Dear Spike:
We don't usually leave home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. There are several reasons for this, but the main one is that we prefer to enjoy the company of our extended family outside the stressful gotta-go-here, better-be-there, hustle-bustle and rigmarole of the holidays.
But this year was different. Traditionally, your great-grandmother (my mom's mom) has hosted a large Thanksgiving gathering for all of her kids, grandkids and great-grandkids. But earlier this year she decided she'd had enough of her big, old house in on Mark Avenue and moved into a retirement home close to where my parents live. And so my mom decided that she'd take on Thanksgiving.
The confirmed guest list was 34 names long.
At some point, it was decided that it wasn't enough to just have dinner. We were going to have a sit down dinner.
Wine goblets, china, cloth napkins — the whole nine yards. Cool right?
As long as so many people were coming to town, my father and uncle decided they'd wait to hold your other great-grandmother's wake until the day after Thanksgiving.
Practical people, my relatives.
And thus began... the Thanksgiving from hell.
On Turkey Thursday morning, I woke up and headed to the kitchen, where I found my mother in the kitchen looking...
... rather peaked.
"You're dad's not feeling well," she said.
"You don't look so good yourself," I said.
"Yeah, I don't feel so good."
And then I heard it. The sound of a grown man retching in my parents' bathroom.
"I think you'd better not touch any food that anyone is going to eat tonight," I told my mom.
And with that, your mother and I had inherited Thanksgiving for 34.
The phone rang. My cousin Paul. His wife's family plans had fallen through.
OK. Make that turkey for 37.
Your mother didn't skip a beat. Like General Patton headed to Bastogne, she took command. Potatoes were peeled. Turkeys were basted. Stuffing was, um, stuffed.
And Thanksgiving went off without a hitch, though it also went off without my mother, father, sister and brother, who were all, by this time, well out of commission.)
By 9 p.m., your mother was, too.
And then it was your turn.
I've never seen you so sick. Never. You poor thing. You spent the entire night throwing up. You'd fall asleep for a few minutes, then wake up and ralph, then scream — with what I can only describe as righteous indignation — "No more! That was the last time!"
All night long.
The next day was your great-grandmother's wake. You and your mother were in no shape to go.
But by that evening, everyone was feeling pretty good again. And the next day we headed off to Stanford University to watch the Oregon State Beavers take on the sixth-ranked Cardinal.
Um... did I say "take on"? What I meant to say was, "get pounded like a piece of meat." It was 24-0 at halftime and we didn't even stay to watch the infamous Leland Stanford Junior University Marching Band.
But we didn't leave because of the score. And certainly not in protest of the Stanford band's historic send-ups of Catholicism, Mormonism and a bunch of other -isms.
No, we left because you couldn't pee.
Oh yeah — and you were screaming in agony.
A bladder infection, we figured — and so we came home and pumped you full of cranberry juice. Problem was, that only made you have to go more. And you couldn't.
You tried and you tried. And you screamed and you screamed. But you just couldn't go.
At about 9 p.m., we decided to take you to the emergency room at the local hospital.
At about 12 a.m. we finally got in to see a doctor.
And it only took him about two minutes to decide you needed a catheter.
"This isn't going to be fun for anyone," he said.
And it wasn't. You spent the next 20 minutes screaming and writhing in agony as the nurses tried to do what needed to be done. Your mother and I had the excrutiating duty of holding you down as you begged to be released.
When it was all over, the doctor prescribed some Ibuprofen and sent us on our way. We finally got back to my parents' home that night at 2 a.m.
Things were not a whole lot better the next day. One of my friends, a doctor himself, suggested we take you to Stanford Children's Hospital, and that's where we spent our last day in California. The doctors and nurses there were kind as can be, but they didn't have any answers. They took some samples (another catheter — although this one went a lot better) and, when you impressed one doctor with your knowledge of various medical tools, they offered you a job.
Whatever was wrong, you were feeling quite a bit better by the next day — just in time for us to get on an airplane and head home to Utah, where I had to scrape 10 inches of snow off of our car in the long-term parking lot before driving our family home.
I'd never been so happy to end a vacation.
Sometimes life gives you lemons.
And sometimes you can take those lemons and make lemonade.
But sometimes the lemons are rotten, and so the lemonade makes you sick. That's how this vacation was. We did our best to have a good time and, when we did, we got kicked around like the Oregon State University football team.
Of course, the football team can always say "there's always next year."
But you won't hear that from me. Because next year, we're staying home.
Love,
dad
Showing posts with label sick. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sick. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
CHAIRMAN AND SPECIAL
Dear Spike:
When we named your stuffed cat "Chairman Meow" we thought we were being quite clever. Turns out that the word for "cat" in Mandarin is "mao," (or so you tell me) so we could have named the little furry feline "Chairman Mao" and been just as savvy and ironic.
It wouldn't likely change the way you feel about him, which is to say that he's pretty much your best inanimate friend in the world — except for maybe your favorite blanket, a sea green knitted throw you've taken to calling "Special."
You go pretty much everywhere with Chairman and Special. And you won't go to sleep without them. Not without a fight, at least.
Which is why I am, at this moment, sitting on the folding table of the laundry room in the oh-so-posh Desert Inn Hotel, across the street from Disneyland, while you, just upstairs, are fighting sleep like a death row inmate being dragged down the green mile.
In retrospect — goodness, I say that a lot these days — we may have played up this Disney adventure a little too much. We've been talking about it since your birthday, nearly a month ago. And each day of this long trip, we've reminded you that your impeccable behavior would be rewarded with a visit to the Happiest Place on Earth.
Hell, we might as well have called it Mickey Mecca.
You didn't get much of a nap today after playing on the beach with your new friends in San Clemente (turns out you like the ocean after all, but that's another happy story.) So when it came time to put you down to bed, tonight, we thought for sure you'd fall fast asleep, visions of Tinkerbell dancing in your head.
As it turns out, though, you were a little too excited to slumber. In fact, you were pretty much bouncing off the hotel's wall paper.
But you were tired.
So you were a little upset.
And then upset turned into cranky.
And then cranky turned into sick.
And then you puked macaroni noodles all over the hotel bed.
And all over on Chairman.
And all over Special.
It fell to me to find a laundromat — and luckily there was one just downstairs from our room — to clean all that up.
But I've got the easy job. I really don't envy your mother, who at this moment is sitting at your bedside trying to keep you calm so that — in 31 minutes when this drier has run through my buck-fifty and I appear heroically at the foot of your bed holding your freshly-washed friends — you don't respond by puking all over your best buddies again.
If all goes well, though, you'll be curled up with Chairman and Special very soon.
And in any case, I've learned my lesson. I'm not saying the "D-word" again until we're walking down Main Street, U.S.A.
Love,
dad
When we named your stuffed cat "Chairman Meow" we thought we were being quite clever. Turns out that the word for "cat" in Mandarin is "mao," (or so you tell me) so we could have named the little furry feline "Chairman Mao" and been just as savvy and ironic.
It wouldn't likely change the way you feel about him, which is to say that he's pretty much your best inanimate friend in the world — except for maybe your favorite blanket, a sea green knitted throw you've taken to calling "Special."
You go pretty much everywhere with Chairman and Special. And you won't go to sleep without them. Not without a fight, at least.
Which is why I am, at this moment, sitting on the folding table of the laundry room in the oh-so-posh Desert Inn Hotel, across the street from Disneyland, while you, just upstairs, are fighting sleep like a death row inmate being dragged down the green mile.
In retrospect — goodness, I say that a lot these days — we may have played up this Disney adventure a little too much. We've been talking about it since your birthday, nearly a month ago. And each day of this long trip, we've reminded you that your impeccable behavior would be rewarded with a visit to the Happiest Place on Earth.
Hell, we might as well have called it Mickey Mecca.
You didn't get much of a nap today after playing on the beach with your new friends in San Clemente (turns out you like the ocean after all, but that's another happy story.) So when it came time to put you down to bed, tonight, we thought for sure you'd fall fast asleep, visions of Tinkerbell dancing in your head.
As it turns out, though, you were a little too excited to slumber. In fact, you were pretty much bouncing off the hotel's wall paper.
But you were tired.
So you were a little upset.
And then upset turned into cranky.
And then cranky turned into sick.
And then you puked macaroni noodles all over the hotel bed.
And all over on Chairman.
And all over Special.
It fell to me to find a laundromat — and luckily there was one just downstairs from our room — to clean all that up.
But I've got the easy job. I really don't envy your mother, who at this moment is sitting at your bedside trying to keep you calm so that — in 31 minutes when this drier has run through my buck-fifty and I appear heroically at the foot of your bed holding your freshly-washed friends — you don't respond by puking all over your best buddies again.
If all goes well, though, you'll be curled up with Chairman and Special very soon.
And in any case, I've learned my lesson. I'm not saying the "D-word" again until we're walking down Main Street, U.S.A.
Love,
dad
Friday, February 6, 2009
YOU SAY IT
Dear Spike:
Among the ugliest words in the English language is one that describes a condition that is among the nastiest symptoms of human infirmity.
Diarrhea.
And yet somehow, when you say it, with big sad eyes and quivering lips, it's really just one of the cutest things in the world.
Get well soon.
Love,
dad
Among the ugliest words in the English language is one that describes a condition that is among the nastiest symptoms of human infirmity.
Diarrhea.
And yet somehow, when you say it, with big sad eyes and quivering lips, it's really just one of the cutest things in the world.
Get well soon.
Love,
dad
Friday, October 10, 2008
MY LITTLE LION
Dear Spike:
We went to the new soccer stadium in Sandy last night. It was going to be a cold night, so you and I stopped by the costume store to pick up a warm outfit -- a lion, in honor of the home team, Real Salt Lake.
Super cute, really.
My plan was to parade you around the stadium at halftime, but we never got that far.
Seems all the excitement was just too much for you. About 10 minutes into the game, you got sick. Luckily, the team had given away free commemorative towels at the beginning of the game, so we had something to mop you up with.
Unfortunately, the lion costume didn't survive the onslaught of upchuck. And although we had a change of clothes for you in our backpack, it wasn't likely to keep you warm through the rest of the game.
And so, not more than 15 minutes into the inaugural game at Rio Tinto Stadium — with plenty of folks still on their way in — we headed home.
On the way out, your mother asked if I was disappointed. I'm not sure she believed me when I told her I wasn't, but that was the truth.
There was a time in my life when soccer was everything. But these days, my little lion, it's not even close.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
THE UGLY BUG
Dear Spike:
It's flu season — and you, your mother and I all came down with the ugly bug over the weekend.
Here's a few good ways to know that you're really sick:
1) You rush into the bathroom, but can't decide which way to approach the toilet.
2) The taste of water makes you gag.
3) After a few days away, you're actually looking forward to getting back to work.
4) You look at yourself in them mirror and think, "who is that corpse?"
We're all recovering now, but I'm seriously considering moving somewhere where there aren't so many viruses.
Like Antarctica.
Love,
dad
Saturday, August 30, 2008
LOSS FOR WORDS
Dear Spike's Friends:
A lot of you have e-mailed to ask about Cuba. At the moment, I'm still at a loss for words to describe the geopolitical pit of poppycock that Fidel Castro, in cooperation with every American President since JFK, has managed to make of such a beautiful country — one with such enormous economic promise.
I'm working on several articles about Cuba which I'll link to at dearspike.com when (if?) they are published. Among my subjects: The resurrection of Cuba's sex trade; the explosive growth of protestant churches in Havana's poorest quarters; life in the long, dark shadow of the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay; and the precarious return trips being made by Cuban exiles.
In the meantime, I've posted a slideshow of photos of the trip on YouTube. You can watch it here.
Thanks for all of your kind words in the wake of the burglary, during my time away, and while I've been recovering from my nasty case of Fidel's Flu. As always, you can reach me at dearspike+at+gmail+dot+com
Love,
spike's dad
p.s. — Yes, I'm still planning on posting the letters from the Dear Spike project here. Stay tuned.
A lot of you have e-mailed to ask about Cuba. At the moment, I'm still at a loss for words to describe the geopolitical pit of poppycock that Fidel Castro, in cooperation with every American President since JFK, has managed to make of such a beautiful country — one with such enormous economic promise.
I'm working on several articles about Cuba which I'll link to at dearspike.com when (if?) they are published. Among my subjects: The resurrection of Cuba's sex trade; the explosive growth of protestant churches in Havana's poorest quarters; life in the long, dark shadow of the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay; and the precarious return trips being made by Cuban exiles.
In the meantime, I've posted a slideshow of photos of the trip on YouTube. You can watch it here.
Thanks for all of your kind words in the wake of the burglary, during my time away, and while I've been recovering from my nasty case of Fidel's Flu. As always, you can reach me at dearspike+at+gmail+dot+com
Love,
spike's dad
p.s. — Yes, I'm still planning on posting the letters from the Dear Spike project here. Stay tuned.
Monday, August 25, 2008
COME ON SANDMAN
Dear Spike:
I brought home a bronchial infection and some sort of nasty parasite from Cuba. Too sick to work today -- which is fine because I get to devote the day to you. Even when I'm not feeling well, that's still much preferable to working!
You can be an exhausting friend, though. We spent the morning reading books, playing with your animal cards, building towers, eating peaches, chasing the cat, wrestling with stuffed animals, making music, looking at photos of our family and arguing over whether or not you were going to use the potty. Now, you're resting on my lap, downing a bottle of milk like a sorority girl at a kegger.
If you sleep, I can too!
Come on, Sandman...
Love,
dad
I brought home a bronchial infection and some sort of nasty parasite from Cuba. Too sick to work today -- which is fine because I get to devote the day to you. Even when I'm not feeling well, that's still much preferable to working!
You can be an exhausting friend, though. We spent the morning reading books, playing with your animal cards, building towers, eating peaches, chasing the cat, wrestling with stuffed animals, making music, looking at photos of our family and arguing over whether or not you were going to use the potty. Now, you're resting on my lap, downing a bottle of milk like a sorority girl at a kegger.
If you sleep, I can too!
Come on, Sandman...
Love,
dad
Thursday, June 19, 2008
SHE THREW UP
Dear Spike:
Your mother often says that she knew I loved her when she threw up on me, just a few weeks after we started dating.
Tonight, I think I finally understood what she meant.
You were sleeping when we picked you up your Auntie Sue's house, where you had stayed while we went out to dinner with some friends. But you woke up on the way to the car ...
... and promptly threw up on your mom's pretty white dress.
But she didn't flinch. And she didn't complain. She toweled you off, set you in your car seat, and sang to you all the way home — even though she smelled as though she'd taken a bath in sour milk.
If that's not love, I don't know what is.
Love,
dad
Your mother often says that she knew I loved her when she threw up on me, just a few weeks after we started dating.
Tonight, I think I finally understood what she meant.
You were sleeping when we picked you up your Auntie Sue's house, where you had stayed while we went out to dinner with some friends. But you woke up on the way to the car ...
... and promptly threw up on your mom's pretty white dress.
But she didn't flinch. And she didn't complain. She toweled you off, set you in your car seat, and sang to you all the way home — even though she smelled as though she'd taken a bath in sour milk.
If that's not love, I don't know what is.
Love,
dad
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
where's the doctor?
dear spike:
you're sick -- and sleeping on my shoulder -- which is why i'm typing with one hand.
you've had a bad cough and a fever for several days, so after yet another restless night for you, i made an appointment to see the doctor today. we were told to show up at 1115.
at 1145 we were invited into an exam room.
at 1220, a snotty-nosed little boy walked in the room.
"what seems to be the trouble?" he asked, stroking his chin and furrowing his eyebrows.
"um, you're not my daughter's doctor," i said.
"i'm the substitute."
"like in school?"
"right, like that."
"no you're not. you're like six or something."
"i'm seven."
"whatever. where's the doctor?"
"i don't know. we've been waiting, too," he said, and walked out the door.
at 1:30, the doctor finally came in.
"sorry," she said. "it's been a crazy day. bad circumcision. you know how it is."
"um, no, i'm sorry. i really don't know how that it."
she laughed. "oh yeah, i guess not, well let me tell you..."
"yikes. i'd rather you didn't"
"ok"
she looked you over and listened to your little lungs. you whimpered like a puppy that just got smacked with a newspaper.
"any history of breathing problems in your family?" she asked.
"yeah, i had asthma when i was growing up."
"ok. i think she has an ear infection."
"what does asthma have to do with an ear infection?"
"nothing, why?"
"because you just asked me about breathing problems."
"she's breathing fine."
"then why did you ask me about breathing problems?"
"did i do that?"
"yes"
"oh. sorry. long day. bad circumcision. you know how it is."
she peered into your little ear, then pulled out a little stick and dug around in there before peering in a second time.
"oh yeah, ear infection. bad one. i'll write you a prescription. wait here"
she walked out the door.
a minute later, the little boy walked back in.
"ear infection, eh?"
"what!? how'd you know?"
"we were just consulting on your daughter's case in the hall. don't worry, sir, she's going to be ok."
he nodded reassuringly and walked out.
a few minutes later, the doctor walked back in with a clipboard.
"you were consulting about my daughter's case with a seven-year-old?"
"seven? he's seven? i thought he was eight for sure. maybe nine."
"what did you tell him?"
"i told him, 'tough case in there. the little girl has an ear infection, but the dad is insistent that the problem is her lungs.' "
"you're just kidding around with me, right?"
"yeah. it's been a long day. he's been hanging out in the hall for an hour waiting for his little brother to be seen, so i asked him if he would consult with me" she made quotation marks with her fingers "on some cases."
"can i ask you something?" i asked.
"sure."
"you didn't consult with him on the circumcision too, did you?"
the doctor laughed. "oh heavens no," she said, she scribbled down the prescription, handed it to me and smiled. "i wouldn't do a thing like that..."
"... i let him perform it."
Love,
dad
you're sick -- and sleeping on my shoulder -- which is why i'm typing with one hand.
you've had a bad cough and a fever for several days, so after yet another restless night for you, i made an appointment to see the doctor today. we were told to show up at 1115.
at 1145 we were invited into an exam room.
at 1220, a snotty-nosed little boy walked in the room.
"what seems to be the trouble?" he asked, stroking his chin and furrowing his eyebrows.
"um, you're not my daughter's doctor," i said.
"i'm the substitute."
"like in school?"
"right, like that."
"no you're not. you're like six or something."
"i'm seven."
"whatever. where's the doctor?"
"i don't know. we've been waiting, too," he said, and walked out the door.
at 1:30, the doctor finally came in.
"sorry," she said. "it's been a crazy day. bad circumcision. you know how it is."
"um, no, i'm sorry. i really don't know how that it."
she laughed. "oh yeah, i guess not, well let me tell you..."
"yikes. i'd rather you didn't"
"ok"
she looked you over and listened to your little lungs. you whimpered like a puppy that just got smacked with a newspaper.
"any history of breathing problems in your family?" she asked.
"yeah, i had asthma when i was growing up."
"ok. i think she has an ear infection."
"what does asthma have to do with an ear infection?"
"nothing, why?"
"because you just asked me about breathing problems."
"she's breathing fine."
"then why did you ask me about breathing problems?"
"did i do that?"
"yes"
"oh. sorry. long day. bad circumcision. you know how it is."
she peered into your little ear, then pulled out a little stick and dug around in there before peering in a second time.
"oh yeah, ear infection. bad one. i'll write you a prescription. wait here"
she walked out the door.
a minute later, the little boy walked back in.
"ear infection, eh?"
"what!? how'd you know?"
"we were just consulting on your daughter's case in the hall. don't worry, sir, she's going to be ok."
he nodded reassuringly and walked out.
a few minutes later, the doctor walked back in with a clipboard.
"you were consulting about my daughter's case with a seven-year-old?"
"seven? he's seven? i thought he was eight for sure. maybe nine."
"what did you tell him?"
"i told him, 'tough case in there. the little girl has an ear infection, but the dad is insistent that the problem is her lungs.' "
"you're just kidding around with me, right?"
"yeah. it's been a long day. he's been hanging out in the hall for an hour waiting for his little brother to be seen, so i asked him if he would consult with me" she made quotation marks with her fingers "on some cases."
"can i ask you something?" i asked.
"sure."
"you didn't consult with him on the circumcision too, did you?"
the doctor laughed. "oh heavens no," she said, she scribbled down the prescription, handed it to me and smiled. "i wouldn't do a thing like that..."
"... i let him perform it."
Love,
dad
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
BACK TO BOUNCING
Dear Spike:
I've never seen someone vomit so much, so fast — and then immediately act as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. By the time we'd changed your clothes, hosed off your pajamas, scrubbed down your body and washed out the blanket, you were back to bouncing on our bed like a trampoline.
And even though bouncing is probably what led to The Amazing Upchuck Incident of 2008 in the first place, we let you do it anyhow.
Love,
dad
I've never seen someone vomit so much, so fast — and then immediately act as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. By the time we'd changed your clothes, hosed off your pajamas, scrubbed down your body and washed out the blanket, you were back to bouncing on our bed like a trampoline.
And even though bouncing is probably what led to The Amazing Upchuck Incident of 2008 in the first place, we let you do it anyhow.
Love,
dad
Monday, February 25, 2008
GOT IT BAD
Dear Spike:
You’re sick again.
Last week it was an ear infection. This week it’s some sort of stomach bug.
I’ll spare you the horrible details. Suffice it to say, you’ve got it bad — and so does your mother.
You’re both sleeping now, thank goodness for that. And while you are resting I’ve been thinking about another night when your mother was dreadfully ill.
It was early into our relationship and she was still living at her with parents’ home, where I had been welcome to come over but not to stay over. As the exact parameters of those rules had not been spelled out, however, you mom and I were operating under a rather liberal interpretation: I was always out of the house before anyone else awoke.
It was during one of these late-night visits that your mother began to wonder whether the clam chowder she’d had for dinner was setting well. Within moments she had turned a very sour shade of green and darted from her room, down the hall and into the bathroom.
I followed behind — just close enough that when she pitched over the toilet she threw up all over my foot. I stood there and held her hair, rubbed her back and hoped that her parents, who were sleeping in the next room, wouldn’t be awakened.
No such luck.
Roused by the commotion, her mother walked in, took one look at me (I wasn’t wearing a shirt) and your mother (who had successfully puked out her dinner and was now working on her lunch) and sighed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Clam chowder,” I said.
“Are you going to take care of her?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nodded, turned and grabbed two towels from the closet by the door. “One for her and one for your foot,” she explained, setting the towels next to the sink.
And that was that.
The next time I came over, your grandmother had laid out a towel, hand cloth and toothbrush for me. It was never specifically noted, but the implication was that I didn’t have to sneak out in the dead of the night anymore.
I can’t be certain what your grandmother saw that night, but I think she may have glimpsed a bit of the future.
A few weeks later, your mother and I moved in together. A few months after that, we were engaged. And the following year, I stood with your mother in the backyard of that very same home and said “in sickness and in health.”
I meant it. Every word. And I still do.
Love,
dad
Sunday, February 10, 2008
THE GIANT DIPPER
Dear Spike:
Up to 102. Down to 97. Up again and down once more. If we were to track your fever on a chart, I’ll bet it would look like a schematic for the Giant Dipper roller coaster at the Santa Cruz boardwalk.
Fevers, we’re told, are a pretty common malady for infants — particularly this time of year. And though your little body seemed so hot to the touch, anything less than 102 degrees generally is not considered severe. As such, we weren’t too worried until last night, when you woke every 20 minutes — screaming as though we’d been plucking out your eyebrows, hair by hair by hair.
When your fever dropped again today, your mother and I figured you’d pass out from sheer exhaustion, but you maintained the same tormented pace — 20 minutes of rest, 40 minutes of screaming, 20 minutes of rest — throughout the day.
The on-call doctor at our pediatric clinic thinks you probably have an ear infection, perhaps brought on by last week’s first airplane flight to California. He’s prescribed ibuprofen, olive oil drops, and a visit to Dr. Schriewer first thing tomorrow morning.
Meanwhile, though, we’ve got to make it through tonight.
Without a doubt, these last three days have been the most miserable of your young life. And it’s been quite painful for your mother and I was well, as we’ve been able to do very little to ease your pain or soothe your cries.
I’m relieved to know that you’ll soon have forgotten all about this.
But I doubt we ever will.
I love you, Spike. Get well soon.
Love,
dad
Up to 102. Down to 97. Up again and down once more. If we were to track your fever on a chart, I’ll bet it would look like a schematic for the Giant Dipper roller coaster at the Santa Cruz boardwalk.Fevers, we’re told, are a pretty common malady for infants — particularly this time of year. And though your little body seemed so hot to the touch, anything less than 102 degrees generally is not considered severe. As such, we weren’t too worried until last night, when you woke every 20 minutes — screaming as though we’d been plucking out your eyebrows, hair by hair by hair.
When your fever dropped again today, your mother and I figured you’d pass out from sheer exhaustion, but you maintained the same tormented pace — 20 minutes of rest, 40 minutes of screaming, 20 minutes of rest — throughout the day.
The on-call doctor at our pediatric clinic thinks you probably have an ear infection, perhaps brought on by last week’s first airplane flight to California. He’s prescribed ibuprofen, olive oil drops, and a visit to Dr. Schriewer first thing tomorrow morning.
Meanwhile, though, we’ve got to make it through tonight.
Without a doubt, these last three days have been the most miserable of your young life. And it’s been quite painful for your mother and I was well, as we’ve been able to do very little to ease your pain or soothe your cries.
I’m relieved to know that you’ll soon have forgotten all about this.
But I doubt we ever will.
I love you, Spike. Get well soon.
Love,
dad
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