Now that Yack is school bound, I seem to be acquiring the germs of every kid bacteria that manages to stick to his clothes, shoes, hands. As often as he brings home his cute Jackson Pollack art work, I happen to come in contact with some greenish gooey substance and within hours fall ill, which either makes me miss work, miss my workouts (egads, not the workouts) or miss being ever present for my family. Boo on being sick.
Today is day number two of my exploding innards. I will refrain from detail here, although I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my five literal trips over the dog to get to the bathroom at 1 a.m., 1:25 a.m., 1:45 a.m.,. 2:30 a.m., 4 a.m. (woo hoo, an hour and a half of sleep) and 5 a.m. I looked a little like a drunk who'd been thrown out of a bar after being over served, not that I would know anything about what that actually looks like. I can only imagine.
The sad part about this little reoccurring mishap was that the dog didn’t move. I could have taken another route – I knew she was there, in that spot she always sleeps in. Must have been the flu playing tricks on my mind.
As the sun rose, I thought I would feel better. Couple the insomnia with my gurgling angry stomach, I realized in short order that I had to cancel every meeting I had that day, which was supposed to start at 6:30 on an airplane. I became Speedy Gonzales with the crackberry thumbs. “Sorry, can’t make it. Flu. Let’s reschedule. Will make it up to u.” (Like, somehow typing “u” as opposed to “you” would save me time to get rid of more of my insides. So glad I saved that .00002 second because I barely made it in between thumb pecks before I had to trip over the dog and head to the toilet.)
As I lay toe up in my bed that morning, my crackberry immediately started buzzing as the workday began. The buzzing is and was something I cannot simply ignore. Murphy’s law: every client crisis occurs when I can’t seem to put two words together to make a sentence. Thus, thumb typing whilst lying on one’s back makes for several grammatical and spelling errors. This is an actual email exchange from a client. I hope he didn’t think I had been drinking at 9 a.m.
Client: “Hi Amy, looks like our little project isn’t going in the direction that we anticipated. I recommend the following (blankety blank blank blank to protect the consultant-client privilege). Let me know what you think. Let’s talk later today as I am in meetings until 1 p.m.”
Me: “Wow, that totally sucks. Let me think about your stretigy and git back to u”.
That client never responded to my email. I became perplexed. I thought I was being so responsive. I did call in the afternoon and explain my virtual stupidity. He figured something was up. And true to form, I obsessed about his quandary in my flu haze all afternoon.
I then received the following email from one of my coworkers:
“Dear BrownNose - YOU ARE SICK! That means that your principle responsibility to your loved ones and your still healthy coworkers is to get better. It’s not calling (Assistant One) or (Assistant Two) 10 times a today with little requests that make you feel better about being sick. You want to feel better about being sick chug down some cough medicine and throw on a Will Ferrell movie (I like Old School). You have work related things that pop to mind…make a list and call in this afternoon after 2:00 pm, that way you get rest and I am assured to be out of the office and unable to enable you in your sick compulsion to work while sick in bed. I will not be an enabler.
Put the Blackberry and iPad down and do nothing… I know that this is a totally foreign concept to you but you deserve it and your physical self is crying out for you to turn off, tune out and do nothing.
Because when I get what you have I am going to sit in bed and chug down cold medicine and watch movies.”
So, after 24 hours of being flat on my back, and still trying to entertain my healthy Yack (playing fetch is a fun game that doesn’t require full consciousness and is all the same amusing to a three year old), I was ready to face the workday. Alas, Yack was not quite on the same page. He projectile yacked several times throughout the early morning, almost hitting me. Looking at his sad “I want my mommy” eyes, I knew I had to put away the suit, throw on puke resistant clothes and face a day of puzzles, juice and frequent trips to the bathroom.
There was just one thing I had to do.. I piled Yack into the car right after a bad bout of ralphing and figured that we were safe for a good thirty minutes. I raced into town to pick up a work-thingy that I just had to get done before the noon hour hit. As I pulled into my office parking lot, Yack yelled for me from the backseat. “Mommy, I went poo.”
The working mom’s guilt came down on me like a sledge hammer. I had to think fast. I took off his pants and threw them into the trash can in the parking lot (sorry, janitors) and raced home. While on the freeway, I started feeling a little queasy from the air and threw my head out the window, which felt quite refreshing in the 65 mile an hour wind.
At home, we managed to have a low key afternoon. We snuggled on the couch, played games, watched movies and read books. I have to be honest, it was one of the most pleasant days I have had. And after a while, I was looking forward to my healthy and vibrant husband Pants coming home and taking over as I was losing steam.
Pants called as I was having that particular thought, and informed me that he might have to go to the hospital, that a picture frame had fallen on his head at work and he was bleeding profusely from his scalp. He was taking an office poll on whether or not he should get staples. Staples? Really?
I was glad I didn’t throw in my vote by verbalizing my thoughts: “Ah, it can’t be that bad. What kind of frame was it? I think I have a stapler up in my end table next to my bed.”
Pants made the right choice by coming home and after a borderline dangerous amount of Ibuprophin, began the ritual of putting Yack to bed, and I got back on my crackberry and got some serious work done.
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