It's pretty much been a horrible hell of a month.
Like, the kind of time period that feels like a giant boot with gravel stuck in the treads stepping on you and squnching you down and then walking with you stuck to the bottom. Both suffocating and sharpy hurty.
One of those yellowy Timberland boots, probably. But giant-sized. The Timberland boot of wrath. Not quite as poetic as Greek god justice, what with the boulders or the pomegranate seeds or what-have-you.
But I digress.
Last week, as you know, I had the stomach virus from hell, and then I got a doozy of a cold from Jordan. I'm almost over it, I think. Betty now has it.
Nick and Jordan got a milder version of the noro- or whatever-virus, meaning they just had the diarrhea. I'm loathe to say I had diarrhea envy, but it's true.
Mainly because I would rather, as a good friend of mine put it, chew my own arm off than throw up.
I suppose I'd rather chew my own arm off than someone else's as well, but that's along the lines of whose poo would you rather dump out of your Shop-Vac, isn't it?
Anyway. Back to the important.
What I'm leading to is that Betty has had a very rough month. First she got a cold. She then had two weeks of intermittent puking and nausea, and then another cold.
She's basically been in bed for going on four weeks, getting up to take care of Jordan two days a week (except when she was puking sick), go to the doctor, or when we begged or harassed her out of bed.
She's dropped almost 20 pounds. And when you don't start at 120 soaking wet, you don't have that much to lose.
Last week I said, "We have to do something about this. This is exactly how it was with Dad."
And it was. He had one illness after another. He had no energy to do anything, and when you tried to get him to, he said he didn't feel well. He just stayed in bed and watched TV or sat on the internet. Week after week.
He didn't get up, didn't get up, didn't get up.
And then he ultimately mustered the energy to get up, sneak out the door with a length of rope and a vial of pills, and that was that.
In my pregnancy timeline, that was just over a month ago. I've got these inadvertent and mostly stressful markers in this pregnancy - mostly in the 20-something weeks - my dad's suicide attempt, my trip to Amsterdam, my dad's suicide, buying the house...
I think I was right about this pregnant when we moved into our oldold new house, and just when I thought nothing could get harder, it did.
Splinters and shards? I've got them aplenty.
I'm not saying Betty is suicidal - she's not like my dad in that regard. I'm certain she's not.
My big fear is one of two things: that it's something much larger and scarier than one isolated illness after another. Or, two, that if we can't get things turned around, she'll just stay in bed and waste away.
At 33+ weeks pregnant, I barely have the energy to deal with myself and corral my big, strong-willed boy. I can't sleep. I'm constantly exhausted. My back hurts. My girl pokes me in painy places and sticks her feet into my lungs.
Worrying about Betty is sending me over the top.
At my request, I'm meeting her at a doctor's appointment this afternoon.
In the great news category: Maude's mom has invited her up to Vermont for as long as she'd like to stay, and Betty is excited about the idea.
So now I'm working on lining up two days a week of fill-in childcare, and fingers crossed, it looks like it might work out. I'm ready to put her on a train as soon as she's ready.
Days and days with dear friends, fresh air, wholesome food - all of these things would be really good for her. We need things to turn around.