Yet Another Reason I'm Not A Fan of My Job

Warning: This is long and filled with TMI, most of which involves vomit. And some swearing.

Last Tuesday, I was stuck at work late, as I had been Monday. P called to say that Harry was throwing up at dinner. A lot. More than once. And kept throwing up while P tried to get him cleaned up, including on P, and kept throwing up once they were both stripped down, and kept throwing up in the tub. Once he fell asleep, though, he was fine. He threw up again when P was giving him breakfast on Wednesday (I had to be at work early, so I missed breakfast), so they both stayed home, as it was obvious at that point that it wasn't something he had eaten the day before. After breakfast, he seemed fine, though.

I got home from work at midnight or so on Wednesday and went to bed. I woke up at 3:30 with bad stomach pain. I convinced myself it was stress, but by 4:15 or so, it was obvious that I had caught Harry's stomach bug. By 5 or so, it was obvious P had too. We dropped Harry off at daycare (he hadn't thrown up in more than 24 hours and seemed fine), then P dropped me off at my 30 week OB appointment and went home to go back to bed. The midwife was concerned about dehydration leading to preterm labor and told me I had to come back the following morning for an IV evaluation if I still couldn't keep anything down. She also said to focus on liquids and not try to eat.

The reason P dropped me off and left? I *had* to work that day, as I had a brief that had to be filed. So I kept my trash can close to my desk (I feel really bad for the cleaning person -- I told her not to empty it, that I'd do it myself, but she came by when I was away from my desk for a minute and emptied it -- yuck) and kept my door closed all day, occasionally lying on the floor and moaning in agony and crying for much of the day. Meanwhile, both partners on the case hopped on a plane midafternoon to DC, asking me to fax them drafts to review in their hotels (not the same hotel, of course, because that would be too easy). And the only other associate on the case, a first year, blew me off all day, starting at 5 the task I asked her to have done by close of business. You know, by 5. Note that each of these people knew I was sick. I tried to spare them the details, but I think I was clear enough to indicate how sick I was. In the end, though, I didn't get home until almost midnight. It was honestly one of the least pleasant work days I've ever had. I cried *a lot*.

Thankfully, because the brief had been filed, I decided I would stay home on Friday and try to recuperate. Maybe nap. Catch up on a few things that desperately needed to be done around the house but never get done because there's never a time when we aren't watching Harry or at work or when Harry isn't sleeping and these things are too loud to do then. Start doing some of the Hypnobabies home study course that I told myself I'd start six weeks ago as I hope and prepare for a better birth experience this time around. Maybe watch a little TV.

Sadly, that was not to be. At 6-something on Friday morning, I heard Harry crying on the monitor, which pretty much never happens. P, of course, didn't move. So I got up and went to check on him. When I opened the door, it was like the last scene of season 4 of Dexter, but with vomit instead of blood. It covered every inch of his crib sheet. It was matted into his hair. And he was just sitting in it in his sleep sack, clutching his vomit-covered blankie, sobbing. Poor thing. So we all stayed home. And I didn't get a day of rest or productivity. Instead, I spent yet another hour crying from exhaustion and frustration and a sense of futility and just being *done* (after which I did pass out for an hour in a crumpled heap on the couch while P entertained Harry). Oh, and I got bitchy messages all day from work people wondering where I was (all of which I ignored), plus some nice ones from people who were worried (some of which I inadvertently ignored as well in my effort to ignore the others).

I hate being sick. I hate my job. I hate being sick and having a stressful week at the same time. And I hate it even more when pregnant and tired. And I hate that I received no thanks, no acknowledgment that I spent my day finalizing a brief while vomiting into my trash can, and that I did so while pregnant. Fuck you, job. FUCK YOU.