Heartbeat Props

This week has also been notable for something other than the waves of illness that have been breaking over Beach Ghost Central: the mini-BG went back to the hospital for her second check-up since her surgery.

The news continues to be good. The pressure gradient in her heart had decreased slightly (which is a good thing), but not so much that the cardiologist would call it a trend. Still, this means that the tumor remnant isn't interfering with her heart function and is probably either not growing at all or growing at such a slow rate that the growth of her heart is outpacing it.

It may be needless to note it, but both MLW and myself are pretty happy with the results.

Her next check-up is in 3 months.

Stone Cold

What's better than coming down with a cold? Coming down with a cold in the middle of a heatwave.

The mini-Beach Ghost decided to bequeath me an early Father's Day present (which she got for half off from MLW), which has reduced my mental capacity to about an eighth-grade level. (Jokes about how this is a slight step from my normal mental state will be summarily ignored, thangyewverymuch.)

It's not often that I come home after work and say to myself, "Gee, I think I want to spend the next 4 1/2 hours sitting on the couch watching TV." But that's what I was reduced to.

The Beach Ghostlette, on the other hand, didn't seem to be disturbed in the slightest by her own bout with the bug. Go figure.

We Will Rock You

Have you been wondering lately if there are any albums out there that truly rock? And I don't mean "rock" in any of the current, conventional senses. Not in the 'wink-wink nudge-nudge,' ironic sense, where you and the band both know that neither of you are taking this whole 'rock' business too seriously. Not that kind of rock that simply absorbs what you dug about classic rock and regurgitates it without any of the risk that made the original music so inviting. And, in the name of all that is holy, certainly not in the sense of yet another pop-punk band who refuse to deviate from the blueprint Green Day* established in the '90s.

If you've been on the look out for an album that rocks--loudly, unabashedly, and without a trace of irony--than the women of Sleater-Kinney would like a word with you.

Now, I'll throw out the caveat that I've been a big fan of the band's since I bought an album of their's for the first time in 1997. Their 2000 album, All Hands on the Bad One, ranked #1 on my top ten list for that year. But their latest, The Woods, is such a tremendous pay-off to the evolutionary process they've been working towards as a band that it threatens to forever eclipse the rest of their catalog.

And while MLW has long since grown tired of my constant praise of their work ("Is that woman still singing?"), many beach ghost readers will probably find a post on this topic below their pain threshold.

The Woods distinguishes itself from the rest of the Sleater-Kinney catalog in the first second of its running time, as "The Fox" opens with a blast of feedback that announces the heaviest song they've ever done. But the real laying down of the musical gauntlet occurs a couple songs later, in the middle of "What's Mine is Yours." The song disguises itself as a blues stomp for about half its running time and then Carrie Brownstein rips into a solo that is soon given the full Hendrix treatment--phasing, distortion, even segments played backwards. That someone would even attempt such an obvious homage is pretty gutsy. It doesn't hurt that she also manages to pull it off.

But Ms. Brownstein's isn't alone in achieving new heights in her musical prowess, as her bandmates have also risen to the occasion. Janet Weiss pummels the drums with such force she sounds like Bonham resurrected and Corin Tucker shrieks out a number of lyrical lines with the intensity of Plant.

It is also one of the loudest albums I've heard in recent memory (outside of metal, perhaps). I'm talking you-can't-listen-to-it-at-full-volume-on-your-headphones loud. I'm talking your-ears-will-actually-hurt-after-playing-it loud. But when a song like "Rollercoaster" kicks into full gear, you'll want to hear it loud.

Now, I'd be remiss for not mentioning that detractors will find aspects of this album that they will not care for. For one thing, there's the intentional distortion which permeates the album and, if you aren't expecting it, will have you checking your speakers. This is true even on 'softer' songs like "Modern Girl." And those who don't care for singing with a heavy dosage of vibrato will not at all be enamoured of Ms. Tucker (the quote from MLW was directed at her).

So--if you want an album that hearkens back to the days where bands created "classic rock," without a whiff of nostalgia, then you should investigate The Woods immediately.

For a wee sample of just what I'm talking about, take a look at their latest video.

* - Yes, the referenece to Green Day is intentional. Pop-punk has, IMHO, about as much in common with actual punk than ambient has with Scandanavian death metal.

It's My Choc-o-late Attack

Then there are marketing wonks who know exactly what they're doing. Witness, for example, those evil, evil folks at Apple. One of their new iPod ads feature a plethora of rollerskaters and a teaser of what sounds like a really kewl tune.

The song, for those of you who have some inhuman ability to resist a good hook, is "Feel Good Inc." by the Gorillaz. Which, of course, is available to download from iTunes. And thanks to a promotion from one of our fine megacorps, I did just that...for free. And have now listened to said tune approximately 5,000 times.

Like a lot of good pop, the tune is simplicity itself--strictly an A-B-A-B-A pattern. The tune opens with manaical laughter that could have been lifted from "Crazy Train" or perhaps the end of Crimson's "Easy Money." Then we get hit with the bass-heavy hook and the lyrical "theme" (the precise nature of which is impossible to discern, given the casual (read: incomprehensible) vocals), which seques into a rather lovely acoustic guitar section (backed with some well-timed keyboard washes). Then we're back to the hook, only this time the rather lackadaisical vocal is replaced with a rap from an unrecognizable De La Soul that is sure to please the hardcore hip-hoppers.

Then it's lather, rinse, repeat.

Unfortunately, there are a couple downsides. Not for the song itself, mind you, but rather its marketing.

First, and it may not be common knowledge at this juncture, but Gorillaz have actually made a video for the song. I've seen it, and was particularly taken by the Miyazakian aspects of the animation. However, the first image that's going to pop into my head whenever I hear the hook for the song is a trio of headbanded rollerskaters on a blue background. So Gorillaz (or, more likely, their label) may reap some financial benefit from the cross-promotion, Apple ultimately gets to play the trump of forever having the music associated with their brand.

Even worse (from Gorillaz POV, at least) is the fact that there is currently an overview of their just-released album available for free download via iTunes. After perusing said overview, I realized that the new album would have about as many songs that I would enjoy as their first did. Which is to say, one.

To sum up, Apple manages to raise my interest in a song, which I then download for the cost of a soda I would have purchased anyway from a site owned by Apple. In the process I determine that I need spend no further money on the band's full-length work.

So...who do you think is getting the better deal?

Two Hundred Dollars Straight In

Work on the next part of my Springsteen dissertation continues at a snail's pace; in the meantime, I'm absorbing his latest.

My only comment on the work thus far isn't related to the music. Rather, I find it hi-lar-ious (sic) that the song "Reno" got tagged with a warning ('This Song Contains Some Adult Imagery') for this lyric:

Two-fifty up the ass

Yet there's no parental warning sticker for the f-bomb he drops on another song.

And speaking of the "F word," a big middle finger to the marketing wonks at Columbia Records who deemed it necessary to usher in their new "DualDisc" format by creating a new CD case that is destined to break in short order. Thanks for that, folks.

Hearts Can Be That Way

I realized, in the midst of my rather protracted ramblings about music, that I hadn't presented an update on the Beach Ghostlette since the end of our ordeal in March. Rest assured, this is a good thing. (Not the lack of updates, but the lack of anything to report.)

In fact, our little bundle of joy recently went back to the hospital for a 6-week, post-op check-up and was pronounced in fine shape. Her doctor advised my wife that mini-BG's heart would never be featured in "Playboy for Hearts" (a rather interesting concept in itself), and that any doctor who wasn't familiar with her case would mistakenly believe that there was something wrong. Something we'll be keeping in mind, to be sure.

The baby also had to be fitted with a monitor for a 24-hour reading of her heart rhythms, which also turned out a-ok.

And the news keeps getting better and better. A couple weeks ago we started mini-BG on solid foods, and she has taken to it like a duck to water. She even grasps the concept of opening her mouth and not sticking out her tongue. So she's also putting on weight at a steadier rate.

What else? She's generally jolly, sleeps through the night (a few random interruptions aside), and is one of the highlights of my day--every day.

And now, a question for the 'blogosphere: I have two potential topics that I'm thinking of blathering on about for my next entry. One is the long-delayed second part of my Springsteen dissertation. The second is about Poland.

What say ye?

Mother Stands for Comfort

It seems like I've been away for eons. Sitting in a hospital, doing nothing but waiting, gives you a unique perspective on time--you are so bored that every minute takes forever, yet a day passes before you can blink. I had it easy, for I at least was able to go to work and keep my mind occupied; MLW got to experience just about every excruciating second of the mini-Beach Ghost's stay.

And, believe me, parts of it were excruciating. When I wrote in my previous entry that her first night out of surgery was the roughest that was true--at the time. The actual, honest-to-goodness roughest night was last Saturday, when she was beginning to be weaned from the medication.

In the middle of the night she began to struggle out of the medically necessary stupor she'd been plunged into. This led to a little coughing, a little crying, and a little...chest popping.

Yup, that's not a typo. Whenever she took in a deep breath, or coughed, or gave a particularly lustful cry, her chest would...pop. You could hear it from a couple feet away and, worse yet, you could feel it. Of course, this started happening at around 3 o'clock in the morning, so needless to say there was nothing we could do about it. Not that we didn't try. We managed to get the Fellow on staff to take a listen. We soon found out why this particular Fellow was working the graveyard shift, because he quickly pronounced that "he'd never heard anything like this before." I informed the man that that was precisely what we didn't need to hear at that moment. Since the issue didn't appear to be emergent, nothing was done at that point.

What we were able to find out on Sunday was the Beach Ghostlette had probably loosened one of the stitches that were holding her sternum together. What we found out on Monday, after they had performed a second operation to fix the problem, was that it was also causing her a considerable deal of discomfort. Fortunately, the period to get her back to where she was before she had to go under the second time was considerably shorter.

One thing that MLW discovered would ease the baby's evening discomfort was getting into to the bed with her and holding her. Unfortunately, they'd transferred the baby to a "climbing crib," so MLW had to squeeze herself into something that was only four feet long. I'd think it funny, if not for the underlying pathos of it: our girl was out of sorts and just wanted to be comforted.

From there, things have steadily improved. The mini-BG came home on Thursday afternoon and has slowly begun reverting to her usual, jolly self. The only noticable change, aside from a slightly quicker tendancy to go from calm to Warp Factor Cranky at the drop of a hat, is her tendency to eat even more. Even this is good news, as she needed to up her intake anyway.

A couple weeks before the surgery was scheduled, the Beach Ghostlette's cardiologist was discussing the process with MLW and noted that children receive an amnesiac with their anesthesia so that they don't remember anything about it afterwards. But, he said, he wished that they were able to prescribe them to the children's parents, as they were the ones who really could use it.

I, for one, heartily agree.

Quick is the Beat of my Heart

The fateful day has come and passed. I am typing this entry from the Intensive Care Unit of the hospital where the mini-BG is being treated. Yes, you can even surf the Web from inside a hospital room--and on a wireless keyboard no less.

All of which is, of course, secondary to the reason MLW and I are here.

Based on the evidence of the past couple days, I'd have to say that it appears the Beach Ghostlette has the same constitution as her mother (16 / +3 bonus). I dare say that I probably would not have held up quite so well--hell, a bout of intestinal distress knocked me on my ass for two days.

MLW and I arrived at the hospital around 6:15 am on Wednesday and had to relinquish the baby outside the operating room at around 7:30. Then...we waited. Although we were told ahead of time that the mini-BG would only be on bypass (read: her heart would not be beating) for only a half-hour at the most, getting to and from that point would take around 4 hours. I think it was a bit longer than that, but eventually the anesthesiologist emerged to tell us that the surgery was complete. We spoke to the surgeon a few minutes after that, and he informed us that he had removed a portion of the tumor about the size of two thumbs placed together. This was sent to pathology for analysis, which confirmed what we had suspected: fibroma. Which meant that the chances of it subsiding on its own were small.

It took almost another hour for a bed in the ICU to become available (like most hospitals, space is generally at a premium; it's like the axiom about traffic always expanding to clog freeways, regardless of how many lanes are added), and when we finally got to see her she was splayed spread-eagle on a bed that dwarfed her by a considerable margin, each limb and orifice (including a few new ones in her chest) displaying a tube or wire of some sort or another. It makes for a lengthy litany: two metal leads attached to her heart that could be plugged into a pacer, a chest tube to drain excess fluid, a couple shunts that allowed the docs and nurses to inject medication to her recently repaired muscles, arterial shunts, a blood pressure cuff, a catheter, a ventilator, and--perhaps the ultimate indignity--a rectal thermometer kept in place with tape.

The first night was her roughest. Her heart was beating over 200 times a minute when she was placed in her room, and remained in the high 190s throughout the night. It was during this period that we realized what a precarious house of cards the recovery period is. The drugs they give to stabilize one system can adversely effect other systems if not given in the right doses. So the staff had to monitor her heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation percentage, urine output and so on and so forth, ad infinitum. We were able to get to sleep that night--mostly due to exhaustion--but the night was far from restful.

Fortunately, things have improved considerably since then. This morning her chest tubes were removed, and there is even talk of taking her off the ventilator later today.

But was it worth it? Although my logical brain realizes that this was definitively the course we needed to take, my doubting Thomas side still wants to probe the wound--I want to see that her heart is now more "normal," and that the tumor won't decide to stage a comeback, and that we didn't put our daughter (and ourselves) through all this trauma for nothing.

Meeting Across the River

So this past Wednesday MLW and I took the mini-BG to the hospital where she will be undergoing her operation in a few days for her final pre-surgery visit. It was a jam-packed day that went something like this:

• 8:00 ish -- Arrival
  
• Pre-admittance paperwork
  
• Chest X-ray
  
• Echocardiagram
  
• EKG
  
• Consultation with surgeon
  
• Tour of O.R. intake, pediatric ICU, and "step-down" area
  
• Blood test, 1st attempt.
  
  This was, without a doubt, the worst part of the day. Since the mini-BG is, in fact, mini, the phlebotomist had a wee bit of difficulty locating a vein. And by "wee bit of difficulty," I mean that she fished around in the Beach Ghostlette's arm with a needle for a good couple minutes. Now, I'm sure that most 3-month-olds will lie perfectly still and like nothing better than to have something jabbed into their flesh, but our little daughter was just a smidgen less understanding.
  
  Actually, she howled as if her limb was being sawed off. This was no "I believe I may desire something to eat" cry or a "I'm feeling somewhat run down" cry. Nope. This was a lung-emptying scream of pain and anger. And it wasn't as if we could reason with her. 3-month-olds are not real big on such concepts as 'necessity' and 'temporary discomfort.' Finally, MLW asked the nurse to give it up (okay, she didn't really ask, but I think most readers can get a sense of what I mean). After a few more emotional minutes, it was agreed that we'd try again in a little bit. So it was...
  
  
• Break time. A couple diet sodas, a few calls to check messages, a little time to calm down the little one.
  
• Blood test, 2nd attempt. More howling, but a different phlebotomist was able to tap a vessel her first shot out of the box. A minute or so later, and mini-BG was bandaged and ready for the final event of the day.
  
• Nurse meeting. This was a "getting to know your baby's vitals" meeting, where the baby was poked and prodded in a generally less invasive fashion. Her ears were looked at, her heart listened to, and her snots were removed (via saline solution in the nostrils, causing still more howling).

For the most part, we never had to wait too long for any one activity, but the time added up just the same. By the time we pulled out, it was about 2:30 pm, and we'd been at the hospital for over 6 hours.

Since we'd not eaten the entire day in an effort to compress the day somewhat, we were both famished. We stopped off at one of NJ's myriad diners and I had what may have been the worst helping of onion rings I've ever tasted. It didn't matter--I was worn out, hungry, and was in no mood to complain or count carbs.

The baby, who had done a fair amount of sleeping during our visit, napped for over three hours straight. Mom and Dad were only too happy to join her for a nap of their own.

My next entry will probably be late this week, when everything has become clearer.

Did Ye Get Healed?

So, the date for surgery has been set: February 23rd.

Although (let's face it) I'd rather it not be necessary for me, MLW, and the mini-BG to endure this, I am at least somewhat heartened by the fact that the hospital we'll be taking her to did some lovely--and more complex--work on this little fellow.

Heart in the Hand of the Matter

First off, a whole boatload of thanks to the folks who were inspired to comment on my last entry, making it the most. commented. entry. evar. This is probably going to be a slow-burning issue, as there are a lot of irons in the fire at present. Especially given the ever-changing condition of the mini-Beach Ghost.

The latest news on that front has been both good and bad. The good: she didn't need to have a second MRI, as they would have had to anesthetize her on this occasion, something they don't like to do unless they positively have to. She did have a CAT scan, which pretty conclusively (remember, nothing is ever 100%) eliminated the posibiliity of the growth being malignant.

The bad: the tests have shown that the obstruction of bloodflow from her heart has not improved. While this doesn't constitute an immediate emergency, it is unfortunately something that can only be treated surgically. At this point, we don't yet have a definitive date as to when we'll need to take her in, but it will probably be toward the end of this month or the beginning of the next.

I'm of two minds about the prospect of my three-month-old being opened up for major surgery. On the one hand, just thinking about what the surgery will entail is enough to keep me up nights. On the other, once she has come out of surgery, the Beach Ghostlette should be free of any heart complications. Should, of course, being the opeartive word.

More as details become available.

Mystery Achievement

Most of the time, I enjoy my job. Although this would seem to be stating the obvious (why stay at a job you don't enjoy?), I've worked at enough places to know that this is never guaranteed. I enjoy the fact that my responsibilities encompass a wide range of different tasks. I genuinely like the majority of the people with which I work. Best of all for me, the money is quite good and the commute is literally walking distance.

As far as I know (and I probably would have been made aware of this awhile ago if this wasn't the case), the way that I handle my job is well respected. This is evidently no small feat, as there are quite a number of divergent personalities on the managerial level and I have had to deal with each of them in one way or another. In fact, I was assigned to a project that was already in process so that I could act as liaison between the project manager and a particularly "difficult" client.

There's only one issue, but it's turning into a doozy: I'm a consultant.

Consultant, for those not versed in CorpSpeak slang, is simply a dignified title for a temporary employee--which is, in essence, what I actually am. Becoming a consultant was not a planned step in my career evolution, which is probably why I've been one for the better part of the last three years.

Up until last year, I wouldn't have even made the distinction between consultancy and full-time employment. The categories were a heck of a lot broader a few years ago: either I was working or I wasn't. But the distinction became a lot more important once I knew that MLW was pregnant for one reason and one reason only: health insurance. This became an even more important consideration once MLW was laid off from her job and we faced the prospect of having to pay COBRA.

Now, I'm not about to begin crying poverty--I'm paid relatively well for my job--but paying for COBRA currently eats approximately 25% of my net pay. You read that right: twenty-five percent. And, in the (unlikely) event that MLW or I haven't procured full-time employment by the time COBRA runs out, we'll end up paying even more for private insurance.

I had begun speaking with my boss about the possibility of being converted to a full-time employee last year. And though it was not something that we discussed on a weekly basis, it looked like the conversion was on track to happen this month...until it wasn't. The reason was that old saw that gets trotted out when any business expense doesn't get paid: budget restrictions.

As much as it will pain me to do it, it may well be time for me to pull up my stakes and move on. The birth of the Beach Ghostlette was not a surprise at my workplace, nor was the importance I placed on receiving healthcare, and a portion of me feels as if the purse-string holders weighed the options of going over budget or potentially losing a good employee and chose the latter. And it not only costs me some dosh to pay for COBRA, but every day or half-day I have to take to mind the mini-BG (as was the case the majority of last week) cuts into that week's paycheck.

I realize, of course, that this probably comes across as so much whining. Companies don't exist to provide me with employment, things are tough all over, I'm lucky to have a job, blah blah blah. But simply getting a portion of the package really isn't sufficient anymore; I feel I've earned the right, not simply because I've put in the time but because I've actually proven my value.

More on this as events warrant (and readers tolerate).

Next: The worst of the best of 2004

Wave of Mutilation

I've not much to add that hasn't been better said elsewhere about the awesome and awful havoc created by the tsunami in December. A friend of ours noted how becoming a parent changes the way you view news stories (which are almost always tragic) involving children. It's true, and the fact that many parents have had their children taken from them is more distressing to me now than it ever was previously.

If, by some chance, you haven't decided whether or not to send your hard-earned for the relief effort--please do so. There are plenty of organizations that are helping, and plenty of places that list those organizations. Heck, there's even a 'blog.

The Gene Genie

More good news on the baby health front. MLW received a call from the geneticist, who had taken a sample of the Beach Ghostlet's blood a few days after she was born in order to determine if she had any markers for Tuberous Sclerosis. She doesn't.

Of course, this was couched to MLW as not 100% guaranteeing that mini-BG doesn't have the syndrome. Which, to me, translates to "Well, there is still the possibility that we screwed the pooch and read the report wrong," or "Of course, your daughter's genes may decide to begin spontaneously, randomly mutating on their own." In other words, it's decidedly unlikely.

Left unresolved is the matter of her heart, in which we know for certain that there's a mass that's affecting its functioning to a small degree. We're awaiting the latest monitor results, and we have another MRI scheduled in February, this time focusing on the ticker.

I hadn't thought that my daughter would be spending so much of her early life visiting doctors and hospitals. I suppose, in a way, that I should be grateful--many people and many children are far, far worse off.

'Tis the Season

My flow of mental spewings has, as will be evident to anyone comparing the date of this entry with the one that preceded it, slowed to a trickle. I wish that I could report that this was due entirely to the arrival of mini-BG, but it just isn't so. Fact is, I could probably dedicate more time to this endeavor if I simply...dedicated more time to the endeavor.

Not only that, but I've not been spending my free time introducing my infant daughter to the joys of literature. No, most nights I return from work and fulfill my portion of the child-rearing duties with a TV remote in my hand. The only reason that I'm able to put the finishing touches on this entry (which I started yesterday) are because the wife and daughter are out doing their part to float the economy.

Hmmm...perhaps I should retitle this 'blog "bitch ghost" for the time being. I seem to be doing precious little else here. Onto something a little less kvetching.

The Xmas weekend was a bit outside the traditional this year, as MLW and I requested that we not undertake the "rock star tour" through the tri-state area, on account of the little one. So we played hosts, and due to all attending parties bringing their share of the nosh, everyone was quite sated.

What was even more surprising was the fact that we weren't literally buried beneath presents for the little one. At the risk of slipping into the realm of the ungrateful, I hadn't really relished the thought of trying to find space for a couple dozen stuffed animals and a metric ton of toys that make noise. We needn't have worried.

The best part? Having nowhere to go and nothing to do on Sunday. We not only slept in, but we remained firmly ensconced in the bedroom for the majority of the day, venturing downstairs only to retrieve the sustenance necessary to keep us functioning.

And then it was back to work.

Next: Work

Do I Really Even Love You? Or Do I Really Love Your...Brain?

Okay, I've probably got enough time between feedings and attempts at sleep for a very brief update.

As mentioned in my last post, we did end up taking Mini Beach Ghost for grey matter scan.

They came back clean.

Of course, this doesn't completely remove the possibility of TSC, but it reduces the chances of mental developmental issues to practically zero. So, I think I'm going to celebrate by trying to sleep for three or four hours...in a row.

Alive in the Superunknown

Well, a few weeks have gone by since I've had any time to string together a few coherent thoughts in a (somewhat) logical progression; this post may or may not fit that qualification.

Since my last post was so heartening, I figured I'd make up for my absence from the blogosphere by providing some homogeneity in mood.

I wish that I could shed a bit more light on the Beach Ghostlet's condition, but nothing definitive has been determined. This despite a follow-up visit to the cardiologist who first spotted the cardiac mass, and despite a second opinion from a doctor at one of the most respected hospitals in the area. If anything, the follow-ups have actually created more uncertainty. We've also had to add a new word to our frequently used medical lexicon: fibroma.

The good news about the two visits is that we've determined that the mass isn't affecting either the heart's rate of flow or its electrical impulses. The not-so-good news is that if the decision was made to go in to resect the tumor, they wouldn't be able to remove it all, since it takes up a good portion of one ventricle wall. Still, everyone agrees that her being asymptomatic is a good thing and that there's no need to break out the sharp things unless that changes; at the moment, that doesn't seem likely.

But there's still the possibility of TSC to deal with. The gene test is still not due, and it was recommended to us that we take the baby in for an MRI of her head. TSC is characterized by tumors in many places, including the brain. So, as can be imagined, I'm thrilled.

Do I think that something is seriously wrong? Perhaps I'm simply being overly optimistic (what, me worry?) but I think not. She just doesn't seem sick, and is actually becoming more alert, beginning to focus on specific objects, and showing signs of an actual personality. She is, in other words, progressing.

It's just unfortunate that I have to wait a week or so to confirm what I think.

In The Wee Small Hours

Okay, being a parent does change everything. If, for nothing else, for the fact that your regular sleep schedule becomes anything but. I have been fortunate enough that MLW has taken on the lion's share of the overnight feeding duties so that I can be somewhat functional at my place of employment (or at least, you know, as functional as I usually am). But the first few days, when I was attempting to catch maybe five hours of sleep in a fold-out chair next to a drafty window and having a creature who is absolutely dependant on me (okay, not me specifically) for sustenance make her presence known every few hours reminds you that your life will no longer be that to which you were accustomed.

What I didn't expect was how I would react on an emotional level. The first couple days (and nights) we were back from the hospital, I went through a spate of what I could only later diagnose as free-floating anxiety. I wasn't eating all that much, was having difficulty sleeping even when I had the opportunity, and felt off-balance to the point that I was on the verge of tears the majority of my first day back at my job.

Of course, some of that is also tied up into the fact that MLW and I had to learn two new medical terms last week: Rhabdomyoma and Tuberous Sclerosis (TSC). And, worse, how the former relates to the latter. After meeting with cardiologists, a geneticist, pediatricians, and subjecting her to blood tests, sonograms, and EKGs we've determined...not much.

The one fact that has been established is that our baby girl has a (non-cancerous) tumor in her heart that isn't currently affecting her blood flow. In fact, it's entirely possible that even if her gene test indicates that she does have TSC, it may never have any serious effect. We have about five weeks to go before we find out the results of the gene test, but a preliminary sonogram has shown no signs.

So, add the stress of having a newborn, on (currently) one income, who might very well need to be monitored for the rest of her life, and you may get an idea of what the last week has been like.

But these are all negatives--as the picture in my previous post illustrates, she's an absolute beauty. Her eyes have opened, and having them stare at me with what could be interpreted as recognition is something I've never before experienced.

Waiting for a Girl Like You

Welcome to the world!

Get Nervous, Get Nervous

Well, according to the calendar, The Spawn should have made its appearance about three days ago. However, it has decided to make its own schedule, and MLW and I have been left to twiddle our thumbs.

Over the past seven days, MLW has had a few twinges that might have been the beginnings of labor, but no. For the most part, all the preparations we needed to make for The Spawn's arrival have been made. So we have had very little to actually do except wait. And wait. And...wait.

The situation, unfortunately, is only exacerbated at work, where I've made a concerted effort to get ahead of my tasks. Now I have plenty of time to dwell on how MLW could potentially go into labor now...or now...or now. To say the least, it's been stressful.

And it isn't as though we've simply been sitting around (although, yeah, there has been a bit of that as well). Yesterday, for instance, we went into the City and walked around for arond five hours. Granted, it's not as though we were spriting from point to point, but still. Other than forcing her to do jumping jacks, there's not much else I can think of to help MLW get The Spawn out any faster. They've not even arrived yet, and already the little tyke is proving willful. You just stop that right now, Mister or Missy!

My diet, which I mentioned a few weeks ago, has finally found a destination. For some reason, there have been absolutely not little ghouls and ghosts ringing our bell today, so I've indulged in an all-sugar brunch. I've not stepped on a scale in a while.

My nerves have not been helped by the upcoming Presidential Election. Regardless of whether you'd prefer a Republican or a Democrat, there's a poll out there that will tell you that your candidate is winning. Of course, if you believe in the science of coincidences, the election is already over. MLW, who's much more gifted in contingency plans, decided to vote via absentee ballot in case The Spawn showed up on Election Day. I made no such preparations. So now I fully expect to be in a hospital on Nov. 2nd instead of a Voting Booth. It's almost a lock.

This has been pretty scattershot--which fits my mental state perfectly.