Cold Spaghetti

During a weekend late in June, some friends hosted a pool party at a hidden neighborhood pool.  Among his friends, Will was by no means the only kid swimming around — but he was the only one doing so without any flotation aid and one of the only ones jumping fearlessly off the diving board.  People remarked on his comfort in the water and pressed us for the secrets of our little swimmer’s success… secrets which amounted to: “um…. I started dunking him in the water when he was a few months old?”

We’ve known for a long time that Will has some pretty amazing physical skills.  His balance, athleticism, and coordination have stood out to us and to others since before he could walk.  But what in the world were we to do about it?

The pool incident made me feel guilty about not more actively looking for ways for Will to hone these natural gifts.  So I quickly found open swimming classes at Elmwood Fitness Center.  Elmwood is a beautiful, state-of-the-art, fully equipped facility located in Harahan, which in the terms of someone living in Uptown New Orleans, means that one requires both speciality immunizations and a passport to get there.  For the past two weeks, Paul or I have been picking up Will at 3:30 and RUSHING him to the dark side of the moon FOUR times a week for 4:00 lessons.  Fighting traffic (traffic?  I live in the city because I hate traffic!) running in, changing in the locker room, rushing to the pool, waiting through a 40-minute lesson, changing again, rushing out, fighting traffic, picking up Kate at school, and then getting home to prepare dinner for kids to complain over.  IT SUCKED.  Thank goodness it all ended last Thursday.

Just so we could start it all again this week.

We did this because of Will’s very first lesson two weeks ago; when in the time it took me put him in the pool with his teacher, walk 50 feet to write a check for the class, and walk back, Will was swimming freestyle across the pool.  Eight classes later and Will was swimming freestyle, butterfly, and starting backstroke and breaststroke.  Now, I’m not saying he’s a master of any of the strokes, but he easily does them as well as any of the other kids in his swimming class… who are all age 7 and older and have had 2-3 years of swimming lessons.  In other words, the kids in his class have been swimming for as long or longer than Will has been walking.

Of course I am filled with pride to see my tiny guy — all 38.8 pounds of him — bouncing around boys twice his age and more than twice his size in the shallow water.  But I can’t help but feel a little freaked out.  I’m starting to see my life unfold as a chlorine-scented taxi driver who is pegged to leave the house at 4:30am five times a week for morning practices.  What the heck happened to my Billy Elliot??

The real bummer is that we were excited (and he was excited) about trying gymnastics and possibly a dance or music class in the fall.  Isn’t it too early to be sticking him in ONE thing?  And how can we possibly manage to balance everything??  Plus, there is Kate.  She’ll be starting down this road soon.  These are logistics well beyond the scope of what I considered before signing up for this parenting gig.

Part of it, too, is that I know the window of fostering Will’s creative sides is closing quickly.  Soon, everything in his life will be pulling him to sports and nothing else.  If I do anything as his Mother, I want to instill in him that he is smart, creative, expressive, musical, and artistic: and that there is nothing about being any of those things that make him less of a man or less of an athlete.  I worry that if I don’t lay that foundation firmly enough, it will get washed away by the wave of balls, bats, and cleats that are building on the horizon.

Perhaps because I feel all of these things, or perhaps because I just have needed something to do with the kids while Paul works all weekends and evenings, Will and I have been working some creative projects together.

Tonight, we drew some crayon pictures and made earrings.  Then Will asked if we could give some of his earrings away.  He dictated the letters, drew pictures, and packed away the goods in envelopes.  Everything was sealed before it occured to me to photograph them.  It touched me that my very sweet, sensitive, thoughtful and caring guy wanted to create something original and share it with others.

It was a reminder that although he may have an athleticism that makes him so different from me on the outside, in the inside, he is totally My Guy.

I knew they were tourists before we climbed inside.  Even with Will boldly clutching the $2.50 for the driver, I was still weighed down with a large tote bag, stroller, and Kate, all in my arms.  If they were from here, I wouldn’t have so much as put one foot onto the unfolded step before someone soundlessly took an object from me to help us on board.  It’s just the way things happen here.

Eventually the kids and I stumbled into the Streetcar and rambled down the isle to an open seat.  Two open seats, actually, as the kids took turns hopping between empty benches on each side of the isle, changing with each stop.  It is July in New Orleans and it is hot: both kids wanted the breeze from the open windows and to be out of the sun.  Their seat experimentation was just them working to find the coolest space available.

“This area doesn’t look like it got hurt by the storm,” the lady in front of me says.  “Oh, right,” her companion incorrectly chimes in, “but the Garden District got it real bad.”  Definitely tourists.  I am about to ask them where they are from, to chat them up and welcome them here, to be that friendly spot of hospitality one expects here for good reason.  But then the stroller I’ve laid beside our seat comes to smack me in the shin; the companion sitting in front of me is pushing it back, away from where one end has rolled into her personal space.  I decide to say nothing, listening instead to the women periodically comment on the “interesting” and “unusual” and occasionally “beautiful” architecture that unfolds before us as we roll along the tracks.

Finally, we turn the corner to Carrollton Avenue, where the Streetcar driver announces: “End of St. Charles, Carrollton Avenue, Camilla Grill!”  Everyone around us gets ready to depart.

One of the women asks, “Isn’t this it?  Camilla Grill?  Is this where we go?”  She is looking around as if her expectations weren’t quite being met.

“I’m not sure.  I guess so.  Everyone else is,” her friend answers.

Then Will, who has been silently looking out the window snaps to attention.  “Get a Cheeseburger.  They’re the best here.”  He says it right to the women, who take a moment to realize from where this sage advice has come.

“Really?” the first woman responds, “cheeseburgers?”

“And a chocolate milkshake,” Will remembers.

“Cheeseburger,” Kate adds.

For a split second I find myself wistfully wanting a third child, one who would pipe up and offer that last bit of important advice, “and get it dressed.”

When we arrived home from our Streetcar ride this afternoon, Will checked the mailbox and pulled out letters from Blue Cross and Blue Shield.  Seeing those letters was as exciting and nerve-wracking as waiting for a college acceptance letter, and the fact that there were TWO letters… one address to me and one addressed to Paul… made my stomach sink.  I tried to mentally prepare myself for bad news.

But surprise!  It wasn’t the bad news I was anticipating!

We haven’t been denied anything, yet.  We just have to track down 70 physicians, pull them away from their incredibly busy demands of trying to save to world, and get each of them to write down why they did a silly thing like write us a prescription.  The folks at BCBS found out that we had some scripts filled over the course of the last 30 years and want a separate form filled out for each script by the doctor who prescribed it.  The forms have the icy-official tone similar to those of warrants and audits, subtly letting you know that they have more information about you than you might have expected: “We understand that you have (fill in the blank) ACNE.  Please answer the following questions below about your (fill in the blank) ACNE.”   Others are specific to a prescribed drug.  “We understand the you have been prescribed the drug (fill in the blank) MEFLOQUINE.  Please answer the following questions about your (fill in the blank) MALARIA.”  What? When did Paul have malaria?  (Do they not know that the same drugs that treat some forms of malaria are also the same ones you take to prevent getting it?)

The good news is that they couldn’t find any medical reason to deny us flat out, so the new strategy is to bankrupt us out of being able to afford the policy by taking so much darn time to complete the process that we get fired from our jobs.  That, and with the timing of the letters, there is little chance of the policy being approved by the August 1st start-date we requested.  One more month of COBRA?  Ouch.

In the meantime, I continue to lose hair.

On a great suggestion, I called up a local acupuncturist who is also a Medical Doctor.  She listened to my symptoms and agreed it sounded a lot like an under-active thyroid, but will not touch me until I’ve had appropriate blood work.  Because she is only practicing Chinese medicine currently, she will not write any orders for tests — I have to find these elsewhere.  I called my primary care doctor, whom I went to last March because I thought I was bleeding myself anemic, to inquire about the possibility of going over my previous tests and getting orders for another.  The nurse explained that she is not allowed to discuss my record and that the doctor will not discuss any procedure, test, or exam (previous or otherwise) without an appointment.

A back-up plan came up out of the blue: offers from an out-of-state friend to FAX in a script for the blood work.  Unfortunately, the fax didn’t completely come through, so we’re working on getting this right.

Other ideas include: a certain doctor at the Tulane Student Health Center Downtown who has a reputation for “working” with students with insurance issues, and/or, going and standing in line at 6am for the Free Health Clinic.  This is the kind of service I’m more accustomed to working for or referring to — and now I may be a client?!  It makes me feel very guilty, as someone who can (and is trying to) pay for health care.

If our family, which is supported by a good income and run by competent, well-educated adults, with contacts in and around the health professions, cannot manage to secure a quality health care package… then how do others in more trying circumstances fair?

Guess what is installed?  And usable?  And properly functioning?  AND involves plumbing??

There were some issues with having to chisel out tiles, re-drill holes for the tub faucet, and re-plumb parts of the faucet water supply.  We had some help with grinding down the sharp edges of the tiles on the tub deck (a surprise for Paul while he was in New Hampshire).  And then there was Paul realizing he forgot to install a trap when we were pondering over why the echo of the water was so loud when we ran the Master Bathroom sink faucet.  BUT NOW… we have a tub!  An AIR TUB!  Ever heard of an air tub?  This is how it works: the backrest heats up (you set the temperature) as hot air (again, you set the temp) shoots out from the bottom sides of the tub and up channels behind your back and neck.  It’s the best bath experience you can have, by yourself, in my opinion.

Thanks, Hal, for helping us with this great tub!

It’s been years since we had bikes, but our gear still comes in handy.

You know people are good when the kids take to them in seconds.  Such is the case with Miss Shell (known to others as Michelle) who helped us make our schedules work by helping with childcare after the storm.  It was Miss Shell’s oyster po-boy that Kate picked up and devoured at 8 months.  It was Michelle that we called when Will tried to fly and burst open his forehead.  And it was Michelle who spent the night while I rushed Paul to the hospital with appendicitis.  It’s fair to say that she has stuck with us for better and for worse, which is about the most anyone can ask from another person.  This city is hard on young talent and Telemundo wooed her away, back to her home town of Miami.  When she is not being wined and dined by Miami’s most eligible bachelors, she is an undercover reporter, so if you’re pulling a scam in south Florida, watch out!  She was back in town for fun and relaxation, hitting her indie music scene between lunch dates.   Will tried to hide in her purse as a stow-away, but the crack-down on luggage weight foiled his plan.

(quietly): “Will, do you want to play a game?”

(answering in a whisper): “Yes.”

“Okay.  The game is, we are going to close our eyes for nine hours.  I bet I can keep my eyes closed longer than you.”

“No, I bet I can keep my eyes closed longer than you!”

“Longer than 9 hours?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Will.  Game on.”

Did you know that when your hair starts suddenly starts to fall out, rapidly fall out — like whole clumps clogging the drain with each shower until 5 weeks later when barrettes that used to not hold even half of your hair fall out because there isn’t enough hair on your entire head to hold them in place — that it is a sign that your body is under stress or crisis and is shutting down hair cells in order to redirect energy elsewhere to places where it is needed?

Stress or crisis.  Of course THIS is when I have stress or crisis.  When we are waiting to find out if that Blue Cross Blue Shield family health insurance plan is going to start on August 1st.  Although I may have COBRA now, if I see a doctor and then discover that BCBS has denied us, I feel pretty certain I will never be able to buy a health insurance policy in the United States again.

Looking at the full picture… extreme fatigue, vertigo, dizziness, depression, inability to loose weight (and unexplained weight gain), heavy heavy heavy long long long monthlies, and now rapid hair loss… this is starting to look like an underactive thyroid.

I put a call into the primary care doctor I saw back in March, when I thought that my fatigue and blues were caused by anemia.  Labs showed I was healthy and fine (just slightly anemic, which she called ‘probably menstrual’ and not to worry).  When my hair started to fall out after we got back from Peru, I figured it was anemia again and started taking iron.  I was patient, but it hasn’t gone away.  Now when I reach back and feel my hair, I have to fight back tears.  My hair is almost gone.

So what are my choices?  What can my doctor really do?  Nothing unless I see her, which I can’t do until we know we have insurance.  The way I see it, I have two options: do nothing and get sicker, or, research thyroid meds and find a way to get them myself and do my best to figure out if/how they work.  I can do a lot of stuff to myself that is harmful without infringing on any laws or endangering anyone’s profession.  So what is so bad about getting medications, which may help the problem?  Just trying to consider the big picture and remember that I (hopefully) won’t feel this way forever.

For the past two weekends, we have attended Baybears baseball games, where your ticket comes with two free hot dogs.  Kate was into the hot dogs.  You mention baseball, she’ll channel Yello and in that ‘oooh yeaah’ voice, will tell you HOT DOOOOGGGG.

Click on the audio link below to hear Kate discuss baseball over dinner.  (I’ve taken to audio capture dinner, since it’s when she talks the most.)  Listen for the HOT DOG at around 2:50.

ds300024

But, as Kate points out in her discussion, there are more than hot dogs with the Baybears.  You could also be one of the lucky kids to get a coupon for a free taco by chasing the giant taco across the field between innings.

Popcorn and drinks have free refills.  And if some random football player that I’ve never heard of (which means any past or present footballer) can throw the pigskin out of the park, everyone gets a coupon for a free Hardee’s sausage biscuit.  Folks in Mobile are serious about their junk food.

I got in a little sports photography.

And a few of the kids, when we weren’t wrestling Kate or keeping Will from ODing on diet Pepsi.  (I did do the good Mommy thing and bring smuggled in drinks for the kids… they just didn’t last long.)

Kate.

After a ‘tribute to the services’ where each branch of service has their musical moment and standing recognition, there are fireworks.  Pretty darn decent fireworks, all things considered.  I didn’t have the tripod the first week.  But I was able to get Kate’s face lit up from the explosions reflecting on the glass.  The first weekend this was possible because there weren’t as many people in the stands.  The second week, with the tripod, they let me on the field during the fireworks, but there were too many people to really get what I wanted… which was more of this picture below, just better.

Here’s Paul and Will.  BOOM.

The weekend of the Fourth, Emily and Skip were in town!  Will was Uncle Skip’s Mini-Me.

I had the tripod and was able to get some standard fireworks shots… but there were too many people to get the crowd shot I wanted.  I like this one because it reminds me a bit of the final home run in ‘The Natural’.

This is the best I could do at getting everyone’s faces lit up by the fireworks.