If you’re trying to get pregnant, figure out what pregnants are allowed to take for fevers BEFORE you’re stuck riding that fine line between burning alive and freezing to death.

Do that, and you’ll have a better time than I did Friday night.

Pregnant women seem to always have their doctors’ batphone numbers. Big question Friday at 10? No problem. Call the batphone!

Me? In limbo. I could have called my RE’s office, but they wouldn’t get the message till the next morning. Family practice? Yeah, I’ll talk to you in two days. ER? Don’t make me laugh. Ha. Ha. Ha.

So who did I call? Google! The Nest! The only instructions I saw that I’d trust without an actual doctor were to take a cold bath.

Oh, hell no. I was plopped into one with a high fever as a kid, and it was No Fun At All. I distinctly remember tears.

Let’s back up.

Friday morning was quite normal. No issues, no symptoms. The day progressed, and I started sniffling and sneezing some by lunch. Nothing outrageous, just enough to make me go, “Hmm.” Mid-afternoon, my throat started hurting. It was then I took a generic ibuprofen cold and sinus tablet. Cut it off early, I thought. By 7, I was sooooo very sleeeeeepy, my throat hurt worse and I was chilly. It was that point that I set up camp on the couch and stuck a thermometer in my mouth. 99.4. A wee fever, but nothing alarming.

An hour later, the thermometer read 100.2. It was then I made a move to get another ibuprofen tablet, and it was also then that sense hit me like a pie in the face.

What if I’m pregnant or at least a little bit pregnant? There are meds the pregnants need to avoid. OH MY GOD, is ibuprofen one of them? Dr. Google says yes. Frigging fabulous. We are an ibuprofen house. It’s my only option. I head back to Google and see that a fever of 102 or higher is reason for alarm (which I haven’t had in ages, so I’m not entirely concerned). I settle back into the couch and started willing the fever to go down, coaxing it with rest, water, an orange Italian ice and a personal threat to take a cold bath should the fever dare reach 101.

Another hour goes by, and I’m not feeling any better. My eyes, neck and core are on fire. My feet, hands and nose are like ice. The sore throat is gone, but everything else hurts. And dammit, the fever has dared. It’s 101.1

I did what every mature adult would do in my situation. I stomped off to the bathroom, head hung, pouting about my impending doom.

I never so strongly wished we had a pool until that night. Not once during the long, hot NC summer months have I so badly missed the pool I grew up with in the backyard of my parents house. Why? Jumping into a cold pool would be infinitely easier than easing into a cold bath. If it hadn’t been 10:30 on a Friday night, I might have opted for driving to Lake Norman and taking the plunge there. Since I’m not a fan of swimming in the lake at night, I made my slow descent into the cold bath.

Here’s the part during which I could take creative liberties and lie. I could tell you I was a brave adult and took that cold bath like a champ. You’d probably call me out, though, because nobody hits 580 words to say the cold bath was delightful.

I protested. I shook like an addict going through withdrawal. My teeth chattered so loud Rob warned me I’d have to dive headfirst into that cold water to find the teeth I’m about to knock out of my own head – then I’d really have something to whine about. The getting-in was approximately a seven-step process, and before I was fully submerged, yes, I cried.

It. Hurt. I was already battling hot/cold without the cold water, and the cold water on my cold body parts was torture. The cold water on my blazing body parts was painful. My muscles were all tense, and I couldn’t hold still through the shivers.

At one point, I declared the experience was added to the list of things to make the future spawn feel guilty about putting me through.

Once I was down, my cheering section, which consisted of Rob the husband, Rocky the cat and Lucky the dog (who were all peeking over the edge of the tub at me), had me smiling through the entirely uncomfortable time, encouraging me to take deep breaths and steady my shaking.

Sufficiently dried off and dressed in clean jammies, I reclaimed my position on the couch and stuck the thermometer in my mouth, ready to celebrate a victorious temperature drop.

One-Oh-Fucking-TWO-point-two.

“Are you fucking KIDDING me?” Yep. That’s the verbatim quote I exclaimed after reading that hilarity. Definitely not a joke.

Not really sure what else to do (you know, since the cold bath was such an amazing help), I waited a bit and tried again. Whew. It went down to 101.4. By the time I went to bed an hour later, it was down to 100.8.

I had a shitty night’s sleep and called the RE’s office as soon as I woke the next morning, my fever still at 100.6. The nurse returned my call and finally, I had some solid directions. Take regular Tylenol. I settled back into bed, Rob ran out for Tylenol, and I stored the information under Never Forget This.

Less than 12 hours after the ordeal peaked at its worst, my fever was gone, and I felt like a normal person again. I’m normally awful about jumping right back into action following a recovery, then I inevitably end up sick again, sometimes worse off than Round 1. Official orders from the husband, residual unhappiness from the ordeal and an urge to protect the possibility of a baking baby kept me on the couch yesterday, Halloween, for a long, boring day of rest.

I hear it does a body good.