ill-advised

I have begun an experiment wherein all the recent e-mails I've sent have been otherwise perfectly ordinary, but the subject lines are goofy crap I've copied from spam - stuff like 'Wall Street Alert!' and 'R U Big as a Barn?' and 'Be a sperm-man with truckload of sperms' - in an attempt to see if more people scan their new mail by sender or subject.

Incidentally, it would seem that more people scan by subject line, since I haven't received replies to any e-mails sent since I began this brain-damaged endeavor. Either that, or nobody likes me.

Oh, PS - check this out! Cleveland rocks!

need gift ideas for those hard-to-shop-for behavioral psychologists on your Christmas list?

Look, everybody – it's Pavlov's toy.

a quickie

Hello, everyone.

I'm sorry so much time is passing between updates these days. The last few weeks have been utter madness at work, and I have only been able to make it to the hospital for short visits in the evening every two or three days. It makes me crazy, being away from my babies, but there hasn't been any choice lately, and I've had to press on the brave face and pretend it fits.

Jeremy's progress is achingly slow, but right on track. Things are good - blood levels continue to climb, and we're down to one antibiotic (from the previous buffet) and off the morphine completely. He's taking Methadone for the withdrawal symptoms, but so far, thankfully, they only manifest themselves in general grouchiness and a little nausea. Almost all signs of the mucousitis have disappeared, which means that he feels much better, and the elevation of his mood is significant, while being slightly offset by the aforementioned morphine withdrawal and the big doses of steroids he's been receiving. Still, seeing him smile and laugh and play again, seeing him begin to eat again, act the part of a normal healthy baby again, brings me such great joy that I have absolutely no basis for comparison.

Thank you all again for your thoughts and prayers. One of these days, I'm gonna drive to every one of your homes and personally administer much-deserved hugs, despite the protests of your unsuspecting spouses.

Meanwhile, Holly and I celebrated our two-year wedding anniversary this week. My father, kindly gentleman that he is, allowed us an entire night on our own. Holly got to visit our actual house, which she hasn't been able to do for almost six weeks now, and to witness firsthand the full extent of my startling domestic skills. I took it as a good sign that, immediately following her statement that the place was "spotless, holy crap", she totally jumped my bones.

Boy, that house sucks without them. I find myself listening to loud music almost every second I'm there now, in an attempt to diffuse some of the emptiness. Lately I've been stuck on The Glands' eponymous record from several years ago; it's excellent, and I've been positively wearing the grooves off it (the vinyl version is five or six tracks richer than the CD version, and ordered differently, and far superior, in my own little opinion, but it's a great album regardless, and if you've never had the pleasure, then get thee to Best Buy or wherever, 'cause life is filled with uncertainty, and this is one of those rare guarantees). Has just the right flavor of melancholy exuberance that seems to perfectly soundtrack my life these days. I want to be blissfully happy about every piece of good news, just jump up and down, to do donuts in the clown car 'til the wheels come off, but I can't completely let go and revel in my joy for fear of the backlash of bad luck I'd surely cause.

But hey - if that's the worst part of the fight right now, then hallelujah.

PS, folks - if you're interested in keeping closer tabs on the progress of our little heavyweight than a layabout such as myself provides, then check out Holly's hospital weblog, which she pretty much updates daily. She also knows lots of medical terminology that makes my face go all frowny. (No pictures of her, tho, unfortunately...)

corny

It's 5am, and I'm heading home from the hospital to shower and get ready for work. I only have a second, but I wanted to let everyone know that the transplant went beautifully yesterday, better than anyone expected. Jem continues to amaze his doctors (and his parents) by practically skating through all the parts of this lengthy ordeal that they expect to be the most trying, and yesterday was no exception. He made it through the entire transfusion with no nausea, no fever, no fluctuation in blood pressure at all, stayed perfectly content until about six minutes after they were done, and then fell soundly asleep.

We still have a good stretch of road left in this pilgrimage, but so far, so good. He's the most immunocompromized for the next month, and it'll take two or three weeks before we know if the new cells will regenerate his system like they're supposed to, but we're off to a terrific start. We found out today that the cord blood donor was female, so not only is his blood type changing from O negative to O positive (how's THAT for sci fi?), but he'll also really freak out anyone who ever tests his blood, as they will find female chromosomes there that they can't explain. Go, human body! Far out.

Thanks again to everyone for keeping us in thoughts and prayers. My little blog family means the world to me. More when I've got the time, I promise.

Oh, ps - there's a preservative in the transfusion blood that has a very peculiar odor, and ever since the procedure yesterday, Jem's breath smells like canned corn. I don't even slightly mind all the girlie chromosomes floating around in his sweet little body, but I really hope that smell doesn't last. I mean, I like corn and all, but yuck, dude.

superhero

As I type this, I am sitting at a courtesy computer in the hallway of a cancer ward on the third floor of a children's hospital. I am just outside my son's room, inside of which he sleeps peacefully, aided by the somnolent drift of Atavan and morphine and Benadryl through his bloodstream. It has been a long three months that has brought us here, to this night in this place. The clock at the bottom right hand of the computer screen says it's one a.m., which means that today's the day; in approximately ten hours, a nurse will start the blood transfusion that will determine the course of the rest of our lives.

The story in its entirety is a long one, and I have been fighting to tell it for many weeks. In fact, I don't know that I've ever struggled with writing like the telling of this tale has brought, and the fight still isn't over. Then again, nothing this important has ever happened to me. It becomes incredibly difficult, I've found, to shape the words that will convey how your entire life has changed in a few short moments, and you can spend innumerable sleepless nights examining and reexamining the details that surround those few moments, turning them over and over in your hands, trying to make sense of it, to find a pattern, some semblance of math or reason that would seem to add up to what has happened, who you've become, how the world looks and feels to you now, from this new perspective, through these new eyes. But it can't be done, of course. It's like taking a single piece from a thousand different puzzles and then trying to fit them all together to make an image you've picked at random from volume Nam-thru-Op of the encyclopedia. Even if you could manage to force the pieces together, maybe snipping off an extraneous tab with scissors here or there, you still can't fashion a picture that makes any sense.

I've written many pages about the events of the last three months of my family's lives, none of which fit together particularly well, and none of which can explain what has happened. At some point I may manage to assemble these bits and pieces into a moderately coherent whole, perhaps even for the pages of this very journal, but until then, this thumbnail sketch will have to suffice. The short of it is that my wife and I took our son to the hospital the weekend of Memorial Day with a persistent high fever. Less than a week later, his abnormal test results led doctors to their diagnosis of a rare blood disorder called Hemophagocytic Lymphohistiocytosis. The disease isn't classified as cancer, but it essentially behaves the same way as cancer and so is approached using a similar course of treatment. Our little Jeremy has handled it all like the brilliant, ebullient, tireless star that he is, with smiles and laughter in the face of so much ugliness and suffering. Through six weeks of the initial chemotherapy, his mood and character were so bright and delighted that you could never have guessed how sick he was if it hadn't been for the thin rubber IV line that sprouted from a tiny hole in his chest to poke out between the snaps in his onesies, or the steadily receding hairline that eventually left him bald as a cueball for the first time since before he was born, or the way his diapers would smell the first few days after a treatment (most chemotherapy is processed by the kidneys and leaves the patient's urine smelling strongly chemical, not unlike something burning on the eye of a stove). His remarkably constant good humor has made this ordeal infinitely easier for his mother and I to shoulder.

Still, it has taken its toll, on all of us. The past two weeks have been the toughest thus far, comprising the most intensely concentrated barrage of chemicals to his system, and it's finally begun to show in more upsetting ways. His appetite has completely dried up, leaving him to receive all of his nutrition through the IV now, and when he vomits (which happens at least four times daily, regardless of round-the-clock nausea medication), it is only a slick translucent green bile, just like the awful stuff we find in his diapers. His skin is dotted with hives, and mucousitis lines his throat and the inside of his mouth with sores, making even thumb-sucking too painful to endure. There are headaches, chills, and fever. He cries often now, whereas he so rarely did before, and the cry is pronouncedly different from the moderate urging tone to which we'd grown accustomed, sounding so mournful as to require enormous patience and courage from Holly and I to keep from bursting into uncontrolled sobs at the sound of it. The smiles and laughter from our happy boy are much fewer and farther between these past few days, and it is to us as if the sun has suddenly disappeared from the sky. And yet, we know the worst is far from over. All this recent hammering down of his immune system has been leading up to today - at 11 a.m. he will receive a bone marrow transplant that will hopefully negate the disease entirely and leave the three of us to lead relatively normal lives from this point forward. Whatever normal is anymore. I'm fairly sure I never knew in the first place.

For those of you that hadn't already connected points A and B, it was our family to which Poppyseed's generous entries about her friends' sick baby referred. The handful of 'bard denizens who learned of our plight through their kind inquiries regarding my prolonged absence from these pages have been wonderfully supportive, as have all our other friends and family, and I cannot thank them enough. Your words of comfort and concern have made a huge difference to me, and I'll never forget them. Please continue to keep us in your thoughts and, if you are inclined to such, your prayers as well.

Jeremy was 25 weeks old yesterday; he has spent more than half of his life now with radioactive chemicals coursing through his veins. I keep telling Holly to try not to worry too much. I tell her that this is always how superheroes are born.

---

As footnote: I can't sleep tonight. The strain and stress of the coming transplant have rendered my mind's shutters useless, and they've been stuck wide open for the last three days or so. Last night I cleaned our house (which is an empty, lonely place since Holly and Jeremy took up residence here at the hospital again) within an inch of its life. Tonight I wandered the vacant hallways of the hospital, eventually making my way down to the ground floor, where there is a bay of vending machines filled with all manner of bad food. I walked over to the only Coke machine I've found in the entire hospital that dispenses cans rather than those plastic bottles (Holly thinks I'm completely mental, but I swear the soda tastes different from one container versus the other, and I much prefer the cans), deposited 65 cents, and pressed the button for regular Coca-Cola. There was a huge CRASH! from inside the machine, and I watched in amazement as the issuing chute at the bottom of the machine filled with cans. For my 65 cents, I was dispensed nine ice cold Cokes.

It may seem silly, but I believe that providence can announce itself in silly ways sometimes. It was just after midnight when I pushed that button. I feel lucky today.

who?

HELLO! My name is yourblindspot.

I thought I'd wear a nametag in case all of you had forgotten who I was.

Which wouldn't surprise me – it's been ages since I've managed to come around here, even to play read-and-catch-up, much less actually write something. I miss you all, but I've been entirely consumed in life stuff during these past weeks. Our home computer still doesn't work, which leaves me to do whatever Internet business I might have... well, never. Unless I want to stay late at work, writing about how adorable our child is, instead of actually being with him, and his mom, in our house. And I don't. (No offense.)

So instead, I'll merely say that I am well, and that I hope the same for all of you. I'm thinking of you often, and I'll be back more regularly when I can manage to pull my head out from where it's lodged itself so firmly betwixt my hindquarters.

As for the kid, my furry little noodle? I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.









My love to all of you.

This non-entry is brought to you by: Enfamil LIPIL with iron, the first infant formula with DHA and ARA for healthier development; Pampers Sensitive Touch baby wipes, keeping your baby's ass smooth as a baby's ass; Playtex disposable bottle liners, 'cause formula stinks something awful; and by Zout, saving your clothing from stubborn poop and vomit stains, whether you're a new parent or merely a conscientious alcoholic.

some good news and some bad news

I had the luxury of sleeping in a bit this morning, and when I woke up, it was to the beautiful sight of my son’s sweet little face about nine inches from my own. Jem’s been having trouble sleeping in the bassinet lately, and for the last few nights he’s shared bunk with Holly and I. He was understandably unconscious, as he kept the two of us up pretty late last night, so I got to spend the first twenty minutes or so of my day just staring at him, watching his expression change as he dreamed about whatever two-week-old boys dream about. Nipples, I’m guessing. Just like thirty-year-old boys.

Before long, I heard the front door open and close. Holly came back to the bedroom to say good morning and check on the babe. She had made an early run to Wal-Mart for diapers and wanted to make sure I was awake. It was about ten minutes till eight.

We boys stayed in bed for a while longer. Jem started to wake up, and we chatted quietly about how adorable he is as his tiny fists opened and closed and his eyes worked themselves further open. Perhaps five or six minutes passed before Holly returned.

“Hey, honey? Some lawn truck just backed over our mailbox.”

Aw, crap. So much for lazy Saturday.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I was sitting at the kitchen table and heard an awful noise from the driveway. When I got up and looked out the front window, I noticed that the ChemLawn truck that had been parked across the street was gone, and our mailbox was flattened.”

“Flattened?”

“Totaled. History. All our mail is blowing around in the middle of the street.”

“Oh, man.”

Holly went out to retrieve our bills and what was left of the mailbox from the roadway, and I pulled myself out of bed and shambled into the living room, still wearing my clothes from the previous night. She came back through the front door, holding up the remains of our mailbox between thumb and forefinger like a dead animal. It was utterly demolished, gone from regulation height to an inch and a half of bent tin with one swift, bumper-scraping miscalculation. Even the flag was crushed and folded like the bellows of an accordion.

“Wow,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “What’re we gonna do?”

“I’m gonna make some phone calls.”

I pulled out our telephone book and flipped back to the Yellow Pages, to ‘Lawn Care and Maintenance,’ and found the number for the local ChemLawn office. A customer service representative connected me with Bill, the supervisor, who confirmed that they had a truck dispatched to our subdivision that morning. He was very cooperative and said that he’d send the truck driver back to talk to me. Feeling rather full of myself for having advanced the matter so efficiently, I cracked the top on a Coke and settled down on the sofa to wait for the driver.

It only took him about five minutes to return. He was a younger guy, wearing a long goatee Pharaoh-style and his ChemLawn cap backwards on his head. We talked for a moment, and it didn’t take long before I realized that he wasn’t the one responsible for the destruction of our mailbox. I consider myself a fairly good judge of character, and I could tell that this guy probably wouldn’t have just driven away from the scene of an accident, much less continue to deny the allegation once he’d been called on it. We talked about how it is against ChemLawn’s policy to use driveways to turn around, and he even said he’d considered using our driveway before deciding against it, instead choosing to drive to the cul-de-sac at the end of the street. He also gave me a rundown of the other cars on the street at the time he was there, as well as giving me the tip that any chemical maintenance company of their variety, be it lawn care or pest control, is required by law to put a sign in the treated yard which identifies the treatment and the company, and that I might determine what if any other company had been in the area this morning by trolling the neighborhood for those signs. Thoroughly convinced of his innocence, I thanked him for his trouble and let him go.

Frowning, I walked out to the end of the driveway to think. Holly seemed so sure that his truck had been the one. As I stood there, a tow truck passed me. I turned and followed its progress down the street to where it stopped two houses down. There was a police car there, and an officer was speaking to another resident at the end of his own driveway. A few words of their conversation drifted up the street – ‘not mine’ and ‘over there’ and ‘I don’t know’ – but not enough to determine what the trouble was.

Then I noticed the nondescript white truck that they seemed to be gesturing towards, the one in front of which the tow truck was lining up. It looked from my view to have been backed up into the man’s driveway, but the houses in our neighborhood aren’t particularly close together, and I couldn’t really tell from where I stood. I decided to mind my own business and turned back towards our front door, heading inside to regroup.

Human beings are a funny species. It’s amazingly smug how we think of ourselves as the pinnacle of evolution when our brains are as lazy as they are. Case in point is the following thought process of my very own, a series of torpid connections that I would love to blame on having recently woken from a deep sleep but have trouble honestly doing so. You be the judge.

As I’m walking back up the drive towards the house, I’m looking at Holly’s parked Cavalier. We usually keep her car in the garage, as its back seat holds the base for the baby’s car seat, and parking it in the garage prevents us from having to bring the baby out into the wind when we’re going somewhere. It’s a two-car garage, but there are still so many boxes in it from the move that it only has space for one of our two vehicles right now. So I’m walking up the driveway, looking at her car and wondering to myself, Why’d she park the truck in the garage? I knew she’d taken my pickup to Wal-Mart because I’d needed gas, and she’d planned to fill it up for me.

Then I remembered our conversation from the previous evening. The three of us had driven the mile to her brother’s house to eat grilled, beer-boiled bratwurst (which I love dearly and cannot resist, regardless of the price my digestive tract has to pay for the pleasure of their consumption), and as we were leaving our house, Holly commented that she hadn’t locked the garage because she didn’t know how. We had a short, genial conversation about how approximately 1/3 of everything we own is in that garage and the importance of keeping it locked, after which I promised to teach her how the mechanism worked at some point during the day today.

Recalling this, I thought, Wait. She doesn’t know how to open the garage.

Then where the hell is my truck?

I had stopped there in the driveway, still staring at Holly’s car, and my gaze turned slowly from her back bumper to the police car and tow truck in front of the neighbor’s house two doors down. The police car, and the tow truck, and my white pickup truck.

Oh, shit.

I literally slapped my own forehead with the flat of my palm as all the seemingly disparate pieces of the puzzle suddenly flew together, and I turned and ran across the front yard towards the cop.

When I finished filling out the police report and retrieving my fortunately undamaged pickup from where it had come to rest against a fortunately undamaged Jackson County power box, I went back in the house to tell Holly the story.

“I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” I said. “The good news is I figured out who backed over our mailbox. The bad news is it was you.”

“What?”

“Do you happen to remember engaging the parking brake on my truck when you got back from the store this morning?”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yeah.”

After we managed to stop laughing, her first comment was, “Dude, I told you having this baby made me stupid,” followed shortly thereafter by, “We really need a flatter driveway, you know?”

“Would you settle for a flatter mailbox?”