Sickness, levels 1-5


If I weren’t so dog-tired there’d be quite a long and blackly amusing entry here.  All about how, after Amber’s party and her sister’s illness, just about everyone who attended got sick.

I worked from home on Monday, as you know, and just as well because first of all I came down with a migraine after lunch, then I started feeling rather queasy, too.  It was rather like a hangover from hell, but without the fun bit beforehand, and I spent the rest of Monday in bed shivering or in front of the TV wrapped in a blanket, moaning softly.

Turns out I got off lightly.

Grandma and Granddad both got Level 2 of Millie’s disease (in fact, let’s call theirs’ Level 3, Millie’s Level 2 and mine Level 1 – the type where you don’t actually vomit, you just feel as though you’re going to for hours on end).  Our friend Nik also got struck down with Level 3, but Uncle Trev got something like Level 5, which involved him having to go to hospital with atrial fibrillation (of which, more here, from a professional).

Feeling much better this morning, I dropped the girls off at nursery (and was forced to jump through hoops there because of badly organised security), when my mum rang to tell me Trev was in hospital.  I rang his fianceé, Conny, to see what was happening.  Conny was at home, having been ordered there by the doctors because she’d had Millie’s disease (at Level 3) and it’s highly infectious (whatever it is).  Which means I end up leaving the train station and going back home on the bus, reasoning that if Conny’s highly infectious then I probably am, too.

At this point I ring Nik to warn him what’s happening.  Nik already knows.  Five minutes later Grandma and Granddad telephone to tell us how ill they’ve been.

At this point I start to have visions of early parts of Stephen King’s plague novel The Stand and ‘phone my dad, who’s vulnerable to this sort of thing because his heart transplant means he’s on immunosuppressants, and if he gets sick then he could be in real trouble.  Fortunately, he’s fine.

I settle down to work from home when – flash! – my internet connection dies.  I can’t literally cannot do any work without an internet connection and have to spend the next FIVE HOURS trying to fix it.  Thanks to the very competent helpline staff at PlusNet who were mostly  efficient and helpful – all except some joker called Carl, who in true IT Crowd fashion told me to turn it off, leave it off, and then turn it back on again 15 minutes later.  I think he just wanted to be left alone, really.

My internet connection woes become a perfect storm when Gmail goes offline – which is where I keep my router password (yes, I’m aware that ‘online’ is a silly place to store details vital to restoring a lost internet connection, thank you).

Today’s award for an overinflated sense of self-importance goes to the Lovely Melanie for asking, in all seriousness, whether our broken internet connection might be affecting GMail… 🙂  EDITED – I have been ordered to add that this is not what she meant at all, and was it was in fact my fault for getting the wrong end of the stick.

Good news finally arrives just before teatime when Trev phones to say he is back home and apparently fine (although, the doctors want to see him again in six weeks, just in case).  Not only that, but we finally get a reliable, full-featured working internet connection back, enabling me to get some work done at long last.

There’s a sting in the tail, however.  The Lovely Melanie and I are putting some things up in the attic after the girls have gone to bed, and one of the things that’s going up there is ‘Davros’, Bubbah’s baby walker thing, which we’ve unfortunately left in Bubbah’s room.  When the Lovely Melanie creeps stealthily in there to get it she suddenly shouts for me to come in, quick.

Bubbah is laid in her cot covered in sick.  And I mean covered.  Bless her, she must have thrown up then tried to crawl out of it, made things worse and, miraculously, gone back to sleep!

Thanks goodness we were putting Davros in the attic, though, as otherwise she’d have been laid like that until the morning!  I stripped off her sleeping bag (sticky with sick), her babygrow (also sticky with sick), her vest (damp with…maybe sick) and her nappy (ironically, spotlessly clean!) and had to put her in the shower as she smelt very bad.

It wasn’t very pleasant: a Bubbah who’s already upset about being covered in sick is not a Bubbah who’s going to submit lightly to being woken up, stripped naked and showered, but it was the quickest way to get her sorted out.  So ‘Bad Cop’ Daddy did that, allowing ‘Good Cop’ Mummy to wrap her up in a towel, dry her off and put clean clothes on.  She then sang her back to sleep while ‘Bad Cop’ Daddy stuffed the sodden bedclothes into the washing machine.

We’re going to be listening closely tonight, just in case Bubbah’s got a case of Millie’s disease.

Hey, what do you know: we ended up with quite a long and blackly amusing entry here after all!

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