I clung to my phone like a middle school girl without a date to the school dance yesterday. All day long. Even did the whole, "Are we sure this thing is on?" thing. Alas, I had the metaphorical dress, I had the metaphorical shoes, I even had the cute metaphorical updo picked out of Seventeen magazine for my hair, but no phone call ever came.
I didn't need a date. I needed Mandy's EEG results.
I got nothin'.
Well, crap. Eventually, I took an Advil PM and went to bed. Didn't sleep terribly well.
Woke up this morning. Did bouncy happy Mommy dance into kids rooms screeching, "Happy St Patty's Day" like a leprechaun strung out on meth. Kids look at me like I have lost my damn mind. Probably have.
Do the morning routine. No kids fighting, no unfortunate incidents with cereal or peanut butter. Nice, I think.
Kids actually ready on time. Wow, this is going well so far, I think.
Get kids to school. On time. Wow. Impressive, I think.
I decide, this was a good morning. I deserve a Starbucks, because we rocked this morning and cause frankly? I haven't slept well in about a week.
As I am headed back to this side of town from school, this uncheerful little light comes on, accompanied by a slightly more cheerful little "ding."
Well, crap. That can't be good. So, I dig through the glovebox for the owners manual that I have never bothered to read. Flip through looking for Chapter 3, entitled "What the heck does this light on my dashboard mean?"
Find it. Says basically, "Ignore it. You probably got low quality gas." Well, alrighty then. Laugh to myself because I know I am going to have to admit to husband that I got gas from the place he always tells me not to get gas from because it is bad gas and he will have to do the, "See??? I told you so" dance.
Picture husband dancing little jig.
Laugh some more.
Go about 4 miles out of my way to Starbucks with a drive through, because though I did brush my teeth, I may or may not have yet put on deodorant and certainly haven't showered. And there is a slim possibility I picked the scrubs pants up off the mountain of dirty laundry in my closet. Not saying I did. Just saying it is possible.
No one needs to see that. Order my triple shot Venti nonfat, no whip, extra hot mocha from cheery sounding lady on speaker in drive thru. Get up to window to pay. Perky Starbucks lady says, "We accidentally made two of your mochas. Would you like the other one? It's on the house." Pfft. Would a kid like another lollipop? Does a bear poop in the woods? She might as well have asked me, "Would you like a massage and a pedicure with your mocha this morning? Or perhaps a winning lottery ticket?" Oh, heck yea, baby. Bring it!!
Cause this? Is a beautiful site first thing in the morning.
I drive away thinking, maybe my green scrubs are in fact lucky for this St Patty's Day. Practically dislocate my shoulder trying to pat myself on the back for being too lazy to find actual clothes, wait, I mean... having the obvious superior intelligence to wear them.
Literally, not even out of the parking lot of Starbucks when my phone rings. I look down at caller ID. "Unknown Name." In my world, this ALWAYS means it is a doctors office.
I take a sharp breath in. I say a wordless prayer. So much can change with this phone call.
Now, Mandy's neurologist is a wonderful guy and we adore him. He has treated her for years and is acutely aware of the complexities of her medical life and of the depths of my crazy. He knows this is a time sensitive result and that the tumor board docs would really like to have the results before they meet on Wednesday. Furthermore, he also knows I lose my mind a little more with every second I have to wait for results.
That said, never in darn near 6 years has he called me in the morning. Ever. It is always after office hours.
"Hey, Doc, how are you?"
"Hey, I'm good. Natalie, listen, I have Mandy's EEG results. You can breathe again. It is all normal. Perfectly. Completely. NORMAL."
I gush and say thank you for getting back to me so quickly. He says all his sweet, good doctor things and says to let him know what tumor board says. I gush some more. We talk for another minute, then say our goodbyes.
I breathe. I pick up my first of two mochas and drive home.
The luck of the Irish? Oh, yea. We got it today! Thanks for all the prayers and love you all sent this week. As always, y'all have our backs and that means more than I can begin to say.
Happy St Patrick's Day!
Love to all~