We just got home from the hospital!! Looks like little man had a very resistant form of bacteria and went through most if not all of the more widely available antibiotics - none worked. We had to get some underground, rarely used, antibiotic with CDC approval since all the others were no match for our boy's goods. I think it is the only antibiotic in the US arsenal that could save us from alien attack if the aliens come bearing alien bacteria.
All is set now, he's on the mend but will be on additional alien-prevention-crud for about a year.
But most importantly, we were able to escape the mirth and merriment of the clown rounds.
Thanks again to everyone who sent emails and such!!! We will be in touch once we get ourselves back together again.
Have a great Thanksgiving week!!! Here are some more photos of Little M on the Mend.
Sick but still sweet.
David trying to pull the infection out of Little M's head.
I was known as the bra-less woman who roamed the floors at night spraying for clowns.
Looks like we've finally located the right antibiotic for Little M's seemingly indestructable bacteria. Took a few tries, much to our chagrin, but think we have the right thing now. Still day by day, still in the hospital, but he's in a much better mood and adapting to looking like a scene from a sci-fi film. Tomorrow, he has one more draconian medical procedure to determine the anatomical issue that may be causing the vulnerability to infection. I'll be bringing whiskey; for him and us.
More importantly, we've kept the clowns out of the room.
By the way, I don't watch too much Grey's Anatomy, but enough for me to think that all the medical personnel are doing it in the broom closet all the time. They always come in looking disheveled and with a tell-tale glow. I shudder to think how the clowns are involved.
To erase that picture from your mind, here's our little guy hopefully on the mend:
Fast update on the Mr. M kidney infection scare situation of 2008.
We're at the University of Chicago, Comer Children's Hospital. Fever is going up and down and Mr. M is still feeling quite funky, but overall is doing better. He's taking some pedialyte (which is seriously gross) and a bottle of formula here and there. Tubes, monitors, and lasers beams are still being applied all over his body. May have to have surgery to repair underdeveloped bladder that could be causing the vulnerability to kidney infection. Daddy got one smile today; he keeps looking at me like this event is bound to come up in therapy, oh let's say 10 to 20 years from now. Not sure when we're coming home since it's an hour by hour, day by day situation where his fever has to stabilize over a period of time before they can release us. We're not quite there yet, but hopefully by the beginning of the week (Mon or Tues).
Thank you to everyone for your love and support, emails, phone calls, and messages - it is hugely appreciated by all of us. This has been one scary m*ther f*ck888 ride (please see post about my potty mouth below). And a big shout out to Tracy, Jeff and Samuel - Samuel and Mr. M slept next to each other at the care center in Ethiopia and seem to have plotted hospital stays at the same time. As Tracy mentioned, we have to revoke their blackberry privileges so as to unravel the conspiracy to kill us via stress.
Now on a more scary note, Comer Hospital is designed specifically for children. This is why I am more than perplexed by their choice to let clowns loose on the floors. That's right: clowns. They call it Clown Rounds. Two women (we think) are dressed up like hobos, or homeless talking mimes as I like to call them. So far, I have protected Misho from these smiling, psychotic beasts, but they frequent the halls and who knows if they can hear us breathing behind the closed door. I'm trying to get a photo of them to post, while not getting too near them for fear of them sucking out my soul. Clowns? Seriously? Wasn't the spinal tap enough for the little guy. Pray for us.
Hi all - just wanted to give everyone a heads up that our poor little Mishamo was admitted to the hospital today. After many hours of projectile vomiting and a high fever, we took him to the ER. He's okay now but has a complicated kidney infection related to something in his anatomy. For awhile they thought it might be bacterial meningitis - which is a whole load of hell that we didn't even want to think about and almost threw me over the edge. He's still miserable, still throwing up, but it is a diagnosis that is treatable over the next year. He already has the latent TB treatment so this is another load of goodness to throw on top of that. It was horrible today. He had a spinal tap, a tube stuck down his throat into his intestines, an ultrasound, five or six chest and abdomen xrays, and a catheter. With this much poking, prodding, and probing, we might as well have gotten his nipples pierced and a picture of the Ethiopian flag tattooed on his ass. It was horrific.
I wasn't sure who to kill first. What would Claire Huxtable do? Exactly what I did I am confident to say; assert my self loudly yet diplomatically (with a dash of "I'm actually truly crazy" thrown in) when my child is almost in convulsions and no one seems to sense the urgency. It was a nightmare.
It's 1:30am, and I'm home dealing with the dogs for a few hours - David's at the hospital and I'll be back there in a couple of hours or so. Please keep us in your thoughts. It looks like we're out of the woods but will probably be in the hospital for a couple of days.
The house is really quiet and sad without Little M. The dogs can feel it.
It is very possible, very predictable that our son's first word may very well be the F-word. We aren't crude people necessarily, but we do use profanity when and if it is absolutely necessary; which equates to, in this raw city of Chicago, about a dozen times a day. Its a hard world that calls for a hard response.
So, the trick here is to teach our little guy to use profanity as it was meant to be used; wisely, poetically, and only at the right time.
For example, if you are on the playground and some clod womps you on the head to get to your legos, you don't pull out the f-bomb right away. You wait. Quietly. And if he or she does it twice, internal mental negotiations take place. And you may have to pull out the big guns.
Now, I can feel the hard, judgemental gaze of Claire H. over there on the sidebar: "any child of mine that used the f-bomb would find some sort of mom bomb coming right at them." (that is a direct quote from the Cosby show). Obviously, my profanity strategies would not bode well in the Huxtable household, and I'm fearing my muse is quickly turning into my Superego. I can feel her; assessing me from her law degree-ed, I-can-easily-handle-more-than-one-infant, tightly belted high horse.
She's judging me people. I can feel it. What do I do? Ignore it, or continue to have conversations with the Great Claire H in my head until a resolution is reached.
As you can tell by the direction of this entry, I'm sleep deprived. And by the way, Claire Huxtable was from the 80s, so I did break some rules to get her nominated. Bitch.
P.S. - I'm assuming I will receive some hate mail for calling Claire Huxtable the B-word. But, I'm in a mood, and she has been given me some high and mighty looks lately, and it's pissing me off.
Here they are in all their penile glory. Daisy and I are now outnumbered. All three leave the toilet seat up, use aggressive forms of communication, eat meat raw and off the bone, and are emotionally challenged. Don't feel sorry for us; Daisy and I still have our feminine wiles - plus our cycles are in sync so we attack in perfect precision. Here is an example of such an attack:
Miraculously, my son is allowing me to work on the computer (like I actually have a wrench and am working on the motherboard) and update the blog. Soon I will be starting a weekly segment called: WWCHD - What Would Claire Huxtable Do?
I have many scenarios that need reckoning from my new motherly muse. If only I can live up to the task.
With all this Prop 8 bigotrycrapsuckitstuff - time to bring out a song that captures depth, love, and heart. Trying not to get blindly angry, but I'm ready to get all Norma Ray on someone. In the meantime, listen to Hedwig.
Holy god. Claire Huxtable? Seriously people? I'm a maternal embryo here and the majority have chosen the mother of all mothers as my inspiration? Did any of you know that she was actually chosen as the mother of all time by the kings of the universe? http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/4892882/ Not that I'm questioning the poll, but it's clear that most participants don't really know me. I'm lucky to keep a plant moist and motivated.
Dear social worker monitoring the contents of my blog, I make this statement purely in jest - there are many organic and living materials alive in my home, including our beautiful new son. Our plants and dogs will vouch for us.
I'm grateful to the two who went with Lillian Munster (thanks Ariel!!!)since on my most mornings, one could mistake me and my house for the housekeeping strategies and tactics of the Munster family.
Anyway, the poll is open for another 50 minutes. Interesting that no one went for Carol Brady or Edith Bunker. Says alot about the state of the nation(whatever that means). New Misho footage on its way this weekend, but here's a new photo in the meantime:
Alright. Here are the suggestions from you all on a possible maternal deity (from the 70s mind you) for personal worship. Let me know what you think. Feel free to explain your answers in the comments section. And in the meantime, here's a photo of me at my maternal best and Misho appearing rather freaked out by it. As you can see, I need a protege.
Ever seen a look of satisfaction quite like that before? Thank you Obama for helping us catch the elusive Big Foot!
I'm so happy I could squeal. And have been for the last 24 hours. It's starting to hurt.
Despite the look of happiness and balance above, little guy is still on a rather rigorous sleep strike. I have easily aged 5 years since this weekend. It appears that Mr. M does not like it when I tend to my own affairs such as peeing, tooth brushing, showering, sleeping, breathing, or eating the occasional piece of stale bread. I feel like a hostage with Stockholm syndrome. I've chosen to fall in love with my captor to avoid the deep rooted madness that is hovering around my head like a horse fly. Seriously, I never thought I could be brought to the brink of crazy quite like this. I've brought in reinforcements; Nonnie is here and loaded Mr. M up in the carriage and they're off to Guam or somewhere near there. In the meantime, I'm slipping in a quick blog entry, and checking in on poor Ellen Degeneres who must be so friggin pissed that California has proven itself so backward and bigoted. I mean the other half of California that I never met when growing up there. Cruel and unnecessary.
In the meantime, cheers to my sweet sweet crush Obama and a year where I don't feel the urge to say I'm Canadian to seatmates on international flights.
...and while we're at it, vote for the guy I want. The Big O. He is splendiforous. He's a mighty mighty man, whose hand I have had the pleasure to shake. I could go on, but I am going on very little sleep and sanity so my words are few and probably in the wrong order. Mr. M regressed a bit. One too many doctors visits with an unfortunate chest xray. Little M is fine, but he's got a bout of the latent TB. Nothing horrible - no trips to Tuscon wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket for recovery. But still, a bit anxiety producing. Especially for him. It's 1am and I just got him to sleep...and he had one eye on me the whole time.
I have some lovely blog entries lined up but finding the key board in my sleep deprived state is challenging.
For now, here is a random photo of the boys getting their music on. The Jam to be precise.
David and I live in the big cold blast known as Chicago. We have two delightful doozers, Daisy and Ulysses. David is one of those lawyerly types, and I muddle around in the non-profit world. We are in the process of bringing home a delightful baby boy named Misho. Welcome to the Big Woo!