Why Extroverts Hate The Flu

I guess everyone hates the flu, really. Except maybe people with Hypochondria or Munchausen By Proxy. For the rest of us it's a drag. And I've never been an introvert, but I would guess that it's harder for us extroverts. 

Thank God for my mom keeping The Boy today. He's on steroids for wheezing, and he is hyped up like a spider monkey. She has the patience of Job. I went to the doctor, got the flu stick shoved up to my brain, got my meds, cancelled my clients, and came home and crashed. I have been coughing constantly, my throat is raw, I have congestion off the chain, and my muscles hurt. But it wasn't until the "flu" word came out that I really felt bad. Validation or power of suggestion?

Exaggeration. I don't actually look this good when I have the flu. 

Now I can't go to Thanksgiving tomorrow, and you'll remember from last year we cram a lot into our holidays.  Mostly I'm disappointed to miss sweet potato souffle. And peanut butter balls. And pie. Oh, and family. Of course.

Back to today. I came home and took a nap. Then I was awake. And alone. And it was nice to just lie there with no responsibility and no pressure. For about 5 minutes. Then I was bored. I caught up on The Daily Show. And then I called The Husband, who was kindly leaving work early. Hooray! I anxiously awaited for his arrival, knowing he could fix me some lunch and a drink and provide me some company. So sweet. He came home, came to the door to my room, and asked how I was feeling. I told him I was okay. Before I could even ask for lunch, he shut the door and yelled to me from the hall "you're quarantined!"

Oh, I forgot to tell you The Husband is a nut about germs. I wouldn't be surprised if he was out there in the hall with a can of Lysol in his hands. "Please!" I begged through the door "could you fix me a scrap to eat?"

He did, but held it at arm's distance and placed it at the foot of the bed. It was clear that I wasn't going to get any company. "Hang out with me?" I called to him. "I'm disinfecting" he said. He went to the store to get me some flu supplies and went to get The Boy. I don't know how single parents do it. 

He came back, and came to the door. "Hon", he said to me gently, "we're going to go stay at my mom's tonight....So you can get some rest." 

He brought The Boy to the door. 

"You sick mama?"

"Yes, buddy. Did you have a good day?"

"Yep. I have fun at Pammie's house."

He waved goodbye to me and was happy to go to his Bebe's to play with 'inja turtles. The Husband offered to fix me some dinner. They left. 

I was alone. With no prospect of seeing people for a while. I don't mind being alone, if I get to choose it and I get to choose when it ends. Plus, this was bor-ing. And I was restless. It's not that I'm afraid to be with my thoughts (although I do feel like I have a surplus sometimes), but I need people to recharge. I need to interact with others and say things out loud and hear people laugh. I need to connect. If I were an introvert, this alone time might be just what I needed to feel better, to recharge. I am no introvert. Do they really enjoy this? I needed to be preparing food for a ton of people this weekend. I needed to be chatting with my husband about if The Boy on steroids will sit still long enough to eat tomorrow. 

And now my family is gone, and no one can visit because I'm contagious. I'm in a weird flu purgatory of feeling bad and being contagious but being alert enough to be bored and want some interaction. 

So I watched some tv. I looked at pinterest all the way to the end. That's right, I finished every pin on pinterest. I checked out facebook. I made it to the bathroom and took a steam bath. I checked out the Momastery blog. I love Glennon's blog (I don't actually know her, I just feel like we're on a first name basis) and feel like it's really positive. Usually I wish I had more time to myself to just read blogs. Today all I had was time, and I wanted people. I texted my mom, who is an introvert. She was with my sister, an extrovert. 

My sister is an extrovert like me. We're also talkers. I'd dare say she even talks more than me. When we get together and get on a roll we feed off each other and CANNOT stop laughing. She gets me. 

She was referring to this. These are silly, but there are frustrating things about being an extrovert. Like when you're quarantined. Back to that. 

The minutes ticked by. Would I make it? I tossed and turned. I missed people. I missed my family. I could never make it in solitary confinement. I'd be more likely to start a therapeutic group in prison, where we all process our feelings. If I'm ever kidnapped, I'll probably confess anything I know just to get to have a conversation. I started thinking about my great grandmother Maggie who fell ill when my granddaddy was young and had to stay in a TB sanitarium for 3 months. Her family was only able to visit once a month. How did she do it? I'd go crazy. I tried to channel her strength. Maybe I was going crazy. It was already setting in. My brain was turning on itself. 

My family had been gone an hour.  It's going to be a long night. 

So, needing to reach out, I turned to you, my friends. To tell you how I need people. Thank you for being my people. May you have a happy Thanksgiving. Tomorrow I will reflect on just how thankful I am for the people in my life, for the connections and conversations that keep me going. 

And, if none of this makes sense, please know I am heavily medicated. 

The Nose Knows

I don't think I've told you, dear readers, that my arm has been in a sling for almost two weeks. I have a shoulder injury that isn't healing because I keep using it, so I'm in a sling to force it to rest and heal. Now certainly this in no way compares to people with lifelong disabilities. I'm grateful it's temporary as it has made my regular routines a little trickier. I have one regular arm, which The Boy is often in, and one arm pinned to my chest so I can only use the hand but not the arm. I can't complain, but I feel a little like a T-Rex on that side.

I hold The Boy on my hip and use my T-Rex arm to hold his diaper bag. That's fine as long as I don't need to do anything else, like laundry or cooking or cleaning or errands. Getting in and out of the car seat is particularly challenging, and God forbid I need to carry a purchase out of a store. It's made me quite thankful for my two arms that work normally the rest of the time.

On Friday we were getting ready for a busy wedding weekend. The Boy and I had to run some errands before I went to work, and I had to get all our stuff ready for the rehearsal dinner because his Pammie was going to bring him there to meet us. I needed about 5 minutes to make sure we had everything and load the car. I put The Boy, now 20 months, in his high chair with his color wonder paper and markers so that I could get all our stuff together. He was in my sight but I wasn't watching him closely.


I was packing snacks in his bag when I heard him crying. I went to him after I finished what I was doing immediately.
"Uh oh!" he cried, in a panic. "Draw!"
Me: Yep, you're drawing! Can you color the car? (Why was he crying about this?)
The Boy: Uh oh! Draw!
Me: What happened?
The Boy: (panic escalating) UH OH! DRAW! He was pointing to his nose. Did he draw on his nose?
I noticed he had bitten off the end of one of his markers. Awesome. I made a note not to leave him unsupervised with these anymore.
The Boy: UH OH! DRAW!! NOSE!! He cried.

That's when it hit me. Not only did he bite off the end of his marker, he shoved it up his nose. He was screaming. "UH OH! NOSE!!" I could see the marker up in his nose. I grabbed a wipe and tried to get him to blow his nose but nothing happened. He was in full on panic mode, screaming. I grabbed his nose and squished it like I was milking a cow (I have never milked a cow) but nothing happened.

I called the pediatrician's office.
Office: Hello, Martin and Martin?
Me: Hey. It's Leigh Ellen. The Boy has stuck something up his nose, what do you suggest for that?
Office: Hold on, let me get the nurse.
Nurse Brandy: Hey, it's Brandy (Can you tell they know us there?) Is it hurting him?
The Boy: NOOOOOOSSSSSSE! UH OH!
Me: I'd say so. He's screaming.
Brandy: And what is it that's up there?
Me: The end of a marker that he bit off.
Brandy: You're going to need to go to the ER.
Me: No.
Brandy: Yes.
Me: Are you kidding me?  UH OH NOSE DRAW UH OH!
Brandy: Nope. If you try to get it out you're going to shove it further up there. It can damage his little nose, and they have a special tool to dig in there and get it out without damaging him. You can try urgent care, but I'm not sure they have it. I'd call ahead first. NOOOSSSSE!
Me: (Getting louder over the screaming) SIGH. OKAY. THANKS, BRANDY!
Brandy: Call us anytime.
Me: You know I do.

I hung up from Brandy and knelt back down to look up The Boy's snotty nose. He was pacing and crying. "NOSE!" I tried to comfort him. "It's okay, buddy. We're going to get it out of your nose." I talked him into putting his jacket on, and used my one good arm to help him. I picked up his diaper bag with my T-Rex arm and grabbed the keys. Though I dreaded the prospect of someone having to hold him down and fish up his nose, I was strangely calm. I gave him a hug and we headed out the door. As we got just onto the porch he stopped. I looked down at him just as he sneezed the best sneeze I've ever heard. The marker tip shot out like a Romanian from a circus cannon. Hooray!!

The Boy cried. NOSE! I'm sure it hurt, but I was rejoicing. "Oh Buddy!", I said "You just saved us half a day and $100 at the ER! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!" After that I gave him a lecture (yes, they're great and effective for one year olds) about not putting anything up his nose. "No no, nose" he said, as though his nose had done it.

I called The Husband and told him the saga, right up until the part Brandy said we needed to go to the ER. Then I waited for his response. When he asked me which ER we were headed to so he could meet us, I threw in the sneeze at the last minute. After all, if I had to experience all the trauma and drama, he could have just an ounce of it.

I didn't take a picture of the trauma, so instead I'm giving you one from when he ate crayon tonight. You think we'd start supervising his art projects, huh?

Jaws 2.0

On Tuesday I had to go back to Emory for my 3 month post-op check up. If you don't know what I'm talking about see this post to get caught up. Since it was my day off, I had The Boy with me. My last check up one month out was easy breezy, in and out. My Australian doctor even told me I had dark and mysterious eyes. I thought this one would be the same. It was not.

When I got there, they couldn't find me in the computer. I spelled my names for them multiple times, and when they told me I wasn't in the system I produced my last bill that said I owed them $162 to ensure them I was. Oh look, they found me. But then they said I didn't have an appointment. I told them "Val" called me to remind me yesterday. Hmmm. They said. The Boy was in his stroller observing everyone in the waiting room while this was happening. He likes to look around and around until someone falls prey and makes eye contact with him. Then he bats his eyes and grins shamelessly until they leave or something more interesting happens. They told me they'd "work me in." Oh H No. This was not good.

We sat and waited. And waited.  Eventually he signed to me "all done", indicating he wanted to run loose like a wild rabid raccoon. He ran in circles in the waiting room. He sucked on the windows to the hallway. He banged on the door to the office. He "jumped" up and down yelling "bump! bump!" He tried to climb on the free standing hand sanitizer stand. He stood inches from other patients and stared at them until they were forced to look at him. I'm a professional in the child development field, so I know it is not appropriate to ask a 15 month old to sit quietly for long stretches of time. Or ever. However, I am also an actual human, so I also know it is not appropriate to let your child do these things for extended periods of time. A nurse came out and told me it'd be another 15-20 minutes. I told her we were going down the hall to neurology to look at their fish tank.

When we came back a cute young resident was looking for us. I loaded The Boy back in his stroller and the cute resident held the door open for us and we followed him down the hall. He talked to The Boy and asked his age and name. We liked him. He asked me to stop in front of an office door and got a young female employee's attention just to look at The Boy. She oohed and ahhed and The Boy gave her a half smile. Cute resident took us to a room, where we waited. The young girl came by to see The Boy again. And we waited.

The Boy wore his tie to our appointment. He's very formal.

An hour and a half after we got there, the Australian came in to see me. By this point we were well beyond the point of no return. My bag of tricks was used up and we were past paper cups and latex gloves for entertainment. I'd even gone through the secret weapon bag of marshmallows I brought. The Boy was not even impressed with the doc's accent. He mostly rared his body back in a shrimp position and screamed.

Dr Aussie: Hel-lo. You brought the faml'y for suppoyt I see. D'ya think he cou'd sit in his chaya for a few minutes moor while we do the exam?
Me: I don't know. He's been waiting for a long time. I think we're past the point of no return.
Dr. Aussie: Alright then, letsee if he can sit with you in this chaya then?
Me: Okay. (He wasn't happy in the chair)
Dr. Aussie: Alriyght, if we need to we can go get one ov the nusses to help. Theya bedda with children than Iyam.
Me: Okay.
Dr. Aussie: Open yoor mouth until it's kompfable. Joost kompfable. Okay. Does this hert? Does this? Any pain heeya? How bout heeya?
(The Boy wasn't having any of this. DONE. Dr. Aussie asked me to hold on a moment. He left the room and came back with a nurse. )
Dr. Aussie: Alriyght, this is Gwen. She's one ov ouwer nusses. Would it be okay if he went with her for a few minutes so we coould continue? (I don't know which one of us was gladder to see this happen. The Boy jumped at the chance to get out of there, the doc was relieved that he could complete the exam, and Gwen looked excited to play with a baby. I was happy to just lay my head back on the 'chaya' and relax for a minute.)

Gwen stood in the doorway with The Boy. She asked if he could walk and I told her no, he could only run. She laughed as if that was a joke and asked if she could let him walk in the hall. When I indicated she could, she let him down and he was gone. Startled, she ran after him.

Dr. Aussie finished the exam. He said the word "jawr" three times. He asked if I've been taking "loortab" for pain. The bottom line is that it has improved some but not much, and I can choose to do another irrigation procedure involving a scope or full fledged "open surgery" which involves him cutting into my face. I'm not sold on either of those, but I'd also like to talk and eat and yawn again so I don't know yet what I'm going to. Also, it depends on if I'll get more laughing gas.

Soon Gwen came back with The Boy. I heard them before I saw them. "Ba-roon. Ba-roon. Ba-roon." He was in her arms, a green helium balloon on a tiny short string in his hand. Mind you this is not a pediatric facility, I don't know where he rustled up a ba-roon but I'm sure it involved batting those eyes again. Gwen said "he saw that balloon and he said balloon over and over again. I hope it's okay." Oh, he said it so you just gave it to him? Yep, that's pretty much exactly how we do things at home. No worries. We thanked Gwen and I loaded up the stroller. The Boy indicated that under no circumstances would he be getting back into it, so I put his bag in the seat and balanced him atop the handle bar, while I held him steady and held his baroon with one hand and steered with the other. We wobbled out of the exam room. As I steered us down the hall, people waved and called to The Boy by name. The Boy had obviously made quite a name for himself during his jaunt at Emory. Even a fellow patient shouted goodbye to us and waved. The Boy called out his farewell "baaa!" with a wave and a grin like he was getting out of jail. The cute resident appeared to open doors for us. We were a one man parade: he the parade master and me the float driver. And this is how it's going to be from now on. I wish I had a picture but I don't have enough hands.

Jaws

A few weeks ago I had a procedure to "irrigate my jaw" at Emory. I've been having TMJ pain since February and it hurts to eat or talk or yawn. Like a koala, eating, talking, and yawning are pretty much how I spend my entire day so this felt like a big deal to me. 

Let me rewind. My office has this big annual Mardi Gras fundraiser which I'm sort of in charge of. It brings in about $10,000 for our agency each year so it's a high pressure night. You may remember this post, which references it. About two weeks before Mardi Gras my jaw started hurting something fierce. I went to my dentist who thought it was stress related night grinding that was causing the TMJ pain. He adjusted my splint which I do not wear at all, ever, and told me to wear it. Done. It didn't help. So he adjusted it again. No better. Four times in two weeks I went to the dentist. He took x-rays, realigned my bite, adjusted my splint. No help. He threw his hands up, perplexed, and referred me to an oral surgeon. 

The oral surgeon looked at my x-rays and sent me for an MRI. I got a sitter. I scheduled an MRI. I laid still in a coffin with piped in jackhammering for 45 minutes while they fancy laser photographed my head. I got a phone call that they forgot some shots and we'd have to do it again. I got a sitter. I scheduled an MRI. I laid still in a coffin with piped in jackhammering for 45 minutes while they fancy laser photographed my head. Again. 

I went back to the oral surgeon. He told me my discs were out in my TMJ joint on both sides. The oral surgeon, who has the words "oral" and "surgeon" right in his name said "I think you should go to Emory and talk to them about oral surgery." He gets paid the big bucks for that. 

I drove an hour and a half to Emory. I waited an hour and a half to see the doctor. I was getting frustrated with all the waiting and I was all caught up on Draw Something when the doctor came in. He was generally unimpressive until he spoke. He was Australian. I love people with accents more than I love black people, so suffice it to say I was impressed. He talked to me for a long time about the pain in my "jarw." I swear to you I had to fight to listen to what he was saying because I was so busy trying to remember how he was pronouncing things. My face said "I'm listening, I understand" but my brain was saying "jarw. jarw. jarw. heeheehee." He said my MRI was "taribble; ACTshually one of the wurst" he'd seen. He told me to "avoiyid chewing or biting hod foods, proloonged tawlkng and kis-sing." My TMJ had nothing to do with the fact that I was drooling: I was in love. In my language-lust stupor I impulsively signed up for a surgical procedure. Oh, and an investigational study with experimental drugs. I drove an hour and a half back home. 

So I went earlier this month to have my jaw irrigated. They take a large needle and inject it into your jaw, lubricate it, add the investigational drug or placebo, and hope that it wiggles your disc back into place, alleviating the pain in your "jarw." The success rate is 50-60%. Thankfully you are put under for this. The nurses tried three times to IV me but my veins kept collapsing. They said they were going to take me in the exam room and give me nitrous oxide to help plump the veins.

I'd never had laughing gas but I LOVED it. Some people think things are funny when they have it. I thought I was hilarious. I was cracking jokes left and right, talking to the nurses and doctors, and picking on a certain Emory resident who was all like "I'm a doctor at Emory and I'm a hot shot, and I use my status to pick up chicks in bars."

 In the exam room the doctor walks in, ready to perform the procedure. They mentioned that I hadn't had an IV. "How many times have they stuck you?" he asks, all Australian like. Hot Shot Resident interrupted to say "just three" as though Emory is in the business of taking 10 attempts at IVing people. Then, Dr. Aussie turned into a medical Gordon Ramsey. "JOST THREE?!" He screamed. Oh, I liked him even better. He turned to a nurse and said "get me a wawm towel, please." She told him they didn't have any warm ones. He said "It's cuwld a microwave! Wet it, wawm it, please!" She complied. Then Dr. Aussie took my arm in his lap and IVed me himself. I said ouch out loud, but it was far away and way too late. He told me I was feeling the medicaytion, I asked him how he knew. "You sound lyke you've hod three shots of whis-kay" he said. 

When I came to, I was in the recovery room. My mom was there and she reported the first thing I said was "that doctor is not as cute as he thinks he is." Yikes! Dr. Aussie walked by and waved. "Yoo said some great stuff in theya" he said as he walked by. NO!

My mom, kind and compassionate as she is, took this opportunity to take blackmail pictures of me in my vulnerable state, where I am apparently pretending to be a robot. Talk about not being as cute as they think they are:

And is my jarw all better now? Nope! I feel some improvement but I think I'm going to have to go back. And next time I'm brushing my hair. 

Baby's First Head Injury

This morning I was taking a shower and The Husband was getting ready while The Boy was in his high chair having breakfast in the kitchen. I heard a loud crash followed by a scream.  I hollered to ask what was going on. I didn't get a response so I started to get out of the shower. I started to pull the curtain open and saw The Boy, still screaming, crawling into the bathroom. 

The Husband was nowhere to be found. I scooped The Boy up and surveyed the situation. Apparently he'd fallen out of the high chair and onto the tile floor. I noticed that the dog wasted no time trying to get his breakfast remains- she was already standing on her hind legs pawing at the high chair's seat. I found The Husband, who was in the other bathroom blow drying his hair. I was in my towel and The Boy was still crying. 

Me: He fell out of his high chair!

Husband: What? How did that happen? 

Me: I don't know, I was in the shower. Didn't you hear me hollering? 

Husband: No. Where did he hit? 

Me: I don't know. I didn't see it. 

Husband: How did you know?

Me: I heard a loud crash and screaming. 

Husband: Oh, buddy. Where was he when you got to him?

Me: I was still in the shower. He was doing a wounded soldier army crawl to get help. It wasn't bad enough that he fell but he had to seek out comfort!!

Husband: We should really start buckling him in. 

Me: Or watching him. I didn't know you were in here with the dryer on.

Husband: That's irrelevant. 

Me: No, it's not. 

Husband (to The Boy): Come see daddy, buddy. 

Me: I don't see a bruise. 

Husband: Buddy, let's see if you can walk. 

(He puts him down and The Boy takes two steps and falls down. This is his normal pattern of walking because he's 11 months old)

Husband: Oh, he's not walking good at all. I think his balance is off. 

Me: He can't walk regularly. 

Husband: But he's not usually this wobbly. 

Me: He just fell out of his high chair! That would be like you falling off the roof. 

Husband: I think we should have him checked out. 

Me: Will you put some clothes on him? I'm going to get back in the shower to at least rinse. 

(I rinsed and got out to help. He'd already calmed down)

Husband: He's doing his tricks and using his limbs fine. 

Me: I don't think anything's broken. 

Husband: Do you want to take him or not? 

Me: I'll text Brett (ER doctor friend) and see what signs to look for. I think he's okay. 

(I texted Brett, along with EMT friends Tyler and Mario in hopes that one of them would respond. Tyler and Brett both responded quickly, and Brett called to check on him an hour later. The consensus was he was fine. They told us what to look out for, and I kept a close eye on him. The Husband called several times from work to check on him. Here's a clip of him walking regularly. It's much like him walking with a concussion.) 

Once we were out of the danger zone I was able to laugh about it.  FIVE HOURS later Mario texted back. Here's what our conversation looked like:

Me (7:45 am) The Boy fell out of the high chair onto the tile. No bruise, no bleeding, and we're not sure where he hit. What do we need to be looking for? 

Mario (12:30): How is he?

Me (12:31): In a coma. Thanks for your quick response. 

Mario (12:31): Me? What about your quick response? If he's in a coma you should be on your knees praying not texting me! 

Poor Boy! He also got his finger stuck in a toy truck, and the paper shredder fell over on his foot. It was a rough day. We felt terrible about his fall, and the fact that he had to seek out his own medical attention. He was like a man calling for a medic on the battlefield. He could have very well been crawling toward the first aid kit when I intercepted him. Thank goodness for medical friends who don't judge. Brett likes to say he's set the parenting bar so low there's nothing you could do that would be below it. We were beyond relieved that we hadn't ruined him. Yet.