So it’s the fourth of July! Cue the cookouts, fireworks, and red, white, and blue. Meanwhile, I’ll be spending the day in my pajamas chasing my Motrin with Gatorade. Why, yes. It has been one heck of a week. On the way home from celebrating my friend’s wedding last weekend (more to come on that later!), I started to feel a little sick. And as the time went on, “a little sick” turned into “uh, Matt, I think I’m dying”. No, really. I might or might not have emailed Matt my funeral wishes in a particularly bad moment yesterday. (And while I’m in the confessing sorta mood, might I add that when I was not planning my own funeral yesterday, I was watching five episodes of Dawson’s Creek in a row. I’m so awesome, I know.)
Alas, I did not die. Or at least I haven’t yet. However, I was forced/coerced/bribed by my doctor and nurse friends to go to the ER last night once my fever became particularly impressive. It was quite the experience. First off, I think I’m going to have to play dumb in my medical care from here on out. Because when the doctor asked me for my history, I gave it to him the only way I know how. I suppose he picked up on the medical jargon I inadvertently used because he looked at me and asked, “so, in what field of medicine do you work?” And then he asked me what I wanted him to do! Even though I was the one in the hospital gown looking quite pitiful!! Say what?! I gave him a confused look and then mumbled “well, a CBC would be nice to start with.” (Dear all future ER docs out there: when a patient thinks she’s dying, please do not ask her to order all of her own labwork and films. K, thanks.) So, long story short, chest x-rays don’t lie, and it seems as though I have a pretty nice case of pneumonia. Yes, pneumonia in July really does happen… to people like me anyway.
The good news is that I no longer feel like I’m dying. My fever has finally broken and I (much to everyone’s dismay) am even considering trying to work part of the day tomorrow. Because, yes I am that stubborn. (Um, case in point: in my feverish and achy state, I felt compelled to follow through with my plans to switch Carson’s room on Monday. Oh you know, just moving heavy pieces of furniture and beds and box springs across the house and down the stairs. Alone. With not-yet-diagnosed pneumonia. No biggie.)
But for now, it’s back up to bed I go. My saintly husband who has taken such stellar care of me would shoot me if he knew I wasn’t following doctor’s orders and getting the rest I need. Who ever said nurses make good patients anyway?