Now that my depression has lifted for however long, I have lots of plans. I have more energy to do the plans. I have resolutions, like not drinking so much cola, and losing weight (because it’s healthy, not to look like I’m 20 – as Mamie said to Scarlett O’hara – “You done had a baby. You ain’t never wearing that again.” Or something to that effect; I’m not looking it up.) I also want to write more about esketamine nasal treatments, the history, and a personal account of what it’s like. Well, kind of – it’s a little hard to describe. But I couldn’t find much when I looked, so it’s better than nothing. I also wanted to clean, clean, clean cause I have a lot of that to do. So much. And Marie Kondo won’t return my calls so it’s up to me.
But then this morning I couldn’t get myself to move. It was like, I’m awake, I got motivation, but my body isn’t moving. That’s odd. Then I had this genius idea of getting those tiny coke cans that are actually 8 oz (I can’t believe that’s 8 oz cause I have gotten used to 32 oz and 8 oz is like a drink from the water fountain) and there was this sale, but you had to buy four six packs. I was okay with this because I had plans to label them so that my husband would not whine that he didn’t get some, and that I could know which ones were mine and could like wean myself off of them. I think that was the idea. So the Things and I went to the grocery store and we got this but then we also got a few other things like pizza for tonight (it’s low calorie pizza no not really shut up) and then we checked out but I didn’t get the special exactly cause it was 3 for one and not 4 for one. I think. Whatever.
So then we went to McDonald’s for fountain drinks because I don’t have much ice at home (MY first world problem) and the others weren’t cold and I haven’t started my resolution yet why are you looking at me??? Then I paid and I started to drive away without picking up my drinks until the Things pointed it out, so I went back through the drive-through but they were nice and stuff and didn’t point out my stupid. Thanks, McD’s. Anyway at some point during this I was like, huh, my chest really hurts. I mean sure I had been coughing up great gobs of green goo, but that’s not unusual (sorry for the description there), so it hadn’t occurred to me that I could be sick. Just garden variety sick – or at least my garden variety. Wow.
I’m not sure how to explain how odd it is to be relieved that you are sick. But it meant I wasn’t sad again, and that I could later lay down and that was fine. But I wanted peeps to know I wasn’t disappearing because I was sad again. I’m okay. It’s just mucus. Be back soon.
No, really, I mean – what? I have been sick a few days with what we Americans, or maybe just Southerners?, call the CRUD. I have a doctor who said that all upper respiratory infections, tonsillitis, bronchitis, laryngitis, oompalitis, etc are basically the same. So I have one of those. I don’t know. But I have been miserable. You know how miserable? Think of those ASPCA puppies and kittens they show you all the time. The ones that look like Hitler just electrocuted their mother right in front of them. They’re shivering, they’re hungry, they’re wondering why people are just filming them and not doing anything. Which I know I AM wondering. Like sheesh, get the puppy a blanket, and some dog chow you fiends. Sheesh.
It occurs to me the puppies might be actors. If so, well done, puppies.
Anyway, I have been just as miserable as those animals, only not nearly as cute. I was chatting with my friend Merbear on my phone and since I now have a Smart Phone . . . yeah. They got me. But not with the latest, greatest literally exploding phones. No, I have an old Samsung, but it still works. Like it lets me take videos of myself lying down and coughing into the phone so I can show my friend just how bad off I am. And she was like, “Have you tried steam?”
And I’m like . . . steam? I mean I have been having respiratory ailments since my teens and I am like now not a teen and I don’t know how many times I’ve used steam both for myself and my Things (kids for any of you newcomers. More on newcomers later) and I hadn’t thought of it yet. So thanks, Mer, I used steam and it helped a little. I still feel like crapsters, though, and I missed more work than I have time allotted for that, which hadn’t happened in a while and was quite annoying. It’s like my illnesses all hang out and try to figure out who gets to like jump me first. No, no, depression it was your turn LAST week, now let’s give stomach a try. No he had it before. What about me, the bladder – you know the one that – er – leaks. Okay, we’ll let you in, because the cough and that leak thing go together. Yay!
Where was I? Oh, right, sick. You know just when you think you have it all under control, one of those guys pops up. Or better, a new one comes in. Remember how in that emo post I wrote last time I mentioned Lice and other Holiday Tales? Well, yeah, lice came to visit. I hate bugs in general, but bugs that are like, ON YOU? Yeah, that’s beyond awful. So we treated Thing Two and then treated her again and then oh whew and then Thing One got it so we treated her and again and then later . . . they were back. Cause Thing One has very thick, curly hair and my husband and I have very little patience for combing with those awful combs that couldn’t go through a doll’s hair. But I had something up my sleeve. Research. That’s what I do, unless, you know, it’s for a post. So I found this comb, and wow it is like the Allah of Combs judging from what must be real reviews because these reviews were super intense. These people have war stories. So I ordered it.
Guess what Amazon Prime is late on getting to my house? Yup. I WANT MY COMB AMAZON.
So things have not been going that well for me. I was afraid I would never be funny again. This was my greatest fear here, not like dying of CRUD which I kinda thought I might a couple times cause holy crap it’s awful. But yeah, it’s humor, you got to have it. And when I wasn’t able to write, well that was lousy – uh – wrong word. But here I am, writing, and I don’t have a plan to it (did you pick up on that yet?) and it only has one pic in it which I had stored but hey I did it. Cause people have been looking at older posts of mine. So then I check them out. And I laugh because I like my own stuff. But also because it is memories of my life, like with my kids, my work, with me. And the sicks aren’t going to get me. Okay they will, but not like forever there will be days when I’m not sick of some sort! Or have bugs! Possibly! But also if I don’t write then I will not get to expose the really stupid people who have lately been commenting on my old posts. Do you remember booger guy? The one who corrected my grammar on a post about boogers? Well, there’s more of that kind of snot, get ready.
Eventually. Because there are people extremely concerned about my virtual family, a heretical Christmas song post, my knowledge of Sophia the First. Etc. But at any rate, I am trying. So the best thing you could do is not say you are sorry for me because life is life. We all have crap. Heck, our whole country got one big piece of it today, but I didn’t see any of it, or care, cause I was sick. So there are some good things about sick, I guess.
Please like and follow and comment because just one like or follow or comment could save this sad puppy from the horrors of this post.
I had a lot planned, but just when I thought I was better, I was sick again and stressed and bummed and just in time for the holiday! The one with the turkey, not Black Friday. So I figured I would throw together a few posts because starting tomorrow is gonna be the FUN countdown to Xmas! Happy Holidays, Fox!
“Thing One: The Musical”
Thing One was in the musical “Crazy for You”. She had a small role yet was the star because Thing One. We enjoyed playing “Where’s Waldo” with her each time they changed scenery. “Where is she?” I’d ask my parents. “Oh, THERE she is, in the corner.” And while she may not have had but one line “Thank you, Mr. Zangler.” she was always animated, unlike some of the other kids who learned to nap with eyes open.
The fairly new musical was built around a bunch of old songs because – because. Quick rundown of the plot. Guy’s rich mom wants him to be a banker, but he wants to sing and dance and wear shiny pants. Zangler is there with his Folly Girls (Thing One was one of them and wore this awesome slinky dress and make up and her hair done up so beautifully, aw) and he tells Shiny he’s a moron. (I liked that part) So Shiny goes to the Old West (or Nevada, whatever) and he meets this cowgirl and they are sort of in love but bad news their theater is going under, but Shiny has a way to save it – put on a musical! He pretends to be Zangler, and gets a LOT of girls to come down to do the show. For some reason, it doesn’t occur to him that there are only 13 people in the town, so this idea is probably not going to work.
Cowgirl falls in love with Zangler, not realizing that duh it’s Shiny. Then dancing girls showed up who I thought were just doing random numbers but no, they were supposed to be his delusions. They came out a LOT, so prayers for Shiny. Thing One was this lady with a suitcase, or sitting or standing off to the side, looking awesome. Since I was just a few days out of surgery, I began feeling very sore midway through. So that’s when they really brought out the songs. I mean there was a song for everyone and for everything, even stuff that wasn’t happening. But the songs finally ended, and the musical. Thing One had a wonderful time, and went back to one of her favorite activities: sleep.
I watched a show on the history channel that was, shock, about history, the history of Thanksgiving. Did you know that we made a lot of that up? Shock! Like they found a letter from one Pilgrim who said yeah some Indians did help with the planting. The Pilgrims showed gratitude by shooting off their guns in an attempt to scare off the Indians. The Indians sent out a big scout party to check this crap out, right when the Pilgrims decided to have a big meal after reaping this awesome harvest all by themselves! Well, the Indians see this, and decide to invite themselves, seeing as how there were twice as many of them as there were Pilgrims.
Guess who’s coming to dinner?
I would have loved to see the looks on the Pilgrims’ faces when they showed up. But anyway, the Things took some pictures of “A Pocahontas Thanksgiving”, which makes as much sense as the other made up version.
“25 days of Olaf”
Get ready, folks. Since I was little too disturbed by Mr. Elf on the Shelf and his network of spies, I bought the Frozen version. You’re supposed to hide Olaf the stuffed snowman in a new place every day. The Things and I have already thought of many, many places to stick that snowman. We’re planning to take a new pic each day for you guyz. Also to scare the crap out of each other with the places and situations we put the snowman in. Stay tuned!
Recently I wrote a post on Canvas on overwhelmation. And I am definitely feeling it now. Pretty soon, they’re going to expect me to go back to work. I’m better, much, much better, but still when I go to the bookstore, I’m good for about ten, fifteen minutes tops before my body says “Holy crap, go home!” So I’m thinking if fifteen minutes is hard, eight hours might be slightly harder. There is also the process of working out sick leave (like not having any) and if I qualify for something called sick leave pool, the logistics of which probably inspired the book Catch-22.
So I was
thinking stressing on this and Thing Two started coughing. And then running fever. And I said, “Oh, crap.” (I say this a lot.) I guess I was just hoping the powers that be or whatever would give me say enough time to quit being sick myself before striking a kid. Yeah, not so much. Even better, she has the ability to go from lying still (freaky for this kid) to bouncing about while chattering non-stop until my brains threaten to explode within minutes.
So this, and work, and sick, and laundry, and whatever the hell else I’m supposed to be doing has not made it any easier to sleep at night. Well, that and sleeping during the day, which you get used to when you feel too crappy to do anything else, and then it’s hard to break the cycle. So since I can’t sleep, I get up and write. And then it occurs to me (and look we’re getting to the supposed point of this post) that maybe I should try to set some sort of boundaries on my blogging. Boundaries I’d like to set other places, like work (not so many hours) or parenting (not so many hours) or laundry (Why are there so many clothes and where the frack are the socks?)
Thing is, I love feedback. Love, love, love it. I am extremely susceptible to compliments. I feed on good press, and then I’m compelled to do more, more, more! But then I lie awake at night and along with everything else think – am I doing too much posting? Am I annoying? Am I pressable? What if I write something and they think I’m not funny? You know, like Sinatra when his voice started going but he kept singing and no one wanted to tell him to shut up? Wait, I forgot what point I was trying to make here.
Oh, yeah, insecurity. I has it. And night time is a great time to think about this. Which is why insomnia really sucks, unless you are just dying to catch up on infomercials. Like this one for this leaf blower that is apparently more awesome than Jesus. Maybe it’s powered by Jesus. Or possibly the people in the commercial are on drugs. They are very, very happy about this leaf blower. And after a while, I’m thinking, I should get that leaf blower. Then I too could blow away spider webs with the force of a helicopter taking off.
Anyway, I’m hoping to get my sleep cycles out of “infant” and back to “semi-adult”. But even when I do, I still have to decide how to balance my life. Get it? Balance. Hahahaha. As if mothers, whether SAHMS or working moms, can ever balance their lives. I mean, unless they’re like Ann Romney and have servants and crap. But I should probably try to balance the blogging. So here’s the question. How do you blog? Do you blog every day? Once a week? Twice a week? Randomly? Do you keep a schedule? Do you remember where your children are, or who they are? Have you bathed lately, because I can smell you from here, I’m just sayin’.
I’d appreciate the feedback on this, because I’m trying to figure out some way to balance at least one tiny part of my life but I’m unsure how to do it. I mean, I realize it’s up to me, but I’ve got Sinatra complex, and also ideas running about my head like mad, which makes it hard to make any decision, including what I’m going to have for supper. So tell me how you blog, and how you came to that decision, and how long you’ve been doing it, and how you paid off those WordPress people in order to get pressed. I really want to know. And then maybe I can figure out how I blog as well.
Also, wtf with the jerky-I’m-gonna-take-my-sweet-time crap going on while writing and editing your posts on WordPress lately? Huh? It’s annoying.
Slightly more serious than my usual fare, but still an important issue I think – check it out on Canvas. (And yes, Sad Pony makes another appearance, too!)
Friday (Ding ding!)
After a night of being repeatedly interrupted with blood draws and the checking of vital signs (yes, I’m still alive, go away) I am woken at 6 AM to go get a chest Xray. Because blood must be drawn at midnight, and Xrays done at dawn. Makes sense. I order eggs, bacon, sausage, yogurt, and a bran muffin for breakfast. I threw in bran muffin and yogurt for a healthy cover. No one cares, cause it’s my lungs, not my heart. I’m not terribly worried, as at this point, I’m still not sure I’m coming out of this alive, so I might as well enjoy myself as much as possible.
The nurse asks if I want a shower. Not really, but I think others want me to want one, so why not. I am wrapped up so I don’t get the IV wet. My hair I don’t touch. I’m not sure it’s actually hair anymore anyway. Maybe it might make a good nest for something.
Dh returns. Doctor shows up and asks how I am doing. Haha, that’s a good doctor joke there, because of course my answer is horrible. Yet there is a part of me that is compelled to say “fine” like a good American who never admits that anything is wrong, even when attached to monitors and an IV. This is because generally no one wants to know how you’re doing. They’re just being polite.
She says I get to stay another night in their fabulous resort. After all, one can’t expect to recover from a Pneumonia you can see on the Xray from orbit, she says. I’m once again complimented on my ability to get sick on a complex scale. I bet my Xray is talked about at lunch with the other doctors. “It was this big, and yet she was still breathing!” Yes, I can just imagine their happy talk at the doctor lunch table. Stupid doctor gossip.
I get breathing treatments with the Nebulizer. This sounds like a sci-fi term, but really it’s just a glorified air pump. I breathe this smoke stuff in and out. Thing One had to do this earlier, and delighted us with her Darth Vadar impersonations. “Luke, I am your father” and so forth. I do not do impressions.
I am also given my very own spitoon. It’s technically called a spectum collector, but basically it’s a funnel you spit in and they collect it. I don’t want to know what they do with my spit. What kind of job involves looking at spit? It occurs to me that I think doctors are worth every penny they make because there is no way I would ever, ever want to work with sick people or their spit.
More T.V. How can there be so many channels, and yet nothing on any of them? I’m assuming at one point the names of these channels meant something. For instance, the History Channel (new motto: history is made today so that means we can show you crap that has nothing to do with history) has stuff about how aliens constructed the pyramids. Or maybe that’s Discovery. One or both of those stations talk about aliens and Bigfoot and Mermaids. They have entire shows on this stuff. The producers wear tin foil hats, I think.
The best one, of course, is The Learning Channel where one can learn about freaks of all shapes and sizes. I decide on Amish freaks who come to New York. You’d never guess, but the Amish can be total jerks also. In no time, one of them is an alcoholic bouncing around on a stripper pole. Thank you, TLC, for being such a good influence. Clearly this is preferable to their life back on the farm without such necessities as reality TV.
At some point I give up and let dh flip channels while I attempt to sleep. He naturally turns to manly stations like those revolving around people digging for junk in storage lockers (there are several of these. Why?) or people digging for junk in old garages, or hillbillies fishing with or without poles and / or dynamite. Also, there’s the survival shows, like with expert Bear, who is all alone except for his wiles and oh yeah the camera crew. There are other survival shows besides this one. One has a husband and wife. Another has two guys, one of whom is a hippy with bare feet. Fascinating stuff.
The girls are shuttled to my parents to spend the night so dh can stay with me. He gets the recliner while I get the possessed bed. Back at the grandparents, I hear that Thing One (she’s 12) refuses to sleep with Thing Two (she’s 8) on account of sister cooties or something. Thing One is bugged that her routine is disrupted. Thing Two thinks she is on vacation, and has brought along a posse of stuffed animals. Sleeping accommodations are set, though I doubt anyone actually sleeps well. Except the stuffed animals, maybe.
Saturday (Ding din. . . oh forget it)
I am released from the hospital that afternoon with about a billion prescriptions and random orders that neither dh nor I remember. I am scheduled to see my GP a week from Tuesday, because who needs vacation time, right? Actually, I am relieved, because I’m pretty sure that if they sent me to work at this point, I’d spend the day drooling on my computer, I mean more than usual, and more than likely would end up stapling my coworker’s head at some point. Better for all to rest.
And get better. They keep mentioning this, but I have yet to experience it. Luckily, I am not at all patient. We will see. Home accommodations are not as cool as the hospital ones, even with the IV. Perhaps I will swallow a puzzle piece.
Thurs. Afternoon (cue that Law and Order ding-ding)
I arrive at La Resorta de Enferma (years of Spanish classes at your service here) at around noon. My husband drops me off at Registration while he attempts to find a parking place. There is a short line. I notice an old lady with a walker. She tries to cut the line. Yeah, I don’t think so Grandma. I assert my place, and give her a look that says “I will trip you, lady.” She backs off.
Next it’s time for paperwork. Mostly it’s signatures on stuff I don’t read but I’m pretty sure it says something along the lines of “patient will not sue if maimed or killed in our care”. They make sure I have a driver’s license and insurance card, and make copies. I guess this is in case I flee to Mexico without paying. Then I get the royal treatment – a wheelchair ride into the elevator and up to my floor. No one wants to ride with us for some reason, so the elevator is all mine. Wheee.
There are tiny accommodations, but I don’t have to share, so I’m happy. They give me my uniform that snaps on the sides and opens in the back. At one time this might have embarrassed me, but I’ve given birth twice now. There are few people that haven’t seen me, you know, “there”, so I don’t care. I get more paperwork! They ask if I want to fill out a living will. You know. Just because. No real reason.
I am hooked up to an I.V. by a nurse who does not use the vein I’m complimented on so often, but another further down the arm that apparently takes some digging around to get just right. They put a bag of fluid into the I.V. This insures that the patient will have to go to the bathroom every half hour, yet be unable to do so, because she is chained to an I.V. pole. I’m not sure if there’s a purpose to it. I think the doctors just do it because it’s kind of funny to pretend they don’t hear you when you push the nurse’s button needing to go potty. I swear they hung up on me a couple of times.
Well, at least the IV will mean they won’t have to keep sticking me. Oh, but wait. Yes they will. You see, they only use the IV to stick stuff in you, not to take it out. And they must take your blood out at certain times, like midnight when you’ve finally fallen asleep, and then they must take out so much that even the nurse comments that she has no idea why they want so much. I think they’re conducting Nazi experiments, but I could be wrong. Should you see a familiar looking Alice clone walking around sometime, you will know what happened.
But La Resorta has some advantages. There is a bed that adjusts up and down. Sometimes all by itself. At first I thought the bed was possessed, but the nurse informed me that it’s a smart bed, which should be a warning right there. The bed is designed to adjust by itself to keep you from getting bed sores, but mostly it just annoys the patients. Nice to know.
There is also room service. I am not on restricted diet, so I order something that claims to be a chicken pot pie, but it is no Stouffers, let me tell you. The cake is excellent, though. They also bring me drinks when I ask, and all my meds, right to my bed. This is much better service than I find at home. Home service mostly consists of getting dumped in the back bedroom and totally forgotten about. This might be partly my annoyed perception of events. I am a good caretaker, and I expect the same, like a little bell I can ring for service. Or a button to push. One where the people on the other end, I repeat, do not hang up on you. (Yes La Resorta nurses, I am looking at you.)
Finally, there is entertainment. There’s a large T.V. in the corner of the room, and an actual real remote, which is a real improvement over the remote at the last hospital I visited years before. That one only went up or down through about sixty channels, several of which were either Spanish, religious, or religious Spanish. Or sports.
Shockingly, there is still nothing on T.V. TLC has decided to air a marathon of “Say Yes To the Dress”, except no, it’s not a marathon, there are just half a dozen shows on this station about weddings. Why. Just why? On “Say Yes to the Dress” the tension hinges on whether the bride will select this dress or that dress. Or possibly another dress. All costing more than my first house. But that’s okay, because you get so much wear out of these kinds of dresses.
There’s another show where women visit each others’ weddings and rate which one is the best. And they act like catty jerks while doing their evaluations, because as you know everyone’s wedding sucks but yours. They get annoyed that a Catholic wedding ceremony is like, so long, and that priest guy was totally dressed femmy and all. Also, the enormous ballroom is bo-ring, and the silverware totally doesn’t match the flowers, or something else stupid. I hate this show worse than the one where people catcall the girl trying on dresses with such endearments as “That makes you look like a tramp!” And that one was from Grandma.
My parents are in Vegas at this time. Yeah, I know, my parents have way more fun than I do. Anyway, my dh has to leave to take care of children because apparently someone is supposed to be with them and I am left by myself at the hospital. Because I am big and strong I start getting a little scared and weepy and the nurses figure out there’s nothing physically wrong with me (besides the obvious Pneumonia crap) so they ease on out of there. Only the janitor stops picking up trash to hug and bless me. That was weird, but nice. So thank you janitor lady, wherever you are
Stay tuned for Part Two . . . it’s more exciting than TLC
You might have been wondering what happened to me since no regular blog post appeared. “Did Alice get a life?” you might ask. Or “Alice writes a blog?” Or “Who is Alice?”
I have been sick, readers. And I don’t mean the garden variety plain old sick either. I mean super double dog sick that is very very bad. So how did you manage to pump out semi coherent blog posts, Alice? I had them prescheduled in a flash of writing ideas. And they ran out Sunday.
I am out of sick leave, so I have had to use vacation leave for this little trip. A vacation to the land of the Mucus People. I don’t recommend it. Very unsanitary and just look at the locals.
Anyway, I’ve been vacationing here since Thursday, and it is now Tuesday, and I’m hoping that maybe I get to go home soon. Either that, or die. Allow me to detail my itinerary.
Thursday Eve: Fever goes up. Go to bathroom. Feel nauseous. Lie on bathroom floor until it passes.Friday: Go to doctor. Stand while receptionist takes phone calls and asks for my insurance and teaches other receptionist how to use the computer. Ponder whether I can keep from barfing on her while she does this. Finally decide to go sit down. Office was recently redesigned with chairs that absolutely no one could ever find comfortable. Good move there.
Called back. Nurse checks vitals. Of course this is not my regular nurse, because my regular doctor is rarely available when I am sick. My fever supposedly has gone down to normal. She also checks my oxygen levels with this strange clamp on my finger. I’m not sure how this works. Do fingers breathe now? Good news. My oxygen rocks. This always happens. My body fails me until I get to the doctor, when it makes a brief valient recovery before collapsing again immediately afterward. Below: My lungs.
I am tested with magical Q-tips for Flu and Strep Throat. One went in my throat and the other up my nose. I wonder if they ever get these mixed up. Turns out I don’t have Flu or Strep. The doctor notes that I am still sick because I look puny which is Doctor-speak for “You look like you got run over by a truck.”
Antibiotics are called in. The second in two weeks. Pretty soon they will run out of alien-planet sounding names for pills. This one is called Bactrin, I think. Or it might have been Betazoid. No, wait, that one really is a planet in Star Trek.
I have become reacquainted with the T.V. and wow I have been missing so much. Like Wipeout, the adult answer to Double Dare, only without the pretense of any intellectualism by disregarding those trivia questions.
I think Wipeout was created as a place for Bachelor Pad contestants to go to die. Sure, everything’s padded, but these people take a beating on courses that no normal human could ever pass. But they try anyway while pelted with water, mud, eggs, bales of hay (I’m not kidding), milk, paint guns, footballs, and more. 50,000 dollars people. Dignity comes a distant second place to that. I can’t believe I never realized this was a show before. I find myself watching back to back episodes.
I rarely get fever, but by Saturday, I’ve had it for three days straight, anywhere from 99.9 to a whopping 103 in which I could actually see heat waves coming off of my body. I think. That might have been hallucinations. Since my body often wants to mess w/ the medical profession, I normally run only 97.5, so maybe this is even higher for me. Not sure. What brain cells are left from 50 Shades are starting to fry.
I have also developed a nasty, nasty cough from deep in my chest. Have you ever heard a Great Dane bark? These are enormous dogs, probably bred from grizzlies, with barks so loud and deep and echo-y they sound like Barry White. I bark like that now. We have a neighbor dog that is a Great Dane. I bet if I went outside, I could outbark him now.I try to go back to the doctor, urgent care. I don’t think humans should bark. If we did, we wouldn’t need dogs. Nurse practitioner refuses to see me. I haven’t been on antibiotics long enough, and didn’t I get that cough syrup? Oh. Turns out Wal-Mart didn’t have any, so instead of getting a replacement, or say, telling us they had to reorder, they just left it completely off. Thank you, Wal Mart. I should supposedly have cough syrup tomorrow, and it had better be good.
The regular nurse that saw me (and took more oxygen from my finger, etc) informs me that coughing is my body’s way of getting rid of this nasty stuff. I think there has got to be a better way of doing this. Also, that I shouldn’t wrap up if I’m cold, because that increases fever, like foil bakes a potato. That’s comforting thought.
Sunday. Hubby does laundry and various other household tasks. He hands me my clean laundry. I don’t really care. There are a lot of things I don’t care about when sick. Here’s a list.
laundry, clothes, money (I am cheapest on the planet, but would pay 500 straight up for a cure), other people’s problems, other people (unless they can, say, go get me a coke), work, basic hygiene (I have not even changed clothes since Wednesday), blogging or internet (this is frightening), everything else.
Just getting to the bathroom (that is only a few feet away from the bed) is a trip when you have high fever and Great Dane cough. Let me show you a diagram.
I get the cough syrup. Finally. It sucks, and not just taste wise. It’s not entirely liquid, like a sugary gel, and even better, does not appear to work. I fall asleep for a bit, only to wake up drenched in sweat and coughing. Codeine you have failed me. And here we had this awesome relationship before.
Monday. I have already missed two days of work the week before, and must call in again. Honestly, I have never, ever wanted so badly to be able to go to work. I watch daytime T.V. TLC has a show called A Baby Story. I used to actually like this show. Before I had both babies. Now I have no idea why I liked it, or babies for that matter. They look like slimy lizards. Their parents are happy but deranged from lack of sleep.
“It’s a little challenging, parenting a toddler and a new baby.” Mom says. Toddler screams. Lizard screams. Mom smiles creepily before leaping out of a window.
There is a trashcan by my bed. Law of averages says I should have hit the can at least once with one of my dirty pieces of toilet paper (which I am using as Kleenex, I’m not that gross yet) since I am only dropping the wads from the bed a foot away straight down. Not so much. I don’t care.
Monday night / Early Tuesday. I go back to urgent care, thinking if I go this early, hubby can take me to the hospital where they will do some Houdini magic that will make me normal again, or at least put me into a coma or something. Nurse practitioner again refuses to see me, and tells me just to make an appointment with my regular doctor in the morning. I’m starting to think he just doesn’t want to see me or something.
Tuesday. I arrive at the doctor’s office.
. . .to be continued (Adventures in the Doctor’s Office!)
That stands for Save Our Alice. For everyone’s info, Alice is currently being held hostage, and has been since Thursday, by an evil race known as the Mucus People. She would appreciate any kind thoughts and prayers. Also bling and cash donations. But mostly prayers.