Holy Mackerel!

Just when we thought we had it all under control, we got hit with the gentle (*snort*) reminder that we're not really at the helm. Sometimes I feel that if life came with an instruction manual, the "Quick Start User's Guide" would look something like this:

1. Kiss those babies
2. Say your prayers
3. Hold on tight

Obviously, there's more to it than that, but that's what it takes to get started, isn't it? And sometimes, to keep going.

We've got to back up a bit. Let's see, I got sick Sunday (the 18th). Thought it was nothing big. Nothing a little rest and some cranberry and water couldn't fix. Stayed home from church to pound the liquids. (Didn't help.)

Monday (the 19th), I thought I had cramps (sorry - no cute or euphemistic way to put it), and we learned we have what Melissa calls, "A Runner". Yep, we now have one that, given the chance, will bolt swiftly and silently, leaving the whole ball of wax for one glorious shot at freedom. Thankfully, he is safe and came to no harm. My knees still hurt just thinking of it. However, he is now on a lock-down the likes of which no child in this house has ever seen. He will probably never be allowed to watch Blade Runner, or Logan's Run until he moves out, or can explain where he's going. And we spent a harrowing week, holding our breath, keeping the house Company Clean, in fear of a visit from The Authorities. Adrenaline does wonders for pain relief, by the way.

Tuesday (the 20th), I realized I wasn't fighting a mild UTI and cramps, and started to worry that this was, perhaps, appendicitis. That's a scary thought. (It was a scary pain.) Nothing touched it - not asprin, not hot baths, not the gazillion gallons of water and cranberry I imbibed, not the hot pad, not massage; not walking, not laying, nor rocking nor crying. At that point, with the severity of the pain and the lack of relief, we called the nurse line and she recommended I be seen "within six hours". Blink Off to the ER, where I was diagnosed with, but not treated for, a rather severe kidney infection, and blood, most likely caused by a blockage. We're voting for "stone sludge", as whatever it was, it passed during the five-hour wait in the ER. Yes, FIVE HOURS. And yes, they had a sample. Oh. My. Word.

It seems that the confirmed presence of a raging infection (the lab was quick), a "9" on the pain scale (figure there's always room for it to hurt worse, right?), chills and swelling just don't cut the triage scale if you have somehow managed not to spike a fever. The poor Triage Nurse took my temperature every way she could think of, but there was no fever. No fever, no check mark. No check mark, no spot at the front of the line. She was very apologetic about it, and begged me to stay, because, obviously, there was something Very Wrong. But still, back to the lobby.

What's with that, anyway? Nevermind. I am currently trying not to think of the myriad reasons I had no fever. Just. Not. ThinkingAboutIt. If I'd known, however, that they would not give me antibiotics at the end of that wait, to be honest, I'd have gone home to writhe in the comfort of my own floor while waiting for the urologist's office to open. Away from the lady who likes to hang out in the ER, being obnoxious to other patients; away from the guy who came in for a cough; away from the three other guys who came in to hang out, catch a nap, and then move on. As it was, we got home a little after 7AM Wednesday morning, mildly re-hydrated and just a little bit stoned on pain killers.

Wednesday was supposed to be our Preparation Day. The day we washed the car, did the groceries, made up the guest room, finished the basement work, took the kids to music and did all the things one normally does on a Wednesday. Or something like that. Obviously, that's not how it went down. I'll fill you in on that, tomorrow. It just hasn't slowed down in the least.

Kiss those babies!
~Dy