Someone is riding a bike down the railroad track bed and there is wailing at the church next door and the sun is going down and I've got a blister on me finger.
I got it from sweeping. Isn't that funny?
Okay. Not really.
I don't feel funny. I feel exhausted but it's all from worry. Jessie and Vergil spent ALL day in the ER today. Their midwife took one look at August and said, "Nah, this isn't normal."
And, after all day in the ER, they have two diagnoses. The ER doc said that if it was his kid, he'd put him on amoxicillin. And the pediatrician they saw thinks it's some sort of inflamed milia deal and that they shouldn't do anything but should see a dermatologist on Monday.
So of course, Jessie doesn't know whether she made a huge mistake by being in the ER with a newborn all day or whether her mistake was not insisting that he be admitted to the hospital and given IV antibiotics.
Being a mother is terrifying.
They did do a swab of the rash but the results of that won't be in for two or three days. And the dermatologist they have an appointment with is the guy who originally diagnosed Jessie's psoriasis as a cat-exposure thing.
What are you going to do? Be all Christian Scientist and pray about it?
Be all totally holistic and blame everything on GMO's and gluten intolerance?
Let's face it- there are some things which medical science is really good at. Heart transplants, setting broken bones, doing joint repair surgeries, controlling diabetes, treating certain types of cancers, taking out diseased organs like gall bladders- these are just a few of the things doctors are really good at. I mean- look- if I cut myself badly, I'd go to a doctor to get it stitched. If I got a UTI, I'd be in that office as quickly as possible, begging for drugs to cure it. When I knew I needed medication to help me control my anxiety and depression, I asked a medical professional for help.
But there are so many things which lie in the nebulous world of could-be-this, could-be-that.
And when it's your child and they tell you completely different things- what are you to do?
I've always said that Freud had it right. It is ALWAYS the mother's fault, no matter the problem. Because if she hadn't given birth to you, you wouldn't be having this problem whether it's a shy bladder or a genetically passed down disorder.
In the meanwhile, August seems to be not troubled in the least. He is not fussy. He is not feverish. I find this to be reassuring. If some horrible infection were overtaking him wouldn't he be putting out white blood cells and running a fever and showing some sort of behavioral reaction? But no, he's eating, he's sleeping, he's hanging out being a baby, peeing and pooping, etc. He doesn't seem to be bothered in the least. So he's not itchy or in pain.
And here we are. I did the bare minimum of what I needed to do today. I checked my phone constantly for updates. I texted all the kids and Mr. Moon who offered to come home RIGHT NOW. I did sweep a lot. I watered plants and chickens. I got that package mailed. I collected beautiful eggs and cut up grapes to feed the chickens which is their favorite treat. I made the bed. I did a crossword. I did laundry and hung the clothes outside. When they were dry, I folded them up and put them away. I answered comments. I fed the cats. I ate leftover leftovers from the Mexican restaurant. I duly noted that in a few days a giant comet is going to pass within millions of miles from the earth. I took the trash which included one of my old pairs of walking shoes.
I did not clean a toilet for thirty minutes. I did not feed the homeless, go walk for breast cancer or an animal shelter or domestic abuse victims. I did not get a tattoo and I did not meditate. I did not read a magazine. I did not watch TV. I did not cure cancer or ease the suffering of the dying or clean the baseboards. I did not drink green tea. I did not contact my representatives to tell them that they should do something about gun control or abortion rights or civil rights or gay rights or transgender rights or the legalization of marijuana. I did not write a love letter or a poem or a chapter of a book or a song. I did not take in a foster child or eat a salad. I did not find a lump or die from an aneurism. I did not make love and I did not kill anyone.
I did give Maurice her flea treatment.
And now I believe I will go bake a potato.
I hear a train whistle way down the tracks and the chugging of an engine.
I have lived another day of my life and who knows how many of those are left?
Who knows? Not me.