Model Patient

The Matron has official permission from He Who Cannot Be Named to use that name and blog about his acute illness and emergency surgery.

Thank you, Stryker.

Let's develop the 'model patient' theme.

First, when Stryker woke up in horrible pain at 3 a.m. Sunday morning, he roused his father -- not his mother -- out of bed. This was good move number one.

John stayed up with Stryker; the two learned what retching and bile meant. They alerted the Matron to the situation around 7 a.m.

John: "I think we should call the nurse line."

Matron: "I think we should wait it out -- it's probably the flu."

Stryker: "It's not the flu. This is different."

They went with Stryker and even handed him the phone so he could describe the intestinal drama to the nurse himself; the nurse pretty much said run to the hospital.

Once there, it took about ten minutes for the doctor to decide Stryker needed to have his appendix removed. No x-ray, no MRI, no technology, just a woman with her stethoscope and knowledge, pressing a belly and looking into an eye.

You know the emergency room? The wait, the tedium, the agony?

But God-Buddha-Allah-Oprah-Universe were with Stryker and the Matron. When they walked in there was no one waiting. They got a room instantly.

The surgical team was upstairs finishing another emergency surgery -- on a baby --and ready to take Stryker instantaneously. He was snapped right up. Terrified.

Matron to surgeon: "He's terrified."

Surgeon: "I know. That's my first job--taking care of his fear. Actually, that's a lot of what we do. Everyone in the O.R. knows that the first thing, is he's scared and we'll help him."

Could she fall to the floor and weep in gratitude now?

The surgery not only went great, but a nurse kept coming out every ten minutes to report how well Stryker was doing.

Turns out the first thing Stryker said to the nurses when he woke up was: "Thank you."

Stryker to floor nurse: "Thank you for taking care of me."

Stryker to Matron: "Can I have stationary to write a thank you card to the surgeon?"

Stryker to janitor: "Thank you for emptying the wastebasket in my room."

Stryker to person who took blood from his arm: "Thank you for taking care of me."

Stryker to person delivering his food in the hospital: "Thank you for taking the time to bring me pudding."

Stryker to Matron at 4 am last night --now home -- : "Thank you for sleeping on the couch next to my room."

Surgeon, nurse, janitor, food delivery person to Matron: "What a polite young man you have there!"

The Matron would like to take complete credit for this, but she can't. It's in his bones.

But not his appendix, which is officially gone.

More on the gifts and aftermath later. Yours truly has had the minimal legal sleep possible for four days and has developed all themes within her brain power.

Oh What A Beautiful Morning

And it is.

The Matron knows, because some weird hormonal, aging cocktail means she is only allowed five to six hours of sleep a night.

The 5:00 a.m. wake up call introduced a glorious day --and memories of yesterday's surreal trip to the University of Minnesota's Hospital and Clinic's emergency room.

After decades of bad teeth, the Matron's husband (John) -- can we just pause here to note how proper she is? New readers might not know that the husband is "John," so he must be introduced in paretheses. Love that! She's referenced these issues before and will do so again. If she wasn't so lazy, she'd link that reference.

Anyway, back to the point. Yesterday, John went to the U of MN School of Dentistry to inquire about the braces he should have gotten 30 years ago.

Waiting for said appintment, poor husband fell ill.

Staggered against a door. Required assistance from professionals. Endured indescribable stomach pain. Pale as a ghost. Was immediately carried to the Emergency Room.

Yours truly was headed to a sporting goods store with the younger two, in search of the perfect bathing suit, sandals and shorts for Saturday's summer vacation (more on that marathon later). Now, the perfect bathing suit, sandals and shorts would be for Scarlett. Let's just say that these are not easy to secure.

She got the call from the ER and immediately flipped about and soared there. John was in agony on a cot in a dreary room.

Merrick, en route to hospital: "Mama? I hate to say this, but the whole thing is VEWY exciting!"

No one, in the history of humans and hospitals, has ever had more fun in an emergency room than Merrick.

He got ice from the machine in the hallway. He moved the bed up and down. He navigated the lights. That child turned on the television, called for the nurse (without permission but oh, how they loved him), tested blood pressure (really, he watched and learned), used his Mama's cell phone, took temperatures, arm-wrestled anyone willing and made full and exotic use of the sink --with the ice from the hallway.

It's possible to spin 59 times in a row on the little doctor's stool. With an audience.

He also stood just outside the examining room -- room number 3 out of 17 -- to watch all the action, too. A county sheriff brought in a 'bad guy' which sent poor Merrick over the edge.

Merrick: "MOM DAD! The police are here with a huwt BAD GUY! He's in a LOCKED WOOM! Can I go in thewe?"

Friendly Nurse Who is Paying Attention: "Hey there buddy. Would you like a Popsicle instead?"

Merrick: "A WEAL Popsicle? YES!!"

He is so easy.

And John?

Gas.

This from a woman who gave birth to three babies without pain medication, who has now stood by her mother's bedside for constipation (four days) and her husband's for bowel woes.

If there is a God, she is getting a really good spot in Heaven. Like the throne, with tiara and vodka.

Nostalgia

In October 2003, the Matron developed a tummy ache.

Ache? We're talking face to the knee, this-will-probably-kill-you-pain accompanied by vomit with impressive projectile qualities. More pressure than the downstairs shower, that sorta thing.

After watching his wife tough it out for a few hours, John ordered a quick fun trip to the Emergency Room. Yee-ha! She knows how much fun ya'll have had there, too! After determining that she did have not stones in any organ, the ER physician suggested -- based on the fact that the Matron was breastfeeding an eight-month old baby -- that her problem was INDIGESTION. Something about estrogen roughin' up the esophagus. So sick was she, that she bought this line, hook, line and lethal sinker. But she inquired after morphine (denied!), for her heartburn.

ER Nurse, pulling aside the Matron as she hobbled toward the exit: "Honey, women who've birthed three babies don't ask for morphine for indigestion. Get to your own doctor the second that clinic opens in the morning!"

The Matron felt a wee bit better when she saw her family doc the next day. Funky, odd, a slight discomfort, but, better. Still, a CT scan was in her future -- the following day. Which meant her sweet little appendix had oh so much time to grow, grow, grow. Turns out you can puke so much that you push the appendix out of its regular place and into something more comfortable. Which she did.

Here comes the part where the Matron sits on a hospital bed for over 8 hours, waiting for the surgeon who is rushing toward this emergency appendectomy. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Yes, over eight hours. E-M-E-R-G-E-G-E-N-C-I-E-S generally indicate speed?

During this 8 hour wait, the Matron's pumps grew and grew and grew and grew. Her breasts blew into small leaking watermelons. Breast pump? She inquired? Begged! Demanded! While the hospital staff was trying to figure out where such an item would be located and how to order one (uh, there's a maternity ward at your hospital, sweeties) John had to bring in Merrick to nurse, twice. While Mommy was waiting for surgery.

When no surgeon came running in direction by 8:30 pm, (after a weeping phone conversation with a friend who is a corporate attorney and accustomed to getting his way), she walked up to the nurses' station, yanked out her IV and said, "I am going to die at home."

That's when somebody called the surgeon. Yes, they FORGOT to call the surgeon. Don't worry, there is much more fun up ahead!

Looking at the CT scan that is well, about ten hours old by now, the mortified surgeon notes that the appendix is way way too big for laparoscopy and requires a big huge slice down the middle. Fine. Stop talking to her and take that damn thing out! Which he did (thank you, Nice Surgeon!).

And as she lay recovering, say 40 minutes post-op at 2 a.m., the night nurse wheels in a dusty machine with tubes flying every which way out of it. Here's what she says to the drugged, weary and milk-soaked Matron: "Here's the breast pump. I sure hope you know how to use this thing because I sure don't."

With that, she left.

The next day, the Matron's five star hotel experience continues. Watching the antibiotic drip from the bag into her veins, she asks the nurse (many of them, actually), if the drug is compatible with breastfeeding? Can anyone tell her? Remember, she needs a drug that works with babies? Yes, yes, she knows this might be troublesome and extra work, given all her allergies to consider, to boot, but that baby thing?

After about two hours of this, she gets a phone book and dials Bober Drug, the family owned pharmacy she patronizes. She tells Lloyd what's going on and what's dripping into her blood stream.

Lloyd: "Pull out that IV! That's the worst possible choice! I can't believe they gave you that!"

For the second time in two days, the Matron pulls out her IV but this time she is crying. She is DONE. The second shift nurse is newly on duty, and finally finally finally someone notices the Matron. Within half an hour, that nurse had the surgeon, pediatrician and Lloyd on a conference call, concocting the antibiotic that would work with the allergies and the baby. Thank you, Nurse Nancy!!!!!!

The Matron knows this is a long story and thanks you for hanging in there with her. There's more.

Sooooo. . . . . . . six weeks later, the Matron has pretty much recovered from both the surgery and the various tortures. Indeed, that appendectomy was nothing short of a miracle. Before the surgery, the Matron's body had been behaving badly. Hot flashes without the menopause part! She would turn fire engine red and then the sweat would start popping. Please don't get her going on, ahem, the bathroom. Seems like food just went right through her.

But all those problems were cured by her appendectomy! Indeed, she joked about that, all the time, how her appendectomy cured her high blood pressure and tummy troubles. Today, she's relaxed. Comfortable, sitting in her chair in the surgeon's office, listening to the nurse prepare her for the follow-up physical exam.

Nurse, reading out loud through the Matron's chart. Imagine tone of voice slowly changing, pace slowing: "Okay -- Surgeon X operated and that's who you'll see today. Emergency appendectomy at St. Joseph's on October 29th. Forty-year old female - oh! Oh my! You have cancer. They found cancer in your appendix. Did you know you have cancer?"

Here, the nurse catches herself and very very anxiously attempts eye contact with the Matron: "Did anybody tell you?"

Now because the Matron's blood pressure has just reorganized her entire ecosystem and she is living in a world that is entirely completely different from the one 30 seconds earlier, she has a hard time remembering Language, but when she grasps that function again she says: "No. Nobody told me."

Turns out the pathology report on the appendix (standard procedure) got lost until the janitor found it, that very morning, on the floor somewhere in the hospital.

Sometimes when the Matron tells this story, she cannot quite believe it herself. But this is one time she doesn't have to stretch the truth for the sake of a story.

The next six frightening weeks were spent assessing. Now, the Matron took over. Instead of relying on her assigned oncologist, she herself sent her appendix to the Anderson Cancer Center in Texas and consulted with not one, but TWO national experts on carcinoid cancer. Because those hot flashes and diarrhea? The Matron had been symptomatic for carcinoid syndrome! Her tiny tumor had been working hard on its host's destruction.

Even though her surgeon poo-poohed the carcinoid ("Happens all the time"), her oncologist did not, noting that of all people who die from carcinoid cancer, 1/4 to 1/3 have tumors originating in the appendix.

Thank God-Buddha-Allah-Oprah, both national experts, the pathology tests and her very own oncologist determined that the chances of carcinoid recurring were about 1% and that percentage point was only because a weak tip of the tumor had invaded a blood vessel, potentially tapping the entire well-traveling vascular system.

But the Matronly imagination could not help but wonder what would've happened had that appendix burst? Say, because she thought she had indigestion? Or while she was waiting for the surgeon? Cancer cells popped like corn, could have coursed and seeded throughout her body.

Rage rekindled, the Matron filed a report with the Minnesota Department of Health, chronicling all the fun times she has just recounted, here. She sent a copy of her six page complaint to the hospital, whose attorney and ombudsperson nearly killed one another in their fight to become the Matron's BEST FRIEND.

Imagine their shock when she didn't want to sue! Indeed, they would do anything!

Here's what she wanted and got.

• Breast pumps on every hospital floor
• Breast pump training for nurses
• Firmer procedure for medications and breastfeeding patients
• Letter to Matron's insurance company stating that Matron never ever ever had to enter those doors again and could go anywhere else!
• Appendix itself for a two day stint in the library at her children's elementary school
  

And then the State of Minnesota made it even better by finding that the hospital violated not one, but two federal regulations and fined them thousands of dollars! Now, that was fun for the Matron!

She's fine, these 5 years out, but still has annual check-ups and -- a different outlook. Today was one of those days when she remembered and the world looked a little more lush, a little sweeter. Thanks to this man, who is sharing his journey with the cancer that will soon kill him, with all of us.

That's the end of her cancer story. She hopes.

PIcture Coming Later Today!

The Matron and her family are recent volunteers for Small Dog Rescue Minnesota, an organization that pretty much does what its titles implies: rescues small dogs.

Their very first foster dog was Abby!

Abby is now living in Wisconsin in a lovely home with an older-ish single woman whose life is pretty much devoted to her pets. The Matron might turn into one of those older-ish cat and dog devoted women one day but at the moment, she's too damn busy with an actual life.

Did she tell you yet that Stryker required an emergency dental visit, conveniently, on Friday night? The poor child is wearing both the Evil Herbst, which pushes his lower jaw forward


and its Demonic Twin Sister, the Rapid Palate Expander.

Some screw in the Herbst impaled Stryker, leaving him with an inch wide hole in his cheek, which promptly swelled to the size of a tennis ball.

That was fun.

Its solution involved power tools and old-fashioned ingenuity, which worked until about ten minutes ago when the Matron got a phone call from Stryker's school. The Herbst is now Halved and one half, again, lodged in Stryker's cheek.

This is all to explain why there is no picture yet of the new foster dog. The camera chord has gone missing (maybe it's playing with this barrette), the Matron has 65 papers to grade and now has another emergency dental visit to make.

Yes, there is a new foster dog.

Snappy arrived last night around 9 pm. He's a two year old Jack Russiel Terrier who had been living in an outdoor kennell in Tennesee for ONE YEAR. At least that's the story that came with him.

Lat night Snappy slept on a king size bed. What a difference a day makes!

That dog-devoted single older-ish nothing to kill but time life sounds dreamy . . . .

Nostalgia (Even for Sports, which Makes this Breaking News)

Remember how the Matron is all tuned in, tapped on, has total Fung Shui with her body?

Two years ago, while tending to the greenery and flower she inherited with this house, the Matron was stung by a bee! Ouch! It hurt! Then again, she gave birth to a ten pound baby while screaming for the pain meds nobody brought. Damn you, 9 inch stretch on the ride to the hopsital! So she put some salve on her forehead and continued weeding.

Six hours later, she was in the Emergency Room to inquire, in a calm, academic way, about The Mysterious Virus.

Matron (gasping and clutching lackluster chest): "Doctor? It started earlier today. It's the worst virus, maybe the Plague?! This is between us, but I think it's the Rapture. The fundamentalists were right! I can't breath. I can't stop puking. The other end has issues too. It's really an emergency! Do you notice the panting, gasping element? If we are all not going to our Maker, this will be publishable. The AMA. You'll be famous."

Doctor: "What's that golf ball size growth on your forehead?"

Matron: "That? Oh, I was stung by a bee this afternoon."

You know the end of this story. She got a shot for her very serious bee allergy and now carries an Epi-Pen, which she sometimes refers to as My Fun Adventure Ahead. Now, gardening is a bit more like guerrilla warfare, all those damn bees.



But she worked on the jungle yesterday. That green expanse hides flowers and Death. Cut a peony? First, you must stand back and assess the Enemy Threat, Epi-Pen at hand. The rose bushes? Russian Roulette.



Because her husband works on the weekend, the Matron was the Proud Parental Representative at Parkway Little League's baseball tournament. This one's the biggie, the weekend the league invites teams from several cities. Stryker's team played two games. And won both! Go Stryker! (hint: more on this, coming)

Later, the Matron attended a very fine Solstice party where she met a woman she must've known in another life. Or, she's already a member of the Woman's Colony.



Don't you love women? Once, the Matron met a woman at a public school event and within ten minutes, they were swapping stories about the Twelve Steps, addictions, and emotional adultery. Oh, you can't wait for more posts on those!

Back to the topic. this morning, the Matron hit the ballpark at 9 am for the first of 3 games.

Yes, she teetered on those glass slippers a bit. But. With the smell of grilling meat at the crack of dawn, the dust flying, the heat, the potential for personal injury and the beat of 11 and 12 year old boys -- she kinda sorta got the whole baseball juju -- FOR THE NEXT 10 GODDAMN HOURS SHE SPENT THERE.

Okay--she's 'fessed up to hyperbole for the sake of the story.

So she had a 1.5 hour break in the middle. Spent like this:

At 11:30, she agrees to leave Stryker at Parkway (there are always three games on three fields and plenty to see) so she can go home and feed the 14 and 11 year old house guests the Matron is babysitting (long story - let's cap with the Matron had two extra self-sufficient, non-baseball inclined boys in her stead).

Once there, she works on corn on the cob, sandwiches, washes strawberries from the Farmer's Market (where she was at the other crack of dawn). In the midst of this, Coach calls.

"Where's Stryker?"

Turns out the entire team is at the Coach's house and nobody could find her son at Parkway. He was paged four times. The Coach suggest that we call the Police if Stryker's not located within half an hour.

Now, the Matron is 100% prone to panic in the best of conditions, so you can just imagine. In the 8 blocks and 90 seconds it takes to drive to Parkway, she is certain she remembers reading that Jeffrey Dahmer had apprentices.

When she gets there, 20 adults are in hot pursuit of her child. But the Matron? She spots him in about 5 seconds, happily acting as Scorekeeper on Field 3.

But -- whew. (and, okay, how the #$%% could they miss him?!)

She flies back to the house for more cooking and clean-up, drives across town to retrieve Scarlett from a sleepover and is back at Parkway by 12:30 with the younger two in tow, where they remain (in states of cooperation and engagement directly linked to age) until 7 pm.

Why? Because in 1 hands-down slam-dunk defeat, and in a final nail-biting, heart-stopping 1 point win -- Stryker's team won the Championship. Undefeated. And Stryker? He got the game ball for Game 2 for most valuable player AND brought in 2 of the 4 runs in the final game! Far cry from earlier in the season. . ..

The Matron? At one point, she stood up and yelled: "Thatta way D-Rays! That's smart baseball!" She has no idea what smart baseball is but heard someone else say that, and it sounded like her style. She just loves that - "That's smart baseball!"

But during today's long hours, watching despair, determination, discipline and desire filter across these children (and she means all of them, all those teams), and understanding a bit more how brain wattage and strategy matter - and then there's the grass, the expanse of sky and beauty of outdoor play, and the ridiculously perfect junk food, and the skinny kid who finally gets The Hit and the way true team members support each other -- anyway, considering, the Matron tossed that glass slipper against a backstop and let the spirit overtake her!


Congratulations, Parkway D-Rays!

Adventures in the Emergency Room

The Matron is a fan of Mondays:  her children go to school!

Mostly.

Last Monday, JJ Hill Montessori Elementary welcomed Merrick at 8:20 a.m. and spit him out at 9:30 a.m.    Yes, she received the dreaded School Nurse Phone Call, this time announcing that her child had a fever of 100. -- with a wee tenor of "how could you miss this, Mom?"

Merrick languished at home through Wednesday, in a state vaguely reminiscent of his Vitamin D haze.   The Matron, who likes occasional moments ALONE, was in her own state:  agitated.  She could not wait to send that child to school.   Unfortunately, Merrick's relatively languid, low-grade fever and discomfort spiked into tummy ache agony and Thursday morning found him at the doctor's office instead of in school.   With his mother, of course.

The pediatrician promptly sent Merrick to the ER, certain this was appendicitis.  The Matron, who has been down that road before with her oldest, knew enough to grab her favorite take-out on the way to the hospital.

Merrick, waiting for his mother's food at the restaurant:  "Aren't I an emergency?"

Matron (appraises her son):  "Not really.  You're not bleeding or choking, right?"

Merrick (umbrage, taken):  "Well, my APPENDIX IS PROBABLY BURSTING."

Minnesota Matron:  "You betcha."   That's just what we say here -- works for nearly every situation.

However, it would turn out that the Matron did not need to stock up on food or other hospital-stay supplies.  One ultrasound and x-ray later and the diagnosis:  poop!

Matron to doctor:  "But he hasn't been constipated.  All systems have seemed quite normal."

Doctor:  "Then he's a big producer--there's more waiting."

So they slumped home, Merrick still clutching his stomach and the Matron, in a thorough and complete funk on several time-wasting, bad-parenting, over-reacting levels.    She poured her son a big glass of Metamucil and pondered the many benefits of similarly sized wine.

Imagine her surprise when the phone rang and "Children's Hospital" popped up on caller ID.   Certain that she was about to be upbraided for something, she nearly didn't answer the phone.  Nearly.

ER Doctor:  "Is this Merrick's Mom?  Mom, you don't have to rush back to the ER after spending the day here, but . . . "

Let's pause here, to fully experience that gap between "you don't have to rush back to the ER, but" and what comes next.   How long was that gap?  A second between 'but' and --what?

 Forever can indeed be an instant.

ER Doctor:  " . . . the radiologist found an abnormality."

And the Matron sat down.

It turns out that Merrick has calcification around his adrenal gland.   That slim bit of information is all that the doctor would give her -- that and instructions to schedule another ultrasound, ct scan, and blood work as soon as possible.

Thanks to her highly efficient internet skills, the Matron has been able to come to some conclusions while they wait for the tests (Tuesday).

Calcification  =   Bad News.  Universally -- there is no way around this.   But calcification is also  a frequent companion to Vitamin D deficiency -- involving some odd imbalance of Vitamins D, K, and calcium.  An although calcification is also a marker for cancer, tumors of various incarnations, and autoimmune disease, the Matron has done what any sensible parent would do and has selected Door Number One -- Vitamin D--as the culprit.   She also discovered that repairing the Vitamin D deficiency with the mega-doses Merrick has been slurping causes . . . (drum roll):  constipation.

Damned if you do and calcified if you don't.

Still.  

Tests on Tuesday.   And that mistaken appendicitis diagnosis and half day in the ER?  Doesn't feel so much like wasted-time any more, but great good luck.

Educating the Matron

Quite conveniently, one of her children required medical . . . inquiry . . . well on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Now, this was a middling issue, but an issue nonetheless and not quite right for the blog (too private!).

Oh, and thanks for the terrific post on just that, Mrs. G!

The Matron calls the after hours nurse line with her recent five-hour ER visit freshly in her system, sort of like fetid mu shu pork, still swimming in the intestines.

She gets the "we're busy with people sicker than you, so hang on" message and waits for a full 19 minutes before the nurse gets on the line.

Next, the Matron gets a play-by-play of what's appearing on the Nurse's computer screen. A mature voice, Nurse also sounded too disengaged to be monkeying around with decisions of any sort, and like she needed a nap.

Nurse: "Uh. . . this screen is the insurance. Hold on. I need to go to another one for the name."

Please insert JEOPARDY music, here. Tick-tock goes the clock and all that. . .

Nurse: "Okay. Well, here's the symptom screen. Wait a minute till I can pull this up. . . "

Da-da-DAH. .. da dah da

Nurse: "Uh. . is this your address?"

Matron: "YES"

dada da DA dadada da da (the Matron doesn't know the son very well)

Nurse: "Okay. . gotta get there. . . . okay. Got this screen going."

Several screens later, the Matron is allowed to describe the symptoms.

Nurse: "In addition to the symptoms, does X have inflamed eyelids?"

Matron: "No."

Nurse: "Spots?"

Matron: "No."

Nurse: "Shooting leg pain?"

Matron: "No."

Nurse (sigh of failure): "Headache?"

Matron: "No."

Nurse: "Excessive nose bleeds."

Matron: "No."

Nurse: "Tummy ache?"

Matron: "A little."

Nurse (big sigh of relief, having finally found the symptom): "Well, you'll have to take X to the Emergency Room. Symptom X AND a tummy ache together are real serious."

Here, one of those huge sirens went off in the Matron's head as her blood pressure shot right back to its peak performance and her eyes popped out of her head. Really. Satan's Familiar witnessed the whole thing.

Matron --- while pounding the kitchen table like the starving Scarlett O'Hara : "No, No, No!! I will NOT go to the Emergency Room. I refuse! Connect me to the After Hours Clinic RIGHT NOW! RIGHT NOW! THE CLINIC!"

Nurse: "Okay, then."

And she transfered the Matron to the clinic, to which the Matron drove with Child X and was in and out in 15 minutes.

As God is her witness, she will never make an unnecessary trip to the ER again!

Last Night's Three Ring Circus, Involving Hospitals and Electrocutions

Now that she sees that post title, she thinks that sort of says it all.

But for those who need details . . . .

At 6ish, the Matron was driving Scarlett to The Sound of Music in Hudson when she got this call from home:

John: "Mary? I think Stryker has been slightly electrocuted. Should I take him to the ER?"

Matron: "Slightly electrocuted? What do you mean SLIGHTLY electrocuted? There is no such thing as slightly electrocuted!! Is he breathing?"

Stryker took the phone: "Mom? Something is wrong with me. I have a burn mark where the current went into me, my left shoulder really hurts and I can't move the fingers on my right hand. What should I do?"

The fact that the Matron was the only person not at the scene of what appeared to be a bona fide emergency, but seemed to be making the decisions regarding that emergency nonetheless, was not lost on her. Still. She sent those men to the ER (thanking God-Buddha-Oprah-Allah she was not the one making that trip again). Merrick's best friend and future husband was summoned and Merrick headed off for a sleepover so that the guys could bond at the ER, unfettered.

Turns out that Stryker had been in at a friend's house when he touched several electronic items simultaneously. He was wearing headphones and had on his gangly person one iPod and one cell phone. So loaded, with one hand firmly gripping the metal strings of an electric guitar, he picked up an iPod that had a little piece of metal sticking out of it--making contact by gripping firmly on the metal.

The boys guess the current blazed through her son for about 15 seconds. Guess, as in retrospect, because while Stryker was "screaming at the top of his lungs," the boys stared at him, wondering why their friend was suddenly hysterical. For his part, Stryker reports feeling disembodied, watching himself from the outside looking in, zapped, screaming, and immobile. Because he could not move his hand to shake off the iPod, he finally twisted and jerked and spun his torso, flinging away the offending item.

So the Matron and Scarlett get the scoop about Stryker's paralyzed digits and throbbing limbs, just as Scarlett is getting dropped off at The Sound of Music. To say this child was hysterical is an understatment. She crawled from the car (again) to the front door of the Phipps, screaming about her brother.

The Matron was, frankly, not quite so concerned. Sure, the child had been thoroughly electrified, but aren't the best burgers charcoaled and blackened? Plus, being on your feet an hour later, reporting, seemed like a good sign.

So she didn't rush back because she had purchased a ticket to SEE that show for the second time. Unlike a some parents (ahem) she will not be seeing her daughter prance about for 8 of 12 performances. Two feels just about right.

While Stryker was being all cooed over and EKGed, the Matron enjoyed another 2.5 hours of various sounds of music. But! This last weekend? After a full week off? The von Trapp children made all kinds of mistakes. All of them. Including, for the first time in 2 1/2 years onstage, her daughter.

Little Marta decided to ask to stay and taste her first chamagne instead of taking leave as the seven year old was supposed to.

After LOUDLY and confidently singing the wrong line, Scarlett's face flashed one split second of confusion and then? That von Trapp smile immediately plastered itself onto her winning face and she rode out the show, perfect. Gretl similarly flubbed, as did Liesl and Brigitte.

Lines were dropped, cues missed. Maria? Lost her voice! The woman who played Maria croaked this to the Matron after the show: "I feel terrible! I've had a cold for 5 weeks but this is the first time the show just wasn't the same."

The best part was that the Matron learned all this after the show. Yes, she noticed the big trips, but the rest were all self-reported by the actors. The audience sucked up every second and gave the cast a standing ovation. Heartfelt!

Also, during intermission, the Matron found John leaving the ER and learned Stryker was fine. No heart irregularities, nothing. Just a burn mark and bad - or good -- luck, depending on your chair.

The ride home consisted of Litany of Error on Scarlett's part (Mom! Did you notice that Maddie forgot to jump up and sing in Goatherd and that Leisl said '' when she should've said 'new mother'?") and hysteria over Stryker (OMIGOD does he have SCARS from the heart test?!!).

When the Matron arrived home at the convenient hour of 11:10 pm, Stryker was in the living room in a certifiable state of post-traumatic stress.

Stryker: "I am numb. I can't believe that happened to me. Let me tell you about this again. Please?" He stumbled around the house like a WWII vet, inquiring after Tylenol. John wasn't even home because he was outside searching the neighborhood for? Who else!! Satan's Familiar.

So the Matron works on all that teeth-brushing, snack-eating rigamarole required to get the traumatized children to bed (Scarlett because of Litany of Error and simple proximity to Stryker) while John trudges through the 'hood for S.F. and as midnight approaches?

The phone rings.

Merrick wants to come home.

As she drove across town to pick up her third child very very early this morning, leaving behind the grilled son and chest-clutching, over-wrought daughter, the Matron very briefly wondered how the night could pack in more fun-- just before running out of gas two blocks from the station.

At least she had a gas can. And everyone was asleep before 2 am.

Nostalgia

The Matron loves birth stories. Loves the kinship that the herculean effort inspires. It's strange how giving birth is both so highly personal and significant, yet universal. Even cats do it. And rats.

Please don't tell her that cockroaches share their birth stories. Far too much detail for this delicate psyche.

When she was pregnant with her first, the Matron - then a Youngish Miss -- decided that she should finish her dissertation and be all singularly up to date and professional before the young man arrived in the world. Instead, she watched cooking shows on PBS and read People magazine all day long.

She accomplished nothing but gestation.

This haphazard attitude extended to the actual birth of said baby (remember this is He Who Cannot Be Named).

John: "Do you want an epidural? Pain medications lower than that? Water birth?"

Youngish Miss: "Whatever. . . as long as this thing comes out."

At around 10 pm on July 15th, 1995, the Matron was subject to a strange sensation--which turned out to be the beginning of labor. This is not a comfortable way to spend the night. Because she had a regularly scheduled O.B. appointment the next day at 5 p.m. and she knows how slowly these things can go, she just settled in and waited.

The next day was an endurance test of sort--still, she managed to go out for a huge breakfast at her favorite joint and see a movie.

Here is the Matron at her O.B. GYN appointment--at 5 pm. Remember, alarm bells went off a good 14 hours earlier.

Midwife: "Mary, your water broke -- probably long ago. You need to check into the hospital right now."

Youngish Miss: "Is this why I'm vomiting and doubled over in between movies and meals?"

Midwife: "Do you know who the president is? What year it is?"

Youngish Miss: "Uh, not sure I know what you mean by "president."

Hospitalization immediately ensued.

It is now July 16th, at 8 pm. Labor is well under way and even the Queen of Repression and Denial understands what's going on. She notes that this has been going on for 22 hours.

And continues.

Finally, after a long sleepless night filled with Nina Simone (thank you, John for thinking of music), the baby is jumping ship. It's time for the big push. . . which last about 10 minutes.

Stryker's head is in the world!

But just his head.

Without getting overly graphic, let's just say that shoulder dysplasia was involved. The baby's shoulder was stuck under the delicate pelvic bone and could not be lodged --- even with 33 hours of labor under her belt (but she's not counting), the Matron had energy -- energy of a mama -- but could not dislodge this child.

Whose little face was turning blue.

She wishes she remembers more, but John tells her that suddenly the hospital lit up. Blue lights, emergency codes, a c-section table immediately wheeled into the room. Big announcements blaring: Code Bad! Code VERY Bad!

Nurse One: "We're doing an emergency c-section. The doctor's on his way but I'm going to start the incision. We have about 90 seconds. Are we all clear on this?"

John: "All clear! Don't let them die!"

Nurse Two: "I have an alternate idea -- stand back."

The c-section team roared in. The doctor ran in and yelled: "there's no time to scrub" and grabbed his tools.

The nurse-- of heft --held up a hand and said "give me three seconds" and jumped on the hospital bed and straddled the Matron, facing her feet and the dying blue baby. She jumped a foot in the air and --using her balled fists-- came down with the full force of desperation and hope for life -- right above the baby, slamming into the top of the uterus with all her force.

Stryker shot right out.

Every single person in the room started crying. Every, single, person. The doctor took off his glasses and collapsed into the sink.

Except the then Youngish Miss who was sort of dazed by the amount of pain one person can experience.

Youngish Miss, later: "John? Did I make a noise when she belly-slammed me? It seemed like I screamed. It hurt an awful lot."

John: "The entire hospital staff called 911. Nobody missed that noise. But it's okay."

From time to time, the Matron thinks about that blue baby and this nurse. Actually, she wants to lay down by her feet and send her children to college. And arrange that heaven thing.

Thank you.

Emergency!

Yesterday, the Matron went to hear this monk:

He gave a very fine presentation on happiness and the mind-body connection. Turns out he volunteered his brain for this:

Scientists were able to follow the brain changes in monks that meditated. Matthieu Ricard? He once spent 22 hours in the course of 3 days in an MRI capsule. Once, he was in that machine for 9 hours, straight.

Here is what happens to your head:


And then they insert you.

Ricard had science to back up his home run point (all of them). Meditate, practicing loving kindness and compassion and not only will you be happy (and the world a better place), but your immune system beefs up while your stem-cells just party, they're that much more powerful.

The Matron left the conference chalk stalk and barrel-full of loving kindness! Meditation R Us! Compassion? Radiating off that van!

Until the Matron felt a bit funny. Was that a rain drop on the windshield? Why were letters unreadable - -while traveling at 60 miles an hour? Within minutes, the visual aura was steering that wheel, not the Matron.

She's had migraines before, but this aura lasted nearly an hour! For the uninitiated, disruptive streams of white light shimmer and shine, rendering vision jagged and highly inaccurate.

Then, her left hand started tingling. As in, quite a bit. Now, the Matron had received a chiropractic adjustment just that morning and she was pretty sure that the hand was vertebra related.

Still, the aura persisted and the hand throbbed and burned. But she pulled into the driveway and was steady in her step -- if not her vision.

Coming from a long line of people who drop dead without warning, the Matron wondered if this was one. So she called her clinic.

M: "So. . . ideas?"

Silence

M: "Do you think I should make an appointment?"

Nurse: "Oh no! I was trying to decide if you should call 911 or have someone drive you. Like now."

M: "Well, I can drive myself."

Nurse: "No, I really can't let you. You may not drive yourself. It's forbidden."

M: "Okay, then."

Of course we all know who wins that battle and the Matron drove to the Emergency Room. Sharp thing, she brought along everything she needed to prepare for her 8:30 am Saturday morning creative writing course.

The Matron was actually not unhappy to leave the house right before she was expected to start cooking dinner. In fact, she had badly procrastinated and had half of this left to read!

And a test and lecture to prepare! So she didn't mind (secretly) the departure. She hoped that she got plenty of time to wait!



During her two and a half hour wait, the Matron realized she was not stroking out. The tingling ceased and desisted. The eyes worked quite well. They could track the hand of that clock as it made its slooooooooooooooow round. Twice. Then half again.

But! She was a docile, compliant and uncomplaining patient . . . until exactly 21 seconds after she finished every last little bit of her work.

After inquiry and small fit that included her immediate intention to depart, somehow a room magically opened its doors for her!

Her very fine doctor convinced her that she had made the right decision! Why, she could be having TIA's, little tiny stroke precursors even as they spoke! That chiropractor (an intern even!) could've scrambled some big artery.

So she agreed to the MRI and CT scan.


And muttered and paced and swore at the gods while waiting another 45 minutes before either of those began.

And when it was her turn to get shot into that MRI bullet - and to BE Matthieu Ricard, all synchronictiy and challenge and Zen --- the moment to have your head buckled up all unavailable for your personal use, and it was 11:10 pm and the technician smiled and offered:

"Since this is a 50 minute test, I hope you'll be able to sleep."

The formerly beatific Queen of all things meditative did this:


She eventually agreed to the 20 minute shortcut to the brain.

She is fine. The Matronly brain is a lesson in perfection. All is well. But that whole loving-kindness, compassion and calm state of being?

Work in progress.

Pagan Bunny, Stranger Danger and Crowbars

This post could only be about Merrick. . . . and because the Matron has not had a single blogging second since last Thursday, this narrative is an Easter tale.

As Easter approached, Merrick expressed no small degree of concern about the very real (to him) possibility that a GIANT BUNNY --whose very existence held sufficient horror -- hops the earth in one night and "bweaks into kids' houses."

Poor Matron!   She didn't want to destroy his belief in Magic!  Mystery!  The very stuff of childhood.  Neither did she want to fuel a fantasy that involved home invasion.   She tip-toed down a middle ground, full of discourse on how Santa (because Merrick implicated him too in the break-in situation facing the world's children) and the Easter Bunny were a benevolent sort, bent only on spreading kindness and love.  Entering and Magic isn't the same as Breaking and Entering.

Then a new twist emerged:  the narrative wasn't just the bunny break-in ahead but Belief  itself

Merrick:  "The Eastaw Bunny is a stranger.  Bweaking in."  PAUSE while significant look at mother.  "and I know there is no Easter Bunny or Santa.  I know it."    Then the kicker:  "Don't lie to me."

Ah, the Matron was ready for this.  She knew full well that her little guy still sort of believed and fully wanted to believe -- just not the chain-saw hauling, bunny- but he wanted to believe.  So she told him the same story that worked so well with Scarlett and Stryker, the story that extended their faith another year, maybe two.  She told him this story with confidence.

Matron:  "The Easter Bunny and Santa are real but they're not what you think.  Santa's not a man in a red suit who travels the earth in a sled but he IS real because all the adults in the world make him real.  He's a spirit.  Same with the Easter Bunny.  S/he is real, just not in the way that you think."

Done!  Time to move onto other topics.  Life after death? Mama has a good story for that one, too, honey.

But.

Merrick:  "I KNEW IT!  The Easter bunny isn't the BUNNY breaking into ouw houses but the strange MEN that pretend they are the bunny!"

In short, Merrick was convinced --and the Matron's story sealed this -- that strange men broke into houses on Easter and Christmas, alternately stealing and delivering.  He's foggy on that.  But he's absolutely certain that evil is being done on those two nights, evil in the shape of men who 'travel the earth' and 'make the Easter bunny real' by breaking into people's houses.

No amount of lies, truth, pleading and change-of-topic could dissuade him.    His main concern at the end of the maternal consultation?  A) Finding a crowbar to sleep with  and B) setting up a video camera to capture the deed and alert the world to the terror.

Thank God-Universe-Oprah-Easter Bunny-Santa-Universe-Buddha-Allah, that the Matron was able to wrench herself away from the drama by claiming dire need for an emergency trip to the grocery store.  In reality, she hadn't yet finished her own bunny hopping.  The irony--and probably mistake --  of purchasing more peeps and chocolate for the very thing that terrorized her child was not lost on her.

She did it anyway.  Hey, she needed that chocolate bunny.

Later that night, when she tucked in her cherub the Matron understood her problem to be over.  He was serene.  Assured.  Really truly, Merrick didn't seem frightened.  Yes, he had his baseball bat, drum sticks, Nerf gun, air soft rifle and hammer handy.    Not much different from a normal night with this child.

Merrick:  "I'm okay Mom.  Really.  I don't think the bad guy will break in and pretend to be the bunny."

Matron:  "I'm so glad, sweetie.  Tomorrow will be a lovely, Celebrate-Spring sort of day.  I promise."

Merrick:  "Me too."

And when the poor, unsuspecting Matron went downstairs -- where she hadn't been for a good couple of hours -- she understood why her son went to sleep confident and secure, safe from those home invasion.

The entire first floor was duct-taped shut.  Duct tape crossed all the windows, up and down, and across.  Duct tape on the front door as high as a third-grader and a chair could reach.  Duct tape across the dog door.  Duct tape on each porch window, a meticulous web with bells attached (emergency alert, she's certain).

And the fake, scary, strange men pretending to be the Easter Bunny?  They thoughtfully left three Easter baskets on the far edge of the back yard, right by the alley, far away from the actual house.

Merrick:  "That'll teach 'em."

Emergency Intervention: Day Three

The Matron adores her youngest -- the wild child.  -- beyond all reason.  

John:  "Mary, why do you always say yes when Merrick asks to sleep in our bed?  We need to pull together on this and get that kid in his own bed, all the time!"

Matron:  "For the record, I am constitutionally incapable of refusing a late-night parental bed request from my baby.  If he asks me, he's in.  Keep me away from him after 9 pm."

Guess who sleeps with his parents?

The Matron makes light of the bedtime carousel,  but has weightier concerns.   The gun-toting, dog-loving, tree-climbing Merrick is doing poorly in math.   Not just poorly.   Emergency-level bad.  His teacher actually called for an Official Two-Parent Consult to report that he is failing math.  

Matron:  "Merrick?  What's 8 x 7?"

Merrick:  "Three?"

The situation was significantly dire that the Matron called in the big educational guns and had her son tested for a learning disability.  Nope.  But Merrick has what the psychologist calls a "perceptual black hole," a gap in his cognitive ability.   That gap?  He cannot comprehend how parts fit into a whole.

Psychologist:  "I showed Merrick a square made out of four sections, took it apart and had him put it back together.  He made a straight line.  Four times."

The psychologist reported that Merrick was a bright kid and generally strapping young man, but would benefit from individual focused instruction on how all those single digit numbers add up to ten, and the like.  So Merrick is headed for four weeks (mornings only) of Summer Academy, a reading, writing and math camp.   Starts next week!


Nobody wants to see a new fourth grader unable to add 2 + 2.  Right?


But.


In the interim, one of the Matron's wise blog readers threw yours truly for a loop.  She queried:  why send a gun-toting, dog-loving, tree-climbing nine year old to squirm in a desk all summer?  Perhaps--and the Matron is paraphrasing -- this child will thrive if he's tossed into the woods.  An all body boy might not actually bloom in school.  Thanks Suburban Correspondent!


This gave the Matron pause.  Summer school is just four weeks, mornings only, out of the 12 week vacation.    Merrick needs the instruction.  But the Matron took a hard, self-critical look at how Merrick spent his time outside of school.


In front of the television.


More and more, that child had been gravitating toward TV.  He argued at bedtime, not just about the parental bed but any - didn't want to go.  He'd been having trouble falling asleep and rising early.   Left to his own devices, he still grabbed a gun but carried it to the couch.  With chips.  

The television and computer were -- are -- superior in their cage-like capabilities.  The Matron and her husband, who both work largely from home, both need to - well -- work.   With and around their three children.  They are also stage parents, schlepping Scarlett from one show to the next, another rehearsal, audition or now voice rehabilitation.   HWCBN had baseball, debate.  Driving to school.   Teenagers -- at least theirs -- want to talk.  They require energy, tutelage and concentration.

The Matron and her husband were all offhand, been there and done that, with third-graders.  So they took the path of least resistance and let the television and computer take turns raising their child.  Things have been even worse, as of late. HWCBN is gone for most of the summer (debate institute), Scarlett is still in school (year-round all-girls school) with theatre and friends in the evenings, most of Merrick's buddies are in day-care full-time.  His only remaining reliable companion?  TV.

A few days ago, the Matron juggled all this information:  the poor behavior, problems in school, Suburban's advice, impending summer school, screen fixation, the absence of friends and siblings.    Actually, she didn't just 'juggle.'  She stood in the center of it all -- and knew.

Because she knows -- and loves -- this child.

No more TV.

On Monday, new screen rules -- okay, first ever screen rules -- were presented to Merrick.   The parents tried to keep it simple:  no television or computer from 9 am until after dinner.   Not a quick game of bowling on the wii, not just one tiny episode of The Office.  No youtube dog videos.  Nothing.   And no, it didn't matter what the older children were doing visa vie screen time.  This rule was the household rule for children, twelve and under.   Which was only him.

Friends, there were tears.  Withdrawal and denial.  He might as well have been attending his first AA meeting.   He begged, pleased, bargained, cajoled and reasoned.   That child raged about life's injustices.  He pouted in his room and swore of all of humanity.

Until . . . he remembered his tent!   Why, wasn't there a tent he could put up in the backyard?  Indeed!  The Matron could not pull out that tent fast enough.   And . . . wasn't there a big box of untouched leggos in the basement? Yes!   Here they are, darling!   Merrick speculated that Scruffy needed a bath.  Why, he could do it!   During a routine Target run, he expressed interest in a BOOK which the Matron promptly tossed in the cart, library be damned.  She was seizing that moment.  Merrick had not willingly touched anything with text in four months.

Buying band-aids, Merrick inquired about the $8 package of 100 latex gloves.

Merrick:  "Mom?  Can we buy those?  I have a couple of ideas for them."

This morning, Merrick forgot about television before nine. He had 12 solid hours of sleep under his skinny little belt, the second in a row after happily going to bed at a reasonable time -- in his own room.   That child popped awake, grabbed ten latex gloves, a cap gun, a comic book and headed to his tree for some reading and what-not.

This is Day Three.

She knows, she knows . . . she's all Pink Cloud and La-La-Land and also probably entirely discovering what everyone else already knew.  Parenting is like that.   In all honesty, less Matronly income-generating activity has taken place. There have been a few dark moments when the dogs and outdoors and no tent would suffice:  Merrick wanted just a few minutes of TV.    She couldn't even find those few minutes to attend to this blog.

The final bright side to the screen ban is that for the very first time, the Matron and her husband scheduled work hours.  One parent is fully on domestic duty and other, hunkered in an office.   So for the first time in oh so many years, the Matron hasn't been checking email and scanning online classes in every free minute.  Instead, she worked from 8 to noon Wednesday morning and will return to the trade on Friday.

Heaven.

Excuse her now.  She and Merrick are biking to the dollar store, rounding through the park on the way home, and then headed downtown St. Paul where they plan to window shop.   As God-Buddha-Allah-Oprah-Universe is her witness, window shopping was Merrick's idea.   Then Merrick has offered to help make dinner.

Sixteen years into parenting, the Matron is smart enough to know a corner that needs to be turned when she comes to one.   Not yet on the other side, but she is definitely rounding.  It feels good.

Wherein the Matron Provides Entertainment for Others

Yesterday at 7:00 pm, the Matron (still mulling over the home schooling issue) picked up Scarlett from a rehearsal at Mixed Blood to take her to an audition at the Children's Theatre . The child needed to be immediately returned to the first theater for the remainder of the evening rehearsal.

Driving! Homework! Merrick's violin lessons! Over 100 students who all turned in essays at once! Varsity debate team for HWCBN! Committee work, running the Parent Teacher Organization, yard work and that 55 lb ill-advised blood hound puppy. But here she was, driving the daughter.

Foreshadowing for disorientation.

Let's just say the Matronly head gave Regan in The Exorcist a run for its money.

But for a few minutes, yours truly was ever so organized. Before retrieving the thespian -- who had just half an hour in between commitments -- she stopped at a restaurant and ordered take out, which would be ready when she drove by after grabbing Scarlett. They arrived fifteen minutes early for the audition. The Matron remembered everything--head shots, resumes, conflict information -- oh, she had it nailed. She even brought her laptop!

Matron to Scarlett: "Break a leg, honey. I'm going to grab my laptop from the car and work while you're auditioning."

So they departed.

And the Matron could not find her van.

She knew EXACTLY where she parked. She walked by that spot 500 times, eventually reverting to clicking on the 'emergency horn' button on her keys, hoping to locate said vehicle. Every inch of that parking lot was scrutinized, every detail reviewed.

No van.

Stolen--with her laptop (and that dinner!) inside.

Calm was the first requirement. Thus composed, she dialed the number for security. A very nice older man showed up in the jeep with lights and symbols within 20 seconds. she assured him that the van was unmistakable: a green Mazda with big magnetic peace signs (blue and yellow) on the side.

They drove through all the parking lots and the neighborhoods. He consoled her. No van.

Security Guard: "This is highly unusual. We have break-ins but haven't had a theft in years. I'm really sorry! You seem pretty pulled together, considering the computer and car are both gone."

Matron: "In about two minutes, my 12 year old will come bursting through that door. I don't want to unduly alarm her. When she's gone, I'll probably cry."

They pulled up to the stage door and Scarlett emerged, with a friend and most importantly, the friend's mother (also a friend to the Matron) who knew about the stolen vehicle and was on board to shuttle Scarlett back to rehearsal and the Matron, home. Or to the psych ward.

Security Guard: "Well, it's time to call 911 and report a missing vehicle."

He got out his phone.

Matron: "Scarlett, everything is okay, but we have a small problem. Someone stole our car. It's gone."

Scarlett (screaming): "SOMEONE STOLE DAD'S NEW CAR?"

Oh, if only she had a visual. This is where the Matron collapsed into the side of the security jeep and said, "OH MY GOD. I DROVE DAD'S CAR." And not the van.

The car was right there where she left it, lap top and dinner secure.

The security guard said it was the most fun he's had at six months and nobody offered to drive her to the psych ward. Because she could drive herself.

Today's Actual Students

Today, the Matron put her best pedagogical foot forward and administered a fair, yet comprehensive, exam in class XXX. Because students did so poorly on the last exam, she also graciously offered this version as an open book!

An open book exam! In a fun and interesting class! Sounds like a party!! Compare this to calculus and well, let's all groove on that humanities thing!

Early this morning, however, calamity struck. She's sure her students were each, surprisingly, coincidentally born under the exact same astrological constellation. How unusual!

Email 1: "I am on my way to the dentist for an emergency root canal. When can I take the test?"

Email 2: "My car stalled on the highway and I'm typing from cell phone. What should I do?"

Well . . . she guesses that depends entirely on the veracity of the report.

Phone call: "My dog ran away, Mary. I need to keep looking for him. Can I take the test tomorrow?"

Email 3: "Funeral. Same time as test."

Email 4: "All of my four children are sick and I have to stay home to take care of them."

Phone call: "I lost my book!"

By the time yours truly got to the actual exam itself, she was beaten. Demoralized. Worn to a pulp and also annoyed with the extra work she just went to, setting up a second time for these absent students to take the exam. Yes, she gave them one final shot.

Just in case there really was a root canal, funeral, stalled car, sick children, lost dog and misplaced book. She's weak that way . . what if. Damn those stars.

So she was in a no-nonsense mood when the exam arrived for the students actually prepared to take it. With a book. To the Matron, this is sort of like saying: here are the answers. But she did it anyway. . .just in case that last test really was too hard.

Those students dug in. Got to work. Focused with barely a pause for a question or two. A peaceful, somewhat foreign, aura of genuine studiousness permeated the room. She began to relax.

Click, click click. Ten minutes are the test time was up, she gave the stragglers a two minute warning.

Click, click, click. The stragglers wrapped up and sort of meandered about, a few waiting to talk to the Matron. Except one, who kept on writing even as her instructor (the supposed authority figure) stood next to her and said: "really, it's time to stop."

Student Q: "I just need, like, another hour."

Matron: "Well, it's a timed exam with a grace period. That's all part of the process." Plus, the Matron had plans for that hour that did not include sitting in this classroom.

Student Q sighed deeply and shut her book: "Okay, but I did horrible."

But, there appeared to be a solution for Student Q. She handed the Matron her test and said: "You should just let me take this again tomorrow, okay?"

Now . . . the Matron isn't sure if it was the build-up -- the well-timed emergencies, the hours spent creating an exam (open book tests are tricky), the grading ahead -- or if it was just the 'you should' part that hit that wee little gas light that had ignited within her that morning.

Actually, she's pretty sure it was mostly shock that colored her reaction.

Matron: "ARE YOU KIDDING? NO. No. NO. This is a TEST which means how you actually perform on it MATTERS."

Student Q: "Well, it was just an idea. How else can I get a better grade on this test?"

Matron: "You can't! It's a test! Like Driver's Ed where if you crash you fail. The 'how can I do better' part is over!"

Student Q: "Well, the whole test situation just doesn't seem right."

Here, she was in complete agreement.

Heat

Considering the kitchen: the Matron does not excel at heat. She can make a mean salad. There's pudding, various arrangements of fruit, and wicked sandwiches (add hummus to everything!). But put something in the oven or on a burner, and well, she's sort of toast.

Here's the scene. There are noodles on the stove and a chicken in the oven.

Her husband comes home, registers the emergency and immediately resets the oven temperature and turns down the heat on the noodles.

This annoys the Matron.

"Really! I have this under control!"

Another chapter in this story:

Scarlett: "Mom? Can Dad make us popcorn? I really want popcorn! I'm DYING for popcorn."

Matron: "Dad's busy. But I can."

Scarlett: "No thank you. I don't need popcorn."

Matron: "Scarlett, I am perfectly capable of popping corn in a pan and putting butter on it. I am 47 years old, have a doctorate, have traveled the world. I can pop corn."

Scarlett: "No thank you."

Then there was the quite remarkable Thanksgiving. Stryker caught his mother putting the turkey into the oven.

Stryker: "Mom!!! Where's Dad? Please don't do this!"

Now, the Matron has not only a problem with heat but with the whole narrative of inept motherhood -- completely competent women pretend that their houses are dirty, kids out of control, dinners boiled to death. If you read a lot of blogs about mothering, you find women highlighting (extending?) their shortcomings. It's currently hip to be inept at the fundamentals. You know what she means. There's some weird sort of value in dismissing the job, in lamenting the cookies not made and dishes not done--the kid whose camp you forgot.

But the cooking and heat thing in this household? Not the dismissive or imagined shortcoming, but a genuine family battleground.

Because the Matron will die at the stove top over her right to be in control of dinner -- even a bad one -- rather than have her husband come home and revise everything she's started.

"Hey, let me stir that pot."

"I can take over the pork loins."

"Are you sure you want the steaks to stay on the pan for so long?"

Makes her crazy.

Too many cooks in your kitchen? Or are you in the one in control?

Nostalgia

When the Matron was but a Young Miss, she met her beloved John.   They were immediately simpatico.  Love had been proclaimed, cohabitation established and friends shocked –within two weeks.  That was nearly 18 years ago – so there, mother (and everyone else).

Young Miss and her future husband shared common views on nearly everything—love, art, politics, spirit and soul.  With one staggering exception:  sleeping naked.

John slept naked.  She did not.  

He always slept naked.  That man dropped his pants for a 15 minute midday nap.  Camping trip, complete with sleet and soggy sleeping bags?  Buck naked.  He simply could not catch a wink without complete exposure.  Young Miss?  After the lovemaking (and back then, in the Heyday, there was plenty), she wiggled away from his warm skin and put on his t-shirt.  Every night.

Now, with three children under their roof, not only does the Matron not sleep naked, the t-shirt has been replaced by real pajamas, should Fire or Threat of any sort require her to flee the house, herding children.  She goes to bed with an emergency mentality, slippers, phone, and eye-glasses at her side.

John still sleeps naked.   And that sexual Heyday?  Gone to seed.  But that’s another story.

This story is not actually, only about sleeping naked -- it is also about the time the then Young Miss and John decided, on a whim, to drive from Minneapolis to Chicago and spend the night with some friends of friends of friends, sort of.  Being young, they spent about one minute thinking through logistics like this   “Oooo – what CDs should we bring?” and “plain or peanut?”  before heading off without securing said lodgings.

Their attention to detail also meant that they brought no map.  This is pre-cell phone era (remember, she’s now The Matron).

Such careful planning found them driving through Chicago’s poorest, scariest, neighborhood (she’s certain none could be worse) around 2 am—with no friend of friend of friend successfully contacted or directions, secured.  They were exhausted.  Still, they drove.  They witnessed drug deals. Ignored waves for them to pull on over to the curb.  Circled around dilapidated building after dilapidated building.   They risked robbery twice to get directions at gas stations and still couldn’t understand the lay of the land.

Finally, at 3 am, the body triumphed.  They needed sleep. 

With some trepidation, they decided to secure a room at the only hotel they’d seen all night:  The Hotel Irving.  This building looked as if it had recently been fire-bombed.  The neon sign out front had lost half its letters.  The door didn’t even shut.

John carried the suitcase.   Young Miss clutched her purse.  They parked the car and ran in. 

The lobby had more in common with a prison block than hotel, right down to the cement floor and industrial yellow walls with no decoration.  A huge, bald, toothless man sat behind a bullet-proof window.   Let’s call him Squid, sort of an endearing version of Sid.

John:  “We’d like to get a room please?”

Squid:  “How many hours?”

John:   “Huh?”

Squid:   “Half an hour is $20.  A full hour is $30.”

John:  “Oh, the whole night.”

Squid lifted what appeared to be an eyebrow.   “That’s fifty bucks.”

Young Miss:  “Do you take Visa?”

Squid:   “Are you messing with me?”

Cash, only. 

The couple behind John and the Young Miss required only one hour.  The quite probably illegally young woman wore a skin tight leopard print body suit and black leather boots skirting her thigh.  The man?  He wore Eddie Bauer, a gold wedding band and guilt.  

It wasn’t until this moment that Young Miss fully understood precisely what type of ‘sleeping’ establishment she had entered.

Still, a bed waited.  They gingerly tiptoed their way through halls so filthy that Young Miss was offered a whole new appreciation of the word ‘organic.’

They took tentative steps into their room only to be felled by the wretched, rancid air coming from the heaping dumpster that sat immediately below a wide open, unscreened window.  

Young Miss:  “John?  Do you feel that?”

John:   “You mean the floor?”

The molding carpet was so filthy it was wet and went slurp, slurp under their feet.  Needless to say, the toilet had been a DNA depository for about 50 years.  The window shut but didn’t lock.  There was dried vomit on the phone, feces piled by the nightstand, and a load of rotting clothes in the corner. 

But the Young Miss was stumbling by this point, as the clock neared 4 am.   So she went to the suitcase to find:  a) clothes she didn’t care about to put on top of the bed as barrier between her body and the filth that was the bedspread and b) her heaviest coat to use as a blanket.  Her strategy for emerging intact?  No actual contact between her skin and anything in this bedroom.   She figured she could hermetically seal herself away from any physical interaction with her environment, and sleep.  She planned to throw away her shoes in the morning.

She turned from the suitcase to find John naked between the rotting sheets with his formerly desirable head on the pillow—and a look she knew well on his face.

John:  “Aren’t you even  just a little bit lovey?”

It’s okay to gasp in horror here.

Young Miss:  “We are the only people in this hotel not having sex.”  She took another look at the sheets.  “I may never have sex with you again.”

The next day, she would not kiss him good-morning or hold his hand pre-fumigation.    She left behind the clothes that she had slept on.  Turning in the key, she gave Squid a good, outraged piece of her mind and described in sharp detail the police report and health complaints she would be filing!

Squid:  “Do you have a hidden camera guy somewhere?  You can’t be for real.”

Later, they finally found friends – real friends.   Fumigation ensued. 

See her bed now?  To this day, John need only whisper “Hotel Irving” and the Matron must strip these sheets.  Sorta like a gag reaction.

 And now in the midst of a tested but true long marriage, when she watches this man shed his clothes, gleefully climb into bed and pitch that ever-hopeful question:  “Aren’t you just a little bit lovey”? she’s not infrequently returned to the Hotel Irving, one of the earliest stops on their shared, sometimes disgusting, life adventure. 

 ~*~*~*~*~*~

The Matron wrote this long ago when she was less busy; some day, it will appear in the Women's Colony, she anticipates!