Coffee heat rising

Look! It’s moving. It’s alive. It’s alive! It’s ALIVE!

Yes. I’m afraid I have not passed through the veil — not yet, anyway — and to make matters worse, there seem to be no ill effects to even slow me down.

My excellent son schlepped me to the Mayo Hospital at 5:00 this morning. You can imagine his delight (and mine) at having to get up at 4:00 a.m. to accomplish this chore. However, that turned out to be a good thing, because it put us at the head of the schedule. After endless prep, signing of papers, and discussion, they rolled me into the OR right at 7:30. We were outta there at 10:30.

I escaped in one (slightly reduced) piece! Despite the dire predictions that I would be throwing up, staggering around, even more hopelessly confused than I normally am, and at risk of falling into the toilet should I dare to sit down on the thing, in the aftermath I’ve been feeling just fine. The IV insert hurt more than the boob job.

Because I’m allergic to aspirin, acetaminophen, and ibuprofen, they wrote a prescription for oxycodone. At the Mayo pharmacy, it cost all of four bucks! But another four bucks down the drain, because it appears I won’t be needing it. On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d say the pain has risen to about a 2-minus. At the moment it’s negligible. Meanwhile, I’ve been chasing around the house, cleaning up dog mess (M’hijito kindly cleaned up the second one), puttering in the kitchen, eating, and the like. Tried to take a nap, but apparently something they gave me works a little like pseudoephedrine, in that I can not close my eyes and keep them shut. So we’ll be watching Netflix for awhile this evening: maybe that will put me to sleep! 😀

The surgical bra they wrapped around me is what we used to call a “Brunhilda bra”: capacious and all-encompassing. It actually is like the kind of bra that I used to wear and have tried (with hilarious lack of success) to find, only on steroids. If its design could be copied in a pared-down version, it would be exactly what I’ve been wanting: no chest-gouging underwires and no stupid Dixie cups!

While I was still nodding in La-La Land after the procedure, the surgeon met with M’hijito and told him there was NO WAY the pathologist’s report would show any spread of disease. Hot damn.

Of course, I’ve heard a wind like that blow before…so time, rather than speculation, will tell.

One of my associates in the editing biz (who has survived some major life-threatening episodes) was amazed at today’s outcome. Says he: “Maybe there’s something to prayer, after all!”

Slouching toward Bethlehem…

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA…or toward Armageddon. Or some such.

So today M’hijito drove me halfway across creation to a noon appointment at the Mayo, to get radioactive markers injected into my boob so the surgeon can find the two DCIS’s she wishes to extirpate. Other than being extremely time-consuming — it’s almost an hour’s drive one-way — it wasn’t too horrible. At every turn I find myself saying “It could be one hell of a lot worse.”

But it was annoying. First they do a mammogram. Then, guided by a sonogram, they stick these objects in you, through a needle — this requires a local anaesthetic, to which, fortunately, I seem not to react as most people do. I do not find the injection of Lidocaine to be especially painful; apparently most people do. Then they drag you back into the mammogram room and X-ray your boob again.

It is essentially painless. And actually, it’s quite interesting. The technology and the skill of the operators are just amazing.

There’s something a little unnerving, though, when you realize the eminently professional (and very beautiful…oh, to be the Mother of My Grandchildren!) radiologist is probably younger than your son. This extraordinary young woman is in her fifth post-graduate (i.e., post MD) year and is a wonder of confidence and ability.

The annoying part coalesced when the second mammogram showed that the damn seed had gone into the wrong place.

So they had to do the whole unnerving procedure OVER AGAIN!!!!!

Ugh. More time consumed, more trapped-in-the-doctor’s-office claustrophobia, more leave-me-alone stress. Oh well.

It was around three, I think, by the time we got back to the house. We’d left at 11 a.m. So that was four hours of time consumed.

Tomorrow, the actual surgery. We have no idea how long it’s likely to take.

A friend of mine, who also had a lumpectomy only, said as she recalled they were at the hospital about four hours. However, hers was done so long ago that they were still sticking guide wires into your boob, instead of these little glow-in-the-dark markers. That meant the equivalent prep work had to be done on the day of the surgery.

So…with that already done today, presumably an hour or so could be cut from the time my friend reports.

It seems like every step along the way since that first “routine” mammogram at St. Joe’s — the one made after my gynecologist said everything was OK in there — every single step has gone wrong in some manner. So I have to say, I don’t feel at all comfortable about tomorrow’s adventure. The everything goes haywire effect has erased any confidence I might have had in anything anyone — even the redoubtable Dr. Paczgai — has to say about the thing.

She claims it’s fairly harmless at this stage, no need for radiation or chemotherapy. Right. I’ll believe it when I see it.

M’hijito reminded me this afternoon that Dr. P said it is not yet cancer: that it’s a pre-cancer that should be removed lest it decide to develop further. And I try to keep that in mind.

But damn. Every which way I turn, someone else is calling it cancer. The radiologists called it cancer today. The hospital staff call it cancer. When you hear that word thrown at you from every direction, it’s a little hard to regard it as anything other than a cancer.

And when every step has been an ankle-twister, it’s a little hard to keep the faith that tomorrow’s surgery will go the way you’d like.

Image: Ductal carcinoma in situ. Wikipedia. Gnu Free Documentation License.

Spayday

Ugh. Five o’clock in the morning and nothing will do but what the dogs have to get up. Pup has to be at the vet’s by 8 a.m., which means a two-and-a-half-hour wait  before leaving the house with her. During that time she can’t be fed, and so therefore neither can Cassie. This is going to cause some doggy outrage.

I’m s-o-o not happy about having to do the spay job right this minute. But it’s painfully obvious that it had better get done before I get rolled off to the ER, since a) we have no idea how long it will take me to recover and b) my son is coming over here to babysit, bringing his male dog in tow. Having to drag her off to the vet to be spayed while trying to recover from an incision in my boob sounds a lot less fun than accelerating the project, and having her come into heat while Charley is holding forth (and you just know that’s what’s gonna happen, because it never fails!) would make things just freaking impossible.

Yesterday’s Mayo adventures were not as bad as expected. Everybody was extremely friendly and nice, which made a series of annoying (and in one case mildly unpleasant) tests at least tolerable.

The time wastage wasn’t good. Though I hit every green light on the way out there, it still took 40 or 45 minutes one way. They moved right along, so I got out by 3:10 when my last appointment was scheduled for 3:40, but that meant I didn’t get any work done while cooling my heels in waiting rooms. I’d just get the damn computer open and fired up and they’d call me in again. The only exception was the mammography waiting room, where as usual one waits until one is blue in the face, but one’s gear is locked up in a cubicle — leaving you with nothing to do for an hour or so but look at pictures in sappy women’s magazines.

Noticed a BevMo on my way in and, remembering that a friend who’s coming to dinner next week favors martinis, decided to stop there on the way back in to pick up a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. I’d thought, earlier, to buy some at Costco but then decided I really didn’t need enough gin to fill the swimming pool.

Well, they had small bottles of the stuff for a more or less tolerable price, but did they have Q tonic water? Ohh noooooo….  Not because a place in tony Scottsdale doesn’t carry premium tonic waters, but because, dammit, they were SOLD OUT!

So that meant I had to stop at the Whole Foods at Tatum & Shea.

That store was undergoing some sort of remodel, and they had half the shelves emptied and discombobulated. Couldn’t find the stuff. A clerk recruited to help couldn’t find it, either! Finally, after traipsing all the way through the store three times, we found a small stash of Q, but the WF was also sold out of the large bottles, so I had to buy a four-pack of little bottles at great waste of funds.

By the time my friends show up next week, I’ll need more, since I drank one of the little bottles with dinner, feeling a great need for a gin & tonic by the time I got home around 5 p.m.

Think of that: two hours of trudging through traffic (every light turned red on the way home, not surprisingly) and traipsing through stores. Ugh.

Just to frost the cupcakes, now I’m getting those eye flashes and floaters in the other eye. So really, I should go back to the ophthalmologist and jump through the endless, unnerving eye exams again. But I just quail at the very idea.

I am so overwhelmed with this cancer flap and all the medical hoo-ha  around it, with all the time consumption and fear and pain and expense, I just can NOT deal with any more!!!!!!!!!!! Plus I think this is the same thing as before, and if it is, there’s really nothing to do about it. Plus I did not like that last guy I saw, which means somehow I’ll have to track down a competent ophthalmologist that I feel I can trust, not an easy trick in this town.

At the borderland between sane and stark raving crazy, I’m really past being able to deal with any more.

Lazy Woman’s Blog Post of the Day

So here we are at…what? Thursday? It’s already been a busy day: I’ve chaired a meeting (the first since the summer Eng. 102 course started, a month and a half ago), run some errands, stopped by the Paradise Valley Police Department to ask what to do about having been photographed running a red light when I and all the other folks who were photographed stopped at the red, sat there, and started into the intersection on the green, talked to the Mayo, fixed a very fine repast…and now I wish to rare back and write the rest of Book II, Chapter 6.

So, to make a long story short (and not have to think very much), here’s what I’ve found out…

Walgreen’s pharmacist: If Benadryl soothes the itch around the nose (it does), Xyrtec is the most likely to do the same without turning you into a zombie.

Paradise Valley Police Department: It was just a test.

Food: mincing some rosemary, smushing it into some butter, and smearing that over your hot roast potatoes defies belief in the delicious department. It ain’t bad over a piece of grilled steak, either. 😉

Mayo Clinic:

Q: If I have to pay 15% of the bill for this surgery, pray tell me: 15% of WHAT?

A: Stop panicking. It’s not 15% of the entire tab. Medicare A pays for the entire hospital tab. Medicare B and Medigap pay a set part of the surgery, leaving you with 15% to have to cover. Chances are it’ll be around $750, but it surely won’t be over $5,000. It probably won’t be anywhere near that much. They are working on trying to come up with a specific.

Q: I think I’ve lost the instructions about when to start fasting on the day before surgery, so…uhm…??????

A: Don’t eat anything after 10 p.m.

Sub-Q: You’re kidding!! You mean I can actually have dinner?

Sub-A: Well, as long as you don’t eat it after 10 p.m.

Q: Is our honored surgeon doing sentinal node biopsy (which enhances pain and extends recovery time) or just excising the evil lumps?

A. She’s not doing a sentinal node biopsy, according to her notes. (Hot dayum!)

Q: Where do I get the antibiotic soap they mention in the pile of paper they sent me, the soap I’m supposed to scrub down with before surfacing in your precincts.

A. Walgreen’s. It’s called Hibaclens.

There. I have now written a post. And so, it’s on to Book II, wherein Caddy, the lesbian fur trapper, is about to save the life of Seth, the hard-boiled man’s man, after he’s attacked by a sasquatch.

Have a  nice day.

😆

If You’d Asked Me, I Would Have Told You…

Water-saving, power-saving appliances are about as ecologically unfriendly and consumer-unfriendly as it is possible for a device to be.

P1030121How d’you like what came out of my washer this morning?

The new, fancy, water- and power-saving EXPENSIVE clothes washer creates a massive tangle if I have the chutzpah to put a shirt in with a pair of blue jeans. To avoid a huge wadded mess, I have to put anything that has a strap or a sleeve into a mesh bag.

Today that strategy didn’t work. The entire load of colored clothes came out in a single gigantic knot.

This annoyance is characteristic of the Samsung top-loading high-efficiency goddamn washing machine I bought a year or so ago. I’m told it’s characteristic of front-loaders, too.

Before Samsung (BS, appropriately enough), I could run a load of colored clothes through the old-fashioned top-loading actually functional Kenmore washer, hang the knit tops and cotton bluejeans on ordinary clothes hangers, and let them air-dry on a laundry-room rack. Now, to beat the wadded-in wrinkles out of them — after I’ve spent ten minutes untangling the mess — I have to run them through the dryer!

BS, I hardly ever used electric power to dry my clothes. Most of them dried, with no need for ironing, on clothes hangers that could be carried, once the laundry had air-dried, from the wash area to the closet. Now all the jeans and most of the shirts have to be run through a dryer, wasting electric power and running up the power bill.

A twenty-minute wash cycle has morphed into an hour and ten minutes.

One might avoid the knotting conundrum by washing all of one’s pants separately from all of one’s other clothing. Consider what this would do for you (or to you):

Now you would have to separate out every pair of pants from every other category of clothing. This would, at best, present you with four loads of laundry: colored pants, colored shirts and underwear, white & beige pants, white & beige underwear. Two 20-minute loads (one white, one colored) now convert to four one-hour-and-10-minute “high-efficiency” loads. Four hours and forty minutes to do a forty-minute laundry job! At least two of those loads — the ones including the pants, whose legs will knot together willy-nilly, will have to be run through the dryer whether you prefer to do so or not, to get rid of the knotted-in wrinkles. This more than doubles your water and energy use on the washer, and if you are one of those wily consumers who figured out that few clothes really have to go through a dryer, it increases your power bill accordingly.

It’s in the same category, isn’t it, as the water-saving toilet. You know, the one that supposedly needs 1/3 less water to flush than real toilets used to need, but that has to be flushed three times to get the stuff down. And the ugly fluorescent light bulbs that make everyone in the room look green, that dump mercury into the landfill (and all over your house if you drop one), and that give you a migraine whenever you turn them on.

Big-Brother-Knows-Best good intentions lead people to find workarounds with counterproductive consequences.

The high-efficiency clothes washer and the water-saving toilets are obvious cases in point.

Another one: we know that in 2015 the city probably will institute water rationing. From California’s experience, we know the strategy will be to tell people they will face fines  unless they cut water use, as measured by the present smart meters, to 60% of their prior use. Some folks, then, realize  they need to use about 40% more water than necessary now, so that when the cutbacks come, enough water will be available to keep their citrus trees, energy-saving shade trees, and vegetable gardens alive.

More immediately, though: Our dearly beloved paternal city has installed counter-intuitive roundabouts up and down the ’hood’s main north-south feeder street, and they’ve put infuriating, alignment-wrenching speed bumps along the east-west feeder street. The result? Pass-through traffic is diverted off the feeder streets onto smaller, once-sleepy neighborhood roads. In the few weeks since I found my way around the damn things, I’ve noticed that LOTS more drivers are joining me in the several routes that take us around the stupid speed bumps and the wreck-inviting traffic circles. (Ever had anyone try to pass you in a one-lane traffic circle? I have…)

Want to slow down the passers-through who don’t give a damn about our kids, our pets, or our old ladies trying to walk off a few pounds? Two easier, cheaper solutions: a) install traffic cameras; or b) station a nice, sturdy traffic cop in the neighborhood during rush hours.

Dogs, like humans, should eat real food.

That means actual balanced, unprocessed diets consisting of cooked meat, vegetables, fruits, and healthy starches — not the junk food humans normally eat these days.

Ruby the Corgi Pup has made the transition, at last, to a diet of full-blown real food. Shortly after losing the ultra-premium dog food, she lost the chronic diarrhea. And now, a few weeks after having made her escape?

Her fur is so shiny it practically glows in the dark. Her eyes are bright and clear. Her mood is happy, rambunctious, and funny. She radiates good health.

Cassie the Elderly Corgi, who has never been off real food since she entered my precincts, continues in good health. Her fur is rich and radiant; her eyes…yes, bright and clear. Her teeth, good. Her everything, healthy and strong. No vet has ever been able to find anything wrong with her.

The difference in the pup since I took her off the commercial dog food is incredible. Reminds me of what happened when I started feeding real food to the aged German shepherd and the aged greyhound, in response to the Late, Great Melamine Scare. The Gershep, who at the time was so advanced in decrepitude she could barely haul herself to her feet, suddenly was chasing her ball across the yard, something she hadn’t been able to manage for a year or more. Both dogs thrived on a diet of 1/2 cooked meat, 1/4 cooked vegetables, and 1/4 starch (such as sweet potatoes, rice, or oatmeal).

Folks. Dogs do best when fed a diet approximating a healthy, balanced human diet, less the onion, the garlic, the sugar, the salt, and the chocolate.

Commercial dog food is a huge scam.

This morning I threw out a half-dozen cans of ultra-premium dog food. At $2.60 per can plus tax, that came to a little over $17, directly into the garbage. That expensive commercial dog food made Ruby good and sick — she had projectile diarrhea for a good ten days, until I finally gave up and took her off the stuff.

Do you think it’s in the natural order of things that when you switch a dog from one food to another, it should get gastritis, manifested by diarrhea and possibly even vomiting?

Well, no, my friends: it is not. When a dog  becomes accustomed to eating real food, it can shift easily and with no ill effects from one type of protein to another, from one veggie or fruit to another, from one source of starch to another. Ruby has readily adjusted to the following:

chicken
hamburger (i.e., beef)
pork
sweet potato
rice
oatmeal
peas
carrots
winter squash
banana
blueberries

But moving from Castor and Pollux ultra-excellent canned dog food to Wellness ultra-excellent canned dog food gives her a violent case of the doggywobbles???? Excuse me? What IS wrong with this picture?

Welp, think about it. Dogs have lived with humans for some 15,000 years. Along about 1860 — about 157 years ago — some entrepreneurial human came up with the idea that doting pet owners could be persuaded that their “pet children” should be fed special pet food! This idea redounded to the vast profit of said entrepreneur, and to that of all the pet industry entrepreneurs who came after him.

Before this genius came up with a scheme to persuade us that nothing would do but what we must feed our animals special pet food, unrelated to anything we as humans would ever dream of eating (would you put a piece of dog kibble in your mouth?), dogs ate whatever people ate. Humans, who at the time did not overindulge in Big Macs, french fries, pizza, and soda, would put down whatever was left over from their own meals, or whatever offal they took out of the animals they hunted for sustenance. Over the millennia, dogs evolved to eat what humans eat.

In just 157 years, they have not un-evolved. Dogs still thrive on the kind of food you and I would thrive on, were we not presented with over-processed, over-sugared, over-salted junk food! We would thrive on it, too, if we could be persuaded to fire up the stove and cook our own food.

At $2.60 per 13-ounce can, a puppy that needs to be fed 2 1/3 cans per day racks up a much, much higher food bill than she does when her human goes out and buys some hamburger, pork, or chicken on sale (it’s a myth that pork is bad for dogs, BTW), a few sweet potatoes or a bag of oatmeal, and some frozen vegetables. It is far cheaper to cook your dog’s food than it is to feed comparable food out of a can or a refrigerated roll. And the results, in terms of your dog’s health, appearance, and temperament, are far superior.

And now for the Conspiracy Theory of the Day: Does it not strike you as odd that once a dog is acclimated to real food, it can switch readily from ingredient to ingredient with no distress, whereas a switch from Purina to Science Diet or from Castor & Pollux to Wellness will cause spasms of doggy diarrhea?

Odd, indeed. IMHO, the only reasonable explanation is that dog food manufacturers spike their product with ingredients that cause gastritis when the consumer switches abruptly from one brand to another. It is, in a word, a scheme to scare consumers into keeping their dogs on the given commercial brand they start with. Dog food is jiggered to make dogs sick when they’re switched from product to product.

Real food decidedly does not have that effect.

Way too often, veterinary bills are  inflated by unnecessary testing, unnecessary “wellness” exams, and unnecessary procedures.

Remember when your vet tried to get you to come in once a year for an annual pet exam? Well, they’re accelerating that: today when my vet’s assistant left me on hold to listen to the endlessly annoying, uneasy-making advertising tape, I was informed that he now wants customers to bring their pets in twice a year!

If you’ve been paying attention, you know that many of the vaccines we’ve been told our pets must have, over and over world without end, lest they die of some dread disease are truly unnecessary. Endless annual booster shots operate, at many veterinaries, as a tool to get you back in the door, where you can be subjected to the Big Upsell: persuaded that any number of unnecessary procedures, from expensive dental cleaning to daily medications that require expensive semi-annual blood tests to routine over-vaccination…to god only knows what. These procedures, many of which may be unnecessary, cost pet owners some very big bucks.

And while we’re on the subject, humans also are subjected to massive unnecessary medical examinations and testing.

I tire,  so let’s abbreviate:

The annual physical exam (thank god) is going out of style.

Annual physicals are unnecessary.

Unnecessary, we say.

Annual pelvic exams for women are unnecessary.

Routine physicals lead to invasive, dangerous, and unnecessary procedures, even among the one-percenters.

Routine screening tests lead to exorbitant unnecessary costs.

Studies show unnecessary tests rack up 40% of Medicare spending.

Do I regret allowing myself to be subjected to the “routine” mammogram that has sucked me into a mutilating surgery and an uncertain future? Maybe. Maybe not. From what I can tell, the extremely low-grade entity discovered in my boob may or may not morph into an invasive cancer. Apparently no one can tell. If I were six or eight years older, cutting open my breast and yanking this thing out would be a destructive, pointless, harmful exercise in futility — I would die of some other natural cause long before this thing could kill me, if it ever decided to spread around. But because I’m  not quite 70…it’s ambiguous.

Probably nothing would have happened if this thing had never been discovered.

On the other hand, getting rid of it may insure — provided that I’m not subjected to radiation therapy, which over time will elicit some unpleasant and possibly life-shortening side effects — that I’ll have a shot at a ripe old age.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

P1030120

 

Some Vacation…

So, this damn cancer scare has converted what I’d planned to be the first extended break from work — about a month and a half — to one long hassle-filled headache, culminating of course in a surgery nightmare. Damnation. Not to say {whine!!!}.

Bright and early this morning someone from the Mayo called to inform me that they’ve scheduled me to spend the entire afternoon of next Monday at their facility halfway to freaking Payson getting poked, prodded, and re-X-rayed. (If I didn’t already have breast near-cancer, I would by now given the number of times my boobs have been exposed to X-radiation.) This will require me to drive home from the Mayo during the rush hour, a gawdawful prospect. I was supposed to take Ruby to the vet to leave her there overnight preparatory to spaying, but that will be out because I won’t get home before the vet’s office closes. So she’ll have to be delivered to his place at 8 a.m. sharp the next day, requiring yet another fun drive through rush-hour traffic.

This sounds like less hassle than it is. During the rush hour, you can’t turn left off the main north-south drag that serves our neighborhood. So, to get to the vet’s office, I have to wind my way through not one, not two, but three neighborhoods to reach a road that will allow me to turn east to get started on the long drive to the veterinarian. Because the middle class has largely vacated the central part of the city, except for a small millionaire’s row along North Central, all the infrastructure — including veterinarians and high-quality medical care — has moved out, too, following the dollars. To get your freaking hair styled, you have to drive halfway to Scottsdale. Same is true to get to a decent vet and a decent doctor. And of course Scottsdale is east — left — of here.

Cripes.

On the to-do list today is to update the will.

Several years ago, I went to a lawyer to have a will drawn up. After she charged me a hefty fee, I discovered she’d simply downloaded a form off the Internet and filled it in. Well, hell: I can do that.  Actually, what I plan to do is retype the thing and then get it witnessed and notarized by the same people who witnessed and notarized it for free the last time. Anyway, it’ll probably take a good 45 minutes to screw with retyping that.

Anyway, once it’s typed to disk, any future changes will be easy to make.

Then the dog: Ruby has to be spayed. She’s just about to reach the age when she could come into her first heat. Since my son will be here for a couple of days with his (formerly) male dog in tow, I can’t have Ruby emitting pheromones to drive Charley (and the rest of us) nuts. That happens next week, and god only knows how long I’ll have to nurse her along after that.

Then the money issue: The Mayo does not take Medicare assignment. This does not mean it doesn’t accept payment from Medicare. Sometimes it does. What it means is that they will not take direct electronic deposit of payments from Medicare, or, evidently, from your Medigap provider. What this means is that payment is remitted to you and then you have to pay the Mayo. But this payment comes in the form of a flurry of small checks, sent in envelopes that are indistinguishable from the usual junkmail these outfits deluge you with — EOBs and advertising and redundant or useless “information,” piles and piles and PILES of paper. So you have to rip open every envelope, search through the paper inside looking for checks, and then shlep the goddamn checks to the credit union.

I finally gave up trying to deposit the accursed checks electronically. The process is so slow and so buggy it’s often no faster than driving up way and Hell and gone to the westside, parking the car, walking into the lobby, standing in line, and forking the checks over to the cashier. A major project like breast surgery and all the ancillary testing and counseling and carrying on surrounding it is going to generate enough paper to fill an underground missile bunker. The amount of time consumed in dealing with all that paperwork and schlepping or e-depositing all those checks simply defies belief.

Presumably these people think that if you’re old you have nothing to do but waste your time at their behest.

Speaking of the money issue, one of the things I have to do today is get ahold of someone at the Mayo who can help to figure out what Medigap will cover and what it will not cover, so I can determine how much of my retirement savings I’m going to have to withdraw to pay for this misadventure. I would like, for a change, not to be blindsided by their incomprehensible billing.

Welp, things could be worse. One of my students, a young mother-to-be, missed the deadline to turn in her final paper because she was in the hospital getting surgery to divert urine out of her body. Her kidneys are shutting down. They’re planning to deliver the baby at 35 weeks and hope that will be long enough for the infant to develop adequately to survive OK. But…then what is not clear. We at least managed to get the paper in my hands by the crack of dawn this morning. This allowed me to get into the District’s system  before the grades I entered yesterday had officially been “accepted” — meaning I was able to change her final grade from a C to an A at 6:00 a.m., before my access to the final gradesheet was blocked.

Every time you think your own life is going to Hell on a skateboard, you meet someone else who’s riding a faster skateboard.
A lot faster.