Day 1: At two-thirty in the morning we said good-bye to our last two faithful helpers, and locked the doors of our beautiful (and now exceedingly clean!) grand old house. My husband and I shared a long, lingering look under the moonlight and tenderly kissed each other one last time in the shadow of our Belleville hopes and dreams. And then we each got into our separate cars and drove off into the night. Or at least he did. My car's battery had conked out. My husband came back, got out the jumper cables, and once again all was well in Zion. As I followed him to pick up the children, his back door swung open and a single watering can fell out. I honked frantically, all the while thinking, "We have so little space and we have room for a watering can? This is lunacy!"
Day 2: After four refreshing hours of sleep, we were awakened by Briellen screaming. Her finger had been shut in the door of her room (we were at the hotel on base) by Brigham, with no little vigor. A precursory look, and we were off to the nearest emergency room: back in Belleville. We were able to leave the hospital around 1:00 pm. Briellen's finger was wrapped in gauze, and she is missing the skin and most of the fingernail from the middle finger on her right hand. (It's healing nicely at this point, but she will need a plastic surgeon to supervise her recovery.) After repacking the car and various other persnickety errands, we get a late start on our drive. We made it to Indiana, and stayed at a hotel with some of the friendliest staff I have ever met.
Day 3: More driving. Today we would make it to Washington, DC. Not. Our trip was like swimming in molasses. One pair of shoes were lost at a rest stop in Kentucky. Everyone in my car had had enough far before our destination point. We stopped at a place in Virginia.
Day 4: Awake at 3:30 am. Finish trip into DC, and make it to campground at 8:00 am. We are exhausted and having a hard time appreciating the natural beauty of the surroundings, but it's there. Go out to dinner later and pay exhorbitant amount at seafood restaurant.
Day 5: Fourth of July: we head to the Mall and watch the fireworks with two million other Americans. Oddly, I don't hear The Star-Spangled Banner played. I also don't hear other people singing as the musical talent breaks into "I'm glad to be an American" (Tradition at my high school was that everyone stood and joined in--this doesn't seem to be the case practically anywhere else.) I am feeling tired and cranky with all of the walking.
Day 6: I can hardly lift my head off my pillow, but go to church anyway. It's a large bubbling ward, very friendly. I don't have the energy to care, and go sleep in the car after sacrament meeting. For the next several days, I will be plagued with fevers, chills, sweats, and the inability to keep my head up for more than five minutes at a time.
Day 7: I don't remember.
Day 8: Alan unloads 14,000 lbs from moving trailer with little help. Sarai cheers him on, at his side. At five o'clock, extra help arrives. He is enormously grateful and exceedingly tired. I know I survived, but I'm not sure how. My temperature hits 104, and I can still hear Disney movies running in my head since the kids watched them over and over as I lay semi-comatose on the couch. I wonder if the neighbors think I'm a lush, since I can't walk without staggering.
Day 9: Don't remember.
Day 10: Finally go to Emergency Room. My now life-long companion, the fevered brow, is absent for the first time in days. The nurse triages me accordingly in the "broken fingernail" category. Two hours later, I see a doctor. He sends me for x-rays, and discovers pneumonia. I think to myself "Take that, triage lady!" between racking coughs. Home again with antibiotic: our adventures are just beginning. Please let the rest be less exciting than this.
