Sicker By A Mile

First, I'd like to say that no parents were harmed in the making of this blog. But the week is still young.

Is there anything I can say here, with regards to my family at large, that would surprise either of us? I wouldn't think so, and yet they still manage to get me.

Let's start with Sunday. Apparently my mom was ill enough to require 911. I found out from a voicemail left by my dad. He doesn't text. Ever. For any reason. He also won't watch any movie made after 1950. But that's another story.

Calling my parents is daunting. You will never get someone to answer the first time you call, and probably not the second time either. A few years ago, I was hospitalized with appendicitis. I called their house, to tell them of my emergent and impending surgery, knowing they were home. It was the day before Thanksgiving. They are retired. Where else would they be?

Again and again I tried to call them, to absolutely no avail. "I'm having an emergency appendectomy today" isn't exactly the kind of thing you want to leave on a voicemail. But after five unanswered phone calls I really had no choice. After I left the message on their house phone, I tried their cell phones again. I finally reached my dad on his phone, but when I told him, he yelled for my mother. Wendi has appendicitis, he called out.

But she had just heard my voicemail, so she knew. And now she had just one concern:

Why, in God's name, had I called my dad?

So Sunday, when I missed my dad's call, I knew I was not likely to know what was going on with my mom anytime soon. No answer from either cell, no matter how much I called. I finally had to call the ER nurse, who helpfully handed the phone to my dad. I'm hoping I can convince her to live with them. Every phone call should be that easy.

As my dad filled me in on what was going on with my mom, I could hear someone in the background asking for Levophed. It's a drug. An adage popped into my head. Levophed you're dead. And I thought, Poor bastard.

Turns out, the poor bastard was my mom. That's some Alanis irony for you right there.

Now, my mom is sick. Sick. We're both health care professionals; I'm used to tackling any health care issue - hers or someone else's - with her. She can't participate this time though, leaving me alone with a family that doesn't see her illness like I see it. Like she and I would see it together. I feel like I sat down to write only to discover my hand was gone.

Enter the crazy. Aunt is convinced that, despite the CT scan of the chest that clearly demonstrates pneumonia, my mom's illness is from a urinary tract infection. Why, you're asking, right? Well, my mom nearly got this sick six months ago from a urinary tract infection .

That's it. Don't wait for more of an explanation. There's none coming.

Sister has a much more elaborate - and, may I say, sinister - reason for my mom's acute illness. My mom's middle name is Blanche, for her grandmother, who died shortly after my mom was born.

My sister's new baby's middle name is Barbara, after my mom. You see where this is headed.

Apparently, if you want to off a female member of my family, you give a child her name. Is it some kind of virus? A scourge from drinking unpotable water? The dawn of the zombie apocalypse? I just don't know, but for God's sake, don't name your kid after me.

One day this week, Aunt and I huddled in the hospital hallway, discussing my mom's condition. Aunt is having some ongoing dental work, she explained. Until it's complete, she's wearing a partial plate. The plate doesn't always sit right in her mouth. But when it does, it is, she tells me, in the G-spot. And laughs at her analogy.

"Hold on," I say, and write that one down for later.

That saucy lady, advocate of the G-spot.

Tuesday night I was so exhausted that I managed to use the bathroom during the night without ever waking up. It's nothing short of a miracle that I didn't pee the bed, and I'm willing to take the miracles where they come this week.

By Wednesday, I could see that Husband, who has been the lighthouse that keeps me from banging on the rocks, was suffering. I decided to throw him a bone or - more accurately - have him throw me one. I tended to some grooming without much success. My Nair must be old because by the time I was done southern Wendi was a calico of bald patches. I went for it anyway, took what I could, and mentally offered Husband apologies for what I'm sure was a lackluster performance.

The best thing I can say about this week is that the progression of my mom's illness has been nearly identical to Lamar Odom's. My dad owns property in Las Vegas. I'm telling people my mom was at the property, partying with Lamar when she got sick. I'm trying to convince my dad that he should dress as Khloe for Halloween, and we'll dress my mom like Lamar.

Am I horrible for finding the humor in this dire situation? Well, I usually write my posts while my kids are in Sunday School. My mom is usually there, asking me what stories I'm telling about the family this week. So I'll write this and in my head my mom is standing behind me, asking me what I'm up to while my kids are getting churched.

Come to think of it, this is probably God's way of saying I'm not as funny as I think I am.

Wendi's Binge of the Week
Since I'm relegated to a hospital bedside, I'm bingeing on library books. My subject matter is old school Stephen King. Pet Sematary and Carrie will make you feel less sorry for yourself in a hurry. Check out Misery and Christine. For my money, they are two of the best books ever written.