Decongestants do not play well with others.
Other drugs, that is. Although I only know that about the prescription kind. It's a lesson I learned this week.
It's been a doozy of a week. My whole family has been sick with some nasty bug. I took both of my kids to the emergency room for croup - on different days at different ungodly hours, of course - and both needed breathing treatments. The baby also had chest xrays that showed patches of viral pneumonia in his lungs. Meanwhile, I managed to develop a sinus infection and my doctor started me on a couple medications.
(Now is probably a good time for an aside about how you should always read that packet of information stapled to your prescription medicine when you pick it up from the pharmacy. But since I never bother reading them, I won't get into it here. Just consider yourself foreshadowed.)
I started the new medication at dinner on Thursday, around the time I took a dose of Sudafed. Fast forward about an hour, and I'm following my mom around Target as she fills our cart with birthday gifts for the grandkids. We spend an inordinate amount of time in the dollar section and that's when I notice I'm feeling just a little queasy. I absently wonder if the stomach flu has chosen this week to strike my family.
It would.
Nah, I brush it off. I'm just having a little indigestion. Back to shopping. But the nausea is getting stronger. By the time we reach the clearance toy aisle, I know I'm going to be sick. I mention this to my mom and she calmly responds.
"Want a stick of mint gum?"
Well, yeah. Only gum really makes sense when you're about to lose your dinner on the floor of a major retailer.
I'm desperate, so I take the gum.
No good.
I turn to tell my mom that I think I need to leave the store, when suddenly everything is tilting around me. I'm feeling very dizzy and lightheaded. I sit Indian-style (er, crisscross applesauce) next to our shopping cart.
"Mom," I say. "I think I'm going to pass out."
Now she looks worried and comments on how dilated my eyes are. This helps.
"Should I call C.R.?" She asks. I briefly picture C.R. holding the baby, hauling me out of Target in a shopping cart, while our 5-year-old fires off questions like a reporter at a press conference.
I shake my head.
"Maybe someone from the store can help," I say.
She hurries down the aisle and out of sight.
Meanwhile, there I sit, in the middle of the toy section, trying not to pass out. Or look conspicuous. It must be working because a woman skirts around me to get a better look at the toy train sets. I can hear her on her cell phone.
"No, they don't have the Thomas train set. No, no. I said it's NOT here." She sounds irritated. "There's just the Circo set."
"And a young woman sitting on the floor."
Busted.
At least she called me young. Sick as I am, this doesn't escape my notice.
"Hey, are you okay?" She's holding the phone away from her mouth, so I assume she's talking to me.
"Not really," I say. "I feel like I'm going to pass out."
The woman walks off without responding and minutes later, two pimple-faced Target employees show up at the end of the aisle. They have bewildered expressions and seem frozen in place - more like Walmart than Target employees, really. They seem scared to come near me. Good grief! Do they think I'm crazy or strung out on something? (You know, other than Sudafed and prescription meds...)
At this point, I want to laugh, in spite of the situation. Because of the situation, really. But I don't suppose that will make me look more sober or sane. I'm starting to feel a little less dizzy and a little more self-conscious. I slowly stand up and hold tightly to the shopping cart for balance. I glance around and see a small crowd gathering.
Where is my mom, already?
Finally, a woman about my age - wearing the customary red polo and khakis, and an official-looking name tag - steps through the crowd. She offers to help and hands me a bottle of water.
I'm not sure how water will help, but I take a sip anyway.
"Did my mom send you?" I ask.
She gives me a blank look and then steps back, away from me. Um...apparently not. Great. Yet another Target employee who questions my sobriety/sanity. I take that as my cue to move along.
"Thank you," I tell her, pretending the water actually helped. "I'm feeling a little better now."
I shakily push the cart in the opposite direction and duck down another aisle, hoping to escape the growing crowd of worried store employees converging on the toy department. I can hear them talking about me, but I don't care. Much. I just want to find my mom and get out of the store before I puke, pass out, or both. I've embarrassed myself plenty for one evening.
When I get to the main aisle, I finally see my mom. She's hurrying toward me...and right on her heels are three paramedics with a gurney.
Oh, poop. She called 9-1-1.
I was hoping to escape the store without making a big scene. I can safely cross that off my wishlist.
Miss Official Name Tag is right behind me and spies the paramedics too. She makes a beeline their way. I wonder what she'll say.
I try to head her off and explain the situation to the paramedics myself. They steer us down the fitness aisle and out of the way of other customers.
Still lightheaded, and feeling more than a little foolish now, I take a seat on the gurney while the guys shine a light in my eyes (no idea why they do that) and check my vitals. My pulse and blood pressure are up. They ask if I'm taking any medications, and I tell them, "yes." But I can't remember the name of my new prescription and I space the decongestant altogether.
May as well add these guys to the list of people wondering about my sanity.
The paramedic in charge continues asking me questions, while he fills out paperwork. I apologize for taking up their time. He has kind eyes and looks sympathetic. I can tell he's trying to shield us from curious customers and employees (although Miss Name Tag hasn't budged from her post nearby). I glance at his dark uniform and notice a fire department badge on his arm.
Shoot. These guys are from the fire department? They should be helping fire victims or rescuing people from mangled cars or something. I feel like I'm wasting their time with my nausea and dizziness.
"Ma'am," he says, "You may be reacting to your medication. Would you like us to take you to the emergency room?"
I stare at the exercise DVDs across the aisle and consider this. I don't want to go to the hospital.
"No, I think I'm okay to go home." Although I probably shouldn't be driving. I don't mention this, but the paramedics are already thinking it.
Thankfully, my mom offers to drive.
We leave our cart of grandkid gifts with Miss Name Tag and follow the paramedics out the door. We pass the ambulance at the store entrance, head into the parking lot, and then climb into my car. I'm too embarrassed to notice if anyone is watching us.
I wonder what in the world made me feel so freakishly crummy.
It isn't until I'm home, hours later and still sick from the medicines, that I remember the decongestant. Sure enough, when I call my doctor the next morning, she tells me that my medicine interacted with the decongestant. She says that I need to be more careful, that it could've been much more serious.
Now I'm no longer embarrassed.
Instead, I'm thankful for God's protection, my mom's love, and help from the fire department.
And I've learned a very important lesson. A couple, really. First, always read the information that comes with your medications.
Second, never EVER do decongestants and shop.
