Golden Globes! Liveblog! Tonight!

I am going to liveblog the SHIT out of the Golden Globes tonight. Unless there is a catastrophe. Then maybe I will liveblog the catastrophe. Or maybe the liveblog will be a catastrophe, in which case, all of our bases are covered.

Stop on by around 7 pm central. I might be a bit late getting started because the pesky kids have to be put to bed at some point. But never fear. The catastrophic liveblog is ON.

Grocery list

this crazy ass list
a sign of desperation
or sign of progress?

In our desperation for Ike-a-saurus to gain weight, I've put together an impressive grocery list. If I wasn't so tired, I'd hit the store tonight. Alas, I might make it tomorrow. Though I'm sure I'll be just as tired then, too.

Here's the list. It kind of looks like I'm planning a diarrhea party:

salmon paste (or similar)
pork rinds
strawberry pediasure
Gerber graduates yogurt melts
Other freeze-dried food (astronaut ice cream? enchiladas?)

Now that I think of it, I probably should have just taken a picture of the list, so that you could experience it's full WTF-ness.

It's no holds barred over here, folks. Take no prisoners. Balls to the wall. Once we managed to get Ike-a-saurus to eat a tiny tiny bit of solid food with only a few gags, his nurse and I were like, "QUICK. WE NEED MEXICAN CHICARRONES. FROM MEXICO. STAT."

High fat and strong flavor. That's what we're searching for. Apparently, we're also attempting to increase his sodium intake by 95,000%. Not sure what the plan is there. Having the trach, though, means strong flavors are more appealing. At least this is what I've heard from other mamas with trached kids. Because he's barely using his nose, if at all, his sense of smell and taste are probably impaired. Trached kids are known for loving really strong tastes and ignoring sweets. Most of the food we feed this little guy right now is of the sweet variety. Breast milk, Pediasure, and that's about it. He was rocking the Greek yogurt for a while, but he also threw it up a lot and now he won't touch the stuff.

I put two Goya stuffed green olives in his mesh feeder thing, and yowza. His eyes did a zoinks! doubletake and then he was chowing down. He still can't manage the olives on their own, though, he really has to have things that will dissolve in his mouth. Even things like Pirate's Booty or Cheerios are difficult for him because they break into so many pieces in his mouth. Plus, they lack the fat and calories he needs.

He's doing well with these Gerber yogurt things because they just get smaller and smaller in his mouth and he can easily pull them out to take a break if it's too much. I noticed they're freeze-dried, which is what makes me wonder if other freeze-dried food with shrink in your mouth, too? Some freeze-dried enchiladas for camping will have a good amount of fat in them. But again, the sodium is probably hideous.

I'm not trying to replace his regular caloric intake with solids yet. He's far from ready. But I love that he's interested in food and wants to take bites and try things. It's heart-breaking, though, when those bites end in severe gagging and throwing up. Not to mention the risk of him aspirating the vomit and coming down with aspiration pneumonia.

It's a tricky business, feeding this little guy. But if I can find some fattening snacks that will dissolve in his mouth, I am all over it. It will encourage him to keep being interested in food, and it will add to his daily caloric intake.

I'm going to play the Rocky theme song when I whip out the salmon paste. This may be an occasion for haikuoftheday's first vlog.

Little big perspective

they're regular kids
but really they're just babies
perspective changes

I was thinking about how, when the wee one was a baby, 3- and 4-year-olds seemed to be these frightening, exotic grown-up children who ran amuk at playgrounds and made me fear the future. At one point, even younger toddlers made me feel this way. What? They WALK? They have TEETH? They're SO OLD.

Now that I have kids in all kid departments (baby, pre-school, elementary) I have a whole new perspective on this. The wee one, my former baby who I refused to believe would ever get teeth or walk or become a rambunctious toddler, is now 7.5. He plays hard and rough, but he can make his own sandwiches (!) and when he's had enough of everything he'll take himself to his room to lay in bed and read a book. This is not frightening at all. It is a revelation!

And the wee-er one, who is 3.5, still seems like such a baby to me, especially compared to her older brother. I want to cuddle her and comfort her and dress her and chase her around. She seems old compared to Ike-a-saurus, but not THAT old. She is oldyoung. Biglittle. She, of course, resists all my attempts to hold her close and keep her still and smell her hair.

Ike-a-saurus is a whole story unto himself. Nearly 17 months old, but really 14 months adjusted. He has been an actual, physical baby longer than the other kids. He only weighs 16 pounds, so he is still really tiny. When the others were little, I marveled over how quickly their first year flew by. How, all of a sudden, they were walking and talking and running and eating. It's different with Ike. In some senses, he is still very much a baby. So many bottles, so much crawling. But in other ways, he's as old as his months tell us. He says "hi!" very clearly. He has signs for "milk" and "bye-bye" and we're working on "slide". He says "ja ja" for Georgia sometimes. "buh buh buh" for his bottle. He's mischievous and into everything. But he's still a baby. He's kind of like a Elfin child or something. Tiny, busy, baby-like, but not.

I struggle to believe I've been a mother this long. I think of the days when it was just me and the wee one, at home, truckin' through our afternoons. And it makes me realize that even though things are SO different now – so polar opposite of what they used to be – I'm incredibly lucky to have experienced all of these different facets of motherhood. From never having to worry about more than a cold or a bout with the stomach flu to now. From coasting through milestones like walking and talking without a second thought to now. From struggling with balancing two kids and thinking THAT was tough… 

I've seen how it can be, I see how it is. It's hard to not think "I've seen how it should be," because there isn't really a "should be," you know? That's a hard thing to believe sometimes, but if I can remember that, I'm good. No "should be" just "how it is". I've seen it all from so many perspectives, and that is a kind of formidable gift.

I can't see how it will be, but I think that's OK. I don't really want to know, and I'm just amazed to be able see how things are today.

A day in the life

tube of lubricant
next to the remote control
it's not what you think

I was walking through the living room yesterday and I noticed a tube of KY jelly by the remote. First thought: I should put that away before we lose it. Second thought: Wow, have we used this much already? Third thought: I bet we are some of the only people who don't find it weird to have KY in a bin on the table next to the sofa.

We had left it out after a trach change. No big deal. But it made me think about how weird our day-to-day life is now. It's not weird for us anymore, but to look at it from the perspective of "this is how it used to be, this is how it is now" it IS pretty fucking strange.

For one thing, I use the word "secretions" more than anyone ever should. It is a foul word, with connotations of aliens and slime and slimy aliens. But that's what everyone calls the gunk that comes out of the trach. A face breathing person may have a runny nose, or you might sneeze out some snot. And that's that – it's snot. But when you have a trach and you sneeze or cough or breathe, it's not called snot. You're saddled with "secretions". So we say "secretions" a lot around here because there are a lot of them. It is not my favorite. I'm trying to come up with something better. Bogies seems to work. Or trach snot.

Another thing that's different around here is the amount of time spent on the phone. I think this is probably the case for everyone with Medicaid, not just for people with trachs. But a trach + Medicaid = agonizing hours on the phone.

Sample: Yesterday I called our new DME (the medical equipment company) to find out why we haven't been able to reorder our medical supplies for the month. Turns out they don't have authorization from Medicaid yet. So I call the old DME. They haven't rescinded their own authorization. Even though they said they did. Three weeks ago. I call the old DME back. They say write a letter to Medicaid telling them we're switching DMEs and then fax it. I write the letter and try to fax it, but the fax won't go through. Turns out the power has gone out in much of north Austin. Finally get the letter faxed but now it's after 3pm on a Friday.

Still no medical supplies.

Next I call the specialty pharmacy to order the Synagis for Ike's monthly shot. You're supposed to call 7-10 days before he needs the shot. They don't say if they mean business days, but I'm guessing they do, so I call even though he doesn't need the shot until late this month. "Please enter the new 7-digit extension of the person you're trying to dial." Well, I only have a four-digit extension. After a roundabout fight with an automated phone system I get a voicemail box for the "synagis team". No one calls me back.

Then I need to refill the Tobi. But since we've changed primary insurance policies we have to now go through a specialty pharmacy to get the Tobi, instead of just Target. This means a pre-authorization and mail order. Even though he's been on the Tobi for ages, we have Medicaid, and he needs to start it NOW because he's getting sick. No Tobi until my husband calls Walgreens and says something about "punching someone in the dick" and then suddenly there's a workaround.


Can you see how this might make a person stabby?

Add in emails to the trach nurse where suddenly a prescription is called in for more Bactrim. UGH. Then me trying to avoid giving Ike-a-saurus the Bactrim because it makes him not eat and puke all the time.

Add in the swallow study (angry starving baby signing "milk" with both hands, x-rays of him eating, lots of doctors, lots of talking, lots of angst). I need to get a DVD of the study sent to Cincy but the Dell tech says they can't do it because of proprietary computer systems. I call bullshit, but still no dice. Then I'm told they'll send a written report to our doctor here, but not to me because I'm not "allowed" to have one. Um, isn't this my kid potentially aspirating and ruining his lungs and not being able to get his trach out? How is it not allowed for the doctor's report to be sent to me? Because medical records wants me to pay for it. That's my best guess.

This irritation is momentarily healed by our home nurse buying me a surprise sausage wrap so that I am distracted and don't go full-on apeshit in the middle of the radiology department.

Side note: Ike did great on the swallow study. No signs of aspiration, though he is still "high risk" because he is not fully controlling his swallow.

Add in drifting dunes of laundry around the house, a defiant 3-year-old who insists on yelling DAMMIT at me (where does she get that, I wonder?), a book to finish writing, two school visits next week to prepare for, dinner to cook, lunches to make, National Championship football games to lament, and you can see how weird things are getting.

KY jelly on the side table, Colt McCoy pinching a nerve, me saying things like "Hi, Marcy, I don't understand why the Medicaid authorization hasn't been approved yet." And then Marcy saying things like, "Well, the T-19 was faxed over and it was blurry so we had to fax it again but it was still blurry and the Medicaid people couldn't read it so I had to fax it again" and me saying, "ARE YOU TELLING ME WE HAVE NO OXIMETER PROBES BECAUSE NO CAN RETYPE A FUCKING FAX?" And then Marcy saying, "Well you can order some and pay your private insurance copay" and me saying "THAT WILL BE A MILLION DOLLARS. Plus, PLUS, I didn't stay in an awful, smelly, scary nursing home with my medically fragile baby in order to get a Medicaid waiver that insures his medical expenses will be covered ALL SO THAT I COULD FUCKING PAY A PRIVATE INSURANCE CO-PAY BECAUSE YOUR GODDAMN T-19 IS BLURRY!"

This is when I have an anger stroke and forget what this post was supposed to be about.

I am starting to have anger issues. Patience issues. A build up of
frustration. A desire to drive fast, listen to Marilyn Manson, and
punch things.

We were talking about how weird things are. Right.

Seriously. Aliens could land in the middle of the living room, threaten to vaporize us all with their atom-shrinking photon rays and I would be all, "Whatever, green dudes. Could you grab that KY off the floor over there and hand it over? And can you clean this suction canister on the way to the kitchen? Oh, can you also not get your secretions on anything? Thanks."

That would not be an out of the ordinary scenario at all. Just another day. Sausage wraps, secretions, KY jelly, DMEs, T-19s, power outages, 7-digit-extensions when only 4-digit extensions exist, and vaporizing atom-shrinking photon rays.

I have to get out of this house.

First post of the new year!

I feel like this should be a momentous post full of hilarity, but really, I'm tired and I'm catching a cold and the wee-er one just punched me in the hand and yelled "DAMMIT" when I refused to give her the medicine she demanded after spontaneously waking up at 11pm.

I think maybe I will go to sleep for a few hours, groggily demand medicine and then punch my husband and yell DAMMIT when he doesn't wake up to administer to me. Who is modeling behavior for whom now?

Did I get the grammar right just then?

In completely unrelated news, I now have gnarled, crusty hag hands because of the constant washing, the hand sanitizer and the resulting chafing. Add in some freezing weather and holy crap, you guys, my hands look like they're about 600 years old. I am thinking of slathering them with pure lanolin when I go to bed tonight, except then the sheets will stick to them, or they will become glued to my face somehow, or trapped in my hair. I could slather them and then put on some gloves, but I don't have any gloves. I could wear the wee one's Boba Fett gloves from his Halloween costume, though. Lanolin + Boba Fett gloves = silky smooth hands of a younger woman? I am skeptical, but desperate.

Lanolin-filled Boba Fett gloves will make it difficult to grasp the drugs I request in the middle of the night, though they will cushion the punching.

I will have to ponder this scenario as I drift off to sleep. Can you tell I'm tired? So tired. It's like being drunk, except without all the peeing. Maybe I shouldn't blog when I'm like this.

This has not been a glorious first post of the year at all.