February 21, 2011

I’m (Probably) Not Dying. So Stop Trying To Take All My Awesome Stuff.

I know, I know… I haven’t posted anything in a week. For those of you who actually enjoy reading my posts, I say “I’m sorry.” For those of you who would rather have your face eaten off by a gaggle (pack? horde? school?) of zombies than read my posts, I say  “You’re welcome.” I tried to sit down and write something a few times, but every time I tried I went into some kind of trance and typed absolutely nothing. You see, I was near death last week. And I don’t think I’m exaggerating. At all.

About 10 days ago I started getting terrible headaches off and on, which was just perfect timing since the hub was out of the country. After a couple of days the headaches stopped and then came back last week with a vengeance. I honestly thought I was dying, you guys. As most of you know, my body has the ability to get itself all effed up with all kinds of stuff. Weird stuff. Stuff that only people over 65 are supposed to get. Stuff that only Asians get. Stuff that only African American women get. My doctors are amazed with me. Nothing surprises them any more. They shake their heads. They call colleagues. They look at me in wonderment. I am really medically screwed.

So anyway, last week I thought I was dying. But because I didn’t want to overreact, I chose to ignore it. Then a few of my dearest friends, and my dear husband, pretty much insisted that I drag my butt to the ER, because if any 39 year old “normal” white American woman is gonna go dying of Ebola or Legionnaires’ Disease, or some other weird thing that nobody around here ever gets, it is gonna be this woman right here. Maybe I’m not the most attractive person in the world, but I am like a super model to weird illnesses. They can’t get enough of me.

When I got to the point that even I was convinced I was having a brain aneurysm, and my friends and family were getting frightened, I went to the ER. By myself. Because I didn’t want to bother anyone to take me. Cuz I’m a total martyr like that. Plus, I can make everyone feel guilty about it later. So they did bloodwork, neuro tests and a CT scan on me and found nothing. But fortunately they gave me pain meds. But unfortunately I had to decline the hard-core narcotic ones because I was an asshole and I drove myself. And as usual, I asked if I could get medicinal marijuana for this, and as usual, they said no. But you can’t blame a girl for trying.

So basically I was sent home feeling like my head is gonna explode. But it comes and goes, so I make do. Then Ethan went down for the count on Saturday morning. But unlike ignoring his illnesses like I do mine, I took him right in to urgent care and he had strep. And now on day 3, he still has fever. But since today he is screaming a lot and chasing the cat around and asking me lotsa deep questions about life and death and birth, I believe he is on the upswing. Thank god. Because if anything pisses me off, it’s not getting to wallow in my own sickness enough before someone else goes and steals my spotlight. And touches me a lot with germ hands that I’ve not only seen him cough into and pick his nose with, but stick in his pants. Hooray.

But the good news is that this morning I used the medical knowledge that one gains when one is a medical f@cktastrophe like me, and I decided that I have an inner ear infection. This happened years ago in Chicago, and took the doctors, like, 2 days to figure out. Ya know, after putting me through many tests including a spinal tap, before which you have to sign papers saying that if they accidentally paralyze you forever, it’s fine and dandy. So my doctor took pity on me and my inability to drag my ass in with a sick kid and a dizzy head, and called in some antibiotics for me today, and hopefully I will soon be on the mend.

And if all goes well and I am totally healed up soon, I will write you something more interesting than this load of whiny crap. Probably not much more interesting though. So don’t get your hopes up. And I want to say “Thank you” to my friends who were so worried about me and insistent that I go to the doctor. Even though it turns out that I’m not dying, it was nice of you to care. Although, truth be told, most of you were only trying to get bequeathelled, or bequeathed upon, or whatever. Dear Kim, You may not now, or ever, have my Shirley. Like I said, she will be buried with me. We will be in matching dresses and tap shoes. Bite me. Love, Patti. And those of you who didn’t give a poop about me can suck sweaty hobo balls. Twice.

*UPDATE* Just because, you know, The Universe loves me right now and I’ve been having such a great time the past 10 days, it decided to make me make the totally dumb-ass move of cleaning my washing machine filter and failing to screw it back in tightly enough, causing said washing machine to explode like a geyser all over my kitchen and laundry room, and causing me to run around the house yelling “I just got new carpet! I just got new carpet!” like a psycho. I am not having a good day, people. I might drink a bottle of wine and cry myself to sleep tonight. I just might.

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