Macrocephalic. Buckethead. Orange-On-A-Toothpick. Satellite.
All words I’ve used to describe my children and their heads. I’d like to point out and be correct that the reason for their enormous melon’s would be related to their father-age, but since the common denominator between them both is me, I’d have to say that the likely culprit who unwittingly passed the genetics to create craniums that should have their own zip code is myself.
While I don’t call myself a “Baseball Head” or “Pinhead” or anything, I like to think that my own head is not overly large. Mainly because it’s not. It’s just that some of my *ahem* family members (my older brother and my mother for example) have heads that planets could orbit. Guess I should be glad that I only inherited the family pot belly, right?
It was, sadly enough, with this Implement of Destruction that my youngest child caused the intense pain that I happen to be in. I’m accustomed to dodging swinging heads as they come toward my person, but I happened to be too close to correctly remove myself from their path of deconstruction.
Alexander, the only child who I can make snuggle me without a tangible bribe, was sitting on my lap the other day, alternating between snuggling me and trying to stick his fingers up my nose, when it happened. He swung his bucket-o-brains backward before thrusting it forward again with as much force as someone who is made of pure muscle can muster.
In other words: a hell of a lot.
I couldn’t duck quickly enough, so !THWACK! his melon made direct contact with the squishy bits of my neck. It hurt like a bitch then, and the following morning–yesterday–I awoke with a massive headache. Relating, I’m certain, directly to his head against my neck.
Down the stairs I trudged, toward the medicine cabinet where I house the one pain reliever I can currently take: Tylenol. Extra Strength fucking TYLENOL. I shook two out into my palm, rolled my eyes and swallowed them. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t do jack to touch the pain.
Eventually the pain became throbby enough for me to call the doctor’s office, which is not something I typically do. I’m a trained nurse, and even though I don’t actually make money from my intended profession, I do know how to treat such things. And I don’t really need another nurse to tell me what to do.
Maybe it’s just my OB’s office nurses that offer the most insanely stupid advice to me when I call. Here’s an approximate conversation I had with one nurse when I was barfing my guts out while pregnant with Alex:
Me: “Um Hi, I’m really sick with this baby, I’m X weeks pregnant and I wanted to know if you had any good tips.”
Her: “Eat an apple.”
Her: “I like potatoes. Like BAKED ones.”
Me: “I gotta…go.”
Yesterday I had a similar conversation. To make me call the doctor is to admit defeat, but my head was so achy and awful that I didn’t feel I had much of a choice.
Me: “Hi, I’m 14 weeks pregnant and I have a headache. I took Tylenol hours ago and it’s not helping. Can I get a prescription for something stronger?”
Her: “Not without being seen first.”
Me: “But it’s a headache. I can barely see to drive. I don’t need anything too strong. Just something more than Tylenol.”
Her: “You need to see a doctor. Have you tried laying down in a dark room?”
Me: “Hahahahaa! I have kids. Laying down in a dark room doesn’t happen unless I chain them to a wall somewhere.”
Her: “The office is closing anyway. If it’s ‘SO BAD’ you can go to the ER.”
Me: “…..? The ER?”
Her: “Yes. Or we can see you tomorrow.”
Now maybe it’s just me, but doesn’t that seem a little insane to go to the ER for a simple “I need Tylenol 3 headache?” I wasn’t asking for a morphine pump (oh, how I WISH that this had been an option) or a lifetime supply of Vicodin. What shouldn’t have been a big ass deal was suddenly an ER trip away from being labeled an OVER REACTOR!
I never did go to the ER and I still haven’t gotten my headache to go away completely, but it’s marginally tolerable now. Only thing totally solidified is my annoyance with Doctor Office Nurses.
Am I the only one?