Eli visited the cystic fibrosis clinic in OKC today.
I wanted to go but, alas, my deadlines got in the way, so Mark got to take ‘lil man.
I’ts OK. Eli’ll need a visit every three months for the rest of his life. Gonna bet I’ll get another chance.
I was going to shove an iPhone recorder into the poor doctor’s face and ask him to explain physio for tots with cystic fibrosis. Why yes, the rumors are true: I am a total weirdo. Thing about how strange it is when you take notes and record while other people talk in otherwise ordinary encounters. I do this for a living. What an odd and wonderful way to make a living. Perhaps, for the good of all involved, I didn’t get the chance to do my shoe-leather clinic dispatch. I’ll getcha next time doc!
Any way, Mark’s dispatch is, Eli did great at his visit. He’s packed on two pounds and a few ounces since his last visit, weighing in at about 25 pounds, which puts him squarely in the 50th percentile. His oxygen saturation levels are at 100 percent. His last reading, three months ago, was 97. Every visit, a nurse fastens a high-tech clothes pin called a pulse oximeter to his index finger to check this. I’ll let this Boston.com article explain it better than I could at this late hour. From what I gather, the reading indicates whether the heart, lungs and blood are working together to deliver oxygen around the body. Eli also had his throat swabbed to check and see if anything ugly-named is growing in his lungs. His lungs are prime real estate for ugly-named bacteria. That’s annoying, since infection can obliterate lung tissue that’s, ya know, key to my son breathing and living. Such is CF. Some bacteria are poorly trained, rag-tag militants with bad aim only in it for the street cred. These types can be eliminated without too much trouble, or even ignored until they switch careers (With that skill set? Starbucks barista, maybe). A few types of bacteria that could show up are like Kim Jung-un, waiting for the right time to unleash the bacterial equivalent of a nuclear fire storm. Hey, who gave the coo coo bird a nuclear weapon? BUT WILL HE DO IT? DOES HE REALLY HAVE THE FIREPOWER AND THE BALLS? We don’t know. I’m like a South Korean farmer, looking at the sky and shrugging his shoulders, like “Eh?” Listen, jokers, I’ve got some cows to feed.
It’s almost midnight, and my mind’s gone loopy.
Let’s just look at adorable pictures of my son. Nothing else to see here, please move along.