Tomorrow, bright and blurry, after many hours without food (her, not me. I can eat if I choose), we take baby Amelia in for an MRV. An MRV, for those gloriously unaware, is an MRI of the venous system. Our new neurosurgeon would prefer if, before opening up my daughter’s head, he knew where the blood flow was.
It’s all well and good, and shit, I’m glad he’s thorough about the whole situation, because how much would that suck if he weren’t? Answer: a fucking ton.
Afterwards, sedated baby or no (the sedation is the optional part, thankfully. Although it’s not optional for moi, who plans to experience better living through chemistry from the moment I wake up tomorrow until we’re back home) we meet with the surgeon one final time before her surgery on the 26th of the month. This displeases me nearly as much as Amelia being NPO for the MRV does.
See, now, I really hearted my first neurosurgeon who made me feel like this situation, although not idea, was going to be just fine. Sadly, my insurance doesn’t pay him what he deserves, so he’s forced to not take it. Hence, neuro #2. Who, I was correctly warned by neuro #1, has a deplorable bedside manner. He’s not gruff or mean or even all doomsday on us, he’s just very matter-of-fact.
He’s straight, to the point, and easily the cockiest person I’ve met. Which, if you know my friends, is saying a hell of a lot. I’ve been trying to tell myself that I’d rather have a talented and cocky surgeon than the alternative, but I wish I didn’t have to deal with the guy. But if I were to request another surgeon, a third neuro, it would likely be someone that Cocky Neuro #2 trained. So, I’ll take him and his attitude and medicate the shit out of myself so I don’t get hysterical in his office. Again.
Shit, this time I’m prepared. I even packed my OWN KLEENEX in the diaper bag! I’m slowly turning into an old lady who carries around tissues! I remember being completely squigged out when my mother used to use my coats because I’d always get them back with used tissues and plastic baggies in the pockets. I don’t know if she used the tissues for her nose or her eyes (sincerely hope it was her eyes. Because, ew) but it always annoyed me to no end. It just seemed…rude.
But that’s who this whole brain thing has turned me into: an old lady who cries at everything and shoves Kleenex up her sleeves so as to not snot all over other people. I was okay with the grey hairs I’ve gotten steadily more of since Ben was born, but this development? Not so much.
If you happen to be in the Same Day Surgery wing tomorrow, and you see a red, puffy-eyed haggard looking broad with a baby seat and a econo box of Puffs, come and pull up a chair, I’m not catching. I’ll even share my Valium with you.