A Visual Interpretation of My Current Feelings

As days go, this one has been a decent one. The morning went well, the sky was a little overcast, but signs pointed toward just a blue, partly cloudy sky. The school drop off was the least-eventful of the year so far. We were early and encountered no rude parents.

It was a relatively slow morning at work, too. Easy. So easy, in fact, that I spent a good deal of time working on my annual letter to Boy Pop. It's not quite ready to publish, but I have a great start.

I left at lunchtime to go order Boy Pop's birthday cake and cupcakes for his party. That done, I headed to the party supply store to stock up on massive amounts of Sponge Bob decor. It was absolutely gorgeous outside, too. Perfect weather for the first day of fall... Partly cloudy, not too hot, nice breeze.

Sometime between the bakery and the party store, I got a text from my mother asking about the dates of spring break.

She texted from Houston. From a prominent neurological movement disorder doctor's office.

Swimming in the back of my mind, being firmly pushed there, was the fact that today was the day. After two months of waiting, today was the day my dad either got a diagnosis or didn't. He was either sick or he was getting older. Possibly both. But I didn't want to think about that until the last possible moment. So I answered my mom's text, picked up Chinese food through a drive through, and came back to the office. Where I saw this email from my mother:

Early stage parkinson's. He is going to be a part of a study that is funded by
michael j fox fondation. If he were already on med he couldn't be part of study

I don't know what to think. I should be so thankful, so grateful! So relieved that he has this and not something else. Happy that it's early days. And I promise, I will be. I have a lot of reading to do now.

But all I keep coming back to is this... On October 30, 1995, I lost my beloved grandfather. It was five days after his 55th wedding anniversary. He had Parkinson's. That isn't what got him, but it was a contributing factor.

And today, two months and five days before my own parents' 45th wedding anniversay, my DADDY, my HERO, my wonderful, extremely active, unbelievably creative father just received some devastating news.

So today? I'm heartbroken. I went outside just now, and saw the clouds coming in. They felt appropriate.

What A Difference A Week Makes

Taken in the waiting room of the ER last night. Don't ask. Things are fine. I'm not going there...

Boy Pop looks a million times better! He was squinting in the picture because he thinks that makes his smile bigger. Silly boy. The top stitch has already dissolved, the wound has scabbed over, and now the scabs are falling off.

I have probably the most self-controlled kiddo in the world. We told him to not pull on the scab (we don't want him to pull out a stitch or cause bleeding) and he doesn't! He just leaves it alone! He washes it gently every day and puts the medicine on it himself. Honestly, I could not ask for more. And he's only four!!!

The best part of that picture vs. the one I posted a week ago? That huge smile and tear-free face.

It's been a long week, but it's about to get even longer for a friend. Say a prayer for Sue and her family, will you? My issues pale in comparison.

Half-Birthdays and Hospitals

Tuesday, March 25th, was Boy Pop's "half" birthday. Here in the Pop household, we feel these-types of occasions are a cause to celebrate. So we did. Complete with cupcakes (3, one for each of us) and Moon Sand. Note to self: Moon Sand sucks! And causes me to vacuum obsessively and pop the knuckles on my fingers. A lot. But my boy sure does like it. And cupcakes.

Also last Tuesday, Dr Pop awoke to a pain in his left foot. He managed the pain through the day, wondering what the Hell he did to hurt it. He was left with nothing. No reasonable explanation for a pain that was continuing to worsen as the day wore on.

Wednesday morning, at about 5AM, he was having a dream about being at the doctor, who was pushing on his foot, and the pain he felt was so intense that it woke him up.

I woke up at my usual time (6:30 or so) and saw that he was up. We talked for a bit, but he kept going back to how much his foot hurt. Me, being very practical and as usual, running late, asked him what he wanted to do. Did he want to call his dad (a retired physician)? Did he need to go to the emergency room? What?

He didn't know what he wanted at the time, but about half an hour later, he asked me to take him to the hospital. The pain was that bad.

*Side note. My husband is pretty good about handling pain and hates going to the doctor and the hospital. When he requests to go, it is bad.

So I took the Boy to school, called my manager, and drove Dr Pop to the ER. They took x-rays, made some diagnosing and head scratching sounds, gave him a ton of pain meds, fitted him for crutches, and prepared to send us on our merry way with orders to call an orthopedic doc that afternoon or the next day for a follow-up.

Yeah.

One minor little detail took over all else. Neither one of us had eaten anything all day. That was okay for me, but for a man who'd just taken a horse-sized dose of Vicodin and Ibuprofen? Recipe for illness. An hour and a half later, he finally felt able to go to the car. We got home about 5 hours after we left and Dr Pop went to sleep.

The ceiling tiles are painted in our local ER. I suppose to distract one from the reason they are there.

Fast forward to Thursday. We head to the ortho's office, x-ray copies in hand. The doc takes a look, decides it's either one thing or another, but both diagnosis appear the same way. The only real way to diagnose it is to give a cortisone injection right into the most painful part of the foot. The reaction to the shot will determine if it is diagnosis A or B. Lovely.

Well, through the remainder of the week and weekend, Dr Pop was still in a fair amount of pain. Therefore, we could probably go with diagnosis B, but we are still waiting on a follow-up appointment with the doc to confirm.

**Coming up! More tales of woe! From the Mrs. Pop vault of "oh crap, not again!"