Hell is other people.—Jean-Paul Sartre
Hell is oneself.—T. S. Eliot
Hell is caring for two sick children.—Chag
It was a lot of fun at my house a few weeks ago. A week before Independence Day, in addition to the lovely artwork she created that day, Zoey brought home a case of Hand-Foot-and-Mouth Disease from her preschool.
It started out with just a low-grade fever. But since Zoey is apt to run parent-panicking fevers of up to 104° with no other symptoms, we were not too concerned. Other than feeling a little bit warm, she was eating fine, sleeping fine, and acting fine. But this was soon to change.
The next afternoon, all hell broke loose. Zed seems like he's been teething since he was two days old (still no teeth). And since he's only four months old, when something's bothering him, he can only communicate with me via a series of long, drawn-out whines. So he started in on his teething whine, stopping every few minutes to jam his fingers down his throat, trying desperately to end his misery. Fun times.
Not to be outdone, Zoey, despite the fact that she's almost three years old, also chose to communicate with me via a series of long, drawn-out whines. So both children started whining in unison, each getting louder to try to obtain my immediate attention. I would pick one child up, hold it for a few minutes, walk it around the room, and put it down. Pick up the other child, hold it for a few minutes, walk it around the room, and put it down. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. At times, I was actually carrying both kids at the same time.
The next morning, Zoey told us her mouth hurt. We looked inside and saw little tiny red bumps on her throat. Thinking it was strep, we rushed her to the pediatrician. The doctor told us "Zoey just has Hand-Foot-and-Mouth Disease."
Some advice to any pediatricians out there: never use the words "[your child] just has" and "disease" in the same sentence. If you deal with overly neurotic parents like myself, you're liable to end up with a parent lying on your examination table as well.
After I ceased hyperventilating, the pediatrician informed me that Hand-Foot-and-Mouth Disease was just a common viral infection and was nothing to worry about. "Why do they call it a disease, then?" the tiny cynical voices started murmuring in my head. "She's lying to you. She just doesn't want to deal with you freaking out on her." The doctor also told us there was a good chance that Zed, Ella, and I would catch it as well.
So after I got home and started looking up information on the disease on the web, I soon found out that the pediatrician wasn't just trying to prevent a scene; she was actually telling me the truth.
The next morning, Zoey was her usual sweet self. No fever. No whining. Zed, on the other hand, was coughing and crying when he ate. Despite the fact that we had just been told no less than twenty-four hours before that there was a good chance that Zed would come down with Hand-Foot-and-Mouth Disease, we took him to the pediatrician anyway. And yes, he had Hand-Foot-and-Mouth Disease as well. But he took a little longer to get over his than Zoey did.
And in case you're wondering, Ella and I caught it too. Only I evidently ordered the deluxe version, as I got a mild case of pleurisy with mine. But we're all better now. And the County Health Department has removed the Quarantine warning sticker from our front door.
All Hope Abandon, Ye Who Enter Here
