Fair warning: this is going to be one of those poor little ole me posts so if that’s going to exasperate you stop reading right now and feel free to click on away or, you know, scroll down and look at pictures of my kids in costume.
Today the husband woke up with a temperature of 38.9°C (102°F) so he had to call the hospital (anything above 38°C – 100°F) and they said come on in for some tests and we’ll see if we have to admit you. Yay. So off to the hospital we went, and I descended into a pit of desolation, self-pity, dispiritedness and hopelessness so vast that my therapist and I will have enough subject matter for the next two months. So much for not getting sucked into the black hole that is therapy. I’m sure the weather contributed to my mood, it’s wet and cold and dismal here, the dark side of autumn (generally my favorite season, what with the golden hues and the crisp, cool air, but not today). But really, it’s the idea of how long the husband’s recovery is. Now, you did read on at your own risk, cause I warned you about the self-pity and no, I’m not a total moron, so I know that whatever I have to say about the matter, the husband is definitely the one worst off here, cause he’s feeling like crap and he’s the one that has to go to the hospital and get tests and stuff, but this is my blog and I’m feeling sorry for myself today. So there. As I was saying, I am not built for endurance, if I were ever to become a runner (oh, so unlikely) I would never go for the marathon, not even the half marathon, possibly the 100meters or something quick and easy like that. (Though on a side note, honestly, if you were ever to find me running look behind me, cause something bad is chasing me.) They say that you really get to know a person’s character in times of strife, well, sadly I’ve learned that I’m all about the instant gratification. I’ve been relatively fine, I try to have a go-getter attitude, so during the first half of the husband’s sickness I concentrated on getting things done and moving on with our lives, but this recovery period, man, it is wearing me down. He gets better, and then he gets worse, and it really seems that whenever he gets a little better he then gets a lot worse. Of course, this isn’t technically true, his blood work is slowly getting progressively better, his BM is clean (YAY!), he’s not as nauseous anymore, he can actually eat now, so the reality isn’t as bad as our perception of it. Unfortunately, what matters is our perception of it (bummer). Whenever he starts feeling better, meaning he can go to work for a few hours and interact with the kids, and maybe go with me to run some errands and eat real food, we get complacent, and start thinking that it’s all uphill from here on out. Not so. Soon enough something goes wrong and he starts feeling crap again, moves back into bed with his four or five wool blankets and down comforters (he’s perpetually cold), back on a liquid diet, and I go back to being a single mom. (And really, I haven’t said this enough, but all you single mothers out there, chapeau, seriously). Which is where we are right now. Which is why I'm complaining to you.
And now for the grand finale, in a whiny voice if you please: I want him to feel good again, I want him to have energy, I want him to gain some weight for pete’s sake. I want him to play with the kids and wash the cars on Saturdays, I want him to go grocery shopping with me and carry the heavy bags, because he can. I want to have middle of the night arguments with him to see who’s going to go check on the kids, I want him to leap out of bed when the alarm goes off for no reason at four a.m. and flail around for his baseball bat so he can go check there’s no intruder. I want to see him eat steak tartar again because he loves it. I want to share the responsibility, and the decisions, I want to make plans for the future and be able to believe them. I want him back and it’s taking too damn long, my patience is wearing thin and my energy is running out.
Ok. I’m done. Just so you know, they sent us home from the hospital after taking about half his blood for tests and giving him a massive dose of antibiotics, which are going to make him feel way shittier before letting him feel better (hopefully), but his lungs were clean so at least he didn’t have to stay there. Because apparently amongst the many things we have to look forward to now that we’re moving towards winter is a heightened risk of pneumonia, which, as they never tire of reminding us, could be fatal for someone who’s immunosuppressed. And then you wonder why I get depressed going to the hospital.