Since my post in August about Henry liking cheese, he continues to consume cheese with gusto and is also stringing more and more words into sentences. Those halcyon cheese-discovering days seem so long ago to me, though, because since that moment, someone in the house has been sick. And 93% of the time, that person has been me. You see, I am expecting another little chinchopper! Another little boy chinchopper! Yay - big news! But enough about them - this is about me. With pregnancy comes unmitigated nausea, exhaustion, and immunosuppression. I have had a sinus infection since the beginning of August. And when you are pregnant, you are not allowed to take any medication that might actually, well, help. The doctors give you suggestions for natural remedies like cough drops, tea with honey, and the Neti pot. I tried all of those remedies, and, unlike the good stuff that requires a prescription or at least proof of age, those "natural remedies" are easily accessible to everyone for a reason - they don't work.
[And, if I may, allow me to take a moment to comment on the Neti pot. If you are unfamiliar with the Neti pot, it is small pitcher that you fill with warm saline. You then pour the saline in one nostril, allow it to infiltrate your entire sinus cavity, and then endure the disgust as it “drains” out the other nostril. According to the fervent believers, the Neti pot is a miracle – your sinuses will thank you and you will breathe freely. The fact that I even tried the Neti pot is a testament to my misery. I positioned myself over the sink and began the saline infusion. I could feel the warmth penetrating my upper sinus cavity and then… nothing. Nothing came out the other side. About 1 cup of fluid went it, but none of it came out. I stood with a craned neck for several minutes, I jiggled my head, I jumped up and down – the fluid remained inside my head! Mike said, “It will probably drain out slowly just give it some time.” After an hour I went to bed – still with at least a cup of fluid sloshing around in my head. About 30 minutes later, I woke up with a horrible, relentless earache. It felt like the ear pressure from airplanes but 100 times more intense. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t lie down – the only position that was even slightly tolerable was sitting up completely straight with my head cocked ever so slightly in the direction of the painful ear. After about 5 hours of misery, and I mean tear-inducing misery (although, admittedly, the crying was mostly self-pity mixed with sheer exhaustion), slowly, my ear started to open gradually, the pressure released, and I could once again hear and return to bed. Naturally, Henry woke up about 10 minutes later. To this day, I don’t know what became of that saline. It must still be sloshing around up there in my head. So, if you are desperate enough for the Neti pot, consider yourself warned and best of luck.]
In addition to the respiratory infections, and all 3 of us have had multiple bouts since August (Mike and Henry get over their "colds" in about 3 days. My colds last, well, I still have one...), August/Sept were tough months for us because every week, either Mike or myself had to travel for work. I usually feel like we barely have things under control when all cylinders are firing - two healthy adults, no crushing work deadlines, no out of the ordinary circumstances - but when just one of the cogs is missing, the house of cards comes tumbling down (how many metaphors can I use in one sentence?). So, with only 1 adult present most of August/Sept, 2 sick parents, and 1 sick kid - we crumbled*. Poor Henry, he really suffered through some lax parenting. How many times did we beg him to watch TV while we shivered under 3 blankets during the hottest month of the year in one of the hottest cities in the country? But no, he wanted "to play outside." How many times did we feed him cookies for breakfast because we were too exhausted to assemble a nourishing breakfast? (Actually, I don't know the answer to this question, but one time Henry seemed so indignant that he couldn't have cookies for breakfast it made me wonder if I had ever fed him anything but cookies for breakfast?)
During this period of fever hazes and all night coughing fits, I had to go to the mother ship to give a talk at a conference. The morning that I left home, I woke up blind in my left eye. Literally, I couldn't see anything. I could tell by the horrified expression on M’s face that either my eyeball had popped out during the night and was dangling from the optic nerve or something even more disgusting had happened. My eye was sealed shut and taken over by conjunctivitis. Coincidentally, Henry also woke up with his left eye completely sealed shut. After prying our eyes open with crowbars, we both had one hugely swollen, red, leaky, puffy eye. I sighed. I had to get on a plane that morning and then give a talk the very next day. "What am I going to do?!" Mike answered quickly, "Wear an eye patch over that eye." He said it as if an eye patch was the most obvious and natural solution to the problem. I protested, "I can't give a talk wearing an eye patch - I'll look like a pirate!" Mike got a far away look on his face, and I could tell he was visualizing me giving my presentation as a pirate. He beamed.
So, off I went to the airport wearing my sunglasses all the time so people would assume that I was a celebrity who was flying incognito instead of a pregnant sick lady who was so congested that mucus was coming out of her eyes.
The next morning, the morning of my talk, I woke up blind in my right eye. Well, at least now my eyes were even - they were both equally puffy, red, leaky, and swollen. In addition to my eyesight, I also woke up to discover that I had lost my voice. Another sigh. Ok, well, I thought, I will use a microphone, it will be fine. Wouldn't you know it - at a conference center of all places - the podium had NO microphone? So there I was preparing to give the first talk of the first session** of the day-long conference - in a room that suddenly had become standing room only - in front of 200 + people, with NO voice and NO microphone.
I began my talk. And by "talk", I mean my phlegmy croak. I don't know why people stayed. Perhaps because it was the first talk of the first session and there was free coffee, people felt obligated to attend at least one session instead of meandering the hallways and checking their email (which I did during the 2nd half of the conference). After a few introductory statements, I came to the first slide that contained actual data, a data table, in fact. I turned and gestured toward the screen to explain, when lo and behold, the screen was completely blank. Empty. ALL of my figures were missing. In some sort of Mac to PC transitional error, the conference room did not display ANY of my figures. Normally, this would be one of my worst nightmares. In a way, I had been bracing myself for this moment since high school when I had to give my first talk. I am terrified of public speaking, but somehow I have survived many talks without fainting, vomiting, crying, (the big 3) and now I was faced with a legitimate reason to do all three. However, and this is the most unbelievable part, at that very moment, I had never felt more calm and comfortable in front of a crowd. In fact, at that very moment, standing in front of 200 people with no voice, leaky eyes, and now, no real information to present, my life suddenly made sense. It was as if my life to that point had been practice for this moment of awkwardness and humiliation. I smiled and laughed. And the audience did too. And I continued with my talk. I explained what the audience should have been seeing and somehow, thankfully, my 15 minutes of fame ended, and my talk was over.
* We didn't crumble entirely. We had help - thanks to Erin and Amy for their visits during what was a very difficult time!
**As an aside, presenting the first talk of the first session at a conference, even a small conference, even when I had no voice, limited eyesight, and uh, no real data to present, is a minor triumph for me. One time, I had to give the very last talk of the very last session of the very last day of a conference. The only people in the audience were my bitter co-presenters, and they all had their luggage with them and were constantly checking their watches so they could get to the airport in time to get on the standby list. The facilities team was waiting impatiently in the back of the room so that they could pack up the chairs and vacuum the floors. At least they were kind enough not to turn the vacuum cleaner on while I was talking.
