The difference is night and day. Last time we did this, Kathryn was admitted into the hospital for three days. Vacation days had to be called in and so did babysitters. Dread and angst filled the air. And then there was the hot dog.
Oh God, the hot dog. It had a plastic bag inside it. Inside the casing. Kathryn took a bite, made a face, then with her forefinger and thumb she reached into the weiner and began pulling out a plastic bag. It could have been billed as the grossest magic trick ever. The bag just kept coming and coming as she tugged. I half expected a string of multicolored handkerchiefs to be tied to its end, red, blue, green, yellow, emerging to ohhs and ahhs from the audience, freeing meat by-product as they came. The nurse on her rounds declared the bag-dog combo the nastiest thing she had ever seen, and you know when a hospital nurse says that, you've got something special.
So this time, when our neurologist told us they had an ambulatory EEG device, something they could hook up to Sparky's noggin then send her home, we said, yes, please, that would be lovely.
And so what, you may wonder, do you do when you are an eight-year-old out of school for three days, hooked up to an ambulatory EEG device? With over two-dozen electrodes glued to your scalp and chest, trailing wires down your back to little black box? Well, you ambulate. And, if you are Kathryn, you mess with people.
"Can I get a cup of coffee?" I asked the waitress.
"Sure," she said, then turned to Kathryn. "And would you like anything, honey?" she asked.
Tap tap clatter clatter tap tap, my fingers flew.
Kathryn cocked her head slightly to the side, opened her mouth, and spoke in a monotone. "bacon-egg-and-cheese-sandwich-please."
Tap clatter tap tap.
To be fair, attaching the keyboard to the black box wasn't exactly Kathryn's idea, but she was the one who took the idea and ran with it. And while she ran, she made little whirring sounds under her breath.
Never has a cyborg's father been so proud.