The nightmare before Christmas

A broken bauble. Indicative of a nightmare before Christmas.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year. Apparently. The last week and a half have been, well, a week and a half. A veritable nightmare before Christmas.

I will preface this by admitting that, although some of the below were distressing, they are still first world problems. I also acknowledge that we’re not alone in having a rubbish time. 2016 has excelled at that for just about everyone I know. But they say that writing is a form of therapy, so here goes…

Starting at the very beginning – which, I’m led to believe, is a very good place to start – the cat was ill. Rather alarmingly, there was quite a lot of blood in her litter tray. I took her to the vet who gave her antibiotics and some other medicine to hopefully clear up the complaint. It started off well – we administered the first dose of each without having our arms lacerated.

That wasn’t that though. The following day, she was violently ill. Another trip to the vet ensued. It seemed that she had reacted badly to the antibiotics. Thankfully, her temperature was back to normal so we were told to continue just with the other medicine. She has been okay since, so a bit of extra expense aside, that situation seems to have been resolved.

Then there were the interruptions to work. Our house is on the market and I work at home. We kept having to leave so people could look round. It’s great that people are looking, but galling when they can’t see beyond the decor not matching their taste! Xander then needed taking to the doctor with a nasty ear infection.

Then, technology decided to join in the party. Everything stopped working with this here blog and it has taken me ages to get each post done. Not a big deal on the face of it, but this is my livelihood so I was a bit worried.

Then came the worst of the bunch. Dylan went down with a virus and, after apparently fighting it off, was suddenly knocked sideways by it. Nothing would stay down – not even water or oral rehydration solution. He looked pale, bony and so small. After a series of phone calls to helplines, our GP and, on his advice, 999 we got somewhere.

They sent a non-emergency ambulance to take him to the second nearest hospital. Forty odd minutes away. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: thanks, Tories. It took ages for him to be seen and a long time for them to see what Kate and I could see all along – he needed to be put on a drip. It turned out that he had lost a dangerous amount of weight due to being unable to keep anything down.

He bounced back overnight and was eventually discharged yesterday. Annoyingly, the staff neglected to actually tell Kate (who was with him the whole time) that this was the case, so he was there for an extra hour completely unnecessarily.

Thanks to the rail strikes – again, thanks Tories for not taking Southern’s franchise away and actually rewarding them for treating their staff so horrendously – they had to get a taxi. Dylan was sick again either side of the taxi ride and was so tired and weak when he got home.

But that’s the main thing. He’s back home and starting to recover. He looks much brighter than he did a couple of days ago and I’m so happy to have him back.

We tried to cheer him up by getting the Christmas tree out early. Only to find that we must have put it in storage at my parents’ house. Argh!

The last week or so has been conclusive proof that being a grown up can truly suck at times. On their own, these problems are manageable, but it’s been relentless! I suppose the point of this post – other than venting, of course – is to show how tough being a parent can be.

If you’ve been through a similar spell of misfortune, give yourself a pat on the back. And if you’re in one at the moment, stay strong. You can do this!

In other news, I’m getting a bottle of wine for tonight.

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