To borrow half a phrase from my blog buddy, DeadpanAnn: Doctors are the suck! Don't you worry about me stealing something from Miss Ann's blog. We came up together through the blogosphere. What's hers is mine, and what's mine is hers. It's not plagiarism. It's like we have the same speech writer.
I called the doctor's office Monday to get the #1 son a follow-up appointment for his concussion. Just like the ER doc told us upon discharge. Just like it's written on the discharge papers. I told the phone-answerer: "I'm calling to schedule an appointment for my son. He was seen in the emergency room on Thursday, July 2, and was told to schedule a follow-up appointment with his doctor within 7 days." The P-A acted put-out. "The doctor has an opening at the end of the month. Do you want that one?" I tried to speak slowly, like that would make her listen. "No. That would be pointless. He is supposed to see the doctor within 7 days of July 2." So the P-A acted even more put-out, and said, "He can see the nurse practitioner on Wednesday, July 8, at 9:45. Do you want that?" To which I replied, "I guess we'll have to take it, if it's the best you can do."
I hate that office. I only keep my kids records there because #1 really likes the doctor. The doctor which he last saw about 18 months ago, because the last two times he's been sick and went there, he got the nurse practitioner. Wait a minute! He did see the doc one year ago, for his sports physical. So there you have it. The doctors only take routine appointments that have been scheduled months ahead of time. They allow no time each day for patients who actually fall ill or have accidents. Nope. That's what a nurse practitioner is for. I'm not slamming the nurse practitioners. I have gladly taken appointments with the ones in MY doctor's office. It's just that when the ER tells you to have your kid's head examined by his primary care physician within 7 days, you don't want to see that doctor in 24 days, and you don't want to see the nurse practitioner in 7 days. That was not part of the instructions, by cracky!
Besides, last winter when HH took him for a rapid strep test, the office tried to bill us for an extra $20. The copay is $20, but they coded the nurse practitioner as a 'specialist'. It's a racket, I tell you. Our insurance had to eat that extra $20 and cut them another check, because the office refused to resubmit the claim, and we refused to pay an extra $20.
If it's this difficult to schedule an appointment when doctors are ripping off the insurance companies willy-nilly, how hard is it going to be when the government takes over our health care system? I'm sure we won't all be allowed to drop in to the ER like my students on medicaid do now. They've got the system figured out. "If I miss too much school and need a doctor's note, I just go to the ER. If you say you have a headache, they write sinus infection. If you say you have a cough, they write bronchitis. Then you get a note for school, and you don't get kicked out."
Out of the mouths of future welfare cheats.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Crotchety Old Hag
It's that time again. Time for a Note to Self. Not for me... for all of you.
NOTE TO SELF: Do not call Hillbilly Mom and invite myself and my children to the Mansion to swim in Poolio. Just don't. It is not polite. If I wanted you to bring your children to swim in our pool, I would call and ask you. Since I didn't, that means I don't.
There was a time when I would have bitten the bullet and said, "OK. Bring them out." Then I would have been upset about it all evening and all the next day, and I would have given myself a headache holding in the resentment. Not anymore. I am old and crotchety and I am NOT going to make myself miserable just because I care what somebody thinks about me. Buy your own pool. Watch your own kids. And most of all, do not call me and say, "What are you doing tomorrow?" Because it is none of your goshdarn business, and it is extremely forward of you to think that because I don't have an appointment, or say that I'm putting the finishing touches on my cure for cancer, solution to world peace, and the car engine that actually makes its own gasoline out of used disposable diapers, you are welcome to eat up my entire afternoon, leaving me just enough time to make supper for my ungrateful menfolk.
Do not invite yourself to my Mansion. Just don't.
NOTE TO SELF: Do not call Hillbilly Mom and invite myself and my children to the Mansion to swim in Poolio. Just don't. It is not polite. If I wanted you to bring your children to swim in our pool, I would call and ask you. Since I didn't, that means I don't.
There was a time when I would have bitten the bullet and said, "OK. Bring them out." Then I would have been upset about it all evening and all the next day, and I would have given myself a headache holding in the resentment. Not anymore. I am old and crotchety and I am NOT going to make myself miserable just because I care what somebody thinks about me. Buy your own pool. Watch your own kids. And most of all, do not call me and say, "What are you doing tomorrow?" Because it is none of your goshdarn business, and it is extremely forward of you to think that because I don't have an appointment, or say that I'm putting the finishing touches on my cure for cancer, solution to world peace, and the car engine that actually makes its own gasoline out of used disposable diapers, you are welcome to eat up my entire afternoon, leaving me just enough time to make supper for my ungrateful menfolk.
Do not invite yourself to my Mansion. Just don't.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Sunday Smorgasbord 7/5/09
Big Brother 11 starts on Thursday night. Aren't you excited? What's that I hear? (crickets)
Aren't we lucky to have Joe Biden as Vice President instead of someone who is a loose cannon?
You DO know that this reported unemployment rate of 9.5% is based on unemployment claims, don't you? It doesn't account for people who do not qualify for unemployment, or those whose claims and federal extensions have run out but they still don't have jobs, or those people who didn't file for unemployment but just started job searching on their own. Just sayin'... I used to work for the unemployment office. The active claims are just the tip of the iceberg. Just like the number of new claims filed is a bit misleading. Some union workers file on their two-week summer layoff so they can get their union money, even though they will be going back to work. You have to know what the stats represent. The unemployment rate is much higher than the reported rate, due to those not on the books.
The Pony almost got his own concussion last night when my mom closed the hatch of her Explorer on his head. Poor little Pony had a knot the size of a guinea egg, to hear him tell it in his chicken English.
Concussion Boy reported that he was headache free yesterday. Then I caught him bending over to set off fireworks, and Bomb Detonator H made him carry metal chairs from the porch to the driveway, and he stayed up until midnight. Guess who has a headache today?
Grillmaster H outdid himself with some succulent Save-A-Lot ribeyes last night. Today we are having pork steaks, which I read somewhere is a midwestern phenomenon.
My mom came up with a newfangled mosquito spray. I'm guessing one of her cronies sent it to her in an email. She arrived with a spray bottle full of mouthwash, and spritzed it all around our perimeter. She said it was not supposed to get ON us, just around us. I must have swatted 6 or 8 mosquitoes crawling on me. When the #1 son whacked one, I whispered, "How's Grandma's remedy working for you?" And he said, "Not at all." She did confess that her magical elixir was supposed to be Scope mouthwash, but she brought the generic. The Pony held his nose every time she sprayed it, and said, "Minty." She swore that it worked for my sister on a camping trip, but then again, she had real brand-name Scope, not the $1 a gallon generic. Add Ye Olde Cheap Generic Shoppe to my mom's list of favorite stores.
Bomb Detonator H had a close call when a fountain tipped over and spouted its sparky goodness right past his Scout full of fireworks. Every year he parks it 10 feet from his staging area. Every year, there is a close call. Some people are incapable of learning from their mistakes. Thank the Gummi Mary that we had rain off and on all day, and that the neighbor's field and our fence row of trees were nice and damp.
Aren't we lucky to have Joe Biden as Vice President instead of someone who is a loose cannon?
You DO know that this reported unemployment rate of 9.5% is based on unemployment claims, don't you? It doesn't account for people who do not qualify for unemployment, or those whose claims and federal extensions have run out but they still don't have jobs, or those people who didn't file for unemployment but just started job searching on their own. Just sayin'... I used to work for the unemployment office. The active claims are just the tip of the iceberg. Just like the number of new claims filed is a bit misleading. Some union workers file on their two-week summer layoff so they can get their union money, even though they will be going back to work. You have to know what the stats represent. The unemployment rate is much higher than the reported rate, due to those not on the books.
The Pony almost got his own concussion last night when my mom closed the hatch of her Explorer on his head. Poor little Pony had a knot the size of a guinea egg, to hear him tell it in his chicken English.
Concussion Boy reported that he was headache free yesterday. Then I caught him bending over to set off fireworks, and Bomb Detonator H made him carry metal chairs from the porch to the driveway, and he stayed up until midnight. Guess who has a headache today?
Grillmaster H outdid himself with some succulent Save-A-Lot ribeyes last night. Today we are having pork steaks, which I read somewhere is a midwestern phenomenon.
My mom came up with a newfangled mosquito spray. I'm guessing one of her cronies sent it to her in an email. She arrived with a spray bottle full of mouthwash, and spritzed it all around our perimeter. She said it was not supposed to get ON us, just around us. I must have swatted 6 or 8 mosquitoes crawling on me. When the #1 son whacked one, I whispered, "How's Grandma's remedy working for you?" And he said, "Not at all." She did confess that her magical elixir was supposed to be Scope mouthwash, but she brought the generic. The Pony held his nose every time she sprayed it, and said, "Minty." She swore that it worked for my sister on a camping trip, but then again, she had real brand-name Scope, not the $1 a gallon generic. Add Ye Olde Cheap Generic Shoppe to my mom's list of favorite stores.
Bomb Detonator H had a close call when a fountain tipped over and spouted its sparky goodness right past his Scout full of fireworks. Every year he parks it 10 feet from his staging area. Every year, there is a close call. Some people are incapable of learning from their mistakes. Thank the Gummi Mary that we had rain off and on all day, and that the neighbor's field and our fence row of trees were nice and damp.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Random Thought Thursday, The Holiday Edition
I missed my regular Random Thought Thursday due to sitting in the ER all afternoon, so I hereby decree that today is the new Thursday, and that Jerry Seinfeld be my butler for a month.
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Funny how people care so much about what Sarah Palin does. First, she is a blithering idiot, then all they can do is talk about her nonstop. What's the deal?
Ice Age 3 is not all it's cracked up to be. It was even a bit boring for my tastes, though full of violence for the small fry. Woolly Ray Romano also calls a creature a 'chicken-headed freak', which did not set well with The Pony, who adores chickens, and this little critter was the only one who died in the movie. I guess he died. He was tossed over a cliff and scooped up and swooped away by a pterodactyl or some such animated animal. And that T-Rex-looking villain might have died at the end, but how insensitive to make him the villain when all he was doing was hunting prey to kill and eat and survive. And do kids really need to experience mammothchildbirth in a cartoon movie?
Bland vanilla Google equates July 4 with a picnic. Wouldn't want to offend other countries and America-haters, now would we? But why show anything other than just 'Google' if that is the situation? Is this world-wide Picnic Day?
Did you ever watch the MTV show 'Scarred'? It is rerunning now on one of the MTV channels. They always air that disclaimer that they will not open any submissions, so don't bother sending them. But how did they get the footage for the show? Did they pay off some hospital emergency room for records of hideous skateboarding injuries? Did a bunch of lame idiots show up all at once at MTV headquarters with their maiming tapes? How did the marriage of mutilation and mainstream network come about? Last night, a skateboarder racked himself on a sharp handrail. In his own words, "I reached into my pants, and felt my testicle outside of my sack. My hand was full of blood. I knew I had to get to the hospital, so I drove myself. Seven stitches later, I was good to go. I guess the only way to prove it is to show you my scar." Which he did, though it was blacked out by a black circle, and you could hear the groans of the camera crew.
HH will be shooting off a buttload of fireworks tonight. He may even shoot off more than North Korea. We've had rain off and on all day, so it looks like Missile Launcher H won't set the neighbor's field on fire like he did a couple years ago, and try to stomp out a 6' diameter fire in waist-high grass with his sandals. That's after climbing through a barbed-wire fence, cutting the middle of his bald spot. It was also the same year that a small missile got away from him and landed under my mom's Explorer just before it exploded. Don't worry. She and the #1 son got a bucket of water from the well to cool the embers after the fact.
Enjoy your holiday!
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Funny how people care so much about what Sarah Palin does. First, she is a blithering idiot, then all they can do is talk about her nonstop. What's the deal?
Ice Age 3 is not all it's cracked up to be. It was even a bit boring for my tastes, though full of violence for the small fry. Woolly Ray Romano also calls a creature a 'chicken-headed freak', which did not set well with The Pony, who adores chickens, and this little critter was the only one who died in the movie. I guess he died. He was tossed over a cliff and scooped up and swooped away by a pterodactyl or some such animated animal. And that T-Rex-looking villain might have died at the end, but how insensitive to make him the villain when all he was doing was hunting prey to kill and eat and survive. And do kids really need to experience mammothchildbirth in a cartoon movie?
Bland vanilla Google equates July 4 with a picnic. Wouldn't want to offend other countries and America-haters, now would we? But why show anything other than just 'Google' if that is the situation? Is this world-wide Picnic Day?
Did you ever watch the MTV show 'Scarred'? It is rerunning now on one of the MTV channels. They always air that disclaimer that they will not open any submissions, so don't bother sending them. But how did they get the footage for the show? Did they pay off some hospital emergency room for records of hideous skateboarding injuries? Did a bunch of lame idiots show up all at once at MTV headquarters with their maiming tapes? How did the marriage of mutilation and mainstream network come about? Last night, a skateboarder racked himself on a sharp handrail. In his own words, "I reached into my pants, and felt my testicle outside of my sack. My hand was full of blood. I knew I had to get to the hospital, so I drove myself. Seven stitches later, I was good to go. I guess the only way to prove it is to show you my scar." Which he did, though it was blacked out by a black circle, and you could hear the groans of the camera crew.
HH will be shooting off a buttload of fireworks tonight. He may even shoot off more than North Korea. We've had rain off and on all day, so it looks like Missile Launcher H won't set the neighbor's field on fire like he did a couple years ago, and try to stomp out a 6' diameter fire in waist-high grass with his sandals. That's after climbing through a barbed-wire fence, cutting the middle of his bald spot. It was also the same year that a small missile got away from him and landed under my mom's Explorer just before it exploded. Don't worry. She and the #1 son got a bucket of water from the well to cool the embers after the fact.
Enjoy your holiday!
Friday, July 3, 2009
Key Seeker
Forget my series on public safety. Who cares about all of you when I have a personal crisis on my hands? My school keys are missing! Yes, the keys to my workplace have been misplaced. Oh, don't think you're gonna find them and break in and run copies willy-nilly. It's not like they trust me with a master key, or a key to the building. Nope. I am one of the 10% of teachers in Newmentia who don't have a key to the building. You know, because the other 90% has to get in there after hours and on weekends because they work so much harder than me. All I am missing is the key to my room, and a key to one of my two cabinets. The other one won't lock, what with the hardware beging installed wrong since we moved into that building in 2000 or thereabouts. The keys are on a stretchy lime green keyring thingy from The Devil's Playground. I think I have had it since 2000. If we could cheaply carbon-date the dirt ground into that coiled old-style phone-cord-looking green plastic, we might know the true age of it.
I just noticed that it was gone at 3:30 today, when the #1 son picked up a package at the Post Office, and wanted to use my key to saw through the cardboard. He's as smart as a chimp at finding tools to suit his purpose. But my school keys were not in the little slot thingy made to hold glasses on the console of T-Hoe. I always keep them there. I never go to work without T-Hoe, so I can never forget my keys. Except now. They are gone.
#1 says that I left the keys in my classroom yesterday when we left open gym to take him to the hospital. I say no, that I locked my room, and I can only do that with the keys. I always check the thermostat so that I'm not bleeding taxpayer money into heating or cooling my classroom while I'm not there, and then I step into the hallway and lock my door. That's because I'm a fanatic about people getting into my stuff. #1 also says that I did not have my keys when I got into T-Hoe which I had to park out behind the gym. I know I DID have they keys then.
Upon locking my classroom, I navigated the obstacle course of the hallway full of the contents of the teacher workroom, AD office, and Nurse's office. I wound my way through the scattered cafeteria chairs, into the gym, along the shiny, shiny, newly-waxed concrete mezzanine, stopped at the top of the back stairs to the gym floor to untie the tape with the sign about fresh wax that was hung on Monday, gave #1 the keys to T-Hoe, tied the wax sign back across the handrails, then proceeded down the steps and a short hallway by the stage, and out the door by the band room. They are on a separate keyring, my personal keys. I had to take both sets of keys out of my pocket to sort them out. When I exited the building, I took my school keys from my pocket, and tossed them into their holding area in T-Hoe. From there, I called my mom to tell her I was taking #1 to the ER to have his head examined.
In one breath, #1 swears that I never had the school keys in T-Hoe, yet in the next breath, he says I must have left them in the ER when I wrote the check for his noggin test. That just goes to show you that you can't take the word of a 14-year-old with a concussion. My theory is that he moved the keys when we drove through McDonald's, when he made room to set some fries in the glasses compartment, and they are still somewhere in the dark recesses of T-Hoe's nooks and crannies. The boy swears that he never moved any keys, because they were not there.
After leaving the Post Office this afternoon, we stopped to buy a large quantity of fireworks, and dashed into Save-A-Lot for some tasty steaks to grill tomorrow. We then returned to the Mansion. I made #1 and The Pony search T-Hoe. I also made The Pony search HH's Pacifica, because we drove it to see Ice Age 3 and he stuffed my purse under the seat. Nope. No keys. #1 had a little fit because I was accusing him of losing my keys, but he never touched them, because I left them at school or in the hospital. I called the hospital, but nobody had turned in any keys. I went back to the garage, backed T-Hoe out into the light of day... and within 30 seconds, I found my school keys. They were wedged in a crack made from the little door thingy that closes over the glasses compartment. #1 had set the keys on the shiny fake wood console part behind that little compartment door, and they slid into that crack.
I went back into the house, jangling my keys. He raised his giant concussed head from the couch. "Where did you find those?" I explained that they were right where he put them. He still denies that the keys were even in T-Hoe.
That boy has too much of HH in him.
I just noticed that it was gone at 3:30 today, when the #1 son picked up a package at the Post Office, and wanted to use my key to saw through the cardboard. He's as smart as a chimp at finding tools to suit his purpose. But my school keys were not in the little slot thingy made to hold glasses on the console of T-Hoe. I always keep them there. I never go to work without T-Hoe, so I can never forget my keys. Except now. They are gone.
#1 says that I left the keys in my classroom yesterday when we left open gym to take him to the hospital. I say no, that I locked my room, and I can only do that with the keys. I always check the thermostat so that I'm not bleeding taxpayer money into heating or cooling my classroom while I'm not there, and then I step into the hallway and lock my door. That's because I'm a fanatic about people getting into my stuff. #1 also says that I did not have my keys when I got into T-Hoe which I had to park out behind the gym. I know I DID have they keys then.
Upon locking my classroom, I navigated the obstacle course of the hallway full of the contents of the teacher workroom, AD office, and Nurse's office. I wound my way through the scattered cafeteria chairs, into the gym, along the shiny, shiny, newly-waxed concrete mezzanine, stopped at the top of the back stairs to the gym floor to untie the tape with the sign about fresh wax that was hung on Monday, gave #1 the keys to T-Hoe, tied the wax sign back across the handrails, then proceeded down the steps and a short hallway by the stage, and out the door by the band room. They are on a separate keyring, my personal keys. I had to take both sets of keys out of my pocket to sort them out. When I exited the building, I took my school keys from my pocket, and tossed them into their holding area in T-Hoe. From there, I called my mom to tell her I was taking #1 to the ER to have his head examined.
In one breath, #1 swears that I never had the school keys in T-Hoe, yet in the next breath, he says I must have left them in the ER when I wrote the check for his noggin test. That just goes to show you that you can't take the word of a 14-year-old with a concussion. My theory is that he moved the keys when we drove through McDonald's, when he made room to set some fries in the glasses compartment, and they are still somewhere in the dark recesses of T-Hoe's nooks and crannies. The boy swears that he never moved any keys, because they were not there.
After leaving the Post Office this afternoon, we stopped to buy a large quantity of fireworks, and dashed into Save-A-Lot for some tasty steaks to grill tomorrow. We then returned to the Mansion. I made #1 and The Pony search T-Hoe. I also made The Pony search HH's Pacifica, because we drove it to see Ice Age 3 and he stuffed my purse under the seat. Nope. No keys. #1 had a little fit because I was accusing him of losing my keys, but he never touched them, because I left them at school or in the hospital. I called the hospital, but nobody had turned in any keys. I went back to the garage, backed T-Hoe out into the light of day... and within 30 seconds, I found my school keys. They were wedged in a crack made from the little door thingy that closes over the glasses compartment. #1 had set the keys on the shiny fake wood console part behind that little compartment door, and they slid into that crack.
I went back into the house, jangling my keys. He raised his giant concussed head from the couch. "Where did you find those?" I explained that they were right where he put them. He still denies that the keys were even in T-Hoe.
That boy has too much of HH in him.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Nothing Says Bloggin' Like A Thumping Of Your Noggin
Today's public safety info concerns head injuries. If you have recently been knocked in the noggin, and for the past 24 hours have experienced extreme tiredness despite 13 hours of sleep, a constant headache that started at the back of the skull where the noggin-knockin' occurred, then spread to the top and front of the head, and recently added nausea to your laundry list of complaints... you probably need to be checked out by a medical professional.
I told you last week how the #1 son took a spill playing basketball at open gym. Another player's shoulder connected with his chin, knocking him over backwards, resulting in a gym-echoing head thump on the floor. He had a headache and tiredness, but I called the ER, and a nurse said to watch him and bring him if he got worse. After 24 hours and some sleep, his headache went away. So all was fine, and he played basketball the next day, and two days at the beginning of this week.
Yesterday at open gym, #1 was laid out flat on his back by his best friend in a shoving incident, then took a charge from his other best friend, and for the head-banging hat trick, he bumped heads with the shover in a tussle over a loose ball. After playing four games full court, #1 took a turn to sit out. That is uncharacteristic of him. He wants to be on the court all the time. Shortly after leaving the gym at 3:00, his head started to hurt. When he got home at 4:50 after a trip to the library for high-speed internet shenanigans, he was headachy and tired. He took an ibuprofen and slept for two and a half hours until I made him get up. He still had the headache when he woke up, and it spread from the back of his head to the top. He took another ibuprofen, which is something he never does. He hates to swallow pills. He did not know which blow hurt him, but was thinking it was when he took the charge from the barreling BFF2.
I checked on him all through the night, and he muttered that he was awake when I poked him. This morning he got up at 9:30, and said he was fine. Which I was to learn later was not quite the truth, but that his head was still hurting when he awoke. After feasting on 4 blueberry waffles, 3 pink cookies, and a Coke, it was off to open gym at noon. Normally I make him eat a sandwich for lunch, but since he had gotten up so late, I let it slide. #1 shot some baskets and fooled around with his cronies for about 20 minutes. The coach said to call more people so they had enough for two teams. #1 came upstairs to where I was watching, which he never does, because I am the plague and he can't be seen with me, and said, "I don't feel good. I might throw up. I really don't feel like playing. My head hurts." Again, this was unusual for him. He yearns to play basketball. He has only missed ONE open gym all summer, to go to Six Flags. I told him I was taking him to the doctor. He said he didn't want to go, but he didn't complain enough to change my mind. The doctor's office line was busy, because you know you can never get in to see the doctor when you're sick, but only for your appointment that has been made six months in advance, and if you are more than ten minutes late, they cancel it and bill you anyway, and sit in the office not taking patients but eating bon bons brought by the pharmaceutical rep.
So I did what anybody without insurance would do (even though we HAVE insurance) and carted him off to the ER. He was pleased that I took him to the good ER. "Are you taking me to the one that leaves the surgical instruments inside of people?" I assured him, "No. I am taking you to Dad's hospital. Not mine where I woke up during surgery, or Mine North, where they gave The Pony acetaminophen for his broken elbow, put it in a soft cast, and told him to see a doctor within a week."
There was only one other customer in the waiting room. We were called back within five minutes. The intake nurse even said to bring The Pony. "We don't want him sitting alone in the waiting room." Which I don't know whether is a hospital belief that unattended children will make mischief, or a statement of their clientele lounging around the waiting room. The nurse took #1's vitals and history, and escorted us back to a room with a bed and TV.
The young doc was not even foreign, had a military haircut, and explained that a concussion is like when you bump your knee and it gets a knot and turns red, but doesn't bruise. After about a week, everything is back to normal. A bruise, on the other hand, means bleeding, which is something that is serious in a brain, and the only way to know for sure which injury you have is to get a CAT scan. After the doc shined a flashlight in his eyes and asked some more questions, #1 was taken away to slide his head into the donut of the CAT scan machine thingy while The Pony and I waited in his room. #1 said he had to keep his eyes closed, but he heard a giant noise like race car engines revving, and imagined that donut part spinning wildly about his head. He also said it was a tight fit, and that they had to shove one of his ears down in the head thingy, and that he could feel roller thingies under his forearms as whatever he laid on was moved. After it was done, the radiology technician looked at him funny and said, "Did you hit one side of your head more than the other?" Which I am sure was just more history, but #1 was worried that the guy knew something he wasn't telling.
After 50 minutes, we heard a nurse calling radiology to see if they'd read the images yet, and then the doctor came back and said #1 had a concussion, and should not play any contact sports or baskeball for a week or two, and should follow up with his doctor within 7 days, and should be awakened every 2 hours for the next 24 hours and asked his name, location, and the date, and to take only acetaminophen and not ibuprofen for the pain, as ibuprofen causes bleeding, so apparently that is worse than liver damage that was the big story in yesterday's news.
#1 said his nausea was improving from laying flat and not moving, and that he was now starving since it had been six hours since he last ate. Do you have any idea how much and how often 14-year-old boys eat? I coughed up the $100 ER copay, gathered the three pages of discharge instructions, bought the non-nausea starving Pony a bag of cookies out of the vending machine, and took my boys for some fast food fast. Then I hurried home to wait for the incoming bills from the radiologist, ER doc, and hospital, which will arrive in their own good time, with names of larger entities that I do not associate with the good ER.
Now #1 and I are depressed that he can't work out for at least a week, and other players may gain on him while he's down. That boy is motivated. And hard-headed. At home, he said he didn't want an acetaminophen because the pain wasn't bad enough to take a pill. That's while he was laying on the couch. When he sat up to use his laptop for 10 minutes, he indeed went to get an acetaminophen. Right now he reports feeling fine. I'm not sure how much to believe.
I am glad I took him to get checked out. Better safe than sorry. I don't want him turning into a dead skiing actress.
I told you last week how the #1 son took a spill playing basketball at open gym. Another player's shoulder connected with his chin, knocking him over backwards, resulting in a gym-echoing head thump on the floor. He had a headache and tiredness, but I called the ER, and a nurse said to watch him and bring him if he got worse. After 24 hours and some sleep, his headache went away. So all was fine, and he played basketball the next day, and two days at the beginning of this week.
Yesterday at open gym, #1 was laid out flat on his back by his best friend in a shoving incident, then took a charge from his other best friend, and for the head-banging hat trick, he bumped heads with the shover in a tussle over a loose ball. After playing four games full court, #1 took a turn to sit out. That is uncharacteristic of him. He wants to be on the court all the time. Shortly after leaving the gym at 3:00, his head started to hurt. When he got home at 4:50 after a trip to the library for high-speed internet shenanigans, he was headachy and tired. He took an ibuprofen and slept for two and a half hours until I made him get up. He still had the headache when he woke up, and it spread from the back of his head to the top. He took another ibuprofen, which is something he never does. He hates to swallow pills. He did not know which blow hurt him, but was thinking it was when he took the charge from the barreling BFF2.
I checked on him all through the night, and he muttered that he was awake when I poked him. This morning he got up at 9:30, and said he was fine. Which I was to learn later was not quite the truth, but that his head was still hurting when he awoke. After feasting on 4 blueberry waffles, 3 pink cookies, and a Coke, it was off to open gym at noon. Normally I make him eat a sandwich for lunch, but since he had gotten up so late, I let it slide. #1 shot some baskets and fooled around with his cronies for about 20 minutes. The coach said to call more people so they had enough for two teams. #1 came upstairs to where I was watching, which he never does, because I am the plague and he can't be seen with me, and said, "I don't feel good. I might throw up. I really don't feel like playing. My head hurts." Again, this was unusual for him. He yearns to play basketball. He has only missed ONE open gym all summer, to go to Six Flags. I told him I was taking him to the doctor. He said he didn't want to go, but he didn't complain enough to change my mind. The doctor's office line was busy, because you know you can never get in to see the doctor when you're sick, but only for your appointment that has been made six months in advance, and if you are more than ten minutes late, they cancel it and bill you anyway, and sit in the office not taking patients but eating bon bons brought by the pharmaceutical rep.
So I did what anybody without insurance would do (even though we HAVE insurance) and carted him off to the ER. He was pleased that I took him to the good ER. "Are you taking me to the one that leaves the surgical instruments inside of people?" I assured him, "No. I am taking you to Dad's hospital. Not mine where I woke up during surgery, or Mine North, where they gave The Pony acetaminophen for his broken elbow, put it in a soft cast, and told him to see a doctor within a week."
There was only one other customer in the waiting room. We were called back within five minutes. The intake nurse even said to bring The Pony. "We don't want him sitting alone in the waiting room." Which I don't know whether is a hospital belief that unattended children will make mischief, or a statement of their clientele lounging around the waiting room. The nurse took #1's vitals and history, and escorted us back to a room with a bed and TV.
The young doc was not even foreign, had a military haircut, and explained that a concussion is like when you bump your knee and it gets a knot and turns red, but doesn't bruise. After about a week, everything is back to normal. A bruise, on the other hand, means bleeding, which is something that is serious in a brain, and the only way to know for sure which injury you have is to get a CAT scan. After the doc shined a flashlight in his eyes and asked some more questions, #1 was taken away to slide his head into the donut of the CAT scan machine thingy while The Pony and I waited in his room. #1 said he had to keep his eyes closed, but he heard a giant noise like race car engines revving, and imagined that donut part spinning wildly about his head. He also said it was a tight fit, and that they had to shove one of his ears down in the head thingy, and that he could feel roller thingies under his forearms as whatever he laid on was moved. After it was done, the radiology technician looked at him funny and said, "Did you hit one side of your head more than the other?" Which I am sure was just more history, but #1 was worried that the guy knew something he wasn't telling.
After 50 minutes, we heard a nurse calling radiology to see if they'd read the images yet, and then the doctor came back and said #1 had a concussion, and should not play any contact sports or baskeball for a week or two, and should follow up with his doctor within 7 days, and should be awakened every 2 hours for the next 24 hours and asked his name, location, and the date, and to take only acetaminophen and not ibuprofen for the pain, as ibuprofen causes bleeding, so apparently that is worse than liver damage that was the big story in yesterday's news.
#1 said his nausea was improving from laying flat and not moving, and that he was now starving since it had been six hours since he last ate. Do you have any idea how much and how often 14-year-old boys eat? I coughed up the $100 ER copay, gathered the three pages of discharge instructions, bought the non-nausea starving Pony a bag of cookies out of the vending machine, and took my boys for some fast food fast. Then I hurried home to wait for the incoming bills from the radiologist, ER doc, and hospital, which will arrive in their own good time, with names of larger entities that I do not associate with the good ER.
Now #1 and I are depressed that he can't work out for at least a week, and other players may gain on him while he's down. That boy is motivated. And hard-headed. At home, he said he didn't want an acetaminophen because the pain wasn't bad enough to take a pill. That's while he was laying on the couch. When he sat up to use his laptop for 10 minutes, he indeed went to get an acetaminophen. Right now he reports feeling fine. I'm not sure how much to believe.
I am glad I took him to get checked out. Better safe than sorry. I don't want him turning into a dead skiing actress.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
One Good Shove Deserves A Hammer
Yesterday's public safety notice advised you not to have a swine flu party. I should have included more specific directives. At the swine flu party you don't have, be sure that you don't serve a beef roast, Nestle's chocolate chip cookie dough, or Dunkin' Donuts hot chocolate. That will save you from an E. coli and salmonella cocktail. And if worrying about your health gives you a headache, take that acetaminophen now, before it is taken off the market. You can always go to Tennessee for a new liver, unless Steve Jobs needs another one.
Today's safety notice is directed at high school basketball players. When you are playing at open gym, which means scrimmaging against your own teammates with absolutely no referees and only the honor system to punish decapitation after the fact, it is not advised to shove a player who is just standing with the ball after beating you out for a rebound. That is, don't put both of your hands on his shoulders and shove him so hard that he is laid out flat on his back, just for the sake of shoving him, because you are mad that he beat you, shoving him without any attempt to get the ball, but just to intimidate him. Because Karma is a big ol' b*tch, and when you think you are going to shoot that loose ball you just scooped up, a dude from the shovee's team will run up behind you and hammer that ball out of your hands that you have just cocked above your head to shoot a sweet, sweet, unchallenged jump shot. The dude will jam that ball so hard that the follow-through of his hand might just whack you on your empty noggin, making you cry 'foul', even though your constant elbowing and holding and slapping and shoving goes unchallenged. You may think it was an accident, but the smirking that ripples across the players behind your back says otherwise.
Really. Take that advice. Because knocking someone down just to be a punk will garner you tenfold in whackings and dirty looks and loathing.
Today's safety notice is directed at high school basketball players. When you are playing at open gym, which means scrimmaging against your own teammates with absolutely no referees and only the honor system to punish decapitation after the fact, it is not advised to shove a player who is just standing with the ball after beating you out for a rebound. That is, don't put both of your hands on his shoulders and shove him so hard that he is laid out flat on his back, just for the sake of shoving him, because you are mad that he beat you, shoving him without any attempt to get the ball, but just to intimidate him. Because Karma is a big ol' b*tch, and when you think you are going to shoot that loose ball you just scooped up, a dude from the shovee's team will run up behind you and hammer that ball out of your hands that you have just cocked above your head to shoot a sweet, sweet, unchallenged jump shot. The dude will jam that ball so hard that the follow-through of his hand might just whack you on your empty noggin, making you cry 'foul', even though your constant elbowing and holding and slapping and shoving goes unchallenged. You may think it was an accident, but the smirking that ripples across the players behind your back says otherwise.
Really. Take that advice. Because knocking someone down just to be a punk will garner you tenfold in whackings and dirty looks and loathing.
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