I would call it, “wood rots.”

Decades of negligence, a cover-up with a lot of caulk and paint, and then more neglect has resulted in a heck of a spring. The more siding we pull off, the more wood rot we find.

I’m tired. I went to the allergists’ this afternoon to get some drugs for my cold-turning-sinus infection. I need to have it kicked in time for the angio on Tuesday.

I realized, while there, that I sure am getting a lot of mileage from my AVM story. It’s especially fun to tell the story to health professionals, because they understand the weight of the problem when I tell them I wound up with a 4cm hematoma in my left lobe after three days of misdiagnosis. They lean forward, and urge the story along. “They said what?” “It was where?” “The surgery was how many hours?”

My grandfathers have war stories. I have a brain story. Both leave us reliving experiences of dangers and miracles, heroes and villains–the best elements of a good story, colored with the wonder of how we could have survived it all.

In about twelve hours, I’ll be officially thirty years old. I was born near lunchtime, during San Antonio’s Fiesta. I still like lunch, and I still like parties.

I’ll be three months, eight days past brain surgery for my AVM. Only three months! I almost feel all better.

Except I have a cold. And a cough. And I can’t breathe because my nose is stuffy. But at least I have the words available to complain about it. And you are here to hear me, or read this post. And it’s much easier to get over a cold than brain surgery, I promise.

In about five days I will have another cerebral angiogram, to make sure the AVM hasn’t come back. It probably won’t, but if it does, we’ll zap it.

My new (to me) house leaks. But I know how to fix it.

Carmen and David make me laugh. Every day.

Carmen and David make me feel tongue-tied, especially post-surgery. Every day. Sometimes Carmen imitates my blundering.

My scar still itches. I’m not supposed to scratch it. I scratch it, anyway. But only sometimes.

I’m annoyed with the doctor that told Matt there was nothing wrong with me and that he was wasting our time by taking me to the ER–and then he didn’t say he was sorry.

I will forever be in love with the doctors, chiropractors, residents, nurses, techs, aides, and everyone else that listened to my snail’s pace jokes, explained my situation, distracted me with hours of small talk, held my hand when I was scared, and showed me how to make a headache go away with an ice pack.

In twelve hours I’ll be thirty years old. I’m not sure what I’ve accomplished in that time, except that I’ve read a lot of books, gained two degrees, a husband, two children, a lot of friends and neighbors. I’ve maybe made you laugh, or think, or maybe made you feel safe.

In twelve hours I’ll be thirty years old. I’m not sure what I’m going to accomplish next. I hope I make you laugh, and think, and make you feel safe. Stay close by, watch me as I go, and see what I might do.

If I was really brave and wanted to have some fun, I would make signs on my wall-to-wall casement windows. I could announce my holidays and birthdays (tomorrow, cough), or post news (“It’s not like it’s not brain surgery!”).

Or I could push my own a political agendas. For instance, “MOVE YOUR BIG FAT BUTT AND WALK.”

I’m sure it would endear me to all the neighbors, don’t you think? But really, let’s think about this: I’m tired of tripping over broken sidewalks, slipping in mud where there are no sidewalks, risking my life by walking in the parked-up street, and falling off uneven curbs that don’t have ADA ramps. In only three months of relatively light use, we already broke our pricey all-terrain double stroller (new in December) by bouncing C&D up and off curbs and uneven concrete.

What would happen if more of our neighbors took advantage of close to proximity to dozens of stores and restaurants (including three large groceries) and walked? If as many people walked as drove, and demanded better, wider sidewalks instead of better, wider streets . . . can you imagine how much more practical and walkable this section of the city would be? How many cars could we take off the road, and how much quieter our neighborhood would be without the constant roar of mufflers from vehicles speeding past? How much happier we might feel after a bit of light exercise outside of the boring gym? And imagine taking a walk in the summer evening, and instead of smelling the ozone and chemical stew that Houston is famous for, we could smell grass, flowers, and the egg rolls from the restaurant a block over?

Yeah, yeah, I know. But I can dream.

Now I look like I have mange. Cool!

How many days until they just tip it altogether?

I have a cold. Since the surgery, I get whatever C&D get, just worse. I’ve had two colds in three months, both doozies.

So, right now, I’m lying in bed listening to Matt and the babies wash up and potty. David pooed in the potty. “Turtle!” I hear him tell Matt. You know how some people see animals and shapes in the clouds? David sees patterns in poop. Mainly S’s, snakes, turtles. He identifies Carmen’s, too. Anyway, after the turtle identification tonight, he pauses. Then I hear him say, “oh, kitty cat!”

Oh, sorry, it’s not a turtle poop. It’s a cat-shaped poop. Of course, thanks for pointing that out, kiddo. (Now I can just flush it?)

Matt isn’t making any snorting noises. I would be, but my nose is too stuffy and my lungs hurt. I wonder how long potty humor lasts? Maybe forever, for this kid.

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This is an interesting age. I’m enjoying watching them think. Today they tried to pull down my pants so they could see my pee-pee. I had to hike up my pants while Vivian distracted them with lunch. How many months until they start saying loud and embarrassing things in public?