“Yes, hello. I’m pretty sure I accidentally took a triple dose of Zoloft.”
“I see. Name?”
“Best phone number to reach you?”
“Okay, and how did you end up taking triple your dose?”
“Well, I went to the medicine cabinet thinking I should take my Zoloft and three Advil. I think I was thinking about taking three Advil while I was taking the Zoloft. I looked in my hand expecting to see a bottle of Advil, but instead I was holding my anti-depressants.”
“I see. And what is the maximum dose you would have taken?”
“150 milligrams. Maybe less, but I probably took three of my 50 milligram pills.”
“Right now we’re just dealing with the highest dose you possibly took. And how long ago was this?”
“About 45 minutes ago. I’d been trying to make myself throw up since then, with limited success.”
“Oh no, that’s the WORST thing you could do! Don’t throw up any more! It is not effective at removing the poison and increases the adverse effects! HOW MUCH DID YOU THROW UP?!”
“Well, dammit. Just a little. Inducing vomiting is not as easy as the after-school specials make it look.”
“Okay good; the best thing to do is drink some water and have a snack. DO NOT throw up any more.”
“Please hold on the line.”
I hold, as I explain to Andy, who has continued to frantically pack for the cross-country flight that we’ll be taking the next morning, the various ways in which I’ve blown it. He collapses on the bed with his best look of defeat.
“At the dose you’ve taken, we wouldn’t expect any ill effects. Please call back immediately if you experience nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, gonorrhea, lock jaw, slack jaw, dizziness, or acute spider face. But you’ll probably be fine. Have a snack and DO NOT induce anymore vomiting.”
“Got it. One last question. Can I continue to nurse my baby? I’ve got a newborn at home, which likely contributed to this particular brain fart.”
“Ah, I understand. I would pump and dump for 24 hours to be on the safe side.”
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUU . . .
This conversation took place between 10:30 and 11:00 pm as we’re scrambling to gather everything in the universe for Charlie’s first California trip, for which we’ll be leaving bright and early the next morning. I don’t have enough milk stored to get him through the next 24 hours, and besides that I have zero interest in trying to get a double-electric breast pump, a pumping bra, bottles, a bottle brush, dish soap and formula through TSA. Not to mention the fact that the messenger bag-style electric pump, a diaper bag, my purse and my cane are three carry-ons and a personal item, which is well over the limit. So I made the executive decision to feed Charlie the milk I had in the fridge that night & to feed him with my boobs on the plane as long as I didn’t wake up dead.
When the alarm went off at 4:30 a.m., I felt super. Like actually super. It was a beautiful, crisp morning! My lovely family and I were going to my cousin’s wedding! We were getting to go to wine country! Charlie was getting to take an airplane ride! What an exciting and pleasant day we had ahead of ourselves. And who even needs more than three hours of sleep when you have such fun to look forward to?
Charlie was an absolute delight for the whole car ride to the airport, and for the whole plane ride. You wouldn’t have even known there was a baby on the plane. (He had an ear-popping freak-out on the way home, but that’s neither here nor there.) Also, Virgin America’s crew was sooooo accommodating with our baby travel. When they saw we arrived with a baby, they moved us to the aisle and window seat of an empty row, so Charlie was able to sit in his own car seat in his own chair. Plus, they were just friendly all around. We will definitely fly with them again, even though it means schlepping to Dulles.
When we landed at LAX, I had a voicemail from Poison Control. I called back, and a nice lady asked if I was feeling okay and if pumping and dumping worked out. I told her I felt super, & briefly explained the circumstances that led to not pumping and dumping. She was totally non-concerned by my shocking revelation and was glad everything worked out. (Most people I’ve encountered seem to indicate that even potentially poisoned breast milk is preferable to Similac.) I had a 0.005% concern that my confession would result in someone calling Child Protective Services, and was relieved by the opportunity to confess and be absolved.
Apart from accidentally overdosing on my antidepressants and having to call Poison Control, I’d say Baby’s First Plane Ride was a success.
Even though I fully plan to live to be 100, Andy is convinced that he will outlive me by several decades, and that my last words will be something along the lines of “Wait a second– Ah, shit,” as I accidentally ingest a fatal amount of gummy vitamins or some such. I don’t know where he would come up with such a slanderous notion.