Sunday, November 11, 2007

Day Eleven

What She Wore: Pajamas. According to the clock on this computer it's a little after five. I should be sleeping, but I can't, so I'm blogging--makes perfect sense, right?

You know that feeling you got in high school when your boyfriend broke up with you? A rock in your stomach that is a combination of dread and nausea? Well, I've got it right now. No, I'm not getting divorced. I just found out that Charlie's neurosurgeon has left the hospital where he works. No official word yet, but the guy was kind of a maniac, and anything is possible with him. You don't want just anybody drilling holes into your baby's head, and I trusted this guy, AND he was smart, AND optimistic. There are a lot of doctors out there who aren't optimistic, and I've promised myself that I won't go back to any doctor who doesn't give me a warm fuzzy feeling. Problem is, not too many neurosurgeons in this neck of the woods. Well, crap--I'll just keep my fingers crossed that I won't need the services of a neurosurgeon any time soon.

PS: I just spell-checked this thing and apparently I can't spell nuerosurgeon or optimistic. Thanks, Blogger.