Whatever that means, particularly as applied to any offspring of mine. To be more specific, her brain is normal (although mine may be permanently stewed by the last week month year of anxiety), according to the MRI, Dr. T., and a collection of other initials too numerous to mention.
Whew.
Maybe it was the successful Christmas pudding (more on that later).
Maybe it was the continued outpouring (inpouring?) of lurv and support from my grrls and my dollfriends and my Scrogues and everyone.
Maybe I’m just sick of my morbid, joy-sucking self.
Or maybe… it was this:
Last week Nora had an exam with a pediatric ophthalmologist, Dr. M___. (note: somehow we have lucked into the elite group of pediatric specialists here in town; the ones who, when you mention their names, people say “how did you get in?” or “wow, s/he’s the best”) He diagnosed her ever-diminishing eye flicker, confirmed that her smaller range of focus might indeed be a factor in her late walking leading to late talking blah blah blah, and told us that it was imperative that we determine exactly when the nystagmus (googly eye) had first appeared. Before four months: congenital, not a problem, eventually correctable if it persists or bothers her. After four months: acquired, due to an underlying condition, usually a brain tumor or lesion of the central nervous system.
Technically, she has congenital nystagmus, which is already fading away. But it’s good to know the prognosis and that there are treatments if it persists; for now, we just let ‘em wiggle. It may well be a contributing factor to her late walking, which very likely affected her late talking, which may… oh what the hell.
I don’t give a rat’s ass about any of that any more. Because today, before it was ruled out, I heard the words “possible brain tumor or lesion” in relation to my daughter’s health. And I am different now.
… here’s my first outing, circa 1997. Of course, we weren’t married yet, so I suppose it would be “corporate chick-with-whom-he’s-shacking-up.”
Eyeliner, anyone? I had enough and to spare.
Reaching back into the distant past… lately I’ve been thinking about everything Kathy the Shop Supervisor of the Gods taught me. About good work, craftsmanship, precision, problem-solving, planning ahead; it’s an impressive list, and anything I failed to absorb is solely my fault, not hers.
I just realized: tomorrow is the spouse’s corporate Christmas party. I have things to wear, I have stockings, I have coordinating lipstick. What I don’t have: a voice. Once again my voice has completely disappeared at the tail end of a cold.
So it’s smile and shake hands, I guess. Not that big a difference, really.
(edited to add) Damn it, I sound like a bar hag.
(edited to add) Damn it all to hell, now I sound like a leaking balloon.
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