Dyslexia gets harder to handle when stress levels go up.
On Sunday, my husband was stung by a bee. He’s allergic, but not to the point of anaphylaxis, though he does carry an epi-pen. Since the swelling only continued to get worse, he went off to Urgent Care on Monday morning, which translated into a course of heavy duty antihistamines and prednisone.
They both had side effects that had him miserable and me on my toes for most of the week. By Thursday, he was back to normal, and we were able to relax. That ended for me, when I found out my dad was in the emergency room late Thursday night.
Hyper-anxiety: take two!
He was transferred to the intensive care unit that night, and stayed there through Friday, when I visited him the first time. Since I don’t drive, I took the bus down to the other side of the cities, where the hospital was. Bus numbers and I haven’t always gotten along.
The first bus wasn’t too difficult, as I have taken it multiple times before. The second bus, however, threw me. The last two digits were 3P.
Once I got to the layover point, I repeated it to myself after briefly getting distracted by the scrumptious looking food trucks across the street.
Sure enough, when it came rolling up, the 3 and the P kept merging into a 9.
I always feel foolish when I have to ask for clarification of bus numbers. I mean, it’s right there in big, literally glowing text! How can I miss it? Even after the driver reassured me, I was still nervous about being on the right bus.
Thankfully, I got to the stop in one piece, and made it to the hospital.
Did I mention the heat index that day was close to 100 degrees and two of my primary allergens were at moderate to high levels? Yeah, that was happening, too. By the time I entered the air conditioning, my asthma was merrily tightening my airways. Oh, albuterol, you’re so helpful.
I found out my dad’s room number – 361 – from the attending nurse, and headed up to floor 3.
I am a fully functional adult. I can remember three little numbers for more than five minutes. 361.
I ran into his nurse, who showed me the rest of the way to his room.
When I got there, he was hooked up to all kinds of wires, oxygen and an IV, but he was sitting up and looking at the room service menu. It turns out, I got there just in time to see him order the first food he was allowed to eat since getting out of the emergency room.
He was still a bit out of it, and he didn’t know his room number, both of which are understandable.
When he asked me what it was, I was happy to reply, “Sure! It’s 631!”
Wait, no. That’s not right.
“361?” Was that it? I had no idea. I had to get up and double check. “Yes. 361. That’s it. 361.”
Since then, I’ve been reversing letters and numbers all over the place. I got very little writing done on Friday, and nothing done this weekend. This morning, I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by the bus I was so confused about on Friday.
Great news, though! My dad should be coming home from the hospital today.
Hopefully, no more negative things will happen in the near future. We could all use a little peace.