The Master Mechanic and the Missing Testicles

Three years ago, after giving a manfriend a vigorous ride through truly exciting terrain, a little surprise resulted:

But I have no radiator–where the heck was all that fluid coming from?

NOTE: Terms have been slightly modified to respect the more delicate sensibilities of male readers.

I stop at the top. There’s only a length of hoohah hose long enough to fit a man’s hahhoo.

Here Be Dragons Vag Diagram

My Biggest Dragon Flew the Coop Long Ago

With my two autocidal diseases, I’m used to surprises. I didn’t rush to the mechanic. The next day, I was still leaking fluid, but also still breathing. I made an appointment with a friendly hoohah-cologist.

After shallow spelunking, and some sealant application, she shrugged and said “With you, who knows? Hold off on fun, and try again in a few days.”

That many days later, after more sealant, she said “Jeez, I don’t have a clue. Everything looks really healthy up there.”

Over the past three years, that same hose has leaked again after fun. Not often. Just often enough to make the idea of dating a new guy awkward:

“Hi, New Dude. Uh…listen: There’s the minor matter that I might spring a serious leak if we go uphill or take it above 55…”

Three weeks ago, I lost so much fluid my date and I almost headed for the 24-hour emergency garage.

I later googled like mad and finally discovered that my symptoms could indicate The Big C: Corrosion.

Last year, repeated fluid diagnostics had indicated corrosion somewhere under the hood, but but no scans or mechanics had found any.

I think, instead of the Big C, maybe a teensy bit of misplaced radiator material at the top of the hoohah hose springs a leak–

IF I have fun the same days I’ve applied the recommended additive for older engines: S-Trojan.

(Forget that Pro-Jetster-Zone junk for engines THIS old!)

I really need to get this tricky problem solved. This is my only vehicle, and I’ve noticed most dudes aren’t real fond of hoohah to hahhoo radiator fluid transfer.

They pretty much freak out at the sight of a little coolant.

I needed to see a Master Mechanic.


I was nakey, but only from the waist down. I was to be checked out by a tip-top corrosion doc.

I wrapped my nakey bottom in the gown and waited, after running out into the hallway just long enough to pee–and to show off my designer outfit.

Naked From the Waist Down

I Can’t Say I Was Overfond of Their Gowns

After about 15 minutes, the doctor entered. A tall, pleasant-looking man, he smiled and shook hands while introducing himself. Unfortunately, he shook like he wanted to best a male rival.

I inadvertently cried out from the pain. He asked “Did I hurt you?”. I answered “Yes—only a little.” My aching hand throbbed. He didn’t apologize.

I looked toward the door for the female resident or a nurse who’d join us, but the doctor sat down and asked his first question:

“I understand you believe you’ve had a hysterectomy?”


Me (calmly): “I find that question patronizing.”
Doc: “How is it patronizing?”

Me (teacher mode): “Well, what if I were the doctor and you the patient and I asked you: ‘I understand you believe you’ve had your testicles removed?’

Don’t you think you would remember? Do you think it’s different for women because our parts are internal?”

Doc (huffily): If you find my question patronizing, I don’t think this is going to work for either one of us.”

And he stood up and walked out of the room.

I was left there, pantsless and doctor-less. Still not knowing whether or not I have–corrosion.

I’d had to jump through hoops like a performing seal to get this appointment. There are very few Master Mechanics with his expertise. NOW what?!


Leaving the famous hospital (Geezers Die-Die, perhaps?), I spoke to a lovely woman in Customer Relations, asking: “What would you think if…?”

Upon hearing the question, the lovely woman’s face looked like she’d been hit in it by a hot iron. She called his words “unconscionable”.

My sister Meg said: “I would have been struck speechless.”

My friend A. said she would have had two thoughts in sequence:

“Does the doctor mean we women should have no confidence at all in any doctors or medical facilities? That when we’re told we’ve been given hysterectomies, we’ve instead been lied to and defrauded?

Or, does this doctor think I’m insane?”

My nurse friend in Pasadena laughed hysterically. She loved my answer, but said:

“You should have asked him if he was off his game because he was having his period!”

I snorted back. “I should have put on a dumb-bunny voice, leaned forward, and said:

‘Gosh, I’m really not sure, Doctor! Can you look down my throat and check to see whether my uterus is still down there?'”

The department mucky-mucks told me to write what happened, send it to the Complaint Department, and wait ten business days for a response.

Not one muck offered another doctor, or expressed concern over my still-undiagnosed condition.


This ugly visit happened the same week I learned a dentist has lied to and defrauded me, and

The same week a licensed plumber came to finish installing my dishwasher but instead flooded my kitchen floor.

Unending similar weeks led me to need a break from blogging. When one has bad luck magnetism as powerful as mine, one must sometimes withdraw to regroup and remuster the optimism required for normal human interaction.

I think of you guys, and miss your blogs, but I am still muster-less. I am even considering renewed thumb-sucking. What a warm feeling it was. I think I’ll give it a try tonight, while I hug my stuffed bunny. He has never let me down.

Yet. (sigh.)

–O. Babe

Thumb-Sucking Mandrill

My Baby Pic


Science Sunday: Men Make Boobs Grow! and Other Amazing Science-y Maybe-Facts

Here at The Last Half, we consider it our responsibility to educate the American public, which has demonstrated a remarkable absence of mind when it comes to knowledge of Science-y stuff.
And we have an addiction to reading Science blurbs.
And we email the best ones to ourselves and want to share.

So every Sunday, give or take 51 or so Sundays a year, we will post the best Science blurbs of the week, or of whenever we got around to reading them, put into layperson’s terms–words a person could understand while laying in bed half-asleep. Get ready for…

…Amazing Science!

Amazing Science

Men Make Boobs Grow

It’s a fact, Jack. Once, this totally cool dude I was dating, a programmer-analyst type just like I was, smarter than smart ( :roll: ), said the dumbest-#ss thing to me whilst we were between the sheets:

” —

Oh, wait–You need a little context first:

He wouldn’t stop playing with my boobs.

I mean, he wouldn’t stop. Now, I’m pretty darn fond of having my boobs played with, but there comes a point where anything gets old, and he was seventeen minutes and thirty-five seconds past that point. So I had just said:

“What the frig? What’s with all the boob-playing?!”

NOW you have the context. And then HE said:

“It’s so they’ll grow.”

Have you ever heard anything so d#mned dumb in all your life?! And this from one of the otherwise-smartest guys you’d hope to meet!

I just about laughed my boobs off! I ragged on him so bad! He actually told me he’d always figured

“…the only reason some chicks are flat-chested is because they haven’t had their boobs played with enough.”

Oh, my aching chest.

Well now I may have to eat my words. At least when it comes to pregnant boobs, single mom rats wind up with smaller boobs than married mom rats. Their boobs grow less during pregnancy, getting less milk in them.
Rat Bra

We don’t know that the same man magic happens to human boobs, but it might. In which case, I owe that long-ago dude an apology:

Sorry, dude. If man-magic can grow pregnant boobs, maybe it can grow unpregnant ones too.

Ladies with big boobs, let this be your warning:



The paper this stuff came from will tell you the theory about why the boobs grow is that men stink. The ratty-men’s smelly pheromones make the ratty-women’s breasts go all a titter (I’m tittering typing that).

The paper also tells you that the single (i.e. unscented) ratty-moms nurse their babies less, and their babies are a bit less smart. THAT is interesting.


No, you idiot. Her boobs are not tiny because no one ever liked them and no one ever played with them. Playing with them more will not make them grow. Does your dick reach the ceiling yet? Idiot.

Please Save Us From Idiots


I’m sorry. That’s all we have time for this week. If the world is still here next Sunday–if the world’s boobs haven’t yet destroyed it–maybe next week! Here’s a video instead:

CYMATICS: Science Vs. Music – Nigel Stanford from Nigel Stanford on Vimeo.


How I Found the Porcelain Thrones*, and They Redeemed Me*


Long ago when I was young, when families dined out or had guests over, it was considered appropriate for younger girls and boys to drink non-alcoholic versions of adult drinks so that they could fit in.

These would be made in real cocktail glasses, with a maraschino cherry or a twist of lime or lemon–so that they would look real.

Older children–older preteens and young teens–were pressured to drink real cocktails. I remember feeling very embarrassed by the adults teasing me ungently about how I didn’t like the taste of alcohol. I was considered immature.

By age thirteen, high school, I had finally learned to sip at anything with Creme de Menthe, and at Tom and John Collinses.

When I was fourteen, my parents decided to farm us kids out to neighbors while they went to Guatemala for two weeks. The minute we heard, we gathered secretly together in a mutual spirit of cooperation rarely seen since we had long ago gathered to plan the murder of our mother.

“Okay, here’s how we’ll do it: We’ll each take turns getting the house. No big parties, no big messes.”

On the days I held possession, my friend Vicky and I sampled everything in the liquor cabinet. We thought if we did it evenly across all bottles, no one would notice.

Typical of me, I spilled Creme de Menthe on a nightgown on one of these days, and, also typical of me, carelessly tossed the gown in the clothes hamper.

Where my mother discovered it, still reeking of minty alcohol, upon returning from Guatemala. Oops!

I Dont Know What Makes You So Dumb
My first college year, my roommate Beryl and I would start out every Friday by jointly downing a half-gallon bottle of Rhine wine. Then we went looking for a party, where we’d suck back as many free mixed drinks as we could get the guys to push on us.

That’s what college weekends were supposed to be: FUN!!

(We were lucky nothing worse happened than aggressive jerkwads being aggressive jerkwads.)

My second semester, I transferred to another school where waterfalls cascaded down the stairwells every weekend night, caused by the massive drunken waterfights at the all-night parties.

I continued my harmless practice of sucking back countless mixed drinks of all varieties with no ill effects. Hangovers? What were they? I had no idea. I’d awaken the same as if I’d had a full night’s sleep.

One night, I’d been inhaling screwdrivers. Someone asked me if I’d ever had a rum and coke. As soon as I tasted that delicious rum sweetness, I was hooked, and immediately switched allegiance. Down went a total of what I recall as four rum and cokes.

The next thing I knew, it was not-quite-morning and I was in my bed.

I was feeling the way a person would who had projectile-vomited all over her friend’s bathroom the night before and now realized she would have to clean it. After it had dried on.

My stomach gave another heave at the thought.

Attractive Cartoon Giraffe Puking Prettily

Delicately, I slid myself over the side of the bed. Gingerly, I raised my body from the horizontal.

I skied my sock-shod feet gently to my pal Buddy’s bathroom. When I had experimentally lifted foot from floor, I’d found that the rules of gravity were no longer in effect. My socks and the floor, however, were apparently magnetic.

Shading my eyes in self-preservation, I turned on the light.

Oh, I most sincerely hope that none of you ever have to behold the horror:

Twin toilets, twin sinks. Both soiled, sullied, and woefully besmirched by my most unprecious bodily fluids.

My eyes are actually tearing as I type this.

One and a half hours later, I stood up, the hellish job complete. I was proud I had managed not to vomit again.

However, by now, my first hangover ever was in full flower. I could no longer raise my head completely, nor entirely open my eyes.

I had to feel my way along the walls and furniture and count doorframes in order to find my way back to my own bed and to the sweet, sweet release of sleep.


“Babe! Babe! Wake up!” Somebody was shaking me violently.

“Whuh? Wha’ d’you wan’?”

“Babe! You’ve got to wake up!”

It was my good friend Buddy. He was the one who had gotten me into my bed the night before.

“You were sick in our bathroom last night, Babe!”

“Oh. That. I know. A’ready cleaned it.”


“Babe. I don’t know how to tell you this.
I don’t know whose bathroom you cleaned, but it wasn’t ours.”

Woman Feeling the Horror


Please. Let us pause for a moment of sympathy for the me back then who had to get out of bed again, now with full-blown hangover, and clean that second bathroom.

This time, trying not to ups while thinking of the someone else’s gacksplat she had spent an hour and a half touching without gloves earlier that night.

It did take one more pukefest and hangover (a story that would only be funny if video existed), plus my first and last alcoholic blackout (very scary–I may have had sex with someone I had zero attraction to) to get me to see the light.

From that point on, I stuck to a one drink maximum. It helped to know that having an alcoholic mother and brother combined with my special luck would make bucking the odds unlikely.

Today, my kidneys do their part in encouraging a half-glass maximum.

Kidneys Toasting Your Health

They’re only looking out for my best interests, the dears.


Oh, I am hopeless. Here’s the second hangover story:

I’m working in a bar as a short-order cook. After work, hanging out with some roofers I sorta’ know–great guys–who’ve been coming in for a while. They find out I’ve never tasted a White Russian. They order me one. I’ve never tasted a Tootsie Roll. … A Pink Lady… A total of six different mixed drinks. Bike home. Walk through the front door, say to my bud K.

“I had SUCH a great time after work today, hangin’ out with the NICEST guys!”

She tells me I then fell right on my face, straight-bodied, as does a tree in the forest.

I awaken at 3AM, panicked, tangled in a bedsheet, with something alien on my head. I reach up, and feel…rubber bands! Little rubber bands all over my head, everywhere!

I have long hair to mid-back at the time. Someone has taken separate strands of hair and tiny rubber bands and for some reason combined them into this… I look like the Flying Spaghetti Monster after a perm! What the feck?

Many hours later, when I was lucid and less hungover, and K. was awake, she explained that while I was barfing my guts out, and she was holding my head up out of the puke pail, she needed both hands for that. But my hair was falling into my barf. K. grabbed whatever was to hand to tie bits of my hair out of the way as well as she could manage while balancing my big barfing melon. (Thank you, K!)

Goose Puking Im Never Drinking Again


Mimsy and Babs: The Case of the Cloche Contretemps

Of the famous inseparable pair, meet Mimsy–or I believe this is she, judging by the helplessly overbalanced elegant tilt of her head, and how her smile looms large (something certainly does) beneath that adorable feathered cloche.

Mimsy and The Cloche

Mimsy and A Very Stylish Cloche She Obtained Somewhere

These letters appeared as comments and replies on the blog Dot Knows.

The first letter of Babs was posted in response to the following photo by Elizabeth Turner, a.k.a. Liz, a.k.a. Elle, a.k.a. who knows what else.

(One assumes it is Ms. Turner’s various malfeasances which have forced these and perhaps numerous other name changes, but–no matter. Let us move on, much as one imagines has Ms. Turner on so many occasions.)

ElleTurner Mimsy & Babs Moths On Clover

‘Six Spot’ Burnet Moths Demonstrating Their Addition Skills (photo by ©Elizabeth Turner/elleturner4)

Dearest Mimsy,

I spotted two moths today today on a clover, and do you know, rather than gasping and hurriedly backing away, I actually dropped down for a closer look!

Honestly, Mimsy, I know you’ll find this beyond belief, but their tails were touching, and the two together made a really rather attractive picture! No–  truly!

They had these lovely little spotted wings–  What color?  Oh, orange on black–  and their little thingies–  you know, their antenna-thingies–  were poking out in opposite directions quite like those marvelous ebony feathers jutting out on that cloche Yvette wore the other night–You know the one!

Mimsy, these simple creatures made me feel altogether blessed, if you will, as if they were designed purposely to make me feel utter delight. The oddest thing.

But then they separated, and the horrid things flew right toward me! Naturally, I screamed bloody murder. Raymond, thank Gawd, killed the bloody things instantly.

Thank the Lord for strapping young men, eh, Mimsy?

Yours fondly, as always,



So Babs…if I may be as bold!,

I lay this at your feet…

The carnage and horror that was unveiled to your little Mimsy is more than she can bear…

For hours now Mimsy has lain silent and traumatised from the wicked terrors that she beheld in the usually pleasant field behind her house. Spotted wings draped over pretty grasses, delicate antennae stuck in spider webs, and that final horror of what you describe as ‘marvellous ebony feathers’ now looking nothing like dear Yvette’s cloche…

You know how much your Mimsy wanted a cloche of that nature. How could you allow such wanton destruction of what you call ‘horrid things’!

Damn that fine strapping young man… Forgive my harsh words, but that is what you, Babs, have driven me to!

I, your little Mimsy, am distraught and need something for my nerves…  perhaps a little tipple. I am away now to recover.

Think long and hard, my once-dear Babs, about the course of action you set that strapping young man onto, and look for forgiveness.

I finish now having come to the end!

Yours, once fondly,



Mimsy! My dear!

Had I but known you had taken up an interest in Naturalism (how perfectly apropos, given your rather rural and, let us say, less-than-fashionable location), I would have ended my tale at its penultimate reflections, rather than reveal the final outcome.

Please forgive me, my soft-hearted darling!

How you can feel any fondness for creatures that literally fly in the face of reason…  Well, it literally flies in the face of reason, m’dear!

However, out of my deepest regard for you and our long friendship, I will order Raymond to practice the same catch-and-release mode with critters that creep and leap as he does now with those that swim in the deep.

Will you forgive me, Mimsy? Do come over to dinner so that you can show that you do.

We’re having a lovely steak tartare, preceded by a stellar paté, accompanied by the most amazing blood soup you have ever feasted upon. And Raymond has added a special treat for the tartare: Andean condor eggs! Imagine!


Your Friend,



Dear Babs…  Just a little dearer than you were yesterday what with the note of conciliation in your message,

I feel I must conform to the correct way of doing things and apologise for this response’s tardiness…

You see, here in the less-than-fashionable location that I find myself in–namely Old Blighty–we have to sleep at different times to you. Thus, the delay.

No matter; I am here now; rest your heaving breast!

I can feel forgiveness forming, though it is not yet fully complete, and I fear I must take a little while to steady myself.

Though even now the thought of Raymond and Andean Condor eggs served on a platter quite makes my saliva glands tremble! (Yes, I do mean both at once!)

Thus I believe that, dear little six spot burnet’s slaughter notwithstanding, I shall come to a place where I will be able to accept your offer though there are, of course, many a thing to organise for the coming days in order for the transition from here to there to be fulfilled.

Stellar pate sounds extraordinary and I look forward to the experience.

I must beg you, my once favourite dewdrop, to tell that chap Raymond that it is his utmost duty to perfect the Catch and Release system popularised by the Victorians with high haste and when I arrive I shall expect a demonstration.

Now, what with the rurality and less than fashionality that I live having been plunged into darkness (aka night) I must away to my fluffy feathered place to enjoy a full night of rejuvenating kip.

I look forward to a swift response from your dear-ish self.

With a little affection and possibly a wink,



Oh, Mimsy,

The warmth of your response is truly.

All is being made ready for your arrival: Raymond is catching all possible creeping creatures, and shall release them into your quarters the moment your dainty foot crosses the threshold. A Naturalist’s dream, surely!

I am so glad your generosity of spirit has allowed us to put this ugly incident behind us.



Your friend,



Dear Babs,

Yes, the ugly incident is behind and we must plough forward.

Raymond, the dear little pickled egg (has he received treatment yet?), sounds a dream but:

could I please have some grasses for my sleeping quarters so that the dear little insects may have a home of their own as well, and not just have to hunker down on the drapes and hangings that I am sure will be in place for my stay?

I can send a list that will contain suitable wildflowers too and, before you put this plan into action,

may I beg that you use the very best compost on my bedroom floor…  can’t have an inferior mulch for my beloved flora and insect life!

I must make haste now for it is imbibing on a Friday night time and I cannot use a computer during these times.
Preparations are coming on nicely.

I will let you know of any other requirements for my stay and also furnish you with my itinerary.

Much moderate feeling to you my pal, buddy and cheap hostelry owner,

Yours Mimsy


Dearest Mimsy,

With my fulsome laughter at your Raymond line still sounding, I cede victory, and hereby doff my cloche to you.


Yours In War,

Yours In Abject Surrender,

And Looking Quite Spiffy All In White


Dear Spiffy in White one…

I, in turn, must say that I have cried tears of laughter whilst trying to read what you have written to my partner who could make no sense of me at these times!

Bravo Babs…..a fun fight and a darned good duel

Yours in purple and Blue!


PS…cloche accepted.


Dear Mimsy,

It WAS fun!! A most-worthy opponent–I was well o’er-matched (and minded only a little– tsk!).

Yours in Precious Purity,


P.S. Never in my dreams did I expect you would accept the cloche (esp., m’dear, given that darling boffo but beefy noggin of yours–

you MUST know a cloche will appear on it much as would a pearl balanced on an egg?).

Now what shall I wear with my silk sheath to Raymond’s wife’s funeral next week?

(At least, we’re shooting for next week. Oh! Oh, Mimsy! Did you hear that–what I just said? Ha ha ha! Rather precious, that one, what?! Ha ha ha!)



PS…Of course I would accept the cloche–but how could you mention my boffo and beefy noggin? And the painting of the picture of the egg and pearl?

NO-ONE, I repeat NO-ONE knows of these incapacities as I have used photos of other people on my profile and now it is all over the blogosphere! Mimsy is unmasked and I fear we are back where we started to boot!

I have contacted Raymond’s wife.

I will leave now with cloche all a quiver!




I fear you have trod that one step beyond from which there is no turning back. (Give me a moment please, to fan myself for dramatic grammatic pause–that opening sentence rather wrung it out of me.)

To contact Raymond’s wife, Mimsy: Really! When I said never a word to Lady Agatha and Llewellyn Smythe-Dudley-Brown either about the other–

nor mentioned to them besides someone’s regretful two-bags-full “wool-gathering” incident in the barn.

Small wonder your cloche is quivering. I would not but be surprised the shudders of shame would take several months until achieving a state of quietus.

Thanks to your unforgivable action, it appears this missive will form my half of our final goodbye.

I would add that it is with tears of sadness that I type these words, but in truth it is tears of laughter that roll down my face,

for I have posted a faithful rendition of the egg/pearl painting on Imgur, with a few appropriate starting captions, your name included.

I am confident that the new google revenge porn quashing algorithms will fail to recognize that monstrously-oversized ovoid as any portion of an actual human.

Farewell Forever, Friend No More!


P.S. You left your pink cashmere sweater here last week. I donated it to a thrift store, assuming you left it because you couldn’t possibly have wanted to wear it again with the neck all stretched out the way it was–

YOU know why.



My recollection is that you were in the room (holding the scarab and the kookaburra) with Lady Agatha, Llewellyn Smythe-Dudley-Brown and myself

(Raymond was busying himself with his wife I believe) and you were in full control of your faculties when you said

“Ok my hearties, just one more time!”

I would have left had you not beguiled me into that fateful “one more time”.

So don’t you talk to me about not mentioning anything to them and pretending you yourself were not there, Babsybaggage!

You can hurt me no longer with threats and promises of posting things I no longer am able to control. (Yes it is growing larger with every week these days!).

That sweater was yours (HA!);

I purloined it just after the kookaburra expired and you were at your weakest, with your snivelling and whining and your back being turned!

So, rub that into your temples and consider that Babs! Consider that!

You will never more know my name which I shall change by deed poll forthwith.

Once your affectionate friend but no darned longer,

The Duchess of Whimsy
My forever thanks to Liz for being the most fantastic persnickety partner (caring about nature–imagine!) of whom one could ever dream. I went out on a limb with the first Babs comment on her photo, and was so delighted when she out Wodehouse‘d me with her first Mimsy reply. I’ve been so busy with stressful nonsense lately, and this little diversion has helped a lot. Thank you, Liz!

1920s Cloche With Feathers

What Yvette’s Cloche Really Looked Like


An Autocidal Life, Part 9: In Which Babe’s Babe Borrows Blood Baddies

A new grandma, almost killing her new grandson!? The brand new babe’s father, cheering her on?

Yes–That’s in THIS post :)

Murderous Grandma Matroishka Doll

But She Looks So Harmless!

(If you missed the beginning of our exciting and sometimes-gross-but-still-riveting story, here it is.)
He Got More Than Just Her Eyes

Where Babe’s babe almost dies.

First, let me introduce you to “before” Justin. Here he is at two days old:

Just in Lap 1 Babe had been dangerously food-allergic; she wanted to be extremely cautious with Justin. He was to be breast-fed only.
When Justin was exactly fourteen days old, and Joe’s parents came to visit, this was emphasized to them by Babe. Just before Babe herself, foolishly, stepped out of the house for her first breath of freedom in two weeks.

Little White Girl Thinking Duh

You Left Your MOTHER-In-Law In Charge With Your Brand New Baby!? :o

Joe’s mother disliked Babe (as did Joe, unknown then to Babe). With Joe’s blessing–and with Joe’s dad Bruno proudly filming–Brunhilde fed Justin his very first bottle of formula.
Later, after a frantic race to intensive care, the pediatrician told Babe: “He was an hour from death.”

Newborn White Baby in NICU Iincubator

Justin was highly milk-allergic. Thankfully, once IV fluids were given, and the last of the formula cleared his system, he perked up.
Then, the hospital, just like Joe and his parents, ignored Babe’s instructions: They gave Justin more milk formula AGAIN.

South Park Those B-stards

Why would they do this? Were they morons?
Yes. Yes, they were.
They did it because they assumed BABE was a moron, and her family were morons, too.
The hospital doctors made the usual assumption specialists make of laypeople:
“They is dum.” And, in this case:
“There’s no milk allergy–That dim mother-in-law gave that dim baby a dim dirty bottle!”
But, when Justin got sick AGAIN, the dim doctors learned their lesson, didn’t they?
No. Remember who the morons really were:
Those super smarties gave Justin SOY formula next.

Keep Calm and Kill Those Bastards  

And they did that even though Babe was right there at the NICU, her recently-preggers Behemoth-boobs a mere room away. Plus, stockpiled in the NICU fridge, a truckload of Babe-certified boob-juice from her additional 12-14 ounces per each two-hour pumping session.
Thanks to the doctors at the hospital Cedars Sinai, just like Brunhilde and Joe, deciding they knew better than Babe, it was proven again that her fears were justified: Justin was highly soy-allergic, too.
By this time, little Justin’s system was just overwhelmed. Besides getting weak and deydrated from the soy, he got a horrendous rash from head to toe that looked exactly like a very bad case of acne.

Neonatal Lupus Baby

The pediatrician suspected neonatal lupus. She consulted a neonatal lupus specialist from Children’s Hospital, who agreed.
(ASNIDE: ‘Fess up: How many of you were thrown, even if only for a sec, by that “She”? Because when we see “pediatrician”, most of us are programmed to think doctor=male… :| )
A positive ANA test (remember that, from seventeen posts back in this neverending series?) lent support to the lupus diagnosis. The lupus specialist reported this back to Babe’s pediatrician, who shared this with Babe.
Yet, when Babe spoke directly with the specialist afterward, he pooh-poohed neonatal lupus to Babe.
Remember THAT? That lupus bible’s advice about keeping us ladies in the dark?

Frumpy Old Mushroom Women

But That Is the Old-Fashioned Way!

Modern Mushroom Women

Today’s Chic Mushroom Women Know Better.

Neonatal lupus is usually no big. It’s when a baby doesn’t have lupus, but has lupus symptoms because of time spent sharing mom’s blood.

Not all babies of lupus moms show symptoms–just as with adults, it is theorized that physical or emotional stress can bring these on. The symptoms almost always go away as the baby’s own blood supply gets going.  

Justin was okay, once Cedars got done messing with him. He went home after five days. He was pale, and weak, and sort of despairing-looking, as if he had barely survived some awful experience. Which he had.  

Meet “after” Justin:

Shell-Shocked Justin

Shell-Shocked Justin, Not Quite 3 Weeks Old

In addition to multiple “finger stick” blood draws each day from his heels (Babe counted up to thirteen stab marks in one heel before she stopped, crying), Cedars had administered a spinal tap, without anesthesia.

Babe heard his terrified screaming during that test through two sets of double doors and down a long hallway.

These posts are…difficult. They mean I must review the time of my marriage.
When I walked in and saw the unholy triumvirate smiling down at tiny Justin with that bottle of formula jammed in his mouth;
And Brunhilde looking up at me with the smuggest, most self-satisfied smile on her face;
And Joe giving a quick mini-version of the same;
I am not a skilled enough writer. I don’t have the words to encompass what I felt. Those two cared more for victory over me than they cared about the little human being held by Brunhilde.
Afterward, when I held Justin, he was logy [draggy, tired]. Later, my always-hungry always-crying boy wouldn’t feed, and he wasn’t crying properly: His usual ear-piercing screams were now the sounds of a weak, sick cat. He even refused water. THAT is when I called the doctor and told her what was happening.
I began with his cat-crying. She said “Get him in here NOW!! Don’t wait to call an ambulance–run lights if you can!”
My in-laws had come to stay for a week “to see the new baby”. Yet, instead of coming to see that baby in the NICU, they and Joe didn’t visit Justin until the evening of his third full day there. Joe denied this later, and I’m betting would still deny it today, but the hospital has the sign-in records that show the truth.
I, of course, was there every day, all day, and most of each night, holding and singing and talking to Justin whenever they would let me, and bouncing and rocking him so he wouldn’t cry.
I hated my f#cking in-laws and husband for not giving a sh#t about him. But they were simply being like most people today. Why go out of their way? I was doing that. Why should they?

Justin’s NICU release records reflect that the sole cause of all his troubles was an intestinal infection caused by inadequate bottle cleaning.
Thus, blame falls on non-medical folks’ incompetence, which follows medical prejudice, and lets Cedars off the hook for their threatening his life with their milk and soy almost-fiascos.

Below is the ending that the LAST post in this series should have had. I accidentally had it appended to the draft for this side journey. Oops. After a coupla’ days, I’m actually gonna wipe it offa’ here and paste it onto there and just pretend like it was always there. Y’all will just forget this ever happened. :roll:
He Told Her So
Where Babe’s doctor feels smug.
Babe’s lupus doctor was disturbingly unsympathetic about her severe arthritis pain, which was very different from his warm, sympathetic office manner on every visit before she’d told him she was pregnant. Dr. R. was clearly still irked with her for ignoring his advice–or rather, his orders. He took obvious pleasure in actually saying the words: “I told you so.” Babe had to go back on the drugs. She would have to stop breast-feeding her baby.
She was ashamed that most of what she felt was relief.
Study Questions: Would you have stayed on the drugs through the pregnancy?


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