Like bringing home your first newborn

Ten days ago, Aria practiced cartwheels and performed exotic dance routines to the Gummi Bear Song. Ten hours ago, she had chemotherapy. Now lays in a bed not wanting to get up. 

Chemo left her with just 100 white blood cells inside her 3 quarts of blood. When we started this, her "count" was 5,000, but most of those white blood cells were evil, greedy creatures who deserved to be executed.

Today I learned that 100 white cells is exactly how many you need to eat (only) mac n cheese and chocolate milk, draw a family portrait at the easel, and then pretend to be a veterinarian for about 5 minutes. 

It is also only exactly enough for that amount of labor, it seems, because then Aria had to nap to recharge. After all, that was about 98% more activity than all of her previous 7 days combined.

Now, a few hours later, I'd like to report how fabulously it's going. Instead, let's talk thermometers. 

I have owned about about a dozen of them since we had kids. Prior to that, I owned roughly the equivalent of Not Any. 

That original quantity of thermometers owned (x=0) offered about the same accuracy as all the ones I've since purchased since (y=12).  Where temperature is T, and T=x and T=y, you can see why did not ace the GMAT.

We currently have one standard digital thermometer (for mouth, armpit, and yikes!), one for the ear (pricey), and one for the forehead (pricier). These devices can't gain consensus on whether someone has a neutropenic fever or is just stone cold dead; they certainly can't agree to a tenth of a degree.

(Surprisingly, the nurses' fancy thermometers require the same repeated readings before they just pick a number and go with it).
Interpreting the reading is a whole other debacle skill.

Supposedly you add one degree to the armpit reading, and subtract one degree from the (ouch!) reading.
And, as far as I can tell, you just ignore the fancy forehead thermometer because if its reading is accurate, then the problem is that Aria is actually a hamster with the flu.

In closing, Aria appears to be 0.2 degrees away from our new doctor receiving the Required Call asking if we should return to the pediatric floor, where they will stick one needle in Aria's chest and another in her arm, and them keep her there for at least 48 hours. 

This is exactly why I dreaded about coming home...awaiting the situation that I knew would arise only when all the house lights had been turned off, and I was left alone to listen to her breathe.