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Every once in a while I’m reminded of how good our kids truly are; how blessed we are to have two happy, healthy, and naturally curious children. This revelation usually occurs the day following a rough day with the kids. Like getting over a long suffering, difficult cold, everything is made clear once the fog of frustration and neuralgia is lifted off of one’s head. Today is one of those days. Yesterday was a rough day.
The grueling day began several hours before the kids’ even woke up. Simon had been put to bed wearing his green dinosaur outfit: long pants with gripper sole booties and a long sleeve over his short sleeve cotton onesy. I should have known the outfit was too hot– it was still 70 degrees outside when I put him to bed, but I figured it would probably rain and the temperature would drop to the low 60s or even high 50s like it had the last several nights. It didn’t.
Two hours later, just as I was about to fall asleep after reading three-dozen pages of Virgil’s The Aeneid, Simon woke up on fire! His body temperature was easily up two degrees, and he felt like the clothes on his back were going to burst into flames at any moment. I thought he was only hot from being overdressed and, in response, doused him with copious amounts of baby powder to offset the thin layer of sweat separating his pale skin from his cotton clothing. While this fine blanket of sweat may have contributed to his discomfort, the real reason he was so hot was from a low-grade temperature; he was teething. Six teeth are coming in, four molars and two incisors, the poor boy. After an hour of cuddling, Simon finally fell back asleep, exhausted. I shortly followed suit, completely ignorant of the real reason he awoke in the first place.
Simon’s teething pains and how he reacts to them are much different than Taylor’s were. Taylor had suffered. Her discomfort lasted every minute of the day and night until her tooth or teeth came in. Crabbiness and irritability followed her everywhere she went until she was given temporary relief from products like Tylenol and Baby Orajel; or given cold teething toys, a wet washcloth, or frozen foods like Italian Ice and hard ice cream. We also knew the exact moment her teeth started coming in and, with much anticipation and relief, when they finally grew in. Simon’s teething pattern, however, has been a bewildering mystery to us. He behaves normally throughout the day: he runs, he laughs, and he plays without a care in the world. There is no indication of teething, whatsoever, unless one catches a glimpse of the red spot– the exposed nerve– in the middle of a new tooth breaking through his gums. But at night, for one to three hours, usually sometime between 11 p.m. and 3 a.m., an entire day’s worth of aching, misery, and wretchedness descends on him like hell’s fury and relentlessly clobbers his mouth, his head, and our sanity.
In all honesty, it took nearly two full days before Adrianne figured out what was going wrong with Simon at night. I completely missed every sign and symptom of his teething while standing in the dark of the night in his bedroom holding him while he’s screaming and practically rolling out of my arms from all of his squiggling, pushing, and alligator rolls. The worst part is, neither Tylenol nor Orajel seem to mitigate his pain. It’s almost as if, overnight, his body has become immune to acetaminophen and benzocaine. On this particular night, either from sheer exhaustion or the absolute maximum dosing of medication I gave him, I was finally able to put him down to rest for another few hours before the start of another day together.
The remainder of the day was spent, I thought, since I incorrectly misdiagnosed the reasoning behind it, chasing Simon around the house and yard and keeping him from pushing, pulling, and biting Taylor. His behavior was definitively out-of-the-ordinary. He was in pain.
He also fell asleep two hours earlier than his normal naptime. This, in turn, threw off Taylor’s nap schedule because when she was heading off to bed Simon was wide-awake and letting the world know it!
Yesterday was a long day, a rough day. But as a friend of mine once said, “If everything was perfect there would be nothing to talk about.” Or in this case, write about.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
The Beach.
In the not-to-distant past I used to giggle to myself, discreetly shake my head, and roll my eyes at those “Did you pack the kitchen sink, dear?” beachgoers. You know the ones: they are the ones dragging the industrial sized Igloo coolers– usually more than one, the four dented and scratched, antiquated aluminum folding chairs; a useless, brightly colored sunbrella; enough floatation devices to float a Buick, and every type of lead-based sand toy produced in China for the last decade. Oh, did I forget? They are also the ones toting 2.5 kids down to the waterfront with them.
I fondly remember going to the beach carrying very little: A small cooler containing a small assortment of snacks and drink (mostly drink), a beach towel, and some extra sunscreen. Nowadays, I’m the one dragging most of the items listed in the first paragraph, save the lawn chairs. What happened? We had two kids; that’s what happened!
Going to the beach has become as much an art as it is a science. I’ve learned that one must make sure the kids have been fed, changed, and, most importantly, have pooped, before even heading off down the road and onto the giant sandbox. There is nothing more frustrating than an uncomfortable toddler trying to wiggle out of their car seat or a cramping thirteen-month-old wailing in pain.
I try to be a minimalist when packing gear for the kids, but one can never have too much stuff. For example, while the kids will be wearing little swimmers (waterproof diapers) they still need an extra shirt and pair of shorts “just-in-case.” Food. Well, I don’t mind living on a liquid diet for an afternoon but the kids can’t. This means we need to pack a cooler for the cold food and a bag for the dry food. Oh, one mustn’t forget the utensils, wet wipes, and sippy cups filled with water and with iced tea to quench those finicky teeny taste buds, either.
Toys. Unless they’ve passed out from sheer exhaustion or sunstroke, kids don’t sit still very long. They are not going to enjoy the warmth on their faces, the sun on their backs, the sounds of crashing waves whooshing on the golden sands, or ensconce themselves watching the endless varieties of freaks and winsome people tramping along the shoreline and grass areas. No. Kids want to play. And play involves toys, lots of toys. So many toys that the kids won’t even use all of them, but will miss every single one you “forget” to bring. Trust me.
A couple of weeks ago we purchased two items that seem to catch everyone’s attention when we set up camp at the beach. For us, the purchases were well worth the few extra dollars and they have easily paid themselves off in fewer than two visits to the beach. The first item is a sun tent. The best way to describe it is to think of a dome shaped tent, cut it half, and add two zipper windows on the sides. Forget umbrellas. This shelter can withstand the brightest sun, coolest breeze, and, with the windows zipped, block out that cigarette smoke from people who still choose to poison themselves with nicotine. The second item is a beach cargo carrier. Made out of lightweight plastic with a nylon net basket, this contraption is worth its weight in gold. There will be no more slinging bags like Mexican bandoleers across my body as I trudge up and down the beach to find the perfect afternoon site to set up our beach camp!
Yesteryear has definitely come and gone at the Gross household; and the last two years have ushered in a new and dramatically disparate reality. Gone are the days of three-hour bicycle rides through the countryside of Vermont; gone are the days of running six to nine miles on the water causeway; gone are the days of endless motorcycling and camping; and gone are the days of being able to sleep soundly and recover from all of it.
I like the change. I’ve come to appreciate the sacrifices and the unimaginable new joys that only other parents have experienced and can relate to. But I must candidly admit I never expected these changes to be this encompassing, this engrossing, and come on this fast. And still, at times, I find myself taking a step back in reflection and shaking my head in disbelief with where I’m at, what I’m doing, and how lucky I am to have the family I do.
I fondly remember going to the beach carrying very little: A small cooler containing a small assortment of snacks and drink (mostly drink), a beach towel, and some extra sunscreen. Nowadays, I’m the one dragging most of the items listed in the first paragraph, save the lawn chairs. What happened? We had two kids; that’s what happened!
Going to the beach has become as much an art as it is a science. I’ve learned that one must make sure the kids have been fed, changed, and, most importantly, have pooped, before even heading off down the road and onto the giant sandbox. There is nothing more frustrating than an uncomfortable toddler trying to wiggle out of their car seat or a cramping thirteen-month-old wailing in pain.
I try to be a minimalist when packing gear for the kids, but one can never have too much stuff. For example, while the kids will be wearing little swimmers (waterproof diapers) they still need an extra shirt and pair of shorts “just-in-case.” Food. Well, I don’t mind living on a liquid diet for an afternoon but the kids can’t. This means we need to pack a cooler for the cold food and a bag for the dry food. Oh, one mustn’t forget the utensils, wet wipes, and sippy cups filled with water and with iced tea to quench those finicky teeny taste buds, either.
Toys. Unless they’ve passed out from sheer exhaustion or sunstroke, kids don’t sit still very long. They are not going to enjoy the warmth on their faces, the sun on their backs, the sounds of crashing waves whooshing on the golden sands, or ensconce themselves watching the endless varieties of freaks and winsome people tramping along the shoreline and grass areas. No. Kids want to play. And play involves toys, lots of toys. So many toys that the kids won’t even use all of them, but will miss every single one you “forget” to bring. Trust me.
A couple of weeks ago we purchased two items that seem to catch everyone’s attention when we set up camp at the beach. For us, the purchases were well worth the few extra dollars and they have easily paid themselves off in fewer than two visits to the beach. The first item is a sun tent. The best way to describe it is to think of a dome shaped tent, cut it half, and add two zipper windows on the sides. Forget umbrellas. This shelter can withstand the brightest sun, coolest breeze, and, with the windows zipped, block out that cigarette smoke from people who still choose to poison themselves with nicotine. The second item is a beach cargo carrier. Made out of lightweight plastic with a nylon net basket, this contraption is worth its weight in gold. There will be no more slinging bags like Mexican bandoleers across my body as I trudge up and down the beach to find the perfect afternoon site to set up our beach camp!
Yesteryear has definitely come and gone at the Gross household; and the last two years have ushered in a new and dramatically disparate reality. Gone are the days of three-hour bicycle rides through the countryside of Vermont; gone are the days of running six to nine miles on the water causeway; gone are the days of endless motorcycling and camping; and gone are the days of being able to sleep soundly and recover from all of it.
I like the change. I’ve come to appreciate the sacrifices and the unimaginable new joys that only other parents have experienced and can relate to. But I must candidly admit I never expected these changes to be this encompassing, this engrossing, and come on this fast. And still, at times, I find myself taking a step back in reflection and shaking my head in disbelief with where I’m at, what I’m doing, and how lucky I am to have the family I do.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The Day.
“At least you’ll never have to go through it again,” the doctor smirks from the foot of my $1,300 dollar a night hospital bed. “One can only have their appendix out once in their lifetime.”
Comforting thought, was the first response without a swear word tagged on the end of a sentence that came to mind as I silently curse to myself in pain.
“Thanks doc. Thank you for saving my life.”
The discomforting gut pain, which morphed into a five-day stay at the hospital for an emergency open appendectomy surgery, began on Sunday morning around 3 a.m. The pain in my lower abdomen, like excruciating poop cramps rolling from one side of my midsection to the other, was relentless. For the next two-and-one-half hours I struggled between getting a below average night’s sleep and desperately trying to relieve myself in the bathroom, only to my growing frustrations and to no avail.
By 6:30 a.m. I forced myself to the bathroom three or four times, vomiting about the same number of times until absolutely nothing was left in my stomach or intestines except that yellow, stinky mucus we all have grown to love to hate. I was not having fun.
Since moving to Pennsylvania our family has been sick several times. The progression of illness usually begins with Adrianne, moves to Taylor and then Simon, and finally it makes its way to me. It doesn’t help that my wife works in the hospital or that she completed her orientation working on the floors with isolation units. Just the same, we’ve each experienced several days of unaccustomed infirmity over the last few weeks in the Gross’ house. Because of this, I thought very little of my pains beyond the normal frustrations of having a viral infection on a warm summer day as my wife and sister-in-law took our kids swimming in our new 4’ x 11’ green and white blowup pool in the backyard.
I spent a good portion of the morning and early afternoon laying flat on my back, wreathing in agony before trying to fall asleep upstairs. The pain was like nothing I had ever experienced before. I thought, and Adrianne mentioned this more than once, that the pain could be originating from my appendix. But since our insurance coverage did not kick in for another five days, I could not convince myself to go to the emergency room, spending hundreds or thousands of dollars of blood tests, CT scans and the like, and have the chance of being sent home with a handful of Tums or being told that I have a stomach virus. Life is hard enough. The last thing I wanted to do is add another bill on to the piles of unpaid bills we already have.
By 11:30 p.m. I knew I was in trouble. Simon woke up around 11 p.m. for a last minute snack before sleeping the remainder of the night in his cozy green pack and play. While holding him, I broke out into a terrible, cold sweat, pain radiated from below my belly button to the right quadrant of my abdomen. “This isn’t good,” I thought to myself as I was bent over on the bathroom floor attempting to find a position to relieve the pain before struggling back into bed. I did not know what I was going to do. I decided, haphazardly, to continue to ignore the pain, crawl back into bed, and reevaluate my options with Adrianne first thing in the morning. I never had the opportunity.
By 12:30 p.m. my moaning and bellyaching woke Adrianne from her restful slumber. Still stubborn and refusing to go to the ER, Adrianne had me bring my laptop upstairs and we surfed the Internet looking for an answer to the symptoms I was having. The answer was unquestionably appendicitis.
After several unsuccessful attempts to convince me to go to the ER, Adrianne asked one final question that, for me, put everything in perspective: “If we had insurance, would you have gone to the hospital hours ago?” The rhetorical question did not need an answer. I got dressed, grabbed the car keys, and left.
Suffice it to say, forty minutes after checking into the ER my appendix burst. And a five-day stay shortly followed the two-hour emergency surgery.
Looking back, the signs and symptoms of my appendicitis were not clear-cut. The pain in my abdomen did feel like an intestinal virus or, as Adrianne suggested, a swelling of the bladder or intestine. It was not until late Sunday night that I knew for certain that something was horribly wrong with my body. To make matters even more convoluted, the first doctor I saw in the ER– after receiving three doses of intravenous pain medications– planned to send me home with painkillers; he thought I had kidney stones. It was only by the grace of God that a surgeon, who, ironically, had already performed three appendix surgeries that night, stopped by my room to look in on me. He was the only one in the ER that night to correctly diagnose my condition. One can only wonder what would have happened to me if I had gone to the ER earlier in the day or had not been visited by the surgeon walking by my room and sent home loaded with pain medications.
Comforting thought, was the first response without a swear word tagged on the end of a sentence that came to mind as I silently curse to myself in pain.
“Thanks doc. Thank you for saving my life.”
The discomforting gut pain, which morphed into a five-day stay at the hospital for an emergency open appendectomy surgery, began on Sunday morning around 3 a.m. The pain in my lower abdomen, like excruciating poop cramps rolling from one side of my midsection to the other, was relentless. For the next two-and-one-half hours I struggled between getting a below average night’s sleep and desperately trying to relieve myself in the bathroom, only to my growing frustrations and to no avail.
By 6:30 a.m. I forced myself to the bathroom three or four times, vomiting about the same number of times until absolutely nothing was left in my stomach or intestines except that yellow, stinky mucus we all have grown to love to hate. I was not having fun.
Since moving to Pennsylvania our family has been sick several times. The progression of illness usually begins with Adrianne, moves to Taylor and then Simon, and finally it makes its way to me. It doesn’t help that my wife works in the hospital or that she completed her orientation working on the floors with isolation units. Just the same, we’ve each experienced several days of unaccustomed infirmity over the last few weeks in the Gross’ house. Because of this, I thought very little of my pains beyond the normal frustrations of having a viral infection on a warm summer day as my wife and sister-in-law took our kids swimming in our new 4’ x 11’ green and white blowup pool in the backyard.
I spent a good portion of the morning and early afternoon laying flat on my back, wreathing in agony before trying to fall asleep upstairs. The pain was like nothing I had ever experienced before. I thought, and Adrianne mentioned this more than once, that the pain could be originating from my appendix. But since our insurance coverage did not kick in for another five days, I could not convince myself to go to the emergency room, spending hundreds or thousands of dollars of blood tests, CT scans and the like, and have the chance of being sent home with a handful of Tums or being told that I have a stomach virus. Life is hard enough. The last thing I wanted to do is add another bill on to the piles of unpaid bills we already have.
By 11:30 p.m. I knew I was in trouble. Simon woke up around 11 p.m. for a last minute snack before sleeping the remainder of the night in his cozy green pack and play. While holding him, I broke out into a terrible, cold sweat, pain radiated from below my belly button to the right quadrant of my abdomen. “This isn’t good,” I thought to myself as I was bent over on the bathroom floor attempting to find a position to relieve the pain before struggling back into bed. I did not know what I was going to do. I decided, haphazardly, to continue to ignore the pain, crawl back into bed, and reevaluate my options with Adrianne first thing in the morning. I never had the opportunity.
By 12:30 p.m. my moaning and bellyaching woke Adrianne from her restful slumber. Still stubborn and refusing to go to the ER, Adrianne had me bring my laptop upstairs and we surfed the Internet looking for an answer to the symptoms I was having. The answer was unquestionably appendicitis.
After several unsuccessful attempts to convince me to go to the ER, Adrianne asked one final question that, for me, put everything in perspective: “If we had insurance, would you have gone to the hospital hours ago?” The rhetorical question did not need an answer. I got dressed, grabbed the car keys, and left.
Suffice it to say, forty minutes after checking into the ER my appendix burst. And a five-day stay shortly followed the two-hour emergency surgery.
Looking back, the signs and symptoms of my appendicitis were not clear-cut. The pain in my abdomen did feel like an intestinal virus or, as Adrianne suggested, a swelling of the bladder or intestine. It was not until late Sunday night that I knew for certain that something was horribly wrong with my body. To make matters even more convoluted, the first doctor I saw in the ER– after receiving three doses of intravenous pain medications– planned to send me home with painkillers; he thought I had kidney stones. It was only by the grace of God that a surgeon, who, ironically, had already performed three appendix surgeries that night, stopped by my room to look in on me. He was the only one in the ER that night to correctly diagnose my condition. One can only wonder what would have happened to me if I had gone to the ER earlier in the day or had not been visited by the surgeon walking by my room and sent home loaded with pain medications.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
What Happened To May?
I’ve been busy. I’ve been in a lot of pain, but I’ve been healing.
What happened? My appendix burst on Monday, April 25th at 2:40 am. Luckily, I was in the ER when it happened. Since then … well … life has been topsy-turvy for the last month with little more going on than mending and finding ways to make it through the day without having those excruciatingly agonizing pains shooting through my midsection as I try to carry on like nothing really happened, as if I’m as invincible as ever.
It hasn’t been easy. Adrianne has, by default, been asked to perform the duties of a single parent. Not only has she been working full-time but when she finally gets home after putting in a 14 hour day she is tasked with taking care of both kids and spelling me for a little R and R– not that she has the extra time, energy, or wherewith all, mind you!
The doctor said I should be back to normal in four to six weeks. Normal? Normal for whom? The days of waking to the sound of an alarm clock, putting in an eight-hour workday at the “office,” and going to bed early to catch up on some much needed rest ended a long time ago. (Actually, I haven’t worked an eight-hour workday in well over a decade.)
So how long do I have before I’m back to normal? Good question. I’ve hazard to guess I have another four weeks before I can return to my normal routines with the kids: taking them in the double stroller for walks, hiking in the woods with one in a backpack, etc.; and with Adrianne: going for runs, exercising, and clowning around with the kids at the park, in the water or on the sands at the beach.
I tried to perform one half-dozen alternative push-ups last night, with miserable success. While I completed the short set with relative ease, the knee buckling pain streaking from my right side oblique to my rib cage– damn those internal stitches!– reminded me that if I overdo it too soon I’ll find myself having a hernia operation before the end of summer. Frankly, I’ve had my fill of hospitals for life and do not plan on returning anytime soon.
Woe is me, right? Wrong. My operation and time away from family has, oddly enough, brought us closer together than we have been in a long time. We’ve been blessed with good fortune these last several weeks; and most importantly, we’ve recognized that we’ve been blessed. (I’ll write more about this in the next couple of weeks.)
As for now, I’m mending and anxious to get into the full swing of summer. We have had the fortune of most excellent weather these last five weeks and we’ve found a couple of new places to take the kids, including a beach about 20 minutes down the road! So overall, things are well and forever looking better.
What happened? My appendix burst on Monday, April 25th at 2:40 am. Luckily, I was in the ER when it happened. Since then … well … life has been topsy-turvy for the last month with little more going on than mending and finding ways to make it through the day without having those excruciatingly agonizing pains shooting through my midsection as I try to carry on like nothing really happened, as if I’m as invincible as ever.
It hasn’t been easy. Adrianne has, by default, been asked to perform the duties of a single parent. Not only has she been working full-time but when she finally gets home after putting in a 14 hour day she is tasked with taking care of both kids and spelling me for a little R and R– not that she has the extra time, energy, or wherewith all, mind you!
The doctor said I should be back to normal in four to six weeks. Normal? Normal for whom? The days of waking to the sound of an alarm clock, putting in an eight-hour workday at the “office,” and going to bed early to catch up on some much needed rest ended a long time ago. (Actually, I haven’t worked an eight-hour workday in well over a decade.)
So how long do I have before I’m back to normal? Good question. I’ve hazard to guess I have another four weeks before I can return to my normal routines with the kids: taking them in the double stroller for walks, hiking in the woods with one in a backpack, etc.; and with Adrianne: going for runs, exercising, and clowning around with the kids at the park, in the water or on the sands at the beach.
I tried to perform one half-dozen alternative push-ups last night, with miserable success. While I completed the short set with relative ease, the knee buckling pain streaking from my right side oblique to my rib cage– damn those internal stitches!– reminded me that if I overdo it too soon I’ll find myself having a hernia operation before the end of summer. Frankly, I’ve had my fill of hospitals for life and do not plan on returning anytime soon.
Woe is me, right? Wrong. My operation and time away from family has, oddly enough, brought us closer together than we have been in a long time. We’ve been blessed with good fortune these last several weeks; and most importantly, we’ve recognized that we’ve been blessed. (I’ll write more about this in the next couple of weeks.)
As for now, I’m mending and anxious to get into the full swing of summer. We have had the fortune of most excellent weather these last five weeks and we’ve found a couple of new places to take the kids, including a beach about 20 minutes down the road! So overall, things are well and forever looking better.
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