Stains

There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Emmanuel's veins;

And sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains. 

Lose all their guilty stains; lose all their guilty stains.

And sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.

As you might imagine, this past weekend's merriment was captured in numerous photos, but rather than share those on the blog, what I'd like to do today is discuss Tolstoy's War and Peace.

I kid, I kid.  That was for my sister-in-law; she's a huge Tolstoy fan.  Okay, not really.  She is a fan of my kids, & she has been known to lodge a complaint when the blog is bereft of their photos.

Let me get right down to the photo business.

Last Thursday I was relieved of my teaching duties by Easter Break, so the kids & I lounged around the house until about four that afternoon when I decided we'd head over to Nana & Papa's since Jessa, Heath, & Maisie were set to arrive sometime that evening.  While we awaited their arrival, Henry took his inaugural ride down to the park in the wagon.  In Reagan's wagon, I should say; the girl knows her possessive pronouns.

Friday was a long, eventful day for us, at least when you consider that the odds of us making it out of our pajamas on Friday lately are about 50/50.  Okay, 60/40. 

I left the house with both kids in tow by eleven that morning to meet the fam for an early lunch at The Pickle Barrel.  We then headed north to Bastrop to visit Papaw.  A good time was had by all.

At this point, a good time was being had by everyone except maybe Maisie, who expressed her displeasure over my incessant picture taking & the general absence of quality naps all weekend by doing a graceful faceplant. 

The dearth of quality naps soon caught up with Henry as well as I attempted to get a picture of him with Papaw.

We left Bastrop & headed due southwest toward Nana & Papa's, where Reagan was busy in the kitchen for quite some time making cupcakes (diabetic friendly cupcakes made with coconut flour): 

Saturday the kids & I met Nana, Jessa, & Maisie for lunch while the men played golf.  I was made aware of the plan to meet for lunch about an hour before this photo was taken . . . this is a little something Reagan & I like to call "Aloof Selfie."  I'm so cool I don't need to wash my hair . . . & Reagan's so cool the iPhone can't quite handle her looking directly into the camera & smiling. 

After lunch, the babes whined a little in protest of the weekend's busyness & attempted to nap at Nana's while Reagan dyed eggs:

While the eggs soaked, Operation Bunny-O-Cupcakes was in full swing.  The aforementioned cupcakes that were baked Friday were transformed into a culinary masterpiece: 

I returned home with the kids about six Saturday evening & was not in a calm state.  On the drive home  from my parents I kept making lists (in my head, of course, since I was driving) of the numerous things that had to happen in order for the four of us to arrive at church Sunday morning (on time) bathed, fed, dressed in our Easter outfits, & happy that the Easter Bunny paid us all a visit.  Easter is about to catch up with Christmas on the stress meter; that's the mom-who-makes-things-magical-during-the-consumer-driven-holidays stress meter.  

When Sunday morning dawned, things were ticking along nicely (because of all the lists I'd made in my head, no doubt).  The kids were bathed Saturday evening; I rose before the sun to bathe & dress myself Sunday morning, & the Easter Bunny did indeed pay us a visit. 

Reagan was delighted to discover the Easter Bunny left a few jelly beans in her plastic eggs.  The Easter Bunny accounted for these when Reagan got her insulin shot for her breakfast Sunday morning. That Easter Bunny is a jack of all trades.

We went all out this year & ordered the monogrammed Easter baskets from Pottery Barn for the three grandkids.  Of course, we waited until a week before Easter when they mark all Easter paraphernalia down 20%, & offer free shipping.  Yes please!  If I am consistent in only one thing, let it be said that I do not, DO NOT, pay Pottery Barn's outrageous shipping charges.  

I knew Sunday morning would be tricky, or trickier, because Lionel Richie is wrong; there is nothing easy about Sunday morning, ever . . . unless you have no small children & sleep in on Sunday & drink coffee at your leisure instead of rising to worship the Lord.  I guess that would be easy.  I did my part Sunday morning.  I got up early & was dressed & sitting & drinking coffee by eight o'clock.  I had to wake both kids at eight thirty, & then shove Reagan's basket in her face, quickly proclaim joy over the Easter Bunny's visit, & then enlist Trey to drag her away from her new goodies & get her teeth brushed, hair combed, etc., etc.  Keep in mind that in the middle of all this, I am checking her blood sugar & injecting her with insulin.

Jessica took these of the babes in Bible class Sunday morning:

I had high hopes for some nice Easter Sunday afternoon pics.  Silly, silly me.       

I quit asking her to smile after these. 

Naturally we had to put the babes in the monogrammed baskets . . . 

He was okay with the basket situation until Reagan came over & got in on the action:

Not one to be outdone . . . 

The men were enthusiastic about all the picture taking:

Waiting while Nana & Papa hide eggs for her in the front yard:

 She was the solo hunter, but she moved with purpose & showed signs of speed & agility you'd not expect from the daughter of two slow white people:

Post-hunt, it was family photo fail time, & fail we did.

We took a few & then realized a Tahoe doesn't make for the best backdrop . . .  

So we shifted, & when reviewing these, realized the Tahoe really wasn't the big issue . . . 

When I sat down with all these pictures to upload & thought about the weekend, one word came to mind: stains.  We are kind of ridiculous about Easter.  And by we I mean mothers of young children whom we dress in expensive outfits that will look wonderful in pictures, but are not otherwise functional attire for small people who eat with their hands &/or have no concept of a toilet; we who stalk Pottery Barn's website, pouncing when they offer to ship overpriced baskets & liners monogrammed with our children's names to our front door for free.

More than once this past weekend, I found myself in full out fret mode.  I worried that the eggs Reagan dyed would stain her brand new monogrammed basket liner, or her new dress (her new Feltman Bros. dress), or both.

The dress:

I worried that the moment I dressed Henry in his Feltman Bros. outfit, something would come out one end (or the other) that would stain it, ruining all the perfect family photos we would take after Easter lunch (ha!).

Here's what happened Sunday morning.  First, when I attempted to dress Henry, it became apparent that he wasn't going to fit in his outfit.  There was no more maybe about it when one of the buttons sprang free from the threads confining it & flew across his room.  To use my Papaw's word, Henry is "solid," & this outfit didn't accommodate his recently acquired solidity.  I was given the outfit as a gift, so it wasn't bought specifically for Easter, but it would've been perfect.

See:

Simply perfect with these shoes:

Henry did wear the shoes with another, suitable plaid short / sweater vest ensemble that was cute.  I am not going to tell you what Trey said about these shoes; let's just say it was not politically correct. 

So, Easter wardrobe crisis averted.  Fret level down a notch.

When I was loading the kids' baskets in the back of my car so their grandparents could see what the Easter Bunny brought them (& so the baskets could be used as props in pictures), I noticed this on the liner of Reagan's basket:

It's a drop of her blood.  While she was inspecting what the Easter Bunny left her, I checked her sugar, & the finger I pricked bled on her liner a bit.  I almost started crying when I saw it, for about ten different reasons.

If you're not already thinking of it, there is an old Reba McEntire song titled, "Is There Life Out There?"  It's about a young wife & mother who decides she wants to go to college (at least this is what I gather from the hoky music video I probably last watched twenty years ago).  During the course of the music video, Reba is working on a paper for one of her classes, & her child spills something on it - - coffee or coke or something.  She screams at the child, & then later feels shame, regret, etc.  It's all very dramatic & moving in that special way all country music videos are.  When she hands the paper to her professor, he makes some comment about the stains on the paper, to which she replies, "I learned more from the stains than I did the paper."   Trite, I know.  I suppose the video was shot before word processors were mainstream, because I believe the paper is handwritten, & apparently simply printing another stain-free copy was not an option.  Unfortunately, this music video was playing in my head Sunday.  But I digress.

My dad taught the adult class Sunday morning at church.  He went hour by hour & detailed the events leading up to Jesus's death on the cross.  I felt small sitting there listening, thinking about how minutes earlier I'd been a wee bit too consumed with the droplet of blood on the basket liner issue.  We have commercialized & sanitized Easter to a ridiculous degree.  Jesus's death was brutal.  He was bloodied & beaten before He was ever hung on the cross, & further agony awaited Him there.  He sweated drops of blood in the garden when He prayed to the Father, & rivulets of His blood likely dripped from the cross near the feet of His mother & others gathered at the foot of the cross.

Few things worth having are attained without spilling a little blood; ask anyone who has seen combat in a war that was fought for freedom from tyranny, or any woman who has given birth.  The lines quoted above are from a song titled, "There Is a Fountain Filled with Blood."  Lovely, right?  You know what, it is!  It's the loveliest image imaginable when you understand that Jesus's blood had to be spilled.  There was no other way, & He knew this, & the Father knew it, & they both could've ended His agony at any point during the lengthy, tortuous process, but without the river of His sinless blood, we'd have no hope; His stains cleanse me from my own.      

I haven't treated the stain on the liner.  I may just leave it; I may not have a choice now anyway as I imagine there is a window of opportunity to treat a blood stain, & then, well, you're stuck with it.  Every year when I drag all the Easter stuff out, that dried droplet of Reagan's blood will serve as a nice reminder to me to let go of my need for tidiness, perfection, pristine monogrammed basket liners, & neatly pressed Feltman Bros. attire.  The message of Easter is considerably more gruesome, & considerably more important, than the frills & bows we all too often associate with this holiday.

AZ

A Banner Week

A Novel About the Novel

A Bit of Nonfiction

The End

A Fib, a Brit, & a Cupcake

About the Addendum

If you recall, I ended my last post with a brief note about retching that commenced early last Monday morning.

To quote myself,

I have a fun Monday morning addendum for you.  There is some retching happening in our home this morning.  Thankfully, at the moment, it's only the adults who have retched, though Trey considerably more than me.  We shall see how the day unfolds.

I had a sneaking suspicion about how the day would unfold when I typed that early last Monday, but I was hoping I would be proven wrong.  I was not.  The only thing I didn't anticipate was that there would be not one, but two ER admissions by nightfall.  And that was just Monday.  Oh yes, just you wait.

Let me begin by telling you that Reagan lived the first three years of her life free of stomach bugs.  When she was diagnosed with diabetes two months ago, one of the things I heard from medical personnel & parents of other diabetics was to take stomach viruses seriously.  I knew we'd catch one soon; after three vomit-free years, & all the warnings about vomiting that came after the diabetes diagnosis, I knew it would happen, & last Monday, it did.

I woke early & knew I'd be hovering over the toilet within the hour.  I was, but soon after felt considerably better.  I knew I'd likely caught a bug & contemplated leaving the house immediately, knowing if Reagan started vomiting we would likely be headed to the ER.  I was in the middle of a prayer that no one else would fall ill when I heard ghastly sounds from upstairs.  I don't know if it's just Trey, or if it's a man thing, but oh. my. word.  I guess pregnancy & childbirth / child-rearing prepared me for various of life's trials, such as dealing with nausea & vomiting, how to vomit without scaring small children, how to navigate horrible smells & various bodily fluids, etc.  I am surprised our neighbors didn't come knocking on the front door to investigate the sounds; it was the loudest vomiting I have ever heard.  Without making a trip up the stairs I knew Trey was sick as well, & I suspected the upstairs toilet might never be the same.  And, I am okay with that, because I never use it.

By Monday afternoon, Reagan was still holding steady, while Trey's condition deteriorated.  Trey's mom took him to the ER for fluids, & about five seconds after they left, I heard the splat I'd been bracing myself for all day.  I took a few deep breaths & walked to Reagan.  I calmed her down.  I cleaned everything up.  As a testament to how worried I was about Reagan's condition, my mind was so preoccupied I didn't gag once while stripping Reagan down, removing the (thankfully removable/washable) chair cushion, & wiping up the floor.

I checked Reagan's number; it was 98, so that was a boost I desperately needed.  I had expected something along the lines of "40" or "450," as illness can cause dramatic highs &/or lows.  I called the on call endocrinologist in Jackson, & he told me if she continued to vomit, she needed to go to the ER for fluids since someone her size can so easily dehydrate.  The problem with dehydration, other than the obvious issues it causes anyone, is that when the body is dehydrated, it is insulin resistant, meaning her sugars can potentially soar.  Next time you have a stomach bug, while you're folded over the toilet, possibly cussing & wanting to die, say a prayer of thanks that despite your stomach's upheaval, you don't have to worry about your pancreas doing its job, & you can drink a regular coke (real coke, the hard stuff) without worry, which is absolutely the only thing I want when I am nauseous.

I tried to stay calm.  I prayed that like me, she'd only vomit once & bounce back.  I was irritated that after two PICU visits in as many months, after finally getting a handle on her insulin needs, she was vomiting, the one thing I knew I wasn't equipped to deal with on my own at home.  Unfortunately, splat number two hit the floor about six thirty Monday evening, so my mom & I loaded Reagan up & headed for our home away from home, the ER at St. Francis (splat number three, which was, as it turns out, Reagan's final splat (on Monday, that is), occurred en route to the hospital).  Trey's dad was with him at the ER, so his mom came to the house to sit with Henry.  Trey was leaving the ER when we arrived.  We had a fun little family moment in the waiting room while my mom & I settled in with Reagan, & Trey's dad went to get the car for him, & somewhere in Baton Rouge, a Blue Cross/Blue Shield employee's head exploded.  Between us & Obamacare, these poor folks are not having a pleasant year.

Despite two family members receiving treatment in the ER, I'm placing Monday in the 'victory' column for several reasons.  First, Reagan was not admitted to the hospital . . . on Monday, that is.  They gave her some fluid in the ER & sent us home, rather than sending us straight to PICU as they did in January & February when we showed up in the ER.  Second, by late Tuesday afternoon, we were all eating Chick-fil-A, & all the Chick-fil-A was happily digested.  Third, Reagan's numbers were beautiful throughout the vomiting fiasco.  Finally, I'd like to give a shout-out to my immune system, which came through in a major way for me.  Maybe the toil of carrying & birthing & nursing babies & learning to cope with little to no sleep at times has toughened me up.  Maybe it's the daily probiotic I take.  Maybe the Lord knew that two ER admissions in one day was my limit.  Whatever the reason, my immune system did a stellar job of handling the virus.  I was up & retching before the kids awoke, & by the time they were both up, I was able to handle the morning chores, which I did while listening to Trey heave in the background.

Tuesday was ho-hum.  No one needed to go to the ER, so that's always a plus.  Reagan seemed to feel great.  She was eating, playing, & her sugars were good.  I relaxed, thinking the plague was through with us.  We all went to bed Tuesday night.  We slept a little.  At five o'clock Wednesday morning, Trey woke me up to let me know Reagan had vomited.  I am serious.

Lather, rinse, repeat.  Change her clothes, clean the vomit, wait for inevitable second splat . . . head to the ER.  Trey took her this time while I stayed at the house with Henry.  They decided to admit her the second time around, so I headed to the hospital Wednesday afternoon when Trey's mom arrived to stay with Henry.  We weren't admitted to PICU, since she didn't need an insulin drip, but simply some fluid to rehydrate her.  The regular floor just isn't as flattering as PICU.  There's no blood pressure cuff, no heart monitor, no checking her sugar every hour.  You just feel less special.  Her granddaddy made a few balloons with the nurses' purple gloves, but that was about it for excitement.

As was the case Monday evening, by the time we got her to the ER Wednesday, the retching had ceased, so it was just a matter of getting her rehydrated & watching her number.  We hung out at the hospital Wednesday, sipping Powerade, nibbling Jello, & watching Reagan's number, which was running a little low, but stayed in an acceptable range thanks to the Powerade & Jello.

I hope in the future we can attempt to handle a stomach bug at home, but right now Reagan throwing up is completely frightening to me, & not just because I am the one who has to clean it up.  I feel like I understand what to do in most situations - when she needs insulin, & how much, when she needs to eat something, & what, & how much - but vomit is a brand new ball game, one I hope we don't have to play again for a long, long while (seriously, if you or someone with whom you've spent any amount of time has a stomach virus, stay far, far away from my child . . . there's no punchline here; I am not joking).

The remainder of the week was spent on vomit-watch as one by one by one the grandparents fell like dominoes, with the exception of my mother, who (knock-on-wood-fingers-crossed), as of the time of this post, has yet to vomit.  You may also be wondering about a certain nine month old.  My sweet Henry man has held his own as well the past week, & I did in fact finally take a few nine month pics of him yesterday afternoon.

Isn't he just the cutest?  Henry & I have a crazily codependent relationship that involves a lot of slobbering & giggling, but it's working for us at the moment.

As you may've guessed by now, neither my revolver nor our new steak knives saw any action last week.

New set of steak knives = $100

Box of steak sauce shipped from Peter Luger's in NY =  ???

Steaks = $30

Having to freeze steaks because everyone is vomiting = 

Priceless 

I've postponed my concealed carry class.  After a family total of three ER visits in as many days, I was not about to rise early Saturday morning & sit in class for hours learning when & where I can & cannot use my firearm.  I just don't need the stress of it all at the moment; it's just not the right time for me to be handling a loaded weapon.

I'm not sure how to close this out.  I'm not going to announce any grand plans for the upcoming week because for starters, I have none, & also, if I did, I would not jinx things by discussing them because clearly I know by now that the way I should end every blog, & every sentence I utter, is the Lord willing.

AZ

Guns & Knives

A little over a week ago, Trey handed me his credit card & told me to keep it.  That was a major clue that a well-rested Anna would have never missed.  Due to tiredness & the snot & the coughing & the daily diabetes care, the clue went right over my head & I didn't give his credit card handover, his unsolicited credit card handover, a second thought until he came home from work one day with a big box.

To Trey's credit, we legitimately needed some steak knives, & now we have some.  We have some for our little family of four, & some for our twenty closest carnivorous friends.  I didn't register for steak knives when we got married because, well, they're not very attractive & while I tried to be practical with the registry, looking back, I failed miserably in some areas.  On the bright side, if there's ever some sort of entertaining emergency requiring that I serve everyone we know finger foods using nothing but Arthur Court serving pieces, I am prepared.

Shortly after the arrival of the knives, Trey requested that I buy some steaks at the grocery store.  This seemed logical since we do have a brand new set of steak knives, so the steak request didn't phase me.  Then, last Thursday, Trey came home from work with another box.  Unlike the steak knives reveal, this one lacked suspense as this is what Trey lugged in the back door & placed on the table, all while wearing a mischievous grin:

Peter Luger's is a steakhouse in Brooklyn, New York.  Trey & I ate there while we were in New York on our honeymoon in 2009, & obviously their steak sauce left its mark on Trey, much the same way Peter Luger's left its mark on Trey's credit card.  Their steak sauce is good, & now I can drown any steak I eat in it for approximately the next five years.  We'll see how long the credit card remains firmly in my grasp.  Thankfully, lately Trey's been reading a lot at night after the kids are in bed so he misses most of the infomercials; I can only imagine.

In addition to his new set of steak knives & the straight-from-New York steak sauce, the price of which I remain happily in the dark about, I am finally granting Trey a request he's made of me for quite some time.  This Saturday I'll be taking a concealed carry course so that I can legally carry my revolver on my person, except of course while I am at church or while I am teaching . . . but no matter, because everyone knows crazed gunmen respect the sanctity of churches & schools & would never ambush a large gathering of law abiding citizens who are unable to arm & defend themselves.

Since I've briefly mentioned our honeymoon already, I'll just take the whole stroll down memory lane & tell you that Trey gave me my revolver when he proposed.  Take a moment, wipe the tears . . . not only did he give me the revolver when he gave me my ring, the ring box was inside the revolver case.  Are you still there?  Did anyone faint?  What can I say?  Weapons are his love language, & I'll be spending several hours learning how to speak it this Saturday.  I am honestly completely dreading the day, but I do like the idea of not fearing for my life when I am out & about in Monroe, which has become just a tad scary.

I know you're wondering where they are, but no, I have not taken Henry's nine month pictures yet.  He will be nine months old for another two weeks, & I will make the deadline.  He knows that I love him.  This past week has been a blur of antibiotics, cough meds, breathing treatments, & insulin adjustments to accommodate the aforementioned meds.  The shame of it all is that Reagan has been doing saline breathing treatments a few times a day for the past week, & yet, all Darth Vader references are totally lost on her because she doesn't have a clue who he is.  She didn't smile once; she just gave me an odd look & said, "Mama, who's Luke?"

I suppose I'll close with an obligatory "Happy St. Patrick's Day."  I am thankful I'm home all day today, happily snug inside my house with all my weapons rather than out in public, taking a chance that some fool who would otherwise never dream of touching me might think it's appropriate to pinch me because I am not wearing green.  The whole concept of this day is just peculiar to me.  At least next year if I'm pinched on this oddest of days, I can accidentally, "accidentally," flash the offending dolt my concealed weapon.

I typed most of this up last night, but I have a fun Monday morning addendum for you.  There is some retching happening in our home this morning.  Thankfully, at the moment, it's only the adults who have retched, though Trey considerably more than me.  We shall see how the day unfolds.  So now our recovering stomachs will be in a race with the clock to eat the steaks I bought before the date stamped on them.

I hope your Monday is off to a better start than mine, & if you haven't vomited, well, it is.

AZ

I Want It Back

My hour.

I want it back.  I don't know if I can adequately express in words how much I detest losing the hour the federal government snatches from me every spring.  Don't they have their hands in enough?  Must they attempt to control time too?  Isn't spring harsh enough with taxes & all the pollen & the lack of college football & the sudden need to shave more frequently?  Finally, someone is speaking up.  Check this out.

I don't like the phrase 'Spring Forward.'  Blah.  Whatever.  I don't spring in the morning, ever, at all, & especially not after losing an hour of sleep.  This was my first 'Spring Forward' Sunday with two kids, & I've been dreading it for awhile now.  As if there aren't enough obstacles involved in getting young kids up & fed & dressed & off to church, let's pick a Sunday to eradicate an hour of time.  However, I ended up avoiding the situation entirely this year because, well, SNOT.  Henry & Reagan are both a tad ill at the moment.  No fever, just general spring yuck.  So, I went to church by myself yesterday morning while Trey stayed home on snot patrol.  Since returning home yesterday afternoon, I've been on snot patrol, & it's not doing a whole lot for my mood.  I guess it goes without saying that I am incredibly excited about getting up tomorrow morning to go face a classroom full of students who've been out on Spring Break for a week & just lost an hour of time.  Oh, the coffee that will entail.

Despite the illness in my home, I did do the speaking thing this past Friday night.  Friday afternoon, I left the kids in Trey's capable hands & headed to Lake D'arbonne State Park.  Well, actually Trey's dad & sister were also at the house because Trey's mom hasn't been feeling well either . . . I'd just like to note that that's three people, three college grads, mind you (one with a law degree), left to do what I do most days, as Reagan would say, all by myself.  It's good to feel needed.  But I digress.  I thoroughly enjoyed the drive out to Farmerville.  I went under the speed limit to allow myself time to sip the coffee I'd made for the drive over, sing along with Celine, & relax as I prepared to speak.  Everyone knows the best way to vocally prep for a public presentation is accompanying Celine, because you know, sometimes she struggles with those high notes.  Where does my heaaaart beat now . . . 

I suppose the speech went well.  It wasn't as polished as I would've preferred, but given that my only run-through was delivered in front of Henry (who thought the whole thing was hilarious), I was pleased overall.  In a thirty minute talk, I managed to make references to The Little Mermaid, Aida, & threw in a generic reference to vampires.  I reigned myself in & didn't get Twilight specific with the vampire example.  I knew I was going to be cutting it close on time, & I figured if it came down to omitting a few Bible verses or a detailed explanation of the virtues of Edward Cullen, I ought to let Edward go, & so I did.  It was refreshing to stand in front of fifty or so ladies who were attentive & generally seemed happy to be there, as opposed to my usual audience, twenty or so students, half of whom are surreptitiously attempting to text &/or surf the Internet on their phone.

I'm a bit behind on photographically cataloging my kids's lives.  Henry hit the nine month mark last week, on Thursday to be exact.  That photo shoot is scheduled for later this week when his face is, hopefully, free of snot.  Here's what I've been taking pics of - -

Are these not the most beautiful numbers you've ever seen?  Last week was pretty dreamy as far as blood sugars go.  At some point I suppose I'll stop taking pictures of the awesome numbers (& texting them to all her grandparents), but currently it still gives me a considerable thrill to see numbers like this pop up on the meter after weeks of crying & gnashing my teeth nearly every time I checked Reagan's number.

I do have one pic of the kids I took Saturday night in the new pajamas Nana & Papa bought them in Denver.  You didn't know this, but my parents spent last week in Denver.  I didn't tell you because, you know, my mom doesn't want me advertising that their house is empty so I don't encourage someone who creeps my blog to break in their house & steal their treasures . . . I mean my mom has numerous clothing items that feature the cast of The Andy Griffith Show, & my dad has tons, & tons, & tons of books; everyone knows thieves can't resist a detailed history of the whereabouts of the Ark of the Covenant.  Don't be tempted; they're home now.  

Here they are, ready to Spring Forward . . . or sleep restlessly & whine randomly, whichever:

I need to go now, but there's one more thing on my mind, & you should know by now that if something is on my mind, it inevitably spills onto the blog.  It's been brought to my attention that a few of you reading the book are, & I quote, "obsessed."  Aren't obsessions the best?  I was obsessed with the book when I was writing it.  There were entire conversations between Edie & Dr. Foster - - or James, I think we can call him James now (I mean if you're reading, surely you see that's where we're headed, & soon) - -  in my head that I'd try & recall when I could find time to sit down & type; sometimes the two of them would not hush.  I could afford the obsession then because I had one child, & she was sleeping all night & taking two lengthy naps during the day.  

As I reread along with some of you, I have to say, the obsession is rearing its head again.  In the past few weeks, I have, for the first time since finishing the book, had to quash the yearning to sit & write again.  I mean, yes, I write when I blog, but between you & me, it's kind of mindless.  There's no coherency; it's stream-of-consciousness, except not the cool D.H. Lawrence kind.  Writing a book is a different matter entirely, & while I well know I don't have the time I'd like to devote to it at the moment, Edie & James are yammering in my head again. Constantly.  I've missed them, but I'm hoping I can get them to shut-up for awhile. 

    

AZ

Overlap & an Invite

I am out of school this week for Spring Break.  Naturally, it is thirty degrees outside.  I thought about cleaning up the house a little & digging out my Easter decor, but then I realized that Easter isn't until April 20th this year, & again, it is thirty degrees outside.  I know everyone is complaining & longing for summer, but, I am not.  I reserve my weather complaints for July & August, when it isn't possible to buy & unload groceries without needing a shower, & it gets so hot you think twice about drinking your afternoon cup of coffee.  So go on & whine now, but I will always welcome thirty degrees & the warm sweaters & fires & hot cups of coffee that accompany it.

Yesterday was a kind of a big deal . . . for me at least, that is, but I hope yesterday was great for you too.  Reagan's highest sugar yesterday was 144; I vacillated between weeping & attempting a cartwheel.  I'm just going to type that all out one more time.  Reagan's highest sugar yesterday was 144.  She went to bed at 122 Saturday evening & woke at 116 yesterday morning, with readings of 122 & 136 in between.  She woke at 93 this morning, & her pre-lunch reading was 104.  This may be Greek to some of you, so I will translate it all into the parent of a diabetic child language -

Also, there was a nap overlap of about an hour yesterday afternoon.  What, you say?  Henry took a long nap from about two yesterday afternoon until around four thirty.  Reagan fell asleep watching Finding Nemo a little after three o'clock.  If you're good at math, you now see what I mean by a nap overlap.  Again, I vacillated between weeping & attempting a cartwheel.  I ended up doing neither, opting for a cup of coffee & a handful of these amazing Ghirardelli dark chocolate chips I bought for Reagan because a serving size (16 chips) is 8 total carbs.  I'll just say that I consumed a few more than 8 total carbs as I downed the coffee in the tranquil house.

My mom will likely read about the nap overlap & say, perhaps aloud, You should have gone to sleep!, but I did not.  I don't sleep on cue all that well, & the coffee & dark chocolate chips were just sitting right there, begging.  It's actually a fantastic week for a nap overlap & for me to be home on break because I have things I have to get done, as in an actual deadline.  This weekend my church is having a Ladies' Retreat at Lake D'arbonne & yours truly has been asked to speak Friday evening.  The theme for the weekend is Daughters of the King, & we're all leaving behind the men & children in our lives to discuss the fact that we are princesses.  Tiaras are optional.

Naturally, in preparation for Friday I am working diligently on a presentation in which I will thoroughly examine Ariel & Prince Eric's relationship, & am in deep thought about how exactly to work a Twilight reference into the talk, which, if I can pull it off, will have something to do with immortality . . . something both Edward Cullen & the Lord have to offer.  You think I am kidding, don't you?

If you're a lady & you're reading, you are more than welcome to join us (unless you're my mother-in-law & are helping Trey out with the kids while I speak).  I am short on some of the specifics, but things get started around 6ish Friday at Lake D'arbonne State Park in Farmerville & I believe I speak around 7ish.  Things pick back up Saturday morning around nine with breakfast, & will conclude that afternoon about two.  There will be three speakers on Saturday.  Feel free to come for any or all of it.  Contact me, either through Facebook or the blog, if you want more details.

Moving right along, did anyone else sleep a little sounder last night now that we live in a world in which Matthew McConaughey is an Oscar winner?  It's something I've felt was inevitable since I saw him in A Time to Kill many, many years ago when I was a wise teen.  Even if you didn't watch the show, his win could not have escaped you since his acceptance speech is all over the news today because he thanked - - gasp! - - God!  As the saying goes, you can take the actor out of Texas . . .  Anyway, I usually don't watch the Oscars, but I paid a bit of attention last night for a few reasons.  First, Idina Menzel! sang her hit song from Disney's Frozen (I was kind of hoping she'd break into "Defying Gravity" when she was done).  Second, I was hoping Bradley Cooper would win a supporting actor Oscar for American Hustle since he was denied a well-deserved Oscar for Silver Linings Playbook last year.  Third, I wanted to watch Jennifer Lawrence present the best actor Oscar because there's always a great chance she will do or say something hilarious & inappropriate.  Finally, I was hoping maybe Bradley Cooper would propose to Jennifer Lawrence so they can just get married already.

I hope you have a great week.  Mine is off to a rousing start.  Given that I have two additional days this week to stay in my pajamas all day, I think I can swing posting three chapters of the book Friday, 13, 14, & 15, which will mean we will have arrived at the halfway mark in Edie's saga.  I am anal & like things to be nice & neat like that, so that's also fueling my desire to reread, edit, & post three chapters this week.  I don't want to oversell them, but I like these next few chapters.  They're filled with dialogue, which I like - I like to read dialogue, & as it turns out, I like to write it.  See you Friday.  

AZ  

A Control Update

So, aside from a few additions to Edie's saga, I've been MIA for a bit.  Where have I been?  Well, for starters, back to the PICU.  And because I always tell my speech students to define terms for their audience, that's the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit.  As we continue, you may encounter some other terms & phrases that may be unfamiliar, so I'll provide a link because honestly, I cannot again explain these things.  I mean I get that the general population doesn't know what basal insulin is or why ketones are a bad thing, but I just can't go through it all again.  To those of you who've listened to a lengthy explanation after asking How's Reagan?, I apologize.  There's no short answer, & right now the answer changes from hour to hour.

Mere hours after I posted this manifesto on control, we found ourselves headed back to two of our recent haunts, the ER, & then shortly thereafter, a room in PICU.  From the moment we returned home from the original hospital stay, Reagan's numbers were running high.  I was told to expect some high readings. So okay, I thought, things are going to be rocky until we get the hang of this.  As I read as much as I could online & asked questions of a few individuals I've been in contact with, I realized that I had not been given a proper definition of 'high.'  Most diabetics refer to anything that begins with a '2' as a high blood sugar, & many work diligently to keep their highest numbers in the 140-150 range.

Armed with my inaccurate understanding of a 'high' sugar, there were several days when I was happy if I saw numbers beginning with a 2.  I knew Reagan needed more insulin, but I didn't feel I understood enough about the two insulins she takes to play around much with her dose.  We were told to up her basal insulin by one unit, & her insulin to carb ratio (I:C) was tweaked a bit, but I still saw no real improvement in her numbers.  By the time I spoke with an on call endocrinologist who told me, after hearing Reagan's numbers, to up her basal insulin by two units, she had hit nearly 600 a few times.  I know that all mothers worry about their kids' health, but let me tell you, nothing will age you faster than seeing 588 pop up on your child's glucose monitor.  This was nearly her number when we took her to the hospital in January not realizing she is diabetic.  It was a bit demoralizing that, despite the vials of insulin in my possession, I could not keep her sugars under any better control than when we didn't even know she needed insulin.

After we upped the basal insulin significantly, the numbers were a little better, but I was still seeing far too many post-meal spikes that began with numbers like 4 & 5.  Not good at all.  I began checking her for ketones, & I could not get a clean strip even when I saw a dip in her sugars.  I knew we were in trouble . . . & then she threw-up.  As soon as the vomit hit the floor I told Trey to put her in his truck & take her to the ER.  When the body can't access the sugar & carbs a person eats as an energy source (which it cannot do without sufficient insulin), it begins breaking down the fat & muscle.  Basically her body thought it was starving despite her regularly eating.  This is why rapid weight loss is a sign of the onset of Type 1.  When the body breaks down fat, an acidic waste product (ketones) builds up.  Once ketones reach dangerous levels, the blood becomes acidic, which easily throws off the body's pH, hence, the vomiting.  Blood work confirmed that she was in DKA (Diabetic Ketoacidosis) & we were sent to a room in PICU, where we settled in & had a long talk with the doctor from about 3am to 4am.

Oh, shoot, well there I go again with the ketones speech.  I slipped up after promising you.  I guess I feel everyone needs to hear a fantastic explanation of ketones since I was never given one during our first hospital stay, hence, the second hospital stay.  By the time I'd read enough on the Internet to know when we needed to test her, & when we were in trouble, well, we were in trouble.  They warn you constantly about too much insulin leading to low sugars, but hey, hey guess what medical community?  Consistently high sugars are not so great for a three-year-old either, & sometimes mom is right when she insists the three-year-needs more insulin.  And breathe.

The second stay was shorter than the first, thankfully.  By the next day Reagan's blood work was clean & her IV was removed.  Despite the quick trip, she did leave with a few parting gifts:

I quickly realized that while the hospital staff knew exactly how to normalize her blood & her insulin levels via IV, no one was telling me what I needed to do to ensure we didn't end up back in the ER.  Everyone had a different idea about how much basal insulin she needs; you know whose idea we're going with at the moment?  MINE.  I did speak with her endocrinologist on the phone the day after we were released (since she went to med school & all that jazz) & will be emailing her Reagan's numbers periodically.  The numbers are improving.  Something crazy happens with her sugars between breakfast & lunch everyday.  It doesn't matter if she wakes at 80 or 180, she is soaring by noon.  This is what caused the DKA.  She would fall at night, & then jump before noon, & the amount of insulin I was told to use as her correction factor was just not nearly enough to bring her down so she spent too many days barely dipping near 200.  Sugars over 250 put you in danger of ketones, & as they build & build, you become insulin resistant.  The amount of insulin I injected her with the day before we ended up back in the hospital would knock a grown man flat.

In other health news, a few days after returning home from PICU, I noticed a patch of weird-ish skin on my hand.  I tend to have dry skin & have been known to break out in festive hive-like splotches when I am tired & stressed.  I looked at it & looked at it, & late that night I decided I had picked up staph during our hospital stay.  I called my mom, & about an hour later my mom & I were headed to an after hours clinic while Trey, my dad, & both of Trey's parents attempted to get Reagan & Henry bedded down for the night.  I know, I know.  I may have overreacted.  I am tired & very, very skittish about Reagan being exposed to anything that might stress her body out, because that will jack her numbers up.  I plead my case to the nurse practitioner & she gave me a script for the meds I wanted.

The splotch looks much better.  Maybe I didn't pick up staph, but I am going to finish the meds because in the condition I'm in, I need a boost anyway (& because while I rarely take them, when I do take antibiotics, I finish them, & you should too).  The main reason I'm sharing this is to explain why I was sitting around in Walgreens at almost midnight.  Had I not been waiting for my meds, I would never have seen these gems.  I mean I've been dealing with a lot lately, but I did smile & pat myself on the back for never having had a need for these:

Or this:

 

If my staph scare isn't enough to demonstrate my mental state, I currently owe Target $39.  There could be no greater indicator of the extent to which diabetes has taken over my life than the fact that all I owe to the good people of Target is $39.  I'm surprised they haven't called to check on me.  You know who did call me?  A representative from Blue Cross.  They probably think we're trying to bankrupt them.  A lady from their Disease Division (lovely, I know) asked me lots & lots of questions about Reagan's time in the hospital, how she's adjusting, etc.  She was talking to me like I'm twelve, & I think at one point she may've asked me if I wanted a social worker to pay us a visit.  She did seem sincere at times.  I tried to be patient with her.  I wanted to tell her to hush, that the only thing we need from them is coverage for more of the meter strips we use to check Reagan's sugars because while checking only four times a day is an option for some diabetics, it is not recommended for a three-year-old who was recently hospitalized with DKA & whose insulin needs remain a bit mysterious.  I didn't say that because I doubt the chatty ladies working in the Disease Division have much pull.

To relieve some stress, the day after Reagan was released we took the kids to the park, & I have to share these of Henry with you.  This was his first time in a swing:

He brings me considerable joy.  He is a smiling fool most of the time, & I've never needed a smile more.

AZ

Control

I'll begin by confessing that I am an epic failure at being a pancreas.  Epic.


This book:

is en route to my mailbox as I type.

If you can't bear another post about my child's diabetes, you'd best check out now.  Aside from Henry hitting the eight month mark, which of course I captured in pictures featured below, diabetes is my whole world right now.  I mean, you didn't think I'd pay any attention to the Olympics, did you?  From what I gather, the big story is that Bob Costas has pink eye.  I'll pass.  If I ever make it to bed with enough energy to stay awake awhile, I plan to watch not curling, but Silver Linings Playbook, which has been calling to me from the DVR for weeks now.

When we left Reagan's doctor's office in Jackson a few weeks ago, I was looking at the papers they handed us when we checked out.  I noticed that under "Reason for visit" it stated "uncontrolled diabetes."  I felt like the paper was calling me out; I don't do well with anything that is uncontrolled.  Her blood sugar readings are currently consuming me.  I am only sitting & typing this right now because Trey came home from work & told me he'd play with the kids in the living room because I needed to, & I quote, "Go chill out."  So, this is me, chilling out.

I know that a lot of children are diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes at a young age, some even younger at diagnosis than Reagan; there have been many mothers who walked this path before me.  I wonder how those mothers handled it, at least immediately after the diagnosis in this insane period during which we were told to expect some erratic sugar readings until we (& by we I mean ME) figure out how much insulin Reagan needs, & when exactly she needs it.  You should know that I have been on the phone with someone from the doctor's office in Jackson on an almost daily basis asking them to further clarify 'erratic.'  When I'm not on the phone with the doctor's office, I am having this conversation with myself (usually in a corner of the house with a cup of coffee in my shaky hand): Should I check her number?  Maybe I should wait another thirty minutes?  As you can imagine, I am barrels & barrels of fun right now.  

In a recent email exchange with a Type 1 Diabetic, I was told that,"Diabetes is a personal disease."  It sure is.  The insulin dosage that works for one thirty five pound three year-old is not likely to be the insulin dosage that works for another thirty five pound three-year-old.  The doctors are helpful & they know their stuff & all, but I've come to realize their guess is about as good as mine (between you & me, despite my having made a D in chemistry in high school, right now I think my guess is better).  It's all trial & error, & it's a bit maddening at times.  Ok, it's maddening all the time.

The odd thing is that diabetes is, in one respect, a simple disease.  If there is too much sugar in the blood, insulin is needed.  If there is too much insulin, sugar is needed.  Frustratingly, there are so many, many variables that affect one's sugar levels, as I'm discovering, & figuring out how to balance it all to arrive at acceptable blood sugar levels is, to date, the toughest thing I've faced.  Everything is compounded by the fact that Reagan is three.  She has an impressive vocabulary for a three-year-old, but she can't adequately explain how she feels healthwise, nor can she recognize & vocalize that she's experiencing symptoms of hypoglycemia (low sugars) or hyperglycemia (high sugars).  If she pitches a fit, I have to check her number before deciding how to respond.  From what I've read online, having high sugars makes you feel pretty miserable, & Reagan is currently running high almost every day.  Her number skyrockets between breakfast & lunch.  Her doctor is gradually increasing her insulin dosage, but we have yet to arrive at an amount that will prevent these high readings.  I am a few high readings away from having what I think would be termed a mental breakdown.  Bob Costas's funky eyes may not be the most interesting thing on the news soon.  Maybe that's why I'm so eager to again watch Silver Linings Playbook, a movie that celebrates crazy, featuring a man recently released from a mental facility who thinks he can woo his estranged wife by reading American novels, & a woman who is angry, bitter, & sarcastic.  Jennifer Lawrence is so fantastically angry, bitter, & sarcastic that she won an Oscar for her role in the film.  The movie is calling my name.

I've thought a lot about creation lately, specifically when God knitted Adam, & then Eve, together & they rose & walked around, thinking & breathing & creating the perfect amount insulin.  The human body is amazing, & it's unfathomable to me that someone with any knowledge of the intricacies of the human body could deny the existence of a powerful & mighty Creator.  He is in control, not me, & this is as true today as it was the day He created Adam & Eve, the day Reagan was born, & the day before Reagan was diagnosed.    

What I am currently doing (though not well), attempting to keep Reagan supplied with the right amount of insulin, is what happens in my body, & in everyone's body, constantly & perfectly, save those who are, like Reagan, diabetic.  It is likely that Reagan will be on an insulin pump in the future, which I am told offers considerably more control over blood sugars & likely will be better at being a faux pancreas than I am.  I am always in favor of anything that offers more control (unless of course it involves the federal government).  For now, my goal is to check Reagan's number mid-afternoon & be greeted by a three digit number that begins with a 1.  We are all totally cool with the shots, the finger pricking, etc.  I can handle all that, as can Reagan.  If we could just arrive at a ballpark figure of how much insulin to inject, well, then I would chill out.



As promised, here are the results of Henry's eight month photo shoot.  He hit the eight month mark on February 6.

Playing with the number 8:

Sporting his argyle socks I bought him before he was born:

He finally noticed me:

And then he noticed my phone.  The end.

Thank you for the kind words & messages from those of you reading the book.  I am enjoying rereading it & making changes here & there.  You've no idea how much I agonize over a word or phrase or sweater vest in certain places, but if I ever needed a fictional escape, it is now.  Lord willing, I'll post chapters seven & eight Friday.  A little Valentine bonus for you.  I may not be able to reign in Reagan's blood sugar numbers at the moment, but I am all-powerful when it comes to the Boulder residents who live in my mind.  I'm not going to actually say that aloud as Trey might begin to think I need more than just a few minutes alone with my MacBook.    

 

AZ

Highs & Lows

Well I'm still here.  And I mean that in every sense of the word here - physically, mentally, emotionally, & of course, here, blogging away.  I have not checked out . . . but there have been some close calls.  

We made a trip to Jackson last week to see a pediatric endocrinologist.  I told you that we'd be seeing a doctor in Shreveport, but that didn't pan out.  The official reference to a specialist has to come from your primary doctor, & when the office here contacted Shreveport for us, we were told there was a two year wait list.  I know.  The Shreveport folks told us to send over Reagan's medical records & they'd see what they could do.  We did send the records to Shreveport, but also pursued other options because, seriously, two years?  I am intelligent, but I can't manage my child's diabetes for two years while waiting to see a doctor.  I suspected they were just saying that until they got a look at Reagan's records to verify her diagnosis . . . or something, I don't know.  I mean are there people out there who attempt to see a pediatric endocrinologist for kicks?  I guess it's possible as I've learned from my few experiences with the ER that there are indeed a host of folks who jet to the ER when their nose runs.

Anyway, Jackson was our next option.  If you didn't know, one of my dad's many talents is defending doctors (or, more specifically, their insurance company) when they're sued.  In legal speak, it's called medmal.  So, he knows a few doctors & they think he's pretty neat since, sadly, many doctors currently pay six figures for their yearly insurance premiums.  Sometimes doctors deserve to be sued, but many times, they do not.  A doctor in Jackson who is himself diabetic recommended an endocrinologist to my dad.  Trey made some calls & we discovered that not only was she accepting new patients, she takes our insurance.  We were sold.

The day of the visit was long.  We were all four dressed & out the door before eight in the morning, & that right there screams Long. Day.  There were two specific instances that tie for most frustrating part of the day; I can't pick one because they both brought me equally close to screaming.  My blood pressure & I don't want to totally relive either incident via my typing it all out for you, so I'll summarize.  We could not find the doctor's office.  We assumed it was somewhere inside one of the many large buildings that comprise The University of Mississippi Medical Center.  We were wrong.  At one point in our quest to find her office, Trey & I were crossing a major road (there was a crosswalk), Trey carrying Reagan & Henry perched on my hip, & a couple stopped their car to ask us if we needed help.  We did eventually find the office, which is located in a random, one-story building near the large, multistoried buildings.  This is good news for the future as you can park right outside the office, as opposed to parking blocks away in a parking garage as we did on our initial visit.

Additional frustration came later, on the drive home, during several phone calls with our pharmacy.  Basically, Reagan is small & currently doesn't require much insulin.  Her new doctor wants us to deliver the insulin using an insulin pen, a neat device that measures insulin in half units, which Reagan sometimes requires.  It's much more precise than using a syringe, & it's probably best that we move to the pen because I've left a trail of improperly disposed syringes all over the twin cities.  Annnyway, the wonderful folks at Blue Cross who've had no issues taking hundreds of dollars from us each month for years now threw a red flag when the pharmacy attempted to fill the insulin prescription because the dosage prescribed will last Reagan longer than ninety days (because, again, she's small).  The insulin pens are filled with specific cartridges that, you got it, will last Reagan longer than ninety days.  I don't know, maybe there's a black market for insulin out there or something & Blue Cross is keeping an eye on it.  I won't keep you in suspense.  We have obtained the needed insulin pen cartridges & managed to maintain our relationship with the Blue Cross folks, though admittedly things are a bit strained.  I don't know what Trey did, &, I don't really care.  I assume it was all legal.  But again, whatever, we got the insulin; it's this year's oxygen.

The visit itself went well.  Thankfully, the most refreshing & reassuring part of the day involved meeting & speaking with Reagan's new doctor, as well as a few of her nurses & a nutritionist.  The plan now is to tweak Reagan's insulin intake & her diet until her glucose readings normalize somewhat.  It's not easy.  As with life, finding the middle ground sometimes seems impossible.  If you & those you love have a fully functional pancreas, say thanks in your prayers tonight; it's an often forgotten organ but it has an important job.  If I had to describe parenting a young child with Type 1 Diabetes in one sentence (as if I can describe anything in one sentence), it is this: waking your three-year-old at two in the morning & insisting she drink some coke because her number has dipped down into the 60s, & then denying her a banana later the same day because her numbers tend to soar in the afternoon.  If she didn't think we were nuts before, this ought to do it.

Here are a few pics of our day in Jackson.  I took this of Reagan on the drive over:

And this in the waiting room:

The rest are all Reagan's doing.  The day just didn't present many moments that felt like photo ops:

Several young mothers I know have asked me specific questions about Reagan's diagnosis - - what she looked like, what her eating habits were, etc.  I see the worry on their face.  I try to assure them that their young child(ren) most likely don't have undetected Type 1 Diabetes.  It isn't something that goes unnoticed indefinitely.  Once the body lacks proper insulin, changes begin occurring rapidly that you will notice.  Plus, if you are ever truly concerned, I can now check your child's glucose levels in about two seconds.  Just let me know.  Trey checks Reagan's number every morning around two, & she doesn't even wake up, so we can pull off a stealth glucose check if you're interested.

A few people have told me that I just have to write a book.  A book about parenting a diabetic child, that is, not a book about a graduate student who has the hots for her unavailable literature professor & a penchant for shoes she cannot afford . . . anyway, to you all I say, whoa now.  Give me ten or fifteen years.  If this journey on which our family has recently embarked is going to be translated into book form, we're still in the introduction.  So far, here's what I've written: Two weeks ago my three-year-old daughter was diagnosed with Type I Diabetes.  Her glucose levels are still wildly unpredictable, but my Type A personality and I are determined to bend them to our will.  I've waffled between crying & feeling determined, while Reagan's developed a love for expensive almonds dusted with dark cocoa that are only sold at Target & come in at 4 total carbs per bag.  There is a brand new outlet mall just north of her endocrinologist's office in Jackson because, as Paul assures us, ". . . we know that all things work together for good for those who love God . . ."  Stay tuned.

I don't think I've mentioned that I recently read The Book Thief by Markus Zusak.  It was the January book club selection & I finished it the night before Reagan was diagnosed because I was planning to meet with the book club ladies the following evening to discuss it.  Ah, plans.  It's an interesting read.  It's not one you're going to pick up & not be able to put down (it's sloooow, especially at first), but it is fascinating, both the content & the author's unique style of writing.  It is set in Nazi Germany, & it is narrated by Death.  Yes, it is narrated by Death.  I think maybe the Lord was preparing me for what He knew lay ahead concerning Reagan; after reading The Book Thief, you realize that whatever your problems are, your life is still pretty fabulous.

I mean, did you see him?  Did you?  How can life not be fabulous when JACK BAUER is making a comeback?!?

AZ