sick boys

May 12, 2018 | View Comments

So Mark didn’t really start feeling better after getting his prostate infection diagnosis. Actually, that’s a lie. He felt better that night for a short time. He was on the phone with his dad talking baseball, and he sounded better than he had in over a week. But the next day he was literally on the floor with tears in his eyes because of those fucking migraines. So off we went to the er. I’m not sure why emergency rooms move so goddamned slowly, but they definitely do. It took hours to get the results of his urinalysis and even more hours for the results of his cat scan. He was in the er for 5.5 hours before they admitted him to the hospital. He was given a team of specialists to look after him, but he wasn’t getting any better. He still had migraines, nausea, dry mouth, chills, fever, and so on. At one point one of his doctors said they’d try a Percocet, and it took over 45 minutes for him to get it – and that was even with me asking the nurse twice about it and asking another specialist who stopped by to look into it. And even with all that trouble, it only took the edge off for a little bit. They drew so much blood and did so many tests, but they couldn’t come up with a diagnosis. Then it was suggested that he get a spinal tap, and that’s when he got the news that he had viral meningitis. At this point on day four, he was mostly on the mend on his own. He went home the same day they did the spinal tap, and he wasn’t even sent home with any medications or anything. He still has a bit of a brain fog, and he still gets headaches right when he wakes up in the mornings. He actually umpired today, and he didn’t have any side effects afterwards. Now let me tell you how this affected me because I am a selfish monster. Thankfully my friend/cleaner was able to carve some time out in her schedule to help me get the house back in order and to bring me a few groceries. Between visiting him and taking care of the cats and raccoons (more on that some other day), I was dying. I basically ate popcorn the whole time he was in the hospital because I was in so much pain. And I guess my driving is indeed awful after all because I almost gave up going to see him when I couldn’t back out of the driveway. In my own defense, we are on a hill, and the driveway is curved. So, yeah. I am able to do so very little, and it’s rather pathetic.

Here are two photos. One is obviously Mark in the er. The second is of the giant dent my giant ass left in the emergency room chair after sitting in it for a few hours.

Mark in the emergency room

My giant ass dent after sitting in this emergency room chair for a few hours

So he was in the hospital from Monday through Thursday. Oliver, our newest cat I still need to formally introduce here, needed emergency surgery on Friday. And here comes yet another story about why I am a terrible pet mama. I was in the shower Thursday before I went to pick up Mark. Oliver likes to jump up door frames. This time I heard a loud noise, but that’s not entirely brand new because he’s a big boy making a big jump. When I brought Mark home, Oliver was acting like he was scared of Mark. He was running past him low to the ground and looking in his general direction like he didn’t know who he was. He often reminds us of a beagle because he’s constantly sniffing things intensely. And this made all the sense in the world to us because even Sam jumped up right next to Mark and sniffed every single place he had been poked and prodded. We just assumed Oliver didn’t recognize Mark’s scent. Right before bed I saw a little bit of fur on the door latch. I briefly thought that I should make sure Oliver was okay, but we just ended up thinking it was Oliver just being Oliver with his door jumps. The next morning he was under Mark’s desk. I brought him out and put him in my lap. After Mark pet him, he tucked his face and eyes into the crook of my arm. We still thought he was rejecting Mark after his hospital stay. Later on Oliver was on the guest room bed, and that’s unusual for him. I went in, pet him, and tried to reassure him that it was “just daddy” and that he’d be okay and so on. He laid his head on a pillow and looked so sad. That’s when I saw how wet the underside of his armpit looked. I rolled him over and OMG. He had cut himself wide open, and now everything made a different kind of sense. And, oh yeah, I felt and still feel like an asshole. We were out of the house in just ten minutes after I yelled out that he was hurt (“Oliver is injured!”), and we took him to the emergency vet. The area was so red that Mark initially thought he was seeing an organ. Everyone asked if we saw blood, but there wasn’t any blood to be found anywhere. Oliver was home three hours later with a cone on his head. It took 10 stitches. Ten! Fuck. I feel intense mama guilt. He was hurting for almost 24 hours. I could just die. It’s under his armpit and can’t be seen unless he rolls onto his back. I’m afraid to touch him, and I’m afraid to pick him up. We obviously took that door latch down. It definitely was sharp. The others in the house seem fine. I probably won’t feel better until his fur grows back in, and even that is debatable. I tend to focus on the regrets I have and to wallow in my own blame. I have done that with all the babies in regards to various issues. I kick myself over this and that instead of focusing on the positive. That being said, he is fine now. He’s tolerating the cone well. His stitches come out in three days. But still.

My poor fluffy butt:

Oliver with his cone after emergency surgery



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