Is it Thanksgiving?
For, in our nest grows a young
Turkey stuffed with love
After daily administration of 10 ounces of the mysterious, magical, overpriced ($32.00 per can) formula that our gut doctor prescribed, Miss Ella gained a pound in ten days. She now weighs 11 pounds, which is almost as big as the small turkey we ate during Thanksgiving last year.
She is grabbing at things, laughing at her mom, and becoming increasingly restless in the car seat. We went to Poughkeepsie this weekend to celebrate my youngest brother's graduation, and both Mary and I have concluded that trips lasting more than an hour or two are more difficult than they’re worth.
Whenever she is not eating, she craves to be entertained, whether by rattling keys, glowing cell phones, or bouncing dads. I have started holding her as if she is flying, which she seems to enjoy quite a bit. Of course, if she keeps devouring her formula, soon she will be larger than that bohemoth of a Thanksgiving turkey the President pardons each year.
I guess, then, I better start working out.
Grass, sticks, and cool air
Have been balanced in a new
Food pyramid. Yum.
Last Thursday, Mary, Ella, and I found ourselves in various states of frustration at the doctor’s office. Ella’s cause of discomfort was perfectly understandable: she had a shallow biopsy of the colon, which, I imagine, would make even Mike Tyson squirm in his chair. Because infants lack mature nerve endings in their lower intestine, the gastroenterologist claimed she wouldn’t experience pain, just a bit of pressure.
Perhaps, he told the truth. Even though we weren’t able to watch the procedure, we didn’t hear her shrieking except when the nurse tried to put a diaper on her. On some days, Ella hates diapers; when we try covering her nakedness, she wriggles like a greased frog with one leg glued to a lily pad. She is becoming quite the nudist.
Our frustration was far more benign than a shallow butt biopsy. Our appointment was scheduled for 9:15. We arrived at 9:13. We saw Ms. Lindsey Wilson, our doctor’s nurse, at 10:23. The doctor strolled in at about 11:00. Because we wanted to arrange to have the biopsy the same day, we sat around for another few hours.
We didn’t get home until about 4:45. Talk about a full-time job.
We did learn that the doctor suspects Ella has a severe food allergy. Mary has to cut all dairy, soy, shellfish, and nuts from her diet. For the next few months, my wife will be subsisting on grass, twigs, and air.
Which means I will be as well.
There once was a lady from B-more
Who sold us cheap health care at our door.
With a nod and a smile,
She ran off with our file,
And now we’re caught in a red-tape war.
Insurance companies employ the most incompetent and inefficient bums on the planet. The organizational structure seems designed by banana-drunk apes. Such companies are where successful businesses send their inept middle managers to push paper. Never have I experienced such a colossal waste of human potential...
...Except, that is, when I’m called for jury duty.
To waste precious time
Is the American Way:
Fill out this form please.
Six-feet of cool soil
Covers a small pine coffin
The box is empty
Ella is shrinking...
...and for the past week, Mary and I have been haunted by thoughts of buzzing hospital rooms, chronic wasting illnesses, and small pine coffins.
In the past month, Ella has only gained 6 oz., which has caused her to plummet from the 75th percentile of weight to the 5th. After a series of genetic and metabolic tests, the doctors have ruled out the more heart-breaking genetic maladies like cystic fibrosis.
When the pediatric geneticist told us she thought Miss Ella had CF, she made us promise not to do any research about the disease online until we knew the results of the Sweat Test. As Mary said, that’s like saying, “Don’t think of a red-faced monkey.”
So, after a few hours hitting the Google Button on the Internet machine, we came to two conclusions:
1. Because 30 years is the average life span of someone plagued by the rising tides of mucus symptomatic CF, Ella Bella would have the most amazing 31 years of life possible; we would travel the globe; we would climb the tallest mountains; we would show her what a magnificent place this world is.
and
2. Despite our own reluctance about the prospect of being buried beneath six feet of cold earth upon our death, we could not cremate her body. We would make a pine coffin, carved with the love that she would never again feel.
With a three-month-old daughter, who the hell would ever think you would have to contemplate such horror? We should be worried about whether she could roll over off the bed, whether her diaper is soiled and needs changing, whether those tears are because she has painful gas or is just hungry. But, no, for the past week, Mary and I were plagued by nightmare scenarios.
The tests were negative, however.
Which, on one hand is reassuring because Ella will not be cursed with a shortened life beset with pulmonary issues. Yet, the doctors still have no idea why she is shrinking, why she is pale and anemic, why our daughter is not gaining weight. We see a pediatric gastroenterologist next week, and hopefully, he’ll have some theories—theories more realistic than mine—
—I think she has a tapeworm.