I checked my many resources on holidays and all of them agree that today is International Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day. If this is all I get to work with I guess I’ll come up with something. Besides, I’m bored. Ben and I are just sitting here in the lobby at Children’s Hospital waiting to be seen by a doctor. He’s developed a cold – thanks to his sister graciously sharing hers – (finally! She’s learning to share!) and we need to get him well before next Tuesday. He’s precariously teetering on being borderline feverish (which is B-A-D for the Bean). If he has a fever, we’ll be admitted. Ben HAS to be better by 3/2 because we’re traveling to NYC for his surgical consult on 3/3, with surgery taking place on 3/8. Getting over this next hurdle can’t come fast enough. It currently feels like we’re running through molasses and will never gain enough speed to clear it.
So. Dog Biscuits. I ate dry cat food once (on a “double-dog” dare) and the primary flavor was salt. It wasn’t horrible but I don’t expect I’ll ever do it again unless absolutely necessary – like something nuclear destroying the planet and I’m the last existing person and all there is to eat is cat food. I’d most likely eat it then. But seeing how they just busted that terrorist guy living behind my house, I feel a little bit safer. This fact makes the reality of eating cat food a bit more distant than it was, say, yesterday before the terrorist entered a guilty plea. However, we are traveling to NYC next week, and that is a primary target for their terrorism. Why Manhattan? I mean, really. Isn’t the challenge of getting my child through treatment for relapsed cancer enough? I have to think about the possibilities of suicide bombers on the subway? Give me a freaking break already.
Okay. The doctor is here. Ben’s platelets have dropped and his white count isn’t outstanding… looks like more neupogen shots at home. The nurse just came in with an ominous looking machine designed to suck snot out of his nose… we’ve done this before in order to rule out infections… and it’s terrible. As soon as Ben saw the machine he started crying “WHY???” He hates this process even more than getting shots.
So, I held out a biscuit. I said, “Make it through this, Ben, and we’ll go to Target.” Perform this one particularly nasty trick, kid. You’ll get your treat. I might have to get a treat, too. Too bad Target doesn’t add vodka to their Icee machine.