As soon as he said, “I’m scared,” I was scared, too.
We had just returned from a weekend from A.’s hometown in New Jersey, laughing at the Jersey accents (at one point, during a pizza and beer dinner, a hockey teammate of A.’s said, “Why am I sweatin’ my bwalls off?” which made us exchange glances and giggle.)
But by about midnight, A. was running a high fever and tossing and turning. He said he felt like he was hallucinating and his legs ached — they hurt so bad, he said. We were up all night and he groaned and groaned. After calling my parents for guidance and feeling shaky, I took him into the E.R. at George Washington Hospital. I would never forgive myself if he had a bug that attacked his neurological system — or something equally as crazy — and I didn’t take him in.
They didn’t make him wait. He hobbled to the hospital bed. The nurse gave him an IV of water and they ran tests.
As we waited for the doctors, and I sat in a chair at the foot of his bed, he finally fell asleep. And when the doctors did arrive, they didn’t seem too concerned, so that allayed my fears. His blood and urine tests came back normal.
So I took him home. And I slept on his couch for two nights as he recovered from a nasty bug.
And now, two weeks later, he’s happy and silly and goofy and fun all over again — and I’m so relieved.