I'm Two Timin Ya Red Bird

My Pathfinder has started to feel a thousand times more comfortable. And what's wrong with SUVs - huh? What if you ACTUALLY have a lot of cargo...what's a girl to do? Bikes, kids, crap, cats....dogs. Dog actually. A 15 year old dog that shits himself silly just looking at the car. The vet comes to us now. He has never been a car dog. He drools long streams of spit, and smacks his toothless gums together and shifts from foot to foot nervously when he sees the "towel" come out that we normally put in the back. And the cats have not seen the inside of a car since their harrowing drive home from the Humane Society. Ok, so maybe I am reaching. But as we get closer to October and the "turning in" of our reliable, comfy, BIG car I am gettin a little, well, nervous. I mean, 7 seats, CD player, DOOR PANELS - hell, it even has seat belts. I said casually to CJ the other night while pretending to root around in the fridge "so, I, uh, park next to that new Jetta wagon at the office. It is cool looking." He says nothing. "It's the diesal." He looks up. "Oh yeah?" He smiles. I know what he is thinking. The beamer is mine! Mine! Mine! Mine! I can lower, raise it, put big tires on it, small tires on it, make it sound really, really LOUD. Maybe he wasn't really thinking any of that - but I think I am pretty close, I know how this boy thinks. I have to take a running start to get in his truck, and the other day he announces he needs new tires. And he might get "bigger ones." Jesus, we might as well move back to Petaluma. So, I digress. This is another story. But, I admit it. I have been eyeing "other" cars. Checking out the competition. I worry. A lot. I know I will lay in bed worrying the car won't start the morning I have a meeting I cannot miss. But Red Bird was a family car. It carried kids around just fine. I made it through my childhood in a Datsun 510, rolled down the windows and waited patiently for my mom to unlock her door with the actual key, get in and reach back and unlock mine. We are not better people for being able to get somewhere seamlessly because the pretty electronic voice in the car is telling us (in just the right amount of time I might add) where to turn, left, right and "destination on the right!" It is just so darn convenient! But we have mapquest. I can think ahead. Don't worry Red Bird. We're never gonna let you go.

Knocked out by a burrito in Denver

My friend Melissa has a blog. I looked at the headline where she wrote she feared she had nothing to write because nothing happens in her life. Funny, I had clicked "new post" and was staring at the empty box...title and text almost blindingly white. I was thinking exactly the same thing. What the hell, besides nothing, happened last week?

Plus, I hate Sundays. There. I said it. I shouldn't hate them. I seems really stupid to say you hate Sundays. It is like saying you hate Santa Claus. How can you hate them? They are usually lazy days, filled with lots of warm coffee and warm kids with sticky maple syrup hands that want hugs all day long. But I suffer from PTSSPTTWW. That is pre-traumatic-stress-syndrome-prior-to-the-work-week. I have always had it. I even diagnosed myself. Of course my PTSSPTTWW is at it's worst when I have had jobs and bosses I have strongly not liked - even very, very very much disliked (we are trying to not say the word HATE in this house, so I am practicing) but even when I have had jobs I have loved or a business trip I was looking forward to, it is there. The whole day has this kind of cloud over it - summer or winter, hot or freezing, the cloud is there. The "work tomorrow" cloud makes fries taste not so great, wine slightly sour, the beach just too damn sandy....it is just - there. Take today for example. The day is just - off. The kids are sitting in a kind of Blair Witchcraft trance in front of the TV show Full House. John Stamos has an epic mullet with tall feathered bangs complete with a 3/4" sleeve blazer and a button down underneath with the collar up so far it looks like it is affecting the way he moves his head. The middle kid - you know, the one who became the meth addict later in life? She looks all sweetness and light, sunshiny blond curls and cute-as-button little face. How did that cute kid land on the cover of People talking about her severe drug addiction? I stare at my kids angelic faces and get a little shiver of fear for them. On a good day that show gives me the heebies - hurtling me back to when I was the pudgy kid with frizzy hair embroiled in the psychological vortex of my 12-year-old youth. On top of the Sunday weirdness, when woke up I googled my dad - for no apparent reason. I woke with a pit in my stomach, back was that little ache of pain that seems to grow and then wane, and then when it returns it hurts extra bad. I don't know what I'd expect to find on google. Would his face pop up under a bolded blue underlined descriptor? When I clicked on it would a note say: "You finally found me! I have been stuck in google! Release me and I will come back to you and your mom and David and the kids and everything will be back to normal!!" But instead, I saw all these pictures of some 40-year-old-ish English chap that wrote all kinds of articles about creepy religious/emotional freedom crap. It put me in a funk. At least I stopped calling his cell phone. It would just ring. No out of service message. Just endless ringing. CJ, on the other hand, spent the better part of the week checking out a new ambulance in Ohio. That, and a bad burrito in the Denver airport, put him in a funk. Shit, that'd put anyone in a funk.

But thankfully, today, CJ came in the house, covered in grease and grinning ear to ear. "The car runs SO great!" He announced. "Can I drive it??" I said. Minutes later, I was buzzing up our street in the Red Bird. A respite from the rain, and a soft, sunny wind made it a perfect ride. Aside from the two front seats, it was basically interior-less. But it smelled more like a car, and less like a grease trap. It drove more like a car, and less like a go cart. And most importantly, it took my serious, extra-bad case of PTSSPPTTWW and left it at the curb for a whole five minutes.

Ode to the Island Car

Oh, poor ol Red Bird. She sits soggy and waterlogged under a sagging car cover- rained out for 10 straight days. Colin is back to singin his tired 'ol ditty: "Oh, I need a garage, my last garage left me for another owner....pooooor me, poooor meeeee" Same song, different day. Those long, agonizing couple of days spent spittin out swear words and battling a hand-in-a-vice-grip pain to get the windsheilds installed was well worth it...no leaks! Locked up in all this crawling-the-walls rain, I embarked on another fabulous winter task: tax preparation. Right up there with child birth and cleaning up cat barf, this was not something I looked forward to. I half-heartedly dug through the stacks of papers we had squirreled away in closets and on the top of counters. The electronic babysitter was blaring Spongebob Squarepants for the 9th time, and I needed to just get this done. Furiously looking for W2's and 1099's, my mood was careening rapidly downhill. In the myriad of junk mail, pictures the kids brought home from school that I couldn't throw away and other documents I swore I would take to the shredder but never did, I found this picture. Just randomly stuck on the back of a State Farm Insurance calendar from that soul sucking year that was 2009. This picture caused me to sit down on living room floor, criss-cross applesauce style, the heaps of papers and file boxes around me forgotten. I just stared at for it for a while.

I bought this car while I was living in the Caribbean after I promised my dad I would stop hitchhiking to get to where I needed to go. Most days I was out on a charter boat working as a cook, so I didn't think I needed a car. Hitchhiking was very common, but my parents didn't like the idea. And it got be a real pain in the ass on laundry day anyway. Staring at this picture, I got lost in the memory of days that were spent shoeless in shorts and a bathing suit top where the biggest decision I made on my days off were weather to go diving or read. I could leave the key in the ignition when I parked, often for days, and no one would bother it. It could get dumped on in a surprise tropical downpour, shake it off like wet dog and start right up. Off charter, nights out consisted of stopping at a roadside stand for conch fritters and an ice cold Heineken. We'd play Trivial Pursuit at the Pub or just sit in a chair, feet up on a rope railing and stare at the sea playing backgammon. My salary went right in my pocket in the form of wadded up cash tips, and I spent it on new bathing suits or dive gear. I did get a marine plywood top made for this car by the guy that was the previous owner. He owned a windsurfing place on the east end of the island and was a little cantankerous. He marketed himself as being sort of a craftsman, and touted his side job of outfitting these tops for many of the roof-less island cars. After a particularly difficult charter babysitting a bunch of airline pilots from Buffalo that REALLY liked to drink, I decided to spend some of my hard-earned money on a new roof for my little car. What this "so-called craftsman" made was something akin to what my five year old would construct. It was a giant box with a big slice in the top to flip back to make a sort of sun roof. He seemed pleased with himself, but I was horrified. It didn't even appear to look like it would stay on when I started driving. But he was a crabby old English guy that kind of scared me, so I said nothing, plunked down the cash and started down the road. If I went faster than about 15 miles an hour (which is about as fast as I could go in that car anyway) the top halfway opened and closed intermittently. Surely I looked like some sort of motorized Venus fly trap. I got used to the thud, thud, thud as I drove - and most days just flipped it back and avoided the sound altogether. This car was actually considered an SUV by Gurgel, the Brazilian company that manufactured it. When Gurgel first started manufacturing cars in the early 1970's, they would plop their Fiberglass bodies on a VW beetle chassis, so they were pretty popular in their time. Sadly, Gurgel went out of business in the 1990's when Brazil opened up their car market to foreign cars -if that ol car if it isn't a wreck dive by now it is someones collectors item. But this little trip down memory lane was a nice diversion in the middle of a cold January day. Reminiscing about my life when I swam in the clear blue sea multiple times a day and could decide last minute to eat fresh lobster, well, cause there is a kid that just tied up his dinghy full of fresh lobster. My life back then was a lot like our little Red Bird: the opposite of complicated. No GPS, no crazy bells or whistles. No bigger, better, faster. Just a pretty little car that you unlock with an actual key, start with an actual key and the only thing to fiddle with is the clock when the time changes. There is a lot to be said for nice, easy and uncomplicated. By the way, we are collecting more o that, if anyone's got it...

New Year, New Headliner

I have been getting a lot of flack for not updating the blog lately - but with two kids out of school for two weeks, being back at work with all the "refreshed and ready to start the new year!" crooning co-workers and a bad bout of tonsillitis - things like blogging, running, reading or anything else that requires a few moments spent solo have not been in the cards. I have not even read US magazine in weeks! I don't know if Tiger has surfaced, why everyone keeps talking about Conan, or if Brittany's fat, creepy hair-plugged husband actually off'ed her. It has been a bit dire. Excuses, excuses....blah, blah blah - I am back. The delay is not for lack of progress on the Red Bird though. When CJ and I first started dating, he was a Reserve Firefighter (which means he worked the same hours as he does now, without getting any dough - a little bit of a lifestyle cramper) so he worked as a mechanic on his days off. He had sore, oil stained fingers and told me funny stories of disgusting cars that he'd have to work on. Think of the show "Hoarders." This is California - every one's got a ride, not everyone cleans up. The Red Bird restoration has given him the same oil stained fingers, and after the last two projects of putting in the headliner and both windshields he's been popping the advil like crazy for his sore hands. I shall never take for granted the headliner of a car again. Look at your own car - that is some serious skill! Pulling that material taut, cutting the edges perfectly. Attempting it your own is kind of like making a bed with that infuriating fitted sheet where neither end looks like the right end. You put it on each corner of the bed and pull tight, tight....tighter - willing it to be the right side up. When the corner of your mattress starts to curl upward - you know you are toast, you must start over. Breaking a sweat, getting pissed, you begin again. Flip the thing around and try not to swear too much. Hannah charges me a quarter each time I am caught, and I'm not proud, but I owe her about $8 bucks. When the headliner costs you $200 bucks (not including shipping) - there is no starting over. No re-configuring. No trial run. You just kinda go for it. I decided I'd wait for Colin to tell me it was done, popping in to "see how it is going" on projects like this is not received well. I could just tell when he came in the house, or I called him from work that the project was not tons of fun. Finally, he said it was done, and to come take a look. He stared at me hopefully. My mom was over and wanted to see too...ouch, this could get ugly. Before I could open my mouth he said calmly, almost with warning "it is as good as it is going to get." I was catching the "keep your mouth shut woman" vibe he was throwing down, but why I never learn to just be silent in situations like this is astounding to me -even as it is happening. "But - what about this end?" I ask, hating myself. He explained he didn't know how much material he'd have to reach the other side - so it ended up a little....um, baggy, on one end. Now, no one would ever notice this. But for anyone that knows me - and this man knows me - I notice. Fixate. Things have to be "just so." I have learned/tried/pretended to be flexible. I have kids, and they destroy everything. It still takes some doing for me. When things are new and pretty and fresh out of the box - I want it to fly to the car like in a Disney movie carried on either end by two little birdies and magically place itself perfectly in it's rightful place - no puckering, no crookedness. The reality is - no birdies, 2 days, lots of coffee, lots of beer, lots of advil later - the headliner is in. And "as good as it is gonna get" is just fine. Hey, both windshields are in without being broken - so we celebrate the small the victories. Almost all of the exterior trim is on, including the front bumper complete with O'Neill Santa Cruz license plate frames...the Red Bird looks real, drive able, RED....ours.

Christmas Morning Peel Out

Test drive in PJ's....woo hoo! Maybe Christmas morning was not to be as painful as I feared? The weeks leading up to this day were almost obsessive in my fears of How will it be? How will they be? Will my mom be ok? Will it feel so, so empty without him? Can it really be just another day? Please? The last few weeks of this semi-naseousness yuck in my stomach, my constant panging headache that advil won't calm, and just that sad, lost and empty plain ol sickness for my dad. My heart, my brain, my memories won't let me squint away the image of him standing in my parents hallway on Christmas morning so happy we had finally arrived, then bending down to hug my kids and tell them that "Santa came to their house too!" This dark cloud, it was getting constant again, just when I thought I was maybe getting a sunny cloud-free forecast. The for no reason pissed-offness at the sheer mention of, well, anything. The lip quivering, heart aching just wanting to fall down in a heap in the middle of a crowded Safeway and cry my little eyeballs out and scream "You Suck Christmas!" while happy couples read their grocery lists shooing off their their childlike clutching the cart why I am here first year husbands to look for kosher salt "do you know where that is honey?" tra-la-la's the perfectly put together Strawberry-but-so-badly-wanting-to-be Tiburon gal. She's all laced up in Tory Burch snow boots and a faux rabbit fur vest although it is 60 fucking degrees outside. Do I sound bitter? This is not new news. It is my new year's resolution to work on this. But maybe on this Christmas morning we happened upon something to jump start this New Years Resolution of mine: a fast ride in the chill of morning in our shiny red BMW! We sailed down our street in our jammies: registration-less, insurance-less, seatbelt-less, and yes, windshield-less "Whatdaya think???" CJ yelled. "It is freeeeeeeeeeeeezing, but soooooooooo fun" I shouted back. Before we got going, he did the requisite turning over of her cold, un-used engine. When we heard her rev up, we all threw on our flip flops, grabbed the camera and ran out front. She turned over and over, but the engine did not catch. CJ made that sound that we hear often these days of car restoring; it's kind of a combination that sounds like "herrrrgh-what-the-hell-now-herrrrrghhh....." Then the hood was up. "Back inside kids," I herded them, and my mom looked at me like, "how long is this gonna take?" We'll give him 10 minutes and then we'll have to bag it. And guess what? He did it! The Red Bird revved out to the driveway, shiny and proud. I hopped in feeling 16 years old, and off we sped burnin a little rubber as we went. I am sure we pissed off some neighbors, but hey it ain't everyday that a girl wakes up to 4 tires under the Christmas tree, hubcaps shiny silver with new BMW emblems in the middle. That just begs TEST DRIVE!!! We made it to the top of our street before we heard, and unfortunately, felt "Thud, thud, thud, thud" Back home we went, takin it real slow. Back up on jack stands we stare at her, knowing what she feels like to drive even for a second. A kid goes racing by on a new dirtbike. Hell, who cares who we pissed off. It is just that kind of a morning. 2010, here we come. Not a moment too soon.

Too much information

We are a little behind in the blog-o-sphereum. To think, we were feeling relieved at the time of my last entry about Cian. We had a solid diagnosis, and we were ready to deal with whatever we needed to in order to get him well. Little did we know, the worst was yet to come. When we researched this evil HSP disease, many of the internet sites the pediatric hospitalist told us not to google said "symptoms can include: vomiting, joint pain, abdominal pain, hives, diarrhea, nausea and swollen testicles." We weren't prepared for the fact that in Cian's case - symptoms will include vomiting, joint pain, abdominal pain, hives, diarrhea, nausea and swollen testicles. C'mon....the kid hasn't been through enough? He has to go get swollen balls on top of looking like he has leprosy? We hauled him to the E/R again in a state of panic and were again stuck with another lively neighbor in the next bed over. This poor ol guy sounded like he died, like, five years ago and was somehow living again and currently drowning in his own mucus. He kept bellowing "owwwwwwwww, you're hurting me!" and the RN would say "David, I haven't done anything yet. Can you stop squeezing my hand and just hold the side of the bed?" and then another "owwwwwwwww, you're hurting me!!!" You get the jist. We tried hard to occupy Cian when ol David next door was informed he was getting a catheter. As you can imagine, David took this information well. We were bracing for impact when a nurse informed us we were going to the second floor. Cian was delighted to hear the news that he'd be traveling in his bed. You could almost see in his eyes the moment he realized THIS RIG ROLLS! And we were all relieved to be away from poor ol dead-five-years-ago-David. What Cian didn't know was that he was headed to the second floor for a thorough ultrasounding of his "boys." The first few minutes of this experience, he was wide-eyed and cracking up. But for the next 20 minutes or so he just stared at me in dis-belief like, how could you let this strange woman manhandle my junk mom?!? Post-ultrasound all seemed to be in order, again just the illness "running it's course." Relief again. I thought CJ was going either pass out or burst out laughing when Ms. Zero Personality Ultrasounding Lady (in the worst outfit I have ever seen concocted) asked CJ "does his left testicle usually hang lower than his right?" He mustered a straight face, and said to her "you know, I honestly don't know." Is that bad? Should you know these things? Is it like not knowing your kid has a birthmark? Well, at least now we know...I guess. To look on the bright side, when I consult my new online "doctor" via the 500 internet sites I surf on this topic, Cian has now gone through - almost in order- all the symptoms this disease brings with it. I have stopped reading about it for now, sometimes too much information can just be scary. I lay in bed at night and worry endlessly. Was his pee brown? Does he have a fever? Is the rash getting worse? What if they are wrong, and it is something else? We have started getting him out again, going to the park. We just tell parents that stare at him "he doesn't have chicken pox...he is not contagious" or give them the stink eye and say loudly "Cian, we have get you home and put you back in your bubble," depending on our mood.

CJ took a big chunk of time off from work to make sure Cian could stay home and get rest, and it has given him a few more opportunities to keep the Red Bird coming along. CJ was able to put the tail panel back together with tail lights and some trim. He finished straightening the grills and painted the light buckets and then reinstalled them. The much-discussed paint job took me a week and a half to be able to see her in the light of day, and she looks beautiful. What CJ was able to do on the side yard of our house that people typically pay thousands for is pretty amazing. I was worried our neighbors would be upset with the green and lopsided E-Z-Up encroaching into their yard covering our car, then the loving-hands-at-home viscoine tent erected around the E-Z-Up. How middle america can you get? But they didn't care one bit - Rich next door was actually sorry it came down because he was contemplating painting his old Fiat sitting in his garage. We've already broken in the new paint job when the ghetto E-Z-Up collapsed on top of the car after a big rainstorm and scratched the trunk. Then when CJ reinstalled the grills he scratched it again. Those were a couple of "tense" evenings. You cannot even see them, but CJ knows they are there. He pressure washed the rims to see how bad they were, at this point everything is about recycling and cleaning up what we have. We did drop a what seemed like a bunch of dough on weatherstripping and gaskets. I hate spending money on the stuff you "can't see" like this. It is like remodeling a house. A foundation? Do we really need it? I was hoping for a hot tub!

We also spent a ridiculous amount of money on Christmas presents for the kids. It is likely an even bigger waste of money since Cian's favorite toy right now is a small piece of rope that has kept him busy for about 3 days. And Hannah wrote a letter to Santa to simply tell him he was the "best man ever" and didn't ask for anything. Don't get me wrong, my kids are wanton hoarders of plastic, battery-operated everything, but they discard that crap in moments to play with the boxes from my midnight online shopping for days. They decorate them, drag them around the house. I should have just bought each of them a case of copy paper from Office Depot and called it a day. Then we could buy stuff for the car we need - like headliner, door panels and getting the seats reupholstered! Kids. Everyone tells you they drain your bank accounts and your emotions. But you don't believe them til it happens to you. Again, a lot like remodeling a house. You will spend twice as much, and it will take twice as long. Been there, done that. And everyone told me it would happen, and we still walked straight into the fire.

So, CJ is at home for two weeks with the kids for the winter break. The progress on the Red Bird will likely slow. His intake of Red Stripe will likely increase. Day one of the hostage takeover begins tomorrow. I will pray for you Colin. I will pray for you safely from my desk.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Who knew peeing in a cup could be so fun?

Just a warning...we are low on car deets this entry. We went to LA to visit good friends this weekend, and to see how the Malibu set live. Not our speed, but some damn fine beaches. Malibu is a strange hybrid of Bolinas and the Hamptons - there is the token wacked out dread-head on the side of the road selling Buddha candles next to a Tory Burch boutique. CJ does not share my celebrity obsession, and barely turned his head when Cindy Crawford walked by. He said he likes "looking at me better", awwwwwww. Wait! Did he say that? Ok, maybe I made that up. Even though this was a quick trip, we don't have much luck traveling as a family. Historically, the kids have waited until the bags are packed, house is cleaned and I am leaving a note for my mom that if the dog dies "don't call us" to say they feel like barfing. Or on the way out, we feel their feverish, sweaty head....or most recently noticed a strange unidentifiable rash surrounding Cian's ankles. Yep, bags packed, jackets on - what's this rash? The "all new Tempa-Cheer" on his socks-yep, that's gotta be it! "Let's go!" At the airport, strange mystery rash is, er, growing. Chicken pox? But he was vaccinated?? He is still pinching his sister, belly laughing uncontrollably when she blows spit bubbles and begging for stuffed animals that say I heart Oakland Airport. Business as usual. CJ and I tell ourselves that maybe he has chicken pox, although vaccinated, and this is how it shows it gnarly head. Sunday morning, we arise feeling as though a small rodent crawled in our mouth and died there, heavy headed and seriously hungover after our little Malibu celebration and trying to sleep through Cian and our friend's kids ramming each other with chairs and shooting one another with nerf darts. The rash seems to have faded, and we have started to forget about it. We get home (finally, it was a lot of "bonding time" with the kids) and I am changing Cian into his jammies and see the rash has grown considerably. And what is that - a bruise? I asked him if he bumped his leg. He said yes, he hung upside down from his bunk bed and a snake fell from the ceiling and he landed on his nightstand trying to escape the snake (a little bit of "living in fantasy land" is going on). I almost vomit in my own mouth to say this, but my favorite show on TV is "Extreme Home Makeover". I urge you not to judge. Sometimes a girl just needs a reason to see how fucked other people are and feel real, real bad for them and have a good, shoulder-shaking cry alone on the couch for an hour. But last week, a boy on the show had leukemia. They realized something was wrong when his mom found a bunch of bruises on his legs (swallow). Then I saw another one, and another one. These were not just bruises, but deep blue/purple bruise-like eruptions, one coming after the other almost before our eyes. I did a freakish spinning in circles crying, hyperventilating thing in the bathroom while CJ surfed the Internet, pale. I threw a jacket on the kid, I could not wait until our pediatrician appointment in the morning. Penguin slippers and all, we hit Marin General at 9:30 at night. He chatted away in the back seat about all the pretty Christmas lights, and I pretended this was just a normal outing with mom. "Yeah, buddy - aren't they pretty?" All the while, in my mind, my guts, my heart silently praying "oh, please god make this be nothing" over and over and over. Once at the E/R, I specifically avoided the spot my mom and I sat while waiting to hear about my dad. It just didn't exist, don't look "over there". I went straight to the fish tank with Cian and waited. Cain? Quinn? A nurse called. I am used to this, so is he. It is "keee-an" I said, wanting to knee this woman in the gut. "Uh, ok" she said - knowing she was instantly throwing me in a "Marin mom" bucket along with every other "Amiee, Brooklynne and Madisinne" in the county. She took one look at the rash and said, "let me see if I can get you a bed." Oh, god. That has never happened. Expedited service at MGH? Not a good sign. Then, we waited. San Rafael Fire came rolling in with a homeless guy and proceeded to set up camp the next curtain over. I couldn't see him, but he kept barking "don't have a house, ya get no respect!" and then started uncontrollably coughing and slurred "I am in payyyyyne!" The nurse said, "Sir, how often do you drink?" He said "Why do you need to know that? Are you the poh-lise?" She said, "sir, I am a nurse, how often do you drink?" He slurred "three beers once a month." Wow, wildly specific for being wasted, delirious and his shoulder flopping off to the side, dis-located. The gal in charge said "street drugs?" and he said "what about em?" she sighed, "sir, do - you - take - street - drugs?" slow n' steady as a nursery school teacher. "No, ma'am I don't." Yeah, and I am the queen of freaking England. They ran off after trying to situate him, and he immediately starts ringing his call bell and slurring "Heeeeelp, I am in payyyyyne! Heeeelp" No one came. I tried to keep Cian amused listening to this guy, he thought he was awesome. Hobo in bed 6 then says, "hello - next door? hello?" I couldn't ignore him, and I came from behind the curtain holding Cian and said "do you want me to get you someone?" Clearly he just wanted someone to talk to. He brightened and said "hi, little fella! Are you gettin operated on today?" I turned away as fast as possible without looking too freaked out, and said nervously "nah, none of that for us." He then started incoherently ranting about how many times he's been "cut open." I went the nurses station and asked if we could possibly be moved, explaining that hearing a homeless dudes blow by blow recount of having his face put back together after a fight was interesting, but I was busy having a nervous breakdown. About 5 doctors later, each of them saying "can you pull your pants down buddy so we can see your legs" and then "hmmmmmm" they said they didn't want to freak me out but had called a "pediatric hospitalizer" to come look at him, and in the meantime would take some of Cian's blood to test. I felt like I was going to pass out. I said to the doc, I was in fact freaking out and then summoned the courage to ask what was whirling over and over in my head as steadlily as I could "do you think he has leukemia?" He said "I doubt it, but we'll do a blood test and leave no stone unturned. Plus, freaking out does no good." Oh, thanks doc. Now I feel much better, asshole. The "pediatric hospitalizer" comes in, and sits right down on a chair across the room and folds his hands. I couldn't decide if he had the bedside manner of a piece of crushed hospital ice, or they had conferred and deduced that Cian had leprosy and they weren't telling us just yet. "So, what's up?" he asks, non-chalant. As if we were just hanging out, nowhere to go, all the time in the world. Then he took one look at Cian (still across the room) and said very matter-of-factly that he has "Henoch Shone-lein purpura" disease. And then just stared at me. I don't know about you, but aside from the common cold, I am no doctor. Was that english or the medical version of turrets? Was I supposed to know what that was? As a rule, multiple unpronounceable words including hyphens in a hospital setting are, well, just no good. He told me it was an immune system disease caused by a viral infection. He told me not to run home and google it (which is exactly what I did) because it can be pretty scary. "well, without googling it, it still sounds scary" I panted, feeling totally out of breath. He said it can cause arthritis, kidney disorder, vomiting, bloody stool and hospitalization. But, just keep an eye on him, keep him hydrated and take him to see his peditatrician in the morning. Ok, I guess if we are working backward from the possibility of leukemia, this somehow seems - manageable? But then he threw in the zinger "of course leukemia is possible given his symptoms, but lets see how his blood work comes out." Oh god, oh god, oh god. I will go to church. I will stop saying I am an atheist. I will believe in you dear lord up above for real, please just do me this one teeny, tiny little favor. Make this child ok. Then cold as a freezing artic eskimos arse Mr. Pediatric Hospitalizer returns and was, thankfully, right. Henoch sch....you know, that condition I wrote about above, was our diagnosis. What does this mean? Much to Cian's delight, he gets to pee in a cup once a month for the next year to monitor his kidneys. (He has been saying "pee in a cup!" and then belly laughing all morning). He gets to stay home for a week. He gets juice after 5pm, or anytime we can get any type of beverage down his gullet. He gets devoted, unequivocal attention from his parents 24/7. From a five year old's perspective, a pretty radical time indeed. For us? We got the single biggest scare of our adult lives. We thought for a short time our child's life was indeed in imminent danger. We cried when the kids weren't looking, hugged each other and stayed up all night, sick with worry until we could hear our pediatrician confirm the diagnosis. We are slowly starting to shake off the horrible feeling in our stomachs and hearts, and are reminded again that we have so much to be thankful for. Even after a year where we lost someone that meant everything to us - we recognize what we have and thank god, the dalai lama - (is Ghandi still alive?) that they are ok.