Best Laid Plans…

Day number 4 in the hospital with our little misses.

Sunday was an afternoon in the ER.  Monday through today in a room number 123 – a cubicle.  No, a cell.  No, wait… a closet.

Food is mediocre.  The best thing on the menu are two words that should never be placed together except when separated by the word “stuffed” – turkey bacon.  The staff is kind yet a little discombobulated.  Sometimes it good when the left hand knows what the right hand is doing and when its doing it.  Waiting until the patient has only just fallen asleep for some much-needed rest to re-enter the room to poke her for yet another blood draw is NOT communicating needs effectively for the health of the patient, or the sanity of what was once a rational father.

My worst complaint is the room…  I had to share a room like this with my older brother, Jon, growing up in a 3-bedroom, 1-bath ranch in west Michigan.  There was a bunk bed, a dresser, and a desk in that room.  It felt just right when I was that size.  Now, however, in a similar-sized room, about 8X10, I feel claustrophobic.  A rat in a cage.  An inmate.

Sleeping soundly, after being repeatedly poked and prodded…

Could be worse, I could have what my daughter has… which is something no one has yet to figure out.  “Probably a stomach virus” they say.

#$%@*&!

We arrived in this lovely Oregon harbor town of Hammond/Astoria last Saturday.  Sunday afternoon was the ER (which my wife, who works in a medical-related field tells me is now properly referred to as “ED” – Erectile Dysfunction?  Really?  Oh… that’s Emergency Department.  I still can’t say ED without giggling).  Monday was ED (hee, hee, hee) again followed by admission into our current residence of room 123.

Now the plan is to go to Portland, to further exhaust the gamut of pediatric testing at the Portland University Hospital.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thrilled about this.

I would do anything to change this expression back into…

This means we have to transport our infant.  In an ambulance.  For 2 hours.  To Portland.  I’m thinking, this should go well.

Then there’s the RV.  While we’re in this lovely park called Fort Stevens State Park (I highly recommend this to RV’ers), there is our cat to take care of along with considering that we’re to check out on Friday anyway.  Today is Wednesday.  Wednesday, with a trip to Portland and somehow move the RV to Portland, too.  We were supposed to drive another two hours north to Hoquaim, Washington.  I think that plan is a bust.

I really wanted to see more of this area.  I really wanted to see more of the Pacific coast on Highway 101.  I’m still gonna drive over this bridge here in town only if it means I have to drive back over it to get the RV to Portland, way too cool – It’s like a smaller version of the Mackinaw Bridge in northern Michigan.  Any drive like that in an RV has got to be entertaining to some degree.

…this one. Anything.

Point is, I’m extremely disappointed.  Frankly, I’m pissed.

This little hospital detour has sucked the “sabbath” right out of my sabbatical.  Best laid plans, right?

Instead of doing the things I wanted to do I am forced into something I really would dislike on any Facebook status.  And I own that.

I’m not going to be that guy and say, “screw it, I’m doing my own thing,” leaving behind my wife to be with my sick child all on her own.  No, I am sticking right here, bedside until someone has a decent answer or until I have to go back to the RV and feed the cat.  The latter of which is going to happen first.

To plan a 13-week RV trip with two adults, one 3-month old (tomorrow it’s officially 4-month old), and a neurotic cat was an endeavor no reasonable person would try to plan, or so I’ve been told…several times over.  We’re only 5 weeks in.  So far, so good, I’d say.  No real issues until this.

As I’m typing my poor little girl is sleeping by my side.  She appears more pale than an albino ginger.  The hardest part, there’s no diagnosis…and her cry is deadly.  What’s worse?  I can’t console her.

Just plain sick.

I’m hurting.  I’m hurting, yes, because my plans are forcibly being changed and not toward any good destination.  I had wanted to go to Portland last Sunday for the MLS Timbers match-up against San Jose (which they won – would’ve LOVED to have seen that!) but instead we stayed at home.  I was just recovering from that loss.  Now this.

I feel selfish.  I feel selfish because this was my trip, really.  I’m happy to spend it with family, just not like this.  I want my smiling little girl back so I can spy the school where Kindergarten Cop was filmed, or the places in Astoria where parts of Goonies was filmed.  Or the really cool lighthouse-looking structure I can see on my drive to and from the hospital, or even more of the beach area at low tide – with my daughter in her car seat attached to the Bob Stroller.

This is the hardest part about parenting I’ve only just discovered.  Not being able to do the things I really wanted to do.  You know what?  I wouldn’t trade it for the world, a billion bucks, and to see Donald Trump in a homeless shelter.

Best laid plans…