The Tingster has been having an awful time sleeping at nights. She'll fall asleep with no problem, but she'll wake around 2 am or 3 am, grumpy and in pain. She will cry out for me, but you know me - a parade of elephants blowing on trombones marching past my bed won't wake me up. So poor SanSan is the one who is sent to fetch me, as her bedroom connects with her sister's bedrom via a "Jack and Jill bathroom," so she can hear the Tingster's wailing much easier. Except the poor child is terrified of the dark, so she tears from her room at one end of the hallway to our room at lightning speed, hoping and praying all the while that the heebie jeebies won't get her while she summons help for her invalid little sister.
Once SanSan delivers the message to me and scurries back to the safety of her room, I'll grumble a bit and get out of bed and stumble to the Tingster's room. To which I am greeted with a proclaimation such as the one I received on Sunday night: "I called for you 24 times! Where were youuuu?" Asleep, kid, I was asleep. And having a pretty damn good dream, from what I can recall. So then I'll groggily pick her up, stuffed animals and boo-boo and pillow and all, and then carry her back to my room. It's a wonder the two of us don't tumble down the stairs in the process, considering that I'm walking around with my eyes closed and swaying about drunkily with a 50-pound lump of sleepiness wrapped in flannel Disney princess PJs in my arms.
So then I'll lay her down in my bed, only to have her announce, "I hafta go to the bafroom." OK, now I am seeing the attraction of bedpans. So I lug her into my arms again, carry her two miles to my bathroom (stupid huge-ass master bedroom with stupid walk-up stairs to the stupid sitting room, which I have to cross to get to the stupid "bafroom"), where I plop her down on the toilet and she proceeds to do her stuff, all while I stand there with an aching back, shuffling from one foot to another because the tile floor is just too damn cold for my paws.
So then she proclaims she is done, and I heave her back into my arms, and we trip back to bed, at which point she snuggles into the down comforter while I climb in beside her, snap off the lights, and then lie there, completely wide awake and cursing the gods of sleepiness for having failed my daughter and me once again. And then, just as I'm about to punch my pillow one more time - or storm out of bed and go to the guest bedroom to yell at the hubbie and blame him for everything, as it is definitely his fault - the Tingster rolls over, places a chubby hand on my cheek, and kisses me on the other cheek, and grins at me, "I love you, Mama." And with that simple act, all my complaining ceases, and I think to myself that I could wake up every night for the rest of my life for such greetings.
Of course, I am still wide awake, but that's beside the point ...
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Baby, Schmaby
My company had a holiday luncheon in the office last Friday afternoon. So the Tingster came to visit for a bit in her spiffy new set of wheels. My friend and colleague Renee (who also happens to be SanSan and TingTing's godmother) brought her baby in as well. Someone snapped this picture of the two of them, with TingTing looking very proud of herself for holding a baby and not making her cry, and Helena looking as if the Tingster has just goosed her ...
Friday, December 19, 2008
Wonderful Life, Schmonderful Life
"George Bailey, is this the ear you can't hear out of? George Bailey, I'll love you 'til the day you die."
Best. Article. Ever.
Best. Article. Ever.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Details, Schmetails
Here they are, details of the Tingster's surgery on December 12:
2:30 am - I was up and awake. Could not fall back asleep. The Tingster is snoozing like a baby next to me in my bed. I toss and turn, and finally turn on the bedside light and try to read a mind-numbing Harlequin romance. It usually knocks me out after just 2-3 pages. This entire week, however, nothing could put me to sleep. So I watch some telly until it's time to get up and get ready.
4 am - I tiptoe downstairs, turn on the laptop, and answer some emails for work that came in from Asia / Europe overnight. At least it takes my mind off of things.
4:45 am - I go back upstairs to get ready for the day.
5:15 am - I wake up the Tingster. She is grumpy, as usual. I tell her it's the day for her surgery and she leaps out of bed in a single bound. Crazy kid. Albino is awake as well and he helps to dress her.
5:30 am - I head downstairs with the Tingster. Albino puts our stuff in the car while TingTing dances around as if she's going to a party.
5:40 am - We leave the house. The traffic is non-existent. It should be like this everytime I leave the house.
5:55 am - We pull into the parking garage at the hospital. The Tingster has talked / sang the entire way to the hospital. She talks the entire way from the parking garage to the hospital.
6 am - We check in at patient registration. There are already other patients there, waiting to be called to register. We take a seat and wait.
6:20 am - The Tingster has a bloody nose. We rush to the bathroom and clean it up. Gotta love the dry air in those hospitals.
6:40 am - We are still waiting to be called. I am about to blow my lid. If they were not going to register us until after 6:30 am, why did they tell us to show up at 6 am? I had to drag a kid out of bed at 5:15 in the morning so we could sit and wait for 45 minutes? Unbelievable.
6:45 am - We are finally called to register. The process takes no more than 10 minutes. We are directed to the surgical waiting area.
6:55 am - We arrive at the surgical waiting area, and in less than two minutes, a nurse comes out and calls us to the back. This is time. No turning back.
7 am - We are taken to the holding area in the surgical section and shown into a little "room". TingTing sits in the big, patient chair and I stand next to her. Then the line of visitors commences. First was an anasthesiologist, who explains what they will do. Then comes another anasthesiologist, the one who will actually be in the room with the Tingster. He explains that they will try to administer the anasthesia via mask first, but if that doesn't work (since she's a kid and may not be able to breathe properly via the mask), they'll then need to administer it intravenously. He tells the Tingster that if the mask doesn't work, he will put some "magic lotion" on her arm that will numb any feeling in that area, and then stick a needle in her. He assures her the "magic lotion" will not allow her to feel any pain. She is intrigued. He then leaves and an orderly shows up with the Tingster's gown and some red socks for her feet so they stay warm. I help her change.
7:15 am - The anasthesiologist returns with a cherry-scented anastehsia mask for the Tingster to try out. If she can breathe properly through that contraption, then there is no need for the "magic lotion" and no need for the needle. The Tingster takes one sniff of the mask and falls in love. I spend the next 30 minutes trying to dissuade her from getting high on the cherry scent emanating from the mask.
7:20 am - The physician's assistant shows up and goes over certain procedures with us. After that, the RN who will be in the operating room with the Tingster comes and introduces herself. I think a third anasthesiologist also shows up there somewhere, but I can't be sure. I met so many people that morning, and they all looked the same, what with their scrubs and caps and booties on. I would not be able to recognize them in their street clothes at all.
7:30 am - Dr. Bennett, the man of the hour, shows up. He goes over the procedure with us, marks the Tingster's foot, and answers some questions. This is it. The RN returns with a white jumpsuit for me and some booties. We are ready to go.
7:45 am - The anasthesiologist and the RN escort the Tingster and me to Operating Room #11. We walk down several corridors, past other O.R.s. I can see through the windows on the doors at the ongoing surgeries. There are quite a few doctors and nurses standing in the corridor, chatting or taking care of work. When they see the Tingster coming down the hall, in her gown, her cap and red socks, they all ooh and ahh and fawn over her. You'd think the Queen of England was there.
7:50 am - We enter the Operating Room. It is HUGE. There are about six people in there, waiting for us, including Dr. Bennett, who was doing something on the computer (playing solitaire?). They all welcome the Tingster with cheer and gusto, like she was a hero returning from war. They walk her over to the O.R. table, and that's when she shows the first sign of hesitation all day. The table is surrounded by tons of equipment - most of them flashing or beeping -- and it is very high up. The anasthesiologist picks her up, talking to her the entire time. They place her in a sitting position on the table and wrap a warm blanket around her immediately. She doesn't look scared, but interested in everything that is going on around her. Everyone is talking to her and so she feels as if she is among friends, I guess. Once she is comfortable in that position, the doctor encourages her to lie down and place her head on a little doughnut-shaped pillow. She does so with no problem. I then hold her hand as they slowly place the mask over her nose and mouth. I kiss her and tell her that I love her very much. She takes a few deep breaths, and she is out. I promptly burst into tears. The RN leads me out of the room. I go back to the holding area and change out of the white jumpsuit and go back out to the surgical waiting area.
8 am - Albino is there to meet me. I want to sit and wait, but he insists we go and have some breakfast at the cafeteria. So we go. It is a good idea, since we talk and I feel more relaxed.
8:40 am - We return to the surgical waiting area. I try to read some magazines, but they are all really lame. Besides, our minds were on other things ...
9:35 am - I start to panic. Dr. Bennett has said the surgery would take 90 minutes at the most if all went well. It was already 90 minutes. Does this mean there were complications? I start to pace.
9:45 am - Albino starts to freak out as well, although he is more subtle than I am.
9:55 am - Dr. Bennett emerges and he looks calm and collected. We both breathe sighs of relief. He explains what he did -- He made three incisions in the Tingster's right foot: one on the outside of the back of her foot to scrape at the soft tissue and reshape to how it's supposed to be; another in her heel to cut away at tendons since they were so tight and were limiting mobility; and the last one in her instep, where he inserted a screw that will hold the newly shaped foot in place for the next three months. Ouch, ouch and triple ouch. Dr. Bennett tells us everything went well and she is currently in a recovery room. She is still out, but a nurse will come to get us and take us back soon. We thank him profusely - I fight a ridiculous feeling to grab his neck and give him a big ol' sloppy smooch on his cheek.
10 am - A nurse comes out and beckons us to follow him. During the pre-op interview, they had told us only one parent could be with her in the recovery room. But the nurse lets both of us back there. Albino is very happy.
10:02 am - We see the Tingster, lying in her bed, tubes sticking out of her, a giant dressing on her right foot, hair all wild and crazy on her pillow. But she looks peaceful, and we are so ecstatic to see her. She is sleeping peacefully. We are told that she will come out of anasthesia in about one hour. We prepare to wait with no complaints.
10:15 am - The Tingster opens her eyes. She takes a couple of weary looks around. Albino and I greet her with enthusiasm. She promptly grunts and flips the blanket over her head and goes back to sleep. Yup, the same old TingTing!
10:20-10:50 am - The Tingster continues to open and close her eyes periodically. When she talks for the first time, her words are: "My foot hurts!" She is thirsty, and her breath is horrible, so the nurse gets some juice for her, which she sips through a straw and keeps down with no problem. She continues to complain about her foot, so the nurse calls. Dr. Bennett and he orders 1 mg of morphine for her. During this time, the anasthesiologist stops by twice to check on her. The first time, he produces a tiny Tupperware-like container that contains the Tingster's loose tooth (bottom front tooth). It was extremely wiggly and they had pulled it to prevent her from accidentally swallowing it during surgery. Not only is the tooth inside the container, but the anasthesiologist had also inserted two dollar bills, courtesy of the "Tooth Fairy" (wink wink). He is a super nice guy and I hope we see him again for the Tingster's surgery on her left foot in March. Dr. Bennett also stops by a few times to see how she is doing. By 10:45 am, she is pretty much completely awake and stable, and the nurse calls the pediatric ward to arrange a room for her.
10:55 am - We wheel the Tingster to her room in the pediatric ward. The surgery is over. The recovery period now begins.
2:30 am - I was up and awake. Could not fall back asleep. The Tingster is snoozing like a baby next to me in my bed. I toss and turn, and finally turn on the bedside light and try to read a mind-numbing Harlequin romance. It usually knocks me out after just 2-3 pages. This entire week, however, nothing could put me to sleep. So I watch some telly until it's time to get up and get ready.
4 am - I tiptoe downstairs, turn on the laptop, and answer some emails for work that came in from Asia / Europe overnight. At least it takes my mind off of things.
4:45 am - I go back upstairs to get ready for the day.
5:15 am - I wake up the Tingster. She is grumpy, as usual. I tell her it's the day for her surgery and she leaps out of bed in a single bound. Crazy kid. Albino is awake as well and he helps to dress her.
5:30 am - I head downstairs with the Tingster. Albino puts our stuff in the car while TingTing dances around as if she's going to a party.
5:40 am - We leave the house. The traffic is non-existent. It should be like this everytime I leave the house.
5:55 am - We pull into the parking garage at the hospital. The Tingster has talked / sang the entire way to the hospital. She talks the entire way from the parking garage to the hospital.
6 am - We check in at patient registration. There are already other patients there, waiting to be called to register. We take a seat and wait.
6:20 am - The Tingster has a bloody nose. We rush to the bathroom and clean it up. Gotta love the dry air in those hospitals.
6:40 am - We are still waiting to be called. I am about to blow my lid. If they were not going to register us until after 6:30 am, why did they tell us to show up at 6 am? I had to drag a kid out of bed at 5:15 in the morning so we could sit and wait for 45 minutes? Unbelievable.
6:45 am - We are finally called to register. The process takes no more than 10 minutes. We are directed to the surgical waiting area.
6:55 am - We arrive at the surgical waiting area, and in less than two minutes, a nurse comes out and calls us to the back. This is time. No turning back.
7 am - We are taken to the holding area in the surgical section and shown into a little "room". TingTing sits in the big, patient chair and I stand next to her. Then the line of visitors commences. First was an anasthesiologist, who explains what they will do. Then comes another anasthesiologist, the one who will actually be in the room with the Tingster. He explains that they will try to administer the anasthesia via mask first, but if that doesn't work (since she's a kid and may not be able to breathe properly via the mask), they'll then need to administer it intravenously. He tells the Tingster that if the mask doesn't work, he will put some "magic lotion" on her arm that will numb any feeling in that area, and then stick a needle in her. He assures her the "magic lotion" will not allow her to feel any pain. She is intrigued. He then leaves and an orderly shows up with the Tingster's gown and some red socks for her feet so they stay warm. I help her change.
7:15 am - The anasthesiologist returns with a cherry-scented anastehsia mask for the Tingster to try out. If she can breathe properly through that contraption, then there is no need for the "magic lotion" and no need for the needle. The Tingster takes one sniff of the mask and falls in love. I spend the next 30 minutes trying to dissuade her from getting high on the cherry scent emanating from the mask.
7:20 am - The physician's assistant shows up and goes over certain procedures with us. After that, the RN who will be in the operating room with the Tingster comes and introduces herself. I think a third anasthesiologist also shows up there somewhere, but I can't be sure. I met so many people that morning, and they all looked the same, what with their scrubs and caps and booties on. I would not be able to recognize them in their street clothes at all.
7:30 am - Dr. Bennett, the man of the hour, shows up. He goes over the procedure with us, marks the Tingster's foot, and answers some questions. This is it. The RN returns with a white jumpsuit for me and some booties. We are ready to go.
7:45 am - The anasthesiologist and the RN escort the Tingster and me to Operating Room #11. We walk down several corridors, past other O.R.s. I can see through the windows on the doors at the ongoing surgeries. There are quite a few doctors and nurses standing in the corridor, chatting or taking care of work. When they see the Tingster coming down the hall, in her gown, her cap and red socks, they all ooh and ahh and fawn over her. You'd think the Queen of England was there.
7:50 am - We enter the Operating Room. It is HUGE. There are about six people in there, waiting for us, including Dr. Bennett, who was doing something on the computer (playing solitaire?). They all welcome the Tingster with cheer and gusto, like she was a hero returning from war. They walk her over to the O.R. table, and that's when she shows the first sign of hesitation all day. The table is surrounded by tons of equipment - most of them flashing or beeping -- and it is very high up. The anasthesiologist picks her up, talking to her the entire time. They place her in a sitting position on the table and wrap a warm blanket around her immediately. She doesn't look scared, but interested in everything that is going on around her. Everyone is talking to her and so she feels as if she is among friends, I guess. Once she is comfortable in that position, the doctor encourages her to lie down and place her head on a little doughnut-shaped pillow. She does so with no problem. I then hold her hand as they slowly place the mask over her nose and mouth. I kiss her and tell her that I love her very much. She takes a few deep breaths, and she is out. I promptly burst into tears. The RN leads me out of the room. I go back to the holding area and change out of the white jumpsuit and go back out to the surgical waiting area.
8 am - Albino is there to meet me. I want to sit and wait, but he insists we go and have some breakfast at the cafeteria. So we go. It is a good idea, since we talk and I feel more relaxed.
8:40 am - We return to the surgical waiting area. I try to read some magazines, but they are all really lame. Besides, our minds were on other things ...
9:35 am - I start to panic. Dr. Bennett has said the surgery would take 90 minutes at the most if all went well. It was already 90 minutes. Does this mean there were complications? I start to pace.
9:45 am - Albino starts to freak out as well, although he is more subtle than I am.
9:55 am - Dr. Bennett emerges and he looks calm and collected. We both breathe sighs of relief. He explains what he did -- He made three incisions in the Tingster's right foot: one on the outside of the back of her foot to scrape at the soft tissue and reshape to how it's supposed to be; another in her heel to cut away at tendons since they were so tight and were limiting mobility; and the last one in her instep, where he inserted a screw that will hold the newly shaped foot in place for the next three months. Ouch, ouch and triple ouch. Dr. Bennett tells us everything went well and she is currently in a recovery room. She is still out, but a nurse will come to get us and take us back soon. We thank him profusely - I fight a ridiculous feeling to grab his neck and give him a big ol' sloppy smooch on his cheek.
10 am - A nurse comes out and beckons us to follow him. During the pre-op interview, they had told us only one parent could be with her in the recovery room. But the nurse lets both of us back there. Albino is very happy.
10:02 am - We see the Tingster, lying in her bed, tubes sticking out of her, a giant dressing on her right foot, hair all wild and crazy on her pillow. But she looks peaceful, and we are so ecstatic to see her. She is sleeping peacefully. We are told that she will come out of anasthesia in about one hour. We prepare to wait with no complaints.
10:15 am - The Tingster opens her eyes. She takes a couple of weary looks around. Albino and I greet her with enthusiasm. She promptly grunts and flips the blanket over her head and goes back to sleep. Yup, the same old TingTing!
10:20-10:50 am - The Tingster continues to open and close her eyes periodically. When she talks for the first time, her words are: "My foot hurts!" She is thirsty, and her breath is horrible, so the nurse gets some juice for her, which she sips through a straw and keeps down with no problem. She continues to complain about her foot, so the nurse calls. Dr. Bennett and he orders 1 mg of morphine for her. During this time, the anasthesiologist stops by twice to check on her. The first time, he produces a tiny Tupperware-like container that contains the Tingster's loose tooth (bottom front tooth). It was extremely wiggly and they had pulled it to prevent her from accidentally swallowing it during surgery. Not only is the tooth inside the container, but the anasthesiologist had also inserted two dollar bills, courtesy of the "Tooth Fairy" (wink wink). He is a super nice guy and I hope we see him again for the Tingster's surgery on her left foot in March. Dr. Bennett also stops by a few times to see how she is doing. By 10:45 am, she is pretty much completely awake and stable, and the nurse calls the pediatric ward to arrange a room for her.
10:55 am - We wheel the Tingster to her room in the pediatric ward. The surgery is over. The recovery period now begins.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Leg Rests, Schmeg Rests
Who are the idiots that they hire at the Alexandria, VA branch of Apria Healthcare anyway? Did they all happen to be absent the day they taught the days of week in kindergarten, or perhaps they were all out sick when they taught the meaning of "tomorrow" and "next week" in preschool.
So we faxed the doctor's prescription for the Tingster's walker and wheelchair to Apria last Wednesday morning. Around noon, someone called me from the Alexandria branch and cheerfully told me that everything was ready to go and we could stop by and pick up the walker and wheelchair that very afternoon. I told her that my husband would be there on Thursday and she said that was not a problem.
So hubby drives all the way to Alexandra on Thursday and, yes, the walker is ready and available, but the wheelchair was only 80 percent ready. The leg rests were not in stock, apparently. Just a tiny detail, don't you think? So they told him to return on Friday and they will have everything ready then.
Friday just happens to be the day of the Tingster's surgery. So once we saw her into her private room after the operation, hubby drove all the way down to Alexandra again to get these leg rests. Guess what? They still were not ready. Apparently, "tomorrow" was not the operative word they should have used on Thursday when telling him when they would be ready. "Next week" would probably have been a better choice. So, they gave him a bigger wheelchair and said we could use that in the meantime, and the leg rests would definitely be ready by Monday.
So, yesterday was Monday. And if you have half a brain cell (and if you work at Apria, that would not include you), you would know by now that the leg rests still were not ready by Monday. They told hubby everything would be ready for pick-up after 2 pm. Really? Are they sure about that? I ended up calling headquarters to complain, who transferred my message to the region vice president, who called me at work and said the leg rests will be available on Tuesday. You've got to be kidding me. What happened to "after 2 pm"?
Well, we can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Apria called this morning and said the leg rests are on the delivery truck and will arrive at our house between 5-6:30 pm. Of course, that time slot has not yet arrived, so we shall see if these leg rests will indeed be a part of our family by 7 pm tonight. Don't hold your breath ...
So we faxed the doctor's prescription for the Tingster's walker and wheelchair to Apria last Wednesday morning. Around noon, someone called me from the Alexandria branch and cheerfully told me that everything was ready to go and we could stop by and pick up the walker and wheelchair that very afternoon. I told her that my husband would be there on Thursday and she said that was not a problem.
So hubby drives all the way to Alexandra on Thursday and, yes, the walker is ready and available, but the wheelchair was only 80 percent ready. The leg rests were not in stock, apparently. Just a tiny detail, don't you think? So they told him to return on Friday and they will have everything ready then.
Friday just happens to be the day of the Tingster's surgery. So once we saw her into her private room after the operation, hubby drove all the way down to Alexandra again to get these leg rests. Guess what? They still were not ready. Apparently, "tomorrow" was not the operative word they should have used on Thursday when telling him when they would be ready. "Next week" would probably have been a better choice. So, they gave him a bigger wheelchair and said we could use that in the meantime, and the leg rests would definitely be ready by Monday.
So, yesterday was Monday. And if you have half a brain cell (and if you work at Apria, that would not include you), you would know by now that the leg rests still were not ready by Monday. They told hubby everything would be ready for pick-up after 2 pm. Really? Are they sure about that? I ended up calling headquarters to complain, who transferred my message to the region vice president, who called me at work and said the leg rests will be available on Tuesday. You've got to be kidding me. What happened to "after 2 pm"?
Well, we can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Apria called this morning and said the leg rests are on the delivery truck and will arrive at our house between 5-6:30 pm. Of course, that time slot has not yet arrived, so we shall see if these leg rests will indeed be a part of our family by 7 pm tonight. Don't hold your breath ...
Friday, December 12, 2008
Surgery, Schmurgery
The Tingster's surgery was today, and all went well. More details to come, but thought I'd post some pictures in the meantime ...
In Room #318 of the Pediatric Ward, after the surgery (with cold toes)
Her mouth is green from a lime-flavored popsicle - first treat after the surgery
No more vertical talus in the right foot!
In the registration area, bright and early at 6 am
In the holding area, in her hospital gown and bright red socks
Cherry-scented anasthesia mask
Cherry-scented anasthesia mask
Ready to go!
In Room #318 of the Pediatric Ward, after the surgery (with cold toes)
Her mouth is green from a lime-flavored popsicle - first treat after the surgery
No more vertical talus in the right foot!
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Fast, Schmast
TingTing is not allowed to eat after midnight tonight - 7 1/2 hours before her surgery. I passed along this little tidbit of information to her the other night, and she freaked. OK, I didn't mean that she could not eat starting at midnight on Tuesday, but no matter. She still freaked. And proceeded to wolf down her dinner with maniac gusto. OK, if you eat faster, that does not mean you can eat more. But what's logic to a ravenous 6-year-old?
And to drive her point home on just what she thinks of this forced fast, she decided to eat everything on her plate. And I mean everything ...
She looks mighty proud of herself, doesn't she?
Boo-Boo, Schmoo-Boo
The Tingster has asked if she can bring a "lovey" with her to the hospital. During the pre-op interview on Tuesday, I asked the nurse if such an item were allowed, and she said they actually encourage them. Apparently, hanging out in the holding area can be quite the traumatic experience; thus, they allow loveys so that children are less scared as they have something familiar to cuddle with / hold while waiting.
So the Tingster's favorite lovey is her beloved Boo-Boo. In its heyday, it used to be a hospital blanket -- you know, the white with the light blue / pink stripes that you see in the maternity wards. In the past six years, this blanket has deteriorated to a point beyond recognitition, even if you squint really, really hard and have the most fanciful imagination known to man. Its condition indirectly correlates with the amount of love / attention it receives - the more delapidated it gets, the more it is loved. And the more it is loved, the more delapidated it gets. Thus, a vicious cycle, never to end.
The Boo-Boo looks tired. And aged. It looks as if it has given up on life and is just dragging, limping to the finish line. It has nothing to live for, except for the never-ending love and unwanted and too-ardent attention from a 6-year-old who doesn't know whether to treat it like a blanket or a pacifier or a weapon against mankind (mostly her sister and the dog).
You get the picture. But, if not, then here are some to enlighten you as to the appearance and condition of the beloved Boo-Boo:
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Walker, Schmalker
Hey, hey - I talked with the customer service people at Apria today and the Tingster's wheelchair and walker are all set. Insurance covers 100 percent -- woo-hoo! The wheelchair is a rental - we can keep that as long as necessary. We will be buying the walker, which will be used again in the spring when she has surgery on her left foot.
So I think that's it in terms of administrative stuff and preparation. The hospital knows she's arriving at 6 am on Friday, the wheelchair and walker will be picked up tomorrow in Alexandria, and the doctor is sharpening his scalpel as we speak. T-minus 40 hours and counting ...
So I think that's it in terms of administrative stuff and preparation. The hospital knows she's arriving at 6 am on Friday, the wheelchair and walker will be picked up tomorrow in Alexandria, and the doctor is sharpening his scalpel as we speak. T-minus 40 hours and counting ...
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Feet, Schmeet
I know there are some of you out there who are thinking to yourselves, "Geez, what's up with Linda and her husband? Are they blind or dumb or both? How could they have missed this condition in their daughter's feet?" Or maybe you're not thinking that at all. Instead, you may be wondering under what rock Ben Affleck has been hiding lately, or why Christina Aguillera went back to her slutty-clothes ways after having her baby, or whether Brittney has grown all of her hair back by now or is she still relying on extensions. I don't know the answer to those intoxicating questions, but I can address the issue of the Tingster's feet.
Exhibit 4: No feet in this picture, but I just love it. It really highlights the Tingster's personality.
Okay, now it's time for Exhibits 5-8. This is apparently what we missed all along. Close-up shots of the Tingster's feet. Check out how her feet tilt inward in the instep. That's the talus pushing straight down into the feet, apparently, since it's not angled correct. And notice the lack of an arch even when she's on tippy toes. Her feet are already quite stiff, according to the doctor, and she can't push off while on tippy toes very well. The weight distribution when standing on her two feet is also completely off, due to the misplacement of the talus.
Exhibits 1-3: Pictures of the Tingster's bare feet. Granted, she looks somewhat flat-footed in the second picture, but otherwise, all appear to be fairly normal. Her feet definitely do not take on that "rocker bottom" appearance so prevalent in newborns with congenital vertical talus. In other words, her feet look normal, not deformed. So we were never really concerned, thinking that she will just outgrow the flat feet condition when she's older. Little did we know ... (Hint: To view larger images, just click on the pictures.)
Check out this picture - her feet look just like her sister's feet, and her sister does not have this condition at all (we also dragged her to see the orthopaedic surgeon, just in case):
Exhibit 4: No feet in this picture, but I just love it. It really highlights the Tingster's personality.
Okay, now it's time for Exhibits 5-8. This is apparently what we missed all along. Close-up shots of the Tingster's feet. Check out how her feet tilt inward in the instep. That's the talus pushing straight down into the feet, apparently, since it's not angled correct. And notice the lack of an arch even when she's on tippy toes. Her feet are already quite stiff, according to the doctor, and she can't push off while on tippy toes very well. The weight distribution when standing on her two feet is also completely off, due to the misplacement of the talus.
Pre-op, Schme-op (Part Two)
OK, so Cindy from Dr. Bennett's office called and gave us some more specifics. Yes, the Tingster will have to spend the night in the hospital. I guess at first, they were labeling her procedure as "out patient," and they would then decide after the surgery whether or not she needed to stay in the hospital. But, considering her age, they have gone ahead and labeled her as "23-hour observation," just to be safe. So she will definitely be spending the night, and I'll be there with her. Hopefully, we'll be able to check out by 9-10 am the following morning.
Dr. Benett also prepared the prescriptions for the Tingster's wheelchair and her pediatric walker, and Cindy was kind enough to fax everything to Dominion Medical Equipment, Inc. of Chantilly, VA. and they may be able to deliver everything to our house before Friday.
So it looks like we are all set. T-minus three days and counting ...
Dr. Benett also prepared the prescriptions for the Tingster's wheelchair and her pediatric walker, and Cindy was kind enough to fax everything to Dominion Medical Equipment, Inc. of Chantilly, VA. and they may be able to deliver everything to our house before Friday.
So it looks like we are all set. T-minus three days and counting ...
Pre-op, Schme-op
We had the pre-op interview with an operating room nurse this morning. Short and sweet. That's the interview, not the nurse -- actually, she was very sweet, but I have no clue about her height since she had called me on the phone.
So anyway, we are all set for this Friday. We have to be at the hospital at 6 am. Which means we have to leave the house around 5:40 am. Which means I have to get her out of bed around 5:15 am. Which means the screaming may commence earlier than the surgery itself.
We'll check in at registration, and then they'll take us to the holding area. Sue (the nurse) told us that if TingTing wants to, they can wheel her back in a little red wagon. So does that mean some hot, studly hunka-hunka burning love will carry me back to the holding area? No? Oh well.
Once we get to the holding area (I am picturing a pen filled with animals ready for slaughter, or the room where they book prisoners and hand out those orange jumpsuits), they will prep her for the surgery, and the orthopaedic surgeon and the anathesiologist will come speak with me. And then they'll wheel her in. I am guessing the little red wagon will be out of the picture by then. And that's when I will begin my pacing and worrying (actually, the worrying has already started) and talking to myself (that actually has also already started, way back in 1978) and random bouts of freaking out.
The surgery is expected to last about two hours. But it depends on what they find. If all the doctor needs to do is the soft-tissue reconstruction, then two hours it is. However, if a bone fusion is required, then it may last longer.
After that, they will wheel her to the recovery room, and the doctor will come out and speak with me. Once she starts to wake up from the anasthesia, they will let me into the recovery room to be with her. They don't anticipate her staying in the hospital for more than one night, if at all, and she should be ready to go home the following morning at the latest.
And then the real fun begins ...
So anyway, we are all set for this Friday. We have to be at the hospital at 6 am. Which means we have to leave the house around 5:40 am. Which means I have to get her out of bed around 5:15 am. Which means the screaming may commence earlier than the surgery itself.
We'll check in at registration, and then they'll take us to the holding area. Sue (the nurse) told us that if TingTing wants to, they can wheel her back in a little red wagon. So does that mean some hot, studly hunka-hunka burning love will carry me back to the holding area? No? Oh well.
Once we get to the holding area (I am picturing a pen filled with animals ready for slaughter, or the room where they book prisoners and hand out those orange jumpsuits), they will prep her for the surgery, and the orthopaedic surgeon and the anathesiologist will come speak with me. And then they'll wheel her in. I am guessing the little red wagon will be out of the picture by then. And that's when I will begin my pacing and worrying (actually, the worrying has already started) and talking to myself (that actually has also already started, way back in 1978) and random bouts of freaking out.
The surgery is expected to last about two hours. But it depends on what they find. If all the doctor needs to do is the soft-tissue reconstruction, then two hours it is. However, if a bone fusion is required, then it may last longer.
After that, they will wheel her to the recovery room, and the doctor will come out and speak with me. Once she starts to wake up from the anasthesia, they will let me into the recovery room to be with her. They don't anticipate her staying in the hospital for more than one night, if at all, and she should be ready to go home the following morning at the latest.
And then the real fun begins ...
Monday, December 8, 2008
Girly, Schmirly
So the Tingster and I spent Saturday afternoon at Fair Oaks Mall, doing all the things girly-girls love to do. Maybe too many girly-girl things. Hell, even I was getting a bit nauseated at how feminine the shopping trip was turning out to be.
Her fingernails
Close-up shot of the design on her nails (what's with that bubble-like thing on her nail?)
First stop, Cartoon Cuts, where she got a trim and wanted her hair styled with the ends flipped out. Next stop, Gymboree, for dresses and hair bows and ribbons. Then, the nail salon, where she had her nails painted a funky shade of bluish lavender and asked the technician to put a "heart design" on her nails. Where she gets these ideas, I have no clue. I guess her fingernails were too small to paint on hearts, so the technician added some swirly design in white instead. She loved it. Then it was off to get gelatto. Which she promptly dropped all over the floor at CVS, so I had to buy a small tube of mini-M&Ms to stop the sniffles from progressing into a full-blown wail. Then we hit Borders Books, where she proceeded to read every Dora and Disney Princess book that was placed low enough for her to reach, while I re-read The Best / Worst Christmas Pageant Ever. Do you remember that book from your elementary school days? I loved it, and this time, as an adult, it was just as funny, if not more so. Or maybe because a day spent with a 6-year-old, filled with inane conversations about dresses and hair ribbons, really did a number on my brain cells.
Anyway, here are some pics:
Her fingernails
Close-up shot of the design on her nails (what's with that bubble-like thing on her nail?)
In one of her new outfits, by our Christmas tree, which looks really small and pathetic in this picture
Friday, December 5, 2008
Priorities, Schmiorities
So the surgery is scheduled for next Friday, December 12. Which means that this weekend is the last weekend she will be able to walk, run, jump, skip, kick (her sister), etc. So I told her that this weekend is all about HER (what else is new) and we will do whatever she wants to do. I expected her to say something like "I wanna go to Chuck-E-Cheese!" and was all prepared to do battle with the BO that seems to permeate any and all Chuck-E-Cheese location we've ever been to (and I've been to two, so that makes me an expert). Instead, she replied, "I want to go get my haircut, I want to go get my toenails painted at the salon, I want to buy new bows for my hair, I want to buy new dresses for the winter." I hope she realizes that she's going to have surgery next weekend, not attend a cotillion where she will be presented by her father to society as a possible mate for other families' sons. Or maybe she does know that she's going to have surgery, but I just have to tell her that the odds of her meeting a cute 7-year-old boy in the hospital are pretty much next to nil, so why the need for a mini-makeover beforehand. Or maybe she just wants to look nice, and if so, who the hell am I to fault her for that?
Pictures, Schmictures
No, we are not having surgery to remove the sippy cup attached to her ankle. Don't be a smart ass.
Background, Schmackground
WHO: Gabriela, aka Ting-Ting, aka Belinha, aka Fatso Spaghettio. Or, as she calls herself, Gabriela An-Ting Huang-Queiroz Ting-Ting Bela. Six years old, going on hormonal. Half Chinese, half Portuguese, half pissed off. First grader at Oak Hill Christian School. Can read at third-grade level. Does math at second grade level. Plays a mean game of checkers (sometimes the "mean" describes her reaction if she loses). Plays the piano with little interest and some skill. Dances ballet with no grace but much gusto. Thinks the world of her mother, loves her father to pieces, tolerates the dog, and adores her older sister. Hobbies -- whining, telling other people what to do, calling other kids bossy (do you see the irony?), talking to stuffed animals, singing off-key, giving the best hugs and kisses in the world.
WHAT: She will be undergoing surgery to correct the condition "congenital vertical talus" in both feet. First operation is scheduled for 7:30 am, Friday, December 12, for her right foot. She'll be in the hospital for at least one night, and then the recovery period begins: 6-8 weeks in a wheelchair, 3-4 weeks in a walker. Once her right foot has completely healed, we repeat with left foot. Goal - To be finished by summer 2009 so she can go swimming and run around like a crazy maniac again.
WHY: If we don't operate, she may walk with a limp or become immobile later on in life.
WHERE: Reston Hospital Center, Reston, VA. If you live within a 10-mile radius, you may hear her screaming 1) when she receives the shot for the anasthesia and 2) when she wakes up from the surgery. Best of luck to you all.
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