Yesterday I swallowed a swig of orange juice, and for the first time in a week, I wasn't in excruciating pain.
This all started when I went to Seattle. The day before I left Proximo woke up saying that his throat hurt and crying. That night he was running a 102 fever and emptied the contents of his stomach every two hours for the next 12 hours. I can’t name a single thing more fun than a child up vomiting and a new baby awake, crying and demanding to be fed in between. It was quite the magical evening.
In the morning, Proximo was still running a fever and I was running around packing, He followed me around the house as I grabbed a scarf from here and a pair of someone's socks from there, no time to thoughtfully pack. I threw in a pair of jeans, a maternity shirt, rain boots, and maybe a kitchen sink? It was kind of a mess. He looked at the suitcase and said forlornly, “So where are you going to live now, Mama?”
Jeffiner texted me, after I left him in her car, to say that he’d curled up on her couch and said, “I feel like I become an old man.” Still fevered. The next day, as I marched Lisha around Pike’s Market hoping to kick her into labor, I booked him a Dr’s appointment. Turns out it was scarlet fever.
Yes. I felt terrible for being so far away. Then I giggled making old timey jokes to myself. Scarlet Fevah!
Scarlet Fevah is strep throat gone bad. And apparently, a good sign your kid has strep, besides a sore throat, is vomiting and a fever. If things get worse, like a strawberry tongue and a sandpapery red rash, your baby’s developed The Scarlet Fevahs and will have to be put down. Or go to the Doctor and given antibiotics (it’s your call, really, but check with your insurance company.)
A few days after I returned, J got home from work and told me he’d been having hot flashes and chills all afternoon. I sent him to bed. No one needs that nonsense ambling through anywhere. Two days later, on the start of Fall Break, it was my turn for fever, chills, the sore throat of horrors and the shuffling gait of doom.
I pose this question: Is there anything worse than a sore throat? Is there? And you know the kind of sore throat I mean, when you stop eating and drinking, when you hold saliva in your mouth instead of swallowing it and have to summon all your courage to gulp and then tears come to your eyes? I just had a BABY from my UNDERCARRIAGES without drugs of ANY KIND and I’m telling you, I’d rather have a natural child birth once a month than a sore throat ever again. Someone make that happen. And then keep the resulting child because we’re all full up here.
Yesterday, on the day after our 14th anniversary (which we spent wrapped in our individual blankets on opposite ends of the couch, coughing and moaning from the pain,) we got a shared (awww) Dr’s appointment where we were cordially given a strep diagnosis. I got the penicillin shot. J, thinking he had some sort of wimpy, normal pain-feeling person on his hands, started counting down the thick shot, “You’re almost there! Half way done!” I laughed in his face.
“I don’t need that kind of encouragement.”
“Well, I do, I like knowing I only have to endure a little more.”
“It’s a shot. Who can’t take a shot? Who even cares?”
And then I grabbed all the rest of the shots the nurse had and stabbed them into my eyeball to prove my sharp point. I followed up with a question for a friend: if the shot would cover syphilis and maybe clear up some burning?
(I guess I can’t go back to that office anymore?)
A short five hours later, I drank that orange juice and nearly cried from the lack of swollen misery. Penicillin! Some day I should try making my own from organic oranges and homemade bread for which I ground the wheat myself. I mean, that’s where we’re going with all this craft blogging: pharmaceuticals, right?
It'll be a huge hit on Pinterest.