June 10, 2005

June 10, 2005

Warning: not for weak stomachs or drama-queen-haters.

For some people writing is an effortless show of brilliance, I unfortunately am not one of those people, nor can I be depended on for the more hair-pulling, pencil chewing, intelligent narratives. My writing either consists of awkward “real” sentences or rambling diatribes about myself.  (My self being the only subject I can coherently expound upon)  If the usage of the word “I” were any indication of a persons vanity, I would currently have to be living out the rest of my days studying Confucius to make up for a life-long ego binge.   Instead I’m sitting here on the floor of my miniscule bathroom, praying Jim never saw the mass of spiderwebs behind the toilet, and wildly hoping that writing will distract me from the demon in my stomach and intestines.   I’ve been avoiding my blog for days, because a person who only writes about herself can’t say much when all she does is lay in bed planning her funeral.  My need to whine however has overcome my dignity…  

       What started out as a mild case of stomach indigestion last Thursday, quickly turned into a night spent in the bathroom expelling unmentionable fluids, accompanied with a raging fever, and chills.  No problem, I pride myself on a high pain tolerance, which is a good thing considering you can’t have anything but Tylenol when you’re pregnant.  I put in my twenty-four hours of living hell (as everybody knows that’s how long the typical flu is supposed to last) and thus felt utterly betrayed by life when Saturday found me sicker than ever.   Of course I would never portray any wimpish behavior by calling the doctor, but my husband’s concern for his wife and unborn son won out over my stubbornness (that, and my growing desire for drugs…anything but Tylenol).   No luck though, the doctor assured me we would both be fine, it was probably just a virus, drink lots of fluids…yadda, yadda, yadda.  Gee thanks…

     Somehow I survived the weekend, and Monday I succeeded in convincing my doctor that my writhing in bed doubled over in pain was not just a cute act, but a desperate attempt to stay alive…and another plea for drugs.   The great medical minds in charge of Jamie and me discovered (a little late) that I had a raging bacterial infection caused by food poisoning better known as Salmonella or its close cousin Campylobacter.   Not that naming it helped any.   Mr. Gothard always said people will treat you with more respect if you show attentiveness and learn their name, but no matter how many times I say “Campylobacter” I couldn’t get him to leave me alone for even five minutes, I tried murdering him with massive doses of Tylenol but he just laughed (with that super-villain-evil-laugh).

     Here I am a week later, no change except I’ve now had the pleasure of reading Reader’s Digest advertisements in the middle of the night (Viagra can do some seriously weird things to guys, and a ten-hour woody isn’t the worst of it).   I also discovered Jim’s car magazine so I now know the new Porsche Cayman is neither a 911 nor a boxter…even if it looks like a cross between the two.   The 05 Mustang can stop faster and accelerate faster than the RSX and the Eclipse is more expensive than them both…apparently you have to pay extra for the bubble butt.   

   I went to the doctor’s today for blood tests and what not, and left with four collapsed veins and a various array of band-aids on both arms, I took a picture in the desperate hope that maybe with photographic proof, the next time somebody tries to give me an IV they’ll actually believe me when I tell them I have really small veins that roll.   They did deliver more wonderful news.  The infection spread to my bladder giving me an obnoxious UTI, and they also gave me a bottle of pills (which I gleefully and naively thought were pain meds) to stop pre-term labor. (what!?!?)  I patiently explained I knew the difference between my uterus and my stomach and my uterus definitely wasn’t causing all the problems.  Nonetheless, I went in for another round of tests that proved my son is indeed perfectly fine, and I left with stern orders to admit myself to the hospital if the braxton-hicks I’d been having got any closer together, and to please get better because the stress isn’t good for the baby…thanks, I didn’t know, and yes I’m working on getting better, but my new body-mate Campylobacter doesn’t seem too keen on leaving.

So that’s it, all this melodrama, and I’m not sure any of it sounded even halfway cognitive…It must be the Tylenol cuz they still won’t give me drugs.