Last week I read a quote which said, “She gathered up her potential and all that she had learned, grabbed a cute pair of shoes, and headed out to change some things.”
And, people, it was true yesterday. Yesterday, I gathered up my potential and all that I had learned, and I grabbed a cute scarf in this shocking pink color (which simply screams, “Cyndi Lauper, we still love you!”), and I met some girls at a local coffee shop, where we did indeed try to change some things.
We talked and we laughed, until coffee threatened to burst right out of my nose, and listen! If that isn’t a conversation stopper, I don’t know what is. We discussed everything from the rising cost of gasoline (which didn’t hold our attention long, but made us all agree that trading in the enormous SUVs for miniature Honda scooters might be a wise move on all our parts) to Beth Moore, and how we would all jump up and down and act like a fourteen-year-old girl at a Justin Bieber concert if we ever caught a glimpse of her in our neck of the woods.
It was the perfect way to start a Monday morning, and then I had to come back to the reality of dealing with my nomadic patient, who was not happy settling in one territory and just lying there quietly, but who was more content to migrate across the house, leaving artifacts of every kind behind him. At 10:30, I regathered my potential and all that I had learned, kept the sassy scarf on, and took Hubs to the doctor’s office, where we received the official diagnosis of Influenza A and a raging sinus infection, and then I brought him home.
So that he could practice his nomadic lifestyle further, as he tried to stay alive.
Yesterday, Hubs was sick. Sick with a capital S. Sick enough to get my Worry Gene fired up.
And, throughout the day, I dealt with texts from our darling friend, Andy, who at first wanted to know if Hubs could talk some sense into his laptop, which was about to implode in on itself and create a black hole full of dense gravity at their house, which is really a danger, what with their three small children running around. When I, through the wonderment of text messaging, informed Andy that Hubs was down! PLUM DOWN! with the dreaded sicknesses, he took it upon himself to fire multiple messages at my phone all day long, which read along the lines of these:
“I hope you have Avalanche games on reruns playing for Hubs right now.”
“I hope you’re rubbing Hubs’ feet right now.”
“I hope you’re putting cool washcloths on Hubs’ forehead right now and acting like a good wife should when her man is hovering at death’s door.”
Eventually I told Andrew, “Listen. You’re the fireman-slash-EMT around these parts. Why don’t you swing by and take a shift caring for Hubs? You can take his blood pressure and his temperature and push some fluids. He’s only drinking ginger ale right now with the CRUSHED ice, and not the FULL-SIZED ice cubes.”
And that pretty much wrapped up the day’s texting marathon, because apparently Andy knows exactly how difficult it is to meet the needs of a husband who is juggling the influenza AND the sinus gunk at the same time like some crazed circus performer.
And listen, people. I was a good nurse, and I tried to keep up with the man’s migratory flight patterns yesterday, until I just plum gave up, tucked him into bed with more Advil, gave firm orders to the boy that YES! YES, YOU MUST PUT YOURSELF INTO BED AT PRECISELY 8:00 TONIGHT, and took myself off to Bible study with the girls.
(Do y’all have creme brulee at YOUR Bible studies? You don’t? Pity. I actually feel sorry for you then, as I was just introduced to the dessert last night, and I am in love.)
After seeing how Influenza A kicked the boy around last week, I was prepared to hone my LPN skills further today, and, perhaps, move on to my RN license, until Hubs sat up in bed with his iPad this morning and informed me that he was busy firing animated cannons, because firing cannons is a life skill that every man should know how to do successfully. Hubs then assured me that there isn’t a cannon on the face of this planet that he’s UNABLE to fire, and that this little game was more of an exercise in mental agility than actual cannon-firing talent.
Because his cannon-firing talent cannot be improved upon, what with it being completely golden and stellar already.
And then Hubs informed me that he’s pretty sure the steroids the doctor put him on for his severely inflamed sinuses are actually making his biceps larger, and that by the end of his bottle of pills he’ll probably look a little like Goliath with the agility of a panther and the mindset of the Incredible Hulk crossed with Chuck Norris.
And that, people, was when I realized that Hubs is actually recovering MUCH FASTER than the boy did from the influenza.
When I left today to head off to the trenches to teach PE, Hubs yelled out, “Hey! I’ve puked so much, my gut is empty, and if I’m gonna maintain these guns in my biceps, I need food! It would please me greatly if you’d stop at the submarine sandwich shop and bring me back something. Something with loads of meat and spices!”
Apparently he thought our house was the Holiday Inn.
Or even daycare.
But, y’all, I did just that. I bought the man a sandwich which cost $9 (NINE! BONES!), and which was loaded with the meat and the cheese and the spicy horridness and the blue cheese. It was, very possibly, the single worst-smelling sandwich I’ve ever had the misfortune of being in the same room with.
And Hubs ate it all.
And then he looked at me and said, “You know, honey, I wish I was independently wealthy, so that I could just stay home with you every single morning! I love steroids!”
And that was the exact moment when Hubs’ mama called to check on him, and I told her, “Please come get him. I think it’s your turn to babysit now!”
When the boy got home from school this afternoon, Hubs looked at him and said, “Hey, Boy! Is the PlayStation calling your name?”
The PlayStation? On a school night? When Mama always forbids video games on school nights and makes him exercise his brain by reading and drilling the flashcards? Our boy isn’t stupid! He jumped on that invitation like a rat on a bright orange Cheeto, and the two of them have been down in our family room for the last hour, hollering out, “Die! Die!” at one another, and laughing so hard, they’re unable to breathe.
Apparently, people, when you have some leftover Tamiflu in your system from the week before, when the boy’s pediatrician encouraged you to take it while the boy was busy puking twenty-three times in one day, the Influenza A is more of a mild, one-day case than the horribleness of the four-day episode that the boy suffered. And apparently, when you’re given steroids for your sinuses, they open up immediately and drain! Drain! Drain! And apparently, with antibiotics the size of horse pills and enough Advil running through your veins, you just plum feel better.
The check-out time at this Holiday Inn is at 8:00 tomorrow morning.
(And, if y’all want to know what I’ve been dealing with, you can watch yet another clip from The Big Bang Theory. The one where Sheldon gets sick. It made me laugh hysterically, because I have a very low maturity level apparently.)
Happy Tuesday night, people.