So our weekend around here was the stuff that dreams are made of…
… if your dreams involve sitting in an emergency room and passing out cold for a half-day nap.
I may have mentioned one or a dozen times that my parents have just been through the wringer during the month of April, because SURGERY and NEXT SURGERY and WHOSE BIOPSY IS THIS ONE? and WHO HAS PUKED HERSELF INTO TOTAL DEHYDRATION NOW?
When I have anesthetic and medication for pain, I will be curled up in a fetal position, throwing up and shooting for distance with it. I once ripped the cartilage off of my rib cage in my very-early-twenties, and if you think that doesn’t hurt, then please let me sell you these fourteen, oceanfront acres that I own in Nebraska. The pain pills that the doctor sent me home with made me see people who came in a rainbow of colors — purple people (and not the Purple People Eaters, but just the ones who were going to be eaten) and red people and green people and that’s-a-really-bright-kind-of-orange people. The thing is, I KNEW that these rainbow people weren’t really in the room with me, but HELLO! I saw them all very clearly, as they walked around my apartment. Hubs (who wasn’t Hubs back then, because he hadn’t put a ring on my finger yet) actually sat up with me the entire night and tried his level best not to laugh out loud when I would ask him to shut the door to my bathroom, because the green person with the blue hair kept staring at me. I would have shut that door myself, but I couldn’t even breathe or move two millimeters to the left without my entire ribcage erupting in atomic-level pain that crippled me. Needless to say, this certain brand of pain medication just didn’t work out for me, so I did exactly what authorities tell you NOT to do; I gave them to my dad, who used them for migraine headaches and never saw anyone he shouldn’t have seen, regardless of color. He was also able to drive a straight line after taking these meds for headaches, because… well… he wasn’t me.
The only person I know on this entire planet who can actually OUT PERFORM ME in this area is my own mama. She passed her brown eyes down to me, along with her inability to take medication like the rest of the civilized world can do. She had her tonsils taken out last Tuesday, which — Let’s face it! — isn’t an easy operation to have once you’ve reached the 4th grade or moved beyond it. The pain medication my mom came home with created an eruption of nausea and sickness the likes of which could only be matched by Yellowstone National Park just exploding with that mega volcano sitting beneath it.
An Academy Award for Best Performance as a Nauseated Individual usually leads to, “I haven’t kept any fluids down for the past six months, and I’m going to just head to the ER now for a bag of fluids before I die.”
So that is where I spent my Saturday morning, as we took Mom to the ER for an IV of very expensive Gatorade-like fluids for the second time in less than a week.
Now… don’t get me wrong… there’s no place that I would rather be than helping my parents out, because I love them to pieces, so I didn’t mind sitting in the emergency room this weekend in the least.
Nope. I didn’t mind it at all.
I actually had a bit of down time there, without the benefit of a toddler scrambling all over me, because I left said toddler with his daddy at home. So, seeing as I had the chair all to myself while my mom rested and watched the $28,000 bag of Gatorade flow through her IV (because IVs in the ER are pricy), and while my dad was out walking to the coffee shop for sustenance, I actually READ. A. BOOK.
Reading, which is my guiltiest of all pleasures, just doesn’t happen much for me any more, unless I’m reading a book about HOW THE MONKEYS JUMPED ON THE BED and OH, LOOK! THIS ONE FELL OFF, AND BROKE HIS HEAD, because apparently it’s the ’70s in this story, when monkeys were allowed to jump on their beds without helmets and interventions by well-meaning people who think that the monkeys would be much safer with nets and padding around their beds, as well as a full suit of armor, because you can never overdo safety these days.
So yes. I read a REAL book on Saturday.
It was wonderful; thank you for asking.
The moral of the story is that my mom IS getting better, but it’s happening slowly, because who can swallow after having half of her throat cut out when she’s not taking any real pain medication, because LOOK WHO THROWS UP WITH IT LIKE SHE’S TRYING TO SET A WORLD RECORD?
On Sunday, I got up with Thing 2, while Hubs and the boy slept in. We read books together about a calf who got stuck in the mud and had to be pulled out by a little tiny tractor, who showed he was still worth his salt, because he heroically saved that baby calf, when the giant tractor wasn’t around. We read this book because Mama was flat-out tired of reading about the monkeys and their cracked craniums and the fact that their insurance company was denying payment for neck braces, because the pediatrician had already warned Mother Monkey that she needed to keep a better eye on her offspring’s antics.
At 9:30 on Sunday morning, while Hubs was showering and getting ready for church, I just went ahead and laid down on my bed. I figured it was as good a spot as any to wait for my turn in the shower, and the boy and Thing 2 were playing together, so WHY NOT?
The very next thing I knew, it was 12:45.
Twelve. And then forty-five minutes more.
Yes. That would be three hours and fifteen entire minutes later.
I felt exactly like one of those mothers who read tabloids and take it all in as the Gospel Truth, while she stands on her front steps and screams at a decibel that can shatter trailer windows, while she hollers for her kids, who must’ve rode their bikes (without helmets) to the gas station for a microwaved breakfast sandwich, while Mama slept in.
Don’t judge me.
When I woke up, Hubs had already done all of our weekly shopping at Walmart, and he was home with four hundred plastic bags, bearing fresh produce and cereal and yogurt and laundry detergent and boneless, skinless chicken breasts and new toothbrushes.
I have never loved that man more.
While he was out doing the grocery-fetching, the boy had babysat his baby brother AND cleaned up the disaster that was our kitchen.
I have never loved that thirteen-year-old boy more.
Which is exactly why I burst into tears on Sunday afternoon and bawled an Ugly Cry in front of both of them, because LOOK WHAT Y’ALL DID WHILE I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW I’D ACCIDENTALLY FALLEN ASLEEP ON MY BED AND SLEPT THROUGH HALF OF THE WEEKEND!
You have no grounds to argue with me. My boys are better than your boys.
I did eventually get my shower in on Sunday, and we took ice cream sundaes to my parents, because their jeans are falling off of their thinning hips over at their house. And then Thing 2 and I hit the park together, because my baby boy has a passion for throwing playground gravel down slides and laughing like a hyena during Stand Up Comedy Night.
When we got home, we discovered that the boy’s buddy, Kellen, was here, and listen:
Kellen can be talked into things by our toddler that no one else in this house can be talked into.
And Kellen… because he doesn’t live at our house and hasn’t had to be obedient to this toddler’s command one million and nine more times… pushed.
It’s a good thing he’s on the junior high track team, because Thing 2 demanded a fourteen-mile dump truck ride on Sunday afternoon.
Afterwards, the boy and Kellen were talked into watching a little bit of a Teletubbies episode with Thing 2. Sadly, their thirteen-year-old selves couldn’t take watching the fat-bottomed Teletubbies eat Tubby Custard, so they introduced Thing 2 to the Roadrunner and Wile E.
And then the big boys LEFT Thing 2 behind, and they went outside to shoot the ever-lovin’ snot out of one another with their airsoft pistols. Thing 2 howled his displeasure, because he thinks he’s plenty old enough to participate in gun fights, and who is this wicked mother who makes him stay indoors when bullets are flying outside??!!
If this was the ’70s, I would totally have been the mama who let him join in at the age of two. I would’ve just cracked open a fresh can of Tab and gone inside to watch Charlie’s Angels, while the boys frolicked outside with the baby and the guns.
And, if you ever have any questions as to WHY my house looks like it’s just one more box of stuff away from being an episode of Hoarders on TV, may I present this young man as photographic evidence?
And please don’t forget to put helmets on your monkeys, if they take to jumping on their beds.
After all, these are dangerous times we live in now, and pain medication for busted heads is often unreliable, at best.