Results

After every test comes a result. In high school my favorite test was one with high marks and no special attention from the teacher. Why? It meant I did my job, did it well, and did it myself.

Being a middle child, I've found that the best way for me to get along is to skate under the radar. I could get pretty much anything I wanted if I just waited until everyone around me was fighting over something. Then while they were distracted by each other, I could sneak the very thing they all wanted. They'd blame each other later too.

Chickadee doesn't follow my example. Come to think of it, none of my children do. Too bad. But Chickadee often seems to demand everyone's full attention.

The sleep study we did before? I called the doctor for the results. The nurse called me back quite concerned. That's never a good sign. Medical professionals are trained to calm worried parents down.

So when she started reading to me over the phone, "Sleep disruptions mmmm mmmmm mmmmmm, moderate to severe mmmm mmmm mmmmmmm mmmmm mmmmm, apnea and disturbances mmmmm mmmm mmmmmmmmm, leading to a diagnosis mmmmm mmmmmmm mmmm mmmmmmm, and we should get something done right away" It wasn't good. Then, she proceeded to call me four or five times in the next hour. BAD. Very bad.

Everyone knows that nurses don't have time for that. She referred me to ENT, (Ear, Nose, and Throat) for surgery. She called the Developmental Pediatrician, the doctor she works for. She called her twice, but seemed concerned that the doctor was out at a satellite location and might not call back right away. Then, the ultimate evil mojo was when she called me back and said, "I just talked to the doctor on call..." Holy guacamole. You don't do that. Never ever do that.

I kept telling myself that they'd never have let us leave the hospital if the test was so horrible. That they have someone look over the results quickly before we leave. That it wasn't, couldn't possibly be that bad...

The nurse continued, "and she doesn't think it looks so bad that we need to see her today." I may have swallowed my tongue. "But ENT should call back today [Friday] or Monday and set up an appointment with you. I'm pretty sure that is the direction the doctor is going to want to go. The tonsils and adenoids need to come out before we try anything else..." I was in a state of slushy antifreeze. I walked comatose to tell Mr. Survival. I called my mother. I tried not to cry.

The thing is that I never feel like I have appropriate justification to lose it with Rett Syndrome. Because this is something that has been on the Realm of Possibilities sheet since a year ago when the Pulmonary Pediatrician diagnosed Chickadee with mild apnea and warned us that this winter she might need her tonsils out to keep it in check.

So I stuffed it down and tried to Deal along with moving, money, joblessness, and other adventures.

I ate ice cream.

That is how I dealt. Ice cream. Too much of it. Many times. Right now, I want to push aside the computer and go get some, like I did all day Friday and Saturday. I don't want to talk about it. I want to pretend it isn't going to happen. I want it all to go away.

Ice cream has a smothering effect on reality.

Sigh.

I honestly don't know what to try to do anymore. I don't know what "better" is going to be in my life right now. I know better eating is easily in the realm of possibilities. But beyond that? I don't want to set myself up to be disappointed in not meeting goals. I don't know what is realistic.

This is not a crisis. This is my life. But I can't seem to stop acting like it's a crisis!

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