I went to a new doctor yesterday. It has been way too long since my last check up, and I can’t sit around waiting for UCLA and Blue Shield to be grown ups and work something out. I know it’s better to find a new doctor when you’re healthy than to scramble to find one when you’re sick. I am trying to not be a baby about this. I have insurance. I am thankful. But even thought this doctor was perfectly nice, I still felt like I was cheating on Dr. Looove. Waaaah I love her! OK, I’m done being a baby about it now.

After I gave this new doc my medical history (which was super fun, waaaah Dr. Looove I miss you!), we started the check up. She started talking to me while she listened to my breathing. I didn’t know if I should answer her question while she had a stethoscope against my chest – I didn’t want to blow out her ear drums. So, I said nothing, and then she repeated her question, louder. I’m pretty sure my new doctor thinks I’m hearing impaired.

While she gave me a breast exam, I asked her to look at the skin tag that’s located in a somewhat unfortunate place. Let’s just say that if I ever breast feed again, it would be really painful. She poked at it a bit and then went back to the breast exam. She said I’d probably want to have it removed at some point, and that she could suggest a dermatologist for me. Sweet.

She moved down to give me a pap smear, and as she was preparing things or whatever she said, “You know, I sometimes freeze skin tags off when they appear down in lady areas. I could do that for you, if you want.”

It was a combination of nouns and verbs I’d never wanted to ever think about. Skin tags in lady areas? Freezing things off of lady areas? Doctors that say things like lady area?

Before I’d finished processing this, she pushed back from my lady area and said, “Or you could just tie a string around it. It will eventually fall off – and that’s free!”

I’m pretty sure my face looked like this:

I could only think about a story that Mike told me about his mom. She had a skin tag on her arm that she *gag* cut off with scissors, and it got infected and grew back all crazy and her dermatologist about fainted when he saw it. I can’t have that on my boob.

There are only two options I would ever consider – have a doctor do something, or DO NOTHING. I just cannot imagine tying a string around a skin thing on my boob. Plus, what do you do with the extra string, just tuck it into your bra? What if you’re wearing a v-neck shirt and an end of the string becomes loose and peeks through the V, and someone tugs on it thinking it’s a thread from your top. Gag gag gag.

Waaaaaah I miss Dr. Looove.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 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.

Yesterday Annie had her two year well-baby (well-toddler?) visit with Dr. Looove. We’ve been preparing Annie for the last week for her visit by talking about the super awesome fun princess doctor who was going to tickle her and give her a princess shot! YAY. Annie was super-into it. She even practiced being the doctor.

It had been a while since Dr. Looove had seen Annie, and she couldn’t get over all her curls. I was like, “You should try detangling them, you’ll get over ‘em real fast.” Annie did the typical little kid thing and clammed-up when Dr. Looove was in the room. No saying her name or counting or any of that. I should have shown Dr. Looove some videos. Anyway, everything checked out great, and all the measurements I took a few weeks ago were accurate. I think that basically makes me a doctor.

And then. Dr. Looove started talking about the vaccination Annie was due to have, and she looked down at Annie’s chart and said, “Uh oh. You have Blue Shield insurance?”

I haven’t said anything on here because I didn’t want to start BABY WATCH 2012!!! but I found a new insurer in Blue Shield – and they offer maternity. They accepted me and we started on the new plan December 15. And it turns out, on January 1st, Blue Shield and UCLA Medical Group parted ways. They have yet to come to an agreement on a new contract which means…it was basically like having NO insurance at Dr. Looove’s office. Do you know how much a vaccination and well-baby visit costs? I do, I do! Almost seven hundred dollars – THAT IS THE CASH DISCOUNT.

So that kind of put a damper on things.

Dr. Looove seems to think that UCLA and Blue Shield will work this contract malarkey out. Blue Shield let contracts with UCLA expire in 2006 for two months and in 2008 for four months. I really hope they come to an agreement soon, because literally all of my doctors are through UCLA. OB/GYN/Perinatology, Hematology, General Practitioner, Psychiatrist, Therapists, need I go on? The thought of finding new doctors and then filling them in on all of my medical and emotional history is exhausting. Do not want.

The timing is super hilarious. If I’d known UCLA and Blue Shield were going to part ways fifteen days after I became a new customer, I would have stayed on my former, less-expensive insurance plan. Dear Lords and Ladies of UCLA and Blue Shield: Please fix this. Kthanx.

© COPYRIGHT HEATHER SPOHR 2012 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.

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 2012 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 2012 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 2012 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 2012 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 2012 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 2012 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 2:00 pm via Twitter for iPhoneReplyRetweetFavorite

@mamaspohr

Heather Spohr

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

January 7, 2011 1:53 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 2012 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 2012 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.