Momnesia

AUGUSTA, GA - So this weekend we lost our collective mind and decided to take ELEVEN people - mostly short folks - to Riverbanks Zoo. It made for a full Saturday of being-outside-ness, an activity that, frankly, I can't stand because of it necessitates close proximity to the estimated 900 thousand different kinds of living insects that populate the outside. Really, is it necessary that there are so many?

Not that the children noticed. They were too busy being normal tweens, vamping for the camera and shrieking with delight.

Except my daughter. MY daughter was trying to pull a Dorothy Parker /Sylvia Plath kind of move by opening Amber's sliding van door while they were doing 70 MPH down I-20. Great. Couldn't she have inherited my - well, I'll think of something - instead of my tendency towards overwrought teenage histrionics? Or, could she at least wait until she is 12 to start demonstrating them?

Luckily, nothing happened. Amber pulled over, got the demon-child re-situated, engaged the child locks and we made it to the zoo on time, with all accounted for. We patted tortoises, rode the carousel, watched a 3D Spongebob Squarepants movie that made me throw up (huzzah!), ate overpriced and very dry burgers, bought overpriced pappy crap from the gift shop, and shoved all five of the children into one photo booth for pictures.

But the highlight of the day - besides Emmie getting to eat her first ICEE (for the love of god don't try to take it from her), was the pony rides.






At $5 a pop, I don't even want to think about how much those rides cost us. Check out the last photo, of Annie McFanny, and the zoo staffer leading the horse. Do you see the expression on her face? That's not a candid moment. That's how she looked and talked all day. What's up with that? Is she some kind of indentured servant?

Anyhoodle...

Poor Jim was the only man along for the ride, except for little Conner, who's not yet quite old enough to offset the wave of estrogen that was me, Amy, Kerri and her 6-month-old daughter, the Lovely Lila, and a pregnant Amber. Yes, menfolk, there was talk of tampons at one time.



Being the good sport he is, Jim spent much of the day on reconnaissance (a word I didn't realize that I could spell) when one - or more - of us wandered off.

And Scott? You all knew that was coming, right? He spent the day sleeping. No cow slobber for him, I'm afraid; no refreshing odor of elephant dung.

He also missed out on: "No, Emmie, DO NOT CLIMB IN THERE WITH THE MONKEYS;"



and he missed several hundred renditions of, "Come back here RIGHT NOW, young lady;"



and one very delightful tantrum that ended with, "Look, I'm sorry that you dropped your random-ass stick into the giraffe exhibit, but mommy is not going to climb down there and get kicked in the head. Just go pick up another stick, honey."

Actually, as it turns out, giraffes don't kick when they fight. They do this weirdo neck-swinging/head-butting thing.

Emmie and I are snuggling in her bed, reading a book about "Finding Nemo."

"Can you find the pirate?" I ask, and she frowns in concentration.

"No! I not see da pirate!" she says.

"I'm just joking! There's no pirate," I laugh.

"Awwww, you mate a joke," she laughs. "Can you find da elephant?"

I pretend to look.

"NO! I mate a joke, too, mama!" she laughs uproariously. "Elephant not lib in da oshun!"

We giggle and kick our legs under the blanket. Then she puts on her serious face.

"I don' like da pirates," she says.

"No?"

"Nuh-uh," she shakes her curls. "Dey gonna slap me in da face."

... "Uh, what?"

"Mmmhmm! Dey gon' slap me in my face," she nods vigorously, as she flips pages in the book.

"Why are the pirates going to slap you in face?"

"Cause da pirates are da bad man," she explains. "Dey slap me in da face. But den I gon' get my arr-matey, an' I gon' slap DEM in da face."

What the hell is she talking about? "Honey, who's going to slap you in the face?" I ask.

She sighs and clutches my face in her hands: "Lithen to me. Da pirates. Dey are bad people. Dey gon' slap me, but I gonna slap DEM in da face wif my arr-matey, and den dey gon' cry cry cry and run away and I sabe your life!"

... We stare at each other for a few moments. She is intense. I am unnerved.

"I see. And who told you this?"

She goes back to flipping pages in her book: "I did."

"You told yourself this?"

"Uh-huh."

...

"And what happens after they run away?"

"Den the woof come. But I arready got my arr-matey, so I gon' slap HIM in da face and he gon' run away."

"Really."

"Yep."

"What if the wolf just wants to be friends?"

She whips her head around to look at me, incredulity etched across her face. "NO! Da woof is bad! He bite bite bite! But I gon' slap him wif my arrmatey, an' he gon' run away!"

"There's a lot of slapping going on around here. What's up with that?"

She looks up at the ceiling. I snort into her pillow.

"No, honey, what's this slapping thing you've gotten on? Why are so concerned about pirates slapping people?"

"Cause... cause... cause.." she trails off. I wait...

..."cause dey bad!" she finishes. I can't really argue with that.

"Oh."

"You see? You unnerstan' me, mama?" she asks, one hand on my cheek.

"Yes."

"You say, 'Yes, ma'am,'" she commands. I grin, and she laughs.

"Yes, ma'am. Pirates bad. Wolves bad. We slap them with our arrmateys," I sum up.

"Berry good. Now go sleepies. I gon' go play peeyooter," she says, and slides off the bed onto the floor.

"Um, excuse me...?" I call, and she turns and shoots back into the bed, laughing.

"Iss time for night-night?" she giggles, as we both laugh.

"Yes, time for night-night," I chuckle.

"Okay, mama. I lub you. You a good girl."

"Thanks, doodle."

"You welcome."

AUGUSTA, GA. - So this morning I demonstrated why I have a category of blog entry entitled "Stupid Wife Tricks." Because all day I was just a walking accident waiting to happen, as my mother would say. Except it did happen. Repeatedly.

First, I got up this morning, ran to the bank to deposit a check, and left my ATM card in the machine. Dang.

Then I ran home to make some breakfast, forgot about the bread in the oven, and didn't remember until the smoke alarm started going off. I ran into the kitchen, slipped on a wet spot on the floor, and skidded across the linoleum to a stop. It's a good thing I did because there was so much smoke in the room that if I'd walked in, I'd probably have passed out from lack of oxygen.

After that, I got a call from a woman who looked up online after finding my bank card in the ATM. Samantha Smith, I love you. She wouldn't take any money for the service she did by googling me and meeting me at the Wachovia with my card. "No, I just know how hard it is to get a new one. Those 10 days feel like forever," she said.

But meeting her made me late to meet a friend, who was nice enough to drive everyone to Kackleberry Farm. I ran out of the bathroom and tossed on my clothes when she came in, and exited in a hurry. "Did your mommy just get out of the shower?" she teased Emerson. Hey, you're lucky I didn't leave body parts behind.

Once there, we found out that they don't take check cards. Thank god we all had enough cash - but can I recommend that, since Queensboro National Bank & Trust is a sponsor - that they perhaps consider placing an ATM on the premises?

The first activity was a giant inflatable yellow pillow. It's like one of those kiddie jumping castles, but without walls - and it's enormous. Like the big kids we sometimes are, T.C. and I jumped up on the surface with the little kids (while the teens looked on in bemused embarassment for a while before deciding, as a group, that a short trial might have an acceptable level of coolness). And then I slipped on the side and did a sideways face-plant while trying to - oh, hell; I don't know what I was trying to do. But I got back up laughing, and kept on jumping until Emmie was ready to move on to my next attempt to do bodily harm...

... something like this:


... or this:


But I got through the rest of the day almost without incident through the corn maze, the hay jump, the lassoing, the pig races, the petting zoo, the corn cob launcher, the sand pile, the swing set and even the random yellow jackets buzzing around our hot dogs.



We all did well, even when Emmie (who's just three years old) decided that she could not live without trying the zip line. I should have heeded the cosmic warning when - while running along with her to make sure she didn't fall off the zip line and hurt herself - I stepped in a hole and almost went flying off into yet another face plant. But that near escape only emboldened me. After Emmie rode the zip line about a dozen times, it was nearing time to go, but I wanted to ride their crazy-tall tunnel slide with Emmie before we left.

The force by which she had come careening out of the slide in the past didn't concern me. I'm much heavier, I reasoned, and thus the friction would be greater and slow us down. Plus, I'd plant my shoes against the sides if that theory was wrong.

It was all wrong. From the moment I gently pushed off the top I saw that this short ride would not end well. My shoes slid harmlessly, comically, against the slick interior. My 10% lycra pants did nothing to combat our slide of doom.

So this is how we would end, I thought. Nearly four years of worrying about the many things that could kill my child and at the end, it would be my rapidly descending ass.

We shot out of the slide with my legs at an odd angle from straining to slow our roll. I planted my feet as best I could and rolled with Emmie in my arms. No hard-boiled detective could have done any better to protect his charge. She hopped up, laughing, and ran off to climb the slide again. But the moment of impact shot through my leg like an explosion. I envisioned, along with the pain, that my leg was snapping mid-tibia. Human legs just don't bend like that. I came to a stop in the sand and stayed there.

"Are you alright?" a woman's voice called after a moment. Eyes closed against the sun and brain reeling with the weight of my own retardation, I raised my thumb in response. She chuckled. "We've got a mother down! Hurt mommy!"

Thanks, lady. I felt sand seeping through the waistband of my pants and into my underwear. That was as good a reason as any to sit up. I looked around. No one was particularly interested in my recreation of Joe Theismann's famously videotaped broken leg.

See it here... and cringe with me:


So I stood up... not so bad. Actually, it didn't hurt enough for me to worry about. So I took a step... and almost fell down again. It DID hurt. But it wasn't broken. I limped over to where T.C. stood.

"You okay?" she asked, amused.
I burst into laughter: "No, man! My leg freaking hurts!"
She nodded: "I saw you shoot out of the tube like a rocket. What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking, 'Oh, shit!'"

Me: "Hey, Terri and I are taking the kids to Kackleberry Farm on Saturday. You wanna go with?"
A.C.: "What's Kackleberry Farms?"
Me: "It's like a giant corn maze and a petting zoo and... uh... stuff... Farmer stuff."
A.C.: "No, thanks. We're going to be in North Carolina for Jim's race."
Me: "Too bad. You'll miss all the kackleberries."
A.C.: "Uh, yeah."
Me: "Kackleberry pie... kackleberry jam... kackleberry lemonade..."
A.C.: "Gross!"
Me: "Jealous."

In theory, kackleberry is "an old Southern word for eggs." I've never heard that in my life, and I was born in Georgia and have lived in Georgia for 35 years. All of my family was born in the South and raised in the South. None of them have ever heard it. I think "kackleberry" is a new Southern word that takes advantage of the "quirky old South" oeuvre of marketing. Whatever. It's still a fun word to say. Try it. Kackleberry. See?

Me: "Honey, we have to get you dressed for school."
Emerson: "But I jus wanna pway my dang stupid doggie game on the peeyooter!"

I guess I should be thankful that it's not dang stupid "High School Musical."

From the Oct. 26, 2006 edition of The Metro Spirit
by Stacey Hudson

AUGUSTA, GA. - At midnight in a cemetery in the middle of Nowhere, S.C., the woods are pockmarked with tombstones. It’s so dark I can see galaxies whirling overhead. I trip over graves. A vision of mummified hands reaching out of the ground overwhelms me. Perhaps they shouldn’t have sent the only reporter with a zombie evacuation plan, although, to be honest, the plan involves mostly running and shrieking.

Yet my guide is calm.

“We’re here to debunk this,” declares Ginger Yarbrough, organizer of Georgia Ghost Hunters. “We rule out all the man-made and natural explanations first before we try to say there’s spirits.”

Ginger and seven other members have brought me to a 200-year-old Huguenot graveyard an hour from Augusta, down a one-lane dirt path through a thick forest where trees bend like frightful fingers reaching for prey.

This group doesn’t look for the paranormal. They look for the normal. If lights in a home flicker, they blame the tree branch or a power line. They check for vermin, leaky pipes, gaps in insulation and other earthly explanations for unearthly sensations.

In the graveyard, the ghost hunters set up candles to provide a little light plus video cameras and voice recorders to document the hunt. They calibrate EMF meters to detect the presence of electromagnetic fields, infrared thermometers to spot temperature differentials and tri-field meters to detect magnetic fields, electrical fields and microwave emissions. When man-made and natural causes have been eliminated, Ginger says, it is generally believed that ghosts generate these fields and temperature changes.

“The most common energy form that a ghost uses is simple heat,” Ginger says. “A ghost will absorb heat to help it manifest, which is why people feel cold when a ghost passes them.”

These are true believers. Ginger is completing a certification from the Stratford Career Institute in parapsychology and astrology. She and her mother have seen enough unusual phenomena in their lives to scare legions of schoolchildren. They’ve been hunting ghosts for three years, in public and for private homeowners.

“But we keep all private investigations discrete — their name is kept under lock and key, so to speak. We are completely non-profit and do not charge fees for our service as we are trying to collect all the data we can,” she says.

They hunt to find legitimate hauntings, in small part to convert the unfaithful. She’s looking for the real deal, because she believes she’s experienced it. “I want the evidence to put it up on the table and say, ‘Look. You cannot disprove this.’”

Leon Wilkes, a group member who is in the military, tells a story about a house in Iraq that spooked his entire troop of hardened soldiers. Almost everyone in the group has a story about a supernatural experience. I’m just not so sure. I’d like to believe it’s possible to communicate with the souls of departed loved ones — hi, Grandma! — but I’ve never encountered anything of the kind.

“The paranormal is a touchy subject and most people are afraid to do anything about it because they think they may be humiliated,” Ginger said later.

That doesn’t stop me from nearly wetting myself when the EMF meter in my hand goes off. Everyone in the group turns to stare at me as I freeze. I put the sensor out again and it lights up. I prepare to activate my zombie evacuation plan.

“Is there anyone here who would like to communicate with us?” Ginger asks the forest while I fight the urge to run and shriek. After a disappointing silence and several tests, we determine I had moved the sensor too rapidly, which gave a false positive.

“That’s why it’s important to look at it from a scientific perspective,” Ginger says. “You have to debunk it first.”

Leon, in a fearless — and, I think, foolish — stab at making this trip worthwhile, begins to taunt the spirits of the dead who lay in these woods.

“I think you’re too chicken to come out,” he calls. “I don’t believe you even exist.”

He walks out of the walled burial ground, continuing his tirade, and Ginger and Lisa Barret stay where he began. Ginger thinks she heard a noise nearby, like change rattling in a pocket. Inexplicably, a vine slaps Lisa in the face, and Ginger’s camera picks up red and white streaks in the forest, something she calls a vortex, a strand of light. She thinks it’s a portal through which ghosts travel, though other ghost hunters say it could be individual spirits moving or an “orb.”

My camera captures a picture of what the group says is a flaming orb, the best they’ve ever seen. It’s a round spot in the darkness, visible only on my digital camera. Some people say it’s energy. Some say it’s a small ghost.

Just then, Leon calls that a shadowy figure peeked at him from among the trees.

“He wants to come out and play, now,” Leon says. I really hope not.

Immune to my protests, the group enthusiastically agrees to go down to the nearby lake. As we descend the hill, the temperature plunges from a chilly 52 to near freezing. I’m shivering in a T-shirt and sweater, more immediately frightened of chiggers and poison ivy than spectral beings, and I see unmistakable beaver activity. We crunch down the hillside toward it, every footstep a beacon for beavers and bears and who knows what all else. Are there bear zombies? Oh, god. I bet there are.

It’s, rather appropriately, a dead lake — a lake that held water in the past but is now merely an overgrown basin, choked with weeds, scrub and fallen trees. Leon continues to harangue those who previously rested in peace as he and Ginger start across the edge of the basin. I see lights twinkling just above the grass near the middle. Right. I’ll just wait here.

Time creeps as I watch my breath rise as a mist in front of me. It’s something Ginger pointed out that they try to avoid when photographing phenomena. Even the clothes of someone who has just smoked a cigarette may contaminate visual evidence.

Then someone in the lake yelps.

“That [expletive] just growled at me,” Leon calls as the trio tromps back through the overgrowth. Leon is shivering violently in his autumn jacket.

“Feel him!” Ginger says. “He’s ice cold!”

He is. While Ginger, clad only in a T-shirt and jeans, is still warm to the touch, Leon feels frozen. They claim to have heard a growl just before the temperature around Leon dropped aggressively.

I look out over the rustling grasses. The lights I had seen are gone. Running and shrieking are high on my priority list right now.

Although none of the equipment registered abnormal readings, the members are convinced of a spiritual presence, in this case, an “intelligent haunting.”

It’s one of the different types of ghosts and hauntings that the Georgia Ghost Hunters categorize.

“No one knows for sure why they are here with us,” Ginger said. “And there is no reason to be afraid of them because usually they have the same emotions and personalities they had when they were alive. They are around us all the time.”

In that case, I have to revise my zombie evacuation plan.

Augusta, GA. -

A.W.: "Hey, Babes in Toyland is playing in Columbia. Do you want to go?"
Me: "Heck, yeah!"
A.W.: "They were about my favorite band back in the day."
Me: "Yeah? Did you listen to 7 Year Bitch, too?"
A.W.: "Oh, yeah. All those angry-girl bands that don't exist anymore."
Me: "No, Sarah McLachlan killed that movement."
A.W.: (laughs)
Me: "When are they playing?"
A.W.: "Dec. 21."
Me: "Oh. Nope. I'll be in Orlando."
A.W.: "Oh, god. Have fun with that."
Me: "I will!"

(Later...)

A.W.: "So I e-mailed Frank at Free-Times and asked him, 'Are Babes in Toyland really coming to Columbia?'" And he said, 'If you mean the Christmas cantata, then yes. If you mean the 90s post-punk riot grrl band, then no. But it's a benefit for the firefighters!'"



FYI: The band Katastrophy Wife features Kat Bjelland, formerly of B.I.T.

H.O.: "Hey, J.C., did you watch 'Heroes' last night?"
J.C.: "Yeah."
H.O.: "My brain hurts."
J.C.: "I think they're just writing that crap as they go. It's like 'Who's Line is it Anyway' crossed with 'X-Men. It's like anything can happen. Like someone will get decapitated in one scene, and in the next scene they'll walk in all, 'Who killed my twin?'"

B.O.'s annoying us all with Xmas carols and chanting, "Gift Guide! Gift Guide!" We're all groaning and begging him to turn it off. "It's too early!" K.J. protests. S.S. fires back, "Yeah, aren't we supposed to be listening to 'The Monster Mash' or something?"

AUGUSTA, GA. - So as I explained earlier, I'm playing catch-up. So here's the rest of his hospital visit.

Day 18 - Got better. Walked more. I had exhausted my employer's patience, however, so I had to go back to work. Damn comas and all...

Day 19 - Got better. Walked more. Ate solids foods. I tried to balance sales calls with being at the hospital. It didn't work out so well.

Day 20 - More of the same. They moved him from ICU to Telemetry.

Day 21 - Mr. Hospital Expert doesn't like the new nurses. He calls them "The B Team." They do seem rather less attentive, but then Scott's taken up most of the hospital's attention for three weeks, now. What does he want - a parade?

Day 22 - Okay, look: the way it worked out was that I would stop in and check on him in the mornings before work, then go try to sell advertising, fail miserably, return to check on him during my lunch break, go back to failing to sell advertising, and return to see him RIGHT when visiting hours ended. Then I'd pretend that I didn't know I was supposed to be gone for as long as the nurses would let me get away with it.

I'd bring Emmie with me because she missed him terribly, even though she was a little shy about the experience and treated her father tentatively. The tubes, the machinery, the pale, whispery, wasted form that was previously her boisterous and demonstrative daddy were intimidating. At night, she would turn to me from across the table or while lying in bed reading bedtime stories and with an expression serious beyond her years state simply, "My daddy is berry sick." Her face said it all. She hurt. But she persevered. And were it not for the many aunts, uncles and granparents who stepped in to love and distract her during the time, she and I both might have been broken down by the experience. I'll never again scoff at the "It Takes a Village to Raise a Child" expression as being trite or pithy or reeking of bumpersticker politics.

During that time I relied heavily on his brothers and his parents, who did fantastic jobs in helping to meet his everyday needs. He was a horrible patient - great if you needed a litany of complaints; but not so great if, say, you'd just spent two weeks watching him almost dead in a medically-induced coma and were hoping for a joyous reunion. It was like talking to those two old guy puppets who hung out in the balcony of "The Muppet Show" - except without the funny.

But they released him to come home much sooner than anticipated - a ridiculously early release for someone whose nurse, Jennifer (HI, AWESOMENESS! Sorry to blog your name twice!) told us she didn't think would survive his first 12 hours on the ICU floor. In fact, one of his doctors leaned in at his last plasmapheresis treatment and squinted at him as though he couldn't quite believe that he wasn't the subject of an elaborate and sickening practical joke: "You know," he said. "You're not supposed to be here."

We know. He's also not supposed to be able to walk without a walker for 6 months. He's not supposed to be able to talk for a month. He's not supposed to be back at work.

But "supposed to" - for those of you who have heard him report on subjects like the Georgia Golf Hall of Shame, the Augusta Neighborhood Improvement Corporation, and other not-so-happy subjects - has never been a phrase that defined Scott's life. So while I'm overjoyed at his speedy progress, I am not surprised. You've never met anyone with the kind of determination that drives my husband like a mad dog. He gets something in his teeth and he shakes it 'til it's dead.

That means we generally don't talk about politics in the house. But it also means that there is no one on the planet that you could ask to be a better advocate for the wrongly accused or unjustly treated. When he and his attorney brother put their heads together, just start running. They're about to tear up the joint.

So Scott's getting around with a cane for balance. He was home less than three hours before he voiced his first report for WGAC in our home studio (translation: half of our living room). And he's not planning on going anywhere for a long time. He's quit smoking. Whatever couple of beers he might have tossed back at the end of a long day has been reduced to a single glass of red wine. He's added a multivitamin and an aspirin to his daily regimen. And instead of a pot of coffee every morning, he's sipping on various kinds of hot tea (but without the self-important literary references that usually accompany such beverages; if he starts carrying copies of Thomas Pynchon novels in his back pocket, you have my permission to slap the crap out of him).

There are still remaining issues. The chance of relapse, or of developing larger clots. The general exhaustion that plagues him. He rode around in his grandfather's extra electric wheelchair at Boshear's Skyfest today. He has to use a motorized cart at the grocery store, and shoppers have been known to glare at him as though he's just cruisin' for the fun of it. Trust me: he hates it.

He pushes himself every day towards a full recovery. He does what work Mary Liz allows him, does a little cleaning around the house and cooks dinner. Honestly, that's about all he can give. He takes a nap - and sometimes two - every day. It will be this way for a while. The only thing that will speed the healing process along is the ability to accelerate time. And that's not really speeding things up because it's doubtful that our perception of time would change, based on the fact that time is really a human concoction in the first place, so... what was I saying? Oh, yeah. He needs time. I'm happy he has a need for time at all. What use could he make of time if he were dead?

But he's using his time to further the forces of good. After a combined effort by Augusta State University (Hi, Leeza! Hi, Dr. van Tuyll!(s)!) and Channel 12 to highlight the desperate need for blood donations at Shepeard Community Blood Centers, donations spiked so high that the center had to start scheduling appointments. Linda Peterson, the center's PR rep, has been overjoyed. She told Scott that he had put a face on the ever-present need for blood donation, and asked him to serve as their spokesperson.

And it took more than 100 plasma donations to save his life. Even while he spiraled down towards death, University Hospital began a course of treatment that, after just the first session, stabilized his body in a noticeable way. He was less jaundiced. He coughed up less blood. His lung X-rays showed marked improvement. While he wasn't out of the woods - they mulled dialysis for his kidneys, worried about the length of time he might have a tube down his throat and prepped me for the possibility of a tracheotomy - he responded. I'm talking within three hours, while the doctors and nurses would have never intentionally given me the kind of positive reinforcement I wanted them to, I saw the subtle change in him. It gave me hope and strength. From then on, he had a treatment every day. And every day he showed signs of improvement - although he certainly had his struggles.

But I have to stress that as crucial as the correct treatment obviously is, it was the combined effort of the incredible nursing staff in the PCPU at University Hospital and his family that gave him such a miraculous recovery.

The first couple of days, I don't think the nurses went 15 minutes without having to respond to some alarm telling them that Scott was losing something he needed. Blood oxygen. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Electrolytes. Potassium. Sodium. Platelets. Whole blood. Morphine. Suctioning of his lungs, throat and mouth. Countless drugs and chemicals that they pumped into his system to give his body the help it needed to keep going until the next treatment.

The other element was the effort of all of his family. Scott was rarely alone. Someone was always there to advocate for him. That meant that we could give his nurses two minutes of warning that he was coughing on something his lungs produced before the alarms even sounded. I'm not saying that saved his life, but it contributed. We took turns talking to him, reading the paper to him, massaging his muscles, working his joints, holding his hand, and teasing him about faking it to get attention.

I credit his mother, father, sister, brothers, extended family members, friends, co-workers and some just random-ass members of the community for the extent of his recovery. I think he has been both touched and a little embarrased by the ferocity of protectiveness that people have shown him.

But I've been proud. I've been proud that people who know my husband see in him the kinds of qualities that drew me to accept his proposal after only three months of dating. I've marveled at the community response to his condition, and the way that Augustans always allow themselves to be inspired to give by a story of someone in need. Let's not forget that we sent $1 million to New York City after 9/11. We're a community of people who see tragedy and reach out for a way to help end it.

I've enjoyed the number of meals, snacks and touching communications that people shared with us. I've appreciated the monetary donations to this site. But I've been more proud of the crush of blood and plasma donors who have responded to the calls for help sounded by Shepeard.

Maybe it was Scott. Maybe it was Travis Barker and DJ AM. Maybe it was the timing, or the three together. Maybe it was the simple fact that Linda and the good folks at Shepeard were poking 'round the bottom of the barrel in order to save the lives of the many good people who wind up in one of our - what seven, now? - area hospitals and need blood products just to make it from one day to the next. And people looked around guiltily and said, "I knew I forgot something..."

Whatever drove you to give blood or plasma... thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Love Always,
Stacey

AUGUSTA, GA. - So I've been remiss in updating, I'm told. I didn't realize that so many people hang upon my every word. I'll have to start grammar checking more stringently! Sorry about any misplaced... uh... okay, I never learnt me a whole lot of grammar.

That's not a joke. My mother, who teaches English at the college level in Atlanta, is constantly horrified at my lack of edumacation. I didn't learn what a direct or indirect object was until I started taking Latin in 10th grade. If you don't learn those little items, you can't conjugate crap in that language. Each word in a sentence is conjugated on its own, depending on part of speech, which one of the five declensions are called for, and... some other stuff that I've long since forgotten. Mi nomen est Stacia. Poeta et agricola sum amicae. Except for legal terms, that's about all I remember.

What was my point? Oh, yeah. That me not know grammar. Sorry about any misplaced modifiers or malapropisms that I may have inadvertently inserted. I'll do anything you want to apologize - except diagram a sentence. That's another thing I've never learned how to do.

"But don't you write award-winning, cutting edge journalism for a living?"

Yes. Or, I used to. Somehow I seem to have been moved into another department. Hmm... I don't... HEY!!!

I'll deal with that later. Anyway, I managed to digress before I'd even finished my first paragraph. My point is that I seem to have gone from overwhelmTgeng oversharing of intimate family medical drama to complete seclusion.

Except it was totally an accident. I ran out of texts on my cell phone plan (who knew I could even text 400 times in 30 days? That's only 13 texts a day, but still. Too much. Then, to top it off, our stupid Internet service provider - AT&T, I'm talkin' about you! - went out on us again. Since we signed up for their stupid service this past February, they've more than failed to deliver on their promises of service. Most of the time, I'd communicate faster with two tin cans and a string. In fact, I'm in the process of learning Morse Code so that I can maintain some form of communication in the future, when AT&T has redevoured all of the previous Baby Bells and the citizens of this flat earth suffer a catastrophic global communications meltdown at the hands of their incompetent "technical support" staff. Breaking up, as I see it, is not so hard to do. If only there weren't an early cancellation penalty equivalent to the average cost of one month's bill multiplied by the number of months remaining on the contract.

Where was I again? Oh, yes. Crazy texts. Crazy ISP. Massive bills.

But now the new month has rolled over and the stupid stupid AT&T service miraculously began working again, despite tech support's insistence that it had nothing to do with their service and that I needed a new (something) card in my Mac.

So, as you glean from the rambling incoherence demonstrated above, I have me a lot to say, people - and now I have the stepladder that ascends the soapbox of public humiliation. And, as we said in Ms. Kruek's class at Rockdale County High School: Purgamentum init, exit purgamentum. And also: Revera linguam latinam vix cognovi.

Poor Scott. Someone buy him some therapy.

I had put Emmie down for a nap just minutes before she started whining. It was a keening, high-pitched "eeeeeee... mommeeeeeeyyyyyyy...." that turns my inner ears to jelly. You know when Bruce Banner turns into the incredible Hulk? Wait around at my house for that sound to occur if you want to see it happen right before your eyes.

So when she started that crap today, I did what any experienced parent of a toddler does: I ignored it.

It continued. I hummed songs from "Lazy Town" to cover the irritation.

It got louder. So did I.

And then, the sound that every mother dreads: The shriek of pain and fear. If you don't have children, trust me when I say you'll learn the difference between their cries fast enough.

I speed-walked into her bedroom, still not entirely certain there was anything wrong. She's a skilled mimic, after all, and it's sometimes disturbing to see myself reflected in her behavior.

But there she was, with one arm pinned between her footboard and her bookcase. I quickly freed her - she needed only millimeters - and scooped her into my arms. She scrambled into Trauma Position, prone on my stomach with her arms latched tightly around my shoulders. And she cried. Oh, she cried like there was no tomorrow.

"Honey, I don't understand," I said, when she had devolved into mere snuffles. "What were you trying to do."

She looked at me. "You not coming!" she said, gesturing to the door.

"I'm right here!" I protested, guilt flaring like some hidden coals within me.

"But... but... you not coming froo da door!" she accused me soundly with hurt in her eyes.

"I did come!" I said, squirming internally. I intentionally ignored her. I did. I sat and counted and sang the better to accomplish the intent.

"But... you not running!" she said, and scowled at me. "You need go fasser! You need runrunrunrunrun!"

"I didn't come fast enough for you?" I asked, now fully engulfed in mental flagellation (Calm down, Scott. That's not something sexy).

"NO!" she stated. "Nesstime, you running."

"I'm very sorry, Roodle-Doodle," I said, as she continued to elbow and knee me in the soft parts of my body... which, come to think of it, is every part. "I will go faster next time."

"Iss okay," she said, giving me a gentle smooch on the lips. "Less try again."

Emmie's nap runneth over. We've been trying to get her up but she keeps dozing back off.

"Emmie!" Scott snaps, in his new but temporary sucking-helium voice. "Get up!"

"MMmmmMMMMM!" she whines from her bed, where she is curled up with her eyes closed.

"Emmie, get up or you won't go night-night later!" he tries.

"Wow, that logic is going to totally escape her," I cackle.

"Emmie, I've got candy..." he calls from the kitchen.

My hair rustles as she hurls herself from the bed and whizzes past me.

"I gettin' up!" she announces, arms raised over her head. Ta-daaaa!

AUGUSTA, GA. - 8:07 a.m. - Scott had almost a full day of lucidity, but is now in & out again.

8:09 a.m. - It's especially frustrating 4 me b/c now i've had 2 go back 2 work.

10:06 a.m. - Just ran by hosp on way to office. Scott too drowsy 2 communicate.

10:09 a.m. - Will start weaning trials today to see if he can come off vent.

10:11 a.m. - Nurses prob not looking forward. He keeps yanking out hoses when awake. They have about taped up his whole face 2 keep them in. He looks like The Mummy. I can't be there most of time b/c visiting hours start just before work & end just after.

10:22 a.m. - OH, MAN! Train! Trrraaaaiiiinnn!

10:23 a.m. - Brraaaaaaiiiiins!

10:24 - Who thinks I should ditch my car, do an Indiana Jones roll under the cars, & just walk 2 the office?

10:26 a.m. - Frickin' "Don't Stop Believing" 5 times a day on WBBQ!

1:39 p.m. - ICU just called. Jen, most awesome nurse on planet, said they tried Scott this morning on the something-something trial & it went great. They're going to cut off the sedation and let him try to breathe on his own, through the ventilator tube, for an hour. Then draw a blood gas. If good, they extubate him (yank the tube out of his throat). Putting it in is one of the things that triggered his crash, so... scary. But good.

1:42 p.m. - I know Scott will be happy to move around a bit more. And talk. But he's still not getting his cell phone back. Not for a long time.

3:55 p.m. - Just leaving his room. Started the weaning trial & Scott had a brochial spasm that ended the trial. They'll try it twice a day from now on. Hopefully he'll be off the vent tomorrow.

3:57 p.m. - Jeebus, how can so many people be so confused by how an elevator works?!

AUGUSTA, GA. - 8:46 a.m. - Sorry 4 all the phone calls i ignored last night. Just needed some quiet family time.

9:17 a.m. - The nurses have Scott on a breathing trial to see if he can take being off the vent. They took a blood gas & sent it off 4 testing. Then they'll call thd doc 2 get his recommendation.

9:48 a.m. - He's doing well so far...

10:30 a.m. - Orders 2 extubate! Scott has a shopping list prepared: vanilla shake. Gatorade. Green tea w/ honey.

10:46 a.m. - Tube is out! They said it was a good extubation. Looked TOTALLY DISGUSTING!! Deep coughing. Yucky stuff. Blech. Not sure he feels better w/ all this crap 2 get out. A lot of blood from the night he got sick. Wish I hadn't eaten breakfast earlier...

10:55 a.m. - Feel weak from emotion & nausea. He's okay for now, but back 2 dreaded ox mask.

11:02 a.m. - No talking 4 now. His voice is only a soft, breathy whisper.

11:49 a.m. - Already with the belligerence. He just wrote LET ME DO IT!

Noon - Ooh...he graduated 2 ice chips, & now water. WILL HE GET JELLO?! Tune in 2 find out!!

12:01 p.m. - Kidding. He's @ a hospital. Jello is a given.

12:03 p.m. - But he's so weak. Can't hardly lift his arms to drink his water.

1:31 p.m. - Just got my first smooch in 2 weeks!

1:31 p.m. - Going home 2 relieve my mom of her childcare duties.

3:57 p.m. - Very quickly, Scott has progressed 2 milkshakes. Two of them, in fact: 1 vanilla & 1 chocolate.

3:59 p.m. - He's resting now. He's using muscles that haven't moved in 2 weeks.

4:43 p.m. - Amazing progress! Scott has already gotten out of bed 4 a short walk across his room! Of course, he can't do it w/o help. But what a step forward! See what I just did there? "a step...?" oh, nevermind.

AUGUSTA, GA. - 8:07 a.m. - Scott had almost a full day of lucidity, but is now in & out again.

8:09 a.m. - It's especially frustrating 4 me b/c now i've had 2 go back 2 work.

10:06 a.m. - Just ran by hosp on way to office. Scott too drowsy 2 communicate.

10:09 - Will start weaning trials today to see if he can come off vent. Nurses prob not looking forward. He keeps yanking out hoses when awake. They have about taped up his whole face 2 keep them in. He looks like The Mummy.

10:16 a.m. - I can't be there most of time b/c visiting hours start just before work & end just after.

10:22 a.m. - MAN! Train! Trrraaaaiiiinnns!

10:23 a.m. - Brrraaaaaaaiiiiiinsss!

10:24 a.m. - Who thinks I should ditch my car, do an Indiana Jones roll under the cars, & just walk 2 the office?

10:26 a.m. - Frickin' "Don't Stop Believing" 5 times a day on WBBQ!

1:39 p.m. - ICU just called. Jen, most awesome nurse on planet, said they tried Scott this morning on the something-something trial & it went great. They're going to cut off the sedation and let him try to breathe on his own, through the ventilator tube, for an hour. Then draw a blood gas. If good, they extubate him (yank the tube out of his throat). Putting it in is one of the things that triggered his crash, so... scary. But good.

1:42 p.m. - I know Scott will be happy to move around a bit more. And talk. But he's still not getting his cell phone back. Not for a long time.

3:55 p.m. - Just leaving his room. Started the weaning trial & Scott had a brochial spasm that ended the trial. They'll try it twice a day from now on. Hopefully he'll be off the vent tomorrow.

3:57 p.m. - Jeebus, how can so many people be so confused by how an elevator works?!

4:01 p.m. - I put the Reece's cups in the freezer. I hope that horrible family doesn't eat them all.

4:06 p.m. - Leaving the hospital. Can't take anymore people. Try 2 have fun w/o me. :-P

4:08 p.m. - Just want my Mommy and my Baby for a while. Sorry, First Friday.

4:15 p.m. - Crap. Forgot 2 go 2 the grocery store... since September 10. Off 2 Earth Fare...

AUGUSTA, GA. - 8:46 a.m. - Overheard on Boortz: "It may be the death nail in our coffin." 08:46 AM October 02, 2008 from txt

10:07 a.m. - Great people @ Victory Christian School in North Augusta!

10:14 a.m. - Gah! Train! A mile of empty brown boxcars. Like a stream of poo.

11:37 a.m. - Went to visit Scott at the hospital and he's unconscious again. Damn... The nurses said he was unable to breathe on his own for very long yesterday, and they had to sedate him again. He's back on a morphine drip. This is really stressing me out. I wonder if I can go on a morphine drip, too...?

1:00 p.m. - Wouldn't know what 2 do w/o my family right now...blood relatives, of course, but also those @ Beasley, Metro Spirit, ASU, Hill & First Baptist... Shanhil Sweets, Victory Baptist, art community, MCG, & so many more!

AUGUSTA, GA. - 1:20 p.m. - He's awake. Happy reunion time! Does he remember me? ... YES! Wait. Is that a good thing? He asked me: ''How many others?'' I told him: ''Just you, Mr. Special!'' Oh. He thought it was some kind of outbreak or national emergency. Oh good christ he was looking for a story. INside the OUTbreak w/ Scott Hudson & WGAC!

1:58 p.m. - Have to go back to work. Hate leaving him.

5:30 p.m. - Back to the hospital. Sneaking in during no-visiting hours. Hee!

6:48 p.m. - Ahh! Fire alarms going off @ University Hospital!

6:51 p.m. - Now they're announcing some kind of code over the intercom...

6:55 p.m. - Nurses tell us 2 stay n waiting room. But... what about Scott? He's laying there next to a tube that's spewing 100% FLAMMABLE oxygen! I begin to run in frantic panic circles, unable to leave but unable to not do something.

6:58 p.m. - Aha! I have formulated a plan: carry Scott out on my back. Michael follow close w/ ventilator.

7:20 p.m. - "Only a small fire. Now contained." Are NO small fires where 100% oxygen is concerned.

7:22 p.m. - Fire trucks & police outside. Deputy GrumpyPants seems 2 B in charge.
Passing me, he barks, "Were u the 1 who pulled the fire alarm?" Do I look like a teenager? Not really. That's just all my hotness. Yowzah! 7:27 PM Oct 1st from txt

8:51 p.m. - I miss Scott the most @ night - especially as I enjoy our brand new mattqess w/o him!

8:53 p.m. - Get your minds out of the gutter.

8:55 p.m. - ASU 2 host a blood drive in Scott's honor. Call the professional writing dept. for info.

8:36 a.m. - Stopped in this morning & set Scott up w/ a CD player full of Queen CDs.

8:48 a.m. - Something u may not know about Scott: he's still mourning Freddie Mercury. At the musical crossroads of life, Scott took the path lined with sequined jumpsuits. It has made all the difference.

8:49 a.m. - Funeral passing on Gordon Hwy. I feel 4 them.

9:21 a.m. - Gah! Dog slobber on my pants! Eh, well. Sweet dog.

2:36 p.m. - This car smells like pickles.

8:00 p.m. - Leaving hosp., see 2 smokers dragging IVs behind them. So sad!

8:15 p.m - It was a good day. Scott was able to attempt to tap out a message on the board @ the hospital. Just the attempt wore him out (he didn't succeed, though he tried) but - again - it was progress.

10:36 p.m. - I'm hungry. Where's the snack fairy when u need her?

9 a.m. - Had 2 go work an appt that couldn't B rescheduled 4 6 mos. Getting ready, waxed eyebrows, & yanked out a couple of eyelashes! SO SMART! Besides that fiasco, it was a Herculean effort 2 get ready. Felt guilty, resentful, childish.

2:30 p.m. - Nurses said Scott was smiling & nodding his head to music this morning. A good sign, but I have 2 remember that he isn't stable enough even for a CT scan yet.
Still, I find myself making plans for when he comes home. about 14 hours ago

6 p.m. - Laughing re: how much has changed while Scott's been ill. He's has a lot to catch up on, not the least of which is our bank going under.

9 p.m. - Scott missed the best/worst Horatio Caine line ever. He would have had a great impression after.

10:15 a.m. - Fast food: not so fast anymore.

10:24 a.m. - Note 2 universe: if u can't PARK an SUV, u shouldn't DRIVE an SUV.

10:27 a.m. - Fast food: not so 'food' anymore.

11:22 a.m. - His nurse said that for all the poo & pee in her job, dinner trays freak her out the most.

11:26 a.m. - She also calls bed pan changes a 'code brown.' I'm totally stealing that.

12:29 p.m. - Scott just told me to get out of his face. It was so awesome. I was asking him a series of questions: are u hot? Cold? Need a nurse? He shook his head no to each. Do u want me to get out of your face? He shook his head yes! That was the best!

1:21 p.m. - Overheard @ the drive-thru: "Can I get a steak 'kwaysuhdilluh?'" Someone lives under a rock!

5:55 p.m. - Rude family returns! They overrun the waiting room, consume all food & beverages like locusts, didn't offer to share their bounty when it arrived, got offended when a relative removed our stash, then made a snide comment about adults who don't know how to share. Is that irony or coincidence?

6:02 p.m. - Got Scott down to 35% oxygen & 1 pressure setting down. He's holding his own for now.

7 p.m. - Spoke w/ Emerson She's @ my parents' until Thurs.: "Hi, Mama! I habbing fun but I miss you!" Waaaah!

9 a.m. - Hit & killed a squirrel on way 2 hospital. Must not read too much into it

10:13 a.m. - NEW INFO: Dr. Cato now thinks it may not be TTP. It might be something called DIC.

10:28 a.m. - Now we're plotting 2 give him a colonoscopy while he's sedated. Mmwahahaha!

11:54 a.m. - A really great meeting w/ Mary Liz. Love her so much right now that I could French kiss her.

12:19 p.m. - Love to share our good fortune w/ others, but it would be nice if others in the waiting room could reciprocate.

1 p.m. - Platelet count 120,000. Up from his low of 15,000. Low end of normal is 140,000.
And though he'd be mortified for u 2 know it, he's producing more & clearer urine than before. That indicates improved kidney function, in case u wonder why I felt like giving TMI.

2:30 p.m. - It's nice to see other patients progressing out of the ICU. Gives the rest of us hope...

6:03 p.m. - Great gods alive! He opened his eyes & responded to me! Wasn't much - expression change in response to a statement - but enough to make me very happy!

8:05 p.m. - Georgia game coming on. Go dawgs! (Sorry, Sanj)

8:10 p.m. - Dadgum! Looking @ the crowd of 90,000 @ Sanford, I wouldn't wanna be a Bama fan there...

9 p.m. - More waiting room etiquette: eat your own dang food, for Jeebus sake.

9:21 p.m. - Dang! He's having trouble keeping his oxygen levels up again.

6:59 a.m. - New patient relative came in waiting room while everyone was still asleep. Tried 2 make conversation with us. ''Do you all have relatives in ICU?'' No. We're camping. In unspoken pact, we ignored her until she left.

10:42 a.m. - My awesome bro in law convinced I'm too tired 2 make best decision. Will take a night 2 rest before proceeding.

11:08 a.m. - Lovingly attacked by very sweet but very smelly stray dog outside the front doors. Time 4 shower.

11:10 a.m. - Towels here smell oddly like Hostess powdered sugar doughnuts.

12:09 p.m. - Didn't know I was married to Mr. Fancy Pants. Mayor Deke came by to check on us. He didn't like my Michael Phelps impression. Oh, well.

12:13 p.m. - Just got sprayed in the head by an automatic air freshener in the bathroom, so... Par for the course i guess

1:20 p.m. - 1 of his doctors just strutted by. I'd like to tackle him, get him in a headlock & demand answers... But I also want them to keep coming back to check on him.

2:27 p.m. - Gah! Why do strangers want to know my bidness? (Sigh) I think I'm getting grumpy.

4:30 p.m. - Soooo.... tired.... going home to sleep.

2:20 a.m. - Not a quiet night. Some coughing - not easy on a vent. His O2 levels drop when that happens. Alarming, but the nurses & resperatory therapist all respond quickly.

2:26 a.m. - I wish I knew how he feels. If I could at least tell if he's in pain, I'd feel more like I'm doing my part to protect & care for him.

3:33 a.m. - When Scott wakes up, could someone convince him that he doesn't have 2 fight everything all the time? It's ok 2 relax. Ha. She says while standing watch @ 3:30 am...

7:47 a.m. - Fever back up, dangit. Finishes first round of plasma replacement today. I hoped he'd progress faster. He's always been a procrastinator.

8:25 a.m. - Mmmm... Panera bagels... Thanks, Stoney!

10:47 a.m. - NEWS: Epstein-Barr test was +. In severe cases, it can cause TTP. Still, his doctors don't think that's the smoking gun...

10:57 a.m. - Dr. doesn't want paralytic now b/c might b complications. His solution: morphine. Anyone else nervous?

11:57 a.m. - Mmm... Sammiches from Roly Poly. Thanks, Metro Spirit!! Miss you lots!

12:02 p.m. - Which reminds me: The new issue of Metro Augusta Parent goes to press today. Everyone be nice to the folks @ 700 Broad St! Parent reaches 38,000 readers each month. Call 706-738-1142 to reach our readers through advertising.

1:39 p.m. - Wow. Just passed a horrible wreck on W-boro Rd. I'm thankful Scott has a chance. I don't think that person did. Going home 2 sleep 4 a couple hours now that someone finally relieved me. Running on about 90 minutes rest.

7:46 p.m. - Couldn't sleep. Did laundry. Bathed dog. Checked email. Laid down 2 fix back... And woke up 3 hours later, disoriented & drooling on my pillow. Sexy.

10:20 p.m. - Thinking about how little time doctors have spent w/ Scott - & me - & wonder if should replace 1 or more specialists... or demand more tests? West Nile? CT scan? Something I don't know the name of? ... Or, since diagnosis is so unfamiliar, maybe move him 2 a place where it would be more familiar - Emory? If anyone has ideas, would love 2 hear them. Not trying 2 insult his caretakers or the hospital. But not all hospitals have same resources, & all health care is not created equal.

6:59 a.m. - Not a great night or morning, but could be worse. He's still very agitated but maxed out on his sedation. They may order a paralytic.

9:45 a.m. - Now the big turd is running a fever. Really - does he have to create more drama? Someone nominate him for a Razzie.

10:07 a.m. - Funny: Scott's sister Vivian just got a call from her secretary saying that their law office is on fire. She's going back 2 ATL to deal with it

12:26 p.m. - His fever is higher now, along with his blood pressure - and his agitation. Dr. Brennan has decided against a paralytic for now. Seem counter-intuitive to anyone else?

12:31 p.m. - They'll probably go w/ a peripheral inserted central catheter (PICC line). That indicates he'll B here a while.

12:34 p.m. - Monsanto sent a nice snack bag - thanks!

2:22 p.m. - His fever is up again - 38.9 C / whatever F - so they gave him 650 mg of Tylenol.

2:33 p.m. - Um... Weird ideas about supernatural methods of healing being tossed around right now.

2:38 p.m. - Armchair q-backing/ diagnosing from non-med peeps. Everything from Lyme disease to - heck, probably demon possession.

3:34 p.m. - Just saw his chest x-rays for today. Some visible improvement, even just since yesterday.

5:09 p.m. - Ran home to shower and feed the dog. I swear I just saw la chupacabra on Kissingbower Road... I think I need more sleep.

6:01 p.m. - New theory from reputable source @ CDC. Will follow up & report back... If I ever see a doctor...

6:48 p.m. - Chris' law firm just delivered a huge UGA cooler full of snacks - very cute!

10:09 p.m. - I was all telephoned out after 5 days, so I took a break for a few hours. I'll return calls in the morning. X-ray improved from Tues. Organs holding steady. Fever down some. Less agitation. Hoping for a quiet night.

10:22 p.m. - I expected faster turnaround. Silly, naive me. If he's out of the hospital before Halloween, I'll count my blessings.

10:28 p.m. - Nights are so quiet and tense here. Geez someone tell a joke.

10:29 p.m. - Remind me later 2 write a piece about the waiting room caste system.

10:35 p.m. - "How long you been here?" "Five days." (scoff) "That's nothing. We've been here five YEARS." Way 2 keep up morale, people.

12:18 am. - He's well enough for a feeding tube now; And the nurse tells me his kidneys seem 2 B working a little better.

12:22 a.m. - This thing hit so fast, so hard... He was less than 5 minutes from death on Sat night. His nurses saved his life. I am so grateful.

1:12 a.m. - He seems 2 be restful now. I'm going 2 try 2 sleep. Ahh, vinyl chair, my old friend...

2:23 a.m. - He's biting his breathing tube. They're going 2 have 2 put a bite block on him.

2:44 a.m. - Alarms going off. I'm freaking.

2:48 a.m. - Turns out nothing wrong. They removed his monitors while they bathed/changed him, & switched tubes & electrodes.

9:42 a.m. - Spoke with Dr. Brennan. Scott's x-rays show the sponginess seems to have reduced by 1/3. Good news.

9:46 a.m. - His kidney function has not improved measureably, but at least it is no longer declining. Still waiting for a lot of test results.

3:02 p.m. - Emmie @ home tonight for the 1st time in 4 days. She's w/ my sis. She's been w/ Scott's bro. She'll go to Atl. w my family for the weekend. Her two young cousins will keep her mind off the situation.

3:55 p.m. - Drama from one family member. Note to world: asserting your desires over others' in this situation is not appreciated.

4:17 p.m. - He just opened his eyes for a sec to look @ his sister, Vivian. That brought happy tears to her eyes.

9:35 p.m. - His platelets are back down to 27,000, so the nurses are bagging up some more for him. Snack time!

9:40 p.m. - Hard to be away from Emerson. My sis says E. stops mid-play & whines that she misses us. I need to be here for now. Emerson is the only thing that can take my attention from Scott, and he needs me to be his advocate while he can't protect himself.

10:40 p.m. - Nurses warning us that noise, touch, & conversation agitates him. We R trying 2 keep the room dark & quiet so he will rest.

10:55 p.m. - Stuck my finger in his mouth 2 try 2 get him 2 stop gnawing his breathing tube & he chomped my finger. Swear I saw him smile a little.

11:50 a.m. - It's been a good day so far. They have been able to reduce his sedation. He has opened his eyes and responded by nodding.

11:54 a.m. - It was good to see that the whites of his eyes are now a paler yellow than they have been. The concern now - besides everything else, of course - is that his kidneys have taken a hit. They might begin dialysis.

11:56 a.m. - Thanks to all of our snack fairies. We certainly never go hungry.

12:35 p.m. - Mmmm... Wife Saver. Thanks, Beasley Broadcasting!

4:05 p.m. - He's getting his second bag of blood of the day b/c his hemoglobin is low.

4:08 p.m. - ''At least he's on the mend,'' a friend said. I wish. The best we can say is that his march towards certain death has slowed.

7:29 p.m. - They've lessoned his sedation and it has allowed him to respond in his own way: turn his head towards voices; faint squeeze of his hand... He's not necessarily getting better, but it's gratifying to me.

8:18 p.m. - Running home 2 pick up essentials (even Scott prob. wants me 2 wear deoderant). Feel like I'm playing hooky: worried, guilty, excited.

12:13 a.m. - After six hours of physically fighting him to keep his ox mask on and stay in the bed, I have given consent to put him on a ventilator. Watching the preparations makes me 2nd guess myself.

12:16 a.m. - I asked the nurse if I am making a mistake. She says no. He is very agitated. We are not able 2 keep him calm.

12:38 - The vent is not improving things.

12:41 a.m. - No one indicated to me just how sick he really is. I've been making jokes to try to keep the mood up. I feel like an ass.

1:52 a.m. - The 2 most terrifzing words in the English language: ''crash cart.''

3:15 a.m. - Scott is stable but currently unconscious on a respirator. This won't get better any time soon. It could be days, weeks - or it could kill him. We just don’t know.

8:48 a.m. - Theories abound. Answers are few. Calling Dr. House...

10:26 a.m. - They may have isolated what's ailing Scott: an auto-immune disorder called TTP. It's Thrombo-somethingsomething-Purpora.

10:53 a.m. - They have a course of treatment that works for TTP - and the class of similar diseases that it could also be.

11 a.m. - They remove his plasma and replace it with both his own blood products & new plasma w/o the deadly antibodies his body is producing.

11:03 a.m. - If it is effective, we could see results in a day or two. It may take longer. & there is a chance it may not work at all.

11:04 a.m. - We've consented to an arterial catheter & they have begun treatment.

3:28 p.m. - Semi-official diagnosis: thrombotic thrombocytopenic purpura - ever heard of it? Me neither.

3:31 p.m. - First course of treatment is very encouraging. His jaundice is improved. He just LOOKS better.

3:34 p.m. - Even if he snaps out of this tomorrow, it will be a while before he gets out of the hospital. But here is better than the worst alternative.

5:05 p.m. - Going home for the first time since Friday. Wish Scott were, too. Needed a task to start & finish so I cooked dinner 4 my parents - they did clean my house, after all

7:52 p.m. - Scary again. Some coughing and blood drawn from his lungs. ''Every time he coughs you're going 2 c blood. His chest x-ray did not look good," the nurse says.

8:34 p.m. - He seems to be stable again... But for how long this time? I'm afraid to fall asleep.

8:39 p.m. - They are giving him another round of platelets now.

8:56 p.m. - Nurse says it's still touch and go but that he's on a continuous positive upward swing

9:04 p.m. - By the way: no flowers or other allergins allowed. Don't bother sending them. If you want to help, you can donate blood, plasma, time, or money.

9:41 p.m. - New development: we're giving away our housebroken rat terrier, Scrabble. With a suppressed immune system, I am making an executive decision that we can't risk the allergens. So if you would like to take this very fun and loving dog, please give me a call.

10:05 a.m. - Scott in hospital. No idea what's wrong. Liver. Lungs. All malfunctioning. 10:05 AM

10:06 am. - Blood o2 dropping. On o2 mask now.

10:09 a.m. - Heart rate erratic. Adding a monitor 4 that, too.

10:11 a.m. - Odd how small a grown man can seem behind all the machinery.

10:13 a.m. - He's babbling about west virginia and political campaign law - & who is e. Smith?

10:27 a.m. - Pain meds have him talking out his @$$

10:29 a.m. - He wants me 2 measure how fast he's going. Seeing as he's strapped 2 an ox mask i estimate 0 mph.

10:54 a.m. - I think of that line in 'the graduate' about plastics. Someone totally makes a killing from hospitals alone.

12:11 p.m. - Gastrointerologist in 4 a check. No immediate answers. Wants 2 move him 2 intensive care.

12:23 p.m. - Moving him 2 ICU.

2:53 a.m. - A new doc just told us he has ARDS, also called 'leaky lungs' may have 2 put him on a ventilater

3:05 p.m. - Scott is moving 2 the cardio-pulmonary intensive care unit - room 499. Send money.

3:11 p.m. - Scott's all hopped up on pain meds. He just pressed the nurse call button and said 'hey there's this beeping noise & we want 2 know if someone can come down here & get rid of it!' It's been beeping all day.

4:21 p.m. - Emmie isn't allowed 2 c Scott. Children under 12 not allowed on the floor. It makes us all sad. It was Scott's only request.

4:23 p.m. - A relative has arrived spewing drama, of course. I'm saving my drama for when it counts with Scott's treatment.

4:27 p.m. - ''How does your mom cry and keep her makeup on?'' ''I don't know. It's crazy.''

7:18 p.m. - Back 2 the hospital. Visiting hours are open, except 4 shift change between 6-8 am & pm. Only 2 people in the room @ a time.

8:37 p.m. - If anyone wants 2 learn about the Continental Congress, come 2 room 499.

8:39 p.m. - Theory by Hudson. Lecture by Dilauded - and other opiates.

11:46 p.m. - No surprise here but Scott has been fighting with anyone who will listen about the oxygen mask. It's been going on since 4 pm.

11:50 p.m. - The nurse just flushed the toilet. Scott said, ''Did you hear that? I think we just had a plane crash!'' And tried to leap out of bed to go cover the story.

We came into the University Hospital ER at 5 p.m. on Sept. 19 because Scott thought he had jaundice. He was admitted at 10:30 p.m.

AUGUSTA, GA. - WGAC News/Talk 580 Investigative Journalist Scott Hudson was hospitalized Friday, Sept. 19, for an undetermined illness. He is at University Hospital, in the Cardio-Pulmonary Intensive Care Unit. For updates to his condition, please follow twitter.com/stacey_hudson.

In other words, my wonderful husband is sick and I don't have time or resources to talk to the 50 people a day who call me about it. Brief tweets are all I can wrap my head around. Hope for the best, folks. He's seen better days.

"So what would you like for dinner, sweetheart?" I asked Emmie as we neared the strip of fast-food places on Walton Way. I know, I know: fast food. But I'm sorry: when I work 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., I'm just not in a cooking mood.

"Um, I wan... I wan... peanut butter jelly! No, no. I wan chicken nugget!" she squealed.

"Okay, I - "

"An I wan appews and da brown stuff dat... dat... da brown stuff dat taste like good..." she tried to explain.

"Caramel sauce?" I asked.

"YES!" she screamed. "CAMEL SAUCE!"

I sniggered behind my hand. "Okay. Chicken nuggets, apples, and camel sauce."

I flipped on my blinker to turn towards McDonald's. I saw her brow furrowed as she sat in the back seat.

"Mama?" she whispered in a fearful rasp.

"What, sweetie?"

"Dey not eat da camels, right?" she squawked.

I laughed. "No, honey. CAR-A-MEL sauce. Not CAMEL sauce."

"OoooOOOh," she said, with a laugh and a shake of her curls. "Cawamamel sauce. We not eat camels!"

"No," I laughed, as she burst into giggles.

"Das gon be YUCK!"

Before we could cook anything at Amber's house this weekend, we had to go fill up the propane tank.

Am I the only one who didn't know how to do that?

Hey, let's take an 8-year-old and a ball of explosive death in a minivan to the gas station, where more potential explosives await. Great idea. I'm not already nervous enough driving someone else's car.

This was my solution:

Walking along the Greenway today, Emerson started reciting nursery rhymes.

"Honkey Donkey sat onna wall. Honkey Donkey had a grey fall."

"Um, honey, do you mean Humpty Dumpty?"

"NO! I said, Hon-Key Don-Key," she enunciated quite clearly.

"Hump-ty Dump-ty?" I asked, desperately.

She whirled and pointed at me: "No. Hon-Key Don-Key. Now lemme finish!"

Oooookay...

We went over to Amber's house last night (and by "we" I mean Emmie and me, because I certainly couldn't include Amy and Nola in that collective, now could I? I mean, plans were made and food was purchased and people were informed, but actually showing up, well, that could never be assumed from a verbal agreement to partake of the fun with us just me and Emmie; certainly no one else was supposed to go with us) and Emmie was a little weird.

Sometimes she gets solitary and goes off to play by herself. Once at our house she went into her room and when I went in to invite her to come back and play, she said, "Um, no dankoo. But I jus' wan' be by mysef' righ' now. Dank yoo berry mush, mama."

So last night she toddled off to play with the dolls that Anne and Madelaine said she could use, quietly enjoying herself while we talked around the kitchen island. About a half-hour into the conversation, Madelaine exclaimed, "Mom! She took the dolls' clothes off!"

Amber looked at her 10-year-old, bemused. "Well, that's what kids do with dolls."

"Yeah, they were kind of attached," Madelaine retorted, with a sarcastic hint of the teenage years to come.

We burst into laughter.

"Emmie, will you please bring the dolls in here?" I called.

Yes, the clothes had been stitched onto the dolls. But even that couldn't stop Emerson. When she was just learning to crawl, she often encountered obstacles in her path - a chair, a table leg, a dog. Instead of veering around them, she put her head down like a Bighorn sheep and tried to power through whatever was stopping her. She had taken that same attitude when faced with immovable doll garments. In fact, she still puts her head down and pushes when someone stands in her way. Pushes with her head. Like, what are your arms even for, child?

"I thought you were just being possessive of your toys," Amber laughed, as Madelaine gave her a look that clearly spoke volumes as to how little her own mother knew her. Neither of Amber's children are selfish - not in the least - but each of us has material possessions that hold special significance to us.

The clothes could be stitched back on - by some adult who possesses the ability to do such things, which I do not. Madelaine was still clearly not amused by the whole scenario - but her younger sister Anne laughed freely.

"Should I replace the dolls?" I asked Madelaine. She shook her head and grinned a little. She was beginning to see the humor.

"Are you sure?" I asked. She's a generous girl, and I didn't want her to resent the situation later by being self-effacing at the moment.

"No," she said, with a shrug and a grin. "Mom can fix it."

If only someone could fix my child. I fully expect - 12 years from now - for her to encounter her SATs and brace her head against the paper on her desk.

I'd better get her into soccer soon.

Getting dressed for the park...

Me: "This shirt is getting small. That means you are getting bigger!"

Emmie (excitedly): "Yeah! I gon' get bigger - like you!"

Me: "Yeah!"

Emmie: "Like your head!"

Ummm....

AUGUSTA, GA - What price honor?

That's what I've been asking myself this week after passing a woman whose car had broken down on Riverwatch Parkway. It was blisteringly hot, the car obviously just had a flat tire that I could easily have changed in 10 minutes, and as I passed her she turned so that I saw she had a toddler on her hip.

I didn't stop.

I was running late for a sales meeting, and I didn't notice her until I was right on her. Besides, there's nowhere on Riverwatch Parkway to turn around until you hit downtown and she was on her cell phone to someone.

And yet... it didn't feel right to pass her when I could have helped.

Not that anyone else was stopping. You simply don't see that in Augusta. As a teenager living in metro-Atlanta, I broke down in my 1970 Chevy van plenty of times. Someone always stopped to help. As an adult, I've broken down a couple of times in my car. No one has ever stopped. Even sheriff's deputies only stop to remind people to get their car off the shoulder in a couple of days or risk having it towed.

And although I've complained about the fact that Augusta is far from the city of brotherly love - in both geography and personality - there I was, flying past a person in need with the capability to help her, but not the time.

I called Scott.

"Honey, there's a woman with a toddler broken down on the side of Riverwatch Parkway," I said.

"And?"

"And it's hot as hell and she's got a baby with her. Isn't there someone you can call?"

He paused for a moment.

"Yes. I can call dispatch to see if they can send someone to help her," he answered.

"Oh, thank you, sweetie. I appreciate it. Will you do it now?"

"Of course."

I breathed a sigh of relief, but I really wasn't comforted. It could take an hour before a deputy became available, and I'm pretty sure it was so close to shift change that not one of them was going to volunteer for the job. Even if someone did arrive quickly, I still felt bad at not stopping.

Still, I got to the sales meeting only a couple of minutes late and grabbed my stuff out of the car when one of the city's persistent homeless began a sales meeting of his own.

"Hey, baby girl. Can you spare a dollar so a brother can catch the bus?" he asked.

"I'm sorry; I don't carry cash," I answered, truthfully.

"You ain't got a dollar?" he demanded, not seeing irony in his incredulity considering that he also did not posses a dollar.

"I don't have a dime," I responded, looking him in the eye.

"Well, whatcha doing?" he asked, eyeing me in a way that - had I been carrying any money - would have made me clutch my purse closer to my body.

"Working - why don't you try it?" I shot back, opened the door to the air-conditioned office and left him outside on the broiling sidewalk.

Good work, Me. There's that charitable behavior you're looking for.

Emmie had never seen or held a kitten before, so Amber's beautiful older daughter, Madeleine, gently handed her one of the tiny un-weaned furballs. She tried to take one home with us, so I had to explain that Scrabble, our rat terrier, might eat it for breakfast.

"Frabble not eat it," she said. "I gon' BAM him an' say, 'No, Frabble! Time out!'"

Yeah. Take that, "Frabble."

Emmie likes to put (clean) pull-ups on her head. I see a multitude of lampshades in her future. As for my husband... there's just no excuse.

Why does everything in the background look so wonky? I mean, we don't live in a house drawn by Dr. Seuss!

This man's ass was blinking. I'm sure there's a purpose, but still... blinking ass. Just not a normal sight.

AUGUSTA, GA. - You know that a blog service is extraneous when your readership and comments participation actually drops after you install it. For that reason, I've removed the Live Appeal service I had added to my blog, and I've gone back to the normal comments function. I have added a "followers" option to the sidebar, but it's entirely voluntary. Sorry to anyone to whom this has caused annoyance (ahem... the ever-outspoken Alice), but I also appreciate your feedback.

Hope this gets things back to normal. In the meantime, I'll try to post the tidbits I wrote down this week but didn't get a chance to type.

Love to my readers!

Stacey

Okay, so I'm a cheapskate and I refuse to pay for cable. That mean unless it didn't happen on something lame (excluding "Lost" and "Law & Order," which are awesome), I don't know it happened.

But The Daily Show makes me want to call the local cable companies and say "Give me 53 channels of crap and two that I'll actually watch! Please let me pay you $150 a month for the privilege!"

Here, John Stewart and pals take on the political spin machine:

AUGUSTA, GA. - So there's video of this incident, but I can't seem to get it to load into the page. Whatever. I passed these folks on the road, and I couldn't help but notice the name of their business.

I had to call.

"Hello?" a man's voice answered.
"Hi, I'm looking for Hooker's Trapping Service," I said.
"This it," he said.
"Great! Listen, how much are the hookers?" I asked.
"What?"
"How much are the hookers?!" I said, louder.
"Well, I dunno. Whatcha got goin' on?" he said.

AUGUSTA, GA. - Alt-weeklies are the Mighty Mouse raising up in defiance of the Daily Elephant. Although sometimes the Atlanta Journal-Constitution (my "hometown" paper) hits the right tone, I know I can skip an issue (or five) and get what I need online. But I never miss an issue of Creative Loafing while I'm in town. In all honesty, I don't care for the daily paper's watered-down version of American "culture." The Oklahoma Gazette demonstrates why alt-weeklies are important to local society.

AUGUSTA, GA. - "Happy Anniversary!" I chirped to Scott when he emerged, red-eyed and yawning, from our boudoir. He grinned and smooched me.

"Four years down," I joked. "Four more years! Four more years!"

He smirked sleepily. I'd been up and had my caffeine. He wasn't ready for me yet.

"Hey," I continued, oblivious. "We got married in an election year. It's election year again."

He nodded groggily - dare I say wearily?

"Maybe we should run for re-election every four years, too."

He peered at me, considering how best to kill me without getting caught. The coffee defense - would it work? Caffeine is a drug. Drug users aren't always held accountable for their actions.

"What's your platform going to be? I have to know before I can vote for you," I nattered, as his fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and he chose to flee.

"I'll have to think about it," he mumbled, as he headed toward the back porch.

"Okay," I sang. "But it's a tough economy. Nothing's guaranteed."

slam!