Pregnant Women Just Gotta Deal

 

A local father-to-be is honored for the hard work he did around the house on Saturday, while his wife “just puked all day”.

Jon Rhett goes on to say, “I mean, the dishes weren’t going to do themselves, right? Some of the bowls had cereal stuck on them so they were very hard to wash. I learned you have to let those soak because I cut myself on a sharp Frosted Flake that had adhered to the side of the bowl.” He then held up his middle finger which was indeed bandaged.

It wasn’t just the dishes that he helped with, though. Jon also vacuumed the living room (“I ate the cereal in there; I dropped a couple pieces”) and also used a hand towel to wipe off the sink in the bathroom. “After I did that, I threw it on the bathroom floor and did a little foot mopping. My wife spends almost three hours a day, every day, in here doing the Technicolor yawn. You’d think she would have gotten all of the ick off the floor, at least. But no, there was still a spot or two behind the toilet. Or maybe just a misfire from the old piss-cannon. Either way, our bathroom hasn’t looked this good in months,” he said. “I just threw the hand towel I used on the floor back up on the rack. Didn’t want to make extra laundry.”

The two are expecting their first child in a few months. Jon said his wife, Sega, claims to be suffering from “hyperemesis gravitadarum” almost since the day she got pregnant. “Oh, sure I Googled it,” he relates. “And of course some pregnant ladies throw up a lot. But that’s usually only for the first couple of months. My wife seems to really be drawing this out—I’m starting to think it’s intentional so she can get out of housework. I mean, I get it, though. Sometimes my stomach is a little upset. Every single Saturday morning, I feel exactly the same way. I’m hungover after Friday nights with my bros. But as you can clearly see, I was still able to do some housework even though I didn’t feel well. It really is just mind over matter. Take some Pepto, am I right? Some preggos run marathons clear up until their ninth month, I read somewhere. We all just gotta deal.”

When asked if he attends obstetrician appointments with his wife, Jon laughingly shook his head. “The last time we went together, we took my new pickup. Do you know how hard it is to clean puke out of floor mats? She had to buy me new ones because even though she used toothpicks on the grooves, some things just don’t come out. It still smells in there.”

One of Jon’s bros, Charlie Pratt, submitted his name and a small story describing his momentous aid and personal sacrifice to an online contest on “Everyday Husbands”, a small Facebook group of newly married men. When the admins of Everyday Husbands called Jon to let him know he won the prize (limo service to a local steakhouse and $100 gift card to the restaurant), no one was more surprised than his wife.

Jon said, “It’s almost as if she wasn’t excited that I won something.” When asked when he planned on using the winning limo ride and dinner prize with her, he told our reporter, “You know, I’m not really sure she’s going to be up for going out to dinner anytime soon. I’ll probably invite my friend Charlie from the group; his wife is expecting triplets and I imagine he’s probably going stir crazy,” he chuckled. “We could both use a night out from our respective ball-and-chains. Besides, this is a treat for my wife too. Now she won’t have to make me dinner whatever night Charlie and I decide to go. Plus she’d probably throw it up anyway. And now she won’t have to do dishes that night either.”

We tried to reach Jon’s wife for comment on his prize, but our calls were not returned.

Cold Sores and Dry Shampoo

It began innocently enough.  A minor itch.  A slight twinge.  A little tingle.  I started to fret.  But maybe it wouldn’t happen this time.  After all, I had gotten through other bouts of illness without developing one—maybe this would be one of those times.  

 

Dream on. 

 

It was not to be.  At work, I felt the no-mistaking-it tingle heralding the new arrival, and a look in my compact mirror confirmed what I already knew:  I was witnessing the birth of the world’s worst cold sore.  

 

Fever Blister.  Herpes simplex.  It all sounds different to the ear but in the end, they are all the same—a gigantic cootie cluster on my lower lip, half an inch from dead center.

 

Maybe it wasn’t so much a birth as a coming home, however.  After all, the only place I ever, ever get cold sores is in that very same spot.  Same lip.  Every time.  What skeeves me out even more is the fact that despite my OCD antibacterial hand gel application efforts, despite wiping every touchable hard surface at home and at work with antibacterial wipes, despite bathing in Lysol and gargling with bleach, I got one anyway.  

 

Remembering backward, I realized that I had seen a coworker sporting a fever blister a week or two before.  The "ewww" factor has been racketed up a notch.

 

Typically, the day before the spot actually makes its debut there is also quite a bit of pain, especially on the Chris Cacciatore unique pain scale.  I'm not saying I'm a big baby but even a hangnail will wake me up at night.  Throw a cold sore at me and it’s grounds for calling in sick.

 

The last time I got a massive cold sore was during a…you guessed it…cold.  My defenses were down; I should have seen it coming.  I had felt crappy all day at work, and suddenly, my entire bottom lip looked as if a chorus line of bees had stung it in unison.  That night at home, the pain was so intense that I was forced to start my obituary.  

 

The next morning, surprised to find myself still alive, I realized that due to all the tossing and turning I did the night during the world’s worst night’s sleep, I had overslept.

 

For those who have no time for a quick shower, it’s dry shampoo to the rescue.  Or so I thought.

I had picked it up on a whim, this Tresemme dry shampoo.  I had overheard a conversation while sitting at McDonald's writing one afternoon.  It's normally a great place to write because you can tune everything out except this time, when two young women were talking about their hair, it caught my attention, mostly because they were actually pronouncing it "her".  That word was accompanied by lots of patting of said "her".  The conversation was animated as they discussed hair products but came to a standstill when one told the other she washed her hair daily.

 

The other said back, "You'll dry your "her" out!  Don't do that, girl.  Use some o' that dry shampoo.  You won’t believe how it perks up your hairstyle on days when you are skipping a day, or maybe you're just too lazy to wash your hair.”  

 

What?  A new way to be stylish while still allowing me to be lazy?  Sign me up.  I actually found some at the store on the way home.  Now, normally, I don't take much advice from people sitting in McDonald's but due to the above referenced illness, I’m game...and since I overslept, what better time to try it?

 

Getting ready for work that morning, squinting through the cloud of agony my lip was causing, I read the directions and applied the dry shampoo to my own "her" accordingly, then brushed it out as instructed.

 

This is a product that I will never, ever buy again.  I have a dreadful feeling it had been moved from the Halloween section of Wal-Mart into the hair section, as it obviously was meant to be used to make white stripes in my hair for a Bride of Frankenstein costume.  Despite vigorous brushing, I couldn't brush the white out and ended up with not only white hair but a very pink scalp.

 

not so fast, Romeo.  This chick is taken.

 

Thanks, random strangers at McDonald's.  Moms always said don't eavesdrop and I should have listened.

 

It worked out in the end, however, because coworkers were too busy trying not to stare at my white streaks to even notice I had a cold sore.

Fun female field trip (not really) Part 2

Part deux 

After my last medical visit a la the ultrasound from hell, I wanted to know when I’d find out what was going on in my “downstairs area”. 

Me:  How long will it take to get the results?

Them:  at least a couple of days.  Rest assured, you’ll have plenty of time for worrying.

Me:  (heart hammering in chest) Ok.

It didn’t take a couple of days to get the results.  The phone rang the very next day, less than 24 hours after the ultrasound, while I was lost in Naperville trying desperately to find Edwards Hospital, so that I could make it on time for my mother’s gall bladder surgery. 

It’s never good when they don’t waste any time calling you with the results. 

I listened to the results with half an ear while On Starring and Bluetoothing, watching desperately for street signs, looking for my turn, catching various words here and there out of the speakers.  Abnormal.  Hyperplasia.  Polyp.  Cyst.  And my absolute favorite, Biopsy.

I’m sure you’re all wondering how serious this really was.  And the answer is:  It was very serious because I was really, really lost.  When I finally found the hospital, I told all this to the valet parker boy, who actually yawned when I told him what an adventure finding the hospital was.  Your tip is going to suck, buddy.

Three hours I waited with my sister and stepdad for Mom’s surgery/recovery time.  Three hours is quite a bit of time to freak out reflect on the doctor’s choice of words.   

The hospital aide came out to tell us that Mom wanted coffee, and she wanted my stepdad to make it because he knew how she liked it prepared.  We all knew then that mom was recovering just fine. **

My biopsy was schedule for two weeks from that day.  Two weeks have never gone slower. 

Biopsy day

Two weeks have never gone faster, and before I knew it, the nurse called me to take two ibuprofen before the procedure, because I’d get a little crampy.  That day, I learned something vitally important.  What you think is crampy and what I think is crampy are two vastly different things.  The nurse on the phone advised me to take two ibuprofen before the procedure.  The nurse I actually saw that day in the room of horrors procedure room felt bad that I didn’t have the afternoon off, even though I sit down at my job. 

Of course, I took my cue from her facial expression, (pity mixed with compassion and a side order of sympathy) stiffened up, and unfortunately stayed tense the entire time, making it even far more difficult for the doctor and far more painful for me.

Doctor:  Relax! 

Me:  I’m trying!  (I am not trying.  I'm not relaxed at all, and I don't know how anyone could be.)

I had the biopsy.  Here’s what I think they used... 



There were many more sharp things sticking out of the tool they used on me.



…but it felt much larger. 

Me and my new friend Cramps went back to work that day for a couple of painful hours, then went home and curled up on the couch where I would spend the rest of the night milking this for every single second I could. 

It worked.  I got pizza that night.  And a nap.

They told me I’d get my results back within a couple of days.  I selfishly hoped that I wouldn’t get them back on my birthday, so I could sail through my 46^th birthday blissfully ignorant of anything biopsy-related.  They granted that wish and called me the day after.

This time it was with a good word:  benign.  It even sounds nice in your mouth.  Say it with me:  Beeeenine.

Despite the pleasant tastiness of that word, I have to go back and be poked, prodded and ultra sounded one more time, and then my doctor will make a decision on what to do with my whiny self at that point.  Obviously, the female issues are being caused by something and they’d like to find my tolerance for pain figure out what it is. 

I’d like for them to figure out what it is too.  There are some *cough activities cough* that we’d I’d like to resume.  While I’m still young.

***My mom:  recovering nicely.  Her surgery that day was at 10:45 a.m.  She was home drinking coffee at her kitchen table by 3:30 p.m. looking for all the world like we just popped in for a visit.  It was amazing and we're all glad she's ok.

Sinus infection? No thanks. Oh, wait, I have one anyway? Great.

It has to be a cosmic payback for publishing the post on the spider in the ear.  Right? 

Last week after sniggering over all the comments on Facebook about people being afraid to sleep at night because a spider might have climbed in their ear as they slept, I realized I myself had an itchy ear.

As stated on Facebook, I really did rinse my ears out with peroxide, effectively killing anything that might have been in there (hopefully) and succeeded in making myself so dizzy I almost fell over in the bathroom.

I missed work last week on Tuesday because I felt so crappy; dizzy, flushed, really headachy...you get the picture.  Since then the pressure in my ears has increased, making it sound like I constantly have a crackling faulty speaker in my head.  And it HURTS.  Like someone took a baseball bat and cracked me in the face.  Not here, or here so much...but right here.



not here, or here so much...but right here.

 Last night, went home and was in bed by 5:30 for a 1.5 hour nap...then back in bed at 9:30pm, still not feeling well.

I dragged myself into work even though I felt icky, flushed, feverish; thinking I could gut it out.  Around 11am I cried "uncle" and made an appointment with the doctor for 3:30 pm.  Which was more like 3:45 pm.

She peeked in my right ear, very routinely.  However, she took an uncomfortably long time looking in my left ear, the source of most of the crackling.  So long, in fact, that I found myself wondering what in the heck could be that *cough spider cough* interesting in there.  I found myself spiderbabbling.

She stepped back, tiny hand on tiny chin.*

"Do you have a pet?"

It's a spider it's a spider it's a spider it's a spider it's a spider

"Yes, why?" (It's a good thing she took my blood pressure before this line of questioning.)

"Is your pet as black as your shirt?"

OMGOMGOMGOMG it's a BLACK spider

I try to appear relatively calm as I tell her we have a black lab who as recently as last night (and every night, as a matter of fact) sleeps on the pillows of our bed.

"Puh" and "puhppy"

"You have a black dog hair in your ear."

"Get it out." I command.  Just in case it's a spider imitating a dog hair, or perhaps she can only see one of its legs.

"It will come out by itself.  No Q-tips.  No ear plugs."  Does she not know Q tips are a necessity of mine?  And that from time to time my husband, maybe, possibly snores (lightly, mind you, sort of a "puh" exhale) and that if I don't have earplugs in, I will hear every single "PUH"?

In her musical voice, she says, "perhaps the ear plugs may have had a dog hair on them when you placed them in your ear."  Oh, yuck.  Note to self:  throw away all ear plugs.  Because I don't place them in my ear, I JAM those suckers in.

Long story short, she checked me out thoroughly, told me I had a fever (I KNEW I WAS SICK) and a sinus infection and put me on antibiotics.  For those of you who don't know, Schnuk's pharmacies fill a lot of antibiotics for free, regardless of insurance.  Lovely pharmacy.

They also have Q tips and ear plugs.

*I LOVE my doctor.  She is awesome. 

Sundays and why we love them

Sundays are good days for getting things done. 

My husband, the poor dear, is not feeling well. 


sooooo sleeeeepy...

He has a cross between a cold (I think) and the black plague (he thinks).  Oddly enough, he started not feeling well while we were watching the movie Contagion last night.  Luckily, the incubation period for ME getting sick seems to be a lot longer than in the movie, although having Gwyneth's figure might be worth the tradeoff.

To continue, he got up several times during the night coughing and feeling as if he were choking.  He found that by sitting on the chaise part of our sectional he could both sit up and sleep with a minimum of coughing, leaving me a queen sized bed with just-put-on clean sheets to loll around in, as well as being able to hog both pillows. 

I was dimly aware of him coming back to bed around 8 this morning, at which point he tossed and turned and finally just got back up to make coffee, loudly apologizing the entire time for his coughing.  Which I had not noticed until he loudly apologized for it. 

I returned to lala land, dreaming about puppies and kitties, sunshine and rainbows and napping, when a short 15 minutes later the bedroom door squeaks open and here comes a real puppy, albiet one weighing 90 pounds, who bounds up onto the bed and before I could protect any soft body parts that should be protected when a 90 pound dog is near, he's up on the bed greeting me.  Enthusiastically.



MY bed.


(sigh)

As I said, it was a day for getting things done, and my husband was merely being considerate by gently (snort) waking me up early so that I could get a great start on my day.

Once up, however, we both happily devour the paper and several cups of coffee and some toast with peanut butter on it, then turn on the Real Estate Connection which is a big hit around our house.  The program shows one home after another for sale in our area, including pictures of the insides of the homes and all the amenities.

I get dressed for the day.  After all, I have to do a ton of laundry, pick up some last minute items for the lasagna, get my hair cut, get my tire checked, and get some clothes to the cleaners...then come back, color my hair, finish the laundry, make the lasagna, revel in my awesomeness at haircoloring, and do the kids' taxes.  The tire place was closed, as was the cleaners, but I still got quite a bit accomplished. 


much shorter...me likey.



 So here it is, 3pm.  My husband is about to take another dose of cold meds and probably take another snooze on the couch.  I'm going to get to those darn taxes.  I am going to make some brownies to bake while I'm working on that, check the mirror every hour to make sure that I still lurrve my "herr" (she did a REALLY nice job cutting it) and start the lasagna pretty soon.  Everyone is looking forward to it, including me.

I love Sundays.

Now if only there were a football game on, life would be perfect...