Friday, March 11, 2005
The Existential Marsupial
Cassie has been limping for over a month. For as long as I remember, she's been sore after a hard run at the ranch, but this time she didn't get better. Two weeks ago, I took her to the vet. I had to leave her for the day so that she could be sedated for X-rays, and when I came for her at the end of the day I had both kids in tow. While we waited for the vet, I tried to engage Max in a game of "I Spy" and hoped that the fishtank would hold Boo's interest.
As Max would say, "Silly mommy!" From the moment we arrived, the boys were bent on destroying the sitting room. By the time Dr. Wilkie emerged from an examining room, I was lurching from child to child in a futile attempt to contain their restless energy. Max was busy disassembling the nesting toys and dropping wooden animal statues on the floor, while Reed was preoccupied with the cords, plugs and miscellaneous electronics associated with the fishtank. I was so distracted that I barely glanced at the doctor when she delivered the verdict on Cassie: hip dysplasia.
Had I been alone, my mind would have raced with a dozen questions about the diagnosis and prognosis and treatment options. But not this day. This day I just wanted to stem the damage by strapping the kids into their carseats. Once I'd gotten home and turned the boys out into the backyard, the questions about Cassie began to surface in my brain. I called the vet and left a message.
When Dr. Wilkie returned my call, she was quick to ask whether, from a kid standpoint, it was a good time for me to talk. "Sure," I said. But here's what Dr. Wilkie didn't see.
As soon as I got on the phone, Max's radar--the one that alerts him when I'm paying attention to someone other than him--evidently began to squeal. Max climbed onto a barstool, walked across the kitchen island, shimmied around my shoulders, and slid down my back and legs. Picture mommy as human jungle gym. Now repeat. Repeat again. Repeat several more times. Eventually Max tired of this game. On his last trip across the island, he scooted around my shoulders, wrapped his arms around my neck and hung, quietly suspended, while I conversed with Dr. Wilkie:
- How far along is the hip dysplasia?
- Severe, I'm afraid.
- What are our treatment options?
- Hip surgery or anti-inflammatories for pain relief until she can no longer walk.
- If she has hip replacement surgery, what will her quality of life be like? Will she be able to chase birds at the ranch again?
- She should be good as new, or, in her case, better than new, since she's probably been suffering with painful joints most of her life.
-What are the pros and cons of doing the surgery sooner vs. later?
The conversation continued in this vein for several more minutes. I did my best to ignore the constriction around my throat and to concentrate on getting the information Lee and I would need to make some decisions about Cassie's care. When I hung up, Max was still clinging to my neck.
"Mommy, I'm being a koala bear. Would you carry me to the living room? That's why I'm here."
As Max would say, "Silly mommy!" From the moment we arrived, the boys were bent on destroying the sitting room. By the time Dr. Wilkie emerged from an examining room, I was lurching from child to child in a futile attempt to contain their restless energy. Max was busy disassembling the nesting toys and dropping wooden animal statues on the floor, while Reed was preoccupied with the cords, plugs and miscellaneous electronics associated with the fishtank. I was so distracted that I barely glanced at the doctor when she delivered the verdict on Cassie: hip dysplasia.
Had I been alone, my mind would have raced with a dozen questions about the diagnosis and prognosis and treatment options. But not this day. This day I just wanted to stem the damage by strapping the kids into their carseats. Once I'd gotten home and turned the boys out into the backyard, the questions about Cassie began to surface in my brain. I called the vet and left a message.
When Dr. Wilkie returned my call, she was quick to ask whether, from a kid standpoint, it was a good time for me to talk. "Sure," I said. But here's what Dr. Wilkie didn't see.
As soon as I got on the phone, Max's radar--the one that alerts him when I'm paying attention to someone other than him--evidently began to squeal. Max climbed onto a barstool, walked across the kitchen island, shimmied around my shoulders, and slid down my back and legs. Picture mommy as human jungle gym. Now repeat. Repeat again. Repeat several more times. Eventually Max tired of this game. On his last trip across the island, he scooted around my shoulders, wrapped his arms around my neck and hung, quietly suspended, while I conversed with Dr. Wilkie:
- How far along is the hip dysplasia?
- Severe, I'm afraid.
- What are our treatment options?
- Hip surgery or anti-inflammatories for pain relief until she can no longer walk.
- If she has hip replacement surgery, what will her quality of life be like? Will she be able to chase birds at the ranch again?
- She should be good as new, or, in her case, better than new, since she's probably been suffering with painful joints most of her life.
-What are the pros and cons of doing the surgery sooner vs. later?
The conversation continued in this vein for several more minutes. I did my best to ignore the constriction around my throat and to concentrate on getting the information Lee and I would need to make some decisions about Cassie's care. When I hung up, Max was still clinging to my neck.
"Mommy, I'm being a koala bear. Would you carry me to the living room? That's why I'm here."
1 Comments:
I imagine that some days life would be simpler if you were equipped with a pouch... or two.
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