So apparently I made a mistake a little while ago. I was slightly sick, but still pushing through watching the kids, cleaning the house, pulling out leftovers for dinner, and all those other good things that just won’t wait. Dear Boy tried to help, but since he’s a full-time student I really feel like I shouldn’t accept his help too much–he needs to study.
Anyhow, I remember complaining (mildly, I like to think) about not getting a day off to be sick. Dear Boy looked appropriately apologetic and continued with his school work, and so I mused out loud, “The only way a mom can get a real day off is if she’s in the hospital, huh?”
I was joking. I swear I was. But apparently, someone took me seriously.
That’s right–I’m in the hospital. And frankly, after the last 14 hours, I’ll take screaming kids over a day off any day!
Dear Boy brought me into the ER last night because I was having severe difficulties breathing. My vitals all checked out fine, I just couldn’t seem to catch my breath. Never have I received such prompt treatment at a hospital! Turns out, they suspected a pulmonary embolism. I had just assumed it was pneumonia.
It was neither.
In fact, we still don’t know what the problem is. It started Monday and just got worse until last night (although I feel much better now–ready to go home, in fact, if they’d just finish their tests and let me out!). They have me up on the cardiac floor, which seems ludicrous both at my age and with my vital signs and CAT scan results. And no, I’m not upset at the precautions; I really get it. Chest pain + shortness of breath + no answers = assume it’s a heart problem. Kind of like innocent until proven guilty. I really appreciate the nurses and doctors and what they’re trying to do for me. Everyone is being so kind.
But I miss my babies.
And I’m tired of needles.
In fact, I’m just tired period. I always figured hospitals would be a great place to rest and recuperate; not even close, as it turns out. They came up to offer me food at 1 a.m. (because I wouldn’t be allowed to eat after 4, so it was quite thoughtful) and, thinking I was finished for the night, I tried to go to sleep. Apparently, “finished for the night” doesn’t exist in the hospital. My night went thus:
1:30: Blood draw.
2:00: Guy from pulmonary in to listen to my lungs.
4:30: Nurse’s aid in to check vital signs.
5:30: Nurse in to check on me.
6:30: Nutritionist in to give me the menu of food I’m not allowed to eat until later.
7:30: Another blood draw.
And that doesn’t include checks on my roommate. Sigh.
Point being, I learned my lesson. No more hospital vacations for this Mama! Let my kids mow me into the ground on their worst days: At least when they wake me up at night, it’s not with needle in hand.