought was a bit much. Inside my three-year-old lives a Jewish mother who is a police officer in her spare time.

The other incident I haven’t written about because… a) I don’t like to think about it, b) I’m embarrassed and c) it could probably be used as evidence.

About a year ago, Sean was sitting on the kitchen counter while I was standing nearby doing some important parenting thing like watching HGTV from the kitchen. I turned my back for not more than ten seconds and when I turned back Sean had grabbed my prescription bottle of Synthroid and removed the childproof lid. He had his head thrown back like he was taking a shot of whiskey, little white powdery whiskey balls. Someone should really invent that, little whiskey pills.

When I saw that he was foaming at the mouth and his little cheeks were puffed up like a winter squirrel, I of course, FREAKED OUT! My eyes bugged out of my head, all the air whooshed out of my lungs and sucked my brain right down into my esophagus.

I pried open his mouth and dug out a handful of pills and then I grabbed him by the feet and turned him upside down and started shaking him like a saltshaker. Which he thought was de-light-ful fun. He giggled and squealed “Do it again Mommy!” He seemed absolutely fine. I was out $30 worth of medication, but he was fine.

And then – then came the worst part of all. I had to call the pediatrician’s office. And give my real name. And explain. How. It. Happened.

So while I waited on hold for the doctor, I Googled “Synthroid overdose” and continued to FREAK OUT, but now in a more quiet and controlled manner. And also a very sweaty manner. It’s hard to type when your fingers keep slipping off the keyboard.

Finally, the nurse picked up and for some reason, when you are totally freaked out, people in authority either can’t understand what you are saying, can’t buh-leeve what you’re saying or go temporarily deaf. Because they keep asking you the same questions over and over. And this only serves to ratchet up the freak out level.

Me: Hi, this AM. My son! My son Sean, he ate my pills, my Synthroid. He opened the bottle somehow – childproof ha! – and just ate them. Chomp chomp, just like a squirrel. A very hungry Synthroid-eating squirrel.

Nurse: I’m sorry who is this?

Me: Antique Mommy, my son is Sean.

Nurse: And what is your son’s name?

Me: Sean. S-E-A-N. Sean. He’s two.

Nurse: And how old is he?

That’s when I take the phone and start hitting myself in the head with it.

Eventually she asks me how many pills were in the bottle, how many pills did he swallow, how many pills are left and lots of other questions about pills to which the answer was “I don’t know.” And she would say, “You don’t know?” And I would again say, “I don’t know.”

After many precious minutes spent trying to convey my personal information to Nurse Killmenow and a game of “Questions You Don’t Know But I’ll Keep Asking Anyway” (which caused a flashback to fourth grade math class) she advises me to just watch him and that any extra medication would probably be excreted in his urine. Which is exactly what Mr. Google said.

And then I hung up and waited for CPS to come and get my child so he could be raised by wolves or someone more responsible than me.

Alas, all’s well that ends well, but I shaved a couple of years off my life that day and we all know I don’t have that many to spare.

This morning I had an appointment with a spine doctor. Since last fall, I have been having these nagging pains in my neck that have nothing to do with people in my life who fall into that category.

All winter I ignored the pain as best I could until finally I couldn’t. Then I paid a visit to my GP who sent me off for an MRI. The MRI revealed mostly good news — the pain wasn’t imaginary and it wasn’t a tumor but I do have a pinched nerve somewhere along my spine. I was kind of glad to learn that the pain was caused by something because if the MRI had shown nothing then I would have had to suffer Dr. GP trying to explain that concept to me in that overly-calm and even tone that doctors use when talking to crazy people, mad dogs and women. And that reeeeally makes my neck hurt.

Dr. GP referred me to Dr. Spine and so that’s where I found myself this morning.

I was mightily impressed with Dr. Spine’s operation. I was welcomed into his beautifully appointed high tech cruise-ship style lobby. I was offered a beverage of my choice, a plethora of current magazines from which to choose and a computer with internet access. I thought I had died and gone to Starbucks!

Without delay I was shown to a lovely exam room where a steward turned down the bed for me and showed me how to work the mini-bar. No not really. But almost. I was given a gift bag (seriously!) and thanked for choosing Dr. Spine to serve my pinched nerve needs. I was instructed to make myself comfortable and to watch a video that would explain all about Dr. Spine and his philosophy on life and what a great and amazing guy he and his partners are. The steward turned on the video and left the room. In keeping with my high school study habits, I promptly picked up a magazine featuring Heather Locklear on the cover and started flipping through the pages, hoping there wouldn’t be a quiz later.

Since my adventures in cardiology, I figured that I’d probably be waiting for the good doctor for quite some time, so I skipped the “how to have firmer abs in seven days” article and went right for the “Have Better S*x Tonight” article, the one with the picture of the couple where she has her legs playfully wrapped around his head and he’s wearing one of those Mona Lisa smiles. I hadn’t been reading but a minute when Dr. Spine rapped very loudly on the door and scared the life out of me. Startled, I jumped to my feet and the magazine slid out of my lap and onto the floor, open not to the page on abs or even the page with Heather and her gold lamé bikini, but exactly to the page I had been reading. Dr. Spine came in and extended his hand and then looked down to see “Have Better S*x Tonight.”

“Hmph.” He said. And then he bent down and picked up the magazine and handed it to me. And then he gave me the Mona Lisa smile.

I cringed the cringe of all cringes. And in a new medical discovery, I learned that embarrassment will make you forget all about the pain of a pinched nerve.

Not too long ago, we returned from a quick weekend trip to Tuna. In the previous day and a half, there had been a dust storm, a sewage back up and we lost Sean’s beloved Mr.Monkey. Admittedly, when we got home Sunday night, we were tired and not at the top of our parenting game.

We hadn’t been home but 30 minutes when Sean did a back drop off our 36-inch kitchen counter onto the porcelain tile floor. He had been sitting on the kitchen counter on his knees drawing a picture while Antique Daddy and I milled around the kitchen eating leftovers, unpacking, going through the mail and just generally being lazy, inattentive, irresponsible and negligent parents. At one point, I noticed that Sean had scooted close to the edge of the counter, so I warned him that he was precariously close to the edge and that he should move forward.

A split second later I heard the most horrible sound I have ever heard. It sounded like someone had dropped a pumpkin from the ceiling. It was a sound that is beyond description, a sound that human ears are unable to fully absorb. Even when I think of it more than a week later, it makes me cringe and shudder. I don’t ever want to hear that sound again.

It happened within twelve inches of where I was standing. I did not see it. When I heard that awful noise, I turned to see my child squarely on his back on the floor, his hands up around his ears, quivering in pain, his face twisted in anguish, tears the size of lemon drops. Antique Daddy saw it happen, but could not act quickly enough to prevent it — the perfect recipe for a recurring nightmare. “My head, my head,” he wailed. And in that moment, our greatest fear came to pass, the fear of parents everywhere of every generation since Adam and Eve – that we would allow harm to come to our child.

He immediately screamed and cried. From Shannon’s recent post, I knew that was a good sign, but that if he passed out or vomited, then that was bad. Instinctively, I picked him up and held him tight and tried to comfort him. Then I realized that I had probably made my second mistake of the evening (or was it my third or fourth?) If he had a spinal injury, I shouldn’t have moved him. Thankfully, he seemed to be able to move okay, so that left the issue of a head injury. And had it been 7am and not 7pm, I would have probably just waited and watched him. But I couldn’t think of putting him to bed not knowing if maybe his brain were swelling.

We scooped him up and rushed over to see a neighbor who is an orthopedic surgeon. Luckily he was at home and he checked him over. He said that he seemed to be okay, but he suggested that we go ahead and take him into the ER for a CAT scan and then he graciously called ahead to make those arrangements.

Now I should say here that normally I don’t prevail upon my neighbors for free professional advice, a practice I find deplorable. For example one of our neighbors is a CPA and we don’t knock on his door for tax advice and we have another neighbor who drives a broom and hangs upside down in her house by the rafters and we don’t ask her to put a hex on our other neighbor who has only mowed his lawn three times in five years. Because that just isn’t right. These people deserve to be paid for their services.

Yet, when you perceive that the well being of your child is in danger, all bets are off.

On the way to the hospital, he was able to recite his ABC’s, sing a few familiar songs, and work some simple quadratic equations, which made me feel better about the situation. Although I was 99% sure he was fine, Antique Daddy and I agreed that no one would sleep until someone smarter that us said he was fine.

The second trauma of the evening came when we were taken to radiology for the CAT scan. The CAT scan is a very quick, very simple, painless, non-threatening procedure. Unless you are a three-year-old. Then it is terrifying.

Basically, the patient lies on a little bed and they move the bed forward a few inches so that your head rests inside a large metal doughnut. It is open, and airy and breezy. And why do I sound like I’m trying to sell you a house? I don’t know. In spite of the great sales job the tech did, Sean was going to have no part of it. After 30 minutes or so of soothing, cajoling, bribing and threatening, we they, meaning the technician, a nurse and Antique Daddy (I was cowering and watching in the other room through the window) had to straight jacket him and strap him down. It took three adults to restrain one 28-pound toddler. It just had to be done. There was no other way short of sedation. And if anyone was getting sedated, it was going to be me. And so. For the second time in one day, we felt like the crappiest parents on the face of the earth in the history of the universe.

The scan confirmed what I suspected and prayed for – that indeed he had inherited my super hard head and that he had ridden the fall to the floor on the wings of angels. There was no swelling or injury to the head and we all breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God. No really – Thank You God! And then we all celebrated as we always do when we don’t have a head injury — with a popsicle, just as the nurse promised.

So other than a giant goose egg on the back of his head, he is fine. Antique Daddy and I need therapy. But Sean? He is just fine.

Dear Recovery Room Nurse:

Several weeks ago, you were assigned to care for me in the recovery room after my hysterectomy. And I just wanted to take the time to thank you for making me feel like a big bothersome pain in your behind. I think studies have shown how this attitude helps the post-surgical patient in the recovery room, which is to say, not at all.

You would think that under the influence of anesthesia and narcotics, that I might have been totally unaware of your attitude. Not so. I was painfully aware. And I haven’t forgotten either. I’m like that. I don’t forget — especially in cases where those who are charged with looking after the young, the weak, the powerless or the infirm fail so miserably.

As I struggled to regain consciousness, I tried to focus my fuzzy eyes. I looked over to see you sitting on a stool, restlessly flipping through some papers and obsessively checking your watch and sighing repeatedly and pointedly. It took all the strength I had to raise my head to see that no one else was around, that everyone else had gone home. And then I realized that I was probably keeping you. I know. It was Valentines Day and you probably had better things to do. I’m sorry. I hadn’t planned to allow my respiration to slow to six breaths per minute and delay you. I had planned to get back to my room in time for cocktails and crudités. Looks like I ruined everyone’s evening.

When I called to you that I was in extreme pain, you didn’t even bother to look up. “Well, you just had surgery,” you snapped. Thank you so much for pointing out the obvious. That was helpful. “I’ve been through this before. This is more pain, this is intolerable,” I managed to call to you even though my throat was raw and I could barely speak above a whisper. I called to you because you couldn’t bother to get up off your backside to come to me. “Oh really?” you remarked snidely, “You’ve had a hysterectomy before?” Then I had to make a decision. What to do with what little strength I had?

a) Defend myself by telling you that this was my third abdominal surgery and that I was more than familiar with pain.
b) Beg for more pain medication.
c) Imagine myself flying off the gurney and beating the snot out of you with my own chart.
d) Make a mental note to write a strongly worded letter to the hospital president.
e) Trash you on my blog.

Answer: All of the above.

Few occupations provide the opportunity to really make a difference in the life of another human being – teacher and nurse most readily come to mind. You should probably be neither.

Most sincerely,

Antique Mommy

*  *  * 

Dear Judi, Irva, 4th Floor Nurses and PCTs,

I have thought of you many times since my recent stay in the hospital. I have been thinking of how to best express to you what a difference you made in my life in the two and a half days I was under your care. You did things for me, that really, only my own mother should have to do. You bathed me, fed me and cared for me and you went out of your way to see that I was comfortable and that my pain was manageable. You never once made me feel like I was an inconvenience to your day. You made me feel like I was the most important patient on the floor. I cannot thank you enough or express in words how far that went in speeding my recovery.

I am making a donation to your hospital’s nursing scholarship program in your name so that there might be more nurses like you, nurses who love people and have a heart to serve.

Love,
Antique Mommy

Today I had my two-week post surgical follow-up appointment. I told Sean that I was going to see the very same doctor that delivered him safely into this world, the first human to ever lay hands on him.

“Are you going to get a shot?” he asked in a worried voice. In his mind, a shot is the worst thing that can happen.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said hoping to ease any anxiety he might be having. “I think he’s just going to look at my tummy.”

After a long pause, he asked, “Is he going to kiss it and make it better?”

Oh lordy, let’s hope not.

Here’s the short list of things you need to know about staying in the hospital.

First, never try to buy sensible yet stylish pajamas to wear in the hospital — the day before Valentines Day. Unless you think a black and red lace see-through number is appropriate for the hospital. If you do, it will no doubt, not make you popular with the nurses.

The second thing is this: When going to the hospital, leave all of your valuables and your dignity at home. You won’t be in need of either.

The day after surgery of any kind, the kindly nurses will come to your room with pointed bayonets and poke you until you get out of your bed. And then they will make you walk up and down the hall. This will seem like a really silly thing to do because you won’t even be able to remember exactly where your feet are located. They will tell you that they are making you walk not just because they can and they want to humiliate you, but to encourage the passage of gassage (a new word I just now made up).

At this point you will want to hit the kindly nurses with something, but you have neither the strength nor anything handy that isn’t already plugged into you somewhere. So instead you mutter “damage” under your breath and you go. You go so that they might not poke a hole in your brand new sensible, yet not at all stylish Target Grandma Gown with their bayonets.

To be fair, the nurses promise you that as soon as you can “do this thing which they describe all too technically for my appetite” they will give you some real food, food that you cannot see through! And after several days with no food, this seems a good idea. This food reward system kind of makes you feel a bit like a dog. But like a dog, you are more than willing if it means you’ll get a Snausage or a biscuit or something and that they might then go away and let you nap on a sunshiny spot on the floor without bothering you.

So then.

There you will be, wearing your new Target Grandma Gown, bereft of your valuables and dignity, shuffling up and down the hall, taking itty bitty Tim Conway baby steps, hoping and praying to get a food reward for doing something which is considered impolite.

And it is then that you are acutely aware that everyone else is out there doing the same thing. Everyone has the same lofty goal. Passage of gassage.

And that makes it very hard to make eye contact with the other patients you “pass” in the hallway.