Medically speaking ...

So tomorrow is Friday, the final day of our 'involuntary' vacation, with Don underfoot for the past two weeks. In some ways it's been wonderful, having another grown-up around to keep an eye on the kids while I got to do the things that needed to get done without two kids in the way (like cleaning out and reorganizing the basement, cleaning out and reorganizing the attic, dousing all of my fabric-covered living room furniture in upholstery cleaner because it smelled like a dog, etc.). It felt good to accomplish those things, to get my blood moving, to see immediate results. In other ways, however, it was rather odd to have him around so much. I realized that I have carved out a niche here, created a routine of sorts that works for me each day ... and having another body in the way kind of upset the subtle workings of my house-machine. But that's just me ... picky-picky.

My mom saw her oncologist today and he's pleased with her progress. He said it is very, very good that this second bout of cancer is completely unlike the first; apparently, if you repeat the same kind of tumor, it's not so good. The only baffling thing is that he has no idea where this new tumor came from. It's so new, so unusual, so unprecedented that he (as well as other doctors in his circle) has no idea what to make of it. But the course of treatment is the best that can be offered and prognosis is good. He wants to run some kind of genetic test to see if there's a mutation involved, and that's coming up soon. Phew ... this is one of these situations where I say, "I'm glad I'm adopted!" But then again, I have no idea what's floating around in my own gene pool ...

Speaking of doctors, I made an appointment today with the only pediatric surgeon in the area that participates in our insurance plan. Oh, there's a slew of them in New York City, but I am not about to drive over there by myself for a consultation. I hate, loathe, despise driving in "big cities" and will avoid it at all costs. OK, correct that ... if my son's health is at stake, of course I'd bite the proverbial bullet and brave the jungle, but since there is one doctor on this side of the river, I'm jumping on that one first. I checked him out online and he was listed in some book about "Best Doctors," and he's in a very fine hospital. But still ... the thought of my boy needing surgery makes me positively nauseous and my eyes fill with tears instantaneously. The consultation is next Wednesday afternoon.

We have a beagle -- a very sturdy, tough, manly kind of dog. A dog who was bred centuries ago to hunt, to eat the raw meat of its prey. A dog who is loyal to the death. Our beagle, Jack, looks like the perfect specimen of his breed, a handsome dog. A dog who has an allergy ... to grass. Sheesh. Grass?! Yes, at the age of about 3, when late spring turned into summer he started licking his paws incessantly, ripping off the fur until they were red and raw. Vet after vet recommended various remedies, from steroids to oatmeal baths, and every year at the turn of the season we knew what to expect. This year we thought a miracle occurred, as we walked through summer time with extremely minimal licking. Until this past week ... he just won't stop. Drat. Now Jack is on Benadryl. It feels odd to feed him Benadryl, slathered in peanut butter ...

I should be a doctor. With all the maladies going on lately, at least I'd get my money's worth.