Okay, with E back in the country and fully briefed – This post is now possible.
So, it’s the day after E goes to the Med (of course, United manages to lose their bags and delay them to the point that they all but miss out on Venice. Anytime anyone tells you how incredibly efficient private companies are – tell them to fly on an American Air Carrier.)
Anyways, I’m loving the idea of soaking up some serious dad time. Yes, it’s going to be non-stop, but the fact of the matter is, my morning commute won’t change a bit. I’ll just have to be creative about getting grocery runs in.
I begin with a Day of Yes. The kids are always asking to do things, and the typical parental response is “no.”
No, you can’t play computer. No you can’t watch another movie. And so on. I get them a decent pancake breakfast to butter them up and declare that we’re going to get outside today. And we need to return some library books.
The Boy immediately responds with “Let’s walk to the library!” Normally, this would be a reflexive ‘no’, but this is the Day of Yes. “Okay, but we should pack some water and an umbrella, just in case.”
He’s out the door and halfway down the block with his sister before I manage to find a backpack. The library is two miles away, so this is a bit of a hoof for little E, but she gets her complaints out early in the first block and doesn’t look back. The Boy launches into a window game, where windows of different sizes are worth different points and soon he’s a bazillion points in the lead.
The day is muggy, but the temp is decent and soon we’re at the Library. I’ve been nursing a stomach bug for the past few days, so I find a chair to flop into. I fire up the iPhone to search for Newberry award winners and the kids begin a coloring jag that lasts for easily a half an hour. I find the books I want, the Boy makes his selections – and I get the replacement card I need. We’re out the door and hoofing it home. Great times.
Little E announces late in the walk that she needs a restroom and we’re doing a rapid job to the nearest restaurant, a microbrewery. I forgot that U is coming by to watch the FC Barcelona match, so we’re going to be joining things in progress (thank heavens for DVRs).
We make the microbrewery just in time to avoid unpleasantness – and I flirt with ordering something mild for my stomach (yogurt or something) before just taking the cure or kill approach and getting fish and chips.
We’re hoofing it back home to meet with U for the game, and I can tell the lunch choice was a bad one. No pain, just a dull, weighty sensation that tells me that my guts are not happy with me. So be it.
Home. We meet up with U – watch Barca beat on the Red Devils until the Red Devils fold (Suck it, Giggs!) and a good time is had by all.
U is back to his hotel and the kids and I have a mellow evening with easy prep leftovers and settle into our books. I read them
The Tale of Despereaux, and the kids seem hooked when we stop around chapter 5.
They get to bed, I dust off my newly acquired WFRP stuff for a run through – and I reflect on the day.
Not bad, Dad. Sure, it’s only one day, but no screaming or snarling. We had a lot of fun, and we didn’t break the bank on silly stuff. I’m looking forward to Sunday – when we have a birthday party and a cookout to round things out. The Boy’s totally jazzed about playing with one of his buddies at the cookout.
About the time I finish a small run through (good
God, does WFRP have lots of bits!) I realize it’s about midnight.
One full day of single dad-dom down, I turn in. My back is killing me, probably from the walk, so it takes about 30 minutes to find a good position to rest.
Right about the time that subsides, by gut starts to ache.
In the normal run of things, whatever it was would subside to the point where I could pass out and have in mend by the morning.
But it doesn’t. And it doesn’t feel like a normal stomach ache. It feels lower than that – and somehow more in the front. And it doesn’t quit.
By about 3 in the morning, after having tried walking around, distracting myself, and acetaminophen – I start theorizing.
Had some bad fish? …Gas pains? I seriously consider leaving my two sleeping children in bed and driving to the pharmacy to get some medicine. (I had thoughtfully thrown out virtually all our meds for being past their exp dates, but did I replace them? NooOoOOoooo.)
I just can’t abide leaving the kids alone, and it’s three in the damn morning. So I’m stuck.
I go downstairs and read the intro to
The Looming Tower to pass the time. Mostly I wait for the sun to come up. When it finally does, the morning routine serves as a decent distraction. Breakfast, clothes and shoes. I tell the kids we’re headed to the store to buy their friend a birthday present before the party. And get meds. Because the gut hasn’t let up once since 1am.
The kids prolong the departure in their usual way, so that we’re leaving the store almost right before it’s time to drive out to the birthday party. I pop the meds and enjoy a few moments of placebo relief before the pain is back.
It is becoming clear that whatever it is – is not going away with time or medication. I have visions of being at home, unable to drive, with two small children.
Drama, I tell myself. And I pull into the party. It’s a gymnastic party, so the kids can get some jump around time. Something that makes bedtime sooOOooo much easier. I go to the observation lounge and the kids are clearly loving it.
I try and fail to find a comfortable chair/position. And there’s that voice in my head saying:
It’s just you and two little kids. And you need to get this sorted out. Other parents are leaving their kids at the party, so I check in with the birthday girl’s mom and say, “I need to go to urgent care. I’ll be back in an hour unless they physically restrain me.” Birthday girl’s mom is about as unflappable a person as I’ve met. She’s like, “One way or another, we’ll work it out.”
I lumber off to urgent care. It’s about 1pm and I’ve been up since 6am yesterday. Oh, and my gut hurts. I start a timer on my phone to know when I need to get back. The folks at urgent care are very helpful. No solid answers, they’ll take some samples but the results will take time. I tell them I have to leave in twenty minutes and they get my cell number to call me. They offer no good theories, I’m still thinking I ate something that’s lodged in me in some painful way. I’m out the door with minutes to spare.
And I’m back at the party. The kids are having a grand old time. There’s cake and whip cream, and kids to goof off with, what’s not to love? I chat with BG’s uncle for awhile, and it’s time to go. I’ve got a little over an hour and a half before the cookout. It’s dawning on me that I’m not going to be feel like eating anything – which is a serious downer. Holiday weekend grill out and my stomach’s down for the count. Major suckage.
I go home. Mom’s asked me to help them chase down where their baggage disappeared to. I call United, and get the standard “You need to call Lufthansa, since they were the last air carrier on their itinerary.” I point out the bags were lost because United canceled the flight and re-routed them all over hell’s half acre. Eventually, the guy settles on giving me all the numbers and codes his system has on their bags, and I text them to mom and E.
It’s about 3pm when urgent care calls. They tell me that the results weren’t terribly conclusive. White blood cell count is up a little, but not enough where they’re thinking appendicitis (thank heavens), but that since I’m in constant pain, they’re thinking I should get a CT.
I’m like,
Okay, when should we get that set up? Tomorrow’s a holiday…and-
Her response was immediate – “You should go to the ER. Today.”
This is the first moment that I realize things are really going south in a hurry.
I call the folks with the cookout and ask if they wouldn’t mind having my kids run around their cookout without me for a few hours. Being incredibly cool, they’re like “No problem.” They even invite me over early, before things start.
Between fatigue and pain – the day is starting to take on the quality of Ray Liotta’s last day of freedom in
Goodfellas. The world is rushing into my head uncontrollably and I’m doing my best to ignore all but the essential details.
Drop. Kids. Off.
Get. To. ER.
If I may digress a bit here. I would like to point out something of interest to those who follow health care policy. As of this point in my day, I was actively seeking out a medical procedure. I became a consumer of health care. Yet I was in no way exhibiting behavior of a cost-conscious consumer. At no time did cost enter into my calculations. I have no knowledge of what a CT would, could, or should cost. I wanted to get to the closest ER I could find. As I have been to the local Catholic hospital’s ER in the past, I was sure I could find it. So I went there.
Thirty minutes later, I’m in an ER bed being compelled to drink four big glasses of stuff that was labeled barium, but was actually some other CT-necessitated liquid that tasted like instant lemonade. I’m on the iPhone keeping tabs with the kids and generally keeping folks in the loop.
And I wait, wince, and drink crappy CT-Lemonade. Soon enough, I’m being ritually stripped and fed through the CT machine. I felt removed from the entire experience, rather like inferring reality from a blurry penumbra. And this was without drugs.
Post CT, they give me drugs. A far too exuberant resident announces that every day on his rotation this week,
somebody’s had an appendicitis. He’s saying odds are, it’s my appendix or a kidney stone.
Kidney stone…. That’s the first time that possibility was raised and I decide it makes the most sense. I’ve had pain off and on for two weeks now (now that I think about it), and the pain seems low enough to be bladder related.
Aw…hell. I get a text from Jen, and I give her the update.
Not to be dramatic, but I’m in the ER. Holiday weekend and I need to know what’s what. I’ll get a test and we’ll see what the deal is. Not an emergency, but I can’t wait and wonder with E gone.
Jen offers to come down from the cabin, and I tell her to hold off until I get the results of the CT.
My money’s on kidney stone I tell her. Because that’s the one that will hurt more.
And shortly after I make that pronouncement, the resident comes back. “It’s an appendicitis.”
I’m drugged, so I come back with “You’re
sure you’re not just going for the record?”
He laughs, “Nah. Your surgeon will be here in a few minutes.”
Like a series of punches, reality catches up with me. My wife is in the Mediterranean, my kids are at a friend’s house, and I’m in the ER being prepped for surgery.
And the only thing running through my dead tired, chemically-laced brain is:
After all these years - I still got it. A perfect sense of timing.
