My boys

Love these little faces. 

Catching up through pictures

Three jobs, two kids and one grad school program is almost unbearably busy. Literally every minute of every day is designated for something. Cleaning, cooking, shopping, laundry, bill paying, working studying, managing the apartments, playing, reading, diapering, nursing...

It literally never ends.

So, I have been a complete and total loaf when it comes to updating our blog. Obviously, a lot has happened since Max was born and Henry turned three in May. Here is my desperate and pathetic attempt to catch up through pictures. After all, pictures say a thousand words, right? Well, this should cover about 30,000 words. That should be enough to catch up after 6 months...

Maxwell Carter Harrison is born! May 15

 Brothers

 First bath - quite a boring affair

Henry turns 3! (And has a fab baseball party, of course.) 

 Henry gives Max his very first bottle

 Berry picking! Yum!

 Painting

 Enjoying summer

 First smiles - but with a purple face! (Thanks to a nasty case of thrush and the Gentian Violet that was supposed to cure it.)

 At the zoo with school friends

Our SEVENTH anniversary. The kids helped me make this plate. 

 And my sweet hubby got me these gorgeous flowers.

 Best of all? I finally got the KitchenAid mixer I had been dreaming of since our wedding 7 years ago...

 Henry's first Giants game! (This was taken during the national anthem)

 Go Giants!

 We got to have a special mom & Henry date to a day game against the Cubs! Henry got a game ball and a little bat! He was one happy kid. 

Silly boys

 Mama and baby snuggles

 After a rough summer, I got to go to Maui with my mom and Max. It was divine!

 Ahhhh.....

Max loved Hawaii

I even got to parasail with my mom - it was one of the most fun things ever.

Henry stayed home for some Henry/Daddy adventures. Apparently, this included going to Hooters. Classic.

 And eating lots of ice cream.

 Half Moon Bay pumpkin patch for mommy's birthday

The most adorable ring-bearer for his Great Aunts wedding 

Goofing off

 Naked Super Hero

 Making (and eating) Halloween treats

Pumpkin carving with friends

 The cutest jack-o-lantern

 Little piggies! 

 Fairytale family...The Big, Bad Wolf, the Three Little Pigs and Little Red Riding Hood

 First time eating food! We started with cereal. He's excited!

 Aaanndd....not so sure. He certainly had fun finger painting with it though.

The sweet big brother lounging at home

Got Milk?

I wrote this while on my first business trip since re-entering the working world, just a few weeks ago. I wrote it after a gentle nudging from my dear friend and blogging idol, Tricia. Not only did she get me writing again, but she decided to feature my silly story by way of a special guest post on her popular blog Stream of the Conscious. (I highly recommend it - she is the mother of one-year-old twin boys and a lovely writer who has the ability to capture moments as well as a skilled photographer.)

I will warn you - this is not for the bashful. Welcome to motherhood.

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I am a breast-pump Olympian. Master of Mother’s Milk. But these are only recent accomplishments.

I remember the day I unpacked my $300 (at the time) top-of-the-line medela hands-free breast pump and stared blankly at the many foreign pieces on the floor. I was utterly perplexed. Oh, how things have changed. Now, I can put that sucker together in record time, one-handed, half asleep and in the dark.

I breastfed my older son until it was time to go back to work, at which point he was bottle-fed. I started pumping breast milk with this handy contraption quite early on, to ensure he would take a bottle when I wasn’t around. I must admit, the hands-free, portable (and very effective) breast pump is an amazing development in the world of motherhood. It provides baby with the ever-important breast milk, while allowing the typically tethered and tired mama a little freedom. But I think there is a line between useful and just plain crazy. And sadly, I have crossed that line. Many, many times.

It all started innocently enough, pumping in the nursery at home, or in the private and locked “mother’s room” at the office. I would slip in discreetly, do my business, store the milk in a little plain black cooler in the fridge and no one was the wiser. Time consuming it was, awkward and embarrassing it was not.

Things seem to have really spiraled out of control with the arrival of my second son. He arrived at the very beginning of what proved to be an incredibly difficult summer, which brought us such joys as tantruming toddlers, seemingly unending thrush, car woes, hospitalized husbands and much, much more.   I found myself desperate to fit in a pumping session whenever and wherever I could. I started getting really creative with my pumping locations and my ability to multi-task was untouchable.

Multi-tasking is admirable – in certain circumstances. One day, for example, I strapped that bad boy on and attacked the filthy, daunting the kitchen while filling bottles full of milk. The trouble began when I got a little too ambitious stuffing some unruly Tupperware pieces into a low cupboard. I bent over, forgetting I was still acting as a human dairy, and spilled milk all over my own pants and the kitchen floor. “Shit, shit, SHIT!” I started to shout, but then stopped myself halfway through the rant of expletives, remembering the two sleeping children only one room away. I wasn’t mad about having another mess to clean up but, rather, devastated at the careless loss of such a large amount of liquid gold. Ugh. I should have known better.

And now I do. That was a rookie move.

Since then, I have pumped without my hands-free kit, standing in a hospital bathroom in the middle of the night, carefully balancing everything on my bag hanging on the back of the bathroom door, so as not to contaminate my precious milk with the horrid and dangerous super-bugs that were likely living on every surface. I have pumped:

·         while applying make-up to the bridal party on wedding day

·         in my car on multiple occasions (once even while speeding down the highway at 80 mph!)

·         on a plane

·         at hotels

·         at a restaurant

·         in a locker room

·         in the bridal suite at a wedding venue

·         most recently, in the “relaxation room” at a very upscale spa where people were attempting to “relax” while I visually accosted them with my offending hook-up and cluttered up the tranquil spa music with the soft rhythmic sound of the pump. Vvvvt. Vvvvt. Vvvvt.

Each time I christen a new location with my exposed breasts, masochistic looking hands-free kit and little ziplock baggies of milk I think, “Wow. This is really a new low.” Just this evening, for example, I was traveling home from a business trip and had to make it through the stringent airport security with a cooler full of 36 ounces of breast milk in nearly a dozen containers - and no baby! They gave me strange looks and hand tested every single bag of breast milk and both of my reusable ice packs before finally deciding I was safe to release into the general population of the airport. 

I am often dismayed to be *that* mom. You know, the one who does wildly inappropriate things with an apparent disregard for any acceptable social norms. The one you see and immediately call your friend to say, “You will never guess what I just saw….” and then both have a good laugh.

How do I do it?  I do my best to be appropriate, respectful, discreet and sane. And  most importantly, I laugh. A lot. 

Enough said.

What Happened: Q and A

Well, I promised that I would write again in a few days to explain the second stage of my Great Medical Adventure. First, however, I thought I would answer a few questions and draw a couple of base lines so that the second adventure can be put in the proper light.

One of the first questions I got was: How does one get a cellulitis infection?

Well, this is a rather embarrassing story. We all walk around with a fine population of bacteria bumming a ride on our skin. One of the reasons it is important to wash our hands before dinner, after going to the bathroom, before squeezing the cheeks of a week-old new born is because not all of this bacteria is benign. Our skin is FANTASTIC at keeping the bad bacteria out and our immune system is – usually – really good at keeping at bay any bad bacteria that might slip through the defenses – through a cut, in through the mouth – any opening in your skin can let these suckers in. The longer the opening is there, the more likely the bacteria can slip on through.

You have heard of these bacteria before: Streptococcus is one (i.e. Strep Throat), Staphylococcus is another (i.e. staph infection). Staph has a wicked step-sister called MRSA (Methicillin-Resistant Staphylococcus aureus) which has evolved in this age of trigger happy Purell users. This so-called superbug is a staph infection that is resistant to most antibiotics in use today. The Washington Post reported in 2007 that MRSA was the cause of more deaths in the United States than AIDS. Resistant to drugs, contagious – seems like an doomsday prediction. Although – I kid you not – the BBC has reported that Maggot Therapy has been found to be more effective than conventional drugs in treating MRSA. So, maybe there is some hope… you know… if you don’t mind maggots rooting around in your open wound.

So, two pieces of the puzzle are in place. (1) Bacteria (some benign, some not so) and (2) an opening in the skin.

My opening – not surprisingly – was in my right leg, underneath my big toe. This is where the story gets a little embarrassing. See, before I got sick with the cellulitis infection, I had a medium—mild case of athletes’ foot. No one thinks twice about athletes’ foot. You grab the cream from the drug store – put it on your toes for two weeks and – bam – Bob’s your uncle. Here’s the thing, though, my athletes’ foot, I had been treating it for four months. At this point, let me encourage everyone out there to (a) follow the instructions on the box and (b) listen to your wives. First off, the box clearly states that if I had been treating my foot for more than six weeks without improvement, that I should seek the advice of a doctor. Obviously, that I did not do. Secondly, at around the two month point, anytime Amber saw me with my socks off she would say “Dude, that’s gross. You should call our doctor about that thing.”

Did I follow either of those instructions? Nope. Should I have? Yup.

What happened with the athlete’s foot is that it dried out the skin on the under side of my big toe’s main joint. That dried skin then cracked and opened a little bit. No blood or seeping fluids, but it revealed a little pink, sub-surface layer of skin. This opening is what allowed the bacteria I had on my skin to get inside.

Luckily, I did not have any MRSA on my skin. We did not figure that out for a few days after I entered the hospital and there was a mad cleaning tornado that swept through my house when I went in, bleaching everything and making sure that – if I did have MRSA – no trace of it would remain in my homestead. (By the way, thanks to Sara and to Abby and to Dave for their help). The cultures for MRSA came back negative and the cultures for strep or staph came back inconclusive (which, I guess, is normal.)

Anyway, long story to answer a brief question. One gets a cellulitis infection by having an opening in the skin. Any opening will do. Lesson to be learned? Wash your hands, clean your cuts, follow the instructions on the box and – for Heaven’s Sake – listen to your wife.

As a set up for the Second Medical Adventure, I wanted to toss out some brief information about White Blood Cell counts. Now, remember that most of my medical information comes from Wikipedia and the Google University for Infinite Mundane Minutia.

According to the Mayo Clinic’s website, high white blood cell count is indicative of an increase of disease fighting cells in your blood. (Well, duh). While numbers can vary, they say that a count of more than 10,500 white blood cells (wbc) per microliter of blood is generally considered high. On the other side, having fewer than 3,500 wbcs per microliter of blood is considered low. This would indicate that if we are healthy, happy human beings, we should be walking around with a wbc count of somewhere between 10,500 and 3,500. So, just so we have a number, lets say that a normal wbc count should be around 7,000 (or 7 as it is reported in the hospital).

One of the reasons they kept me in the hospital for a couple of days, rather than stabilizing me and tossing me to the curb, was because I was checked in with a wbc count of 16. I had 16,000 wbc per microliter of blood. As you can see, I had more than double the amount of white blood cells a normal person has. This told the men in the white lab coats that my body was actively striving to fight off an infection and I really shouldn’t be going anywhere.

Now, we all know that I did leave the hospital a few days later when my wbc count was down to 9.8 – but I want you to remember the benchmark of a healthy person vs a count that would concern a doctor when I start telling you about the second stay in the hospital. It will give you perspective.

This, again, was a long post – so thanks for reading this far. Sorry we had no pictures this time around. Hopefully next time I can scrounge some up.

Next time, I promise, will be the tale of how I did a square dance with death and lived to hold my kids again.

What Happened?

As I re-enter my life, returning – ever so slowly – to the many varied and vibrant activities that have become part of my quotidian existence these last couple of years, I have had to repeat this story several times. While I do not mind being the recipient of the concerned, squished face looks as I weave my death-defying tale – I do think the retelling has become rather bland, rather ‘yesterday’ – I mean, come on, yeah so I almost died…twice… but really, do I have to tell the tale yet again?

To alleviate this burden, and to inform those of you who might be far away, I decided to craft this brief explanation of where I have been this last month. Of course, the attorney in me insists that I begin said tale with a disclosure: I am not a doctor, and – baring Mrs. Abbott’s 11^th Grade Human Anatomy and Physiology Class – know next to nothing about the inner workings of my body and the finer points of organic chemistry. Therefore, please excuse any medical errors I make in the mechanics of this tale. My medical school was Wikipedia and my medical internship these last few weeks was severely clouded by many milligrams of dilaudid (which, by the way, is AWESOME).

Saturday, July 16^th, just about 5 weeks ago (at the time of this writing). Most of the day went all right. However, at around 4 o’clock, I begin to have the feeling that I am coming down with the flu. I had the classic symptoms (as I understand them). My skin was really sensitive and I felt warm (in my experience, those always go together to indicate that I have a fever). My lower back, knees and finger joints all ached. This is how I experience “body aches”. I wasn’t too concerned. Friday, one of my coworkers went home sick and I have a kid in preschool. I figure any bug that has a fighting chance will make its rounds through our house. It was the weekend so I figured, hey, 24 hours and it’ll clear up and I will be ready for work on Monday.

Well, Sunday rolls around and I am much worse for the wear. The slight flu symptoms have gotten worse (although, no coughing nor nausea) and I have a pain that is rather abnormal. At the crest of my right thigh, right where it meets the torso, it aches…pretty badly. While I am lying down it aches, when I walk it aches. Moving my legs around doesn’t trigger nor relieve the aching. The precise SPOT of the ache is very sensitive to pressure – although the surrounding area is not at all. There is no discoloration – but – well – to me, that was weird, to Amber that was weird. It was weird enough to merit a visit to our local Urgent Care.

The Urgent Care Doc – well – he does what any normal doc would do – look at my symptoms, discard the one that is a total anomaly and has no real presentation other than “Ouch” and make a diagnosis that fits the remaining symptoms. Intestinal flu. Drink fluids. Get rest. Pay your co-pay and let your home care specialist (in my case, darling Amber) take care of you. Now, I have no problem with this diagnosis. I saw that episode of Scrubs where Dr. Cox explains what a zebra is. (When you hear hoof-beats, think horses, not zebras) So I smile, nod, and slink on back to my bedroom.

That night – around midnight to 2 A.M. – I wake up to take another dose of advil (keeps the fever down and helps me sleep). At this point I take a casual look down my leg and see… nothing, notta, it’s a totally normal right leg, complete with spindly hair and boney ankles.

I wake up at 7 A.M. thinking, gee, I had better draft that email to my boss telling him that I have an intestinal flu and will be out of the office today – and I notice – holy moly – my right leg HURTS! I take a glance at it and see that I have an ANGRY red blotch that I couldn’t cover with my right hand. I turn over and say to my wife “Ahh… darling… I think we need to take a trip back to the Urgent Care, my leg hurts.”

We pack up the kids and off we go. Luckily for us (maybe?) the same Urgent Care Doc was working so he could see me again. After looking me over for a minute or two he declares my prior symptoms NOT to be an intestinal flu. Instead it looks like I have an infection in my leg.

Now, those of you who grew up on the Living Scriptures VHS tapes I am sure remember the scene out of the Joseph Smith Story where young Joseph holds his dad while a 1820s meat cleaver – er, I mean surgeon – slices part of his leg off… without anesthetic. (Those of you who have no idea what I am talking about… er… don’t worry about it.) This scene was blitzing through my head with the phrase “Not without some damn good pain medication” playing on the PA speakers above it.

Anyway – the Doc gave me a shot in my bum – antibiotics, and a prescription for more to be filled immediately. AND… he sent me on my merry way.

Let me reiterate that I went from NO sign of an infection to 25 square inches of angry red, painfulness in a little more than 5 hours.

So, I head home. Butt sore from the shot, tired, limping on my gimp leg and feeling guilty about being a burden to my darling wife who is at home on maternity leave and has only recently begun to feel like she is slightly climbing out of the post-birth war-chamber that is the first few months of a newborns life.

At this stage, I have to reconstruct events from what my wife and others have told me. The antibiotic shot and pills have little to no effect on the infection. It keeps getting worse and I start having problems with blood pressure and keeping conscious. At around 5 P.M., Amber decides that it is time to roll out the big guns and drives me to the emergency room. Keep in mind – Henry is 3 and home, and Maxwell is 2 months, a little grouchy from fighting Thrush and – oh yeah – doesn’t really have an immune system himself.

At the emergency room, the nurse hands me (?!?) the check-in paperwork and starts taking my vitals. I scrawl chicken scratch across the different lines hoping I am not putting my phone number in the social security line and my birth date in my phone number line. Turns out, they couldn’t read most of it. During this whole time, I am basically incoherent. I get tossed on a bed, a Doctor comes in, tells me his name and something something something. Then another Doctor comes in. Then ANOTHER. I got the feeling that either the Emergency Room at El Camino Hospital wasn’t very busy that night OR there was something REALLY interesting about my leg. As a side note – having an interesting medical condition could be really cool for some… however, as a patient, you never want to be medically interesting. Interesting medical cases die. You want to be as bland as cottage cheese. Broken bone – fine. Hernia, okay. Hell, I would even take a tape worm infection over having an ‘interesting’ condition in an emergency room.

For example, I can remember at at one point a doc said: “I wanna make sure it isn’t NecFash, so we are going for a CT scan.” Now that stuck in the ol’ noggin (which by this point had several ccs of morphine in it) because I remembered an old episode of (of course) Scrubs where the diagnosis was Necrotising Faciitis – which, by the by, is known in the common tongue as FLESH EATING BACTERIA!!! So, yeah – ‘interesting condition’ = not a good thing to have.

Well, I didn’t have Necrotising Faciitis. I ended up having a simple cellulitis infection. I say “simple” because it really isn’t that exotic. Let me warn you here – do not – do NOT go googling “Celluitis” and look at pictures. First, it isn’t pretty. And second – I slapped in some mild photos taken three days after I was checked into the hospital to give you some idea of what it looked like.

Now remember, this is after THREE days of IV antibiotics. The sharpie marks show how far the infection has progressed. As you can see, while it was predominately on my lower leg, it started creeping up my thigh before we got it turned around.

But, let me get back to the emergency room. Here my experience enters the more speculative stage because (a) it depends on a lot of medical gibberish I don’t have the lobes for and (b) morphine. Evidently, when someone has a severe infection a common complication is something called sepsis. All sorts of things go wrong at this point. Blood pressure falls quite low. Kidneys stop working properly. Blood gasses are all wonky and the white blood cell count goes through the roof. Sepsis is a life threatening condition. I don’t know how accurate this is but, apparently, depending on the severity, if a patient becomes septic there is a 30 to 60% chance that he will die.

And I was septic.

Fortunately, Amber had stayed home that day taking care of me and – when things got bad – she rushed me to the hospital. The care I got in the emergency room turned me around. However, if – for example – Amber had gone to Gilroy Gardens (a kiddie amusement park 45 minutes away) with Henry like she had PLANNED and had gotten me to the emergency room an hour or two later – I would have been much, much worse (remember how fast the initial infection spread?). In my eyes, Amber’s choice to remain home saved my life that day. Thanks sweetheart.

So… sepsis worry averted, I was turfed to the recovery ward. There I received excellent care (Thank you 3C nurses!), had tubes poked inside my arms delivering a wide array of antibiotics, the occasional pain medication to help me sleep (Hello Dilaudid!) and got well acquainted with day-time television (which, by the way, sucks). My hospital stay lasted until July 22^nd. By the time I checked out, I had been in the hospital for 4 days and really, REALLY didn’t want to be coming back anytime soon.

Fate, it seems, is not without a cruel sense of humor.

This has been a LONG LONG post. I am tired of writing and I am sure you are tired of reading. In a day or two I will post again with the second, more dire and dramatic medical adventure. Thanks for reading and see you again soon.