Those were the only thoughts running through my head as I laid on my hospital gurnee on Tuesday afternoon.
Well, that and, "I'm freezing! I need another blanket."
My mother always told me I had a flair for the dramatic.
The whole sordid ordeal began early Tuesday morning. Around 1am, I woke up with terrible leg cramps and stomach cramping. I managed to make it to the bathroom in time, but then spent the next three hours in there. Weirdly enough, I felt better by the time I climbed into bed at 4, and actually thought, "I think I can still make it to boot camp when the alarm goes off at 5:30." Fifteen minutes later, I was back in the bathroom and boot camp became a distant dream.
Around 8, I called in the baby-sitter. There was no way I could handle a toddler in my present condition. Scotty thought it was hilarious that I was lying on the couch and took every opportunity to crawl on top of me, and then jump on my side. I didn't have the strength to battle him, so I called in reinforcement. Thankfully, our regular sitter Sierra was available and came quickly.
I perked up a bit around 10am and chalked up my illness to something not agreeing with me from last night. But when I woke up again around noon, something was seriously off. I couldn't stand up, I had broken out into a cold sweat, and every beverage on the night stand - water, Gatorade, ginger ale, and Coca-Cola - produced dry heaves. As I stood awkwardly near the sink, brushing my teeth, the whole world went white. I managed to crawl back to bed, cried hysterically for Sierra (who at that point had gone from nanny to nurse) and asked her what I should do. Nothing freaks me out more than passing out. We stood (well, I laid there), looking at each other helplessly, and she said she would call 911. The only thought that registered in my foggy brain was that ambulances are expensive (Scotty's little voyage on Day 8 of his young life cost us $1200) and no, the last thing I need is to have the neighbors see me carted out of my house on a gurnee. So she ran to grab a cold wash cloth, I tried to drink some Coke (since blacking out is always correlated with low blood sugar in my life - I guess that's what happens when you grow up with a parent who is a serious diabetic), and just laid there and cried. Pathetic, I know.
After two hours of just laying there, debating my odds, I finally called it. I must have meningitis. Or this is the SuperFlu that is going to destroy the planet because of our overuse of antibiotics. Or appendicitis. Or something else that ends in "itis." Too bad my iPhone was too far away or I would have googled WebMd.
With Brian on his way home, Sierra drove me to the ER. I limped through the doors, like the walking dead, clutching only my wallet, phone, and Chapstick. I figured if the world was ending, those are the three things I most need. The triage staff took one look at me and asked me what I had eaten the night before. I'll admit, I had some questionable blueberries. They kind of shook their heads and escorted me to Room 4.
This meat locker of a room could not have been more than 55 degrees. In nothing but a very thin hospital gown, I related the last three days of my life to the nurse on duty. His working hypothesis: the race on Saturday left me slightly dehydrated. Something (those berries?) caused a rather unpleasant, unexpected reaction in my system, which made me lose a great deal of fluids, leaving me dehydrated, weak, and dizzy.
Treatment? Two bags of fluids, anti-nausea meds (mmm, Zofran, my old friend), and Lomitol. I took some pictures because I was bored.
Well, that and, "I'm freezing! I need another blanket."
My mother always told me I had a flair for the dramatic.
The whole sordid ordeal began early Tuesday morning. Around 1am, I woke up with terrible leg cramps and stomach cramping. I managed to make it to the bathroom in time, but then spent the next three hours in there. Weirdly enough, I felt better by the time I climbed into bed at 4, and actually thought, "I think I can still make it to boot camp when the alarm goes off at 5:30." Fifteen minutes later, I was back in the bathroom and boot camp became a distant dream.
Around 8, I called in the baby-sitter. There was no way I could handle a toddler in my present condition. Scotty thought it was hilarious that I was lying on the couch and took every opportunity to crawl on top of me, and then jump on my side. I didn't have the strength to battle him, so I called in reinforcement. Thankfully, our regular sitter Sierra was available and came quickly.
I perked up a bit around 10am and chalked up my illness to something not agreeing with me from last night. But when I woke up again around noon, something was seriously off. I couldn't stand up, I had broken out into a cold sweat, and every beverage on the night stand - water, Gatorade, ginger ale, and Coca-Cola - produced dry heaves. As I stood awkwardly near the sink, brushing my teeth, the whole world went white. I managed to crawl back to bed, cried hysterically for Sierra (who at that point had gone from nanny to nurse) and asked her what I should do. Nothing freaks me out more than passing out. We stood (well, I laid there), looking at each other helplessly, and she said she would call 911. The only thought that registered in my foggy brain was that ambulances are expensive (Scotty's little voyage on Day 8 of his young life cost us $1200) and no, the last thing I need is to have the neighbors see me carted out of my house on a gurnee. So she ran to grab a cold wash cloth, I tried to drink some Coke (since blacking out is always correlated with low blood sugar in my life - I guess that's what happens when you grow up with a parent who is a serious diabetic), and just laid there and cried. Pathetic, I know.
After two hours of just laying there, debating my odds, I finally called it. I must have meningitis. Or this is the SuperFlu that is going to destroy the planet because of our overuse of antibiotics. Or appendicitis. Or something else that ends in "itis." Too bad my iPhone was too far away or I would have googled WebMd.
With Brian on his way home, Sierra drove me to the ER. I limped through the doors, like the walking dead, clutching only my wallet, phone, and Chapstick. I figured if the world was ending, those are the three things I most need. The triage staff took one look at me and asked me what I had eaten the night before. I'll admit, I had some questionable blueberries. They kind of shook their heads and escorted me to Room 4.
This meat locker of a room could not have been more than 55 degrees. In nothing but a very thin hospital gown, I related the last three days of my life to the nurse on duty. His working hypothesis: the race on Saturday left me slightly dehydrated. Something (those berries?) caused a rather unpleasant, unexpected reaction in my system, which made me lose a great deal of fluids, leaving me dehydrated, weak, and dizzy.
Treatment? Two bags of fluids, anti-nausea meds (mmm, Zofran, my old friend), and Lomitol. I took some pictures because I was bored.
And I have to tell you, by the second bag of juice, I felt myself perking up.
Mmm, good stuff.
Within three hours, I limped out of the ER a little faster than how I came in. Brian and Scotty were there to pick me up, and I promptly went to bed as soon as we got home. This morning, I feel about 80% and am continuing the fluids.
And avoiding the berries.
And avoiding the berries.
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