This morning, as I was driving in to the city (OMG, I give all you commuters SO much credit!) my mind was wandering all over the place. To the fact that, since my husband left so early, he didn’t get a chance to hug Big or Little Girl in the morning. And how Big Girl looked all scared and worried when she heard the door open and my mom come in. We didn’t tell her directly that Daddy was going in for an operation. We figured she’s got enough to think about. But this morning, when I saw her face, I wondered if we made a mistake. What would happen if something happened to her dad? Would she be haunted by the fact that she, like her mom before her, never got a chance to say goodbye. Crazy me. I called my husband and told him to please call Big Girl to tell her that he loves her. And he did, of course.

Now it’s the afternoon. A bright, clear day here in New York. A perfect day to count blessings.

Us, we’ve got a while. My husband went in about 30 minutes ago. We’ve probably got an hour before he’s out of surgery. His fourth in 15 months.

My father-in-law brought him in this morning on the train. I drove in after my mom arrived to watch the girls. I sat in traffic for two hours. I have no idea how or why anyone would drive into Manhattan from Long Island.

The trip gave me plenty of time to think. About how nervous I am. About how much I love my husband. About how I couldn’t see life without him. He is my best friend and probably the best person I know.

I made it here before they took him in to the OR. I rubbed his head and kissed him. When the nurse came to get him I stopped her and told her that she should be very careful with him. That he has two little girls waiting for him at home. I should have said that she was taking the largest part of my heart into that room. And that I needed him. But I am always afraid to jinx myself.

And so we wait…

My state legislator, Assemblyman Joseph Saladino called this morning and left me a message. I had asked him for more information about the bill to remove parental consent regarding the HPV vaccine. Here’s what he said: “The bill in question is A778. It is sponsored by Amy Paulin. Right now we have been told that it’s not coming before us any time soon, and they are not able to give us any update of where it is going right now. It’s in a holding zone.” (Note to anyone who lives in Scarsdale, Eastchester, Tuckahoe, Bronxville, Pelham, Pelham Manor, New Rochelle or White Plains: Maybe it’s time to make a few phone calls to your local representative?)

However, after doing a little more research it does appear that the bill did move recently, being transferred to the Health committee. Just because the bill isn’t being voted on today doesn’t mean we can sit back and ignore the fact that this bill is real, it’s on the table, and it’s something that can be put into effect on someone’s whim. We can’t let this slide. It’s time to make it known how you feel. If you live in New York State, make some calls, people.

Okay, so on to my husband’s butt again. Since he responded to my last post, I can explain a little more. He had a fistula. He went for a full fistulaectomy yesterday. When the doctor got in there he found it was very deep and very long. He did a partial repair. We’ll keep our fingers crossed this will fix it. Which brings me to one of the reasons I am so late writing this.

Today I had to get Big Girl off to school by myself. Usually, we divide and conquer. I take the downstairs part. Chris handles the upstairs part. I make her lunch, get breakfast out, do her hair, make sure she’s got everything, and get her on the bus. Chris picks out her clothes and makes sure she gets out of bed and gets dressed. (I shower her the night before.) But he’s in a lot of pain and loopy on meds, so it’s all me for a few days. Okay, so this morning I go in. Big Girl, who isn’t a morning person, and is experiencing a bout of six-year-old independence, is just plain nasty to me. Whining and telling me I am not allowed to pick her clothing. It escalated, but she’s finally dressed. I spot her clean undies on the floor. “Do you have underwear on,” I ask. I check and she does, but they are from yesterday. I tell her to go downstairs so we can get her out of the house. She starts yelling at me that she wants to change them first. I just want to get her fed and get her out of the house so she’s not too late for school. We get downstairs and the screaming continues.

I’m mad. She’s mad. We’re both sniping at each other. It gets so bad that Chris, in his post-operation, medicated fog comes downstairs. We continue going back and forth. She’s whining up a storm. As an adult, I should have controlled myself, but I must admit it bothers me that she is an angel for Chris. Doesn’t say a peep in the morning. But any time I get involved with her morning routine, I get crap. So there we are. She’s saying how mean I am. How I am “poopy.” And I feel like I am going to cry. I said that I knew Big Girl loved me, but it didn’t feel like she likes me very much. Then Chris goes, “She doesn’t give me a problem in the morning.” And I lost it. “Fine, then I will take care of Little Girl from now on and you can take care of Big Girl.” Poor Big Girl. Hearing that, her face crumbled. Chris flew at me, telling me to get out of the kitchen. He was so angry. And disappointed. He brought her into the den and consoled her. I stood there still seething, but now angry at myself, too. The drama continued for about ten more minutes. It ended with me hugging Big Girl for a long time, both of us apologizing, and me saying that I said what I said because I was so upset and hurt. Ten minutes later I was driving Big Girl to school. She was happy and holding her sister’s hand. But I worry about the damage that I inflicted today.

This parenting thing is very hard to do. It takes courage, patience, perseverance, love, the ability to overlook things. It takes time and insight and introspection. I made a huge error today. I used none of the required skills. I acted like a child. I added another “issue” to the litany of issues Big Girl will complain about someday. Heck, she might complain about them today when she gets home. The only thing I can do is start again, right? There are no do-overs in parenting. No out-of-bounds. I made a mistake. A big one. I’m so sorry about it. What else can I say?

What’s the biggest parenting mistake you’ve made? How did you bounce back from it? I need some advice — that’s for sure.

I can’t go into all the messy, nasty, painful details because he’s not going to love that I am writing about him in the first place. However, this has been a part of our lives for so long it had to make it to the blog.

This week he will go for an MRI so the doctor knows exactly what he’s dealing with. The operation is next week, we hope. I’m used to the drill by this point. He’ll go to the hospital in the morning. They will give him anesthesia. They will operate for an hour or so. He will spend an hour in recovery. Then I will take him home with a prescription for something that, if we sold them pill by pill, could probably pay for his entire surgery. The same pills that, once he takes them, will stop up his works so he has to take all sorts of laxatives and fiber to reverse the damage. The same pills that, after only taking them for a week the last time, gave him the jitters, kept him awake, and made him feel like crap because his body was already addicted to them. Thank goodness he lives in Organic Land, where his crazy wife tells him not to fall under the spell of the evil Western pharmaceutical companies. But I digress.

Since this process started six months ago, I’ve seen a lot of good, a lot of bad when it comes to modern medicine. The prices for one thing. The bill was the best part. The first operation cost $7,167. JUST for the hospital. NOT counting the doctor’s fees. It cost $992 for the 45 minutes he was in recovery! Except we have insurance, so after the insurance write-offs, the entire operation cost us $1,804. Only. And if we didn’t have that insurance? Take that operation and times it by four. Then add the other $2,500 per operation for the doctor. We’d owe almost $50,000. People, I know everyone is against healthcare reform, but there’s something wrong with that picture.

Back to the medicine. I’ve already covered the aftercare — pain killers that hook you in so quickly you can end up with another problem before you recover from what ails you. And the surgery? Eh. The anesthesia sort of sucks. The first time was fine. The second time they gave my husband too much medication and he was outright sick when he woke up. He was in recovery so long I started getting nervous and demanding to see the doctor. Ooops, we gave him too much, was the answer. Sorry. Or how about the operations? Three times was not a charm. Each time the operation that was supposed to work didn’t. Each time the doctor let my husband make the decision for the less invasive fix even though the more invasive one definitely would have worked the first go-around.

The doctor, all doctors, don’t really DO very much anymore except cut, which leads me to another  aspect of his care — everyone’s care, really — that really pisses me off: The treating the problem without looking at the big picture. Take my husband’s diet. Sure, he eats the organic stuff in our house. But he doesn’t eat any whole grains, no veggies, no dairy other than pizza cheese. No fruit other than orange juice. His food groups are beef (meat sauce), pizza, peanut butter and toast, and Joe’s Os. I am not exaggerating. After the first operation I told the doctor this, and asked if changing diet could help my husband heal. I was hoping he would tell my green-phobic husband to take better care of himself. The doctor didn’t want to give that advice, though. Sure, he said, he should eat good food, but he stopped short of telling my husband to take better care of himself. Just, “Here’s the pain medication. He’s going to need it.”

And that kind of half-assed care can be found all over America and the world. How about one  375-pound guy I know who keeps hurting his knees? His cure to date: surgery and physical therapy. No one has the guts to tell him that his knees wouldn’t get screwed up so much if he lost 200 pounds. Or the diabetic I know who can’t get her wounds to heal, but no one tells her to stop eating so much crap. Or the friend’s kid with ADHD who pounds caffeine and preservatives, watches tons of TV, and never goes to bed? Sure, he would benefit from an organic, all natural diet, and a 7 p.m. bedtime. But the doctors are too afraid to ask the parents to make such a difficult choice. Diet and lifestyle aren’t even on the table. Here, take some Ritalin. Yes, I know that healthy people who never smoke and eat raw foods often drop dead of a heart attack, stroke, cancer, or worse when they are still young. It happens. All the time, actually. But you can’t tell me that what we eat and how we live doesn’t have an affect on how we feel.

[The above language is judgmental and, although I believe doctors are not doing a good job of taking care of people rather than focusing on the problem at hand, I know my husband's problem is not because he won't eat his broccoli. I am just really upset that we are still dealing with this annoying, painful problem that is messing with all our heads.]

Getting back to my hubby: I yelled at him tonight as he was peanut buttering two slices of organic bread. After eating six English muffin pizzas. Where’s your fruits? Where’s your vegetables? He yelled back that he ate all the organic crap in the house, and he did eat healthy. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m wrong. At this point, I just want my husband to feel better. But when he does I’m hoping he’s willing to see a nutritionist. It can’t hurt, right?

My husband’s rebuttal: The doctor wanted to do the invasive surgery first. Your husband opted for the less invasive options first so he had less of a chance of PERMANENT INCONTINENCE at 36 years old. You are complaining about cutting but the other “surgeries” were to *avoid* cutting. They were surgical procedures to manipulate the area into healing on its own.

I don’t eat candy, I rarely drink soda, I don’t eat cakes or pastries or ice cream. I don’t eat anything with high fructose corn syrup in it, or hydrogenated oils. I don’t eat enough green vegetables. Oh well. I’m 6 feet tall and have spent almost my entire life under 180 pounds. My blood pressure is 120 over 80 and my bloodwork is always perfect. Clearly, my awful eating habits and unhealthy lifestyle are to blame. And of course my evil doctor with all his right-wing conservative “medical degrees” is the problem. Could never be that I just wound up with a difficult to treat condition out of bad luck.