I think it’s safe to say that I don’t have the luck of the Irish. I honestly disappeared off the face of the Earth last week for a few reasons. First, I was absolutely swamped with freelance and photography. Second, the kiddos’ modeling has picked up a bit. And third, I had one hell of a bad luck weekend. Honestly, we’ve been doing pretty well out here lately, but ya girl is clumsy, and ya girl kicked off the weekend in style.
We had planned to have the sister missionaries over for dinner on Friday evening, and in the process of attempting to clean the table of dirt, debris, and clutter, I pulled the dining bench down on my foot. Now, let me back up a little. We had this table built for us when we lived at Fort Drum. A wonderful Amish carpenter made it for us along with the benches, and it’s one of our favorite pieces of furniture in our home.
There’s a little flaw here though. These benches, though lovely, are affectionately (or not so) known as the “death benches.” Why, you ask? Well, when they designed these benches, they were made incredibly top-heavy. So, each bench weighs about 45ish lbs, and when someone sits, they’re liable to fall. Ask any guest that has ever been in our home. We don’t let people sit on them because they’re, well, death benches. Anyhoo, in the process of cleaning, I pulled said death bench down, the lip of the bench fell on my toes, and the top of the bench fell flat on the bridge of my foot. It felt phenomenal.
We had a lovely dinner with the missionaries, then I headed off to the ER and found out I broke two toes – my big toe and my little toe. Thankfully, the bridge of my foot is seemingly unscathed, barring the bruising all over. All good though, right? Done and dusted and ready for a great weekend!
I woke up on Saturday with the worst sore throat I ever had in my life. “Oh no!” I think. “This is it. I finally caught Covid.” I tested at home, and it was negative, but my throat felt absurdly swollen and like it was on fire. Moreover, it felt like something was literally sitting on my tongue. I figured that by Sunday I’d feel better, but I felt worse. So, off to the ER I went, yet again.
Now, sidebar quickly. Here at Camp Humphreys, it’s nearly impossible to get a doctor’s appointment close-in, and we don’t have an urgent care like in the US. So, if you need to be seen before, say six months from now, the ER is your best friend. And apparently, I’m a frequent flier now. But I digress.
Off the the ER I went again. After a solid 30ish minutes in a biohazard room being tested for Covid and strep, I was cleared of the main offenders, and led to a room and diagnosed with uvulitis. Like, what? Wtf is uvulitis, you ask? Me too. I asked…well, I tried to ask because I couldn’t talk due to the swelling, and I couldn’t even swallow my own saliva anymore. I was legitimately just spitting in a cup. Good times, I tell you.
Apparently, uvulitis is a bacterial infection of your uvula…you know, the little thing that hangs down in the back of your throat. I’ve literally never heard of this before in my life, but there I was, being diagnosed with the most obnoxiously uncommon thing you could think of. Anyway, I got a bag of fluids because I couldn’t swallow anything and, therefore, couldn’t drink. I got a steroid shot to lessen the immediate inflammation, and I got to go home with a whole plethora of meds…and a pill cutter in case I couldn’t swallow whole pills.
It’s Monday now though. My throat is scratch and swollen but like 95% less swollen than yesterday. It’s not contagious unless you literally swab my throat and swab it onto your own uvula. Apparently I got it from a double ear infection that I didn’t know I had draining into my throat. Who knew? Today, I can finally drink warm coffee and water again though, so cheers to a bad luck weekend turning into a good week ahead…right?