Worst Anniversary Weekend EVER

Four days.  We just wanted four days.

Friday, we had reservations for a “100^th Anniversary” dinner with my sisters and their husbands—2016 was the year of our 40^th, my oldest sister’s 35^th and the next oldest sister’s 25^th wedding anniversaries—totaling 100 years of wedded…um…marriage. 

Saturday, we were to head up the Columbia to Hood River for the Harvest Festival—crafts, food, fall colors, all that good stuff. 

Sunday--our actual anniversary—the husband and I reserved a room at one of the cutest hotels in Astoria, planning to shoot west once the rest of the crowd headed for home.  We would have a fun evening in Astoria, walk to a nice dinner, and generally have a good, quiet anniversary.

Well, first off, the weather forecast tried to kill all our plans.  Any sane group would have just scratched the weekend of frivolity when faced with dire predictions of wind, rain, thunder, lightning, even a tornado or two.  But not us.  We’re tough.  We’re Oregonians.  We’re not going to be intimidated by a little stormy weather.  Plans were NOT changed.

So…on Monday previous to the weekend, husband comes down with the crud.  Fever, sinus blockage, chesty cough, the whole nine yards.  So bad that I even talk him into coming home from work early one day (this man has to be dying to leave work) so he can stay in bed and rest up for “our weekend.”  He is still feeling like crap on Thursday, the day the crew is set to invade, so I suggest that they delay their arrival until evening so he can have  a few more hours to chill and maybe get rid of this bug. 

Meanwhile, while running around the house Thursday afternoon making final preparations for overnight guests, I find myself feeling crappier and crappier…  Yep.  I am coming down with husband’s bug.

Friday morning, I creep out of bed, determined not to let this thing screw up my plans.  Sisters and I go shopping for three hours.  I—feeling sicker and sicker—suggest we go back home so I can get a nap before we leave for dinner.  I climb upstairs into bed and soon have a raging fever that makes me feel as if my head is just going to explode.  No dinner out for me.  Husband and two sisters trek out to the restaurant in PDX and get our prime rib dinners packed into little Styrofoam boxes.  I’m barely able to shove down a few bites of rib and some mashed potatoes.  My fever breaks around 8:30 pm, and I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.

Saturday, despite wind, rain and virus, we DID, by god, go out to Hood River.  I was feeling a bit fragile but not too bad, considering that I had been on death’s door a mere 12 hours previous.  We all had a decent time, spent some money, came home, crawled into warm comfy furniture and had soup for dinner.

Sunday seemed fine.  Everybody left.  We went west.  I still felt like crap…no voice now.  And in the ups and downs of the road on the way to the coast, my hearing came back every time we got to about 700 ft altitude, and then clogged back up into a solid block of congestion every time we descended to sea level.  One of the strangests phenomena I have ever experienced.  Ugh.

Still, we got to Astoria, checked into our room and enjoyed the hotel.  We had dinner at one of the restaurants within walking distance, the food was good, we had a thoroughly enjoyable meal.  Walked back to the hotel.  This is all pretty good, right?  But I'm feeling rather put out that we are both still feeling puny so we're not able to do anything fun like go for a stroll on the pier, or really do anything even slightly strenuous.  So…we end up sitting on our bed in our hotel room, each of us with our nose buried in our iPads.  Whippy dip.  Happy anniversary!

Well, I guess I shouldn’t have even let that dark instant of disappointment cross my mind, because, evidently, that was as good as things were going to get.  Next morning, husband excuses himself from the breakfast table and disappears back up to the room (leaving me sitting at the table without a key…)  I wander back up to the room fifteen minutes later and find…well, suffice it to say husband is not feeling well.  Don’t know if it was something from the dinner or the bug that has been going around his office.  But he is sick.  Again.

So instead of a nice, leisurely drive down the coast before heading home, I drive hell bent for leather to the next big town, where we scrounge up some Dramamine and 7up for husband, to try and fortify him for the twisty drive that lies between where we are and where we need to be—home, hearth, toilet and bed.    

We make it home, me asking every ten minutes if he’s ok, him reassuring me that he feels better.  He goes through the front door, goes upstairs to change for bed and proceeds to…I guess he wasn’t actually feeling better. 

So here I sit, typing away on the damned laptop and waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Waiting to see if I will indeed come down with the same issues that he is having, either from last night’s dinner or from living in close proximity to whatever germ he is percolating now.

I want a do-over.