On the Run from the Piggie

I take it back. I am, or was, afraid of the swine flu, judging from my reflex to kick my husband not only out of the bedroom, but out of the house for a week. Lest I come off as the brute that I was, I need to back up and explain the circumstances.

Just before Halloween, my beloved husband flew to a resort in Palm Springs for the wedding of dear friends. Given that I was 35 weeks pregnant, it was Halloween weekend (the Brooklyn equivalent of Mardi Gras in New Orleans), and Duncan's 5th birthday, Jordy and I decided that I would stay home while he would represent us at the wedding. My mother intended to come to Brooklyn to help me with the kids and the multiple waves of festivities.

The Piggie first raised his head when my mother decided to cancel her Dartmouth coach bus reservation from New Hampshire to Manhattan. The Dartmouth College campus has been awash with swine flu; so, she reasoned, it probably wasn't a good idea to ride for five hours in closed quarters with a bunch of college students. She was awaiting knee surgery and feared the flu would set her surgery date back. By this logic, I asked, perhaps she should consider whether it was a good idea to visit on a weekend that involved two little kid birthday parties, not to mention the 400-500 vampires, Darth Vaders, mummies, and zombie brides we expected on our doorstep on Hallow's Eve? She slept on it, then awoke the next morning in appropriate epidemiological terror. Trip over. Score one for the Piggie.

The three days of Jordy's absence passed in a blur of sugar, spider webs, mummy wrappings, pumpkin innards, shrieking children, Chinese take-out, and musical chairs to the "Monster Mash." Jordy arrived Sunday morning after a red-eye flight, just in time to walk the dog before the arrival of the last and biggest wave: Duncan's twelve closest school friends, their siblings, their parents, and I believe even some grandparents. By two o'clock when the cake crumbs had settled, Jordy and Reeve collapsed on the couch downstairs. I drifted in and out of consciousness upstairs to the strains of "Viva, Mexico! Hey hey hey! Viva, turn up the radio!" while Duncan watched his new DVD, Scooby Doo and the Monster from Mexico. At bedtime, Jordy and I congratulated ourselves on pulling off the big weekend -- and germ-free, no less.

Monday morning, still exhausted from Saturday's lost night of sleep, Jordy went into the office to find a junior colleague "not feeling well" after a big Halloween weekend of drinking. By noon the junior colleague had gone home to sleep it off. By Tuesday the junior colleague had not returned to work.

Cross-cut: At school pick-up Tuesday, two other pregnant mothers and I commiserated about the daily New York Times coverage of pregnant women and swine flu. One nicely terrifying story told of a woman in Florida whose baby was removed by emergency c-section at 28 weeks while the mother was in the ICU; the baby had died, and the mother was hanging on by a thread. I had a vaccine shot scheduled for Friday, but our pediatrician had already run out of shots for the kids. One of the other pregnant moms had tracked down a clinic that had 500 doses. It was clear across Brooklyn, but would I like the contact information?

After school the next day I drove the kids an hour through coagulated rush-hour traffic to a clinic in Williamsburg. Orthodox Jewish mothers with far more -- and better behaved -- children watched my two boys tear around the waiting room as I filled out endless paper work. In the exam room, we only destroyed one blood pressure hose before the doctor appeared and gave the boys their shots. A tiny bead of clear liquid remained on Reeve's arm after the needle was withdrawn. Did he get the full dose? I wondered but decided not to ask. Did I need one? The doctor asked. No, I had an appointment at NYU on Friday with my own doctor. "See you in 30 days for the second dose, then!" the doctor said. Second dose? We have to go through this again?

On the drive home, weakened by traffic and children fighting in the back seat over whether to listen to Scooby Doo or MammaMia!, I let my petty angels whisper resentful thoughts. Three days at a resort in Palm Springs vs. three days of pregnant solo parenting in Brooklyn...?

Boiling the water for pasta, I prepared carefully how to express my condition to Jordy. He is not always sanguine when I reach Wits' End (a generous over-reaction on his part, like an allergy that makes him flare up in anger when I am discontented before being able to hear that it's not his fault). I was genuinely exhausted, but I knew the risk of letting resentment drive the conversation. I dispersed my petty angels and resolved to make a clean ask for help.

6:15. Jordy walked in the door. "Hi, Sweetie. I think I've hit the wall-" I began, but stopped. He looked wind-blown and flushed, as if he had run -- or been chased -- home. "I feel like crap," he said quietly.

My resolve vanished. A mob of petty angels rushed in. Was this a Man Cold? How dare he? In my moment of need, he turns up with a stuffy nose?

But I contained myself, and the chattering voices within, and encouraged him to take his temperature. 99 degrees. We carried on with dinner. He handled the bath and bedtime stories, while I did the dishes and walked the dog. He took out the trash. But by bedtime, he reported feeling worse. Since I hadn't had my shot, I asked if he would be willing to sleep in the TV room.

Thursday morning. I took the early shift with Reeve at six. When Jordy appeared in the kitchen doorway at seven o'clock, I had to admit, he looked bad. He was reading his iPhone and shaking his head. "Dylan tested positive for H1N1." Dylan, you might guess, is the aforementioned junior colleague.

"How do you feel?" I ask, knowing the answer.

"Like a train hit me," he said from the doorway. He took a step forward. I took a step back. He stopped.

The previous 15 hours played back in dizzying rewind: Shots. Effluence on Reeve's arm - did he get enough? "See you in 30 days for the second dose!" "No, thanks, I have an appointment at NYU with my own doctor on Friday." Duncan sharing Halloween candy with Jordy after dinner. Jordy giving baths and bedtime stories.

Vicious little piggies with wings were flying throughout our house! I knew my own body was defenseless. Would the boys' little bodies be able to hold?

"I don't know what to do," Jordy said, adrift.

A reptilian part of my brain took over. "I need you to go to your office apartment."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"But it take a week."

"I can't be the one to take care of you now."

"I understand. I'll just get some things together."

"Okay." He plodded up the stairs. "Oh, and Sweetie? While you are up there, can you open the windows of the TV room and put on the fan?"

Moments later, the boys and I waved through the window as he left. He waved back sadly. That would be the last we'd see of him for four days.

Score Two for the Piggie.

Thursday I filled a Tamiflu prescription my midwife had given me, "just in case," and began taking the prophylactic dosage. My doctor bumped me to the front of the line, so as soon as I dropped the kids at school I got on the subway to Manhattan where strangers seemed to cast swine-like shadows... Or was it I who was casting the shadow with a snout?

When I got to the doctor, I informed him proudly that I had already taken a Tamiflu pill that morning. He shook his head. "Then I'm not sure the shot will do you any good. Tamiflu changes the way your immune system reacts to the shot."

Panic. "But only the live denatured nasal spray, I believe?" I had read the pharmaceutical information cover to cover on the train. Had I misunderstood? I wanted to cry. He went to his computer. Eight long silent minutes while he double checked the medical literature. Not even NYU doctors, I realized, know everything about this flu.

At last he stood up. "Pull up your sleeve."

Every day I nearly worked up a fever watching the boys and myself for fever. It can take up to seven days for the immune system to build up the antibody reaction. We canceled all play dates. We said hello to neighbors from a distance. Although I took the kids to the Bronx Zoo on Saturday to avoid an even worse case of cabin fever, we spoke to no one and kept our distance, feeling safer among the Okapi animals than among other humans.

I discovered that one of the hardest side effects of plague is the isolation.

On Sunday we met Jordy in Prospect Park. I wanted to hug him. The boys wanted to climb on him. But we had decided on a no-touch visit. He had been free of fever for 12 hours but still felt like his muscles had been pulverized. Could he come home? He went back to the office for a nap, after which we would decide. By evening his fever had returned. Had we rushed it?

Jordy finally came home on Tuesday, six days after his first flush of fever and 36 hours after it had abated. I finished the 10-day course of Tamiflu four days later. So far, not a smidge of temperature.

I picture a Fellowship of the Antibodies, B-cells and T-cells, coursing through our four -- no, five -- little bodies, slaying evil micro-piggies left and right.

Score one, Green Beans.