Over the weekend, Little L puked in that projectile-violent-liquid-germ-warfare kind of way. It was enough to warrant bedding changes, hot water laundry loads, and Hubbs and I staying up nearly all night in a watchful state for recurrences. Thankfully, there wasn't a repeat performance, at least not that night. Following her first episode, we decided to put her on the breastmilk and BRAT diet, which worked so well that we deluded ourselves into thinking that she could enjoy a bit of an ice cream sandwich at dinner time.
Her entire stomach contents soon revisited us, and now we are in the market for a new bedroom rug.
Following her violent upchuck, she slept fine and has been on a remarkably speedy road to recovery. Granted, I am still limiting her to fish crackers and bananas and rice, but as of this afternoon she has been able to keep down that delicious chocolate milk she enjoyed at breakfast time.
I, however, apparently belong to the "go big or go home" philosophy of illnesses, because I went big. Real big. Whatever Little L "caught," she not only passed on to me, but it magnified its virulence about 1000x over when it entered my system. As the weekend drew to a close, and the sun prepared to rise on a glorious Monday morning, I found myself alternating between hovering over the porcelain throne and sitting on it. Within 8 hours, I had emptied my stomach contents via violent vomiting about 5 times, and had peed through my butt (TMI - sorrynotsorry) about 7 times. Not since my famous Koh Samui food poisoning incident (which landed me in a Thai international hospital overnight) have I purged so much of my bodily fluids.
A call to 8-1-1 (of course) advised me to seek medical attention immediately. I suspected that I was dehydrated, and since I wasn't about to chance another bout of puking, Hubbs brought me to the nearest ER, stat! Of course, I wasn't really priority that morning, so I had to wait well over an hour before I could be seen. The doc on duty immediately had me IV'ed and also gave me a dose of anti-nausea through IV. That seemed to calm the raging beast inside my bowels, which allowed me to rest between blood tests and pee tests and all that other grand stuff.
And then, Zofran-prescription in hand, I was sent home. Weak, light-headed, aching and tired, but no longer spewing liquid poison from both ends.
|Handsome Hubbs and I, at a wedding before Little L fell ill|
All the while, my hero of a Hubbs took time off from work to care for Little L and look after his ailing wife. Even when it meant taking the toddler out for a McDonalds breakfast date (she had oatmeal, and not much of it), or going for a midnight stroll with her, or snuggling on the couch watching Daniel Tiger in the middle of the night so that I could get some rest. I am so lucky that my man is so caring!
But let me tell you, the dishes don't get done when Momma's sick. The laundry does not get done. The toys lay scattered on the living room rug. You get the picture.
So lesson learned: don't ever ever ever get sick if you're the mom. It ain't pretty.