It's been quite a coupla weeks. Two Thursdays ago the Hubby and I went off our diets and ate some Chinese food. Tasted good when we ate it. I spent the night throwing up and yet somehow I found the fortitude to go to work. I had to go to work because my co-worker, the only other post transplant coordinator, was canned last month. Oh, if only I could fill you in on that drama, but I'm still trying to stay on the QT when it comes to work specifics. Let's just say that the regime change is complete. Everyone has been chipping in to help me, which allowed me to stay on vacation and only come back a day early. Nonetheless, nobody else really knows the patients and we are not set up with a system that involves someone to step over my cold carcass and take over instantly, should that need ever arise. In fact our technology involves, I think, punch cards and a computer that looks like it should say, in a tinny voice, "Would you like to play a game?"
So here's the rundown of last week:
Sunday night: I feel fine before bed. Wake up with tummy upset a few times, think maybe it's something I ate again and wake up feeling like I've hardly slept. Go to work and an hour into clinic think that I'm going to heave. No, I'm not pregnant. People tell me I look pale. I go home at noon and blessedly the husband and little one are out. I eat what will be my last solid food for 2 days: soup and ginger ale, and go to sleep.
Tuesday: I think I can go to work. I am wrong. Dr. L. the nephrologist comes into my room and says, "Oh my God, are you okay?" I leave again at 12 noon to go home and moan.
Wed'day: feeling better, I eat some yoghurt and tea. Make it through a whole day of work. Go home and eat a big, hearty dinner. Big mistake.
Thursday: I feel odd again, but still manage to make it through a day of work. I don't actually DO much, but I'm present. Eat hospital salisbury steak for lunch. BIG MISTAKE.
I'll spare you the gory details, but let's just say that Thursday overnight I got very well acquainted with my bathroom. Let's also say that I'll never take anyone's cellcept-induced diarrhea lightly ever again. I have to go in to work. I'm 3 days behind on phone calls. My favorite patients think I don't love them anymore. My unfavorite patients think I'm a slacker. I crawl into work around 11:30.
Somewhere in all this, I came home to find parts of Pooter's Curious George puzzle in amongst the rubber tree. It looked like a cartoon crime scene. With dirt everywhere, natch. I asked the hubster what gives. "She planted them. She's trying to grow more monkeys."
Because what this house needs is more monkeys.
This week I have been on the mend. However, Monday morning I had 45 phone messages and a full clinic. Fortunately, I have A. New. Coordinator. She is six shades of awesome. She's friendly, competent, experienced, diligent and she knows everyone in the hospital. She's already covered my ass. And she reminds me of Doggett. In case I haven't mentioned it, I LERV the X-files. I've seen every episode and every movie. I didn't think anyone could replace Mulder. And then they brought on Robert Patrick, who's also 6 shades of awesome. Did you see him in "Walk the Line"? Anyhoo, I digress, but she's a female Doggett and I'm happy as a clam at high tide. And she feeds me. Those in the know know that I have a special affection for anyone who provides me with nourishment. I think it's a childhood issue, whatever. Anyways, hopefully after next week we'll be all caught up again and I can stop stressing.
We said goodbye this week to our pharmacist, who's pretty, smart and works like 3 people. God knows how we'll replace her. They've already hired 1 1/2 people to fill her spot. At the farewell my other coworker had me desperate with laughter. See, we have this thing at work were one person picks the "Friday Colors" and we all try and wear those colors on Friday. It is, in a word, gay (no offense). I do my best to fit in, although I'm not really a good fitter-inner. I mentioned to him that when it's my turn, I'm going to pick chartreuse and apricot. He countered by saying he would pick "clear". This devolved into more ridiculous combos: slate, eggplant, stone, salmon.
"I know" he said, "everyone wear a red quilted vest over burnt umber pants with a skirt in the O'Malley family plaid." By now I was helpless with laughter, hoping no one would notice that I'd lost track of my senses without even liquor to blame it on. "I got it! Forget colors! Everyone dress like a rodeo clown." Tears streaming down my face, I try to hold it in but I have 2 weeks of sickness and stress pent up inside. I wonder if anyone will notice if I pee my pants or if I can leave gracefully before that happens. I try thinking of sad things: war, famine, the NY Islanders. It's no use. I'm weak with the silliness of it. It feels great. Bring on the monkeys.
