It's been too flippin' hot to do anything. That includes making meals, playing at the park, or updating this here blog. Even Vivi and the Turtles, who are normally so full of energy, are just lethargic little sweat balls. We are subsisting on our bad attitudes, popsicles, and periodic trips to the mall to gorge ourselves on the cool breeze of air-conditioning. We are pathetic but we are not unlike a lot of New Englanders riding out this heatwave the best way we know how.
Unfortunately, the weather has been the least of our troubles the last couple of weeks. It all started when my adorable little Ellie Bean nearly landed in the ER with a gash on her index finger. In the chaos that rules our early mornings, she managed to get her finger stuck in a partially opened can that was sitting in our recycle bin. Our kitchen looked like a crime scene from all the blood but we were lucky it wasn't worse. Thankfully, my friend Karen's husband graciously came over and glued her finger back together.
Then, my grandmother died from a massive stroke. Although I had no desire to attend the funeral (for reasons I won't go into here), we did return to Vermont so I could see my siblings and so my girls could cheer my dad up. In that regard, I think the trip was successful.
Things were calming down a bit and Ellie's finger was starting to look normal again. That's when she took a tumble off our back steps and landed on the concrete.
This picture fails to show the black eye that cropped up a few hours later. We decided that she needed a onesie that says, "If you think I look bad, you should see the other baby."
In the same afternoon, Vivi managed to trap a squirrel on our back porch. In it's attempt to escape, it gave her a good scratching.
One more reason we hate squirrels.
Then, in what was one of the scariest moments of my life, my husband called me from work yesterday and said, "Sam, I am really sick. I need you to pick me up and take me to the hospital." For those of you who don't know my husband, he is a physician who is in excellent shape. He regularly runs, plays squash, and commutes by bike. Two weeks before we were married, he finished in the top 10% of the Boston Marathon at age 48. He has an incredibly high pain threshold and this is not the sort of call I ever expected from him.
I raced to his office with the babies in tow. He was in excruciating pain so I dropped him at the hospital near our house. When I got home, I started calling friends to see if someone could come stay with my kids so I could get back to the hospital. Luckily, my friend Lydia and her husband Jason saved the day. When I made it back to the ER about 30 minutes later, my husband had been given a shot of morphine (with no effect) and was still writhing in pain in the ER.
I could not stand to see him like that so I did something about which I am not totally proud. I went up to the triage nurse and said, "Excuse me, is there anyway that you could get my husband in sooner? He is a physician and the morphine has been ineffective." My husband would never play the doctor card and while I admire his modesty, I couldn't bear to see him suffer. Within minutes, he was in a room and by the end of the hour, he was given a heavy duty dose of narcotics. He was really loopy but he was comfortable.
The verdict: a kidney stone. It seems to have passed and he got to spend the night at home which was a relief to us all. He's back at work this morning and feeling good.
Of course, I am still not totally contented. In what seems to be the most insufferable of all our adventures lately, I am still waiting on Season 3 of Mad Men from the library.
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