Will This Week Ever End?

Will This Week Ever End?

Monday I was gifted the stomach flu by students.  My husband was out of town all week, and since I hadn’t been to the grocery store last weekend I was sadly lacking food and liquids to ride out this storm.   I called my 77 year old mother and asked her to bring me the bland foods I needed.  I arranged for her to drop them on the stoop rather than come in, I wouldn’t have her infection on my conscience. 

As the week went on I’d occasionally have a ten hour stretch without symptoms, but the re-occurrences were nearly as vicious as the onset.  Late afternoon yesterday I ran out of the over the counter diarrhea medicine I’ve been eating like popcorn at a movie theater.  Mom came to the rescue once again.  We reenacted the hands free hand off.  I feel guilt for missing school all week; I don’t want her sickness adding to my guilt.

Today I surrendered and called the nurse.  After checking with the doctor I was directed to go to the E.R. for fluids and lab work.  I know the illness and aloneness has exacerbated the tearful reactions I’ve had the past two days.   I called my husband weeping; all my friends are at work.  I knew I wasn’t strong enough to drive myself.  With his encouragement I, once again, phoned my mother.  I had to rely on my mother for assistance.  Bless her, she willingly offered to drive for me.

As I gathered everything I need for the ride to the hospital I grabbed yet another bottle of the Sprite Mom had delivered Monday.  I’ve been forcing myself to drink any liquid I can stand.  I rode to the hospital with my eyes closed against the head ache and alternated between my water bottle and soft drink, desperately trying not to get dehydrated. 

The whole drive I kept as far away as I could, using every germ control technique I know.

 I even sat two chairs way from her in the waiting room, “I don’t want to infect you Mom”, and I’ve told her that all week.  After a moment my name was called. I stood, saying “I’ll go alone.”  I don’t want you to get this Mom.” I shuffled off to the exam room.

Just knowing Mom was there was comforting.   The first seven attempts to draw blood were unsuccessful.  Yes, it took eight pokes to find a good vein for a blood draw.  On the 4^th attempt the 3rd phlebotomist finally found a spot for the IV. I lay in the quiet room, resting, watching as slowly the meds in the clear bag started working.

 Three hours later, with several prescriptions in hand I walked back to the waiting room, I was re-hydrated and feeling stronger already.  “Thanks Mom.”  I repeated again as she stood up to leave.  “No problem,” she declared, pulling out her keys and an empty soft drink bottle.  “I hope you don’t mind I drank your Sprite.” 

My 77 year old Mother had just enjoyed approximately 19 ounces of contaminated Spite.

 Will this week ever end?