Saturday, March 26, 2011
Cicer, the Latin word for chickpeas
or chicken pox.
Yes. Oliver has it. His behavior all week has been the sort that drives the best of us completely batshit crazy. Yesterday, he got into the car with a litany of complaints that included bumps on his head, a sore throat and now a bump on his back. I rolled my eyes (inwardly) and told him to climb up front so that I could take a look while we waited in the carpool line for Henry. When I lifted up his shirt, I literally gasped and then he burst out crying, sore afraid, as they say in the good book. When I told him that it looked like chicken pox, he cried harder until I told him to calm down and we'd call the doctor.
I called the doctor and then raced through rush-hour traffic on a Friday in Los Angeles so that I could get there before it closed where we stood on the grass outside the office in the shiny sun while a couple of sweet nurses came outside and took a look so as not to spread the pox in the office.
Then came the throat swab to rule out strep. Or perhaps I should say that then came the electro-shock therapy to the genitals such was the drama that ensued. My boys literally go to the pediatrician for well-child check-ups every other year and thus are completely and utterly oblivious to the goings-on at the doctor's. They are not vaccinated because of a family history of neurological complications and are treated by a homeopath and an osteopath (in addition to said pediatrician) when they need what I call "tune-ups." I should probably add in here in case you're a new reader that I am not averse to vaccinations but after careful and sometimes agonized consideration, we decided that we couldn't risk the seizure factor and received full support from our pediatrician. But I digress --
Oliver freaked out when the nurse inserted the swab. If I told you that he screamed and cried and shouted I am going to die and punched the nurse and kicked her shins, I would only be telling you the half of it. Now I'm going to tuck it into the tiny recesses of my long-term memory.
The strep test was negative, but Oliver does have a raging case of chicken pox. My immediate thought (beyond sympathy for the Big O and not a little guilt at being so aggravated by his recent grumpiness) was, of course, what about Sophie? Chicken pox is a disease of the central nervous system and the potential for complications and/or extreme discomfort for Sophie weighs heavy on my mind. The pediatrician said that we would start her on a cycle of acyclovir if we noticed anything at all. Please God, let her already have been exposed in her life and have developed antibodies.
If you pray, pray for that. If you don't pray, send that thought to the universe. If you don't believe in anything, cross your fingers and will it.
My next thought was how short-tempered I'd been all week with Oliver, whom I'd believed to be batshit crazy and not actually suffering from a cruel and uncomfortable central nervous system virus. I told Oliver that I was so sorry -- so, so sorry. Who knew?
My next stop was our beloved naturopathic physician who just happened to be in the office and who wrote down a list of supplements and immune-enhancements for each child to begin taking immediately. That's the photo you see above. Dr. C also prescribed a remedy for Oliver and calmed me down with his gentle voice and confidence.
Parenting isn't for the faint of heart -- but you already knew that. When the going gets tough, I pour a shot of frozen lemon vodka and call it a day.