~I Now Officially Hate The Orange Lines~
I got an unexpected long weekend when the phone rang at 4:40 this morning. The message was brief: The Boy was in the ER, ready to be taken home.

I thought it was a joke.

He had just started three weeks of midnights only hours before. When he is not here to wake me with his alarm clock at 5:45, or when he's ready to leave at 6:30, he calls from work and talk to me through the answering machine.

Since I couldn't see the clock, I figured I was dealing with some punchy smart alecks from the shop and that it was around 6:30. Through my sleepy haze, I heard a voice with an East Indian accent telling me The Boy would need a change of clothes as well as a ride home.

So. Being the worrier I am, all sorts of upsetting images floated just out of my line of sight as I packed some clothes, got dressed and started the Jeep for the 15 minute drive through the quiet early-morning streets. Had something exploded? Were broken bones involved? Blood flowing?

Background: The Boy's mother has been in that same ER twice in the last three weeks, so I know the place really well. I almost laughed when the nurse told me to follow the orange lines to find him. He was even in the same bed as his Mom!

I found him, looking horribly peaked, but in one piece. He had almost passed out while working on the box wrap machine, and the Night Shift Supervisor had taken him to the ER. This Good Samaritan just missed having to get his upholstery shampooed as payment for his good deed. The Boy was thoughtful enough to hold it until he was sitting in front of the Triage Nurse. I'm sure she's seen her share of vomit over the years...

He's home for three days, with orders to keep quiet and calm with no quick movements. The doctor wanted me to stay home today, in case the symptoms he was experiencing just before the 'incident' occurred again. He thought he was having a stroke. I can only imagine what that feels like.

I popped out to get him his prescription and picked up a few goodies, since I know how much I like to be coddled when I'm feeling pooky. Thirty-three dollars in import magazines at Chapters later (and one tall non-fat caramel mocha for me), and he's one happy, convalescing camper.

It's not often I get to be Florence Nightengale. Even now, he's still trying to be the hero. Kind of makes me feel useless, but I guess I can deal. At least he's well enough to be stubborn.

Posted at 12:56 p.m.