And make a wish.
Oh god, what a week.
First off, the brain spikes are back in full force, leaving me clumsy, disoriented, and in constant pain. The new neurologist that I was recommended to won't be back in the office till Monday so I can't even get an appointment yet -- grr. I need another occipital nerve block BAD.
So of course, that can't POSSIBLY be enough stress. Noooooo, never.
Yesterday, I get a call from Thing 2's school. She's in the vice-principal's office, and in trouble. Big trouble. Great. It's a long story, and I'm not even going to get into it because my blood pressure is already through the roof from TODAY, much less going back and reminding myself about yesterday. Let's just say that she's seriously grounded, and leave it at that.
TODAY, I walk outside to get the mail, to find an ambulance and fire truck across the street. Fuck.
See, the neighbors there are literally adoptive grandparents for the Things. Their own grandkids are far away, and they know that the Things grandparents are a distance away, so it was a mutual adoption all the way around. These are the people that saved my ass on Halloween when I fucked up my ankle. The wife is the one that drove me to the ER, and stayed with me the entire time, holding my hand and generally being wonderful, while the husband watched the Things for me till we got home. They go to almost all of Thing 1's band concerts. The husband is the cop that helps watch out for us when DG is out in the field. In short, they're fantastic people.
And I walk out to see her being loaded into an ambulance. Right. Cue panic attack. I race over there, to realize that she's so out of it she doesn't even notice I'm there. ACK! I ask if the husband is there, to make sure she has someone to go up with her, despite the fact that I needed to pick Thing 2 up soon. Luckily, he is -- along with the other neighbor that takes Thing 2 to school. Yes, this neighborhood is that tight. We take care of each other.
They THINK she just got really dehydrated, and I'm all too familiar with how bad that can mess you up.
So I go pick up Thing 2, and then Thing 1 and her Rukia-clone buddy (and I swear I want to adopt both her and her older sister, those kids are great), get Pooka's Taxi Service all sorted out and the kids where they all need to be, and go up to the ER.
She was doing much better when I got there, not as pale, and actually made a joke that the tables had turned and it was her turn, and wasn't I supposed to be the one flat on my back on a gurney? Good sign. They expect her to go home later, after the blood work comes back and she gets another bag or two in her IV, but they too think it's just dehydration.
It then becomes my job to make the update phone calls, to take some of the burden off him. Neighbor is updated, Thing 1 is updated (and starts sobbing with relief, she REALLY adores these people), and Thing 2 is now busy working on a Get Well card.
All this, on top of the brain spikes and the resulting clumsies and crankies, and me being too damn exhausted from constant pain to really be functional and do anything, plus DG of course being off in OKC, and the whole 'single mom' thing, and, oh yes, my MOMSTER deciding at 8:30 on Sunday night to SHOW UP AT MY HOUSE because they were in town for a train show.
I had to figure out how to get the energy to a softball game, since half of Thing 1's friends were in the game, and ALL have adopted me as the Coolest Mom Evah and want me to be there to help cheer em on. They lost both games. I doubt I qualify as a good luck charm. And of course, I got sunburned, first scorch of the year.
There ain't enough anti-anxiety meds in the world to deal with this week. I think I may drive out to the Temple later and inhale some zen.
Veni, Vidi, Ventus --
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.
Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.
The randomly chaotic and crafty scribblings of a deranged, wannabe artist allowed too many colours in her Crayon box.
Surgeon General's Warning: Some content of "From Pooka's Crayon" may not be suitable for: work, blue-haired little old ladies, the politically-correct, rabid moonbats, uptight mothers, priests, chronic idiots, insurance claims agents, Democrats, children, small furry quadropeds from Alpha Centauri, or your sanity.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
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