I was awoken this morning by Jason telling me we needed to go to the ER. His fever hasn't broken for more than an hour or two in seven days. He keeps cycling between freezing and boiling. His appetite is not coming back. His muscle aches have increased to the point where he can't lay down or sit still for too long and actually prefers pacing to rest.
So, to the ER we went.
Once again, they did a full work-up with very little out of place in his bloodwork. They ruled out bacterial infection based on his white blood cell count, and said it's an indeterminate virus. A second bloodwork sample was sent out to test for Lyme, which is looking more likely even though he still has no rash. They gave him hospital-grade pain meds and pumped an IV bag into him. I made a second trip to the grocery store to get $60 worth of foods for every sick-person purpose. Soup for when he's freezing. Italian ice for when he's too hot. Electrolyte-filled drinks. And a few of his favorite comfort foods for if, perchance, he happens to be actually hungry.
Then I had to go into work-- we were already one person down, and then the boss's wife broke her wrist and he had to take her to the hospital. So I worked most of a day there.
My day got even better when I decided to walk home because it would be far quicker than waiting for the erratic #53. It's only a mile from work to my front door. Today, assholes were out in full force. About halfway up Old Court Road (a fairly busy road), I notice a black 4x4 pickup with tinted windows just sitting in the middle of the road. Cars are moving out of the lane to get around it. I assume disabled vehicle, but something just doesn't seem right. Sure enough, as soon as I pass, the window rolls down and the "hey sweetheart" shit starts.
To preface: my boss keeps the place arctic. Therefore, I am wearing jeans, big stompy boots, and a long sleeved cardigan buttoned all the way up when I encounter this douchebag (not that it should matter, of course). Cars are whooshing by, so I can't clearly make out much of what else follows, thankfully. I just keep walking, eyes ahead. He starts creeping up on me with his truck, still trying to get my attention. This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened. After about a block, he gives up and drives off with an angry shout. I cross the street, in case he's only turned off on the next side street to holler some more.
I ponder what would have happened had I pulled out my camera to take a picture of his license plate. It's always a calculated risk, when stuff like this happens. You don't know who's just a run of the mill asshole and who will follow you home and hurt you with more than just words. I have had cars follow me home before. I have had guys harass me until the honking of cars bottlenecked up behind them forced them to move on. I often carry a military-grade retractable baton that my brother gave me precisely because you just never know. Sometimes I bring some things to work on in my downtime because then I have the option of carrying a hammer or a heavy steel mandrel. In the suburbs. In full sun.
Before I can finish pondering this, a bus honks at me. A fucking bus. Probably the same bus driver who actually pulled over to ask for my number last month.
By the time I get to the 7-11 at the corner of Old Court and my street, I am damn near shaking with anger. So it's the perfect time for dude #3 in his silver PT Cruiser to pull up along side me and start, again, with "hey sweetheart, can I talk to you?"
"No," I grunt at him, and keep walking. I must look really fucking pissed, because he rolls his window back up and does a U turn.
One mile. One. fucking. mile.
I fucking hate those men. I fucking hate the smug privilege they have. I fucking hate that I can't tell the average asshole from the potential rapist. I hate that they use their cars and buses to intimidate women walking alone under the guise of flattery. I fucking hate that it happens nearly every time I leave the house without my husband at my side.
I hate them. And if any dude out there pulls his fucking car up alongside women walking alone for any other reason than to genuinely ask for directions or ask for emergency aid, then I fucking hate them, too.
So, to the ER we went.
Once again, they did a full work-up with very little out of place in his bloodwork. They ruled out bacterial infection based on his white blood cell count, and said it's an indeterminate virus. A second bloodwork sample was sent out to test for Lyme, which is looking more likely even though he still has no rash. They gave him hospital-grade pain meds and pumped an IV bag into him. I made a second trip to the grocery store to get $60 worth of foods for every sick-person purpose. Soup for when he's freezing. Italian ice for when he's too hot. Electrolyte-filled drinks. And a few of his favorite comfort foods for if, perchance, he happens to be actually hungry.
Then I had to go into work-- we were already one person down, and then the boss's wife broke her wrist and he had to take her to the hospital. So I worked most of a day there.
My day got even better when I decided to walk home because it would be far quicker than waiting for the erratic #53. It's only a mile from work to my front door. Today, assholes were out in full force. About halfway up Old Court Road (a fairly busy road), I notice a black 4x4 pickup with tinted windows just sitting in the middle of the road. Cars are moving out of the lane to get around it. I assume disabled vehicle, but something just doesn't seem right. Sure enough, as soon as I pass, the window rolls down and the "hey sweetheart" shit starts.
To preface: my boss keeps the place arctic. Therefore, I am wearing jeans, big stompy boots, and a long sleeved cardigan buttoned all the way up when I encounter this douchebag (not that it should matter, of course). Cars are whooshing by, so I can't clearly make out much of what else follows, thankfully. I just keep walking, eyes ahead. He starts creeping up on me with his truck, still trying to get my attention. This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened. After about a block, he gives up and drives off with an angry shout. I cross the street, in case he's only turned off on the next side street to holler some more.
I ponder what would have happened had I pulled out my camera to take a picture of his license plate. It's always a calculated risk, when stuff like this happens. You don't know who's just a run of the mill asshole and who will follow you home and hurt you with more than just words. I have had cars follow me home before. I have had guys harass me until the honking of cars bottlenecked up behind them forced them to move on. I often carry a military-grade retractable baton that my brother gave me precisely because you just never know. Sometimes I bring some things to work on in my downtime because then I have the option of carrying a hammer or a heavy steel mandrel. In the suburbs. In full sun.
Before I can finish pondering this, a bus honks at me. A fucking bus. Probably the same bus driver who actually pulled over to ask for my number last month.
By the time I get to the 7-11 at the corner of Old Court and my street, I am damn near shaking with anger. So it's the perfect time for dude #3 in his silver PT Cruiser to pull up along side me and start, again, with "hey sweetheart, can I talk to you?"
"No," I grunt at him, and keep walking. I must look really fucking pissed, because he rolls his window back up and does a U turn.
One mile. One. fucking. mile.
I fucking hate those men. I fucking hate the smug privilege they have. I fucking hate that I can't tell the average asshole from the potential rapist. I hate that they use their cars and buses to intimidate women walking alone under the guise of flattery. I fucking hate that it happens nearly every time I leave the house without my husband at my side.
I hate them. And if any dude out there pulls his fucking car up alongside women walking alone for any other reason than to genuinely ask for directions or ask for emergency aid, then I fucking hate them, too.
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