The rooster crowed awfully early this morning.
After two bouts of pneumonia in a nine month period, Caroline saw the Pediatric Pulmonologist a few weeks ago, for purely precautionary reasons. Since she is an otherwise very healthy child, the doctor didn't really have an explanation, but she did recommend that we have one simple, non invasive test done. A test that she was quite sure would be negative, but in the spirit of being thorough (and avoiding malpractice concerns), she suggested the Sweat Test anyway. The Sweat Test checks the level of sodium in a persons sweat; people with high levels of sodium have Cystic Fibrosis. As the doctor was explaining this to me, and reassuring me that she's 99.999999% sure Caroline would test negative, I kept telling myself to not go home and Google Cystic Fibrosis. After I was done telling myself that, the doctor said the same thing. She must have seen the wheels turning inside my brain.
And while I know that Caroline is more than likely fine, the .000001% possibility that the test could come back positive scares the bejeeezus out of me. However, she's almost NEVER sick. She's never had respiratory issues and even when she had pneumonia, she was roller skating in the basement. Hardly the portrait of a sickly child.
Today was Sweat Test day. On the bright side, the test is quick and non invasive. They only do them at 8am, which is fine, we don't mind an early start to the day. However, the test is only done at Walter Reed, deep in the heart of Washington DC. I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, but Walter Reed gives me the creeps. Big time. It's old and just not a happy place.
The Dunkin Donuts inside makes up for a little of the creepiness, but I'd really rather not have to go there. I think it's the apartments across the street with bars on all the windows and doors that exacerbates the creepy vibe.
I'm a plain jane, white bread, happy to be in the 'burbs kind of girl.
Weekday morning traffic in the DC area is nightmarish at best. We allowed ourselves an hour and fifteen minutes to drive the 22 miles and needed every single one of them. After getting a little disoriented, we found our way there, with a minute to spare. Thankfully Craig came along to navigate us through the crazy congested one way streets, copious amounts of traffic lights and pedestrians too busy texting to pay attention to the road. Had I been the driver, we might still be looking for the hospital, three hours later. While I'm a competent co-pilot, I lose my directional sense when in the driver's seat.
Perhaps I should ask Santa for a GPS next Christmas.
The test is complete; Caroline, as always, was a trooper.
Craig, the marathoner in training, is out running now. He left as soon as we got home from the hospital. It's hotter than Hades outside, but he's ever committed to the training schedule. And Me? Nah, I'll go to the gym tomorrow. Besides, my thighs are still smoldering from yesterday's Body Pump class. I should NEVER go a week without any physical activity; the first day back is just too painful.
Not sure what's on tap for the rest of the day. I'd like to have a nap, but I'm sure my house will be brimming with chatty kids, eager to hide from the scorching sun this afternoon. Yesterday the kids created a humongous tent in the basement, scattered Legos all over the living room and made Webkinz beds in the kitchen/dining room. I literally had no where to sit, so I was forced upstairs to hide out in my bedroom.
School starts in less than a month.
Hooray, hallelujah and amen to that!
EDITED TO ADD: The pulmonologist just called to say that her test was, as expected, negative.