Recommended wine for today’s entry: Today I’m going to offer a recommendation from my friends Rick and Becky, wine lovers who enjoy their research. Because I’m drained from no sleep last night, their suggestion of a Muge Rose, a Spanish rose, sounds good. As they write, it’s “light, crisp and a tad minerally. Absolutely perfect for sitting beside the pool, watching the sun set and listening to Bruce Cockburn’s, ‘If This Were The Last Night on Earth.’ ” Wow! Nice description! If you all have favorite wines, send ’em to me on Facebook or in Comments!
Yesterday, I took my ailing daughter to walk-in medical care place. While I admit they are convenient, I’m not a big fan.
For one thing, they always look at me like I have Munchausen by proxy, just because this child can have a raging fever for 22 hours, walk into the doctor’s office, drop to 98.6 degrees, get in the car and spike back to 101. She does it every time. I yell at her for it.
So then I have to always explain to them about New Year’s Eve 2007, when she told me all day that she felt badly, and all day I told her that she was fine. Guilt kicked in, and before leaving for a party, we decided to get her checked out. After finding six places closed — the whole New Year’s Eve thing — finally we took her to the ER, which I usually avoid like the plague because you can contract it there.
When we walked in, amidst a sea of drunks, we almost turned around. Just as I was explaining to the powers-that-be that she didn’t seem to have a fever and had been threatening to throw up but hadn’t, one nurse announced her temperature at 103-point-something and another one held out a trashcan as she threw up something foamy and the color of anti-freeze. I shut up then and she was in the hospital for five days with a raging kidney infection.
So now, understandably, I’m a little more cautious. But I am not an alarmist and there’s no call to be mean. But they are. First the nurse, some kind of psycho whose hearing is worse than mine, kept asking the sick kid questions. OK, lady, she’s here because her throat hurts so badly she hates to open her mouth. So of course you can’t hear or understand her. So I started answering the questions.
“What, she can’t tell me her own symptoms?” mean nurse says. Then she asks if she has been running a fever.
“Well,” I explain, “I have a whole lot of trouble reading those real kind of thermometers and they really hurt my arm when I have to shake them down first. But she was definitely super hot — I think it was around 100 or 101.” Boy, she jumped on that! (And, OK, it was a really stupid thing to say, but I was like trembling.)
“So, you can’t work a thermometer but you can touch someone’s head and tell a temp?” She sneered at me and I noticed she had ugly teeth to go with her ugly face.
Then, as she took my daughter’s blood pressure, she prattled on about her second ex-husband having strep right before she divorced him, which was right before he died. What a charmer. Then she left.
The doctor breezed in and did a strep test. Negative. Said she might have a sinus infection but she’d need to feel like this for seven days before he’d prescribe anything. Then he handed her a prescription for an antibiotic. Is anyone else confused at this point? Well, we filled it before he could retract.
I let her sleep with me last night so that she could blow her less-than-minty breath and germs all over me more efficiently. She moaned all night long. When it got really loud, I would ask rhetorically, “what hurts now?” And she would answer, the same every time, “head-throat-stomach.” Always in that order and always as one word.
This went on all night, except for the time I got her Tylenol and broke my nail trying to turn on the light, the time I got water on the washcloth and caught my pinkie toe on the foot of the wastebasket (which I know hurt worse than her head-throat-stomach) and when I got her a cracker, which stayed down less than a minute.
At one point, we both slept for about 30 minutes. I awakened to daylight when I heard my husband, who’d been banished to the dungeon guest room, come in, feel her head and declare her healed. Woo-hoo, I thought. The birds sang. Then I heard her moan again. I opened my eyes and it was still dark out, my husband wasn’t there and she was clearly still sick. The way I was sure it was a dream (mirage?) though, was that there were three cats lining the margin of my bed, not just one. And the bedside table was not filled with caramel corn. If any of you are dream analysts, let me know what the caramel corn symbolizes. I could even smell it.
Today there’s been a little improvement. Of course, NOW she’s sleeping …
And if any of y’all are judging me for being a bad caregiver, you’re probably right. But one day soon I will relate the story of When I Had The Flu Or Bubonic Plague Last Year. Then I’ll be vindicated.