Hey there!

So, whaddya think? Hows the new layout? Dan thinks it's a little cluttered, but I love the latte, so I'm willing to work with it.

Also, did you see my new pages up on top? The backgrounds of both of the boys are featured. Check those out when you can.

You might also be interested to know that I built a website for Asher's school's Read-a-thon. Check out my mad html coding basic blogging/inputting skills here. I did have to learn some stuff because that's on the OTHER blogging site.

So fill me in, what say you?
XO

• binoculars
• walkie talkie
• several sticks
• two shovels
• cheese
• bucket
• sand
• broom
• bug catcher
• rocks of assorted sized

As part of the process of looking for a surgeon, Asher's chart was sent to many different places.

If you have not had to go to many medical specialists, you might think this is easy work. Well, let me assure you it requires several million phone calls and faxes to do this.  Because of HIPPA or some other medical acronym, offices can only release their own information. So while the pediatrician has everything, they can not send the actual information from specialists to anywhere.  The information must be requested directly from that provider.

In preparation, Dan diligently called the old cardiac clinic in Charlotte, and the current one at UNC, and released files go everywhere we were requesting surgical review. Due to some bogus medical Charlie Foxtrot, apparently the cardiothorascic surgical clinic at the hospital is different from the regular cardiology clinic, so one critical aspect of his chart was missing. When we realized it, Dan called everyone again, faxed everyone again, and had a copy sent to us so we would know when it go where it was going.

It was the actual operative report.

The one that the surgeon dictates as a record of what exactly happened after they whisked Asher away.

The one that was not meant for parents to read when they mindlessly opened the mail.

It is technical for a reason. It has to be in order to clearly document what happened during the surgery. I'm sure it was a well written report.

For other surgeons.

Not for my eyes.

But I had to read it.

Have you ever held a sweet smelling baby in your lap and tried not to kiss its head? Even if its not yours, you kiss it.  You can't help it. Or have you ever tried not to eat an M&M when walking by a bowl? Can't help yourself...

Dan told me to put it in the freezer and not look at it again. But it was too late.

The words were in front of me I couldn't help myself and now they are swirling around in my brain.

Words that didn't mean anything before.


20 French chest tube

Or meant something totally different before.


sternal saw

Times that seemed meaningless.


cardiopulmonary bypass time: 89 minutes


Harsh words.


jugular venous line


Words that don't belong in surgery.


hockey shaped aortotomy


Violent words.


electrocautery


Words that seem too regular.


tolerated the operation nicely


These words were not meant for me, but now I have them and many more.  I have them in my memory. I have them and the images I have created to go with them.  They are additions to this memory that I try to let fade.

They are just words. But we all know how much words can hurt.

Complaining
Eating
Brushing
Talking
Running
Jumping
Reading
Writing
Adding
Speaking
Cooperating
Boinging
Regretting
Planning
Fighting
Ninja-training
Climbing
Laughing
Sweating
Arguing
Falling
Kicking
Punching
Rolling
Imagining
Loving
Hugging
Snuggling
Sleeping
Breathing
Exhausting

For me, there is something about stepping off of the plane/train/bus/car/subway into Manhattan that is rejuvenating. It is refreshing. You have everything in available to you 24 hours a day. Whether you use it or not, you could. The opportunity is yours for the taking, and that is very freeing.

New York is also tricky because you can overkill your vacation. You can try so hard to be the champion of vacationing that it is exhausting and not refreshing at all.

I think this time, I nailed it.

The perfect blend of friends, food, entertainment, and relaxing to make the most of 48 hours.

Not all of it was planned, and not all of it worked out swimmingly (i.e. the snow and the bus leaving me stranded on 125th and 3rd Avenue.) But I had my kid-free wits about me and was very resourceful.
Highlights included, bagels, pie for dinner, pizza, local Chinese, late night Wii Fit, yoga, brunch, and honest, caring, loving friends.

"Coach Rasnick told us that by bring in money in we would help the kids who have problems with their hearts.  The money will help the hospitals.  It will raise money and get the hospitals equipment for surgeries and medicine for the kids who need it. And then the kids can get well enough to jump."


I was paralyzed. I had nothing to say. 


I watched him slowly go over to his pirate wallet and take out money. He shoved it in the envelope.


"There. I'll put those dollars in there. Will that be enough?"


Breathe. "Honey, you don't have to do that. You earned that allowance. " I look in the envelope where I see a ten dollar bill. 


For a kid that earns three dollars a week, that's a sizable donation. 


I said, "Are you sure you want to put ten dollars in there?" He said, "Yes! The more we can give the better it will help the hospital. Do you have any M&M's for snack?" 


I immediately ran to the phone and texted Dan to find out what to say, as I continued to be mute and useless.


Dan remains the voice of reason and said to tell him how generous that was and that we were proud of him. Unless I couldn't make words come out, in which case he would talk about it at dinner. 


We had to wait until dinner where the conversation turned to the AED machine he had seen, and how it starts people's hearts. And, "Mommy? Did they use that machine to do my surgery the first time?"  


Breathe.


My mouth says, "Oh, no.  That's usually for really old people and for accidents like if you fell and broke your head or something." Not great, but it could have been worse.


"Oh, right because if your heart stops then you are DEAD. You die, right? When your heart stops. And you stay dead."


Breathe. Mouth says, "Well, that's true, but you don't have to worry about that."


My brain wanders while I am speaking... they are going to stop your heart in about 5 months to repair it. Will you be dead? Not really. But sort of. You've been dead before in the same way. I'm lying to you by telling you no, don't worry about it. I should be telling you more, helping you more, doing more...


"Mom? Mom? MOM!"


"Oh, huh? Yes?"


"Like a light saber, right? It kills you too. Then you would need that machine. I love Star Wars. Today, David told me that Luke Skywalker flies the...."


Breathe. Everything goes back to normal everywhere, but nowhere. Our son has shown us his gigantic generous heart, and mine is slowly breaking into a million pieces. 

I am going away for 48 hours by myself.

Aaaahhhh.

I know, you are jealous. It sounds heavenly. Blissful.  Relaxing. The world is my oyster etc.

Here is what I hear, "YOU ONLY HAVE 48 HOURS!!! DON'T F*** IT UP!!!"

I might miss out on something.
I might choose the wrong restaurant.
I might miss a friend I really wanted to see.
I might pack the wrong shoes and then my feet will be cold and wet as I trudge through the streets.
I might not get to do everything I want to do.
There might be a better restaurant/show/movie/bar/store somewhere around the corner.

There is something about a vacation that creates pressure to enjoy it all. Creates pressure to not miss out on a single thing.

What is it? Just my insanity? My own special brand of crazy? Maybe. Probably.

Maybe it is the fact that it is an investment. Somewhat of a time commitment. Why spend three hours seeing a movie in a vacation city when you can see a movie in your own town? Do something you can't do at home.

Maybe it is the financial commitment. However large or small, it is an aberration from a regular budget. It better feel good, but not be too extravagant.

Maybe it's the guilt of being alone. I'm creating a burden for the hubs who is watching the kids while I galavant and frolic all by myself.  I better enjoy it because I've been freed of my duties. Don't waste your time doing something stupid that you could have done with him.

It would be nice to be the kind of person who can just fly by the seat of her pants, even while I am on vacation. But I'm OK with the fact that I am not that kind of girl.

So I will plan out my time wisely, research my shoe choices and harass everyone I know about restaurants. And that will be how it goes.

If I feel like it...