High Hopes

I had such high hopes for the weekend. My husband was off, we had no concrete plans, the house was already clean and everyone was healthy. I had carefully planned and shopped for a great meal for one of the evenings. I knew it would be a great weekend!

Saturday started out pretty well. My husband got up early and treated us to donuts from our local bakery. My kids slept in, were in great moods and we headed off to maybe trade in one of our vehicles on a cheaper one and free up some monthly cash and give us some wiggle room for our impending housing change. Life was good.

On the way to town, my dad called. He was taking my mother to the hospital for the third time in as many days. My mom suffers from several conditions and her body occasionally just rebels and everything starts going wrong. There wasn’t anything I could do except sit in a waiting room – he just wanted me to know and encouraged me to go on with my day, but to stay in town. So we continued our trek, cell phones in hand. We did succeed in finding a vehicle we really like and reduced our payments. My in-laws treated us to lunch to celebrate. Afterwards, I headed out to check on my mom and show my dad my purchase. I was so proud of myself for doing something financially responsible and getting something I wanted at the same time.

I walked through their garage to find a 9 year old minivan and my dad’s new car was gone. He had traded in his car (which he loved) on this van to accommodate mom’s needs and a wheelchair. My heart sank. I wouldn’t be able to show him my new car, I would feel like a schmuck. Inside, I found my mom in her recliner hazed from pain medication and sleeping pills, and my dad conked out on the couch, beat down from caring for her needs when he himself struggles with cancer.

I refreshed their water glasses, let their dogs out and covered them with blankets. I gave hugs, though I’m not sure they knew I was there, and quietly exited. I cried the 40 minutes home – and there weren’t any Kleenex in my new car yet.

After arriving home, my son announced his wasn’t feeling good and immediately began vomiting. He continued every 20 minutes for the next 16 or so hours. My husband and I took turns downstairs caring for him all night while the other stayed upstairs and waited for our little girl to start (she has avoided it so far). All day yesterday, we continued caring for our little guy and finally called our doctor on his cell (see previous post) and he ordered anti-nausea meds for him and said we’d admit him at 6pm if he wasn’t better. The meds knocked him out and he was able to stop vomiting. At 8pm last night, I finally gave out and crashed on my couch with my daughter on top of me. We didn’t move until 8am this morning – and I realized I was late for work.

With my hopes shattered and the weekend over, I admitted defeat and dragged myself into work, leaving behind my husband and children to fend for themselves and my sister to care for my mom since she was off today. I think next time, I’ll set my expectations a little lower – or not at all. It’ll be easier that way.