I'm a Big Boy: I'm 4!

This almost slipped past me, as I was busy. Mo had yet another seizure of a magnitude that required Diastat and transport to the hospital. She's fine, but this has been frequent enough that I know the cute phlebotomist by sight. How do you go about chatting up a chick who's there to take your kids blood while you and your ex help? You know, for sure, that anyone this fine gets hit on by patients all day, and you don't want to be another nuisance. Or a creep, right?

The incident did manage (finally) to rattle the cage of Mo's new neurologist. Pediatric neurologists are even harder to find than good excuses to get a phone number off a cute phlebotomist in front of your ex. We'll be cutting the Tegretol down and phasing in the Trileptal over the next week. So hopefully I won't even see that needle chick again.

But then, in the ER, I remembered. Four years ago today, I was in the ER, but I don't remember it. I don't even really remember the night before or several days after. Too much oxygen loss, too many drugs to keep me from pulling my own tubes, etc.

I remember the conversation, the tape loop. My friends, siblings, etc., they'd say, 'Do you know where you are?'

'Hospital?'

'Do you know why you're in the hospital?'

'Nope.'

'You had a heart attack.'

'I'm too fucking young to have a heart attack.'

I had this conversation many times, or so I hear. Larry passed Todd on the way in, and 30 seconds into this nonsense, I said I wondered if Todd would visit.

The artist formerly known as Frau Lobster thought at first that I was just being an asshole. Then she thought I was totally brain damaged, as in more than usual.

I think maybe I should be more appalled at the pointlessness of survival. And I should have figured out a way to slip my business card in the phlebotomist's basket...