I always plan to get a million things done on the weekend. That third floor work, for example - we are in the home stretch and racing at the speed of snails to wind it all up. Planning for the vacation is done, but assessing what we need for the mission trip and the vacation and packing it all? Not so much. So I planned on spending my weekend as productively as possible.
Of course, I had a good handful of things I needed to do for me. It's been easily four months since my last haircut, and nearly as long since my last pedicure. (I used to equate 'pedicure' with 'ridiculous luxury' but that was before I turned 50 and discovered what THAT does to your feet.) With a nearly one month long trip coming up, both of these things needed to be done. Our area is suffering a critical shortage of my blood type, so I signed up to donate at 8 AM Saturday (once you are out of the house, you are moving, right?) and I was on call for the weekend. No sweat. I should be able to lay and paint some baseboard, right?
I accomplished everything I needed to on Saturday - the haircut, the pedi, the blood donation, the on call, the grocery shopping, dinner, and some baseboard work.
The mandatory mission team meeting at 6 PM? Not so much. Not sure how that didn't make the calendar, but our bad.
Sunday church, and doing the mission team paperwork afterward. On call was grim. Usually Sundays are quiet, but I just got call after call after complicated call that kept me tied to the phone and the computer for HOURS. And the entire time, I just got sleepier. And more nauseated. Toward the end, near 4 PM, I started throwing up. By 5 I was in bed, when I wasn't throwing up. I don't know what the family did about dinner, but I'd skipped lunch and had no desire to even smell food. I got up about 10 to try to get some fluids in, borrowed one of Babygirl's nausea pills, tried again, and went to bed. I think I slept a total of 16 hours.
Monday morning I awoke feeling somewhat better, but given how I felt after a piece of toast I decided calling in might be wise. It was a good call for about a dozen reasons.
Mom's recent hospital stay resulted in a visit from a home nurse. Since I was home, I was there. She REALLY got front row at Dementia Central. Mom's three questions: Who are you and why are you here? Do you like your job? Do you like my cats? And to me: Can I have your sandals? I really like them. Ah, yeah. Never mind about understanding your heart failure medications or getting your diabetes under control. That was exhausting, so I took a nap.
I decided I had better call the Red Cross and let them know I was sick. Vomiting and 101 degree fever was not something I wanted passed on to somebody like Babygirl who would be getting my blood. I've been donating for nearly 40 years now and never had to make that call, and it was awkward. The first person I spoke with was very, very concerned. Very concerned, that is, that I was blaming THEM for being ill, which was hardly the case. She transferred me to a post-donation 'specialist' so I could be educated about how this wasn't their fault. There was no interrupting this young lady, so I gamely held on. While this was happening, I was getting frantic text messages from my office. One of my patients was risking his life by ignoring a specialist's advice, could I please call the specialist right NOW to discuss this. I texted back what I was doing and that I'd get to it ASAP. The post-donation person and I chatted. She was also not interruptible, but hell, now I've GOT to get this moving, so I blurt out, "Look, I'm a doctor. I'm sick because I'm sick, not because I donated. Just tell me you are going to throw away the damned blood so I can move on to my next crisis already!" She went on to try to apologize at length. "Yes or no: Do you understand you need to toss my donation???" Ummmmm, yes. "Good. We're done." Seriously?
On to a conversation with our social worker: If a person is mentally ill but understands that their choices are bad, are we allowed to try to have them committed for being a danger to themselves? In this case the answer is 'No.' We cannot force medical care on anyone even if the consequences of not accepting that care is death. Now, if he were pointing a gun at himself, then, okay. I'm not sure what the difference is, really, but... This was also exhausting. So I took another nap.
I was hungry at dinner but the salmon fillet we had thawed did not appeal, so I cooked something a bit lighter. Good thing, as Hubby had come down with the stomach bug (the only time I saw him all day was when our naps coincided).
This morning, I feel like I might survive. I planned the day off (God knows why - I do have a dentist appointment later) so I am laying baseboard, caulk and paint if it kills me.