Ian, Meet Plague. Plague, Meet Ian.

Lately, Ian can't seem to catch a break. The man keeps catching the plague, in the most dramatic ways possible.

In happier times last Wednesday, before developing his newest form of "Unclean, Unclean!"

He picked up his latest version of pestilence this past Thursday.

Ominous warning for readers: Ian is severely allergic to poison ivy

On Thursday morning, Ian's face started burning. By Thursday evening, his face, eyes, and ear had grown violently red.

On Friday morning, his face looked puffy and swollen. (Also, itchy, burn-y, and violently red).

He went to the minor med and was diagnosed with poison ivy. In his face. Deep in the crevices of his eyes. Sprouting from his ear.

Laura: "What did you do? EAT poison ivy?"

After getting a steriod shot in the butt at the minor med

Ian's currently on strong poison ivy medication, containing both antihistamines and steroids.

Watch out. He's got the Roid Rage. Meaning he's lethargic, sensitive, and eager to talk about his feelings.

Laura: "Ever since you starting taking the pill, you've acted differently."

Ian: "Ever since I started taking the pill, I've felt differently. I feel irritable."

Laura: "I mean, I feel more secure that you won't get pregnant, but it's just not worth it."

Ian: "The side effects of the pill are intense."

Laura: "Well, it should make your periods lighter, at least. And help your cramps..."

Ian: significantly less puffy, significantly more emotional 

In addition to his severe allergy to poison ivy, Ian is also severely allergic to proud claims of perfect health.

Because, honestly, that's where this madness all began. Never tempt fate, kids. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

Six Months Ago:

Ian: "I never get sick! Ever!"

Twenty-Four Hours Later:

Ian: "I think I have a fever. My throat hurts. My body aches."

Over the past six months, Ian has come down with about 8 sinus infections, chigger bites, appendicitis, a subsequent hospital stay, and two bouts of poison ivy.

CAN WE PLEASE NOW APPEASE THE MIGHTY GODS WHO HAVE CURSED IAN? HE MEANT NO HARM BY HIS CLAIMS OF GOOD HEALTH. THIS SHIT'S GETTING OLD.

Thank you and good night, folks. I'm all caps-locked out.

And Then We Went to the Hospital

If you read the last post, you know Ian and I were struggling a little bit.

Ian kept developing strange health ailments: chiggers, poison ivy, a sinus infection accompanied by a fever and an insistence that he might die at any moment, so could I please get him some popsicles? The kind made with real fruit? The cherry, grape, and lime ones? Oh, and a sandwich?

Meanwhile, we had wrecked the entire house, as we attempted to finish renovating the kitchen and den.

Then things got really awesome. First, I came down with Ian's allergy flair-up and subsequent sinus infection.

5:00pm on Wednesday Evening:

Laura: "My throat is so sore. I can't stand it. Owww."

Ian: "I feel better! I feel like running laps, while running with bulls, while chasing a cheetah! Hurrah! Hurrah for good health!"

7:00pm 

Laura: "My throat is on fire. Owww."

Ian: "Hey, you know what? My stomach hurts. I have a sharp pain on my right side."

Laura: "There's Mylanta in the fridge. Try some of that."

Ian: "Okay."

10:00pm:

Laura: "I have super legit throat pain."

Ian: "I have super legit stomach pain."

Midnight:

Laura: "I can't sleep. My throats hurts."

Ian: "I can't sleep. My stomach hurts."

Laura: "You should take more Mylanta."

Ian: "I will."

2:00am:

Ian: "I can't sleep. There's something really wrong with my stomach. I'm going to google appendicitis."

Laura: "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ."

3:00am:

Ian: "I think I might need to go to the hospital. Hey, wake up. I think I might need to go to the hospital."

Laura: "ZZZZZ...whaaa? Zaa? Buuu... Mylanta? Tase Mylanta?"

3:30am: 

Ian: "Laura, wake up. I need to go to the hospital."

Laura: "But didn't you take Mylanta?"

Ian: "Yes."

Laura: "Okay. Maybe the ER doctor can give me antibiotics or pain killers while we're there. My throat has hatched a fire-breathing monster."

3:45am: 

Laura: "What if the ER is crowded full of bloodied people? You know? Like that show? ER?"

Ian: "I'm scared we'll have a long wait."

4:00am: 

We walk into a deserted ER. Even the receptionist is gone.

Laura: "Hellorrrrrrrr?"

<Wow, what an echo!>

4:01am: 

The receptionist checks us in. Ian meets clinician #1. He will meet 53,485,189,532,190 more clinicians during his stay.

4:20am:

Ian: "I think my adrenaline has kicked up, because I feel okay now. I'm afraid the doctor will say, "Ian, I'm sorry to tell you this. But you have gas."

Laura: "That's what I thought it was. I mean, I told you to take Mylanta."

4:30am:

Ian: <Receives IV bag of pain killers, plus another pain-killing cocktail>

Nurse: "This should numb anything that hurts. Anything at all. Even your throat will feel numb."

Laura: "!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Ian: "Okay."

Laura: "Can I drink some? Just a little?"

Ian: "No."

Laura: "Please?"

Ian: "No."

Laura: "Pleeeeeeease?"

Ian: "No."

Laura: <Pretends to lick IV bag>

5:00am- 9:00am:

Run tests.

Take pictures.

Smile, Ian!

Smile bigger!

That's the spirit!

9:30am:

A random doctor strolls in, wearing an enormous smile.

Smiling doctor: "Guess what, man!? You have appendicitis!"

Laura: "Ian, you won!"

Ian: "Yay!"

11:00am:

Another random person wheels away Ian for surgery.

11:20am:

I make a mad dash for the Kroger clinic up the road. I'm immediately given antibiotics. Without any testing. Because I demanded them.

Welcome to America! Home of antibiotic resistance and the world's most powerful super-bugs!

1:30pm:

One of Ian's 9 million nurses calls me to tell me that surgery went great, and Ian's doing great, and everything's great. But I can't see him because they're out of private hospital rooms.

4:00pm:

One of Ian's 9 million nurses takes pity on me and lets me sneak into the recovery room for twenty minutes.

Ian later tells me that this particular nurse is the "hot blonde one with the aging tan lines and the smoker's laugh." She's worked at this particular hospital for 30 years. She could easily be Ian's grandma.

In the recovery room

6:00pm:

Ian gets a private room. I stay with him until past 9:00, when severe sleep deprivation catches up with me.

9:30pm: 

I drive home and stagger into bed.

10:30pm:

Ian calls to say good night. I promise to return early in the morning.

11:00pm:

I fall into a dead sleep for eleven hours. I slip into Ian's hospital room the next day at 11:00am. Bright and early! Just in time for lunch!

1:30pm:

Ian's discharged from the hospital. We go home.

In light of an infected appendix likely caused by poor diet, Ian vows to only eat healthy, organic whole foods from now on.

Twenty-Four Hours Later:

Ian insists on buying Kentucky Fried Chicken for lunch.

We eat greasy, fried, antibiotic-soaked chicken, nuclear macaroni and cheese, and bionic biscuits with extra Crisco.

And that's when I knew everything was going to be all right.