And the Unlucky Speculum Award goes to...

Ok, you remember this and this, right? Well, the story continues.

The time had come to check up on those polycystic ovaries. I realised, with mild embarrassment, that I had not yet received my results from lasts year's every-girl's-favourite-annual-outing. So I rang up the Doctor 1's office.

"Hi, I wonder if I could hear about my pap results from December please?"

Receptionist 1 chokes on her pen. "What, you haven't had them yet? I'll check into it right away!"

Click. Line dead. I shrug. A minute passes. The phone rings. It's her.

"We phoned you. It's in our book. We sent a prescription for you. It was faxed. It's recorded in your file. I spoke to you on your cell. I wrote it down."

What? "I'm so sorry, but I never got a call. I don't know about the prescription. Am I sick? I haven't spoken to you on my cell since I was last in your waiting room. Am I gonna die?"

"It's all been noted - in ink. I told you about it. I faxed your prescription through to your pharmacy. I made a note."

"Er, can I talk to Doctor 1, please?"

"She's out. In theatre. I'll get her to call you."

Click. Line dead. I call the pharmacy immediately to check on my prescription. They check their files, their computers, under the tables, between the prozac and the Valium. Nothing. No prescription. No illness reported. 

I do a quick self examination. Heart: pounding: check. Lungs: gasping: check. Stomach: knotted: check. Blood pressure: rising: check. Girly bits: status unknown, I thought I knew, but I didn't, my ovaries may quite possibly be  quietly shriveling up and expiring unbeknownst to me.

The phone rings. It's Doctor 1. She can't understand what happened. I'm upset. Am I sick? Am I going to make it? Will I live to see my grandchildren? She thinks I'm over-reacting. She apologises again.

Click. Line dead.

The phone rings. It's Receptionist 1. She can't understand what happened. She apologises. Profusely. I'm still considering my mortality.

Click. Line dead.

The phone rings. It's Doctor 1. She wants to see me. After I've had my abdominal sonar. An apologetic follow-up of sorts. She says sorry.

Click.

I check the mail. The pathologists have not been paid. They say my medical aid doesn't recognise me as a member. They have incorrect details for me. Crap.

A day passes. I breathe. In. Out.

I have an appointment for an abdominal sonar with Doctor 2. Must have full bladder is typed on the card. I have an hour to get ready. I hop in the bath. It's the right thing to do when you're going for an intimate check-up. I drink a litre of water. Tap water. Not bath water. The doorbell rings. The garden service has arrived. I need to let them in. Hop out of the bath. Wet footprints on my wooden floor. I put on something decent. Open gate. Bring the puppy in - the lawnmowers make her nervous. The phone rings. It's the Ultimate Man. We talk. The puppy squats on my favourite carpet and starts peeing. I yell. The phone meets its demise on the kitchen tiles. Dog outside. Drink some more water. Dry the carpet. Swear. Drink water. Phone. Bath. Drink. Dammit. Gotta go.

I arrive for my appointment. Screw polycystic ovaries, I think to myself, my bursting bladder causing copius irrational thoughts to drift through my mind.

"Is Doctor 2 running late?" I ask, tears welling in my eyes. I can't remember when last I was so uncomfortable. Apparently she isn't. I perch myself on the edge of the seat trying not to think about my bursting pelvis. A gentle rain starts to pitter-patter against the window. I feel an aching spasm stretch over my abdomen. I pick up a magazine and try to focus my attention on a fascinating true-life story of a woman who grew a head in her stomach. Receptionist 2 stands up and goes to the loo. I hear it flush. I wince. The tap runs for a bit. A gentle, but annoying trickle.

I'm starting to do the butt dance. You know the one. Your bladder's so full you can't find a comfy spot to be in, so you shift from one butt cheek to the next. It's an awkward jiggle of sorts.

Doctor 2 comes out. She smiles at me. Then turns around and goes to make herself a cup of coffee. I cringe. By this stage the muscles controlling my eyelids have attached themselves to my bladder, and every time I blink, I have to pinch.

Doctor 2 ushers me into her office. She starts to exchange pleasantries. "Listen lady," I say, firmly gripping her by the arm, "let's just get this over, then we can chat." She nods and squeezes sonar gel all over my belly. A quick and agonising abdominal scan is performed. She shows me the door to the loo. Grateful, I excuse myself. 

If I had died at that point, I would have gone into the next world with a smile on my face. There is no greater pleasure than the relief I felt at being able to empty my stretched bladder. I must have spent a long time in there, because when I returned to the room, the doctor was checking her watch. She eyed me with vague recognition. "Better?" she asked and offered me an examination gown to don. "Bottom's off, please."

Step two to checking out these spongey ovaries was the vaginal sonar. She slipped the magic wand into me and quickly picked up the (much better looking than last year's) ovaries. The black and white image on the screen illuminated the room. She removed the wand. The image disappeared. a look of mild horror crossed her face.

"Oops," she said. "The image is gone, I'll have to do it again. Sorry!"

"Well, it is our second date," I giggled, "and I won't mind as long as you don't charge me double!"

She repeated the sonar.

It was over quickly. I had a device-free vagina. I asked her if she was done with me, and could I get dressed.

"Unless you want me to do it a third time," she smiled, "I'll have to charge you, though. And I may be pushing the goose that laid the golden eggs"

"If it was as good for you as it was for me, " I said, "we'll call it quits"

Anyway, the results show my abnormally large ovaries have shrunk somewhat, and, after a year of hormone treatment I'm not popping out ova at a rate of knots. Guess it's not all bad.

Out of Commission

So, weirdly enough, it would seem I have developed a form of midsummer's flu. I have no idea how it happened, but I believe that subconsciously, my body decided that once the year actually gets going, and school's back, and the extra-murals start, there won't be time for me to get sick, so it's taking its sick leave now, before the chaos of the new year starts.

So there I was, resting my fevered brow upon the armrest of the couch, when my two little girls, craving affection, descended upon my weakened frame. Hugs and kisses were offered in generous amounts. I tried to push them off me.

"Guys," I moaned, "please don't kiss me. I don't want to make you sick."

"Can we kiss your mouth?" asked T-Bird.

"No."

"Can we kiss your nose?" asked AirBear.

"No."

"Can we kiss your cheek?"

"Your chin?"

"Your forehead?"

"No, no, no. You cannot kiss my face."

Little downcast faces looked at me. "But why?"

"Because I'm sick," I explained.

"Oh," said AirBear, "it's because you're sick in your face."

"Yes, I suppose. Here," I said extending my arm, dangling my fingers to the floor, all regal-like, "you may kiss the royal hand."

They liked that. They kissed the back of my hand, courtsied and ran off to play fairies.

Losing my Sense of Taste

I am losing my sense of taste.

No, really.

(Comments from the peanut gallery are unnecessary, thank you very much! Especially the murmurings of siblings.)

I really can't taste much anymore.

My tongue is all sore and burny. And, no, it isn't another MSG binge - I swear - I haven't had ANY Salt and Vinegar flavoured anything for ages. In fact, last night at the movies, the S&V flavouring was completely MIA. On all the flavour counters - absent. I checked. We ended up with a dash of cream cheese and chives which the mother of the year insisted would be a nice change. I can't tell you what an unfulfilling experience that was. It was like putting a spoonful of orange sorbet in your mouth, only to discover that someone froze cooking fat in the orange sorbet container. Blergh!

But back to my loss-of-taste-dilemma.

Since my baby was hospitalised, I, the mother, seem to have been afflicted with a mild case of, er, how shall I say? Stress, maybe? Unbeknownst to me the bloody stress gremlins set up fort on my tongue and have invaded individual taste-buds with serious consequences to the rest of the organ. The strongest muscle in my body has decided that the vermin in her tastebuds will bring all functioning to an abrupt and rather inconvenient standstill. This means that eating, swallowing, talking and kissing will from now on be left to the skeleton staff. And since my tongue has no skeleton, I'm in a bit of a pickle. (Not that I'd be able to know I was in a pickle for sure, being unable to actually distinguish a pickle's flavour from, say, the mouldy finger biscuit that's been carried around in the bottom of my handbag for the last millenium or so.)

The burning, swollen, blister-bedecked tongue I am punished with after a MSG binge is bearable. Because I deserve it. But this out of the blue affliction just seems so unfair.

In true nurse-style, I proceed to self-diagnose. Maybe it's gingivitis, on my tongue. I could try an anti-bacterial mouthwash. Or perhaps it's thrush. I'll need to doctor it with some anti-fungals. But there are these strange pock-marks erupting on the tip - like the tastebuds are dying. They are dying. I've got tongue-leprosy. I'm never going to be able to talk again. My tongue is going to fall off in my sleep. I'm going to choke on it. Is my will prepared? Have I got any outstanding "issues" to deal with? Unspoken regrets, unrequited loves, outstanding apologies, longstanding appointments to cancel. My personal matters seem to be in order. Well, enough that I can go to bed, anyway. Maybe we'll speak again. Maybe we won't...

Mother of the Year Award

Without getting all sickeningly drippy on you and going on about how I got the best one of the bunch (those kind of blogs make me a bit pukey), and without any flowery accolades, the Mother of the Year Award goes to, non other than, Mr (Jessica) C. (Please forgive the semi-emasculating title, but without it you wouldn't know who I was talking about).

This week required the splitting up of our family into two functioning teams. Mom and AirBear (in hospital) and Dad and T-Bird (at home/ school/ work). We're talking survival mode - batten down the hatches time.

In this time, Mr C was a better mother than I could ever have been. And trust me, I'm not just saying that, it takes a lot of humility to unpin my super-mommy badge and hand it over. This guy coped like, well, like a woman (without the tearful, moody, once-a-month madness, of course).

By the time I got back, for one, the house was still standing. Laundry was washed, sorted and folded. Beds were made. Accounts were paid (I think...). Bunnies were still alive, clean and fed. Dishes clean and packed away. Overall, home sweet home.

What's that you say? Any man could do those things (if they tried)? Yes, you're right. But, riddle me this: how many men can master the fairly-even-5-year-old-split-plait?

Exactly.

No more arguing. My hubby gets the prize.

(I know of a dad who was left in a similar situation for a week. Tying is daughter's hair up was a perplexing problem, until he discovered, if he placed the elastic band over the nozzle of the vaccuum cleaner, held the pipe over his daughter's head, turned the machine on, and slipped the elastic down over the sucked up hair, he would be able to put most of her fly-away hair into a cute little fountain atop her noggin. Guess these guys can do anything if they put their mind to it...)

Salmonella sucks

Just when I was thinking that life without cell-phones would be impossible, my hubby goes and gets deliriously ill on the other side of the world (with a perfectly good cellular telephone in his possession) and switches the gadget to silent. Now I know that it's not the presence of mobile technology that actually makes life bearable, but the presence of an accompanying and competent individual to operate the device. So answer your phone! 

Dammit.

Trying to get information from this particular person when he is pyrexic is a lot like asking a 3 year old to help you with your algebra. Pointless.

Here's me trying to find out if he's ever going to come home (alive), and here's him passed out in the emergency ward of a hospital miles away from home. Oh yes, and here's the cell phone on SILENT!

I don't know where he is. I don't know how he is. He won't answer my calls. Maybe he's angry with me. Maybe he doesn't love me any more. Maybe he's dead! I don't know if I'll ever see him again. I don't know how to access his life-insurance policy. 

Here's me again crying, wailing, gnashing teeth. Here I am yanking things out of my wardrobe looking for suitably mournful attire. 

Eventually he returns my calls. It's well after I've started preparing the memorial service order of ceremony. He's going to come home on a different flight. Seems they might have saved his life. Doctor Wonderful said something about Salmonella poisoning. He missed his flight home and will be back the next day.

I breathe. Stupid silent function! Stupid business trip! Stupid multi-city country! Stupid miles and miles between him and me!

When he came home, I killed him.

(Just a bit.)

Three-year old theology

So through the thick sinus - cement-in-my-head feeling that I've been carrying around with me all morning, a little voice penetrates the fog:

"Mom, how do elephants fly?" Air-Bear is tugging at my sleeve.

"What?" I was sure I hadn't heard that properly.

"Elephants," she insists. "How do they fly?"

"My Baby," I smile thinking of Dumbo flapping his way through the night sky. "Elephants can't fly."

She looks disappointed.

"What flies then?" she asks.

I'm not really in the mood to teach-in-the-moment. "You tell me," I suggest.

She thinks for a bit.

"Ponies!" she cries.

"Er, no, not exactly."

More disappointment.

"But my pony has wings and can fly," she is referring to the soft toy she sleeps with at night.

"I know," I say, "But real ponies can't fly."

"Then horses!" she pleads.

"No,not horses."

"Donkeys!"

"Also not. Horses and ponies and donkeys really can't fly," I'm tired. My head hurts.

Then silence. I begin to think the conversation is over.

"Mom?" her eyes are bright, like she's just discovered electricity.

"What, my love?"

"I know what can fly!" she's bursting with the delight of her convictions.

"What?" I'm expecting planes, birds and butterflies.

"Jesus!" she's super-impressed with herself. "And God!"

I don't know what to say. She sees that I have not congratulated her on her discovery.

"They fly in the sky and the clouds!" she tries to sell the idea.

"Er, no..." I'm not quite sure where to start with this one.

"Well, Mom," she has become exasperated with her obviously uneducated mother, "They do fly! Otherwise they couldn't get to Heaven."

And that was that. She didn't even stick around long enough for me to get theological on her.

Sigh.

They shoot horses that have what I have

While I was off galavanting in my nostalgic sandpit, my hubby and kids stayed home and got on with things. Part of getting on with things for my dear darling spouse was to undertake his yearly dose of tonsillitis. Without fail this poor guys tonsils flare up at least once a year, and usually at the start of winter. His was a delicate year, ok? So be nice.

Now, as awful as it may sound, I was sort of relieved not to be around when his inflammation got underway. Relieved but dreadfully guilty too - just so you don't think I'm a terrible wife. But I figured that two weeks of me avoiding his sicky germs, a doctor's visit and a course of anti-biotics would have sorted the dear man out by the time I got back to him.

Of course, when I returned, little conversation was spent on the state of his tonsils. An epic match of tonsil-hockey, however, made for a memorable reunion. Ok, ok! So I know you don't peep into my blog for all the juicy little details (you don't, right?), so I'll leave it there. The point is, that four days after my return to glorious South Africa, my husband's nasty little gremlins have spread down my throat and planted a cactus patch somewhere between my tongue and my voice-box. Also, it would seem, they are painting out the inner walls of my nasal passages with copious amounts of gremlin lava. Bottom line is: I've got a bad cold and feel completely sorry for myself.

The kids continue with their verbal diarrhoea (I swear that is how we are supposed to spell that word in South Africa - 4 years of Nursing Science at a renowned South African university can't be wrong!), but it's the mental constipation of their utterings that is rather tough to bare with in my morbid state. On the upside though, I can deal with even silly prattlings, because my ears keep blocking up, shutting out even the highest, squeakiest whine. Hhmm, this head cold thing could have it's advantages after all...