Every couple of years, Otto’s family throws a big family reunion—emphasis on BIG. I come from a family where there is almost no branch you can travel along the family tree and find more than two offspring at any given node. I grew up with one sibling and exactly four cousins (two to each of my parents’ only siblings), and saw them rarely. Otto is one of four, born into a clan of Irish Catholics, so I don’t think you need further explanation. Anyway, Otto has been going to these reunions for years, usually taking one or the other kid along, but I had never been to one before for various scheduling reasons.

This year, it was Time. First of all, I was finally free to go. Second, Monkey is still here with us but moving soon, AND the girls said that if we went, they would come, too. Perfect! (We haven’t all been together since the wedding.) Otto rented a house for the five of us and we began planning our drive, because we are insane. Also because we wanted to bring the dogs. We always want to bring Goose, because Goose is the best and she LOVES car trips, and… uhhh… in our continuing quest to get Turnip to be more of a dog and less of a feral gargoyle, we figured we should bring her, too.

We live in Georgia. The reunion was in Rhode Island. We were facing down a 16-hour trek in both directions, but we were ready! Because Otto loves a long car trip! And Monkey and I love Otto! We carefully plotted out our route, including an overnight stop on the way up in the DC area, and everything looked good for our first Big Trip in a while.

But you’ve met me before, right? This wouldn’t be blog-worthy if everything had gone according to plan. Yay?

The first snafu came before the trip, itself. Because Otto doesn’t know how to not work ALL THE DAMN TIME, he’d taken a bunch of students on a trip a couple of weeks before our family trip. This is the sort of thing he does, and that’s fine. He returned from said trip tired but pleased, and then—surprise!—a couple of days later, said he had a little bit of a sore throat. No big deal, right? Airport/airplane germs gonna germ. Okay.

Exactly one week before we were slated to leave on our trip, I woke up one morning and Otto was not in bed beside me. This isn’t unusual; he usually gets up about an hour before I do, fixes his breakfast, and takes it out to the porch, where he eats and reads the news. So I didn’t think anything of it. I got up and fed the dogs and took them outside—as I always do—but when we went out, Otto wasn’t on the porch. Hmmm.

I let the dogs do their thing, and we came back inside. I went upstairs to say good morning to Otto, who was surely in his office, except… he wasn’t there, either. We had officially crossed over into “Spidey senses tingling” territory, and not in a good way. I came back downstairs to find Otto asleep on the couch.

When I tried to ask him why he was out there, there was a lot of incoherent mumbling. Finally he managed something that sounded like “sick.” Ahhhh. I asked him if he wanted me to take him to Urgent Care, and he said “sleep” and I said that’s fine, why don’t you go get back in bed, then? I went back into the kitchen to give the dogs their morning meds and he lumbered back to the bedroom.

Here let us pause for a moment. My children and I get sick all the time, with everything, because we are delicate flowers. In contrast, Otto and I have been married for 17 years, and I can count on one hand (with the majority of fingers left over) how many times Otto has been sick. (When I had my first bout of COVID and was so worried about getting him sick, I made him take a test, and it turned positive SO FAST, y’all. He had no symptoms at all. We would have to hate him if we didn’t like him so much.) The point is: Otto doesn’t get sick. So I was already kind of worried.

Around lunchtime I realized he was still in bed. This was the point where I dug out a COVID test and made him swab his nose, and I set up the test and waited for it to tell me that he’d finally fallen prey to this stupid virus. Except… the test was negative. Weird.

I went back into the bedroom to tell him, and this time I roused him by brushing the hair off his forehead… and nearly burning my hand off.

I put my entire hand on his forehead. He was SO HOT. My anxiety immediately spiked.

Ever so casually, I let him know the test was negative, and told him I’d be right back with some meds and a thermometer. I went and fetched our quickest-read digital one, which—I should qualify—tends to run just a little high (maybe half a degree?). I know this. Still, when it beeped and I pulled back a reading of 104.5 (!!!!!), it was an effort to keep the panic out of my voice. “Hey, here’s some ibuprofen and some water. Swallow. Now I need you to get up. We’re going to Urgent Care, right now.”

Otto’s main complaint was a sore throat, but it turns out he’d managed to whip up a pernicious case of bronchitis overnight. His blood oxygen level was “acceptable” but quite a bit lower than normal, and his fever—which had gone down a bit between home and when he was seen—continued to climb as he sat on the exam table. I don’t remember how long we were there, but he was swabbed for COVID, flu, and strep (all negative), got a breathing treatment, got more fever reducers, and even had a chest x-ray because they thought he might have pneumonia. It was… a lot, is all I’m saying. Eventually they sent us on our way with (I swear this is true) a pronouncement of “cooties” and a handful of prescriptions. “Probably viral but I’m giving you an antibiotic script in case you get worse,” the doc said.

Within 24 hours, Otto perked up significantly (thanks, steroids!), but was obviously still sick. Would we have to call off the trip? One day turned into two, then three, and still, he was better (mostly due to fever control, I think), but coughing constantly and clearly still unwell. Monkey and I continued to be perfectly healthy, and we catch eeeeeeeverything, so I made Otto start the antibiotics. Within a few days he was no longer feverish and the throat pain was gone, but the cough persisted.

He said he felt fine, so we decided to go ahead with the trip. Bright and early on the appointed day, Goose fairly bounded into the car, while Turnip—who has puked every single time I’ve ever put her in a motor vehicle up to this point—merely looked around with confusion in her anti-emetic torpor. The first day of driving was uneventful, and the second day was positively short in comparison. After we arrived and began unpacking at our AirBnB, I marveled at how we were finally going to have a normal trip like normal people. (It’s me. I’m the problem, it’s me. Shouldn’t have allowed myself to think that.)

The girls arrived without incident later that evening. I had all my favorite people under one roof! Also, it was hot in Rhode Island, but there was no humidity to speak of, so we all kept marveling at how much cooler it was there.

The rental house was very nice, although all of the beds were fulls, which surprised me. We sleep in a king at home, so adapting to a full (complete with both dogs) was a challenge. Also, did I mention that although Otto “feels fine,” he is still coughing all night? Sleep did not come easily on this trip.

The next day, the girls wandered north so that Chickadee could take Sunny on a full tour of her origin story (the house where we used to live! the diner we always went to! candlepin bowling, because New England!), Monkey decided they’d like to just hang out at the house with the dogs, and Otto and I went to Newport so that I could spend the afternoon freaking out over what people will pay for things. Every item I touched, Otto would say, “Do you want it? I’ll buy it for you,” and then I’d check the price tag and go apoplectic while he tried to tell me that we were on VACATION and we can AFFORD it. I did, finally, allow him to buy “me” (us) some really cool flowers made from seashells and other beach detritus. But I passed on many, many other things which were clearly priced for people who are Not Us. We had a delightful time.

That evening, we all headed to the beach to meet up with the extended family (everyone who was already there) for pizza. Otto has a cousin I’d recognized but never met before (okay, technically I’m sure he has MANY cousins I haven’t met before, but I mean this particular one) who was there with his preschooler and a brand new floppy froglet of a newborn, so I’m sure you know what happened next. Here I was with my first opportunity to mingle and get to know all of Otto’s cousins and aunts and uncles better, and instead I made a beeline to this cousin and said, “Hi! I’m Mir! I know we haven’t met before, but I’m married to your cousin Otto, and I am here to steal your baby. May I hold him?” To his credit, he barely batted an eyelash, but said “Hi! Sure!” and handed him over.

I’m not sure what else happened at that gathering. I held that delicious tiny baby for over an hour. We walked around and bounced and swayed and his soft little head smelled like heaven. People would approach and want to take him and I would give them the stink eye until they backed off. His dad returned a few times to say things like “You can just give him to my mom if he cries” (I said sure, but he was not going to cry) (he didn’t cry—babies love me) or “Are you tired of holding him?” (NEVERRRRRRR!), and I think at some point Chickadee started feeding me pizza since my hands were busy, but basically it was my idea of a perfect outing. The beach was windy and we all looked absolutely insane by the time the sun started to set and it was time to go.

That night we five sat around in the family room and gabbed and watched a few episodes of Game Changer on Dropout (new to me and Otto, but hilarious), and the dogs rotated amongst laps and begged for snacks, and all was right in my world.

As we headed our separate ways for bed, I heard Monkey coughing on their way up the stairs. I didn’t think much of it, because I am VERY, VERY DUMB.

The next morning, Otto got up early and fetched us all donuts from a local place with a cult following. We hung out and talked and laughed and headed to the main reunion event that afternoon. There we found approximately a billion (I might be exaggerating) of Otto’s relatives, enough food to feed all of Rhode Island, a face painter, a caricature artist, and basically absolutely everything anyone could want for an afternoon of entertainment. Sadly, I was informed that I had “hogged the baby” the day before, and so had to share him with the other relatives at this event. (I did sneak another turn shortly before we left.) Otto was immediately at home in the chaos; Chickadee and Sunny got a couple of drinks and then threw themselves into the fray; and I could see that Monkey was struggling. It was a lot of noise and a lot of people, and they were clearly not feeling their best, so I wandered between visiting with others and returning to whichever quiet(ish) corner Monkey was chilling in to make sure they were okay. They were a total trooper about it, honestly. They did a little visiting and then sat out when they needed to, and by the time they’d reached capacity, we’d been there for hours. The two of us returned to the house a bit early, while Otto and the girls stayed to the end.

Another evening of hanging out capped off the day. Monkey went to bed a little early.

The following day, we met up for brunch at a rooftop cafe with the folks who hadn’t left yet. It was lovely. By now, Monkey was clearly not feeling great, but they said they wanted to come along, and they ate a few bites of food. We said goodbye to everyone and headed back to the house.

At this point, the reunion itself was over, but none of us were leaving until the following morning. After some negotiating, we left Monkey home with Turnip and the rest of us (including Goose!) headed off to a local park. We did some walking/exploring/peeing (ummm, only Goose, for that last one), and when it started getting too hot, we drove back down the road to a little collective of weird shops and wandered around there for a bit. Eventually we stopped at a restaurant to pick up dinner, and then we headed back to the house.

Monkey ate about 4 bites of their fish and chips (their favorite) between coughs, and apologetically said they really weren’t very hungry. I gave them some Advil and Chickadee fished some Mucinex out of her bag and gave them some of that, and we (mostly) enjoyed our last evening together.

By 7:30 the next morning, the car contingent (Otto/Monkey/me and the dogs) had hugged the girls goodbye and hit the road. Monkey sat in back with the dogs and alternated coughing and blowing their nose at a volume that I would’ve previously deemed humanly impossible, being startled out of dozing every time it happened. At some point—perhaps the tenth startle of the day—my exasperation got the better of me. “A little warning, please??” I begged, and Monkey drooped and muttered, “Sorry,” and I immediately felt like the world’s biggest asshole. I rushed to clarify that I know they can’t help it and I’m very sorry they didn’t feel well, but if they could just give some sort of alert prior to disrupting the quiet so… completely… I would find that helpful.

And that’s the story of how we spent 1,000 miles in the car with Monkey solemnly intoning, “BE NOT AFRAID” every 15 minutes or so, prior to honking their schnoz.

Our original plan had been to return home in much the same manner as the trip up: do the bulk of the drive the first day, stay over somewhere, then finish the drive the following day. But by the night before we left, we’d decided to try to do it all in a single day, in the interest of just being home as soon as possible. It would make for a VERY long day, but it was doable.

The girls departed the rental a little later, heading back to the airport for their first flight. About an hour after arrival, their flight was “indefinitely suspended” due to a weather-related full ground stop at their connecting airport. I cannot tell you how many text updates I got about this, nor how long it took to resolve or even what time they eventually flew out; it’s all a blur, now. What I CAN tell you is that we started laying bets on who was going to reach their respective home first, as both parties ended up with an ETA somewhere just after midnight. I believe it was, first, the indeterminate delay, then “just fly the first leg and accept you’ll probably be stuck overnight, plus we will not put you up because this isn’t our fault,” then a rebooking to a different connecting airport, then their original flight WAS going, but they’d still have to do another connection to an additional airport because they’d miss the original connection, and eventually they ended up on a flight with a connection in the original connecting airport. I think. I’m sure Chickie can correct me if I’m wrong.

Meanwhile, we were tooling down the east coast at a decent clip, and every few hours I’d ask Otto if he wanted me to take a turn driving, and he would say no.

By the time we’d finished our dinner/gas/potty stop, our ETA for home was nearly 1:00, but we grimly soldiered on, ready to sleep in our own beds.

And then.

It was… I want to say right around 9:00 pm. We were somewhere in North Carolina. Traffic came to a standstill, and the GPS blinked out an update, claiming the marked section of “traffic” would be… a two-hour delay. I might have cried a little.

Turns out a large truck had rolled somewhere up ahead, complete with some sort of hazardous spill. First they closed the entire highway between relevant exits (Otto speculated they may have used the other side to bring in a medevac helicopter), then we eventually saw traffic resume on the other side, and after nearly three hours, a single lane was reopened on our side.

That was enough time to: catch up on email (Otto), have some snacks (Otto and me), commit countless nose-blowings (Monkey), whine a lot (Turnip), realize we were stuck in the middle of nowhere while really needing to pee (me), and accept that there was no way we were going to make it home without stopping (all of us). Otto poked around online and found a decent dog-friendly hotel nearby and booked it while we sat there.

About an hour into this unscheduled pit-stop, we started hearing rumbles. Then a giant storm blew in, thunder and lightning and wind and SO MUCH RAIN and have I mentioned that Goose is afraid of storms? As in, utterly panicked by them?

We have “calming treats” for her which she will refuse to touch when she’s freaked out, so of course by the time I dug one out she didn’t want it. And both dogs were “buckled” in the backseat (wearing harnesses clipped to anchor tethers), and Goose had been happily chilling in her little doggie carseat box thing, but once the storm began she kept trying to climb out. So first we switched her and Turnip (putting Turnip in the box, and Goose next to Monkey, on the middle of the bench), then as she continued to flail and dig, Monkey and I executed an incredible feat of contortion wherein I managed to wriggle into the backseat and they then poured themselves through the gap between the front seats to sit up there.

Once the switch was complete, I swaddled Goose in a towel and pinned her on my lap while she panted and cried and tried to escape. The storm lasted about an hour. I swear every muscle in my body had gone numb by the time she’d calmed down enough to eat the treat that had been sitting there all that time. And then, of course, she fell asleep.

When traffic finally started moving again, I realized the “nearby” hotel was 30 miles away and may have cried a little more.

At around 1:30 a.m., Monkey and I walked into our hotel room with the dogs, while Otto parked the car. The first thing we saw was an ENORMOUS cockroach sitting on the floor between the beds. I dropped everything I was carrying, found a cup, and trapped it, swearing a blue streak the entire time. I was just on my way out the door with our uninvited guest when Otto arrived, and he asked me if I was taking it outside. “I AM TAKING IT TO THE FRONT DESK,” I said, a little more shrill than intended. Otto looked like he was going to say something, but thought better of it.

Listen. Here in the south, we call those bugs all sorts of cutesy names (palmetto bug! water bug! june bug!), but make no mistake: they are giant, flying cockroaches. And they’re EVERYWHERE, and even if you have good bug control, sometimes one gets inside. It’s not an indication of uncleanliness, and a single bug happens, but I just… couldn’t, right then.

I set the cup (capped with the laminated TV guide card) on the counter and slid it toward the non-plussed young man sitting behind it. “This was in our room,” I said, “and I’m not complaining, but if I find another one, I will complain. Also I don’t know what to do with it so I decided you could handle it.” He apologized as I headed back to the room.

We were all in bed around 2:00, I think. The last things I remember:
“Be not afraid!”
Monkey blew their nose.
Otto coughed.
Monkey coughed.

I woke up in exactly the same position I’d lay down in, about four hours later.

We pulled into our driveway around noon, yesterday, and I’ve already sworn never to travel again, which—Otto points out—is an overreaction, because the bulk of the trip was WONDERFUL. He’s probably right.

Monkey has been to Urgent Care and came home with a handful of prescriptions and is home from work today because blowing their nose is still a full-time job. After much consideration, we’ve decided that Monkey’s cooties and Otto’s cooties are different varieties, especially because it turns out that nearly everyone in Monkey’s office is currently sick.

I, of course, am now sucking on zinc lozenges like it’s my job. I slept 12 straight hours last night and I’m considering a nap. Even the dogs seem exhausted.

It was such a fun trip, and even though the end was… not what we’d anticipated… that’s okay.

But if I get sick in the next few days, I reserve the right to complain endlessly. About EVERYTHING. Just sayin’.