It's tough being a woman.
In order to meet society's standards of feminine aesthetics, we must bleach, wax, pluck, exfoliate, blow-dry, condition, moisturize, curl, spray, lacquer, conceal, highlight, and for those of us that use mineral makeup, let us not forget swirl, tap, and buff. We do this mostly without thinking about it. Until our own beauty regimens come back to bite us in the butt.
For years, I've read scary articles about the millions of bacteria that thrive in our face brushes, clippers, razors, and tweezers, and how careful we're supposed to be about keeping things clean and sterile. As with many things in life, though, I figured it could never happen to me. So when I saw a stray eyebrow hair, I just plucked it. No alcohol. No sterilizing. Just pluck and run.
No more.
Yesterday afternoon found me sitting in the doctor's office, feeling like an idiot, nursing an extremely red and sore upper left eyelid. The diagnosis? Cellulitis, a skin infection, caused by bacteria entering a hair follicle after a rushed eyebrow-plucking session last week. The cure? Ten days of strong antibiotics.
I am a compulsive plucker. You have to when you have eyebrows like mine, which on a good day are Brooke Shields-ish and on a bad day are more Alf-ish. If I didn't pluck the strays on an almost daily basis they would get out of control and form their own ecosystem. When I see an errant hair, I immediately reach for my trusty tweezers that stay out in our bathroom. I don't take time to use alcohol. More often than not, I do this after a workout while I still have gym germs on my face. I see the folly in that now.
My infection is pretty mild, and already has responded to the antibiotics, so I guess I am pretty lucky. Even though it's mild, it still caused me a lot of discomfort for a couple of days and it made me look like I was a fan of red eyeshadow, but only had the urge to apply it to one eye. My doctor said they've seen a lot of multiple antibiotic-resistant staph skin infections in the office lately, and I can't imagine stressing through that right now simply because I couldn't take a few extra seconds to run some alcohol over my tweezers.
I've learned my lesson. Ladies, please learn from me. Don't pay for your good looks with a course of Bactrim.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Whew.
I presented my little Movie Maker workshop, and it went well, methinks. They laughed. They cried (really, some of them did when I showed a sample video of Ains as a babe. Weird.) It was better than Cats.
Some of the sessions I wanted to attend this afternoon have been cancelled, so I may head home here soon. Thanks for the fun, Louisville. It's been real, it's been fun...yada yada yada.
(Can you tell I haven't really slept? The toilet in my room ran ALL NIGHT LONG and occasionally made loud swishing noises that woke me up every two hours. Cranky...needs...coffee.)
Some of the sessions I wanted to attend this afternoon have been cancelled, so I may head home here soon. Thanks for the fun, Louisville. It's been real, it's been fun...yada yada yada.
(Can you tell I haven't really slept? The toilet in my room ran ALL NIGHT LONG and occasionally made loud swishing noises that woke me up every two hours. Cranky...needs...coffee.)
Friday, September 21, 2007
River City
Greetings from Looavul, KY! I'm here for a school media conference, and after trolling for a parking spot for 30 minutes, and going to my first session at 10:45 this morning and not having another one until 2:45, and hauling my laptop and projector around because my room isn't available yet, I am in a FINE mood. Oh, yeah.
I am stressed out about the parking thing because the attendant in the hotel garage said it was full and directed me to a lot across the street where there are these big, "Monthly Parking Only: Violators Will Be Towed" signs. She assured me it was fine, and would even be cheaper, and I put the "After 4pm" fare into the correct slot for my car, but I am trotting out to that lot every half an hour to make sure I'm not being towed. And I sure as hell wasn't leaving the laptop and projector for my presentation tomorrow morning out in the car in that lot. It looks downright seedy. I am going to move it to the hotel garage as soon as the crowd here starts to thin a little later in the day, and until then, I'm just gonna sweat bullets and pray that the garage managers don't start looking too closely at the cars parked there.
The good thing about being so stressed about my car is that I am not feeling remotely panicked about presenting a session in front of my colleagues from across the state tomorrow morning.
The other good news? I am a short walk away from many nice bars at "4th Street Live", and at 5:30 when today's final session wraps up, I am going to have a cold one. I am, after all, sans kid and responsibility tonight. I can be that librarian who looks and acts all stodgy during the day, but rips the glasses off and takes her hair out of the bun at night and becomes a wild woman.
Look out, Looavul! Here come the librarians!
I am stressed out about the parking thing because the attendant in the hotel garage said it was full and directed me to a lot across the street where there are these big, "Monthly Parking Only: Violators Will Be Towed" signs. She assured me it was fine, and would even be cheaper, and I put the "After 4pm" fare into the correct slot for my car, but I am trotting out to that lot every half an hour to make sure I'm not being towed. And I sure as hell wasn't leaving the laptop and projector for my presentation tomorrow morning out in the car in that lot. It looks downright seedy. I am going to move it to the hotel garage as soon as the crowd here starts to thin a little later in the day, and until then, I'm just gonna sweat bullets and pray that the garage managers don't start looking too closely at the cars parked there.
The good thing about being so stressed about my car is that I am not feeling remotely panicked about presenting a session in front of my colleagues from across the state tomorrow morning.
The other good news? I am a short walk away from many nice bars at "4th Street Live", and at 5:30 when today's final session wraps up, I am going to have a cold one. I am, after all, sans kid and responsibility tonight. I can be that librarian who looks and acts all stodgy during the day, but rips the glasses off and takes her hair out of the bun at night and becomes a wild woman.
Look out, Looavul! Here come the librarians!
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Who's On Your List?
Have you all heard about my big celebrity crush, Viggo Mortensen, and his nude fight scene in the new movie Eastern Promises? I read an interview with him where he admits that the scene in the steam room where he brutally fends off attackers wearing nothing but skin will make for popular DVD-pausing moments when the movie goes to disc. If I didn't respect him so much as an actor, I would be trying as we speak to make a super-advance Netflix cue for that movie. Oh, who am I kidding. Respect him or not, my own morbid curiosity combined with his standing on my "List" demands that this movie eventually be rented and paused. Over. And over. Again.
We all have a "List", right? Remember the episode of Friends when the gang discussed their Lists, which was each person's fantasy listing of the 5 celebrities they would most like to fling with, and by putting them on the "List", their spouse/significant other had to forgive and forget should some miracle happen and the opportunity to fling with said celebrity ever present itself? In the episode, Ross wanted to put Isabella Rossellini on his list, which he went through the trouble of laminating, but chose not to waste a spot on her because she was out of the country or something. Later in the episode, he actually ran into her in the coffee shop, and tried to explain to her that she was on his list, so their flirtation was OK, but when he pulled out his little laminated card, she saw that she wasn't on there. Classic Friends.
For years now, hubby and I occasionally joke around about our own Lists. We know that we would be more likely to get struck by lightning, win the Powerball, and hit nothing but green lights all the way to work all in the same day than to ever actually meet any of these people, let alone have said person be so desperate as to want to make out with a complete stranger. But it's fun, and you can learn a lot about someone by who he chooses. Does he go straight for looks, or do personality and something close to a brain matter? Brunettes, or blondes? How thin is too thin, really? Do his crushes age as he ages, or will it always be the sweet young thangs?
The two I know for sure on Jason's current List are:
1. Halle Berry (She's held that spot for a loooong time, so that shows loyalty and, in my opinion, good taste.)
2. Beyonce (I have no idea what that shows.)
My List changes every so often, but the overwhelming type on my List looks something like this: thin, dark hair, strong jaw, funny. Not different at all from my husband, really, except that these people are famous. I definitely married my type.
Here is my most current group:
1. Jon Stewart
2. Bono (Though if he tried to woo me with "With or Without You", it would be more than my heart could take and I would pass out cold, and that would be the end of that.)
3. Viggo Mortensen (Preferably dressed as Aragorn, and with the Aragorn hair, but, ya know, I'm not picky.)
4. Jim Carrey (Don't judge me; this is my list, not yours.)
5. Christian Bale (A newcomer!)
Mr. Bale knocks off former perennial favorite Bruce Campbell, who I still love dearly but, because I have actually seen him in person twice at book signings, seems much more "real" than the others and thus not a good candidate for a fantasy list. David Duchovny also held a top spot for many years during the Mulder era, but I haven't seen him in anything for so long, and for something like this out of sight really is out of mind. Show me a rerun of an X-Files episode, though, and I feel a little blush coming on.
Whew. Is it hot in here?
OK, so I've had a lot of fun with this this morning. 'Fess up: who's on your list? Don't be shy! So many of you are friends of mine, and I'm dying to know. And, you know, drool.
We all have a "List", right? Remember the episode of Friends when the gang discussed their Lists, which was each person's fantasy listing of the 5 celebrities they would most like to fling with, and by putting them on the "List", their spouse/significant other had to forgive and forget should some miracle happen and the opportunity to fling with said celebrity ever present itself? In the episode, Ross wanted to put Isabella Rossellini on his list, which he went through the trouble of laminating, but chose not to waste a spot on her because she was out of the country or something. Later in the episode, he actually ran into her in the coffee shop, and tried to explain to her that she was on his list, so their flirtation was OK, but when he pulled out his little laminated card, she saw that she wasn't on there. Classic Friends.
For years now, hubby and I occasionally joke around about our own Lists. We know that we would be more likely to get struck by lightning, win the Powerball, and hit nothing but green lights all the way to work all in the same day than to ever actually meet any of these people, let alone have said person be so desperate as to want to make out with a complete stranger. But it's fun, and you can learn a lot about someone by who he chooses. Does he go straight for looks, or do personality and something close to a brain matter? Brunettes, or blondes? How thin is too thin, really? Do his crushes age as he ages, or will it always be the sweet young thangs?
The two I know for sure on Jason's current List are:
1. Halle Berry (She's held that spot for a loooong time, so that shows loyalty and, in my opinion, good taste.)
2. Beyonce (I have no idea what that shows.)
My List changes every so often, but the overwhelming type on my List looks something like this: thin, dark hair, strong jaw, funny. Not different at all from my husband, really, except that these people are famous. I definitely married my type.
Here is my most current group:
1. Jon Stewart
2. Bono (Though if he tried to woo me with "With or Without You", it would be more than my heart could take and I would pass out cold, and that would be the end of that.)
3. Viggo Mortensen (Preferably dressed as Aragorn, and with the Aragorn hair, but, ya know, I'm not picky.)
4. Jim Carrey (Don't judge me; this is my list, not yours.)
5. Christian Bale (A newcomer!)
Mr. Bale knocks off former perennial favorite Bruce Campbell, who I still love dearly but, because I have actually seen him in person twice at book signings, seems much more "real" than the others and thus not a good candidate for a fantasy list. David Duchovny also held a top spot for many years during the Mulder era, but I haven't seen him in anything for so long, and for something like this out of sight really is out of mind. Show me a rerun of an X-Files episode, though, and I feel a little blush coming on.
Whew. Is it hot in here?
OK, so I've had a lot of fun with this this morning. 'Fess up: who's on your list? Don't be shy! So many of you are friends of mine, and I'm dying to know. And, you know, drool.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Get Thee Behind Me, Synthetic Silk-Like Fabric
Seen on the marquee of a local Baptist church:
When Satin knocks
Let Jesus answer.
Wow. I mean, I've been tempted by Denim, and Microfiber drunk-dialed me once, but I didn't even think about Satin. Thanks, Freewill Baptist!
When Satin knocks
Let Jesus answer.
Wow. I mean, I've been tempted by Denim, and Microfiber drunk-dialed me once, but I didn't even think about Satin. Thanks, Freewill Baptist!
Friday, September 14, 2007
Not That There's Anything Wrong With That
I don't do it often. Maybe once or twice a month. But it's not something I'm proud of. It's not something I would confess to in polite conversation. I only do it when I am alone; mostly, I do it in the car coming home from an evening meeting or an after-dinner, child-free workout. That's my favorite time, really; there's something relaxing about doing it at twilight, completely alone in my car, in the afterglow of cardiovascular stimulation. I would never, ever, do it when I thought I could get caught, though I guess someone would suspect me easily enough by looking at the presets on my car radio.
I, my friends, am a closet "Delilah" listener. What did you think I was talking about?
We all know who Delilah is, right? No, not the "Delilah" in that song that got endless airplay on pop stations this summer. I actually wouldn't be ashamed to admit I listen to that Delilah. I am talking about the one with the syndicated radio show that usually airs from 7pm to midnight on soft rock stations across the country. Her show is kinda like the old American Top 40 shows with Casey Kasem, except that there is no countdown and the whole thing is one long series of long-distance dedications.
I first started listening to Delilah in high school. It seemed cooler then. I have always been a bit of an insomniac, and for a month or so in the fall of my sophomore year when it got worse than usual, I became determined to stop the cycle by getting myself into a regular homework and bedtime routine that had me settling down into bed around 10 every night. I would still find myself keyed up and unable to relax, so I started trying to find music that would knock me out. Delilah's "all ballads, all the time" format was easy listening for my sleep-deprived brain, and it usually helped me sleep. Sometimes, though, it just depressed the hell out of me because I hadn't yet had a serious relationship, though my best girlfriend at the time had had several, and I was wondering what the heck was so wrong with me. Sometimes the relentless onslaught of 70s and 80s over-produced love songs got to me and caused me to stay awake feeling sorry for myself and my loveless state (I was all of 15 at the time.) But mostly it was a nice way to ease into sleep.
Years later, it's still my go-to station those rare evenings I find myself alone in the car between the hours of 7 and 12. Maybe it's because of the cheese factor; there's something amusing about those people who want to impress that special someone they've been on three whole dates with by calling them out on a campy radio call-in show. Maybe it's because of Delilah's song choices; I crack up every time someone tells their sob story, and tearfully asks if Delilah can play a very special song, and she comes up with something horrifying like "Crimson and Clover." Other than that, I don't really know why I can't stop listening to this show.
Yes, I do. I just wish I didn't have to write it out loud.
Here's the thing: deep down, in places I don't like to talk about at dinner parties, I like cheesy, overwrought love songs. There. I said it. Are we all happy now?
I actually don't want to change the channel when "My Heart Will Go On" comes on. I have been known to sing along to "Wind Beneath My Wings." I get a little misty-eyed when I hear a Linda Ronstadt/Aaron Neville duet. Faith Hill singing "Cry"? Sure! The Bangles' "Eternal Flame"? Certainly! Josh Groban's "You Raise Me Up"? Definitely, but pass the Kleenex. "Precious and Few"? No way. Gotta draw the line somewhere.
I realized how ashamed I am of my Delilah problem last night. Because of Ainsley' concussion, she can't go to Silverlake with me to play while I work out. So I had to wait until the family was fed and the hubby was fully in charge of the kid's bedtime rituals before I could try to squeeze in my last workout of the week. It was a nice bit of "me" time, and with no kid to pick up, I could get a shower up there and unwind a bit. I got finished at dusk, and walked out to a gorgeous night. I rolled down the windows, turned up the radio, starting surfing my presets...and landed on Delilah (on Wa-arm Ninetyyyyyy-Eiiiiiiight!) As soon as I started listening, I found myself cranking up the windows and not singing along when I hit stoplights to avoid discovery. I had to laugh at myself. It's not like I was in there smoking crack or anything. Why was I so ashamed?
After all, I am a person who went into labor after cracking up over Dave Barry's Book of Bad Songs. I know that 90% of the crap I am going to hear on Delilah is flat-out bad music. I don't listen to schmaltz all the time. But goshdarnit, I occasionally do like to fill my brain with cliched and hackneyed crap. There's something very comfortable and predictable about Delilah's playlists; while I'm listening to those songs, I don't have to think very hard. You know where the song is going by the end of the first verse. And there is something cathartic about the completely over-the-top emotionality of pop ballads. It's cheap emotion, sure, but emotion never the less. Just like sometimes I need a good, easy cry (cue Steel Magnolias), sometimes I need a love song.
In the 15-minute drive home last night, I pretty much got my fill for a month or so. I won't be tempted to tune in again for a while. I'll be able to stay on the straight and narrow path of acceptable music listening. It will be weeks before I hit the soft rock station again. I promise.
Though if I need a fix, there's always the "Night Music" playlist I made on my iPod.
I can't believe I just admitted to that.
I, my friends, am a closet "Delilah" listener. What did you think I was talking about?
We all know who Delilah is, right? No, not the "Delilah" in that song that got endless airplay on pop stations this summer. I actually wouldn't be ashamed to admit I listen to that Delilah. I am talking about the one with the syndicated radio show that usually airs from 7pm to midnight on soft rock stations across the country. Her show is kinda like the old American Top 40 shows with Casey Kasem, except that there is no countdown and the whole thing is one long series of long-distance dedications.
I first started listening to Delilah in high school. It seemed cooler then. I have always been a bit of an insomniac, and for a month or so in the fall of my sophomore year when it got worse than usual, I became determined to stop the cycle by getting myself into a regular homework and bedtime routine that had me settling down into bed around 10 every night. I would still find myself keyed up and unable to relax, so I started trying to find music that would knock me out. Delilah's "all ballads, all the time" format was easy listening for my sleep-deprived brain, and it usually helped me sleep. Sometimes, though, it just depressed the hell out of me because I hadn't yet had a serious relationship, though my best girlfriend at the time had had several, and I was wondering what the heck was so wrong with me. Sometimes the relentless onslaught of 70s and 80s over-produced love songs got to me and caused me to stay awake feeling sorry for myself and my loveless state (I was all of 15 at the time.) But mostly it was a nice way to ease into sleep.
Years later, it's still my go-to station those rare evenings I find myself alone in the car between the hours of 7 and 12. Maybe it's because of the cheese factor; there's something amusing about those people who want to impress that special someone they've been on three whole dates with by calling them out on a campy radio call-in show. Maybe it's because of Delilah's song choices; I crack up every time someone tells their sob story, and tearfully asks if Delilah can play a very special song, and she comes up with something horrifying like "Crimson and Clover." Other than that, I don't really know why I can't stop listening to this show.
Yes, I do. I just wish I didn't have to write it out loud.
Here's the thing: deep down, in places I don't like to talk about at dinner parties, I like cheesy, overwrought love songs. There. I said it. Are we all happy now?
I actually don't want to change the channel when "My Heart Will Go On" comes on. I have been known to sing along to "Wind Beneath My Wings." I get a little misty-eyed when I hear a Linda Ronstadt/Aaron Neville duet. Faith Hill singing "Cry"? Sure! The Bangles' "Eternal Flame"? Certainly! Josh Groban's "You Raise Me Up"? Definitely, but pass the Kleenex. "Precious and Few"? No way. Gotta draw the line somewhere.
I realized how ashamed I am of my Delilah problem last night. Because of Ainsley' concussion, she can't go to Silverlake with me to play while I work out. So I had to wait until the family was fed and the hubby was fully in charge of the kid's bedtime rituals before I could try to squeeze in my last workout of the week. It was a nice bit of "me" time, and with no kid to pick up, I could get a shower up there and unwind a bit. I got finished at dusk, and walked out to a gorgeous night. I rolled down the windows, turned up the radio, starting surfing my presets...and landed on Delilah (on Wa-arm Ninetyyyyyy-Eiiiiiiight!) As soon as I started listening, I found myself cranking up the windows and not singing along when I hit stoplights to avoid discovery. I had to laugh at myself. It's not like I was in there smoking crack or anything. Why was I so ashamed?
After all, I am a person who went into labor after cracking up over Dave Barry's Book of Bad Songs. I know that 90% of the crap I am going to hear on Delilah is flat-out bad music. I don't listen to schmaltz all the time. But goshdarnit, I occasionally do like to fill my brain with cliched and hackneyed crap. There's something very comfortable and predictable about Delilah's playlists; while I'm listening to those songs, I don't have to think very hard. You know where the song is going by the end of the first verse. And there is something cathartic about the completely over-the-top emotionality of pop ballads. It's cheap emotion, sure, but emotion never the less. Just like sometimes I need a good, easy cry (cue Steel Magnolias), sometimes I need a love song.
In the 15-minute drive home last night, I pretty much got my fill for a month or so. I won't be tempted to tune in again for a while. I'll be able to stay on the straight and narrow path of acceptable music listening. It will be weeks before I hit the soft rock station again. I promise.
Though if I need a fix, there's always the "Night Music" playlist I made on my iPod.
I can't believe I just admitted to that.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
It's All in Her Head
It didn't take long.
I've been waiting to get that first call from Ainsley's school; the "your kid is sick and please come get her before she covers the entire school with vomit" call. I didn't even have to wait a month.
Oh, but as always in Cranky Land, things were not as they seemed.
My phone at school rang yesterday right after lunch; we have caller ID, so I knew before I picked up that it was Ainsley's school. The first words out of the secretary's mouth were what no parent wants to hear:
"Ainsley had an accident at school."
It wasn't THAT kind of accident where a simple change of clothes would have sufficed. She fell at morning recess and came down hard on the concrete on her elbow. It took a long time for them to calm her down, and not too long after the accident, she threw up. They thought it was because she had gotten so worked up. After eating nothing at lunch, she burst into tears and threw up again. At that point, they figured either she had a stomach virus on top of everything that had happened, or that her elbow injury was worse than the usual bump and bruise.
I made arrangements to leave and raced to her school. As soon as I saw her, I knew something was up. She was almost gray she was so pale, and she had dark circles under her eyes. When I touched her forehead, she felt cold and clammy. Uh oh.
I ruled out the stomach virus on the way home when she started asking for a snack. I wasn't about to let her eat, in case she had to throw up again, but I figured anyone asking for an ice cream sandwich probably wasn't too queasy. Judging by the hard knot and swelling I found on the bone just below her elbow, I really thought she had some sort of fracture.
I changed her out of her puke clothes, sponged her off, and called her pediatrician. While I was waiting for a doctor to return my call, she started nodding off in the middle of our living room floor. She had been so lethargic and sleepy-eyed that I wasn't surprised.
Her doctor's office got back to us, and after the nurse asking, "Are you sure she didn't bump her head?", we were advised to go directly to the ER at Children's Hospital.
We hadn't been on the road 2 minutes when Ainsley threw up again. Not a good sign. It seemed my argument for a fracture was becoming more sound; she was fine until we had put her in the car and jostled her arm around. I was already picturing a cast from wrist to shoulder.
We got to the hospital, and every nurse that looked at her while we were waiting for a doctor asked the same thing after hearing her symptoms: "Are you sure she didn't hit her head?" Ainsley kept saying she didn't, and I didn't see any bumps or bruises. I would know if she had hit her head, right?
Wrong. The first thing the doctor did when he came into our room was to push back a little of her hair. And there it was: a bloody scrape and small bump, just above her temple on the same side as the elbow wound. She DID hit her head. Darnit.
The doctor explained that vomiting and chills after a fall were warning signs of a concussion, and motion worsened the vomiting (thus the throwing-up in the car). It also explained her lethargy and how quickly she fell asleep after we got home (and don't I feel like a horse's ass for letting her go to sleep with a concussion.) He seemed relieved to find the bump, because after a quick look at her arm he could rule out a fracture and thought a concussion made the most sense. He said even if he hadn't found the bump, he would have been thinking she had a head injury based on how closely her symptoms seemed to match.
It was pretty scary. The doctor told us that we might notice some cognitive deficits for the next 3 or 4 days, things like forgetfulness and an inability to do things or remember things she normally has no problem with. He also said she would be very tired and need more sleep.
She's home with her Mamaw today so that she can get some rest. I have felt the need to pamper her since we got the diagnosis, and it kills me a little that I couldn't be off today to be with her (my assitant is out all week, so it's just me in the library.) But I am sure Mamaw is doing an adequate job of spoiling her with donuts and kids' TV.
In a few days her little brain bruise will be just a memory and things will be back to normal in the Cranky house. As normal as they ever are, anyway.
I've been waiting to get that first call from Ainsley's school; the "your kid is sick and please come get her before she covers the entire school with vomit" call. I didn't even have to wait a month.
Oh, but as always in Cranky Land, things were not as they seemed.
My phone at school rang yesterday right after lunch; we have caller ID, so I knew before I picked up that it was Ainsley's school. The first words out of the secretary's mouth were what no parent wants to hear:
"Ainsley had an accident at school."
It wasn't THAT kind of accident where a simple change of clothes would have sufficed. She fell at morning recess and came down hard on the concrete on her elbow. It took a long time for them to calm her down, and not too long after the accident, she threw up. They thought it was because she had gotten so worked up. After eating nothing at lunch, she burst into tears and threw up again. At that point, they figured either she had a stomach virus on top of everything that had happened, or that her elbow injury was worse than the usual bump and bruise.
I made arrangements to leave and raced to her school. As soon as I saw her, I knew something was up. She was almost gray she was so pale, and she had dark circles under her eyes. When I touched her forehead, she felt cold and clammy. Uh oh.
I ruled out the stomach virus on the way home when she started asking for a snack. I wasn't about to let her eat, in case she had to throw up again, but I figured anyone asking for an ice cream sandwich probably wasn't too queasy. Judging by the hard knot and swelling I found on the bone just below her elbow, I really thought she had some sort of fracture.
I changed her out of her puke clothes, sponged her off, and called her pediatrician. While I was waiting for a doctor to return my call, she started nodding off in the middle of our living room floor. She had been so lethargic and sleepy-eyed that I wasn't surprised.
Her doctor's office got back to us, and after the nurse asking, "Are you sure she didn't bump her head?", we were advised to go directly to the ER at Children's Hospital.
We hadn't been on the road 2 minutes when Ainsley threw up again. Not a good sign. It seemed my argument for a fracture was becoming more sound; she was fine until we had put her in the car and jostled her arm around. I was already picturing a cast from wrist to shoulder.
We got to the hospital, and every nurse that looked at her while we were waiting for a doctor asked the same thing after hearing her symptoms: "Are you sure she didn't hit her head?" Ainsley kept saying she didn't, and I didn't see any bumps or bruises. I would know if she had hit her head, right?
Wrong. The first thing the doctor did when he came into our room was to push back a little of her hair. And there it was: a bloody scrape and small bump, just above her temple on the same side as the elbow wound. She DID hit her head. Darnit.
The doctor explained that vomiting and chills after a fall were warning signs of a concussion, and motion worsened the vomiting (thus the throwing-up in the car). It also explained her lethargy and how quickly she fell asleep after we got home (and don't I feel like a horse's ass for letting her go to sleep with a concussion.) He seemed relieved to find the bump, because after a quick look at her arm he could rule out a fracture and thought a concussion made the most sense. He said even if he hadn't found the bump, he would have been thinking she had a head injury based on how closely her symptoms seemed to match.
It was pretty scary. The doctor told us that we might notice some cognitive deficits for the next 3 or 4 days, things like forgetfulness and an inability to do things or remember things she normally has no problem with. He also said she would be very tired and need more sleep.
She's home with her Mamaw today so that she can get some rest. I have felt the need to pamper her since we got the diagnosis, and it kills me a little that I couldn't be off today to be with her (my assitant is out all week, so it's just me in the library.) But I am sure Mamaw is doing an adequate job of spoiling her with donuts and kids' TV.
In a few days her little brain bruise will be just a memory and things will be back to normal in the Cranky house. As normal as they ever are, anyway.
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