little kid sick

I wrote this a couple weeks ago while home sick with strep throat, where I got bored after about two hours. So here you go. A reflection on how I get sick like a little kid.

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the late '80s

I recall as a kid of about 8 or 9 I occasionally suffered from croup, which is a horrible barking cough and airway constriction typically afflicting infants 6 months of age and children around 5-6 years of age. It's awful. I have vivid memories of waking up unable to breathe and my mom rushing me to the bathroom, slamming the door, and blasting the shower on hot-hot-hot till the small room filled with steam to provide me with some relief.

But I'm not here to dwell on that.

I've had my 30th birthday a couple of times now. And I still get sick like a little kid.

August 1997

In the weeks leading up to my departure for college, I came down with a sore throat which led to tonsillitis which led to an anaphylactic reaction to penicillin which led to a week-long stay at Childrens Hospital of Wisconsin. (Which also led to two subsequent hospitalizations -- one for the tonsillectomy and one for the hemorrhages which followed.)

I was 17 years and 50 weeks old -- by far the oldest kid in the hospital -- so I was also the only patient awake and watching TV at 11:00p on August 31 when breaking news interrupted Saturday Night Live to announce the passing of Princess Diana. The nurses crowded into my room to watch the continuous updates until thankfully I fell asleep. (That was a long night for us, since my IV had infiltrated my arm muscle tissue causing a great deal of pain and swelling. Scary.)

November 22, 2007

Thanksgiving Day. My family had a great time celebrating the holiday together. When all the dishes were cleared and the living room tidied up, I remember getting ready to go to bed and having a scratchy throat. My dad gave me some NyQuil and everyone called it a night. The next morning, I prepared to return home and basically felt alright.

By the evening of Saturday, November 24, however, things had deteriorated. I had a 104-degree fever (!!!!!) and the most excruciating cough imaginable. The pain radiated.

Every time I coughed, I pressed the heels of my hands into my eye sockets TO KEEP MY EYES FROM POPPING OUT.

I love Marty Feldman, and do not want to look like him.

Perhaps, in hindsight, that should have been a cue that I was a little delirious.

All my friends were out of town, home with their families. I texted several and nobody was available to take me to the hospital.

In a moment of obvious wisdom, I told one friend, "That's cool. I'm just going to walk [my dog] Sydney [outside... in Wisconsin... in November...]. If -- when I get back inside -- I still have a fever, then I'll go to the hospital."

Perhaps it goes without saying, but I returned from that walk (during which I was really, really inappropriately dressed in a tank top and shorts) and still had a raging fever, so I grabbed my car keys and headed straight to the Meriter ER.

Where I promptly started disrobing.

I was SO HOT. Sweating through my pants and long-sleeved shirt.

I had what you'd call a "sweaty face".

The registrar leaned across the desk and calmly said, "Whoa whoa whoa, honey. Why don't you sit right here for a minute." She took a little information from me, escorted me to an ER bay, and I was basically treated properly.

The diagnosis: mycoplasma pneumonia. You know, the kind that kids get.

Honestly. I get it. I'm not what you'd call mature in some ways, but even the way I get sick is immature.