Christmas Day: Accursed or alternative

I woke at 12.30 am on Christmas Eve and gulped ibuprofen, desperate to dull the razor-sharp pain in my right tonsil.  Not long after I snuck in Panadeine Forte a couple of hours before they were due.  At 2 am, nauseated by the pain, I was throwing up into a small black bucket I wasn’t sure was liquid-proof.  I didn’t care because Tony had to deal with it.  I was too sick.

     “Take me to the hospital,” I whispered, no longer able to vocalise my words.

     I am no stranger to tonsilitis.  It’s my ‘thing’ when I am run down.  I should have known better since my most recent attack was two months earlier.  The time before that I went, ignominiously at midnight to the hospital for pain relief when the oral stuff didn't cut it.  I wanted stuff that worked.  Morphine.

     The nurse took phone instructions from the doctor on call.  The first two attempts at pain relief, prednisolone failed and that left only morphine.  It worked. A warm, dreamy sensation flooded my arm and chest while the drug was being injected.  And the pain relief was instant.  I dozed for a few hours in A&E, waking as soon as I slipped into unconsciousness.  Strange, I thought.

     At 6 am a woman presented in the bed next to mine and I listened to her moan in pain from the other side of the curtains.  Fever, two days, sore throat and ears.  Another victim. 

     In my delicious pain-free, drug-haze I willed her to ask for morphine.

     It turned out there had been a spike in tonsillitis presentations and hospital admissions of adults rather than children which would be expected.

     By the time I was discharged at half eight, I was buzzing with what I thought was good health thanks to modern day pharmacopeia.  Hell, I didn’t even sleep though I was wrecked considering I’d had no sleep the night before.  Christmas day was going to be a success after all.  We’d decided on Friday Island, the same beach as last year.  I shopped, I cooked, I chatted over cups of tea.  If anything, I was a little hyperactive. Bloody good stuff, that morphine.  Don’t remember it working so well last time.

     By early afternoon, Ollie down stairs had been diagnosed with tonsillitis.  By mid-afternoon, #2 son, Sutchy had succumbed.  Oh dear.  Was the universe attempting to stop us meeting our Christmas tradition of spending the day on a beach?  Were our plans cursed by three sets of dodgy tonsils?

     We were all on penicillin so I was hopeful Christmas day would dawn, the drugs would have won the battle with the evil strep bacteria and we’d speed off to Friday Island and enjoy the sun, sea and sand.  Not so. 

     I woke, feeling like I vice was tightening around my neck.  Ollie was a mess and so was Sutchy.  In fact, Sutchy was so bad he didn’t want to go out in the boat.  That means Sutchy was desperately ill. 

     You see, Sutchy is the hunter in the family.  He complains like a stuck pig if he can’t get out each day to fish, dive, bow-hunt or otherwise kill something and eat it.  On Christmas morning he stumbled out of bed, holding his throat.

     “Can we stay home?” he said to his father.

     We had to.  Alternative Christmas plans were in urgent order.

     We ate and we chatted.  I was flat and perhaps a little snappy.  I know, that's hard to believe.  There were some stimulating mental games.

Finger soccer.  Perfect for teenage boys.

We took photos of our Christmas pearls.

Us lot on TI.  A short visit to the Friday Island pearl farm a few weeks ago enabled me to buy pearls for the whole family here, Cairns and Toowoomba.  Great quality and great value!  First year in three we've had presents.  Thank you Takami and Rhonda and staff.

Ash and Mikes in Cairns wearing Christmas pearls.  PS Aren't they gorgeous?

     Then I slunk off to sleep for two hours.  Eileen and Nicola chatted.  The kids were well behaved and did something that didn’t require adults to tell them to ‘be quiet.’

Tony slept off the Christmas dinner.

Gina Rose waited in hope for the next meal.

Dr John read some engaging literature: Not for parents: The real wonders of the world (Day of the Dead)

Pepper Zen was resplendent in the garden.

     I woke, buoyed by the rest.  Over a cup of tea I related to Dr John my feeling hyperactive the day before.

     “Could it have been the prednisolone?”

     “Prednisolone is well known for causing agitation,” he said with a dry smile, as if I should have known.

     “Okay, so if I am in Cairns and I have to go to the hospital because the pain from tonsilitis is so bad, should I just say, Steroids don’t work with me, just give me morphine?” 

     “No,” he shrieked and levitated at the same time.  “Never ask for morphine down south.”

     Uh-oh.  I guess not.

     When the sun had all, but disappeared I took a very slow walk to Back Beach and on the way located some of the absent children.

Sunset cricket.

I had to get in a visit to a beach on Christmas day.

     It’s been years since we stayed home on Christmas Day.  In fact, I can't think of a Christmas day we've not spent at a beach.  On a positive note, there was nothing to organise and not much to clean up except the dishes.  It was a nice alternative to spending it on a beach.  But I sure as hell would have liked to have had a different throat for the day.