I write letters to Ellen DeGeneres. No particular reason. Just because I can.
The day my husband was discharged from the hospital, all hell broke loose at the Silver house. It started at 7:30 in the morning. I was in the middle of some serious multitasking (trying to get the kids off to school, cleaning the house, preparing for husband’s return, preparing for in-laws to arrive from Arizona.) I’m doing dishes and run the disposal. It clogs. A rank, milky-white water backs up into both sinks.
I put the two older kids on the school bus and then took the baby with to the grocery store where I bought Draino, returned home, poured Draino, and then left again to take the baby to her 4-hour-long Mom’s Day Out program.
By 10:00 a.m. I was at the hospital. The doctor still hadn’t signed Chris’ discharge papers yet. So we waited. And waited. And waited. And then it was time for me to pick up the baby. I called the in-laws and asked them to me meet me at the house (the were driving from Atlanta) instead of the hospital because taking a cranky, overtired two-year-old to the hospital to wait an indefinite amount of time for my husband’s release was not an option.
Sometime around 2:30, my mother-in-law and I drove to the hospital where Chris was waiting for us with his discharge instructions in hand.
We drove my husband home!
After we got him settled in the bedroom, I received a text message from my neighbor, asking me if I recognized a small pickup truck that was parked on the street by my house. I didn’t. She told me that the driver had been sitting inside of it all day. After everything my family had been through the last thing I needed was to deal with some creeper sitting outside of my house. I went outside to introduce myself.
I knew this was an incredibly stupid thing to do. That’s why I brought my father-in-law with me.
The driver of the pickup truck told me he was a private detective, conducting surveillance in the neighborhood.
A private detective? Seriously? I mean I guess that’s fine. It’s not like we had anything else going on. Details regarding the private detective are going to be saved for a later blog post because if I wrote about it here, this post would be ridiculously long. Suffice it to say that he was a legitimate private detective and also he continued parking on the street outside of my house for an entire week which was not illegal – according the police department who received many phone calls about his presence.
Read More: The Private Detective Predicament
A few hours later, my seven-year-old came home with a fever.
During a text conversation my mother asked me: How are you handling a kid with a fever, an injured husband, in-laws, and a clogged disposal?
Me: It’s fine.
Mom: It’s fine? Honey, have you been drinking?
Me: No, Mom, I haven’t been drinking.
24 Hours Later
The two-year-old reenacted a scene from The Excorcist and projectile vomited all over me. All I could do was stand there and let her hit me with it. (Shoutout to my mother-in-law who was fast acting with the towels.)
Another 24 Hours Later
The seven-year-old started vomiting.
Five Days Later
The vomiting is now under control but the two year-old had two very sleepless nights. I took her to the doctor where she was diagnosed with an ear infection. I’m on my way home when the school calls to tell me the seven-year-old is trying to cough up his lung. I drop the baby off with the in-laws, pick up the seven-year-old and take him back to the doctor’s office.
“Weren’t you here earlier today?” The nurse asked as I gave her my insurance card.
“Yep. I had so much fun earlier I thought I’d come back for more fun. But it’s okay, I brought a different kid.”
It turned out that the antibiotic they gave my son for the sinus infection they thought he had did nothing and he now had some kind of bronchial crud. They prescribed him a different antibiotic and we left.
Later that night after I put all of the kids to bed, I tried to go to sleep. My heart raced. I couldn’t catch my breath. It took almost two hours before I could fall asleep.
The next morning my heart was still racing and I still felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. I stared at my coffee, thinking maybe I should switch to an herbal tea. I have much respect for herbal teas but not at 6:00 a.m.
I switched to the herbal tea anyway and after another hour of my heart racing and still feeling out-of-breath, I decided to call the doctor.
The Doctor’s Office
I figured I was having a panic attack or suffering from anxiety and that the doctor would prescribe an anti-anxiety medication and send me on my way. Not so much.
The nurse who took my vitals told me I had a fever – which would explain the chills I felt while I was at the bus stop. It was 80 degrees outside that morning so the chills were definitely weird. The doctor came in and asked why I was there. I told her I was under extreme stress.
Doctor: You’re not under stress. You’re sick and you’re stressed because you’re sick.
Me: No. I think it’s the other way around.
Doctor: No. It’s not. Nobody likes being sick. It’s stressful.
Me: Can I tell you why I think the stress is causing the sick?
I gave her the Cliff’s Notes version of everything.
Doctor. Wow. That’s a lot of stress.
Doctor: I’d like to run a few tests.
Me: Knock yourself out.
The tests she ran included an EKG and a test for the flu. Have you ever been tested for the flu, Ellen? It’s like having a lobotomy with a cotton swab that’s stuck into your nose and up into your brain. It’s horrible.
40 minutes later the doctor returned.
Doctor: I have some concerns regarding your EKG.
I know how much my readers love it when I end with a cliffhanger and I’m truly sorry for that but I have to end the blog somewhere. Also, please know before you continue reading that I’m totally fine and in good health. And now for the ending.
Let’s just say that my husband wasn’t the only one who got an ambulance ride to the emergency room.