I got home Monday afternoon around three.
Feeling unusually domestic, despite the lingering sinusitis, I began to season some chicken, so it’d be ready to pop in the oven later (when my kids start turning on me).
Just as I was sprinkling the salt, a scream came from upstairs.
BABE. BAAAAAAABE. BAAAAAAAAABE.
It startled me.
Why was there a man in my house, in the middle of the day, calling me babe?
Did I get roofied the night before and have an affair?
Was it a polite serial killer letting me know that he thought I was a babe but would regretfully have to murder me anyway?
Negative on both counts.
Unbeknownst to me, my husband had come home early.
The urgency in his voice made me drop what I was doing and run.
“Food poisoning,” he said, moaning from the pain.
Let me call our doctor friend and ask him to call some phenagren in for you. I’ll be back in five with a puke bucket and some wet towels.
Our friend was away from his phone and didn’t get my text for some time. Enough time for me to dig deeper into my husband’s symptoms, the worst one being flank/side pain.
This really scared me.
Tiny Hello Kitty alarm bells went off in my head.
(Just kidding….I fucking hate Hello Kitty.)
I thought to myself, “Wait a second, it’s not like I’m asking for xanax or some fun prescription, this is totally legit. I should probably call our actual doctor.”
Thank God I did, because a quick trip to the ER confirmed my husband had unjustly thrown Jason’s Deli under the bus.
I took to Twitter to discuss.
The anecdotes and stories came pouring in.
— Nosefrida(@Nosefrida) February 26, 2013
“Oh good advice!” I thought.
Followed by, “Oh, dear God no. NO.”
I can always count on @nosefrida to give me good advice. First, allergy. Tonight, kidney stones. Wait, please tell me there’s no penisfrida?
— Allison Zapata (@allisonzapata) February 26, 2013
It took three days and two trips to the ER for the stone to pass, leaving me looking a bit…frazzled.
Luckily, it passed just in time for Luca to go on his ski trip with his dad.
(Another thing I was freaking over – the kid is a mama’s boy through and through, and it’s his first time going away without me.)
He left yesterday morning and I held it together, masking my nerves with excitement.
An hour later, my husband texted me a picture.
My angst quickly morphed into relief and excitement.
Three days with one kid – the one who sleeps! Swish!
I headed to pick up Leo at school.
His teacher mentioned he hadn’t eaten (weird) and that he’d been coughing non-stop. I made a last minute appointment so the doctor could give his lungs a listen.
I wasn’t too worried, I just wanted to be on the safe side.
In fact, I was not worried enough to snap an arrogant selfie while stuck in traffic, to show off my new Claudia Lobao earrings, and the fact that I’d finally taken a shower.
But, in the three hours between the I’m a blogger who loves herself picture and his doctor’s appointment, things went from bad to really scary. Leo began coughing, gagging and gasping, even after two rounds of Albuterol.
The doctor listened to his lungs and agreed.
He couldn’t leave without taking a 15 minute hit from the neb and having his lungs rechecked.
He hated it…until I pulled out my iPhone and put on Max and (motherfucking) Ruby, allowing us to get through treatment without needing to put Leo in a headlock.
And, as if his lungs being an asshole wasn’t enough, he had a double ear AND eye infection.
Also, as per usual, his skin was in cahoots with his airway.
Thankfully, the nebulizer worked well enough that we were allowed to leave with our four million prescriptions.
While this ordeal wasn’t physically exhausting (for me), it was a wrecking crew on my emotions. So, after picking up his meds, I went old school.
They need to change their slogan.
“Pizza Hut – Making it Real Heartburny if You’re Over Thirty.”
After dinner, we stumbled over the collateral damage of the day and curled up in my bed.
One dose of prednisone, another of antibiotics, some eye drops, lotion, and a swig of Motrin later, he was back to his silly-sweet-self.
See that vein on my forehead?
It’s my forehead mood ring that indicates when you are in clear and present danger.
When I get angry, stressed, excited, or drunk, it will let the world know it.
After some one-on-one Leo time, it was less…scary looking.
Leo came down from his prednisone high and I put him to sleep (not like they do at the vet).
The child who sleeps all night was finally out cold…
Until 3 a.m.
Well played, universe, well played.