Fathers' Day was today, and we celebrated in rare style.
The Dad in the family slept in two hours later than normal, then had bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches for dinner tonight. He received a new patio swing as a gift, and I'll be posting the reason why later.
That's something that will take a whole blog all by itself.
Tonight the kids and Dad went to meet the older in-town kids at the local mecca of miniature golf per the request of His Highness for the Day, Hubster. They played 18 holes, then went next door and rode go-carts. A fun time was had by all, especially Hubster. He is in his element when he is around family.
The one damper to the evening is that I couldn't be there. Seems as though my presence was required at the local ER.
Remember when I told y'all the asthma was back in force and it had opened a can of whoop-my-hiney this week? It done whooped it GOOD.
By today I was enlisting the use of the nebulizer for back-to-back treatments. I'd already used the inhaler, called the Doc for steroids and taken them, and still couldn't catch a deep breath without coughing my head off. When I called Doc the second time AFTER everything else had been tried and had a chance to work for a couple of hours or more and failed, she sent me to the VooDoo Witch Doctors at the local ER.
By that time everyone else had already left for the other goings-on, so I had to drive myself. It really was quite comical in a way.
PANTPANTPANTPANTCOUGHCOUGHCOUGHPANTPANTPANTCOUGHCOUGH all the way there. Park, climb the steps, walk across the drive, get dizzy, stop, go, enter the doors, go up to the desk, say "I (pantpantpant) am (pantpantpant) having (coughcoughcough) a little (pantpantpant) trouble (HACKcoughcough) breathing."
The girl behind the desk looked quite alarmed, then called back to have someone help me immediately before I fell over. Because they don't take much to people falling over in the ER, or so it seems. They got me back into a room in record time.
And then I sat. And panted. And coughed. And developed a killer migraine to add to the wonderful ambiance of the evening.
An hour and a half after I was first admitted, a doctor stopped by to see me for five minutes. I told him what was going on. He ordered a breathing treatment with not only the albuterol I'd already used, but a wonderful drug called Atrovent. He even threw in some Lidocaine for good measure. And after it finally got there and I had the treatment I was breathing much better.
He also gave me a couple of LorTabs and an Atavan for the migraine. While it didn't completely take the pain away, it did take the edge off enough to where I wasn't screaming "THE LIGHT!!! TURN OFF THE LIGHT!!! AAAAARRRRGGGHHHH!!!!"
It was a win-win situation for all of us.
Except for Hubster. He ended up having to be dropped off at the hospital by The Girl so he could drive me home. Apparently these yayhoos in the medical field think I'm some kind of lightweight and can't hold my LorTabs and Atavan, so they made me have a designated driver when I went home.
A mere five hours later, the diagnosis? Bronchitis with a severe case of crazy. I just need to take the meds like I'm supposed to and stop playing with the little green creatures that inhabit my thoughts.
In other words, they want me to conform.
They really do know how to take the fun out of an evening, don't they?