I expected to use the above quote in the blog about Meg going into labor, the joke (or potentially accurate portrayal of reality) being that I passed out while Meg was in labor. Even with just two weeks left until the due date, it felt more appropriate to use it now.
Thursday night, I wasn’t feeling well. Meg, in all her excessively large-bellied pregnant glory, was sweet enough to give me the bed and let me sleep off the sore throat and aches I was feeling. I figured it was my sinuses being their usual annoyance and reacting to the dreary weather we had all week. So I bundled myself up in the bed sheet, two blankets, and even our bed spread. I don’t know what it is about the feeling of heavy blankets on top of me, but it’s one of the most comfortable feelings in the world.
I woke up sometime around 2am feeling nauseous. I went to the bathroom to prepare for what I had written off as an inevitability. After a few minutes, I decide to head downstairs to the kitchen for some water.
I remember hearing a loud thud. For some reason, when something falls in our kitchen, it shakes everything in there and amplifies the noise. I then became aware of the fact that I was lying on my back. I had the sensation of just waking up from a deep sleep, save for the absurdly sharp pain that was pulsating from the back of my head. I was trying to decide if the kitchen was pitch black because it was night time and I hadn’t turned on the lights or if I just didn’t have my eyes open. Neither would have surprised me at the time.
As best as I can figure, I made it half way into the kitchen. I think my knees first buckled, at which point the rest of me followed backwards. But not in a gentle, I’m rolling myself onto a bed, but in a pivot-at-the-waist-head-hits-first sort of way. In many ways, I was lucky. It could have happened on my way down the stairs, at which point the curio cabinet about four feet from the base of the stairs would have made for a lovely landing pad after my tumble. Equally as haunting is the prospect that I had fallen forward, in which case my nose would now be a permanent fixture on our stove.
After calling my name and receiving basic grunts as responses, Meg came into the kitchen to find I had apparently made it to my side. On paper, it’s almost comical: Meg was too pregnant to bend over and get the leverage to sit me up, and I was too weak and disoriented to do it myself. In a Han Solo moment, my dark blurs of the kitchen had turned to light blurs when Meg turned the lights on.
Eventually — and it could have been anywhere from 2-3 minutes to 10-15 minutes from my recollection — I managed to sit up and prop myself against the dishwasher. Meg got me a glass of water. I immediately began to feel better. I also immediately began to sweat. A lot. I’m talking gym quantities of sweat.
“We need to take you temperature.”
“We don’t have a thermometer.”
“Actually, we do.”
Apparently, the bump to my head didn’t knock me too much out of commission, because it didn’t take me long to realize what Meg had gone to retrieve. She waddled back into the kitchen holding a pale blue case.
“There had better be an oral thermometer in there, because there is no way in hell you’re using the other one on me.” I said this fully realizing I was in no position to argue. I was in such a broken down state that, even 9 months pregnant, Meg possessed the strength superiority to force a rectal temperature reading had she wanted to.
“Wait, didn’t that thing come with a pacifier thermometer too?” I asked rhetorically, more trying to convince myself of that statement than I was looking for an answer.
“Relax, this one can be used orally too.”
“Oh. Can I try the pacifier one anyway?”
As much as I would have liked the baby to come early so I could have been a father for Father’s Day, I was happy to know that the thermometer had not yet seen live rectal usage as Meg quickly shoved the thing under my tongue.
Surprisingly, I only measured a 98.1, which I attribute to the fact that I was head-to-toe damp with sweat and sitting next to an AC vent. I managed to crawl (yes, literally crawl) back upstairs to bed.
After calling around to a number of doctors in the morning, I finally found one with an opening for that day. It was supposed to be Meg’s last day at work before maternity leave, but we didn’t trust me to have to drive anywhere, so she stayed home to take me to the doctor. After a shitload of tests (doctor’s don’t really screw around once you tell them you blacked out and collapsed), the final diagnosis is that I had a fever (102 at the doctor) but they really don’t know why I blacked out. I was potentially dehydrated, which would also explain the nausea. Oh ya, and I have the god damn flu on top of it, so add in aches, a sore throat, and general weakness. Ya know, in addition to to large, swollen bump on the back of my head from the fall.
My biggest fear was that Meg was going to go into labor early while I was far too sick to be of any use. I’m still far from 100%, but at least I’m feeling well enough in case the baby came early. Now it’s just a matter of taking it easy until the kid actually decides to come.