What Happened

On the left, a googled X-ray picture of the shoulder, as it's meant to look.

On the right, Madeleine's shoulder, as it looked last night.

She fell, on some ice. There is no great story; no exciting tricks that went bad. Simply, the ice was slippery and Madeleine fell, very unluckily, directly onto her left shoulder. That is all.

At the hospital, doctors conferred and, eventually, the orthopedic doctor on call left the confines of his home, finding it necessary to inspect Madeleine himself, in person. Her bone was manipulated and pushed back into place and, the hope is, that it will not drift out of place.

Tomorrow she sees another specialist. But, for now, she is home sporting neither a cast or an immobilizer. Instead she is armed with a make-shift sling, an ACE bandage, a heavy dosage of pain killers and direction to hold that arm still.

Madeleine is, and has been, impressively brave throughout all of this.

Today reality has slowly been seeping through the Percocet haze and into the sleep deprived brain. Yet still, the sun shines and Madeleine smiles. If you think of her, I know she would appreciate your prayers.

An explanation of what happened to Caroline.

A lot of you saw this pathetically sad and ridiculously cute picture of Caroline on Facebook last night. You know, the one where she has a big white gauze pad loosely taped across her face that is, incidentally, covered in dried blood and boogers. The one with her standing in an exam room with a purple hospital gown?

Yeah, this one.

Look, I went for a lot of years with kids that never needed much more than a kiss and a Band-Aid to cure their little mishaps, but these little girls? What's up with all the stitches? I blame Joe. No, no; I know these things happen and you're shaking your head and saying, "But Cate, that's not fair! Kids have accidents!"

Hear me out.

Besides my two c-sections, I have never needed stitches in my life. As a kid I climbed trees. I played in an old dairy barn with lots of glass and nails and other laceration inducing devices lying about. And believe me, I fell. I cut myself. But I never had a cut deep enough or wide enough to require stitches. Joe, however, has needed stitches one hundred fifty kajillion times. At least. So, clearly, Elisabeth and Caroline have their dad's propensity to break their skin open. The evidence seems pretty conclusive, no?

Please continue to dwell on Joe's thin skin for a moment, will you? That will help you ignore my culpability in last night's ER visit. Thanks.

So, last night I was grabbing one quick thing from our attic. One quick thing! Yes, I knew I was taking a gamble. Yes, I knew Caroline was upstairs with me as I pulled down the attic stairs. I glanced at her, absorbed in one of the bedrooms with a stack of toys, and thought, wrongly, I could make it up and down before she noticed the attic ladder was down. I did not know Ellie was coming upstairs. Those attic stairs are a magnet for Ellie; upon arriving upstairs she immediately started climbing them. Caroline saw her sister and followed. She never made it past the third or fourth stair; I heard the girls and started back down. Too late; Ellie started climbing down and pushed past stepped over Caroline. Caroline fell. I saw it all happen as if it were in slow motion, trapped on the attic stairs, just a few feet away from my little baby.

I still don't know what she hit. She fell a couple of feet, maximum, onto carpet. I still don't think she scraped her head on the stairs. There was nothing on the floor.

Yet still, fall she did, and the total damage? A lot of tears, a fair amount of blood, two internal stitches and seven-- yes, seven!-- regular stitches.

She stopped crying just a few minutes after the injury. She was smiling, babbling and laughing for the entire twenty minute drive to Children's Hospital. She was entertained with all attention she received while waiting for her mending. She screamed bloody murder, however, during the stitching despite the topical application of some sort of numbing agent and a mild sedative. After she was happy and silly once again.

Still, though, I feel wretched. I know it was an accident but still. . . something about seeing the blood, the tears, the needle. . . I won't soon forgive myself. On the good side though, I won't dash up into the attic when the stairs are down anymore either. I accept a few days of guilt; I deserve it and it will make it easier on me to let it go when I forgive myself, which I know I will.

How much you want to bet that Caroline forever grumbles about the inevitable scar that she will work at covering for the rest of her life? *sigh*

Medical Adventures: The Photo

Here is Elisabeth showing off her splint in all its glory.




If you missed it, the post detailing the necessity of the splint was posted the other day.

Medical Adventures

Tuesday morning found us waking up north of Green Bay at Joe's parents' house. We woke relatively early given the late night before and hit the road by 9 a.m. We were back in Milwaukee by 11:30 a.m. and Joe made short work of heading into the office. I had planned a relatively easy day knowing we'd all be tired; a few quick errands and an extended visit to the library, per Madeleine's request.

By noon there was a problem. Hank and Elisabeth had gone in the basement to wrestle and play. I heard lots of shrieks and giggles and went about the business of unpacking, checking messages and getting lunch ready. But then I heard a different kind of shriek. This one wasn't in good cheer and shortly after Elisabeth came upstairs with tears in her eyes and clutching her left wrist. I tried to touch it and to have her move it, but doing so only resulted in tears of pain from Elisabeth. Now, from a lot of three-year-olds this may not mean much. If Hank, for instance, was to cry like that I would assume he'd maybe stubbed his toe, but Elisabeth? She's one tough cookie and tears from her are always the real deal.

I called her doctor. He suggested giving her a Tylenol, putting ice on the wrist and reassessing around 2 p.m. So, that's what we did. At 2 p.m. she was still in just as much pain so off to the doctor we went. Her pediatrician assessed the wrist and gave us the unfortunate news that it needed to be x-rayed. Across town. Way, way across town. So we loaded into the van, drove through some of Milwaukee's less than choice neighborhoods (i.e. the ones that are always on the nightly news b/c of some shooting or another) and then proceeded to spend the next three hours waiting to have Elisabeth's wrist x-rayed.

By 5:30 we were on our way home when I received a call from Elisabeth's doctor. The x-rays were negative, thankfully; Elisabeth had just suffered a sprain. She is now the proud owner of a splint that she refuses to take off her wrist and functions pretty well despite having the use of only one hand.

Joe and I have taken to calling Elisabeth our hospital child. She has visited the emergency room or urgent care no less than three times. Madeleine has gone zero and Hank only once (and Caroline I'm not even going to count yet). I'm not saying it won't happen, but clearly Elisabeth has a greater proclivity for getting hurt.

The upshot of all of this? While sitting in the waiting room for three hours with all four kids it hit me: if I could get through that with four kids then I can get through anything with four kids. So that's good. I guess.

Stitches

A couple of months ago I made the ill-fated decision to take Elisabeth into the bathroom at our local CVS after already leaving the store. Why? Well, once in the parking lot she announced to me she had to go potty. I should have ignored her. After all, she had a Pull-Up on and she had frequently made such pronouncements in the past only to arrive in the bathroom and be more interested in turning on water faucets and inspecting toilet paper rolls than trying to use the toilet. But the fateful decision was made: an almost three-year-old in diapers should be taken to the bathroom, even if it's futile, if interest is expressed.

Once in CVS's bathroom Elisabeth did try her best to use the toilet. She did. She actually sat on the toilet for five seconds, at least. And that's when it happened. After her lightening fast potty session (in which nothing went into the toilet that is supposed to) she jumped off the toilet too fast for me to grab her. And she tripped and fell... and fell right into the corner of a baseboard heater.

As soon as I saw the blood I panicked. I ordered Madeleine to run outside and get Joe (this was, after all, the beginning of what was supposed to be a peaceful family walk; I had run inside quickly to fill a prescription). The cut was small, but deep, so we walked home rather briskly and rushed Elisabeth over to Children's Hospital. There a short, friendly brunette whose name escapes me carefully stitched Elisabeth's nose after more than a few hours of waiting and now, a few months later, the wound is healing nicely.

Elisabeth was the first of my three children to need stitches. One ER visit for stitches in eight years? I assumed I wouldn't need to repeat the adventure for another few years, at least.

Not so. Last night it was Elisabeth again. The kids were dancing in the kitchen. Hank was sliding more than dancing, really, and slid right into the rug on which Elisabeth was standing. The rug pulled out from under her, causing her to fall. She fell hard and fast and didn't have time to break her fall. Her chin broke open, though this time the would was larger, but less deep. Once again, we loaded her up into the van and headed over to Children's Hospital. This time Madeleine came along to see what all happens in an emergency room and how it is, exactly, that you stitch up a wound. The wait time for this visit was less, though the wet, snowy roads made the trip a bit more treacherous. The doctor was again, female, but taller with shorter hair. She also very carefully inserted stitches in Elisabeth's face, though three this time, instead of two, and in her chin instead of her nose.

I love Children's Hospital. I really do. The doctors are great, they're so good with the kids and everyone makes it as easy as possible to be there under stressful situations. But I really, really hope we have no occasion to go back again for a long, long time.

Doctor and Running Updates

Some of you may still be wondering about my vague post a few months back about the lack of responsiveness of my primary care doctor. The even more observant may have noted my lack of running posts.

OK, the lack of running posts. Last summer I curiously noticed that when I woke in the morning my feet felt weird. When I would step out of bed the bottoms of my feet felt tingly, almost as if many tiny little pins were pricking my feet. But it would go away as I started to move around and I didn't give it too much thought. I'm just getting older, I told myself.

And then I started running last October. At first, as I said, I felt great. I was sore after my runs, but as an inexperienced runner, I felt this was somewhat normal. I can't quite pinpoint when my joints started aching to the point where I was sore in my knees, shoulders and hips when I woke and whenever I would kneel down or walk more than just a few blocks or anything, really. Again, I sort of attributed to aging. Yes, yes, I know I'm quite young, so feeling signs of "aging" at my age sounds absurd, but I really felt fine and couldn't think of another reasonable explanation. I'm also not a person that goes to the doctor often; I go for my annual physicals, but that's about it. And I certainly wasn't about to go with vague symptoms that I wasn't able to describe well. Plus, I never felt that bad and, as I said, I figured it was normal to a degree. And then there was the exhaustion. All parents with young kids are tired, right? So it had to be normal that I felt like I was ready to collapse by 7 p.m. I felt like a failure that, gradually, I just felt too tired to go running at night anymore, which was a really bitter pill to swallow because I really, really enjoyed the time alone. And, as it turned out, I really liked running. But I just couldn't do it, and I felt like a lazy sloth. A lazy sloth who'd started something challenging and quit.

Then in March I had my regular physical. When my doctor asked me how I was feeling I said fine. Yes, honestly. And at 9 a.m., which is when my appointment was, I did feel fine. At least, relatively speaking compared to how I felt at 9 p.m. most days. But my doctor felt something suspicious in my thyroid. I hate the word goiter, but that was the word she used. Later, it would turn out my thyroid numbers from my blood test were abnormal as well. My doctor referred my for a thyroid ultrasound which showed enough suspicious growth that my primary doctor referred me to an endocrinologist who specializes in thyroid issues. Dr. Drobny, the endocrinologist my primary doctor referred me to, took forever to get in to see and, I will say, after castigating Dr. Reeder, my primary care doctor, in my last post, she was dutiful in calling consistently until she was sure I had made an appointment with Dr. Drobny and was following up on my thyroid ultrasound, which Dr. Reeder sounded sufficiently worried about (and thanks to my cousin H for the suggestion of calling Dr Reeder's nurse; I did that and she has been extremely responsive and proactive on my behalf. Great tip, so thanks!).

Anyway, I finally got into see Dr. Drobny a few weeks ago and she is wonderful. She is relaxed and I never once got the impression she was in a hurry, even though I know she's booked beyond belief. But best of all, I could tell she was abreast of current thyroid research (something I stupidly thought all doctors just did; you know, staying abreast of current developments as part of their job).

The growth on my thyroid is small at this point. Dr. Drobny is going to keep an eye on it, and we'll do another ultrasound in a few months, but she doesn't want to biopsy it yet. If it is thyroid cancer, which she doesn't think it is, it's completely treatable when found early and she felt completely comfortable waiting six months to see if it was even necessary to biopsy it. In the meantime, she ran a bunch of blood tests and it appears, based on the results that came back, that I have Hashimoto's disease, which is an autoimmune disease that attacks the thyroid and prevents the thyroid from producing the hormones it's supposed to produce which, in turn, manage and regulate many of your body's regular functions.

The bottom line is this: I received, and filled, a prescription for Synthroid, a synthetic thyroid hormone, and I feel fantastic again. Actually, I probably just feel normal, but after months of feeling absurdly tired and sore, it feels fantastic to just feel normal. I spent the weekend gardening, which would have killed me a month ago, but Saturday evening I just felt the plain ol' amount of tired someone would feel after a day in the sun digging and lifting and pulling and things. Most of all I feel so, so thankful. Good health is nothing to grow complacent about, and I know I never will again. I was making decisions about social activities based on how exhausted I thought it might make me feel which, at my age, is so beyond ridiculous that I feel absurd even typing it. But no more. Now I feel like every other young other with small, exuberant children: tired, but nothing a cup of coffee can't cure.

So, thankfully, that is it. Other than more frequent doctor visits and taking medication, that should be the end of the story and, hopefully, clear up any lingering questions readers might have had.

Doctor

I won't bore you with all the mundane details, but why in the world is a good doctor so hard to find? Is it too much to ask to have someone in your doctor's practice-- a nurse, a physician's assistant, someone-- to return your call within a twenty-four hour period?

I'm going to out her because I think her behavior has been abysmal: if you live in Milwaukee, avoid Dr. Nancy Reeder at Columbia East Clinic. She is fine in person, although a bit rushed, but for the second time in three years (about how often I actually need to speak with a doctor) I have called her and haven't heard back from her office. Not from anyone in her office, even after leaving multiple messages. Completely and totally pathetic, no?

Joe and I have decided to switch doctors but, the problem becomes, where do we go? Finding a great (heck, I'd settle for just good right now) doctor is an overwhelming task.

Doctor Madeleine

The evening was cool, pleasant and peaceful. The big kids were outside with Superdad. Superdad was setting up his new lawn edger and trimmer and I was doing dishes with only one child making noise and messes (yes, all you non-parents; that is peaceful). I was absorbed, physically, in bubbles and plates but mentally I was dreaming of our academic goals for next year.

All of a sudden my reverie was shattered by the front door slamming shut and Madeleine tearing up the stairs at top speed. "What are you doing?" I called after her.

"Getting a Band-Aid!"

"For what? What did you do?"

She came racing back down the stairs, wild-eyed, with a box of Curious George Band-Aids, a quarter full. "Daddy cut himself!"

Oh. OK. Superdad had probably cut his finger or skinned his knee and needed a Band-Aid so he wouldn't get blood all over everything and had asked Madeleine to run in and get one. Madeleine ran out and a few seconds later came frantically running back in again.

"What is going on," I asked again.

"Daddy cut himself," was Madeleine's explanation.

"How?"

"With the lawn edger!"

"With the edger?!" Now I was concerned.

To shorten a rather lengthy story which involved different children telling different tales, Superdad was setting up his new edger and trimmer, excitedly playing with his new toy so that it would be all set for its first trip out when Hank became interested in what he was doing. Hank walked up to Superdad, and the edger, and before Superdad could see what Hank was doing, Hank simultaneously asked, "Daddy, what does this button do?" while actually pressing the button in question. Wouldn't you know it, the button he was so curious about was actually the "on" button and Superdad's calf was treated to its very own edging.

Superdad is fine. All his cuts were surface cuts and although he's sore, there are no big problems.

But there were numerous cuts in a rather large area and, when Madeleine saw his leg (she witnessed the incident), gushing blood. And her solution? Curious George Band-Aids. An almost empty box of two-inch long Curious George Band-Aids.

Lazy Sunday Afternoon

Today was supposed to be relaxing. Peaceful. Routine. Things were on track; church, Sunday School and home just before lunchtime. I was standing in the kitchen contemplating our lunch menu and basking in the promise of the nothingness the day ahead held when the tranquility of the day was disrupted.

“Hank has to go to the doctor!” Joe proclaimed as he rushed into the kitchen.

“What?!” was my incredulous reply. Ten minutes earlier a perfectly healthy three- year- old boy had bounded into the house.

Well, I hadn’t counted on my angelic little Hanker-buddy sticking a bead up his nose. Yep, he took one of his sister’s beads from her necklace making kit, stuck it in his right nostril and sucked. Hard.

No amount of blowing, massaging or pleading could coax the tiny, silver bead from its cozy spot near the nasion of the nose.

Off to Urgent Care Hank and I went. We were almost immediately escorted into an exam room and a doctor greeted us promptly. She set right to work, using various tools of the trade. Initially we were laughing; joking about kids and what they put up their noses. But the bead wouldn’t budge.

Our joking lessoned. The doctor got more serious. Hank was sitting on my lap, his previously semi-permanent ear-to-ear grin becoming somewhat less ear-to-ear.

A few tears were shed as a long, plastic stick with a small loop on the end was stuck up and used to dig around in Hank’s nose.

But that darned bead just wouldn’t budge. I started to shake. Hank wasn’t smiling anymore. We’d been in that room poking and prodding for ten, twenty minutes now. The plastic stick was replaced with a metal tool, similarly shaped. Then a vacuum. The bead wouldn’t budge.

The doctor started to mumble about alternatives and my nervousness increased. What are the alternatives I queried. There was mumbling and nervousness as a response. I knew the alternatives, whatever they were, were very, very bad and probably involved a hospital and surgery. All for a stupid, teensy-tiny bead.

I started to feel sick, firstly because my baby boy who being as good as gold was in pain. A lot. When the doctor was digging around in his nose his crying was pitiful and mournful. So I was feeling pretty sorry for my poor Hanker-buddy yet, shamefully, irritated too since it was his fault we were there in the first place. But I also started to feel sick envisioning medical bills reaching stratospheric amounts all because Hank thought it would be what, fun? interesting? to stick a little, silver bead up his nose.

After a long while the doctor, armed with her metal loopy-stick thing, was finally able to make some progress. Hank, cradled on my lap with my arms quieting his flailing body, began to cry; a cry that shook his entire frame. Then, it happened, his doctor proclaimed, “It’s moving!” so I held on tighter as his sobs continued to convulse his poor little three-year-old body and the doctor’s face grew more and more determined and then, at long last, the offending bead was held in the doctor’s fingers. A loud cheer erupted in the exam room: the doctor, her nurse and me. I don’t know whose was louder or who was most excited. Hank was smiling again, hugging me and cheering along with the rest of us.

We are home now and the patient has all but forgotten the excitement of the day. Joe and I chuckle now; our banter jovial as we consider the trials our children put us through. My hand still isn’t quite steady but I know that this too will be forgotten in time and my children will, once again, lull me into a false hope that a quiet, lazy afternoon is possible.