We were sitting on a bench at Disneyland a little more than two weeks ago.  Grace and I were waiting for the parade to start.  It was happy ending to our two-day birthday celebration at the Happiest Place on Earth.

Then my phone rang and it was my husband.  At first I thought he was just checking in with me, wondering when we’d be home.  But then he told me he’d discovered that our almost-one year old puppy, Lola, had eaten a bottle of ibuprofen.

I advised him that it was probably an emergency (“and the Understatement Award of the Year goes to . . Mel!”) and that he should call the vet.  Look on the fridge, I said; there’s a magnet there.  I figured he’d be referred to the emergency vet and we’d go from there.

I hung up the phone and in between friendly chit-chat with a super nice Canadian family next to us on the bench, I did a Google search and discovered that ibuprofen can kill a dog.

And that, my friends, is how Lola the Dog ended up spending three days and many, many, many dollars at the fancy-schmancy veterinary clinic, the one with the big screen television constantly playing the Food Network.  (Every time I’ve been there, I’ve watched partial episodes of “Chopped.”  I love that show.)

But I did not love worrying that Lola the Dog would die.

You may remember that a month or so ago, our cat, Smokey, died after a battle with anorexia and fatty liver disease.  We’d had a feeding tube implanted in her neck and fed her by syringe for weeks but in the end, she just continued to lose weight and suffer.

First Smokey the Cat.

Now Lola the Dog?

Miraculously–or maybe scientifically, if you consider all the medical treatment she received–Lola lived and seems to have no memory of those three days.  (I, however, remember them every month as I pay toward the bill.)

A few days after that whole ordeal, my 14-year old son tripped during P.E. class and fractured his collarbone.

About ten days later, my husband was walking across a street and twisted his ankle.  It’s purple and swollen and, according to my expert medical diagnosis, sprained.

A few days earlier, ants had swarmed in my kitchen, necessitating a frantic early-morning 90 minute clean-up and a call to the exterminator.  (Note: the exterminator guy says to never use ‘over-the-counter’ poison to clean up teeny tiny ants in the house . . . that just disrupts their trail and they’ll regroup and start another nest.  Instead, he said, use Windex or something similar.)

Then, the other day, I went to the doctor.  I had a physical, mainly so I could “establish patient care” and have a doctor’s name to write down on forms that always seem to be asking for “Family Doctor.”  Anyway, I have this mole on my foot that caught my attention–my dad died from melanoma, after all–and I wanted someone to take a professional look at it.

Is it just me or does anyone else find it awkward to meet a new person for the first time while wearing nothing but a skimpy paper vest and a paper tablecloth?

I’m not a fan.

Anyway, so next Wednesday, I’m scheduled for biopsies on not just the weird mole on my foot but also two spots on my back that I can’t even see myself.

Are we having fun yet or what?

I’m not actually worried, which in some cultures may be referred to as denial.  I can’t explain that since I am the Queen of Worry.  I just don’t have any empty squares in my calendar that I can devote to worrying about this.  I probably shouldn’t have even mentioned it so you don’t worry on my behalf.  So, forget I said anything.

In summary:

Disneyland rocks.
Smokey the Cat died.
Lola the Dog is alive and well and trying to steal food from the countertops.
The collarbone is healing.
The ankle seems to be stabilized.
Melanoma is not the boss of me.
Don’t worry.  Be happy.

 

UPDATE:  All my lesions are benign.

This morning while taking Lola on a quick walk down the street, I noticed some egg shells on a neighbor’s lawn.  They had been “egged,” or so it appeared.

This afternoon, when my husband dropped off Zach after school, he called me on the phone and told me to come outside for second.  He mentioned that there was a broken egg on our driveway.  We had been “egged”? I hadn’t noticed because we went right instead of left when Lola and I walked.

Weird.

It appeared that part of a broken egg was smashed on our driveway–but not on our garage door or house or anything.

Then on the front lawn, I spied an egg shell.  I went to pick it up and discovered a whole chicken egg.

It must be really disappointing when you are trying to throw eggs at houses and you can’t even hit the houses and you can’t even break all the eggs you throw.

And now, just for fun, my sleep will be disrupted for the next two weeks.

I normally crawl into bed by 2 AM and wake up somewhere around 9 AM.  But for now, I will wake up at 6 AM to take off my boy’s sling so he can shower before school.  Then I will give my puppy her stomach medicine.  Then, back to sleep–sort of–until it’s time to put the sling back on.  It it all complicated and requires me and only me to adjust it correctly so his arm is cradled and not pulling on his broken collarbone.

Then, back to sleep before it’s time to walk the dog for thirty minutes.  A thirty minute walk improves her attitude and behavior a great deal. It is not optional.

I’ll be working again by 10 AM.  Tomorrow is a soccer night and I really must buy more bread and other victuals and if all goes well, I can do that while Grace is practicing soccer.  Then, home by 7 PM.

I feel a lot like I’m running after a car, trying to get it to stop so I can get in and ride instead of run . . . but the driver won’t stop.

My life is wearing me out.   But at least I wasn’t photographed topless while sunbathing at my  private French estate.

I was working at my desk, wearing an unflattering outfit.  My hair was crazy.  I hadn’t put on any makeup since I rolled out of bed at the last minute, showered and reported to my desk with no time to spare before my shift began. Oh, the glories of working at home!

My phone rang.

At first, I couldn’t understand the male voice.  Then I realized what he was saying.

My 14-year old son was injured.  The P.E. teacher was walking him back to the campus from the field across the street.  During class, Zach had fallen onto his shoulder, maybe dislocated it.

I instant-messaged my co-worker and without even waiting for her response, left my desk, found my shoes, gathered my 10-year old and dialed my husband.  I also made sure I had Zach’s insurance card and off we headed to the school.  I talked to my husband while driving.  We discussed which Urgent Care to use–and fortunately, last week I made myself a doctor’s appointment and the lady on the phone mentioned that the Urgent Care was on the first floor and the doctor’s office was on the second.  Miraculously, I knew exactly where to go and it was only minutes from the school campus.

I found my son in the nurse’s office looking pale, sweaty and disheveled.  He cradled his left arm with his right.  The P.E. teacher explained that Zach fell onto his shoulder and a few minutes later heard a pop and then had more pain.  He said again he thought maybe it was a dislocated shoulder.

I looked at my boy and said, “You know, he looks exactly like my other son did when he fractured his collar bone.”

Then we went to Urgent Care where we enjoyed the quickest medical attention ever.  Seriously.  Amazing.

The doctor came in, asked questions, then began to examine him.  When he pressed on Zach’s collar bone, Zach winced.  I knew then that I was right.

This, my friends, is what a fractured collar bone looks like.

He has a sling now and orders to take ibuprofen and a prescription for something stronger.  He will be out of P.E. for six weeks and he’s so sad that he can’t play his guitar, either.

I have had enough excitement for this week.

If I were a different kind of person, I’d definitely refuse to leave the house and I’d wrap all the sharp edges with bubble wrap and insist everyone stay safely in bed until this passes, whatever this is.

Instead, we will keep calm and carry on.

To celebrate my daughter’s tenth birthday, she and I went to Anaheim, stayed in a fancy Disneyland Resort hotel and visited both Disneyland and California Adventures.  We had the most fabulous time.

As we sat waiting for the 7 PM parade on Main Street in Disneyland, my phone rang.  It was my husband, telling me about a situation involving our 11-month old puppy and a bottle of ibuprofen.

Lola the Dog found a bottle of ibuprofen on the counter, snatched it and then demolished it.  The boys found the remnants of the bottle on the living room carpet, along with a reddish stain from the caplets she’s eaten.

For your information, ibuprofen is toxic to dogs.  I didn’t know that but I knew an overdose of pain medication couldn’t be good.  I told my husband he’d better call the vet immediately and that he’d probably have to take Lola to the emergency vet.  After I hung up, I used my iPhone to do a Google search which pretty much confirmed my worst nightmare.  A dog can die from ingesting ibuprofen.

Luckily, the bottle was a small one containing 24 pills when full.  It probably had 18 or 19 pills in it when Lola ripped it to shreds with her teeth.  Interestingly enough, the child-resistant cap was completely intact, but the bottle itself was destroyed.

Unluckily, 2000 mg of ibuprofen can literally kill a dog of Lola’s size, so she’s been hospitalized ever since, getting aggressive treatment involving intravenous fluids and medications and probably some kind of extremely expensive hocus pocus.  She’ll be in the hospital until Friday and we only hope that they will discharge her alive and well.  The alternative is unthinkable.

So, while working and supervising Grace’s schoolwork and carrying on with the daily requirements of life, I’m worrying about our puppy and hoping for the best but dreading the worst.

I want to post about a couple of things but every night I am so exhausted.  But maybe tomorrow.

There’s always tomorrow.

And here in Southern California, we’re also pretty sure the . . . sun will come out, TOMORROW . . . (go ahead, sing it loud, sing it proud!).

In the meantime there are a few things I constantly wonder:

1)  How does my office get this messy?
2)  How can one dog shed so much fur?
3)  Will I ever get to read all the books I have stacked around here?
4)  What month is this?
5)  Where is my stapler?
6)  Where is my favorite Pyrex mixing bowl?
7)  Will everything turn out all right?
8)  Why do so many socks not have mates?
9)  Why am I saving mittens and hats and scarves?
10)  Will I ever get my garage organized?

It’s funny how much advice exists about how to deal with small kid issues.  Books, magazines, blog posts, television shows, radio podcasts . . . it’s abundant.  How do you stop the pacifier habit?  What do you do about nap-times?  What’s the best age to potty-train?  Everyone has an opinion and a solution and facts to help the new mother.

But we old moms?  Those of us who have teenagers whom we can’t really discuss because they have Internet access . . . well, we are the ones who truly need help.  We have questions without answers and worries that can’t be addressed with a time-out and a reward chart.  We’ve been mothers long enough to know that we really don’t have a clue and that everything that unfolds will unfold with or without our permission or guidance.  What we want is assurance but no one can assure us of anything.  I liked being a mom of a two-year old better.  I felt more competent back then.

Oh, the old days of struggling with overdoses of apple juice and tantrums on the kitchen floor and picky eaters seem like a fairy tale compared to now.

Part of the problem for me is that I was one of those teenagers who had no interest in causing trouble or wreaking havoc.  I was a careful young person, determined not to make mistakes.  I babysat on weekends and spent time in the library looking for more reading material.  I was independent from a young age and focused on the future.  So I have no idea how to relate to teenagers who aren’t me.

Well, maybe you know what I mean.

Parents of teenagers who are really troublesome keep quiet.  No one wants to admit defeat.  And you can’t really talk about your teenager without it getting back to your kid.

Of course, there are parents of teenagers who are thriving, who are Mr. Homecoming and the Class President and who have found a cure for cancer already while rescuing unwanted kittens and writing classical music for the cello.  Those kind of parents make me feel like a failure . . . even though I know that their parenting has little to do with their kid’s achievement . . . because some kids are just like that.  Someone has to be Mr. Homecoming and the Class President, after all.

I believe most behavior is genetic.  It’s pre-programmed, just as inevitable as brown eyes or knobby knees.  But that doesn’t stop me from thinking maybe I can change the course of a river with a few gentle suggestions and raised eyebrows.

I wonder if someday I’ll look back on this phase of life with something resembling nostalgia.  I kind of doubt it.