On Friday morning I knew I had to see Dr. Looove. I’d thrown up all night, and the pain in my upper abdomen was really intense. After sweating in bed all morning, I went into her office. The first thing she had me do was pee in a cup. This is where I tell you all I AM NOT PREGNANT. I knew I wasn’t and it was confirmed by the pee test. So THERE to everyone who doubted me…MOM.

Anyway. Dr. Loove’s exam consisted of the usual stuff, then she had my lay on my back so she could press on various parts of my stomach. Holy. Hell. That hurt like a mofo. She ruled out appendicitis, then had her nurse come in to draw some blood. Luckily for everyone involved, I didn’t faint! After the blood draw, Dr. Looove came back into my room to say she suspected I had gastritis, but the blood tests would help confirm and/or rule out other stuff. She put me on the BRAT diet (Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, Toast) and sent me home. Upon arriving home, I vomited, and then passed out on the couch.

I woke up about four hours later to a phone call from Dr. Loove that confirmed the gastritis diagnosis. Mike convinced me to eat something, and went into the kitchen to get me a snack. About two minutes later I heard a crash and then a scream. Mike came running out of the kitchen and I could see blood dripping from his hand. One look at his pinky finger and I announced we were going to the emergency room. On Friday Night, at 9:30pm. WITH ANNABEL. And don’t forget, I’m still barfing.

We managed to get to the ER in one piece. I sent Mike in to register while I grabbed Annie out of the car. Annie thought this night time trip was just about the coolest thing EVER, and couldn’t stop shouting and squealing to express her glee. As you can probably guess, that didn’t make her popular in a waiting room full of the ill and injured.

I am too young to understand what decorum means!

Mike was taken back right away, since his cut was deep enough that it was spurting blood. That left me in the waiting room with my upset stomach, a pounding headache and Miss Excited. I sent a text message to my cousin Leah who said she’d come right over. I knew I had to get Annabel out of there, but I didn’t want to leave Mike alone. Then the decision was taken out of my hands.

All over the emergency room, signs are posted warning to stay away if you have the flu or flu-like symptoms. I saw the signs but thought nothing of them since I didn’t have the flu. But while I was sitting in the waiting room chairs, trying to get Annie to SIT DOWN for the 187th time, I felt a wave hit me, and I knew I was going to puke. There wasn’t time to ask where the bathroom was. All I managed to do was make it to the nearest trash can – the trash can that just happened to be in front of the admitting desk.

The two nurses and security guard jumped backward, surprised. One of the nurses asked me if I was OK. The security guard looked at me suspiciously and said, “Ma’am, do you have…THE FLU?”

First of all, don’t call me ma’am, it makes me feel old.

I told him no, and that I’d been to the doctor just a few hours earlier and all my blood work had show up clean. The other nurse was sympathetic but stern.

“I’m sorry, but we have a lot of patients here with compromised immune systems, as well as pregnant women, and we can’t put them at risk for the flu. Unless your symptoms are severe and you need to be seen by a doctor, we need you to go outside, honey.”

I looked back at where Annabel was emptying the contents of my purse onto the waiting room floor. Leaving would probably save every one’s sanity. I sent texts to Leah and Mike telling them we were leaving and why, and then hit the road with Annie.

I stopped to barf on the way home.

Mike arrived back at the apartment about two hours later. Leah had stayed with him the whole time, even when HE GOT NINE STITCHES (Leah is awesome). I instantly stopped feeling guilty about leaving him there. Had I been in the room when he’d had the stitches put in, I’d have fainted. You know how I feel about stitches! And I have to look at it every day to change the dressing:

I am practically a doctor.

You’re welcome for sparing you the gory stitches picture. Shudder

He has to get his stitches removed in seven to ten days. The sight of nine stitches in his finger will plague me for seven to ten YEARS. Meanwhile, I am still barfing, my stomach still hurts, and Annabel thinks this weekend has been the coolest party of her life.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

When you find out you’re going to have a baby girl, your mind goes to all the cute little shoes and dresses you can give them, the games they’ll play, the hair you can braid. You don’t think about the diapers and the spit up and the boogers. And you ESPECIALLY don’t think about how they can get baby periods and yeast infections.

YES. YES. Baby girls (usually when they are fresh outta the oven) can have some period-like blood. But I don’t care about that. I care about the YEAST INFECTIONS. Because Annie…Annie had one.

So, as you may be aware, Annie had pneumonia a couple months back, and she was on antibiotics for weeeeeks. If you’re a woman reading this, you’re like, “oh girl, I been there! Preach!” But if you are my dad and the other dudes who read this site, you don’t know that sometimes antibiotics can cause yeast infections in women (maybe this is true in men, too, I don’t know, I’m only an Internet Lady Doctor). But when a baby gets a yeast infection, she gets a raaaaaaging case of diaper rash.

We tried everything – the different diaper rash creams, organic gunk, medicated powders, the works. Every time we tried something new, the rash went away. And then it would pop back up about five days later, looking meaner and even more pissed off. When Annie started crying during diaper changes (something she never does) we knew it was time to take her to Dr. Looove for some actual medical help.

Dr. Looove took one look at the diaper rash and diagnosed it as a yeast infection. And then she said, “to treat it, put Lamisil on the rash twice a day.”

I was like, “……….the…..athlete’s foot cream?” and then I realized that Lamisil isn’t just ANY athlete’s foot cream. It is the one with the disgusting animated nail infection spokes-creature:

I flashed back to when I lived with my friends Jackie! & Bella and they’d call me into the living room only to make me see the foul commercial where the monster crawls underneath the big toe in the background.

I was supposed to rub this cream…on my daughter’s vagina. And I’ll be damned if that stupid monster creature wasn’t on the box, smirking at me and whispering “tooooooe fuuuuuuuuunguuuuuuus.”

Mike was even less pleased by his daughter’s “athlete’s vagina,” and would go “ew ew ew ew ew” whenever he had to apply the cream.

After administering the cream twice a day for three freaking weeks (as directed), her rash went away. Dr. Looove is so smart, it’s like she’s been through years and years of schooling.

I am traumatized for life. No one told me this could happen!!! What other gross things do I need to be prepared for?!

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

We had a WEEKEND.

Annabel’s pneumonia didn’t react to the antibiotics. Her fever rose every day, and she couldn’t keep anything down. So on Saturday we headed off to the weekend Urgent Care at Dr. Looove’s office.

Sitting in the waiting room, I of course remembered the trips to the urgent care I took with Maddie. I kept reminding myself that things were different. It also “helped” that Annie cried the whole time we were in the waiting room. I spent the majority of our time there trying to comfort my poor Bel.

The weekend doc was equally concerned over Annie’s condition, and ordered more x-rays. Holding Annie still in precisely the right place for the x-rays was almost impossible. She was crying and wiggling and looking at us with big “why are you doing this to me?!” eyes. It was miserable for all of us.

While we waited for the x-ray results the nurse measured Annie’s pulse ox. Annie was (of course) crying during the measurement (which was taken through her foot with a painless sensor, but Drama Annie voiced her displeasure nonetheless) and it came out in the 90s. Thank goodness!

Weekend Doc eventually returned with the results of her x-ray: no improvement from her previous x-ray. But, on the bright side, it wasn’t a WORSE scan! Cup half-full and all that. Weekend Doc decided to give Annie an antibiotic shot as a kick-start, and an additional antibiotic to add to the arsenal.

Oh, and the shot? Was in her BUTT. And she was sleeping when she got it. I’m sure you can imagine how fun THAT was for her (and us). Poor baby.

Since the shot Annie has done a LOT of fitful sleeping. Mike, Rigby, and I are very tired. The good news is that Annie’s fever finally broke on Sunday! I am so relieved. She has seemed SO much more comfortable and has even been up to playing with her toys and, most importantly, eating!

We have another appointment scheduled for Tuesday, where Annabel will have more chest x-rays. Fingers crossed she continues to improve… I can’t handle too many more days of my stress level being at 100.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Dr. Looove emailed me this morning and told me to bring Annabel into her office (she’s cool like that). Annie’s demeanor had changed overnight, she was hotter and listless and definitely not herself. An exam revealed a fever, red ears and restricted breathing, so Dr. Looove ordered a breathing treatment and chest x-rays.

The nurse came into the room with a nebulizer and a pulse oximeter. I don’t know why, but I wasn’t expecting the pulse ox. While she struggled to put the meter on my sick, wiggly baby, I was transported back to the last time I’d been in that office with Maddie.

The pulse ox (which measures how much oxygen is in the bloodstream) showed that Annie had a number in the 80s. The breathing treatment didn’t much improve things, nor did the weird positions we had to pin her in for her x-rays. At one point her pulse ox spiked to 96, but then it quickly fell back down into the 80s.

After the nurses tried several times to get a better pulse ox reading, Dr. Looove called them off. We went home with an antibiotic, a breathing treatment, and an appointment for a follow-up 24 hours later. So, we still don’t know what is up other than we have a very sick little girl on our hands.

The entire time we were in Dr. Looove’s office, I felt sick to my stomach. I knew Annie would be OK. I just couldn’t stop thinking about being there with Maddie. Both girls were lethargic, crying, and wiggly. Both had low oxygenation that a breathing treatment didn’t improve. Just writing this post has my heart racing and my head pounding. I’m doing a horrible job of describing this.

When we got home, I held Annie while she slept fitfully. I cried and cried. I got to take my Annie home. Why not my Maddie, too?

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Annabel is still sick. STILL. SICK. Sneeze, cough, off and on fever. Which means she looks like this all the time:

Which leaves me looking like this:

I’m sexy.

Annie’s fever hit 101 yesterday, which is the highest it’s gone during either of her illnesses. I guess I should be worried…I don’t know. Obviously having a fever isn’t the greatest, but she isn’t lethargic and her appetite is mostly normal. She’s just cranky as hell so we’re ALL miserable.

With Maddie, it was always very clear when we should take her to the doctor. And strangely, Maddie never got ear infections or little bugs – just respiratory infections. We just aren’t really sure WHEN we should take a non-preemie to the doctor. The first sign of illness bought Madeline a trip to the doctor. With Annie, I know she is much more stable so I hesitate, not wanting to be the alarmist parent. Dr. Looove would never mind or fault us for being alarmist, so I don’t know what I’m worried about….UGH. My gut is all over the place. My instincts tell me to RUN to the emergency room, but I just can’t. I can’t go into an emergency room with one of my babies again, since the last time I did I didn’t bring my baby home. I’m too scared.

I don’t know what to do.

I guess if it IS time to take Annie to the doctor that means I have to take off the t-shirt and boxers in favor of something slightly more socially acceptable. BOOO.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

So you guys remember my stye?

the first day

getting worse

Yeah, that one. I named it Stye Stallone. So, the antibiotics I was on didn’t make Stye Stallone go away. I called Dr. Looove back last Friday and she told me I needed to see an ophthalmologist immediately to have it lanced and drained. So, I psyched myself up, and off I went.

Except, the ophthalmologist who saw me on Friday decided my eye was too swollen to do anything, and prescribed me eye drops and eye wipes, and told me to use lots of hot compresses. If Stye Stallone didn’t go away, I was to come back on Tuesday. I was like, “YES! NO SCALPEL!” and went on my way.

Sunday morning I looked like this:

The whole left side of my face throbbed with every beat of my heart. I had to sleep sitting up because if my head was too low it felt like my face might explode. I kept using the wipes and drops and heat. Annie would look at me and point.

Yesterday, I looked like this:

Do you see that white shiny spot? That is a STRETCH MARK. The whole left side of my head hurt. I had to exert effort to open my eye that much. The skin also itched from being stretched so much. We had to take Annie in for her one-year check up, and the second Dr. Looove saw my eye, she had her assistant call the eye center to get me in immediately.

I saw a different ophthalmologist (who looked like a Ken doll) and begged him to remove Stye Stallone. He said that normally these things are drained by flipping the eyelid inside out, but my eye was too swollen for that. So, he had to go in through the top.

BUT FIRST Dr. Ken had to numb my eye and eyelid. I had numbing drops, and then a few minutes later Dr. Ken came at me with a needle to numb the skin. He said, “Look to your right. When you feel a needle prick, DO NOT MOVE. The needle is very close to your eye and I don’t want to stab it.”

OH EM GEE.

After about ten minutes, it was time for the procedure to begin. Dr. Ken and his assistant placed a plastic sheet with a strategically placed eye hole over my face. Then my eyelid was clamped, and then I had to mentally check out because my EYELID was CLAMPED. Dr. Ken, despite the fact I told him I just wanted to know when it was over, kept telling me what was going on. I had to stop listening after he said, “pus.”

When the procedure was over, he was talking to his assistant and then I heard him say, “I am thinking about putting stitches in.” PEOPLE. You know how I feel about stitches. It was then that I started to hyperventilate. STITCHES BY MY EYE!!! I started talking him out of it. “It’s OK if I have a scar, seriously, it’s just my eyelid, I am good at makeup, really, I promise.” Eventually he and his assistant decided not to put in stitches because they wanted my eye to be able to keep draining. Yuck.

My compression eye patch! So sexy.

Dr. Ken was able to get out a lot of pus, fluid build-up and inflamed tissue. There was a lot of swelling at first, but now my eye is looking so much better, if not a little floppy:

telling Mike to hurry up and take the effing picture

the angle and lighting aren’t super-flattering to my schnoz

Stye Stallone is gone! I have an ointment I have to keep putting on my eyelid, and I have to sleep sitting up for a few days. The only thing I can take for the discomfort is Tylenol, since anything else could make me bleed (ew). I have to be extra-careful that my hair doesn’t get on my eyelid, so I’ll be sporting lots of bang braids.

I still think I need an eye patch. Also, what kind of food do you get to eat for a stye-ectomy? Tonsils get ice cream, dental work gets mushy foods….I think a stye-ectomy demands lobster.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Last week I finally had my tooth ache fixed by my super awesome dentist. I’m not afraid of dentists, but I am not a fan of pain. For some reason (and my dentist, Dr. Dento, has verified this) I have a very high tolerance to all forms of mouth anesthesia, so I always go to my dentist super hyped-up and nervous. It takes like 30 minutes and approximately 187 shots before I am numb enough for any work to be done. So this makes me avoid the dentist, then my teeth get bad, vicious cycle!

Anyway, Dr. Dento and I have a relationship that dates back to when I worked for the Dodgers. I used to be like, “hey, our dental plan sucks, can I give you tickets and maybe you can give me a free root canal?” And he’d be like, “I’m a dentist. I could buy the Dodgers.” Every time I go in I ask him if I can have the gas. And every time he’s like, “you don’t need it. Stop being a drama mama.” But this time I said, “so, about the gas….” and he said, “yeah, your tooth is pretty infected. Let’s get you the gas.”

Maybe you will be surprised to hear this, but I wasn’t comforted.

So his adorable dental assistant comes over and is like, “I have your nitrous all ready, it goes on your nose, get comfortable and I’ll place it.” I’m thinking it’s a nasal cannula, and then she placed this thing on my face.

I look like a cross between Hannibal Lecter and Bozo The Clown.

The assistant tells me, “OK, in about five minutes, you’re going to start to feel loopy.” I think, sweet! And I get out my phone to text Mike that I’m getting legally high (he was in the waiting room). And then I tried to update Facebook and Twitter, but apparently NONE of those things went through. I realized later that Dr. Dento’s office is in the basement of a Downtown LA building, so it prevents all high patients from making bad texting decisions. Probably a good thing for people with jobs and reputations.

I’m going to cut to the chase and tell you that it took TWENTY MINUTES until Dr. Dento and his assistant thought I was “loopy” enough to GET NOVOCAIN. And while I’m not denying that I eventually felt some of the effects of the nitrous, I was NOT feeling it then. So, then I had to wait another twenty five minutes until the numbing medications took hold. In the meantime, I chilled in the chair on 60% nitrous.

Then the whole dental procedure took less than two songs on my iPod.

The nitrous was a let down. The dental assistant told me I’d feel loopy and happy and “floaty.” I wanted to see like, sparklers where my fingers were and feel like I’d performed a choreographed dance with a monkey. Television has totally ruined my expectations.

On the drive home I kept telling Mike that the nitrous didn’t work, and then I called my dad. Mike and my dad both assure me that the nitrous worked. I remember none of this. I think they’re lying. I also tweeted some things, until Mike realized what I was doing, and then he took my phone. He is no fun.

I don't think this gas is working Gus.

January 7, 2011 1:00 pm via Twitter for iPhoneReplyRetweetFavorite

@mamaspohr

Heather Spohr

My mouth tastes like balloons. Balloons. That's a funny word. Balloons. Ballooooons.

January 7, 2011 12:53 pm via Twitter for iPhoneReplyRetweetFavorite

@mamaspohr

Heather Spohr

When we got home, I took a five hour nap, and then I ate an entire container of Country Crock mashed potatoes, an entire container of rice pudding, 2 dozen mini oatmeal cookies, and whipped cream out of the can.

Soooo…maybe the gas DID work.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

When I was in the second grade my school called home to inform my parents that their son had been observed rolling his eyes repeatedly, looking to his left over and over, and even licking his arms. This was not to be taken lightly, the school advised, and suggested that something might be seriously wrong with me. From that call forth I was pulled out of class almost every day to meet with the special education specialist and/or school psychologist, and after school my mother drove me to hospitals and doctor’s offices all around the San Francisco Bay Area in hopes of learning why I did these things.

I, of course, was well aware I was doing these thing. But no matter how many times I was told “to just stop it,” or that “I could cut it out if I really wanted too,” I couldn’t. I sure wished I could though. After all each eye roll angered my teacher, each glance to the left made the kid sitting beside me uncomfortable, and each lick of my arm drew howls of derisive laughter from my classmates.

After enduring numerous MRIs (that revealed nothing) and taking a medley of medications (that did little more than cause me to fall asleep at my desk) a doctor diagnosed me as having a chronic tic disorder that fell on the Tourette’s spectrum. He suggested that we wait to see how things progressed because 85% of kids with tics either see them lessen or go away entirely as they grow into adults. Fortunately, I ended up among those 85% of kids. Unfortunately, I wasn’t among those whose tics went away entirely. Instead, my tics just lessened while remaining a major annoyance in my life.

Like many people who suffer from chronic tics, I learned how to “cover” them when out in public. For example, I somehow manage – most of the time – to move my tics away from my face to places less visible such as my back and stomach muscles. These back and stomach tics often prompt people to ask me if I have the hiccups, and instead of telling the truth, I just say that I do. Similarly, when people see me blink too much and assume I have something in my eye, I don’t correct them. I sometimes have to remind Heather that I’m not rolling my eyes at her, it’s just a tic. And when someone makes an all too common Tourette’s Syndrome joke, I just let it pass. I’ve been able to cover this way, for the most part, the entirety of my adult life.

Even at their most manageable, however, my tics still cause me great trouble. There is pain and soreness caused by repeating the same action over and over, there are back spasms from the constant flexing of my back muscles, and there is always a kid around to ask me why I keep “making that face” (thus reminding me that I don’t cover my tics as well as I think I do). Still, these are the days I long for, because there are also times when my tics get worse. During these flare-ups (for lack of a better word) I am constant in pain, exhausted, afraid to go into public, and even reduced to tears of frustration with it all. Right now, unfortunately, is one of those times.

I don’t know why my tics are so bad right now – my flare-ups aren’t stress related and come at all times – so there is no obvious cause. This makes sense, I guess, since Tourette’s and chronic tics have no cure, and are, to a large degree,  still a mystery to science. Nevertheless, I went to Dr. Looove today and got medication that may help. Hopefully, in time my tics will return to their “normal” level as they have in the past when I’ve had a flare-up.

I’m “coming out” about this, so to speak, for a couple reasons. First,  I hope that by giving a personal connection to someone suffering from tics it might inspire people to tell fewer Tourette’s jokes. People make these jokes all the time assuming that, because no one is yelling obscenities in the room, there is no one there to be offended. But that’s not true. 19% of children suffer from some kind of tic disorder. So whenever someone makes one of these jokes there is a chance that 1/5th of the people around them struggled with tics as kids, and don’t find Tourette’s jokes funny.

More importantly, I am discussing this because I am tired of “covering” my tics. This is just part of who I am, and someday, when Annie asks why daddy blinks so much, I’m not going to be ashamed to tell her the truth.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

Do you have something in your house where you look at it and you just KNOW that it will injure you? That it’s only a matter of time. In our house, it’s the baby gate. Mike is six feet three inches tall, and steps over the gate like it’s a no higher than a curb. I am a full foot shorter, and the baby gate has been plotting against me ever since Madeline started crawling.

Annabel figured out if she throws her body weight against the gate she can knock it over (seriously, it’s like a scene out of Jurassic Park – she’s looking for a weakness!). So, we had to secure the gate in creative ways, using foot stools and other miscellaneous heavy furniture. It’s a hassle to move the furniture, so it’s easier to step over the gate than open it. (I have no pictures, you’ll have to take my word.)

Last Friday, I was carrying Annabel back to the gated community (so much more pleasant than “baby jail”) and went to step over the fence. I didn’t step quite high enough. My right foot (specifically, my toes) got caught in the gate. My momentum kept carrying me forward, and suddenly, Annie and I were falling. The next part is a blur, as my mom instincts kicked in. I twisted and contorted my body and somehow landed on the floor with Annie laughing, completely fine. It was all a big ride for her!

Unfortunately, my ankle and shin IMMEDIATELY looked BAD. Like send-Mike-text-messages-to-come-home-from-work-bad. The whole lower front half of my leg was dark red/purple within five minutes of the fall.

You know when a bad time to go to the emergency room at a university hospital is? The Friday before Halloween. I saw all kinds of drunk injuries – AT EIGHT PM. A fraternity boy wearing a Chile flag who’d had a BEER BOTTLE BROKEN ACROSS HIS FACE. I stared at him with my mouth hanging open. All I could think was that his mom was going to be sooooo pissed.

After an exam and xray, I was finally released from the ER around 11:30ish with the diagnosis of slight ankle sprain and deep bone bruising.

Wanna see the bruises and swelling? I took these yesterday with my camera phone (so excuse the quality).

cankle!

The shin and ankle already look SO much better.

Not to be outdone, my dad decided he wanted to go to the ER the next night, and dropped a TV on the middle finger of his right hand. He needed seven stitches (gag) AND he broke a bone.

but damn if he isn’t festive with his pumpkin backdrop!

Don’t worry – the TV still works. Phew.

THEN. That same night, my cousin Leah though it would be awesome to grab a knife by the wrong end, and slashed her middle finger on her LEFT hand. She did NOT go to the ER because she knows stitches are disgusting. But the joke’s on her because her cut got infected and now she’s on antibiotics.

at least her nail polish is sparkly

I hope the rest of 2010 is medically boring! DO YOU HEAR ME MIKE THAT’S NOT A CHALLENGE!

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2011 All rights reserved. This content may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

*UPDATED*

The day after Maddie’s birthday, I participated in a symposium at UCLA (the one where I reconnected with The Nurse). UCLA has two hospitals in our area. There is a community hospital where Madeline passed away, located in Santa Monica, and there is the main hospital where Annabel was born, located adjacent to the UCLA campus in Westwood. When we walked out of the Santa Monica hospital on April Seventh, I swore I would never go back.

When I was asked to speak at the symposium, the first question I asked was where it was going to be held. I was told the main hospital, and I breathed a sigh of relief. As much as I wanted to help, I couldn’t go back to Santa Monica. I didn’t want to smell it, walk through the hallways, have any triggers.

On November 12th, we arrived at the hospital and I immediately started running into nurses and doctors from the NICU that wanted to say hello. Everyone rubbed my belly and asked about my pregnancy. We all shared lots of tears over Maddie. And then, I walked into the auditorium and I saw him.

The doctor, the one in charge of the PICU in Santa Monica. Madeline’s attending physician on the day she died.

I wasn’t expecting to see him at the main hospital. It made sense he would be there in theory. I should have been prepared, but I wasn’t. He knew I would be there – my name was on the program, as was Madeline’s.

I felt like I’d been punched.

I went on with greeting old nurse friends, but I could sense him hovering. I knew that he wanted to talk to me. I could feel him staring. I kept myself busy catching up with my friends until it was time for me to talk.

The moderators of the session asked me many questions and it took every fiber of my being to focus and attempt to answer them. I would try to force myself to look at my friends in the audience, but my eyes kept straying to where he sat. I could see his eyes on me, watching, listening to me talk about how it felt to watch my daughter die and all I wanted to do was stand up and point and scream “IT’S YOUR FAULT! IT’S YOUR FAULT MY BABY IS DEAD! YOU DIDN’T SAVE HER!” I was overcome with real, pure hatred. The entire session is a blur. I have no idea what they asked me, or what I said. I don’t know if I made sense.

After my portion was over, I was shaking. I don’t know if anyone noticed. I handed out more hugs, exchanged contact information with my special nurse, and spoke a bit more with one of Madeline’s NICU nurses. Again, I could feel his eyes on me. I purposely kept my back turned to him. I didn’t want to talk to him, hear his voice, get within arm’s reach of him because I knew I would physically hurt him. He seemed to get the hint, and stayed away.

I found out later through my mom and Mike (who had attended with me) that the leader of the session knew that doctor would be there, but she didn’t want to tell me in advance for fear I would get upset. She told Mike and my mom that he was shaken by Madeline’s case. Good. I hope he wakes up every night and is haunted by my screams from when he pronounced her dead. After the horrible way he treated us during her final minutes, he deserves that.

I wish I could say that, seven months since I last saw him, I am at peace with this, but I’m not. I don’t care if he did everything he could. I don’t care if he is a lovely man outside of the hospital (although from his behavior in there, I would have a hard time believing it). Madeline is gone, and it was HIS JOB to save her. I can’t talk to him. And I certainly wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to clear his conscience when he could have the night she died. He failed at his job, and even if intellectually I know that it might not have been his fault, I don’t care. He lost a patient – I lost a daughter, and SHE lost her LIFE.

I want to be the better person, but I can’t. It’s ugly and messy. I hate him.

I can’t forgive him.

edited to add:

I want to clear up a few things: first, the session that I spoke at that day was all abut Madeline, and the care she received during her final hospital stay. So, I was able to air all my problems with the way things were handled. And since he was in there, he knows. Second, I know that everyone in the room that day did everything they could to save Maddie. I don’t doubt that one bit. There are a LOT of things that happened in the room that I still can’t talk about, but someday I will be ready. Third, I definitely don’t give this man much thought. I was messed up for a few days after I saw him, I but I talked about it to my therapists. Yesterday, he popped into my mind, and I needed to write to get him out. So please don’t think that my feelings about him eat away at me – I love my daughters too much to focus on him. And fourth, I really do hope this made him a better doctor. I know he is one of the best – he’s the head of the PICU at one of the best medical schools on the west coast. But his bedside manner is hideous, and that is beyond important when you work with frightened children and parents. And I know he’s human, and that is why I want to be the better person. However, he could be the best doctor in the world now, but it doesn’t change what we went through. It is a learning experience that I wish he’d had BEFORE he was my Madeline’s doctor.

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