Atomictumor

Last night, I was watching Gimme Shelter about the Altamont concert, the bookend on the left side of that whole hippie movement, with its scenes of fear, ugliness, and brutality.  A buncha people my age, drunk, drugged up, wanting to listen to some Jefferson Airship and Rolling Stones, while Hells Angels and other thugs beat the hell out of people with pool sticks and chains, and ultimately stab a guy to death for pulling out a pistol.

Ugly scene, man.  After my time at Bonnaroo, I can relate to the fear that those people’d have if a crowd like that went sideways.  Pressed in, no way out, trying to have eyes on all sides just to make sure some crazy, speedfreak drunk doesn’t jump you and kick all your teeth out.  The only security are the people doing the kicking, and all the bands can do is say things like “Lets just all be cool, people, lets be cool and we’ll play some more music.”

Bad juju.

Its probably not what I needed on my psyche last night, after the week I’ve had, lemme tell you…

I’m stressing about the boy, folks, with worse case scenarios rolling around in my head, drilling a hole through my stomach.  I spent the last few weeks, month even, in a happier state than I’ve been in in a long, long time, but one credible risk to one of my kids, and man, its back down to ‘charlie in the trees’ kinda stress.

He’s feeling fine, had no physiological symptoms to his reaction other than the contact dermititis where the ink was on him and some slight swelling, which the doc said was normal for an allergic reaction, but I’m willing to bet that the allergist I’m trying to get a referral to is going to say that he has a PPD allergy, which will be a lifetime sensitivity riding around his neck like a rabid albatross.  All because I agreed with him and Pigpen that it’d be cool to get a big tattoo.  And it did look cool too people, lemme tell you.

The stress is getting to me, tho, and I’m having a hard time shaking it off.  I’m snapping at people for minor transgressions, both real and imaginary, my shoulders are tense, and no matter how much I stretch, or meditate, or use those techniques I’ve honed to settle my ass down, the knot is still there in my stomach, and my shoulders ache.

After I see the allergist, I’m telling myself I’ll feel better.  Maybe get the kids spending the night at the in-laws (who I completely forgot to inform of this until last night, something that adds another level of guilt to my situation) this weekend, and I can silently freak out for a while and get it out of my system.  Or drink heavily.  One or the other.

I’m telling myself that MastaG feels fine, and that I’m overthinking the issue.  That even if it is an allergy to PPD, it’ll just mean that there will be a finite list of things, hair dye (if his hair ends up as black as mine, hair dye won’t really be an issue), nail polish (no emo kids in my house), some black dyes on t-shirts and such (I already wash shirts before anybody wears em).

I’m telling myself that its just a small matter, an allergic reaction that might never come back.  But I keep remembering how BJ and I agreed that she had the flu, and even when we took her to the ER that Thursday, we were just going to get some fluids in her, maybe some medicine, and she’d be home.

Then I think of the next day, the Friday when I first heard “life-threatening”, and I realize that there won’t be a time in my life when my loved ones are sick that I’ll take easily.

So, uh, how did you guys spend your fourth?

Lugnut followed me into the bedroom yesterday where I went looking for something. A diaper, perhaps, I don’t remember what it was now.

That’s when I heard this familiar tune. Bum, Bum, Bum, Bom, Ba, Bum, Bom, Ba, Bum. Then came the follow up in a higher pitch. Bum, Bum, Bum, Bay, Bah, Bum, Bah, Bay, Bum.

It was Lug humming the Darth Vader song.