Category Archives: ow

What’s funny ….

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…. is that I ate the entire stuffed pepper before I realized I was allergic to it.  I had just assumed that Hungarian peppers were supposed to taste like getting punched in the face.

I figured it out when my nose went numb and started to bleed.

“What’s going to happen at Christmas, an outbreak of leprosy?”

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That’s a line from an old kids radio show that Jesse and I used to listen to as kids, an episode about a Thanksgiving gone horribly wrong.  It was also said a lot this past week and a half, as Buckman and I went through a series of insanely awful events.  As in, the hospitalization was not even the low point.

I’m not kidding.

(Quick background info.  Buckman hasn’t been able to find work here, and my company is floundering.  Between the long overdue paychecks and the expensive vet bills, my saving account won’t can’t cover me anymore, and so I gave notice to my apartment and told Jesse to clear the spare bedroom.  Buckman arranged to go back to DC.  Moving day was scheduled for last Sunday, and Buckman flies out tomorrow.)

I’ll start this tale of woe with the Weds before Thanksgiving.  I popped into my gyno’s office for what was supposed to be a painless procedure.  I left an hour later, in tears, minus a bit of my ladybits that I’d been rather attached to, which was taken from me without so much as a warning much less any sort of painkiller, by a device that resembled the lovechild of a fruit picker and a hole punch.  As a parting gift, I was also given a piece of paper which warned me to treat my vagina like a gift, as in Do Not Open Until Christmas.

Lovely.  Thanks.  You’re not my gyno anymore.

The next day, Thanksgiving, dawned bright and clear and Buckman puking his guts out.  By two in the afternoon he was delirious and the question was no longer “should I take him to the hospital?” it was, “how on earth am I going to carry him down three flights of stairs to the car?”

At one point the doctors where prepping him for surgery to remove his appendix, but eventually it was determined that he was suffering from gastroenteritis, which is essentially the experience of food poisoning, just with more pain.

I ate Thanksgiving dinner in the hospital cafeteria, and I’ll admit it.  I felt sorry for myself.  If only I’d known what I know now, I’d have been laughing like Buckman on painkillers.

After a failed attempt at Thanksgiving dinner for Buckman, in the form of cranberry juice from the nurses, I took him home.  He’d lost eight pounds that day.

Friday was a lovely bright spot in that week.  I left my dying cat and recovering Buckman to look after each other and watched my sweet Samantha marry Mickey, on a boat, in a full day extravaganza of food and dancing and food and did I mention food?  And more dancing.

Sometime in the night that night, Dulce yakked all over the bathroom rug.  Which was a delightful little surprise to find at three AM, when I joined her.  All of Sam’s carefully prepared goodies were seeking escape from my body, through any route possible.

Yes, it turns out gastroenteritis is contagious.

I crawled back to bed, only to find that Dulce was not going to be outdone in the sick department, and had thrown up there to.  I piled all the laundry by the door and slid in under another blanket.

I spent the next three days not packing and moving as planned, but meditating through the pain of stomach cramps, trying to hold down popsicles, and maintaining a quarantine of the apartment against wonderful helpful friends.

Come Monday, I could stand for short stretches of time, and I used this newfound power to drive Mau to the vet’s office to say goodbye.  I was too weak to dig his grave.   Buckman, Jesse and Bethany had to do it for me.

Did I mention my therapist just went on three weeks vacation?

Tuesday, now days past my moving date, I managed to box my things, and my wonderful friends all pitched in to help me pack.  In the middle of carrying down boxes, the fella I’ve been seeing, well …. he gave me reason to decide not to see him anymore.

We loaded up the car, and Angelica’s SUV.  And then her battery died.

I finally cracked.  I sobbed until Triple A showed up.  Somehow I managed to get through the rest of that night, get everything moved, and clean the apartment.  In hindsight I’m not even sure how.

Fast forward to today.  I’m alive.  The past few days have been a lot better because, well, they’d pretty much have to be.  Plus I can eat full meals now.  And I’m unpacked.  Rudolf enjoys playtime in the backyard, and Dulce’s starting to recover from the stress of the move.

I guess what I’m saying is, I think I’ll live.

Ow.

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While at the doctor’s on Weds, she reminded me that I was due for two vaccinations, a tetanus booster and the first of the hepatitis Be vaccinations.  Now, I knew as soon as the nurse asked if I was right or left handed that one of them was gonna be bad, but I did not expect to get as sick as I did.

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The next morning I woke up so sick I almost cried when I tried to stand up.  And in my stupidly fevered state, I was thinking, I can go to work, I can do this. If I can just walk a little, take some deep breaths, I’ll be able to work through the stiffness and stand upright. So I decide to go to the 7-11 two blocks away. I practically crawl there, and I’ve got fever and chills but I’m so stiff that I’m not shivering, I’m twitching. I overheard the cashier whisper to the other “meth” in a singsong tone, and I thought, ok, if I’m being mistaken for a tweeker, I think I should stay home from work.

So I crawled back into bed and didn’t budge all day, until I had to.  I had an appointment at four with my psychiatrist, and unless you have a note from the ER, a missed appointment means your insurance won’t cover the fee and you have to pay out of pocket the entire cost of the appointment.  So I had to drag myself in and attempt to convince him that the anti-anxiety meds are working like a dream, and the fact that I look like a zombie is completely unrelated!  I owe it to our good working relationship that he took me seriously.

I’m feeling much better today, which really is a low hurdle to jump, but I’m grateful.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to wrap my arms in caution tape, to ward off those well intentioned squeezes of where I got my shots.

I’m very sorry …..

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…. that I said that you apparently don’t like women who have opinions.  That was incorrect.  I would like to publicly retract “women” and replace it with “people of any gender, color or creed who respectfully voice an opinion different from yours, in your general vicinity.”

Clearly your disrespect knows not the bounds of sexism.

The implication of sexism was false, it must have been quite hurtful to you, I didn’t mean it, and will be more careful in the future to express my meaning more accurately.

And see, THAT is how you apologize.  You’re still 0 for 2.

Not exactly the picture of health yet.

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Valancy Jane – *limps*

Drea – *limps*

Valancy Jane – “I’m so proud of us.”

Drea – “I know.  Three straight days of getting up early and going to the gym.”

Valancy Jane – “We being so healthy.”

Drea – “It’s so good for us.”

Valancy Jane – *limps*

Drea – *limps*

Valancy Jane – *bursts out laughing*  “Aren’t we a great advertisement for healthy living?”

We’ve got PLANS for this weekend, and she is anxious to patch me up.

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Drea – “How’s your foot?”

Valancy Jane – “Still attached.”

Drea – “Better than saturday?  Better than sunday?  On saturday you told the nurse it was an 8, where is it now?”

Valancy Jane – “See on saturday I was trying to walk on it.  So the only way to see if it’s still an 8 is to get up and walk around on it.  Then you’ll hit me, and my arm will be at an 8 for sure.”