My Karma Ran Over My Dogma

The illness brigade has staged a coup. So far its reign has a three-to-one advantage. I keep asking myself who we pissed off so royally. I thought I was living a good, clean life. Being nice. Picking up trash. (And dog poop even if it means I have to carry it for the whole last two miles of my run until I reach the park trash cans.) I usually return phone calls within three days. E-mails even quicker. (Most of the time.) I try to be a good listener. I even pay attention to how many times I turn a conversation back to me. And make an attempt to give it back. But.

Miss 6 has shingles. It started Tuesday night with a complaint of eye pain. With our newfound diligence still fresh and in working order, I checked all of the medical sites. Nothing. So Wednesday morning, when she woke up complaining again, I thought, “Stye.” And was so proud of myself for diagnosing and acting. Warm compress. Every two hours. It wasn’t until the second one was due that I saw it. The crusty white spots dotted underneath her eye. Um.

So, it was back to the doctor. Our pediatrician this time around since we were operating under normal weekday hours. Lucky us. Apparently her chicken pox booster from a few months back decided to get all bossy and horn in just as everything in her poor body went south. This makes her a walking chicken pox accident waiting to happen. Anyone who’s never had it can get it from Miss 6. We should sell tickets.

The really, really sad part is that it is alternately painful and incredibly itchy. If she touches it, it will spread. It just sucks. Tonight she begged the hubby to help her, “Daddy, please do something. You have to help me.” You can hear the crack of the heart just breaking in two. Slowly.

In the meantime, the hubby has had a headache for two days. He went to the doc too. It’s just a bad, bad cold that won’t release him. He’s tried massive cold medicine (the kind they hide behind the counter so teenagers won’t use it to get high), large doses of Tylenol and the neti pot. He’s got nothin’. So he’s been out of work all week for this really stupid cold. And he’s walking around like a shell of his former self. I can tell there’s someone in there. But he’s not the biggest talker when he isn’t in pain and doped up. So it’s kind of like living with a robot. Handy, but not very much company. And I just can’t drink wine alone. It’s too pathetic.

Then there’s Bean. Sweet little snotty Bean with the goopy eye and burned behind. She lucked into the stomach bug, so her hiney is fried and she’s been relegated to bananas, rice, applesauce and toast for nourishment. It hasn’t really phased her if you don’t count the multiple times per night she wakes up and cries. Just long enough to make sure I’m out of bed and heading towards her. Then she stops. Then I am awake for the night. Ain’t motherhood grand?

So thanks for visiting the complaint department. I feel much better. Even if I am clinging to my wellness by my fingernails. (And this statement, folks, has been brought to you by The It’s All About Me Association.) I bought some cool new polish yesterday and Miss 6 and I plan to do some rockin’ pedicures tomorrow. That’s something.

So, to whomever it is out there in the universe that appears to be so completely perturbed by the fact that I stated my happiness out loud last week: GET OVER YOURSELF ALREADY! Stop being so petty and go pick on someone else. Okay? Okay!

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Take Me Down to the Infirmary. Cracker. Take me down to the infirmary lay me down on cotton sheets. Put a damp cloth on my forehead lay me down and let me sleep.