The Setting: Last sick day before a much-anticipated (read "feared") return to work.
The Soundtrack: Something news-like on PBS.
On the Stove-top: Nothing yet, but Hoosband may be sizzlin up some chicken soon.
The Scenario: It seems I just can't get enough of the ER.
Friday, 10 a.m.
Slept in a little.
Breakfast of Blue Bell Groom's Cake ice cream.
Just took the second dose from my Z-pak.
Watched something on Netflix.
Time for a shower.
Picking up my prescription at the drugstore the other day, I took the opportunity to stock up on some new nice-smelling shower essentials, so I was particularly looking forward to a relaxing, rejuvenating shower experience.
I had just achieved a voluminous lather and a near-sense of self-pampering when black splotches began to swirl around my face. My head started spinning, and my shoulders became heavy and numb. I wanted to wash off all the suds, but the dark spots were increasing, and I knew I had to get to softer ground.
I grabbed the towel I had thrown over the shower door, shut off the water, and didn't bother drying off as I concentrated on stepping out of the shower and crossing the small amount of hallway from bath to bed.
The moment my feet touched carpet, the black spots became a solid sheet of near-unconsciousness, and I just managed to heave myself onto the bed before my body could crumple to the floor.
My phone was just within reach, and I willed my fingers to grasp it long enough to leave Hoosband a jumbled and questionably coherent voicemail.
I lay there, shaking, wet, but conscious, clutching my towel until Hoosband came home to take me back the ER.
We were whisked almost immediately to a private room, where a team of EMT trainees attempted to find my best blood-giving veins. It was a learning experience.
The next lesson was strategic placement of electrodes for taking an EKG.
"Who knows where lead four goes?" the instructor called out.
"Underneath the left breast!" was the enthusiastic response.
As my gown was unsnapped along the left shoulder and lowered down to expose the subject matter, I tried to remain a stoic cadaver. Peripherally, I could see Hoosband squirming in his seat, sitting on his hands, undoubtedly repeating in his head they are professionals, they are professionals...and hopefully gay.
After the EKG, which was textbook-perfect, I overheard, I was hooked up to an IV to treat the severe dehydration that was likely the cause of my episode.
Another ultrasound showed a healthy baby, and perhaps some insights into its burgeoning personality. The Juice tends to kick and bat when its blissful prenatal environment is threatened by the annoyance of the ulrasound technician and her picture-taking methods, retreating and curling up into a "don't mess with me" ball when the kicks are unsuccessful at securing its peaceful solitude.
Hoosband says this behavior reminds him of someone...I don't know what he is talking about.