Friday, June 15, 2012

why can't Little C stand for CORNDOG?

Our air conditioner 'crapped itself' this week (Michael's technical term for everything that breaks).  On Monday there was a nice surprise of wet stinky carpet in the basement because something was leaking from the a/c.  Michael did some investigating and found a hole in one of the coils, called the a/c repair dudes and told them what part to order, and then rigged it up so that we could use it short term while waiting on the part. 

I got a call from Michael sometime around 10 and the first thing he said was 'are you dressed?' so I knew right away the a/c repair dudes were on their way.  And yes, I happened to be dressed.  Morgan wasn't.  She was nakey sitting on her potty at that moment.  So I had to encourage her to hurry and finish (plus took a picture of her sitting on the potty to text to my best friend Paul to gross him out...), clean the potty out, get her in some clothes, kick the cats out of the way, and get downstairs just in time to open the door for the repair dudes. 

Sometime during all of this, one of my doctors called and left an urgent message.  The Little C titer is increasing.  The antibody levels are getting 'critical.'  She encouraged me to call back as soon as possible so we could set up an appointment Monday in Pittsburgh for a special ultrasound to check the baby's brain for blood levels to see if he's anemic yet.  I called Michael, freaking out a bit, because that's what I do.  Then in the middle of trying to call my doctor back I hear 'Mrs. McCumbers?' from the basement so I had to hang up and go write a $381 check for a/c repairs (seriously?!  $381?!?  OUCH!!!) and tell them thank you while trying not to inhale the sickening smell of the snuff the repair dude is sucking on. 

I spend the next ten minutes trying to call my doctor.  That office is always ridiculously busy, like they seriously need to hire more people to answer the phone.  During the 5th attempt to call, I had an incoming call.  It was the doctor's office!  They were actually calling me back.

Wow, I felt important.

This time it was a nurse instead of the doctor, which is unfortunate because I would have liked to have asked some questions.  But she told me that my doctor called and talked to the doctor in Pittsburgh and they set up an appointment for Monday at 1 for an ultrasound.

Let me just vent for a moment....

Months ago we met with one of the specialists in Pittsburgh.  Super nice doctor!  And he assured us that the chance of my levels increasing were VERY slim and we wouldn't have anything to worry about.


...that 'very slim chance' is happening. 

Not the doctor's fault, I know that.  But I'm still irritated.  And I'm freaking out a little.  Because that's what I DO.  Have you met my family?  And have you seen my family members in a stressful situation?  It's almost comical honestly.  One time our chimney caught on fire and while my dad was on the roof checking it out, my mom threw my brothers and me out in the snow in our pajamas with the box full of family photos from the closet while she called the fire department and screamed at them 'I don't KNOW where I live!!!!!  Just get here!!'


So I texted all of my friends to give them an update and because I needed their moral support (I really do have some amazing friends) and now I'm on an adrenaline high.  I've got to get my house cleaned!  I've got to get bags packed!  My mom is on red alert.  My local friends are on standby in case we need help with Morgan...what if we find out Monday he's anemic and has to be born right away for a blood transfusion?  Crazy! 

So this weekend I'll be cleaning like crazy.  The doctor said he will probably be born next week since the antibody levels have increased.  The longer he stays in there, the higher the chance of him becoming anemic.  Plus he's already a fatty, he's cooked enough in my opinion.  I'm tired of finding new stretch marks every day.

One of my friends texted me with 'boys are a pain in our butts from the beginning' which made me laugh. 

All I can say is that Jack had better be the easiest baby ever after he's born.

And I really really want a corn dog.  Random, I know.

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