Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?
SARAH PALIN: Before it got to the other side, I shot the chicken, cleaned and dressed it, and had chicken burgers for lunch.
Musings (and mumblings) from an unextraordinary life: living, loving, and raising rugrats as a working mom with a great husband.
by
Fat Chick
at
7:20 AM
0
responses
file headings: fun, quote of the day
Saturday is typically a day of fun, errands, marathon house cleaning, or what-have-you; it is a day that I typically choose what it is I want to do, with whom, and where. Not so nowadays--or at leas the entire month of October.
Sigh.
At this very moment, I am sitting in a small 12x12 waiting room up at OHSU's Beaverton Campus. Prior to these appointments, I had no idea OHSU even had a 'west' campus. The things one learns and how.
Why, you ask, am I up here in a waiting room on a Saturday, or all days? Well I can sum it up in one word: Peanut.
Yep. We're here in order for Peanut to be a guinea pig of sorts for a research study. Yes, we are contributing to the greater good of society by participating in a research study. But, before you fill yourself with warm and fuzzy thoughts about me or my progeny, I (and my girl) am not as altruistic as this scenario may sound.
See, we're taking part in this research study on the prosody of language for two reasons: 1. for the betterment of mankind, and, 2. (the real reason) so that I can have copies of the numerous and exhorbitantly priced testing that they do as a part of the study which I could not afford on my own.
And. on that note, and with a whining little brother who wants to comandeer my laptop in the name of DVDdom, I must sign off. More to come...maybe.
by
Fat Chick
at
11:07 AM
0
responses
by
Fat Chick
at
10:28 AM
1 responses
file headings: beach, Hawaii, photography, travel
Long time no post. Yeah, yeah, yeah. My bad. Actually, I've wanted (a little) to post, but overall with the end of the work-year and all the wrapping up activities I've just been too lazy/tired/busy to post (select your excuse).
But, alas, here I am. Posting on a Thursday night. Nothing particularly special about this Thursday, except that in less than 24 hours I will be 'cruising at an altitude of 30,000 feet'.
YIKES!
I hate flying. I don't know why, or how but I have an irrational fear of flying. Not quite a phobia, but not too far off. I just don't like it. I keep hoping that they will invent the Star Trek transporter--for real! I'd just love it. I'd gladly play triple fare to go on the instantaneous transporter. You want to go to Korea? Sure. Push the button **whoomp!** you're there. That's what I keep hoping for. In the meantime, I'm left with good ol' fashioned jet propelled transportation. It is kind of ironic that I'm afraid of flying: I suffer from wanderlust, and truly, the two just don't jibe. Sometime in my early twenties I just had one flight where I suddenly felt my mortality stronger than I had ever felt it, and so began my dislike of aircraft.
Every flight for about the first 20 minutes I sit ramrod straight in my uncomfortable little seat, white-knuckling the armrests and praying, fervently, "please don't let us die, please don't let us, die, oh sweet Jesus, please make sure all of us get safely to our destination without incident or trouble..." and it begins again. It is really quite embarrassing to be the only one in my entire row who is near hyperventilating, and who breaks out in slick little beads of sweat at the first jostle of air turbulence. Yeah. That's me. Then, after that initial 'take-off' and things get to 'cruising altitude' I'm fine. Well, that is until it is time for our 'final descent'. Then, I begin to tense up again, begin my 'breath prayers' and pretty much sit petrified in a state of utter terror until we stop moving on the tarmac and arrive at our gate.
Tomorrow, I get to experience this lovely scenario. With children. Small. Squirmy. ADHD. Two Years Old. Children.
Lord, Help me.
I'm off to Kauai until the end of the month.
Wish me luck. Say a prayer for me (that I don't freak out and that the kids are at the very least better behaved than I am). I'll see if I can post some pictures and tell you the tale of how I survived my first family trip to Hawaii.
Aloha.
by
Fat Chick
at
9:12 PM
2
responses



by
Fat Chick
at
3:00 PM
1 responses
file headings: parental struggle, Peanut, photography
Where do I even begin? Well, for starters, if you've got a squeamish stomach, skip this one; if you're not into listening to drama, skip this one; if you're just not willing to listen to me whine and rant and rave, just skip this one and check back another day, like on one of the days where I post goofy pictures (like the peeps) or photos of slumbering, fuzzy kittens in the sun.
Warning: Today was a bad day.
Things were going 'swimmingly' up until about 11am. That's when my dear friend, who was watching the kidlets, calls me at work to let me know there's been an 'incident' with Peanut, but that she was ok. Whenever someone says there's been _______ "but such-and-such is OK" you know it is bad. What they're really hoping is that they can be responsible and let you know what happened, all the while silently praying 'Oh dear God, please don't let them freak out. Please don't let them freak out'. You know that prayer. The one you say when you're certain all of it (and then some) is going to 'hit the fan.' Yup. That one.
Well, after the phone call, it is pointless to say, I immediately left work, and headed out to get the Peanut and do damage control. En route I phoned the pediatrician's office, silently thanking God for the invention of cell phones and the affluence of my family to be able to afford one. The receptionist clicks onto the line: "Dr. K's office. Can you hold for a moment?" Uh, lemme think about this for a nanosecond: 'No, not really." And then I explained my situation. Thank goodness the receptionist was having a good day or had taken her happy pills or taken a huge hit of meth or whatever--she was so pleasant, and was willing and able to put up with my mild hysteria.
By the time I finished talking with the pediatrician's office I arrive at my friend's house: there's peanut, sitting on the couch with my friend's sweet husband, ice pack on her little head. She doesn't look any worse for the wear, but the truth is: My little monkey had been jumping on the bed (no, really) and she fell off and hit her head (we think it was on the foot board of the bed), mama (me) had already called the doctor and the doctor said: "tell me just exactly what she did to her head!". Poor little peanut had managed to get quite a gash on the back of the crown of her head, about one inch in length and I'm guessing 1/2 a centimeter (???) in depth--deep at any rate. It had mostly stopped bleeding by the time I got there, and amazingly enough she wasn't in any pain and wasn't complaining.
Whew!
My poor dear friend, on the other hand, was a wreck. She was so upset, and worried over Peanut getting hurt, and worried about how I'd react (normal reaction, I'd be the same way). I felt so bad for her because she was so upset she was in tears, and even though I wasn't (and still am not) mad at her, nor do I find she did anything wrong, I couldn't reassure her that I understood, and that it was just a freak kid accident--it could have just as easily happened at my home as at hers, or with any other kid. I do hope that she feels better tomorrow.
At any rate, I decided yes, Peanut did need stitches, so off my friend, my Peanut, and I went to: The Emergency Room. (duh, duh, duh). There we sat. And sat. And we sat some more. We sat, with a bleeding four-year-old child in the waiting room for the upwards of almost 2 hours before they took us back.
I guess the old saying is true: you could, technically, bleed to death while waiting to be called back into the emergency room. Huh. Who knew?
After a short visit with the E.R. doctor and a nurse, they decided we needed to suture up her head, as my friend and I figured, and that they were going to use staples.
What?
We went to the E.R. for the purpose of letting my girl be sedated a bit for her stitches because we didn't think she'd be able to handle it 'the old fashioned way' (given that on the 7th of this month it took 3 adults to restrain her for a single blood draw--that is a story unto itself). Well, the sage doctor decided we'd try the staples first, and if that didn't' work, then we'd do sedation. At this point in time I was like "whatever will work. Let's just get this over and done with." All the while, Peanut has been an excellent patient--no whining, crying, or acting up (that was her mother who was doing that!!).
So, there we were, in the E.R., Peanut on my lap, my legs wrapped about her waist, holding her in a 'bear hug' while the gentleman nurse (a fantastic human being, I might add) held her head steady and the doctor stapled her scalp shut.
Ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk, and one final ca-chunk.
And it was done. Nearly 3 1/2 hours after we arrived, and $100 lighter in the wallet later, the girl was sutured up and we were on our way.
And to think, we could have had the same results, at the Pediatrician's office, and been in and out in less than 30 minutes. GARG!
Then, back home again. Peanut was feeling frisky and fine (the child was doing somersaults on the couch (getting blood everywhere-eew!) and had to be told to calm down and relax, so her sutures wouldn't be disturbed), and mommy's blood pressure was through the roof. Not the way I'd wanted to spend the afternoon.
At least my little girl was 'good as new' and feeling fine. That was the most important thing.
After both children were fed, and the boy put to bed, I headed out to run the last of the birthday errands I had left. Originally, I'd planned to do all of the errands and 'to-dos' this afternoon, but the trip to the E.R. disrupted that train of thinking, so it had to wait until after dinner.
I wound up taking care of all of my errands, with a little insult added at the gas pumps ($20 for 5.45gal. of gasoline! ***#$@@@$*$*$* insert expletive), only to walk back into the house, ready to frost the cupcakes for Peanut's party tomorrow, to discover my darling husband had only bought one can of chocolate frosting--to decorate 54 cupcakes in 'rainbow' colors. So much for being prepared the day before the party.
Needless to say, my evening ended on a truly aggravating note. But, the silver lining to this cloud is that the Peanut is OK, she's feeling good, she's going to be five, and has five staples in her head, someday this is going to make a great story to retell; and, hopefully my little monkey has learned her lesson: 'no more monkey jumping on the bed!'
by
Fat Chick
at
8:49 PM
1 responses
file headings: parental struggle, Peanut, rant
Here I am, 2:31pm, home and already had my second cup 'o java for the afternoon (I had 2 this morning before leaving for work, and I cheated and had a small (6oz.) cup of BLACK coffee at work...). Apparently I'm working my addiction up to a full pot of coffee a day. And, to think, I'd been doing so well at only having one measly little cup (black!) in the morning before going to work. I've tried to quit coffee, go it the 'tea' way...but let's call a spade a spade: living among roosters as I do, working, having the PEANUT (note: the caps is on purpose)...facing the day without waking up to the smell of syrupy thick espresso strength coffee, to be guzzled by the 12 oz. mug, is like asking me if I'd like a visit from Jack Kevorkian (life without coffee? yes, pencil him in at 3...). So much for the reduction of caffeine. On to bigger things:
I love my Peanut. Peanutzilla; the Chubber calls her "peanut-butter", B.J. often calls her a pain in the _________ (fill in the blank: neck, butt, etc...). I do. I love her so much, I often go into the 'red' caring for her and all of her various needs. I do without, so does B.J. and the Chubb, though the latter doesn't yet realize it. Ask me how long it has been since I had a whole-hog, pull-out-the-stops-vacation. I'll tell you: I don't rightly remember. Far. Too. Long. Ago. After all, I'm the girl who buys (bought) airline tickets to Europe or Hawaii on a spur-of-the-moment 'this price is too good not to buy it' whim. Sigh. Those days are looonnng gone. I'd like to be able to go to the salon every 6 weeks and get my highlights done without my mental abacus going into guilt and worry about bills overdrive, and so I don't look like the bus driver from South Park; I'd like to be able to go shopping once in a while without feeling like I'm going over the precipice and landing us into debt. I'd like to stay in the black, but it just seems like it isn't gonna happen.
Already, this month alone, we're up to about $200 in medical co-pays for Peanut, and it isn't even the end of the month yet. Not to mention, the $2,000 invoice from OHSU that we received the other day that we may be 100% responsible for (maybe the insurance will pay it, maybe it won't. I think that BCBS uses a 'magic 8-ball' to decide on what it pays out on.).
Back to the Peanut, and, more specifically our current situation: Her psychiatrist has recommended we take her to a psychologist (main difference: the former is an M.D., the latter is a Ph.D.) for 'neuropsychological evaluation....[to] rule out other neuropsych dysfunction; to include IQ/LD'. Blah, bluh, bla? Yes. I know, it is partly Greek to me, as well. Basically, we want to find out a baseline for Peanut's cognitive performance. The psychiatrist doesn't do that kind of testing, the psychologist does. So, off I go with referral in hand.
Cha-ching.
The referral we've got in our hot little hands is for an out of network provider. Translation: mucho dinero. I, of course, don't have to have this testing done, but being the compulsive problem-solving mama that I am, I am going to. Because, after all, if this sheds more light on Peanut and how to deal with her 'quirks' I'm all for it. But! It all comes at a price.
The evaluation Peanut needs will run the gamut of $1,200-$2,000, quote that the psychologist gave me over the phone.
Choke-to-death. [insert gagging and vomiting noises here]
The insurance will pay up to 70% of what they deem 'usual and customary fees' (after I've paid my $300 deductible). In normal human being speech that means they will decide what a doctor should charge, and based on what the insurance deems to be the 'appropriate' charge, they will pay up to 70%. So, if they say this type of testing should cost, for simplicity, $10, then 70% of 'usual and customary' would mean they pay $7, leaving me to pay 30% of the balance, or $3. Sounds relatively simple, but when you're dealing with multiple zeroes after the numbers it gets a bit more...hmm...how shall I say it...distressing. Furthermore, if Peanut's psychologist doesn't charge $10 for the testing, but charges $17 for the testing, the insurance still only ponies-up $7, and I'm left with the balance of $10. So, basically I'm a bit on the screwed side.
What is a parent to do? What I always do: try to do the best I can by my peanut. I continue to mumble and grumble over medical costs--but I'm lucky: I at least have insurance. Some folks aren't so lucky, and once upon a time in the recent past I was one of those folks who didn't have insurance...and by God, did I pray I didn't get sick.
I continue to be more and more political; I follow the insurance legislation for my state. I send letters to my representatives and legislators. I've been scheduled to testify in front of the legislature before (though the meeting was cancelled). All in the name of providing my daughter with the necessary medical care she needs to live the fullest and most productive life she can live. So that my husband and I can have some semblance of normalcy in our family: we know and remember all to well what life was like before Peanut had the appropriate therapies and help; life with an untreated child like my girl is sheer hell.
So, the song that plays in my mind's Mp3 player, today, would have to be Patsy Cline's "Crazy," because I'm crazy in love with my girl.
by
Fat Chick
at
2:31 PM
1 responses
file headings: Autism, links, parental struggle, Peanut, rant