marathon monday (m)

Monday.  Patriot's Day in New England.  The running of the Boston Marathon.  The re-enactment of The Battle of Lexington and Concord.  A Red Sox game.  Sunny, mild.

Perfect, no?  What could go wrong?

I'll tell you what went wrong.

My husband, Mr. Predictable, the man who has only been sick one day in his life, comes home from work (he works for himself but decided not to give himself the holiday off) with chills.  He's shaking uncontrollably. 

I escort him to the sofa and cover him with tons of blankets, including the faux fur from Pottery Barn that weighs a ton.  He's still shaking like someone who just stuck a fork in a live electrical outlet.

I take his temperature with one of those ear-things.  93 degrees.  Is that even possible?  What does that even mean?  I take it in the other ear.  93.2 degrees.  I have never seen this before.

I look at him--he's whiter than Casper.  Feet are ice cold. 

I call the health plan.

Because of the holiday, they divert us to Urgent Care.  No urgency there.  Twenty minutes later, someone comes on the line and tells me to take him to the hospital.

The nearest hospital is on the Marathon route.  Cups litter the sidewalks and streets from where the runners passed through.

We get to the hospital and I drop him off to check in while I park the car.

I walk up to the hospital and notice a table set up for injured marathoners.

As I look around to find my husband in the waiting area, a volunteer asks, "Are you a runner in need of assistance?"

I'm dumbfounded.  Do I look remotely like a runner or any kind of athlete? I can't imagine anyone asking me that question a year ago.

I suppose that's progress.  Better an injured runner than a couch potato.

PS-T is fine.  Some intravenous, lots of testing.  Probably the flu.  Is it sick of me to be jealous that he has no appetite?