I think Dante should have included a ring in the Inferno for people, especially health care professionals, who lie to children. Or at the very least, to mix my metaphors, they should get coal in their stockings.
Our dentist should have a fifty pound lump of coal in his stocking—he lied not only to a child but also to this child’s naïve parents.
The Dentist Who Shall Not Be Named In This Blog, (DWSNBNITB, DW for short) because I can’t afford to be sued for libel, told Cal and Matthew that Matt needed some minor surgery because the roots of his two lower bottom teeth were exposed. DW went on to explain that it was very minor, that Matt wouldn’t be in any pain, and that he’d be running around right after the surgery. Yeah, right.
Matt was a little nervous beforehand. After all, he doesn’t like people poking around in his mouth. But Matt knew it was no big deal—the dentist told him so.
Yesterday Matt and I went to the consult, which was scheduled immediately before the procedure. This is a clever trick because if the procedure was several days after the consult, you’d never come back after the periodontal surgeon told you what was going to happen.
Matt had three frenectomies, which means they cut three frenum along the lip-gum line. This really doesn’t sound bad. But the entire procedure took about an hour and I lost count of how many stitches Matt had. Then came the list of post-surgical care. It started with “This is a very painful procedure—he’ll need to be on codeine for 3 to 4 days.” Hey, what happened to this isn’t going to be painful?! The nurse continued, “Matt needs to stay in bed for 24 hours. He can’t do any running, fast walking, etc., for 3 to 4 days.” What happened to running around right after the surgery?!
Of course, it only got worse. Apparently, the success of the surgery isn’t guaranteed—and the periodontal dude didn’t even give me odds. Grr. If this doesn’t work, then Matt has to have skin graft surgery with either his own keratinized skin or donor skin. (Imagine Matt coming unglued at the words “donor skin”—he’s thinking flesh off a rotting corpse. I assured him that wouldn’t be the case, but I don’t really know.)
After the “procedure,” I took my darling home and went immediately to the pharmacy because I was ordered, in no uncertain terms, to get codeine into Matt ASAP. I went to go pick up the meds. The pharmacist told me, also in no uncertain terms, that Matt ought not to take the full dosage of codeine.
Me: "Uh, the doctor told me to give him 1 to 1 ½ pills."
Pharmacist: "No."
Me: "Why not?"
Ph: "Because he doesn’t weigh enough for that dosage."
Me: "Oh. So what do I give him?"
Ph: "One half of one pill."
Me (weighing the thought of Matt in a lot of pain from this “painless” surgery): "Can’t I give him one whole?"
Ph (trying to hide a scowl): "I guess. But it will completely knock him out for the whole day."
Me: "That’s okay."
Ph: "But four hours later, only give him half a pill."
Me (meekly): "Okay."
Back home, an hour and thirty minutes after Matt’s had codeine not only is he wide awake, his mouth/gums/teeth hurt. I notice his face is pasty white. I placed a phone call to Perio Dude.
Me: “Matt’s in pain.”
PD: “Give him more codeine.”
Me: “The pharmacist said that I can’t.”
PD: “Oh.”
Me: “You understand that Matt’s a high functioning autistic person, right?”
PD: “Yeah.”
Me: “A percentage of them don’t process medication like other people do. Matt’s one of those people.”
PD: “Oh.”
Me: “So...”
PD: “Why don’t you wait another 20 minutes or so, and then if it’s not any better you can bring him back in and I’ll inject him with more anesthetic.”
Right. That’s going to work. I relayed the suggestion to Matt who intimated that he’d rather die than go back. At the four hour mark, I gave Matt another whole codeine pill. (However, the PD gets only a small lump of coal in his stocking because he did call back at dinnertime to ask how Matt was doing. I told him under the watch of Matt’s glaring eyes that Matt was doing fine.)
The day, actually night, was saved by a neurologist friend who understands Matt’s neurotransmitter issues. She told me he could take ibuprophen on top of the codeine. It didn’t relieve all the pain, but it allowed Matt to sleep. Our friend should get all the Christmas gifts that Santa intended for the Perio-dude and the lying dentist. Maybe I’ll write Santa a letter—there’s always next Christmas.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
The Problem That’s Never Solved
I bet you thought you’d heard the last of the basement flooding saga. If you thought so, you’d be wrong. When we got home from vacation, Cal had the presence of mind to check the basement. Instead of a nice, dry concrete floor, we found six inches of water. The sump pump failed.
At 2:30 in the morning Cal was playing with the pump, trying to jerry-rig it to drain the water. Thankfully, the heater was still working—it shouldn’t have been.
Cal got the pump running, and we got to bed sometime after 3am. The next day he called the plumbing “experts.” They eventually came out. They proclaimed the pit too shallow. I assumed that would mean they’d make the pit deeper. No. Instead they put on a different float-switch. It worked...for two or three days. Now we have the opposite problem. The pump runs and runs and runs until it overheats and the fail safe thermocouple thingy turns it off. Then it cools, and guess what? Yep, it starts pumping again until it overheats. We called the super-duper plumbing guys again. They’re coming again to see what can be done. I’d assume they’re going to dig a deeper pit, but I’ve been wrong before.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
At 2:30 in the morning Cal was playing with the pump, trying to jerry-rig it to drain the water. Thankfully, the heater was still working—it shouldn’t have been.
Cal got the pump running, and we got to bed sometime after 3am. The next day he called the plumbing “experts.” They eventually came out. They proclaimed the pit too shallow. I assumed that would mean they’d make the pit deeper. No. Instead they put on a different float-switch. It worked...for two or three days. Now we have the opposite problem. The pump runs and runs and runs until it overheats and the fail safe thermocouple thingy turns it off. Then it cools, and guess what? Yep, it starts pumping again until it overheats. We called the super-duper plumbing guys again. They’re coming again to see what can be done. I’d assume they’re going to dig a deeper pit, but I’ve been wrong before.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Benefits of Country Music
The drive from Fort Lauderdale to Chattanooga is supposed to take about 12 hours. Maybe 13 depending on the numbers of bathroom breaks and how long it takes you to wolf down greasy fast food.
I was thinking we’d get home before midnight. Ha. What I didn’t know is that the state of Florida must have use-it-before-the-end-of-the-year Federal Cash for Clunky Highways funds. I mean why else would the state decide to do road repair the week of Christmas? It doesn’t take a lot of brains to realize that there just might be a lot of traffic the week of Christmas and that shutting the highway down to one lane isn’t a wise idea. Nor are the ridiculous lines at the toll booths on the Florida Turnpike. Speaking of which, it seems to me that toll roads are only a semi-legitimate form of demanding baksheesh (bribery). I was complaining about it loudly in the van, and Ariel informed me that roads don’t qualify as a “public good” and thus from an economics point of view, they can charge whatever they want. Yeah, right. Free roads seem like a public good to me.
At any rate, our getting home on time schedule was thrown wildly off kilter. I ended up driving late at night. I’m not at my best late at night, but Cal needed a nap. In order to stay awake, I cooled the car down until I got a bit shivery—it’s hard to fall asleep when you have goosebumps. But that wasn’t enough. I turned on the radio. We were in Nowhereville, Georgia (just north of Valdosta), and the only station I could get was country-western. Not my favorite, but noise is noise. I listened to one song where the guitar was so loud you couldn’t understand the words, which was probably just as well. The next song came on. A twangy voice started talking about plowing the fields and the girl he loved. That’s okay. I like ballads. Then came the refrain. “She thinks my tractor’s sexy and she loves my farmer’s tan.” I burst out laughing. It woke me up for a good long time. I realized someone should start a music station to play wacky country music to keep tired drivers awake. I bet you could make a chunk of change. Or maybe you could get a government grant: Cash for Country. Seriously.
Here we are swimming on St. Thomas.
Ariel at the gate of a cathedral on Antigua.
I was thinking we’d get home before midnight. Ha. What I didn’t know is that the state of Florida must have use-it-before-the-end-of-the-year Federal Cash for Clunky Highways funds. I mean why else would the state decide to do road repair the week of Christmas? It doesn’t take a lot of brains to realize that there just might be a lot of traffic the week of Christmas and that shutting the highway down to one lane isn’t a wise idea. Nor are the ridiculous lines at the toll booths on the Florida Turnpike. Speaking of which, it seems to me that toll roads are only a semi-legitimate form of demanding baksheesh (bribery). I was complaining about it loudly in the van, and Ariel informed me that roads don’t qualify as a “public good” and thus from an economics point of view, they can charge whatever they want. Yeah, right. Free roads seem like a public good to me.
At any rate, our getting home on time schedule was thrown wildly off kilter. I ended up driving late at night. I’m not at my best late at night, but Cal needed a nap. In order to stay awake, I cooled the car down until I got a bit shivery—it’s hard to fall asleep when you have goosebumps. But that wasn’t enough. I turned on the radio. We were in Nowhereville, Georgia (just north of Valdosta), and the only station I could get was country-western. Not my favorite, but noise is noise. I listened to one song where the guitar was so loud you couldn’t understand the words, which was probably just as well. The next song came on. A twangy voice started talking about plowing the fields and the girl he loved. That’s okay. I like ballads. Then came the refrain. “She thinks my tractor’s sexy and she loves my farmer’s tan.” I burst out laughing. It woke me up for a good long time. I realized someone should start a music station to play wacky country music to keep tired drivers awake. I bet you could make a chunk of change. Or maybe you could get a government grant: Cash for Country. Seriously.
Here we are swimming on St. Thomas.
Ariel at the gate of a cathedral on Antigua.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Code Red
Before we went on vacation, Cal warned me not to overdo vacation preparations lest I get sick on board. Despite all the “wrenches” thrown into preparations, I stayed healthy on the entire cruise. However, not everyone could make the same claim. Somewhere early in the cruise, a vacationer brought back a nasty, highly contagious gastrointestinal bug from one of the islands. Medical chaos broke loose.
My first clue was one morning I walked into the hall and smelled bleach. Stewards were wiping railings, handholds, door handles, every non-fabric surface with bleach. Hmm. As much as the cruise lines prize cleanliness, I’ve never seen them out with bleach. Later that day a steward bawled out Luke and Ariel for taking a fork instead of waiting to be given a fork (which is what they did the day before). Odd.
Next I smelled unpleasant odors and saw floor fans. After that the ship personnel became very aggressive with hand sanitizing—the stewards had to see you sanitize your hands before you were allowed into the dining room.
Cal started running a fever, stopped eating, and had to be forced to suck ice chips. Then came the announcement. All sick or possibly sick people had to notify the medical officers and be quarantined. Cal was among them.
Speaking the obscure, but native language, of the officers came in handy. Our ship was under “Code Red.” We had very, very high numbers of sick people. Certain dining areas were shut down. Certain activities like chess, library lending, etc., were ended. A DVD we rented was free because the rental woman didn’t want to touch my “card” because we came from a stateroom with a sick person. Even the on-board jewelry store was shut down—touching jewelry could spread disease.
When we arrive in Fort Lauderdale, the entire ship has to undergo a complete sterilization before the next cruise. Cal’s doing better—he’s up and about, though he doesn’t have his appetite back. But I’m hoping and praying that the drive from Fort Lauderdale to Chattanooga is “uneventful” because 12+ hours is a long time if you have to find bathrooms along the way. And it’s even longer if you can’t.
(The rumor circulating is that the sickness is so bad it might make the news.)
My first clue was one morning I walked into the hall and smelled bleach. Stewards were wiping railings, handholds, door handles, every non-fabric surface with bleach. Hmm. As much as the cruise lines prize cleanliness, I’ve never seen them out with bleach. Later that day a steward bawled out Luke and Ariel for taking a fork instead of waiting to be given a fork (which is what they did the day before). Odd.
Next I smelled unpleasant odors and saw floor fans. After that the ship personnel became very aggressive with hand sanitizing—the stewards had to see you sanitize your hands before you were allowed into the dining room.
Cal started running a fever, stopped eating, and had to be forced to suck ice chips. Then came the announcement. All sick or possibly sick people had to notify the medical officers and be quarantined. Cal was among them.
Speaking the obscure, but native language, of the officers came in handy. Our ship was under “Code Red.” We had very, very high numbers of sick people. Certain dining areas were shut down. Certain activities like chess, library lending, etc., were ended. A DVD we rented was free because the rental woman didn’t want to touch my “card” because we came from a stateroom with a sick person. Even the on-board jewelry store was shut down—touching jewelry could spread disease.
When we arrive in Fort Lauderdale, the entire ship has to undergo a complete sterilization before the next cruise. Cal’s doing better—he’s up and about, though he doesn’t have his appetite back. But I’m hoping and praying that the drive from Fort Lauderdale to Chattanooga is “uneventful” because 12+ hours is a long time if you have to find bathrooms along the way. And it’s even longer if you can’t.
(The rumor circulating is that the sickness is so bad it might make the news.)
Here's a picture of me with a canon at a Napoleonoic era fort. Maybe Horatio Hornblower came here.
Here's photo of Luke--his skin is so tan from the ten days that he looks like a native Carib.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
A Cruise of Discovery
We visited many different islands on our cruise. St. Maarten, St. Lucia, Barbados, Antigua, and St. Thomas. (I think there were a few others, but I can’t remember.) Most people who cruise get off the ship and take excursions or taxis to visit the sites or beaches. But since the excursions are very pricey and the taxis are just as bad, we opted to do a lot of walking. In the end, though it was a huge hassle, it turned out to be a great blessing.
Instead of zipping from one aesthetically-prepared tourist spot—set up to make American/European visitors feel at home—to another, the kids experienced third world countries. They discovered that third world countries rarely have sidewalks. They saw people filling their water jugs from spigots because they don’t have running water at home. They saw pets riddled with mange and worms. They saw people standing around idly because the unemployment was so high there was no work to be had. They saw waste water from homes running into open sewer systems. (Really scary when you consider it runs untreated into the sea and around the beaches. Also from the color and texture of the waste water it seems to have high levels of phosphates.) They saw historic landmarks covered in trash and treated with contempt.
At one point, Jacob took my hand and said, “We’re really, really blessed to live in the United States.” Gratitude instead of entitlement. That discovery was music to my ears.
The next day we went to St. Thomas, which is one of the US Virgin Islands. Five minutes after we were on the island, the kids said, “Mom, this is like being back in the US.” The streets had sidewalks, people had jobs, and the streets were clean. And, yes, the island had poor people, but their situation was nothing like the extreme poverty on the other islands.
Here are a few photos.
Instead of zipping from one aesthetically-prepared tourist spot—set up to make American/European visitors feel at home—to another, the kids experienced third world countries. They discovered that third world countries rarely have sidewalks. They saw people filling their water jugs from spigots because they don’t have running water at home. They saw pets riddled with mange and worms. They saw people standing around idly because the unemployment was so high there was no work to be had. They saw waste water from homes running into open sewer systems. (Really scary when you consider it runs untreated into the sea and around the beaches. Also from the color and texture of the waste water it seems to have high levels of phosphates.) They saw historic landmarks covered in trash and treated with contempt.
At one point, Jacob took my hand and said, “We’re really, really blessed to live in the United States.” Gratitude instead of entitlement. That discovery was music to my ears.
The next day we went to St. Thomas, which is one of the US Virgin Islands. Five minutes after we were on the island, the kids said, “Mom, this is like being back in the US.” The streets had sidewalks, people had jobs, and the streets were clean. And, yes, the island had poor people, but their situation was nothing like the extreme poverty on the other islands.
Here are a few photos.
Luke is peering into a cathedral on Antigua. It was shut down (the doors had padlocks on it) because a tourist had fallen through the rotting floor boards.
Here we are on St. Thomas.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
"Bugs"
The other day we were sitting in the dining room next to a huge window, and Matthew asked me, "What is the name of the bugs that swim in the water next to the ship?" I frowned--bugs that swim next to the ship? “I’ve seen them out the windows,” Matt said. Jake interrupted, “They’re not bugs. But they swim just as fast as the ship.”
Ah, I thought, they are confused. I launched into my “there are no bugs, what you see are reflections of the sunlight dancing across the water” speech. “Besides,” I said, “nothing small could keep up with the speed of the ship—we’re booking.” The boys gave me their “you poor confused parent” look. After the meal, they boys took me through a circuitous “secret” route to the very bow of the ship. We looked over the prow. A couple of minutes later I saw the "bugs." Exquisite flying fish—translucent and glimmering in the sunlight. If I hadn’t seen them, I wouldn’t have believed the boys’ descriptions. They leapt out of the water and their pectoral fins flapped with the grace of wings. And they did keep up with the speed of the ship! When they needed a breath, they dove into the sea.
Later on I discovered that they’re able to “fly” so fast because they’re riding a wind created by the ship. Very Cool!
Ah, I thought, they are confused. I launched into my “there are no bugs, what you see are reflections of the sunlight dancing across the water” speech. “Besides,” I said, “nothing small could keep up with the speed of the ship—we’re booking.” The boys gave me their “you poor confused parent” look. After the meal, they boys took me through a circuitous “secret” route to the very bow of the ship. We looked over the prow. A couple of minutes later I saw the "bugs." Exquisite flying fish—translucent and glimmering in the sunlight. If I hadn’t seen them, I wouldn’t have believed the boys’ descriptions. They leapt out of the water and their pectoral fins flapped with the grace of wings. And they did keep up with the speed of the ship! When they needed a breath, they dove into the sea.
Later on I discovered that they’re able to “fly” so fast because they’re riding a wind created by the ship. Very Cool!
This is a picture of Antigua (I think). Don't you think this would make a wonderful watercolor painting? (Not so subtle hint to Calvin.)
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Stormy Weather
Housekeeping note: As I write this post, the ship is nearing Fort Lauderdale. I’m sure it will take me several days to unpack and do laundry, let alone get the last minute Christmas things done. But I have several posts scheduled (one will post per day until they're all posted). I hope you enjoy them.
Before we left on the cruise, Matthew asked what we would do if we ran into a storm at sea. I told Matt that this was the wrong time of the year for storms. I should have said it’s the wrong time for hurricanes because I was completely wrong about storms. We left Ft. Lauderdale Friday night and ran right into a storm. The ship rocked and pitched. Passengers started popping Dramamine like peppermints.
We walked around the ship and watched the swells. Clouds of sea spray filled the promenade. After a few strides you could taste the salt on your lips and feel it on your skin. Later we climbed to the crow’s nest, and I clung to the rails of the ladder that led onto a platform enclosed by windows. Despite the protection, the winds whipped over the wind break. Even though the rains hadn’t started yet, the winds stung like pin pricks and pressed your clothing so tightly to your body it was like a second skin. When I turned my back to the wind, it pasted my hair around my face like a heavy veil.
Of course, the rains started and we had to go below decks. It was our turn to take Dramamine, drink tea, and pretend we felt fine. By Sunday evening the weather had improved though swells continued to make passengers stumble the halls and bump the walls. Everyone looked like they’d had one too many martinis.
Eventually, you do get used to the motion, especially at bedtime. I told the kids it was like getting rocked to sleep. They gave me their “your-mind-has-been-blown-loose-by-the-wind” looks. But that’s what it’s like. I could really get used to it. It’s soothing. Most of the time.
Before we left on the cruise, Matthew asked what we would do if we ran into a storm at sea. I told Matt that this was the wrong time of the year for storms. I should have said it’s the wrong time for hurricanes because I was completely wrong about storms. We left Ft. Lauderdale Friday night and ran right into a storm. The ship rocked and pitched. Passengers started popping Dramamine like peppermints.
We walked around the ship and watched the swells. Clouds of sea spray filled the promenade. After a few strides you could taste the salt on your lips and feel it on your skin. Later we climbed to the crow’s nest, and I clung to the rails of the ladder that led onto a platform enclosed by windows. Despite the protection, the winds whipped over the wind break. Even though the rains hadn’t started yet, the winds stung like pin pricks and pressed your clothing so tightly to your body it was like a second skin. When I turned my back to the wind, it pasted my hair around my face like a heavy veil.
Of course, the rains started and we had to go below decks. It was our turn to take Dramamine, drink tea, and pretend we felt fine. By Sunday evening the weather had improved though swells continued to make passengers stumble the halls and bump the walls. Everyone looked like they’d had one too many martinis.
Eventually, you do get used to the motion, especially at bedtime. I told the kids it was like getting rocked to sleep. They gave me their “your-mind-has-been-blown-loose-by-the-wind” looks. But that’s what it’s like. I could really get used to it. It’s soothing. Most of the time.
Here's our ship the Statendam at our first port St. Maarten.
Note to my NEH grant art students--Notice the visual rhyme!
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