Whenever you’re having the sort of week that might be more endurable if you could spend the rest of it under your bed and away from keyboards, it’s cool just to post a single photo and declare you’ve fulfilled your blogging responsibilities for the week, right? That’s a remarkably wide divergence from my modus operandi, but I’m trying it just to see what happens. It’s my site and I’ll shirk if I want to.
As if the world’s ongoing situation weren’t already fraught with fear and danger, last weekend was disrupted when a Medical Event struck Anne without warning or even the courtesy of foreshadowing. No, it wasn’t that, nothing contagious or ripped from the headlines, but it did entail intermittent bouts of unexplained agony. We’re big fans of coordinating OTC meds to counter our aches and illnesses as needed, but generally we can tell when it’s time for professional intervention. Once her on-again-off-again incident reached Hour 27 and pain level 9-ish, Anne knew it was that time.
Good news: we live five minutes from a hospital. Bad news: their security levels have been escalated to Threat Level COVID, with foreboding plastic tent walls covering everything and cautions all over their website. Better news: Anne’s major symptoms resembled nothing on that checklist, so they graciously and quickly ushered her through the entrance and directly toward check-in. Worse news: as I’ve heard from others in my situation, our local hospitals aren’t allowing patients to bring “plus-one” sidekicks with them. A masked doctor gave me the choice of either waiting in the car for the next several hours or going home to await further communication.
That sucked. The five-minute drive time was obviously not hard, but leaving her behind sucked. Sitting on our own furniture instead of cold, hard waiting-room chairs was comfier, but the miles apart sucked. They let her hold on to her phone, which was nice of them, but her infrequent updates as they kept adding to the gauntlet of tests sucked. Texting commentary back-and-forth as we watched the season premiere of Worst Cooks Celebrity Edition on our respective TVs was a welcome distraction, but for her, trying to text with an IV jammed In one arm sucked. Also, a few of the contestants tremendously suck, and there’s one particularly ebullient nuisance that I kindasorta hope ends his run with Tyler Florence stuffing him in a fridge.
The hospital ordeal began around 6:30 p.m. I was permitted to come pick her up after checkout around 11:30. They gave her a modicum of meds to get through the night because — again, thanks to The Virus — now all our neighborhood pharmacies close early. Her prescriptions had to wait till morning for filling.
Anne is feeling much better now, but the experience was a nasty jolt that left us unsettled and emotionally drained for the next few days. And just in time, because now I’m anticipating differently mopey times ahead as we lurch toward this next weekend and another series of events coming up. Or more accurately, events not coming up this weekend. Expect more on this in a future entry. For now suffice it to say that I haven’t been in much of a typing mood.
In lieu of a photo exemplifying some or any of that negativity, this entry instead leads with one I’d forgotten existed. Previously on Midlife Crisis Crossover we attended the 2017 Indiana State Fair, ate stuff and saw things. That day we chanced upon one of Anne’s old classmates wandering the fairgrounds same as us. We exchanged pleasantries as one does, she took a photo for her online memento collection, and we went our separate ways.
Fast-forward 3½ years: a few weeks ago when Anne asked her Facebook friends for happy thoughts in these trying times, that classmate kindly shared her photo of us. And there we are, once again making with the jazz hands in our leisure time, creating a happy moment that was later tossed back at us when we really needed happy moments, three weeks ago and this week.
…okay, so, a single photo and 700 unplanned words. Much closer to my modus operandi. I feel less mopey now. Guess I did need to type.