Monday, January 17, 2011

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful

I've mentioned before that John was a sick baby. We didn't know why he was sick until he was almost eight months old. He vomited non-stop. He had copious amounts of mucus -- and I do mean copious. It made people gag. He had problems breathing. Only two friends ever watched him, and both are RN's.
Eventually we found ourselves in the hospital because of a stomach virus.  I literally threw the girls in my bedroom, while my husband was, uhm, incapacitated in the bathroom, and tore off to the ER in the mini van, because John turned blue.

When I took John to the ER, I'd already been awake for 20 hours.  About 20 hours later,  a nurse came in and sat with me while I gave him two ounces of formula. He took it, was happy. She hung out for 10 or 15 minutes, all was well. She left. He reached for me and I picked him up.

And friends, he vomited like Linda Blair. Down my shirt. Filled my bra. My belly button. My under ware.  I began screaming like a idiot. He'd done this to me before and nobody had believed me. I take that back. My sister in law, Kerry, saw it happen (the day I met her. Hi! Welcome the family!) so she believed me. But even my pediatrician, who I adore, really thought I was exaggerating.

The nurse came running and actually froze when she saw me. John was happy as could be. I was a sobbing, vomitous mess. She looked at the disaster and made the astute observation, "That is more than two ounces of vomit."  

I peeled myself away from John and she said she'd bathe him for me. That meant I could take a shower and change. Or not. Because I had no clothes. I hadn't exactly packed a bag when I'd left, my husband and the girls were still sick at home and I had the mini van with the car seats, which meant that he couldn't even drop clothes off for me at the desk.

So I asked the nurse for a pair of scrubs to use until I could get someone to swing by the house.

Yeah  .  . . no. Hospitals can't let you wear scrubs because people impersonate doctors and do stupid stuff.   But the nurse did offer me a hospital gown. She was even kind and gave me two so my hiney wasn't hanging out. Since my under ware was full of puke and all.

SO. I scrubbed down, kinda, with hospital soap. John was screaming at this point, so I flew threw a shower. No hair washing, just 'quick rinse off the chunks, you can shower at home because surely you'll be home soon' wash.

I got out, soothed John, he fell asleep and I fell apart. And realized I hadn't eaten in 40 plus hours. The hospital had this cool little service that brings food to you, so I ordered.  I was visibly shaking, I was so starved by this point.

The food arrived. I was standing there in my two hospital gowns, hospital slippers, hairy legs, hair like Medusa's, literally eating the chicken from a Caesar salad with my fingers when the doctor doing rounds walks in surrounded by interns.

Correction. The Greek God Adonis walked into the room and a beam of light shone upon his head and angels sang and I may or may not have started drooling.

I looked dead in McDreamy's eyes, wiped the Caesar dressing from chin and said, "Don't let my beauty startle you. Really. I know it's a bit much to take in."

What would you have done?