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Let's Panic: The Book!

Order your copy today!

How to Endure and Possibly Triumph Over the Adorable Tyrant
who Will Ruin Your Body, Destroy Your Life, Liquefy Your Brain,
and Finally Turn You
into a Worthwhile
Human Being.

Written by Alice Bradley and Eden Kennedy

Some Books
I'm In...

Sleep Is
For The Weak

Chicago Review Press

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Let's Panic

The site that inspired the book!

At LET'S PANIC ABOUT BABIES, Eden Kennedy and I share our hard-won wisdom and tell you exactly what to think and feel and do, whether you're about to have a baby or already did and don't know what to do with it. → 


Well, it's about damn time.

My dad is awake! Ponies for everyone!

It looks like everything will be fine; the pneumonia is not a major problem, and if he indeed had a stroke (which now they're hinting that--whoops!--maybe he did) it was teensy tiny. A tiny li'l' stroke! An ADORABLY tiny one!

My dad is as weak as a kitten, but mentally he's all there. When he said, after an unsuccessful attempt to scratch his nose, "I used to do that with some alacrity," I knew he'd be okay.

Thanks again for all the prayers and emails and gifts of sweet sweet cash. (What, didn't I mention that that's what all the people who REALLY love me give? The cash? And where is your offering?) They really meant a lot, to my family as well as me.


and another.

My dad is still seizing, so he's going another day under sedation. As if that's not all, now he has pneumonia.

Have I mentioned how little fun I'm having? Really, this is terribly not fun. Someone should have thought of me in all this, and how they could make things more fun for me.

The hospital staff continues to follow their "we're not concerned" script. Constant seizures? Unconcerning! Pneumonia? Downright boring. At what point does the concern kick in, I wonder?



First of all, thank you to everyone for your prayers and etc. Anyone who prayed, you get a free pony on me. He will show up on your doorstep on Tuesday. His name will be Mr. Nutters. You're welcome!

I'm not sure what to say about what's going on. My dad got through his surgery just fine, but now he's having seizures, so they're sedating him for a couple of days. No one can tell us exactly what this means, only that he hasn't had a stroke, so that's good. Apparently it could just be some air in his brain. Air, and possibly a sandwich, I don't know. So they're waiting for the flotsam to exit his brain so that they can rouse him, and this won't be able to happen until Monday.

So. We're not rending our garments, but neither are we rejoicing. We're a little bummed. By "a little bummed," read "weeping hysterically"--but probably not for any good or rational reason except that it's sad to not have him back with us yet. But soon. Soon, we hope.


Fretting is like aerobics for the mind.

So my dad’s going in for surgery at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow.

This is insane, but I might as well tell you: this surgery seems impossible to me; I mull it over and read up on the gory details and every time I end up feeling altogether poorly about it. And here’s the crazy part: it’s because I can’t figure out how such a surgery is possible. Are you with me? If I can’t figure out how to do something, it stands to reason that no one can. I don’t know when I got so egomaniacal, but there it is. Operating on a heart! Who ever heard of such an insane act? You need the heart at all times; you don’t go fiddling with it. Much less opening it up and sticking pig parts in there.

If I were a surgeon, I’d be in the operating room saying things like, “Okay, let’s just, you know, start cutting this nice person open, and—hold up a minute here, I have to vomit for an hour or two. Okay. No, I’m good. No, wait, still sick. Wow. Didn’t think a person could vomit out through their eyes, did you? Well, we all learned something today. You know what? This whole surgery thing doesn’t seem right to me at all. Who’s for lunch?”

Obviously we’re all grateful that I didn’t pursue a medical degree.

In general I tend to be unable to relax when I’m not in control. You should see me in a plane. I’m the one in 34F, flying the plane with my mind. It’s not easy but someone has to do it, and what, I’m going to trust those drunks in the cockpit?

In conclusion, I am insane. Thank you. I have to go fret now.