Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Anger Trumps Coma

I was in a coma Sunday. This is what I'm calling it for lack of a better term.

You'll recall (unless you're a new reader), that I cannot stand the medical side of life. I'm convinced that the medical world is out to get me in some way. Be it embarrass me or extend my sickness. Let's sum this up quickly:

*Five days of fever. Never higher than 103, but never lower than 101.

*Aches all over the place, but the worst were in my neck. Imagine feeling like your neck is severely out of place, but you can't pop it back in because the muscles around it are swollen.

*Throat pain, where you're always dry, but when you drink, it feels like sand.

*Fatigue and dizzy spells.

So I went to Urgent Care as it was in the same building as my son's doctor's appointment (he turned one recently, which means more shots). After a short hour long wait, I was weighed ("Eh...you're around 200...good enough. Let's go!"), and the nurse and I then moved into a room, where blood was taken. Then I was left alone for a period of time. I can't be certain how long, because my watch stopped. Tired of being looked at so much, and unable to file a sexual assault complaint for being looked at so much, the watch committed suicide. Thus, I sat there for an unknown time.

In the end, the doctor came in, looked at the chart, looked at me, and said, "Well...it's not Strep, it's not Mono, so...well...here's some Amoxicillin and if that doesn't cure it, then come back."

I wish I was kidding.

Because of this, I was in a coma until last night. I couldn't work. I went from freezing cold to unbearably hot in moments. It sucked.

Now my wife wanted to give me comfort (and some white noise) so she turned on the TV in our bedroom. I listened to The Simpsons for a few minutes, and then passed out. When I next woke up, my coma abruptly ended as I heard that one of my students
died over the weekend. I sat up when I saw her picture. Samantha was in my English her Freshman year. She was bright, but sometimes withdrawn (it was a morning class, and she sometimes had a strained personal life). Still, she came to me even after the class was over, and, even this past year, we talked once or twice a month. Samantha would often come to my advisory (like most of the kids who want to talk to me), and we would chat about school, or her life, or whatever. She was happier now, or so she told me.
This was why I was upset. A student who was too young and still so full of potential was killed in a meaningless event all because someone couldn't contain his or her anger. That woke me up.

Still, I was sick, so it was time to go back to sleep. However, the clothes I was wearing were soaked through (sweat does that). So I got up to change (much to wife's chagrin, which was announced to me through a loud, "What the Hell are you doing?!" from downstairs). No problem, it seemed. The world was ready to let me go back to the sleep...then the announcer said, "Paris Hilton and Larry King. The first interview!" It was presented in such a manner as to say, "She's free, and now you can learn about her ordeal." I could see the carnival barker screaming, "Come one, come all. See how the blonde socialite who cried for her mommy has suddenly changed. Find the heart, see the lack of Coke on her nose, and learn to love your inner-Paris! Come one, come all!" This led to more waves of anger. Sickness, on top of a student I really cared for dying, on top of Paris Hilton being treated as though this was a HUGE ordeal. This is not world news. If she had been stabbed and died...then it's news. It's the same with this whole Chris Benoit deal. If steroids caused him to murder his family, then that's news. No 'roids...no need to keep showing him and his son together.

So I was angry and that brought me out of my coma. It hurt like hell, but so what? The world will do that to you.

Here's another picture of my adorable son. One of the current reasons why I don't just explode. He was also the reason I was able to go back to sleep that night.


Monday, June 25, 2007

No Longer A "Baby."

My son turned one on the 2oth. He's officially a Toddler now, as his doctor told us. Time to move away from bottles. It's all about milk now (whole milk at that) instead of formula. Table foods (well, he's been doing that for a while) are on the menu.

It's so strange looking at him now versus the day he was born. See for yourself:

The picture on the left was his second day alive, the one on the right was taken by a gal at daycare on his birthday. Yes, the hat is cheesy. We bought is for him, because the women at daycare refer to him as, "Prince William." This is because he is:
A. one of the only boys in the room,
B. the only really cute AND nice boy,
C. "William" and there was a "Harry" in the room once upon a time. (Get it? English Princes?)

And yet, it's still odd to me that I am a parent. Don't get me wrong, I love my son. I still feel that I am not worthy to be a parent. That somehow I'll screw up and cause irreversible damage to him. But I also know that my sister and my parents and their parents all felt the same way. At night, when the darkness creeps in and the brain burns off the excess images stored in it, we have horrible dreams about children falling or getting hurt. Even worse, is when something happens. On Saturday, my wife went out to garden and took Little Leab with her. He was playing on the patio, and then fell off into the wild roses. He was lucky. No thorns got stuck, nothing in his eyes, but he did get scratches on his face and hands. In fact, as my dorky self would point out last night during bath time, "It looks like the Harry Potter lightning scar." And it does...but that's not what you're supposed to think about. Of course it also looks like the cats went to town on him.

Parenthood is tough, but it's fun. Strange but true. It's fun.

Of course what do I know? I'm still waiting for my nineteen-year-old self to show up at my door and beat me senseless. I could be wrong.


And Happy Birthday, Little Leab. I'm glad you were born.