The Doctor's Office

It was reckless, this visit to the city medical center. I knew that.
Regardless, I snapped the latex gloves over the cuffs of my sleeve, pulled a rumpled Kleenex over my mouth and nose then handed my husband his own costume. We hoped these small protections would keep out the swine flu germs as we entered the busy emergency facility, a center that would likely be receiving patients with the full-blown virus. They were our only options, however: Both our neighborhood drugstores were sold out of surgical masks and didn't expect to refill their shelves for a week.
As we bolted across the parking lot, I again questioned my decision to come.
A routine obstetrics exam seemed at first glance a ridiculous reason to break my two-week quarantine. This timeframe had, after all, been suggested by a veteran physician who said contracting the virus might bring harm to my unborn baby. We had happily complied, going so far as to pull our five-year-old twins out of preschool and creating a homemade hazmat zone for my husband to decontaiminate himself after work.
Still, I had to weigh the odds of catching swine flu against the need for baseline numbers. See, I had been on bedrest for two months with my first pregnancy then struck suddenly with pre-eclampsia at 34 weeks, forcing me into an emergency C-section and two weeks of NICU time. Thus, I wanted to make sure my OB knew what my body looked like healthy so that he could detect if it ever began to sour.
Jim gave a little moan.
"My God, there are no obvious stairs," he muttered.
Having worked in hospitals as a college pre-med major, my husband knew firsthand how dirty they were. Our strategy had thus been to run like rabbits through the enterance then dash up the staircase to the OB's office on the third floor to avoid as many people as possible. Now were were faced with riding a huge elevator with other patients and--gasp--touching elevator buttons.
There seemed to be no choice.
The doors slid open and, lucky for us, we were alone all the way to the third floor.
That's when we encountered the crowd.
The office--home to a lucrative practice that included maybe nine OBs--was packed with at least a dozen hacking, sneezing pregnant women, their spouses and several snot-nosed kids depite the early hour. (Our own children, whom we planned to bring with us to learn the baby's gender, were carefully squirreled away with a friend who had quarantined her own offspring then shellacked her home in Lysol.)
"This place sounds like a tuburculosis ward," Jim said, taking a chair and eyeing another near the door.
I signed in with the front desk using a gloved hand and my own ballpoint.
Then, we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Time seemed to drip by.
Jim reached for a magazine but stopped short.
"That's covered in swine flu!" I screeched using marital ESP.
He stuffed his latexed hands in his pockets.
The door of the office suddenly flew open and in strode a gigantic man carrying a battered briefcase.
He marched directly to the nurse's window and pushed open the glass.
"I'm here about the virus," he snapped.
"Oh, yes, yes!" said the nurse. "We'll prioritze you. Just a moment."
The man coughed roughly into his shirtsleeve.
My God, I though, I've walked into the heart of darkness!
I have just sealed the fate of an innocent!
I am going to get swine flu!
My baby will be born with a snout or at the very least reject innoculating breast milk in lieu of pork byproducts!
Sweat began to pool on my forehead.
"Do you want to leave?" Jim whispered.
Just then, the door swung open and three nurses with concerned faces peered out.
"Oh, Mr. Johnson, thank Heaven you're here!" the tall one said. "That virus is back! Our computers are down!"
It has now been 24 hours since our visit to the OB's office.
Neither I nor my laptop have come down with any type of virus--swiney or otherwise.
And our baby girl is, so far as anyone can tell, perfectly healthy at 20 weeks.

Cinco Day Swine-o

It is officially Cinco de Mayo, but we've renamed it Cinco de Swine-o here in Quarantine.
Jim had long planned to take off Friday to cover the kids while I was OOT, so we had plenty of Daddy fun to ease us into our new duck-and-cover lifestyle.
The children took to the new holiday with abandon.
There was, for example, a Wii tournament in which five "lands" were opened on our new amusement park game, a Monopoly marathon (yes, they now make a version for those under age 8) and at least four hours of rigorous tent play (my favorite upholstered chair was employed, but I figured this is no time for tsking).
Having grown stir-crazy by 2 p.m. on Saturday, we figured it was safe to find an abandoned neighborhood park. We first coated the monkey bars with Purell, of course. Upon our return, we all stripped and threw our clothes into bleach before doing a pre-surgery-style scrub.
I managed to get in not one but two extended naps and thus am feeling well-rested as I go into Day Four of Quaranatine.
I mean, could it really be worse than two full months of bedrest?

Quarantined

I had planned to get on a flight to Cleveland, Ohio, this afternoon at 2 p.m. to throw a big bridal bash for our beloved Aunt Cindy.
Instead, I'm fretting for the safety of my unborn baby as I sit in quarentine for the next two weeks in my own home under doctor's orders.
Let me be clear: I do not knowingly have swine flu. Nor are my kids, husband or parents ill, so far as I know.
Furthermore, it is my understanding that swine flu--when caught early--can be headed off with powerful medications. Even pregnant women like myself who are in the fifth month of gestation can take an antiviral prescription to ward off sickness.
That said, three separate doctors told me today to stay off airplanes; one told me there is a chance that this robust virus, if contracted, could adversley impact my unborn fetus creating lifelong problems for my child. He added it would be a good idea to pull my kids out of the public mix including their preschool so that I would not contract swine flu from them.
This doctor said he is conservative. That I should make my own decisions.
I told him I appreciated his candor and hung up the phone.
Two hours later, I was still shaking.
I have now regained some of my composure, but I can't help but think of the preschool open house we attended last night...or the ballet class I trucked my daughter to earlier in the week...or of the man who made my lunch on Wednesday at a local deli.
I am trying to do what I can to "REMAIN CALM" as the governor of Texas has told us.
I am doing what I can to prevent contamination, to make myself feel in control.
My husband came home tonight to a self-styled hazmat zone. He's to change his suit in the garage and stash it in his car before running to our guest bathroom and showering before greeting anyone else. He underclothes go into bleach.
This ruthless virus, the doctor told me, strikes those with apparently healthy immune systems--especially between the ages of 25 and 45--then attacks the lungs.
We can take no chances: Another generation is at hand.

ISO Research

Like many parents, I find answering questions about death totally unnerving.
So when we passed by the graveyard on our way home from a grocery store run today, I gritted my teeth for more four-year-old questions.
I didn't have to wait long.
"Mom," said Elizabeth, "After you die, your body goes into the ground and your body goes to Heaven?"
"Yes," I replied. "It's like wearing your heavy winter coat on a beautiful spring day like today. You'd be really hot, right? You'd want to take it off. When your spirit goes to Heaven, you leave your body behind like that old winter coat."
Silence from the backseat.
"But mom," said E., "are you old or young when you get to Heaven?"
I pondered that moment, picturing myself in my 1989 hairdo, a white robe and angel wings.
"I didn't know the answer to that one," I said. "Few people report back once they get to Heaven," I said.
"Well," said Elizabeth with a giggle in her voice, "I guess you can't find that information on the Internet!"