No Such Romantic Christmas

The PLAGUE.

That's how my adoring husband has described me for the past six days. Thus, I'm afraid I have been unable to keep my promise to you (and us) that I made in Deck the Halls of having one last romantic Christmas.

Oh, the plans we made . . .

Wednesday, December 22 was scheduled to be our "romantic Christmas" day together. We scheduled it weeks in advance. We talked about it for weeks. We made "suggestions" about how the day (and night) might play out. Of everything that Christmas had in store for me, it was the one thing I was really looking forward to. He was, too.

I wake up feeling fine. We have breakfast in bed (cinnamon rolls and cheese omelets) and watch General Hospital (we always watch GH, having months of it on our DVR). Later in the morning, I start to feel the tell-tale thickening in my throat but ignore it, playing it off as a little cold trying to set in. I won't let it ruin our day.

We get up and make it to Ladybug Ceramics in Evansville by 1:00PM. I showed you in Deck the Halls the ornaments we made for Gabriel last year. This year, Skyler wanted to go back to make something for Tater Tot:

The snowman ornament I made.

The angel Skyler made. He's very proud of it.

 I feel okay during all of this craftiness but drink an entire bottle of water while I am there because of the throat issue. I never mention any of this to my hubby. If he knows I might have germs, I will be limited to kisses on the forehead.

After ceramics, we go to another traditional holiday activity--he gets a haircut. This takes about an hour because he went to a beauty college to save money. While he gets butchered, I sit and read a magazine and progressively feel worse and worse.

We drive away from the salon. I'm quiet, and my eyes are betraying me (they always do). I find myself leaning my head against the seat, seaking a bit of rest before we head home for the festivities. He asks me what's wrong. I assure him nothing is wrong, but he tells me he knows me better than that. He thinks it's my sad heart that's troubling me.

He makes a quick stop at the grocery store before we head home. As soon as he steps out of the car, I burst into tears, overcome with exhaustion and achiness. I dry it up before he returns, not wanting to spoil the evening or give him reason to avoid me.

As we are driving toward home, I finally break it to him. "I think I better tell you something," I say shakily.

"What is it, baby? What happened?" he asks, unable to imagine what has gotten me so upset.

I bawl, "I don't feel very good!"

"It's okay," he puts his arm around me. "We'll still have a nice evening. We'll still be together, but we'll just cuddle on the couch."

When we get home, he hops in the shower, and I try to get started on the lasagna we planned to make. I'm feeling crazy weak and continually have to sit down for rest breaks. We finish it up together. While it is in the oven, we exchange a few gifts, including gifts to Star (the dog) and Josie (the cat). I can't help myself. I am shaking and making these tiny moaning sounds.

We don't have a candlelight dinner at the table. We eat on the couch in pajamas. It isn't romantic, but we have each other. And we have love. And Star and Josie. And two candles set on the mantle burning in memory of our cherished babies.

At 9:30PM, after 1 1/2 hours of uncontrollable shaking, we finally take my temp. It is 101.3. At midnight, it is 102.8! I'm pretty sure that, after everything, this is what is finally going to take me out. I make it to see the sunrise once more and discover a white Christmas . . . all over my throat! I head to the doc to get some meds, and my husband waves goodbye to me from across the room when he leaves for work.

We are even snowed in--home alone--on Christmas Eve evening and Christmas Day evening. The perfect romantic scenario. That's a big deal for us because our conflicting work schedules make it a rare treat to be home alone in the evening.

. . . but I had the PLAGUE.