We took a red suitcase with us to Puerto Rico. It was oversized, near to the point of comically so, and it held everything the three of us would need for the week. So that Wednesday afternoon, when it never appeared on the lethargic conveyor belt of baggage carousel 4 in Luiz Munoz International Airport in San Juan Puerto Rico, to say we were upset, well, that would be an understatement. It also should have been a sign.
The bag did show up later that afternoon, and was set to be delivered to us that night. Only it was delivered to the wrong building, and so the following morning, Mike could be seen dragging a very large red suitcase around the hot and windy main road of our very large resort complex. The resort shuttle, much like the bag the day before, never showed up.
While Mike was schlepping and sweating with our belongings, I was inside our villa taking long, close, concerned looks at Drew’s face. He had awoken that morning with a rash on his face. At first I thought maybe there had been mosquitos in his room, or perhaps a couple bugs had decided to nestle in with him in his crib—the rash was more pronounced on one side of his face. And there were other spots too—his knees were developing a slight rash, and wait, a diaper change revealed a lacy rash invading his backside. Come to think of it, the previous day he had seemed to have a fever while we were on the plane. His body had been hot right down to the soles of his feet.
Later that day the three of us piled into a taxi and drove 40 minutes to a local doctor. I held Drew on my lap and he fell asleep nestled into my lap. I looked down at his face, red from a continued fever and a rash that seemed to be spreading by the minute, and cried. What was going on with him? Who was this doctor? Where was my mud slide?
We ended up at a clinic that was part of a medical office building situated along a busy highway. Our taxi driver (who, it should be noted, went ABOVE and BEYOND for the duration of that day) waited inside the clinic for us while Mike and I paced the tiled atrium outside with Drew. The wait may have only been 30 minutes, but with a baby who was alternately crying in our arms and curiously stomping up and down the place, running head-first for the stairs, it was interminable.
The doctor told us he had never seen a rash like the one Drew presented with. Need I say these are not the words you want to hear from a doctor? He ordered us to a lab within the building for bloodwork. If we thought Drew’s crying was bad before, it was a joyous laugh compared to what came out of him when I was charged with pinning him down while a lab technician pricked his finger and methodically squeezed 20 purple drops of his blood into a small vial. We three emerged from the lab shaking, and returned to waiting and pacing.
The bloodwork came back normal. After a check of Drew’s ears and throat, the doctor declared a case of strep and prescribed a course of antibiotics, Benadryl and pain relievers. The rest of the day was spent consoling a very cranky toddler and trying to hide our looks of horror at the blisters that were steadily forming across his face, hands, feet and knees. I had heard of strep, and even scarlet fever, but this? This didn’t add up.
Thanks to the wonders of Dr. Google and BabyCenter ( I KNOW.), we re-diagnosed our son with a case of Coxsackie virus, also known as hand-foot-mouth disease (but NOT hoof-mouth disease, LET’S BE CLEAR). It’s a nasty, vile illness, and we soon learned to what degree. Out of six people on our little vacation from hell (four adults, two babies), five people got coxsackied. And so, as each day dawned a brilliant sunrise over the Caribbean, another member of our fated group came down with a fever, then sore throat, then blisters.
On our last day, Mother’s Day, Mike came down to the pool where I was resting–for the first time in the entirety of our trip–and said, “If you think Drew’s face is bad, you should see Charlie’s.” Oh no, I thought, were both babies now blister-faced? As it turned out, no. Charlie, 8-month daredevil that he is, had taken a headfirst dive out of his stroller and onto a concrete floor. He now had Coxsackie AND a nasty road rash.
That afternoon, us four adults did the only thing we could think of. We poured a bottle of rum into a pitcher of Bahama Mama mix and had at it. This may have been the vacation we would never forget, but we sure as hell were going to try.
