So MastaG and I trekked out to the allergist today, where we learned… nothing.
Seriously.
He said “Looks like contact dermatitis”, which, ironically, is exactly what I told the lady when I made the appointment. He admitted not knowing much about Henna allergies and PPD sensitivity, and said he’d look it up and call me, but told me that theres not a chance of sensitivity coming from this exposure, which kinda flies against some of the internet reading I’ve done.
So, whatever. I spent hours on the phone getting the freakin insurance referral set up, because the bums at the peds office suck at things like communicating to patients, and whatnot, and finally got the appt, and learn nothing useful when I get there. MastaG’s healing nicely, the scar probably won’t be that ugly, and he certainly hasn’t shown any signs that this thing is anything but a case of contact dermatitis.
Not to say that I’m bitching, because I certainly feel much better about things than I did a week ago, and it wasn’t any skin of my back to make a few phone calls and miss a little bit of work.
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.
Wingnut is on his second round of antibiotics in so many weeks[edit: 3rd in three weeks] all for a hardy ear infection. He appears to have picked up a runny nose from Lugnut. Eaves and I were up with him off and on last night. To make matters worse, the antibiotic has upset his stomach. On the bright side, we’re using cloth diapers now so we don’t have to throw away those diapers he’s blowing through. :)
Then there’s Lugnut who had to come home early from nursery school yesterday. He has the afore mentioned head cold. Right now he’s lounging on the couch. No he’s up and wants to play with the dog. Now he has a flash light.
October has a fouled up ear lobe from one of her new earrings.
Spotz and the Missus are wearing biohazard suits and I also have our friendly head cold which I’ll name, Reginald, or Reggie for short.
The roots of Molar #14 have been canaled and packed with rubber.
I thought today’s work would finish the saga of Molar# 14, but I was wrong. I will have to go to my regular dentist so that he can put a permanent filling in the tooth.
You wouldn’t believe the different smells that are associated with a root canal. There’s the burnt smell of the drilled tooth. Then the smell of the exposed root (lovely). Surprisingly enough the rubber packing smells like cloves when its melted into place. (One of the dental hygienists could have been smoking a clove cigarette I suppose.)
I was most disappointed that no heroic measures, like the endodontist bracing his foot against my shoulder, were taken. Alas and alack.
The New York Times has an ominous report about children born with Down Syndrome and prenatal genetic testing.
Until this year, only pregnant women 35 and older were routinely tested to see if their fetuses had the extra chromosome that causes Down syndrome. As a result many couples were given the diagnosis only at birth. But under a new recommendation from the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, doctors have begun to offer a new, safer screening procedure to all pregnant women, regardless of age.
What happens with this information? The Times reports that,
About 90 percent of pregnant women who are given a Down syndrome diagnosis have chosen to have an abortion.
Freakish and so is this,
as prenatal tests become available for a range of other perceived genetic imperfections, they may also be heralding a broader cultural skirmish over where to draw the line between preventing disability and accepting human diversity.