I’ve been moving and trying not to die. I’ve disappeared off the face of the earth once again. Seems like I’ve been doing that a lot lately. I told you all awhile back that our house sold and that we were closing on a house. It’s all been a cluster, as everything we ever do always is. Long story short, there were foundation issues. So on to the next house. We found another house, made an offer and closed last Friday. We are ecstatic, except for the fact that I have a tradition that I’d love to quit.
This is so sad but true. Just one more verse to what seems like the longest summer and saddest country song ever. I thought “and my dog died” was the end. I mean, isn’t that the punch line? But no, there is more. We do everything the hard way around here, apparently. On the day of closing, I woke up so sick that I, quite seriously, thought I would cry. Mind you, this was after a week of a raging case of the stomach flu.
It felt like I had swallowed razor blades. I had gotten no sleep and the pressure and pain in my head was only second to the unrelenting snot that was blocking every possible air passage that I have. I couldn’t breathe people. Just to add an element of surprise, I began randomly vomiting pure foaming snot. Yes, beautiful visual. Think morning sickness with quadruplets and a tequila hangover. It was not pretty folks.
This is not conducive to moving weekend. Did I mention that the last time we moved, I had to do it in the rain, by myself (my husband was out of town) and in the rain? I did.
This time, thank God, I had a team of moving helpers on Friday (my 3 brothers, my sister-in-law, my mother-in-law and my father-in-law and the Big guy) but we didn’t close until 6 pm on Friday night and by the time we got the truck (because it was the last ruck available in the history of the universe) it was almost 8 pm and pouring rain. The truck had to be back by 9 am. You can guess what happened next? Yes, we moved in the rain (again) into the wee hours of the night.
By this point, I couldn’t breathe and I look like a drowned rat. My eyes were sore; my head was aching. I was sure that I had west Nile, the Ebola virus or the freaking bubonic plague. You all know that I seem to catch the most outrageous diseases; whooping cough, herpangina and scarlet fever…all kids diseases, and I have caught them all as an adult since having children. So, it would be perfectly normal for me to assume that I had caught the plague from one of my carrier children via the elementary school aka cootie central. Damn it.
I just knew I was going to die. There was one point Saturday where I was so dizzy and my fever was so high that I swore I saw Jesus, right there in my living room. I’d assumed he’d come to take me and put me out of my misery. No such luck, it was just the appliance deliveryman. Too bad there was nowhere to deliver the appliances, as the kitchen has to be redone. But they are beautiful and shiny, stainless steel. I just wanted to lie against the appliances to cool down before I had a febrile seizure. But I couldn’t because on Saturday, I had to unload two pallets of wood flooring into the house. Never mind, that I was so sick that I could pass out at any moment and my eyes were rolling back into my head. Who cares if I were hacking and yakking on everything in sight? The house has no flooring right now so that took priority.
I received no sympathy from anyone while moving, until Sunday when I could barely get mobile. Then I was told to stay home (because home is still my in laws because we couldn’t move into a house with no functioning kitchen or floors with small children) but it was said with the definite look of “you should stay home if you are too much of a pussy to work. No problem, we will all work at YOUR house while you sleep in a plague-induced coma”. So, I did what any self –respecting woman would do, I got up, rubbed some dirt on it and took my daughter to the Nutcracker auditions, then picked up lunch for everyone helping with the moving and worked until I literally couldn’t breathe anymore.
Monday, I woke up determined to go to the doctor, the emergency room, anywhere that could prevent my untimely demise. My plan was to go get meds and then sleep until pick up. No such luck. The Big Guy woke up and said he too was sick. I made him go to the doctor. We’re both sick. He has Strep throat (but you’d think he was dying) and I have acute sinusitis with a side of ear infections because I am special. His comment to me on our half-dead ride home, “Man, you really were sick. I don’t feel like moving, just sleeping.”
“Yeah, me too asshole. All three days that I had to move in the rain while trying not to vomit on myself from the snot in my belly and the excruciating pain in my head.”
Next time we move, he’s paying professionals or doing it himself. It’s too hard on my health. But as soon as these antibiotics kick in, I’m moving into my new old house and finally, after 3 years, we will be a normal family again. The kids are ecstatic.