Short but Not Sweet, Labor Day Week

This short week packed a powerful punch. Running from one event to another in record-setting heat, I came home smelly and soggy, hesitant to sit down lest I lose momentum or even fall asleep where my cheeks hit the cushions. Fatigue dragged on me, I walked through peanut butter. When I asked my nutritionist what was wrong with me, she ran tests and perused the results with a decided lack of concern. 

"Your progesterone is a little off," she said. "And you should stop taking melatonin." That was it - no underlying virus or threatening adrenal issue as has occurred in the past. Just age, perimenopause and one nightly spray of melatonin catching up with me.

I worked steadily into the evening last night, teaching swimming to excitable and sometimes irascible youngsters. In the final class I had a power struggle to deny one child the joy of hitting her sister with a swim stick.  As I covered the pool with limp arms, my watch rang with a strange Denver number. There was a sharp pain in my chest as my heart clutched reflexively; Daniel was at his first Ultimate Frisbee game in Denver, sans parents.

My wet fingers couldn't answer the phone and so I watched helplessly as it went to voicemail, which soon told me that Daniel was injured, complaining of pain in his back and numbness in his leg. His beleaguered coach asked if I wanted him to take my son to the emergency room. "No!" I thought as I struggled to wrap a towel around me and re-dial.

I got through to the coach, talked to Daniel, and reassured them both that Daniel should be fine with ice and Advil at home. The tone of Daniel's voice over the phone told me everything - that he was calm and ultimately fine, just shaken by a collision and anxious about the resulting bruise and soreness. The coach drove him to the house while I drove east to meet them. The evening was filled with limping, ice packs, and Advil (but no homework).  

That marks the second time this year that one of my sons has been referred to a hospital. My older son texted me earlier in 2021 with this:  "At the hospital, LOL."  An appalling juxtaposition of messages that I hope I never see again. My heart couldn't take it.

If I'm forced to admit that nothing's wrong with me or with this constant panic scenario, then I have to embrace this chaos as normal. Instead I'm going to will bury my head under the sheets with the fan on full blast, and hide out until this Labor Day week finally ends.