Protest The Hero

As most people who've read my blog know, Omaha has a rare and severe form of epilepsy for which there's one drug, Gabitril, that manages to keep her seziures under some semblance of control and allows her to be coherent for most of the day. Watching her struggle with this condition for twenty-plus years, it never ceases to amaze me how she gets up every morning and keeps going, trying to lead as normal a life as possible, raising two children, being active in the community, and being just about the most awesome partner I could ever ask for.

I went to the pharmacy this Saturday to pick up her monthly medications. Since we've used up our "discretionary" pharmaceutical allowance for the year through our insurer, we have to pay full price. It came to $1177. Just for November.

There are two pharmacists and four technicians at the pharmacy. All of the technicians are women, and since Omaha's probably better informed about her drugs than they are, the pharmacists take her word for it that she knows what she's doing with them. Which means that every month, one of us deals with a technician, and every month the technician says the exact same damn thing: "Are you sure you want to spend that much money?"

Osiris wept, of course I don't want to spend that much money. But if I want my partner of 26 years to be healthy and whole and sane, I'm going to spend that much money. Period. I tell the woman, "That's what her medicines cost. Ring it up please."

This time, the woman asked, "Have you been married a long time?"

"Twenty-six years," I said.

"You're such a nice husband for doing this," she said.

If there's one thing I have in common with Honor Harrington, it's that I don't feel like a freaking hero for doing my duty. But this happens all the time. There's apparently something vaguely "heroic" about sticking by your commitment for 26 years, a commitment made with eyes open and with no mitigating circumstances.

I didn't unload on the technician because I knew she meant... well. But she reflected a sentiment that has always bothered me.

Kouryou-chan turns 12.

The big news for this weekend was Kouryou-chan turned twelve. Omaha and I aren't ready for her to be a middle-schooler, but damn she's growing up fast.

There were seven giggling girls. I stayed in the office and fine-tuned my new laptop for most of it, but it was my duty to load up the video player for the show they were going to watch, and to make my Flagship macaroni & cheese for dinner, which I did with some stress, as a double-sized batch took more planning than I'd anticipated. I made the six-cup Bechamel sauce with the same sized spoon I do for a three-cup, and oddly that seemed to work even better, as if making the sauce slower made it smoother. So maybe I'll ratchet down the milk mixture to one tablespoon per stir, rather than the usual two.

Kouryou-chan got a ton of drawing supplies, a new backpack, and a few other things. She's really into drawing right now, so that makes sense. She's eminently grateful for pratical things, which makes the cockles of my heart glow.

She taught her friends how to play Give Me The Brain.

Only two girls stayed for the sleepover. They were up until midnight, and after lights-out we heard giggling until 1:30. But they did eventually get to sleep.

In the morning, I made pancakes with chocolate chips. I really "cake" the recipe, adding extra egg and a touch baking soda and whipping the egg whites into a soft meringue to make them the fluffiest things on Earth.

She's a real handful, our twelve year old. She alternates between the child hungry for cuddles and love and attention, the snarky brooding teenager furious with the interruptions of responsibility, and the brilliant one ready to show off her work to the world. Most kids nowadays look forward to their 13th birthday, the COPA birthday, when they can get accounts on Facebook (if you're sociable) or Tumblr (if you're super-emo). Kouryou-chan is looking forward to getting a DeviantArt account. Good for her.