I am rull sick, kids.

Hey skidmarks. I don't think I need to reiterate the statement above, but I have a cold that would choke a donkey (what does that even mean?). I have been taking Dimetapp and overnight cold pills and Vitamin Cs and not eating anything (and I don't seem to have lost any weight yet, so that blows unto itself) and the other night I slept on my living room floor. I have missed 2 days of work now, which might be cool if I worked at McDonalds or something, but I actually like my job. So anyways, I wanted to give you something for today and tomorrow (yep. The ANTM recap will happen on Friday). Here is a story I wrote late July when I was living in Montreal, and while I am not sure why I never posted it, I am sure you will find 50% of it entertaining. Enjoy! And PRAY...FOR...MOJO.

You almost lost me this weekend, kids. On Friday night, yours truly checked into Montreal General Hospital and almost never made it out. Obviously I am being very hyper-dramatic, but I would like to imagine that I didn’t spend 7.5 hours in Emerg’ for nothing. But in order for you to understand this story, I need to preface it by another.

I have been hospitalized on every major vacation I have ever taken. A lot of people refuse to believe this, to which I will ask you to call my Mother who can attest to the dates and times, how old I was, which hospital it was, on how much of an annoyance it was for a woman who never got a damn break to be hassled by a sick kid on every one of her planned vacations. Anyways, imagine everyone is born with an in-ground pool for a body. I was born with a Slip-N-Slide; a piece of equipment that gets a new leak every day and kills if you don’t use it on brand-new sod. I popped out of my Mom’s bageene completely grey. When I was in Kindergarten I was hospitalized with pneumonia. I had to be tested for Epilepsy when I was 6. So, long story short, a good deal of cards were stacked against me. The first time I was hospitalized on a vacation was a trip to Florida. One morning I woke up Linda Blair and vomited on everything for a good 8 hours. My parents checked me into the closest hospital where the stomach flu ravaged my 9-year-old body for the good part of a week. A few highlights were trying to stay awake long enough to watch a Back to the Future marathon on TBS (they would always refill my morphine drip right before Marty meets Doc Brown in the parking lot) and peeing my pants in the middle of my hospital room.

The second time also took place in Florida. I was swimming in the ocean and got water in my ears. This isn’t that big a deal, but my ear canals are extra curvy and narrow, so they trapped a crapload of seawater, which of course started to grow bacteria. I was taken to the hospital at 2am by my Papa and Nana and I was given painkillers in my ass. Do you understand what I just said? They filled a syringe with Valium, and stuck it in my asscheeks. I begged them to give it to me in the arm, but I was told that it would paralyze my arms for 2 weeks and the bruising would be so bad it would look like I came back from Mt. Everest with a severe case of frostbite. I agreed to the needles, and the result was The Mayor, high as a fucking kite, with two massive gunshot-wound bruises on each ass.

Another time involved me swimming in a lake, getting water in my ears, and the pain being so white-hot I begged my boyfriend at the time to hit me with his car (so I wouldn’t have to feel the pain…what did you think I meant? To collect insurance money? That’s actually a great idea.)

So Friday was no big shock for me. Any time I leave my home for longer than 2 weeks, Jesus pulls out of his never-ending craps game to fuck with my body for a bit. I don’t blame him; I would do the same thing if I had powers like that.

The previous Monday I had woken up with a wheelbarrow of fuck-money justice in my shoulder. I must have slept on a porcupine or a medieval mace or something, because it felt like my shoulder was saying “well, it’s been real, but I am getting the fuck out of your body, bitch. Enjoy the show”.
I put up with it (because I am not a whiny bitch) but by the 4th day (Friday) I had to call my Mom and ask what’s up. You know, because my Mom is a doctor. She tells me she thinks that my muscles flipped on each other and that I should go to a physiotherapist when I get back to Toronto. I hang up the phone, take another 8 Tylenols, and hope for the best. But now the Tylenols aren’t doing shit and the shoulder pain is so bad I feel like begging anyone in a car to hit me. The worst part was that it was internal; I could totally move my arm and neck around without any pain, but the minute I breathed in or coughed, it felt like someone was stabbing me. You know when pain gets so bad you can’t cry or scream, you just feel like vomiting? That was me. Every time I breathed in, I got so nauseous from the pain. It was around the time I started lying on the floor of my friend’s living room listening to sad songs by Immaculate Machine that I decided I could do two things; drink a shitload of wine or go to Emergency. Since I had already taken a whole bottle of Tylenol, and didn’t have a death wish, I opted for the hospital.

I checked in around 10pm. I brought a book with me in case I needed to wait and a few quarters for a snack in case I got hungry. I sat in the waiting room with the following lost souls: a young thug with a sprained ankle, a Quebecois man clutching his stomach in pain, a Native guy who had drank a bunch of poison or something and was being forced to drink a liter of chalk-drink, a man who apparently had nothing wrong with him and just wanted to take up space in a bust Emergency room, and what looked to be Terry and Deaner’s Dad. He sat beside me and this was the phone conversation I got to hear:

Hey Guy. I got your money. Got it all. Guess where I am? Yeah – the bitch stabbed me. Okay, take it easy, I got your money!

Did I mention his left wrist and right calf were slashed up? I desperately wanted to know why his friend Guy (to my American friends, this name is pronounced Gee, like G'zhee) needed cash and why his old lady stabbed him, but I am scared of lice and this guy looked like he may have a lice problem. Anywhoo, time passes and I finally see a doctor at 12am. No big deal, I have waited in a waiting room for 2 hours before. Plus, as long as I don’t have to pay for my visit, I will wait all damn weekend if I have to. The doctor tells me my shoulder can be one of two things: best-case scenario, you have muscle and nerve damage. Worst-case scenario, you have a blood clot in your lung and this is very serious and bad and we will need to operate and you should probably get on the horn and say your goodbyes now.

So I go for X-Rays (“Ma’am, are you pregnant? Would you like to be pregnant at anytime?” yeah, forget that lead thing that protects my ovaries. I have been looking for a cost-effective solution to abortions for a while now and I think this is right up my alley) and blood tests, which now brings us to 3am. The doctor has given me a bunch of extra-strength Advils for the pain (Advil! Why had I not tried Advil?) and I am starting to get sleepy. I had not gotten a good sleep in days, so my body was beginning to shut down. I tried to get into the most comfortable position possible in the waiting room chairs, all the while wondering who was going to come to my funeral and whether or not my Mom would play Josh Groban (homegirl better not!!)

I finally got my results at 5am when I was awoken by the nurse who did my blood work. She brought me back to see the doctor and he was like “well, you don’t have a blood clot in your lungs. I have no idea what’s wrong with you, but you’re not dying, so that’s a relief.” Uh, yeah – it is a relief. Who checks in to Emergency and goes “Listen, I am really crossing my fingers for fatal stab-wounds, so can you do as little as possible to speed that along?”

I left the hospital at 5:20am and made my way home. I was so dirty and tired and just really thankful my fucking shoulder wasn’t killing me as hard as it was before. It still sucks, but I am not dying, so it could be worse. One person I will never be able to thank was the wife of the man who was clutching at his stomach. She stayed with him all night long, and slept in the waiting room. At one point in the morning I felt someone touching me. I opened my eyes to find this lady placing a blanket over me. I guess she had gone to the nurses’ station and asked for two; one for her, and one for the dirty Anglophone girl in the waiting room.


Alice said...

That sounded absolutely awful! And in the end all they really did for you is expose you to radiation and give you advil. Nice.
You handled it really well - if a doctor told me I might have a fatal blood clot in my lungs I would totally panic - like 'forcing-a-feral-cat-into-a-tiny-car' panic...then i'd curl up in a ball and cry for my mommy.

alex davey illustrations said...

why did you never tell me this? what's your deal? I will totally convince mom you want sarah maclaughlin played at your funeral.

soylent said...

Get well soon!