We didn't make it to Seattle by Wednesday. We didn't even make it to Portland by Wednesday. Monty had an epic melt down some time around 4:30pm on Tuesday and would not be comforted unless he was out of the car completely. With frayed nerves, we pulled off the interstate in Halsey, Oregon and into the parking lot of a Travelodge. We decided we would eat at the Pioneer Tavern and assess the situation. I thought the diner smelled like B.O. Turns out it was me. Halfway through dinner we realized getting back on the road for the four more hours it would take to get to Seattle would be tantamount to child abuse. So, we called it a night and got a room.
An hour after dinner which consisted of an 8 ounce sirloin, a baked potato and a salad, I was hungry again. I sent Kurt back to restaurant for spaghetti and a piece of pie. Pretty much the instant I was done shoveling my second dinner down my gullet my stomach began hurting. I spent the next hour doubled over in pain, sweating, and moaning as quietly as I could on the bed next to Monty who had finally fallen asleep. Kurt dutifully ran out to the truck stop convenient store and got me some kind of medicine which I chugged down with no regard for dosage.
Here's the thing about these intense bouts of abdominal pain I've been experiencing, it feels like gas. I should be farting enough to burn a whole through the mattress. But I'm not. And I'm not being modest. My dog farts a lot. If you catch my (smelly) drift... But these painful episodes are not accompanied by any wind-letting (if you will). Most of the time I wish I could control my back door emissions. When I'm writhing on the bathroom floor with what sure feels like gas, I'm begging myself to just fart already, and not so much as the teensiest toot will issue forth.
So, it's probably cancer.
Also, I should probably take it easy with the meat consumption. I was a vegetarian up until about a year and a half ago. When I started eating meat again I was careful to limit it to organic and humanely raised and slaughtered. Now I'm eating steak at motel diners off the interstate and telling myself that because the name of the cattle ranch the cow supposedly came from is "proudly" printed on the menu, the cow was treated well and hugged to death and definitely did not spend its days huffing big rig exhaust.
I didn't post an entry yesterday because I was too busy fantasizing about suddenly opening the car door and jumping into traffic. Monty has had it with the car and his car seat and screamed pretty much the whole way to Seattle. We stopped five times to feed him or change him or just calm him down before we got to our final destination. The fact that he calms down instantly when we take him out of the car is encouraging in that at least it indicates that he's not in pain. He's just bored and annoyed and is over the car. And frankly, if he didn't need to stop, I needed to pee every half hour anyway (Because of the cancer, I'm sure.).
We pulled up to Kurt's buddy's place where we're staying for the (now) three nights that we'll be in town around 5pm. I'm not ashamed to say I had a couple martinis. If you're judging me you've clearly never been in the car for three days with a four-month-old who's going through a growth spurt. So, save it.
In a rare quiet moment, Kurt sank into the bed, rubbed tears from his eyes and quietly said, "He's so little and he's kicking my ass."I'm not even going to get in to the night we had. Monty hates us. Monty hates the world. Monty hates being away from home. Monty is growing. Monty's bones hurt. Monty's brain is full of new and confusing things. Monty needs to eat all the time. Monty needs to be IN BED with me. Monty needs Daddy to sleep on the couch so Mommy can have more than three inches of the bed to sleep on.
Suffice it to say that at about 2:30am a high pitched alarm went off in our room. Kurt ran around frantically trying to figure out its source while I yelled from the bed, "It's behind the TV! It's over by the chair! It's under the window! FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST, TURN IT THE FUCK OFF!" I'm super helpful in a crisis. Turns out it was a "water alarm", alerting us that the crawl space under the house was flooding. Because it rains all the time here. All the time.
I want to put my fist through the wall. But I don't have health insurance so I can't afford to break my hand. Especially since the cancer is already going to bankrupt me.
Want to hear a funny joke? We have to drive home on Sunday.
Here's Monty sitting on the couch like nothing is wrong:
