Infectoid

So I got shingles. Again.

No, I did not get my roof redone. I am currently experiencing an outbreak of herpes zoster. No, not THAT herpes. Essentially its the cousin of the chicken pox, who likes to remind you when your life has become unduly stressful by having you break out in a blistering painful rash. I’m not really here to talk about that though.

The last couple of weeks have offered up quite the cornucopia of stressors…

My almost 4 year old apparently decided that being toilet trained wasn’t all it was cracked up to be and gave up. He had about 53 accidents over the course of the week and I got to the point where I was no longer upset, but rather just sad and desperate to understand what was going on and hoped with all my heart that this wasn’t in delayed reaction to his dad and I’s separation.

A departmental meeting at my workplace brought to our attention the implementation of a safety plan for one our of our employees whose personal safety had been affected by their spouse. A million thoughts and scenarios run through your mind when you hear those words. We were provided no situational details, only the protocols to be followed and the response to any conflict that may arise.  All I could think about afterward was how lucky I was to be able to call my ex-spouse a friend rather than an enemy. I took some time to digest the information and then I took the elevator upstairs to see my ex-husband. I told him I needed a hug and he, reluctantly at first, gave me one. He asked what was wrong and was concerned about my family, worrying that something had happened to someone. I told him that it was a work situation that I was not allowed to discuss and he understood. I thanked him for being such a great dad and for being a partner in this with me. Divorce can bring out the worst in people, we have tried to look at things differently and have focused on becoming co-parents instead of ex-spouses.

Then Friday afternoon came around. Working in a hospital, I hear the all too common overhead announcement for a Code Blue, the universal indicator for healthcare workers that someones life is in distress and it calls the appropriate responders to the location. I am not one of those people. I work quietly in my department and am usually shielded from the gruesome and devastating side of the healthcare world. But on this day, I was requested to bring some additional supplies to the doctors attending a code in the ICU. I am trained in CPR and First Aid, I have performed abdominal thrusts on a visitor in the cafeteria to stop him from choking, but nothing could have prepared me for the moment I walked into that room. I always thought that being there and seeing people in action during this process would be incredibly interesting, it wasn’t. It was awful. I felt like an intruder into someones intensely private moments, moments where families weren’t allowed and wouldn’t have wanted to be. This isn’t Hollywood, this is real CPR being performed on a real human being, this is a person whose life is in the most delicate balance and there were more people in that room using every fibre of their being to keep him alive than I could have ever imagined. It was a scene that I hope I never have to experience again.

Did I mention that I turned 30 somewhere in there? Didn’t think I cared, pretty sure I lied to myself. Life isn’t what I expected it to look like at 30. I am supposed to be this confident, happy, well-adjusted mother who has her whole life and career figured out. I have NOTHING figured out. Seriously, nothing.

Add in a couple of complicated life/relationship issues and we have cooked up a perfect recipe for a little Shingles relapse. Awesomesauce. Got to spend part of my Thanskgiving in the ER awaiting an Rx for antiviral meds.

No where but up, right?

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