The Winter of My Discontent

When I woke up Thursday morning after a rough night with the boys, I thought some coffee and a noon-time nap in the car would take care of the sleepies. By mid-afternoon, though, during a meeting, it became apparent there was more wrong with me than just tired. The walls of the conference room were closiing in and the sweat was dripping down my back. How I made it through the rest of the day I'll never know. When I got home, my fever was more than 102 degrees.

And so went the next four days. Sometimes, I laid on my right side while I sweat and moaned. When I wanted adventure, I'd lay on my left, sweating and moaning. Because I'm nursing, I'm not supposed to take any medications. Tylenol is OK, but it was no match to the fever, aches, headache, congestion, sore throat and cough. Everytime I felt I was coming out of it - BAM - the thermometer shot back up. I felt miserable.


So of course, it was the weekend and no doctors were around. But being an optimist, and because everyone else I talked to who had previously met with the same Mack Truck of a disease, I figured it'd all pass in just a day or two.

The bummer, of course, is we had some really fun things planned for the weekend. Instead, Kevin did his best to keep the kids away from the house so I could sleep, since Holden's still only got Loud and Louder on his volume control. I spent all week working and feeling sad that I only got a few rushed minutes to spend with them at the end of the day, only to catch quick glimpses of them in the hallway on the weekend. I did still nurse Riley when he was around, but his warm body snuggled against my sweaty, squirmy, uncomfortable one was not pleasant. By Sunday night, I felt well enough to let them hang with me in the bedroom. It was sweet, Riley took a couple naps and Holden kept returning with more toys and books. The bed got pretty full.

While the fever had broke, the sore throat persisted. Everytime I swallowed it felt like a million steak knives stabbing me in the ears.

Sick of being sick, I knew I had to get to the doctor today. I started calling at 8:30 a.m., when they open. After a few tries, I got someone who told me the doctor was all booked up and she'd take my number to have the doctor call me back. Right. First thing Monday morning during flu and cold season and the doctor made appointments all day? I waited an hour and called back, wanting the receptionist to understand really how sick I was and waiting around was not an option. I needed drugs. Lots of them. The doctor will get back to me, she said. (Insert here sweeping political statement about the state of our nation's healtchare and how even those of us who pay our asses off for medical care still can't get help when they need it). The receptionist tells me my options are the emergency room or urgent care, which is open until 5 p.m. That sounded like my plan.

I drove a half-hour to Beverly Hills (where all our doctors are located due to the fact that we think we're getting such superior care), got to urgent care and was relieved to see an empty waiting room. The receptionist, though, told me urgent care doesn't, in fact, open until 5 p.m. Right again. So I did what any mature, self-respecting, totally together 21st Century woman would do. I cried. Yup. Because THAT'S HOW EFFIN' MISERABLE I WAS. However embarassing it was, though, it was TOTALLY WORTH IT, because she called over to my doctor's office. They told her the doctor couldn't see me until 1 p.m. (it was 10:45 a.m.), but I should come over and if there's a space she'll squeeze me in. I parked my sorry butt in that waiting room for more than an hour before the doctor hurriedly saw me and spent four minutes of her precious time with me. And I THANKED her for squeezing me in, when really, who made her schedule like this that she can't see anybody who is sick at the last minute? She contemplated diagnosing me with pneumonia for a moment, but decided to call it a bacteria infection, wrote me a prescription and was out the door. I didn't care, I had my golden ticket.

Unfortunately, now I have to take a break from nursing Riley, which I don't love. There's nothing worse than pouring breastmilk down the drain. Plus, since Riley started daycare, his booby time was already severely diminished. But it's only for a week and, by God, so worth it. Within an hour of taking the antibiotic and the three Aleves the doctor told me to take, I felt like a new woman. One who could talk, who could swallow and who could get out of bed and explore the rest of the house for the first time in days.

What I found? A sink full of dirty dishes, hampers stuffed with laundry and a trash can maxed to the brim.

Being sick has its advantages.