Lessons Learned From My Christmas 'Break'

Here's what I look at all day, every day.

It has been a looooooong week since my ankle surgery.

Unfortunately, my initial tendencies lately are to feel sorry for myself, sitting around on my bed all day. For those of you who think that sounds wonderful, sitting in bed having others attend to you 24/7, it is pretty overrated; especially for someone like myself who likes being independent.

I will admit that the sweet little bundle of beautiful baby boy who rests to my right and shares my confinement does make it more bearable. But still. For example - I used to have free access to the multitude of snacks in my kitchen without anyone having to know of my terrible treat-eating habits. Now if I want one, I have to ask someone to get it for me. This is all fine and good, except that after asking a couple of times I can't bring myself to ask again. "Could you go get mom another plate of cookies from the freezer downstairs? Oh, and a bowl of ice cream?" It just doesn't seem right. I'm sure this is a good thing... but when I just want a chocolate crinkle cookie from my stash in the downstairs freezer and have to ask someone to bring it to me I can guarantee you my stash is being depleted when I'm not looking. Revealing the places where my stash is hidden really stinks.

I think that I have learned a few wonderful lessons this past week, however. It has been a tough one, but a good one. I have mentioned before that we live in an awesome neighborhood. It's like an extension of the family, really. And when something like a broken ankle and a newborn baby happen in the same week, people really want to help. Usually when I have a baby and someone offers to bring us dinner I will tell them that I appreciate the offer but we are fine and have plenty of capable cooks around. Even if I want to accept their offers of baked goods and delicious meals this just seems like the right thing to do. Just say no, a little voice inside my head whispers to me. You are independent! You can do it all! You don't need any help.

That voice is me, the part of me who wants to do it all. The part of me that wants to show the world that no matter how large our family is or what happens to us, we can handle things ourselves. It has been difficult to admit to, but that voice is wrong. Sometimes, it takes a village to love and support a family during a tough time - and this is one of those times.

Not only do I want to accept any and all offers of food and assistance, I sort of need to. I can't even stand for more than a few minutes at a time and even that about kills me, trying to precariously balance on my good foot while holding my broken ankle off the ground. I'm stuck in bed pretty much all of the time unless I am feeling up to making my way to the couch. Allen is busy being mom AND dad when he's home, tending to the housework and the kiddos, and as soon as the teenagers get home from school he's off to his other job - the one he gets paid to do. (Love that man!)

I'd ask the teenagers to pitch in and make dinner but it seems they are in a constant state of doing homework or tending to my other little needs during the evening (changing diapers, helping littler kids with homework and getting PJs on, helping me make school lunches for the next day, maintaining the house, etc.) not to mention the nights they have their own obligations (church activities, basketball games, practices, etc.).

So I've changed. I have learned to respond to offers of help not with, "I appreciate that, but we're fine" but instead with this new phrase:

"That would be awesome. Thank you."

I am not sure why it is so difficult to let others serve us. When I am asked to help others, I love to do so. I want to be the first in line to bring in a meal for a family with a new baby or whatnot. I love the feeling of being able to fulfill a need for someone. So why do I have a hard time letting others do the same for me? They would not ask to help if they did not want to do so. It has been a good lesson for me to accept these kind acts of service. I am filled with overwhelming gratitude for the wonderful neighbors and friends who have done so much for us in the past week.

To everyone who has sent well-wishes and amazing food and sweet little gifts our way, thank you. You have all helped make this much more bearable and we are so grateful for everything.

A million times, thank you.

A Day With All-a-Boy

As he left in excitement for his scout activity on Tuesday afternoon, All-a-Boy had the good sense to pop his head back in the door and offer me a quick "Love you, Mom!" before venturing off for a tube ride down the river.

For some reason I was struck by the beautiful shade of brownish-green in his eyes just then.

Later, as he returned home, we sat together in the bathroom washing layers of dirt and grime from his feet so that I could assess a cut on the bottom of his foot, hiding in the fold of his third toe where it meets the pad of his foot. It looked pretty deep but not bad enough to warrant a visit to the emergency room. I tried calling my doctor's after-hours office as well as a few Instacare locations, to no avail. All were closed. I told All-a-Boy that we would have to clean it well and bandage it up until the next morning.

He was full of questions - will it hurt? How does water get the dirt out? Why does my toe hurt more than the actual cut? Why are there so many nerves in the foot? Why do you have to use peroxide? What causes the peroxide to get all fizzy? And on and on.

I love when my kids ask questions and All-a-Boy is never short on them.

The next morning I call the doctor's office and the receptionist informs me that stitches are not an option after 8 hours. "You mean the doctor won't even see him?" I ask. "We just leave this gaping wound bandaged and hope that it eventually heals itself?" She lets me talk to the nurse, who asks some more detailed questions about his injury then determines that he does need to be seen.

As we wait for the doctor All-a-Boy leafs through the magazine options available to help pass the time. Highlights, Ranger Rick, The Children's Friend... all of these were my favorites at his age yet All-a-Boy finds something much more interesting. He chooses to read National Geographic. He is initially fascinated by an article which talks about bone and pottery fragments which are discovered in an archeological site and pieced together with computer replicas. He then reads about the mating rituals of a funny species of Australian birds as well as power grids which control electricity in the U.S. He reads the most interesting parts aloud to me, asking for clarification on things such as 'stimulus money' and 'aesthetics'.

He is much too mature for his eleven years, I think to myself.

The doctor comes in and determines almost immediately that it is worth the attempt for stitches. He leaves All-a-Boy with a tub of water to soak his foot in before the procedure. As we sit there in the room, All-a-Boy comments to me on his observations of the room's decor - from the miniature outhouse just the right size for birds to the cleverness of the cow cut-out which reads, "Love one an udder." (har, har)

One thing I never have to worry about with All-a-Boy is silence. He always has those gears turning in his brain and he has no qualms about sharing his musings with anyone who will listen.

He flips through the magazines again and tries to decide between two issues of TIME. He's not sure which is more interesting - the story of the Times Square bomber or the clean-up efforts in the Gulf oil spill. It is not lost on me that I would easily have chosen the joke page in Highlights magazine over either of these two. He chooses to read about the Bomber and asks another round of questions: Why do people like this hate Americans so much? What would make anyone want to kill people that they don't even know? I do not always have all of the answers he seeks, and I am not afraid to tell him this.

Just before the doctor returns All-a-Boy is amused by a poster on the door which reads, "Should I ask my doctor about bed-wetting?" There's my 11-year-old. Potty humor gets them every time.

We move to another room for the actual stitching procedure and suddenly All-a-Boy can not ask enough questions of the doctor.

AAB: "What are those needles for?"
Doc: "I am going to use these to numb the area where I will be stitching."
AAB: "What's the big syringe for? Is that another shot?"
Doc: "No, this is just water that I'll be using to clean your cut out really well before we try to stitch it closed. I'll even give it to you afterward."
AAB: "Is any of this going to hurt?"
Doc: "Yes, at first. But the numbing medicine will make it so you can't feel anything."
AAB: "Doesn't it sort of freak you that you'll be pushing a needle through human flesh?"
Doc: "Nope. Not at all."

The questions continue with no end in sight. It becomes obvious that All-a-Boy is stalling. The doctor asks his assistant to hold the foot still while he injects the numbing solution into the sore. He continues talking to All-a-Boy, trying to ease his worry. "So, you were tubing with the Boy Scouts? Well, a scout is brave, right? Isn't that part of your scout law?" All-a-Boy is not amused, but I am.

I am amazed by the number of times that All-a-Boy yells out, "OW! Ouch. Okay, THAT HURT! Ow. Ow. OUCH!" Again, my 11-year-old is coming through. Once he is all stitched up and has inquired as to what sort of material the stitching thread is made from, the nurse comes in with 3 more needles.

"Um, WHAT are those for? My foot is already numb and sewed up!" She explains that he needs a tetanus booster shot since the last one he received was in kindergarten and that I have consented to his receiving his 12-year-old immunizations while we are there as well. "Well," he mutters, putting on a brave face and staring straight ahead, "I guess if I could take it as a kindergartner I can take it as a sixth grader. It can't be any worse than the shots I got in my foot today. Go ahead. Stick me."

So, 4 stitches and 3 tweety bird stickers (these were acknowledged with a hearty eye roll) later, we headed for home.

"That actually wasn't so bad," he mused as we drove along. "I mean, anything's worth it for this cool giant syringe."

I'll remember that, All-a-Boy.

I've Got Gall (For Now)

Cartoon from iheartguts.com, which I encourage you to take a look at. It's my kind of funny.

Saturday evening treated me to an internal surprise the likes of which I had never before experienced. One minute I was happily minding my own beeswax and the next I was hit with an indescribable pain I could not pinpoint. It started in my upper back, just between the shoulder blades, and quickly spread to my shoulders, chest, rib cage and stomach. I began to feel queasy and panicked and exhausted all at the same time. The pain was unbearable and nothing worked to help it subside.

Allen and I took a little drive to the Instacare where they had us sit and fill out some paperwork and then wait for 15 minutes (which seemed closer to ETERNITY) before calling us back. The doctor asked me to describe my pain, asked a few other questions and determined that I was in excellent health. The doctor asked what my pain was on a scale of 1 to 10, and although I wanted to scream TEN!!TEN!!TEN!! I couldn't help but think of Brian Regan's comedy bit about the pain scale so I settled on an 8. I was immediately sorry I did not give myself a higher number. I was not crying (at least not on the outside) and I worried that this may have been misleading so I calmly told the doctor something along these lines:

It hurts when I stand, it hurts when I sit, it hurts even more when I lay down - and I really, really want to lay down because I am exhausted beyond comprehension. Something is wrong, and I really want to do whatever is possible to make this excruciating, constant pain go away so I can go to sleep and stop feeling like I'm going to throw up. I have had NINE babies, two of them without pain medication, and this hurt I am now experiencing is the worst possible pain I have ever felt. I feel like my entire upper body is in labor pain times INFINITY. If it were possible for me to have an upper-body epidural right now, I would donate a kidney and chop off my left foot for that to happen.

I think he got the gist of what I was saying. He started to press along the bones and muscles in the various areas where I was feeling pain, searching for the central location of it, to no avail... until he pushed beneath the right side of my rib cage: BINGO. It was my gallbladder. Unless I wanted to take a trip to the ER (I did NOT) he said they could give me some medicine for the pain and the nausea and I could get an ultrasound on Sunday morning. I could not fathom there being any possible medication that would reduce the pain enough that I would make it until morning, but I was willing to give anything a try to avoid the dreaded ER.

The medicine was administered via shot (oh, how I hate needles!) along with a dose of loopy, apparently, because as the night progressed I got loopier and loopier. Initially, the pain slowly ceased - enough that I could function normally and foresee eventually falling asleep. Except that my arms and legs were restless, enough so that I could not resist flailing them around every so often. At one point I said something to one of the kids and Allen laughed and asked if I had cotton in my mouth. The loopiness was taking effect, and between my blathering nonsense and my body doing the hokey-pokey spontaneously, I had some small understanding of my loopiness so I put myself to bed.

The next morning I went for my ultrasound, feeling pain-free but still extremely exhausted. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary was discovered, except that I had 8 gallstones. The doctor told me that 1/3 of all people would have gallstones if they went for an ultrasound so it was not absolutely necessary to have it removed; however, this was something I should consider in the future. He left the choice entirely up to me.

I chose to keep my gall. (You go, Gall!)

I plan to test myself out. See if it was a fluke or if it happens again. Because I'm not a big fan of removing stuff from my innards that doesn't necessarily have to be removed.

However, I can pretty much guarantee you this... if I have another Attack Of The Gallbladder episode that is anything like the one I had on Saturday, that sucker's history.