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I went to Dr. Stapleton yesterday and we had a long (45 minute) chat.   I told her about Dr. Stein’s recommendations: Ritalin (more about that in a minute), ProVigil, and amantadine (which I’ve already tried).

She gave me a prescription for Ritalin.  Apparently, it’s the exact same chemical as Adderall, minus one thing that makes Adderall long-lasting.  The Ritalin should wear off in 4 – 6 hours, the Adderall in 6 – 8 hours.  (With me, it takes at least 12 – 14 hours.)  Anyway, I took the Ritalin this morning at 10:30, and it’s now worn off.  Which I hope helps me fall asleep!  However, it isn’t so good for company, which I’ve got right now.  My friend Emily from Caltech is here with her husband, who’s got a theoretical physics conference at CU!  And … she brought her two kids!  They’re ADORABLE.  They’re also terrified of Chaco.  Sigh … he’s been delightful, but they don’t want to be anywhere near him.  They scream whenever he approaches them; they’ve been on the floor so infrequently it looks like we’re playing “hot lava”.  I hope that tomorrow brings them courage, or at least tolerance …

Dr. Stapleton isn’t eager to try me on ProVigil again.  “We don’t like you depressed,” she said, and I agreed with her.  However, now that I’m on antidepressants, I’m willing to give it another shot.  I’m not going to kill myself or anything just because I’ve taken it … my bad (terrible?) mood will disappear in a day, and as long as I know that, I’m fine.   However, Dr. Stapleton doesn’t seem convinced of that.  =(  I downloaded a free trial coupon, however, so I assume I can get more at the pharmacy and see how it works.  Fingers crossed!

We reviewed my performance on amantadine, too.  Amantadine is an anti-viral drug that they put you on when you’ve got the flu or something, but it also brings cognitive benefits.  It didn’t seem to do much for me, however.  I’m not eager to try it again … that seems like a waste of time.

I also confided in Dr. Stapleton that I’d tried coming off the Zoloft three weeks ago.  That didn’t exactly go so well; I was EXHAUSTED and I started crying again.  She said that she wasn’t surprised I was tired; that in 90% of people, Zoloft is a stimulant.  I guess it is for me.  As for the crying, I’m not sure that it isn’t a temporary side-effect of getting off the medication, but I’m not so desperate to get off of it that I’m willing to go through the tearfulness.  I’m on an extremely low dose (25 mg/day, which is just half of the smallest pill available), so I think I’ll be safe during pregnancy.  Knock on wood.

Oh, and I got my blood results from Dr. Tawa.  I’m good on all fronts.  Negative for all the things that could cause Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, negative ANA, negative EVERYTHING.  Which is good, I think, except if I had any of those things maybe we could treat them and I’d wake up.  Oh well!

Yesterday, I went to the doctor for a physical. I haven’t got a lot of confidence in this doctor, but he said it was time for a physical, plus I wanted to get some prophylactic antibiotic eardrops before our Bonaire dive trip. (Did I mention that? We’re leaving on May 2!) At the end of my visit, he said, “Oh, and I’ll need some labs from you. You can visit the phlebotomist’s office downstairs.”

“I have very hard to find veins,” I told him. “Do I really need these labs?”

“Well, I’d like to have them. Things like your cholesterol levels.” Suck. I don’t think people believe me when I tell them I’m a hard stick. I’m not kidding you; four tries at the cardiologist’s office, three tries at the hospital after my PFO closure (and at three am, nonetheless!), three tries at …

“OK, but I want to get it all done in one fell-swoop,” I responded reluctantly. “Can you please test my ANA [for curiosity's sake]? And is there a blood test for chronic fatigue syndrome? [to answer Mom B's question]?”

“Sure!” he answered eagerly. “Oh, and one of these tests requires fasting. Please don’t eat before you come.” Oh, great. This sounds like Megan’s blood test, and I’ve got similar complaints: I need to eat. If I don’t eat, I get very tired. Also, I can’t swallow my pills with water; I need to take them with Pringles, and so if I can’t have breakfast, I can’t take my medicine.

“OK,” I said grumpily and took the form from Dr. Tawa. I told Ben about my crappy blood-draw orders when I arrived home. This morning, he drove down to Boulder to pick up the fish he ordered; he left around 8am, and I got a phone call around 9am.

“Hello, sweetie! What are your plans for the day?” he asked innocently.

“Well, I may go get my blood drawn, and I’ve got housework to take care of as –”

“Excellent!” he exclaimed. “Could you please bring me my wallet?” Oh, goodness. Now I’d HAVE to get my blood drawn! Good thing I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet!

“Fine,” I said.

Ben met me at the hospital to pick up his wallet, and I headed inside to the blood-letting room. Dr. Tawa said that I should get my labs done at the hospital if I was a really hard stick — why, I’m not sure, but I did as I was told.

When they called me back, a nice lady looked at my arms and stuck me in my left arm. No luck. She debated trying again (nooo!!) and finally left to find Justin, who is apparently very good with small veins. He stuck me in my right arm, swiveled the needle around a bit, and then gave up. At this point, I wasn’t feeling so good. My hearing was muted, I felt nauseous, and I felt like I might pass out. I spoke up, “Uh, I don’t feel so good,” and he put me in the recliner to a final try. (Not his words; mine!) He tried one last time. It wasn’t looking good; no flash of blood in the catheter stretching from the butterfly needle to the syringe. However, he moved the needle around, and right before he pulled it out, boom! There was blood! I have never been happier to see my own blood.

He took the entire sample with the syringe, which was very nice. There’s a vacuum on the end of the syringe, and the blood flows out much more readily than it does into a tube. I think the tubes have a vacuum, too, but the syringe beats them every time. Moreover, when you use the tubes there’s always the risk that you’ll jar the needle and the flow will stop. (Not unheard of with me!)

So that’s my latest blood-draw saga. Doctors, please listen: I am a hard stick. I really, truly am. Please listen to me. And don’t order labs if you don’t absolutely have to! Thank you.

Where was I? Oh, Dr. Mazumdar …

Dr. Mazumdar was extremely nice. She was probably a little bit older than I am, and I get the feeling that kids could just crawl into her lap and fall asleep, she was that huggable. She, too, spent over an hour with us.

She had me tell her my whole story. She took a lot of notes about family history. She gave me a neuro exam, which I’ve pretty much memorized by now: I counted backwards from 100 by 7’s and touched her finger and my nose. I remembered three things (which were, incidentally, a red car, the color blue, and … well, two out of three. The third was a noun that started with an “h” and ended with “ity”, like humanity.)

When we’d finished all that, she discussed her opinions regarding my medical condition. “There are five things that cause stroke,” she explained. “Two of them we’ve ruled out. The third is a virus — usually chickenpox — that infects your brain and causes strokes.” Cross that one of the list; I’ve already had the chickenpox. “The fourth is cardiac — your PFO — and the fifth is vasculitis.” The tests for that are a spinal tap and then an angiogram, and then a brain bioposy, which wouldn’t work in my case (my strokes are in the center of my brain, deep underneath most of the tissue).

She recommended that we go ahead and test for vasculitis because the treatment is very different than what I’m currenty getting. “I heard that was dangerous,” I said.

“Well, it is. In children, there’s a low risk of having another stroke as a result of the angiogram.” I asked her what “low risk” meant. “In kids, it’s 5%.”

“I don’t consider that low. That’s a 1 in 20 chance of having another stroke.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s so risky in adults, but that’s not my specialty and so I can’t give you any numbers,” she responded.

I’ve heard that the risk is more like 1%. Which is a fine risk to take UNLESS YOU’RE IN THE ONE PERCENT. The chances of having a stroke at 24 are like 1:10,000, so I’m not feeling particularly lucky these days.

Dr. Mazumdar said that I don’t have any of the symptoms of vasculitis. The major cause of vasculitis is lupus, which looks like the flu. You’d have fatigue, aches and pains, and a fever — none of which I’ve had since I was about nine. She said to consider the risks and get tested either in Boston or Denver.

(5) Dr. Ning, neurologist

My final appointment was with Dr. Ning, a neurologist who specializes in stroke and PFOs. She called us back to her office/examination room after an HOUR of waiting. I was ready to give up! (Mom wouldn’t have let me, though. She was adamant that we see Dr. Ning.) She, too, listened to my whole story and put me through a neurologic exam — the most thorough I’d had in Boston. I counted backwards from 100, walked through the hallway while she examined my gait, had me remember three things, touch my nose – her finger – my nose, close my eyes and hold out my arms (to check whether they stay level; when you’ve had a stroke, they won’t), identify pictures on a card (I could name them all!), and I did well.

“I’m impressed,” she said. “You’re pretty much normal!” Gee, I thought, that’s great. Can we get on with the diagnosis stuff?

“Can I look at your films, please?” she asked.

“Sure! They’re right here.” I pulled out my fat Folder of Medical Records, all two and a half inches of them, and handed her the CDs containing my MRIs. She pulled them up on her computer. She gave us a quick tutorial as to what we were looking at.

“We usually look for asymmetries,” she explained. “See right here? That’s your stroke!” She spent about twenty minutes looking over the pictures. When she was done, she placed her hands on her lap and turned to me.

“It must be terrible being a medical mystery,” she commiserated. “But you’re not one.” I couldn’t believe my ears. What was she saying? “Your PFOs caused your strokes.” Hallelujah!

She explained that many neurologists were probably concerned about small vessel disease (i.e. vasculitus) because it LOOKS like my strokes were in small vessels. However, that’s misleading. My strokes occurred at the junction of small vessels and a large vessel. Young people have more clot-busting chemicals in their blood, so what probably happened is that I had a clot in the artery that busted up and flowed into the small vessels. She said that my TIA and my first stroke were probably related events. (When you say it like that, TIA and first stroke, it sounds rather obvious. I had stopped calling it my “TIA” or my “zeroth stroke” with the hematologist; “I don’t understand what you mean by “zeroth stroke”, he said. OK, we’ll call them strokes one, two, and three. How about that?) The third stroke also landing in my basil ganglia? That was simply bad luck.

If this were vasculitis or a metabolic disorder, I would’ve gotten worse in the past two years, not better.

“What about her sleep?” my dad asked.

“Are you having trouble sleeping?” Dr. Ning asked.

“Well, after the second stroke I had a LOT of trouble falling asleep.  I’d had trouble before that, but I was in graduate school and so I don’t think it’s relevant.”  We had a chuckle, and then she said,

“Well, I’m not at all surprised that you had trouble sleeping.  Your sleep ’switch’ is in the basil ganglia.  I usually see people recover within a year, though.”

I followed up with tons of questions, the most important of which was, “Could you please write me a letter giving me permission to scuba dive?” She wrote it right then and there. She had a lot of questions about it, though … “How deep do you go?” (110 feet at the deepest.) “Could you stay at, oh, I don’t know, 30 – 40′?” (Yes, but … no.) Have you been diving since the strokes? (Yes.) “How deep did you go then?” (106 feet.) “Oh.”

The reason she was asking is that she warned that varying oxygen levels can make you feel the stroke again. Your symptoms come back. So, she said, if I feel like I’m having a stroke underwater, come to the surface but don’t worry; I’m probably not. I’m just suffering a relapse. “OK,” I said. I don’t understand how scuba diving could do that, though; it seems like you’d be getting MORE oxygen, not less. But I promised to be careful.

I left, an hour and a half (not counting wait-time!) later, very satisfied. Dr. Ning had taken the time to get a full picture of my strokes and recovery, she’d attributed them to the PFO, and she’d explained why the other doctors were confused. I think I finally have my answer: the PFO is the cause of my strokes. Hooray!

I just walked in the door from my trip to Boston. It went … well! Here an outlines of my various visits, in chronological order:

(1) Dr. Stein, physiatrist

This was my first visit, on Wednesday. He said that overall, Dr. Stapleton’s doing everything right. (Suck!) He recommends these three things for most of his stroke patients:
* Switch from Adderall to Ritalin (his attention medicine of choice). In addition to being HIS favorite medication, Ritalin wears off quickly — which may help me fall asleep at night. (Which would be fantastic!) Sign me up for that one.
* Try ProVigil again. I got depressed last time I tried ProVigil — suicidal thoughts depressed, not just a little depressed — but I’d be happy to try again. Who knows — maybe it’ll be OK now that I’m on antidepressants. Unfortunately, it’s likely that ProVigil, like Adderall, won’t wake me up, but it can’t hurt to try.
* Try Amantadine. I’ve tried this already and it had zero effect. =( I was so excited when Dr. Stein said, “There’s something else I sometimes tell my patients to try, but it doesn’t always work …” I thought it might work for me, and it’s worth a shot, but … no dice.

(2) Name Withheld, hematologist

I’m not publishing this guy’s name because I don’t want people to search for him and find my review of him. He was a complete and utter a$$hole. I mean COMPLETE. My mom really wanted me to see him because he’s the chairman of Mass General’s PFO committee; I really didn’t want to see him because I didn’t want to ‘donate’ blood again. (I say ‘donate’ because that’s how much blood they took last time — a LOT.) The good news is that he didn’t request any more labs and that he thought my PFO was definitely the cause of my strokes. The bad news is that he didn’t listen to me. A good example is when he found out I developed depression after the second stroke.

“So what are your complaints right now?” he asked.

“Well, fatigue, mostly. I’m exhausted.”

“Are you depressed?” (Obviously he hadn’t looked at the list of medications I’d diligently filled out for him when I arrived.)

“Yes, I developed depression after my third stroke –”

“That’s often the cause of fatigue.”

“Well, I don’t think so in my case. It developed very suddenly after the stroke, and I’m treating it with medication, and my fatigue –”

“We’re also finding that many, many people who have fatigue after a stroke had existing psychological problems before the stroke. Is that the case with you?”

“No! I was entirely happy until –”

“Do you have any psychological problems in the family?”

“Yes, but –”

He went on for an hour. Which was nice, but he thinks I’m tired because I’m nuts, not because of the strokes, and how can he really tell whether or not my PFO caused my strokes if he doesn’t know anything about them? He didn’t look at the films. He didn’t ask — or let me explain — what happened. He didn’t want to know where they occurred. However, my parents heard “The PFO caused your strokes,” and they were happy.

“Do you know how much time he spent with us?” my mom asked. “Over an hour!”

“Yeah, and he really knew the literature regarding PFOs,” my dad responded. He did indeed, I thought, but he didn’t learn anything about *me*, so how does he know that the PFO caused *mine*? I was feeling really tired, so I kept quiet until we returned home, but I thought the visit was a waste of time.

(3) Dr. Riley, high-risk ob-gyn

I managed to get some time alone with Dr. Riley — a win for me, since mom and dad came to all of my other appointments. She called me into her office and I had a seat. She wasn’t what I was expecting; when I think of “high risk ob-gyn,” I think of an old white woman who’s done lots of deliveries. Dr. Riley was young — she looked about 35 — and she’s black. And she’s the head of the labor and delivery department! And I later learned from her book (she’s written a pregnancy book along the lines of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting”) that she has two kids. How does she DO that? She must be EXHAUSTED! But anyway, back to my appointment.

“So, what can I do for you?” she asked me.

“Uh, well, I’m here because I’m high-risk — I’ve had several strokes — and I would like advice about getting pregnant,” I answered. I learned some interesting things, namely:

* I can stay on my antidepressant medications and Adderall/Ritalin. That is a HUGE score for me — I won’t be a zombie during pregnancy, and I won’t have to go through three months of withdrawal to get off of them. Of course, this is just Dr. Riley’s opinion, and she admitted that “It’d be good to get off of them because we don’t know too much about their effects on unborn children,” but that sometimes it’s better for the baby to have a happy, healthy mom than no risk from the medication. And I agree!
* The Denver OB-GYN doesn’t sound so bad. I’m still not full of confidence, but I think I can deal with their ‘quirks’. Dr. Barbour doesn’t always answer email from patients, and her patients often talk to the nurse if she’s not available right away. This isn’t quite the same as Dr. Barbour’s approach — she won’t answer email PERIOD, and ONLY the nurse can talk to patients on the telephone — but okay, good enough.
* The nutritional supplements are fine to take. This is kind of a moot point since I can stay on the Adderall, but it was good to learn. (Plus, it confirmed that my suspicions about Dr. Barbour ruling out EVERYTHING were well founded.)
* At the end of our meeting, Ben asked, “I think what Kathy is getting at is, ‘Is the Denver doc good enough, or should we move to Boston to have this baby?’” (Way to go, Ben! I couldn’t think of a polite way to ask that question.) “You mean you’d be willing to move to Boston for your entire pregnancy?” Dr. Riley responded with a weird look on her face. “No way! I’m sure that the Denver docs are fine. I’ll email you the names of two that I know personally — one was my mentor throughout my internship, and the other was four years ahead of me in residency. I have full confidence in both of them.”
* My risk of stroke during pregnancy isn’t all that much higher than anyone else’s. I’m not really high-risk except

SCORE. I walked out with a huge smile on my face. Dr. Riley was delightful, and I could be pregnant soon! =)

(4) Dr. Mazumdar, pediatric neurologist

The next morning, I saw Dr. Mazumdar, a pediatric neurologist. Why a pediatric neurologist? I was told to by Dr. Kesari, the doc I saw last time I came to Mass General, before the discovery of my PFO.

[Edit: I'm exhausted.  I'm going to bed and will resume this in the morning.]

Well, Ben and I just returned from our church’s youth retreat. We headed about half an hour up the Peak-to-Peak highway to Highlands Camp for three days.

Overall, it was a good weekend. However, Ben was out of it because he’d just returned from a week-and-a-half-long jaunt to Paris and had a cold (or the flu, depending on who you believe =). He mostly slept.
Poor Benno. When he showed up on Saturday around lunchtime, he looked positively terrible. I went down to the lodge and tucked him in, and he reappeared at dinner for a half hour. Then it was back to sleep.

I stayed with the kids most of the time, however, and I think I did pretty well! I led a vespers, taught the kids the “My God is So Great” song, and led crafts — which went over wonderfully, by the way. We used Pearler Beads to make various shapes, nobody got burned by the iron, and even the boys enjoyed it.

Then, this morning, I walked up to the cabin before breakfast to find one of our campers puking over the deck. Ewww. I mean, poor kid. I’ve got plenty of experience with barfing and it’s never any fun. Then, I went inside to find another one of our campers curled up in a ball and moaning. “Ohhh, I think I’m going to hurl,” he groaned. He then proceeded to eat a nice big breakfast, complete with pancakes, eggs, and sausage. He spent our worship time inside with the first camper.

When I returned from worship and our hike, I found him lying on the deck clutching his stomach. Don announced, “Everybody in a car!” and what do you know, I was left with our soon-to-be-puker. Now, I wasn’t supposed to end up with him; I had a strict “No boys” policy in my car. (Our boys are pretty rowdy, and I can’t stand it. It’s just too much post-stroke. Add in the need to concentrate on driving on our mountain roads, and the females-only policy starts to make a lot of sense.) In this case, though, I didn’t think he was going to be making much noise.  He got in and didn’t make a peep except for his occasional moaning.  I convinced him to ride in the backseat, which, as you’ll soon see, didn’t make a lick of difference.

Now, I should mention that Don offered to trade passengers with me.  “I completely forgot about your trip!” he conceded.  (I leave tomorrow for my doctors’ visits in Boston, and I do NOT want to be sick for that.)  However, I figured that with “puker-boy” stuck in the backseat with some plastic bags, we’d be fine.  I couldn’t say “Yes, please get him the heck out of here!” without insulting him, anyway.  “OK, well just keep the window down and hopefully the germs will get blown to the back of the car,” Don said helpfully.

Having the windows down is one of the worst sounds for me.  I don’t know why.  If you believe that crowds sound bad, well, the window is very similar.  It sounds like a lot of people yakking — a very staccato beat.  Anyway, having the window down the whole ride home is almost as bad as having a crew of squirrlley sixth grade boys beating each other up on the trip home.  I braced myself for the drive home.

Puker Boy moaned most of the way.  “How do you feel?” I asked him.  “I feel like I’m going to barf, but I haven’t yet,” he confided.  I made sure to drive home slowly so that the curves wouldn’t make him sicker.  However, sometimes I thought it might be better just to step on it and get there faster.  Ah, the conundrum of a youth leader: to floor it or not to floor it?  I opted for the latter.

About halfway home, another one of my campers got sick.  “Would you mind if I opened my window?” she asked.

“Is it going to help you feel better?” I asked.  Bless her heart for asking first!  This is why I prefer girls; they’re so thoughtful.  Puker-boy simply rolled his window down when Don suggested it.

“Yes,” she answered.

“OK,” I replied.  I was going to be tired anyway; what was a little more wind noise?  Besides, if she was going to hurl, it’d be better to do it out the window.

Another quarter of the drive went by before she asked me to “Pull over when it’s convenient.”  I pulled over immediately and she hopped out, crouching down on her knees.  She waited there for about ten minutes, but she didn’t barf.   Without a word, she got back in the car and we headed home.

We arrived about fifteen minutes later — two out of the three cars, that is.  Don and Pennie had to pull over at some point; they had a puker themselves.  Puker-boy lost his breakfast upon arrival at the church — which, by the way, he was HAPPY to do.  I always feels better to just toss your cookies than to hold onto them.  Overall, half of our crew of nine kids got sick.  So far, I’ve stayed healthy.  May that continue to be the case, and may the kids of Nederland Community Presbyterian Church feel better soon!

I tutored today at Fairview High School. I’m working with a kind, talented, and VERY patient teacher, Mr. F. But oh my goodness, the kids are from a whole ‘nother planet when it comes to math. I’m helping out in basic algebra and geometry classes; here are some sample conversations:

In basic algebra, we’re solving pairs of equations for x and y. A typical conversation goes like this:

————————-
Me: Hey you! Have you started the problem yet?

Student: [Turns around. He's been looking at the girls behind him.] No.

Me: Well, could you?

Student: Do I have to?

Me: Yes. [I give him several minutes, then return to his desk. Surprise! He's turned around again!]

Me: How’s the problem going?

Student: Oh. Sorry. I haven’t started.

Me: OK, I’ll help you. Which variable would you like to eliminate?

(The problem looks like this:
4x + 3y = 12
4x – 2y = 10)

Student: If I multiply both equations by two, it’ll get rid of the y’s.

Me: Are you sure?

Student: Yeah, because 3 times 2 is … uh … I don’t get it.

Me: Well, let’s try to eliminate the x’s. Notice how they have the same coefficients? So all we need to do is multiply one equation by -1.

Student: Ungghh … this is such a pain in the butt. Why do we have to learn this stuff? It’s such a pain in the butt!

Me: When else are you going to learn it?

Student: In college.

Me: They don’t teach this stuff in college. You’re expected to know it already.

Student: Yeah, they do.

Me: No, they don’t.

Student: How do you know?

Me: I’ve been to college.

Student: I guess they just teach calculus in college. [Shrugs.]

Me: Yep. So if you don’t learn this now, that’s it. Let’s go: which variable would you like to eliminate?

Student: Uhhh …

Me: Let’s try to eliminate the x’s. What do we need to multiply the second equation by to do that?

Student: I dunno.

————————-

… And on and on it went. But it’s not as bad as my basic geometry student who was trying to compute the surface area of a pyramid:

Me: OK, have you made any progress? [Looking down at her black piece of paper. Obviously, she hadn't.]

Student: No.

Me: OK, then, what formula will you use?

Student: [guessing] Uhh … a^2 + b^2 = c^2?

Me: That’ll be a useful formula, but what’s the formula for the surface area? (We’d just gone over this in class about 10 minutes ago.)

Student: I dunno. [This answer is becoming a theme. I've got a whole crop of "I dunnos". It's getting pretty frustrating at this point.]

Me: Well, look in your notes.

Student: I need to copy them from my friend. I wasn’t here — I was in the counselor’s office.

Me: [thinking that I don't care where she's been, she should have copied down this part of the notes. Except she was here. I saw her. Sitting two seats away from me.] OK … [Walk away, completely disgusted.]

5 minutes later, I return:

Me: Have you gotten the notes yet?

Student: No. [To her left:] Hey Melissa! Let me see the notes.

Melissa: Here they are.

Student: Oh, that’s it? I think I have these. Hey, I DO! So why is this so hard?

Me: So what’s the formula for surface area?

Student: I dunno.

Good grief. It’s a pyramid with a 7′ square base and a 9′ slant height. The formula for surface area is S.A. = B + 1/2*P*L, where B = the area of the base, P = perimeter of the square, and L = slant height.

Me: Well, what’s the area of the base?

Student: 14.

Me: No.

Student: 20?

Me: No.

Student: [starts to say something]

Me: [interrupting] Let’s draw it. What shape is the base?

Student: Well, the sides are 7′ and this thing over here is 9′. [No drawing takes place.]

Me: DRAW IT.

Student: Reluctantly draws a square.

Me: Good! Now, how long are the sides of this square?

Student: 9. [Draws a '9' on her paper.]

Me: No, they’re 7.

Student: [Erases her 9 and replaces it with a 7.]

Me: OK! Good job! Now, what’s the area of this square?

Student: 27 … no … 26.

Me: [thinking "good grief!"] Nope.

Student: 28!

Me: That’s the perimeter. You’ll need that, so remember it, but what we’re looking for now is the AREA. That’s B in our equation for the surface area.

Student: [a light bulb goes on] Oh! 48!

Me: <Sigh.> No, but close. [I consider tell her that multiplying an odd number by another odd number isn't going to get you an even number, but she won't get it. This is painfully slow.]

Student: 56?

Me: [If this goes on much longer, I'm going to shoot myself.] No.

Student: I dunno.

Me: What’s 7×7?

Student: I dunno. I’m not so good at my multiplication tables.

————————-

I also had a student who understood very little English. I tried to help her with the problem, but it was VERY difficult to get through to her. She kept asking her friend, in Spanish, for help. “You check the problem by plugging in 2 for x and 2 for y,” I said. She wrote, “2x + 1 y = 10′. “No,” I explained, “You plug in x and y. So it’s 4*(2) + 1*(2) = 10.” The look on her face told me she had NO idea what was going on. “I’ll come back later and see how you’re doing,” I said. It was a total cop-out; I just wanted to stop bothering her. When I finally returned, she had written down the answer and the check, which I presume she’d copied from her friend. “Good job!” I said. She smiled. Well, one victory for the day. Sort of.

————————-

After class, I asked Mr. F. if any of his students had ADD. He laughed. “I’m sure they do!” he said.

“I’m specifically thinking of D. [the algebra student],” I said. “He seems to be unable to concentrate for even a minute. If he has ADD, he could either start taking medication or adjust his schedule for taking it … it’ll even him out,” I suggested.

“Maybe,” said Mr. F., smiling. “He’s a tough one. D. does a lot of his work in the study hall upstairs. I’ve tried to convince him to work down here — that’s why he sits in the front — but it just doesn’t work.”

I don’t know how he does it. He’s so calm and understanding of these kids, some of whom need to be beaten with a stick just to sit down and shut up. I’m at the end of my rope and I’ve been doing this for 3 days, only 2 hours/day.

FWIW, I do enjoy tutoring the kids. D. is beginning to listen to me and respect me, and maybe — just maybe — we’ll get some work done one of these days. My geometry girl eventually got the problem, and though I doubt she understood it thoroughly, we’ve certainly made progress. All hope is not lost!

And yesterday I went skiing with the Dexters! Don AND Pennie! (Pennie’s been on a skiing hiatus for the past 25 years or so because of knee and back injuries.) We skied the greens for a couple hours, and then moved on to the blues. Pennie was doing fantastically! She did really well on the ‘big mountain’, too! Her turns are excellent. I enjoyed following her tracks, trying to make the same swooping curves she did. Congratulations, Pennie! I hope you’re not too sore today! =)

We returned home from Steamboat Springs yesterday. I didn’t ski anymore — I’m not a glutton for punishment — but it was a fun trip nonetheless. I took ONE picture while we were there, of me and Ben and Einstein. Here it is:

Sorry not to get one of the snow. But snow there was! Eight fresh inches of it yesterday! [I've been writing this for a while now; 'yesterday' was about a week ago.]

I would also like to note that I’m not mad at Ben. In Saturday’s entry, I poked him a little bit for pressuring me to go down the greens, ski down the lift lines, etc., but it was all in fun. He’s actually been really understanding — going down the greens with me, not chiding me for not skiing Sunday morning, not saying anything when I chew funny, etc. (We’ve discovered that I have mouth issues. I dribble toothpaste down my chin when I brush my teeth, and when I eat I get sauce all over my mouth. I also chomp. And get food stuck in my teeth. I don’t know what the problem is — weak mouth muscles, poor muscle control, etc. — but it’s gross. Welcome to life post-stroke: where you can walk and generally look healthy, but chewing becomes a hazard.)

Ben’s birthday was on March 24, the day after Easter! We celebrated with my dad, who flew just in for the occasion. (Just kidding; he was in Boulder for a conference.) Mom B sent us a big BBQ package, and we enjoyed that very much.

Then we had cake. This cake was pretty terrible. I made it on Saturday and left it in the fridge for two days. I made the icing on Monday morning. It’s supposed to be a ladybug, but it came out looking like a … big cake chopped in half with random spatterings of icing all over it. Sorry, Ben! Fortunately, everybody was gracious enough to have a piece and nobody gagged.

Then it was time to open presents!

Chaco, as I’ve mentioned before, LOVES to help unwrap presents. Today, however, his eagerness was a little over the top:

What? A pair of hand-made pajama pants? You shouldn’t have, sweetie. (He actually wears them!)

And some boxes of Tim Tams. They’re an Australian cookie that Ben’s coworker introduced him to, and he fell in love with them. He especially loves “Tim Tam slams”, which is when you take a Tim Tam, bite off the edges, and use it as a straw for milk or hot chocolate. Personally, I don’t find them chocolate-y enough, but hey — it’s not MY birthday!

And the big present, which Ben doesn’t understand in this picture, was an IOU for me to paint the “fishtank wall” an accent color. Even grey, if it’s still what he wanted. I wasn’t a big fan of this idea. I pictured “cinderblock gray”, and it sounded pretty drab to me. Ben picked out a color called “River Mud,” which wasn’t quite as bad as the cinderblock shade I’d pictured, but I still wasn’t all that thrilled about it. However, now that it’s on the wall, I LOVE it! It looks pretty green, which “matches the algae”, as my mom said, and I really like it. But enough talk; I assume you’d rather see my pictures of it.

The room, prepared for painting:

The final picture was taken at night so the light’s just from the lights above the tank (and the tank light’s off), so take my word for it that it looks even better in the sunshine.

And now for three of my most recent sewing projects. The first is two pairs of pajama pants that I made for my middle sister, who’s overseas for graduate school. I stupidly didn’t take any pictures of them. However, they came out pretty well if I do say so myself.

The second is a quilt I made for my youngest sister, Kim, who’s now a sophomore at Caltech. I DID remember to take a picture of this before mailing it:

And the third I made for Erica and Austin, two parishioners at our church who are engaged and expecting a baby! Erica and Austin, I wish you happiness, love, peace, Christ, and puppy love. (As in real dogs. They’ve got a puppy named Snoopy who’s delightful. Chaco gets along well with him, too — none of this business with his bones like he had with Teddy.)