Adventures In Sick

This weekend, the boys and I were sick, sick, so sick. Friday, I spent the entire morning in bed with a feverish, sad Luke, who started to feel better at about 2... at which point, Tommy started running a fever. Unfortunately, Tommy is a spaz and instead of sleeping off a fever like most normal people, he attempted to scream off a fever. And scream he did, until about 2 the next day, at which point I started to feel miserable. It was like a revolving door of sick.
I was pretty certain that I was dying once or twice. I never run fevers (and my normal body temp is 97.3--I'm some sort of reptile), but I did Saturday and Sunday. Saturday night I ended up shivering on the couch, until Shane touched my neck and told me that I was burning up and should get to bed. A quick thermometer check put me at 102, which convinced me that I was, indeed, dying. Because I'm five and don't understand how bodies work, I curled up in bed underneath my comforter, until I woke up an hour later, a full degree hotter than I was, probably thanks to the giant comforter in which I'd cocooned myself. Hilariously, I made my way downstairs to get aspirin, only it took me 20 minutes because I had to stop and lie on the couch for ten minutes before I could continue downstairs (which only further proved my theory that I was, indeed, dying). Somehow I made it up and down and back to bed, only to discover that Luke was now inhabiting the bed with me. He very sweetly rubbed my head and then spent the ENTIRE NIGHT sleeping pressed up against me. Which is exactly what you need when your forehead is hot enough to fry an egg.

Sunday, the fever was gone, but my throat was sore, and I was still certain I was dying thanks to a pounding headache that not only wouldn't leave but would get worse if I moved my head in certain ways. Monday morning, still with the headache, so I headed off to urgent care, which is actually slightly more pleasant when you aren't bleeding everywhere (and this time I remembered to bring a photo ID, jerks), but still not a place I enjoy visiting. When the doctor came in, I instantly wanted to punch him in the face, which was a strange reaction. I justified it when he spent most of the visit talking to me about spinal taps and what a spinal tap would be like and would I like to come to the ER to get a spinal tap? But then, he told me he was an osteopath as well as an ER doctor and he could adjust my neck and maybe that would help with the headache, and it was a bizarre moment where I was all, "Well, I hope this guy is legit and not just trying to go all Mortal Kombat and snap my neck, but this severe headache probably means I'm dying anyway, so why not?" SO THEN, he did all these crazy adjustments, one of which involved me with my head buried in his arm almost falling off the exam table, and I kept thinking, "How do I get myself into these things? Why don't these things happen to anyone else I know!?"
But! As soon as I sat up, my head felt better, and obviously, he didn't snap my neck, so I figured we were good. Then he gave me antibiotics for the throat and told me that if my head started to hurt, I could come to the ER tomorrow and he'd do a spinal tap. Seriously, those were his parting words.

On the drive home, I was on the phone with my mom and suddenly I shouted, I KNOW WHY I HATE HIM!! To which my mom responded, "Uhh... what?" Because we were talking about cupcakes at the time, and she knows I'd never use the word hate when talking about cupcakes. No, instead, I realized that this doctor and I go WAY BACK to the night Tommy was born, when he tried to yank back the blanket to look at Tommy and I seriously thought he was going to take away my baby. In hindsight, everyone in the ER was kind of in a tizzy when we were wheeled in and we ended up with about eight people around us wanting to see Tommy, so he probably didn't have any ill intentions (unlike a year later, when he clearly tried to snap my neck and failed), but it's nice to know that at least I'm not losing my mind.

This is turning into the longest post ever, isn't it? What I really wanted to tell you is that I was very sick this weekend, so today when I felt better, I spent the entire morning cleaning. I did five loads of laundry and scrubbed bathrooms and the kitchen and vacuumed and made the kitchen table look nice, and I feel like I scrubbed my soul a little, because that sort of sick where you can't do anything but be in bed and feel miserable and be sad for how you feel? It's the heaviest, worst kind of sick.

{Two seconds after I took this picture, my soon to be one year dumped an entire fistful of noodles on the clean floor.}