So, last Thursday, December 2nd, I worked a full day, made a grand dinner which I enjoyed with my family, cleaned up the mayhem they left behind then headed to our bedroom to enjoy a quiet evening with the Bobster. Once showered and snuggled into our comfy bed together, we did what we do almost every night. That’s right. Every. Single. Night. Oh, I can hear your jealous sniggering already. That’s right, we watched Star Trek, Bob started snoring before the Borg had a chance to assimilate the last victim and I grabbed my laptop to write. By the time I was to the grab my laptop stage last Thursday, I was a hurting unit. My gut was in knots and I could barely type. Ok, I can barely type normally but this was different. This was why do I want to drop to the floor and crawl around whimpering so bad I can’t type? After hours of bathroom runs, floor crawling, whimpering, getting back to the laptop, crawling into the bed just long enough to crawl back out of the bed then repeating the cycle again and again and again, I finally woke Bob up at 1:35am, Friday morning. Yes, as a matter of fact I do have an aversion to being sick and even under the imminent threat of death, I still choose to live in complete denial regarding the possibility there could be something wrong with me. Hey, don’t judge me unless your name is Judge Judy, Alex or Marilyn Milan. Ok, maybe I watched too much daytime TV in this place.
Anyway, once I woke Bob up and told him I thought I needed to go to the hospital, we were in the car in less than 5 minutes. Of course, I vacillated between crying out my last wishes and arguing there was nothing wrong with me on the 15 minute drive to Mercy. Once inside the ER, I was whisked into a room, quickly evaluated and then drugged to high heaven. No, seriously, I am pretty sure I saw Kurt Cobain. I seem to even remember having a deep and meaningful discussion about life and death with him. Well, it was either with him or the Cat in the Hat. It’s hard to sort it all out at this point.
"You should not be here, Kurt Cobain. You should not be about. You should not be here when our mother is out."
The next three days are a bit of a blur. I do remember some very lovely, young nurses coming into my room, shoving a rubber hose down my nose, through my throat and into my stomach. I also remember them telling me what a great patient I was, how they had never had the procedure go so well and how much they liked me and my family. I am pretty sure it was at that point that I smiled a drooly, crooked smile and thanked them, all the while thinking how differently they would feel when they one day realized I was a famous writer and would soon be composing a horror trilogy about beautiful, young nurses who take captive a rather overweight, middle-aged famous writer only to perform unspeakable atrocities upon her person whilst sing songing, “Up your nose with a rubber hose.” Oh yeah, I thought it.
Yes, I asked for my laptop, or so they say. Yes, I sat with fingers ready, or so they say. Yes, I was stoned out of my mind, eyes closed and never typed a single letter, or so they say. I'd like to see them try and prove any of it.
I also remember constant visits and phone calls from my children and grandchildren, including our son in the Navy. When I realized that the United States Navy had made special arrangements to put a call from Popeye’s ship all the way on the other side of sanity through to a hospital in Oklahoma City, I knew for sure I must be on my way out. All I could think at that point was, “I wish I had finished the laundry and cleaned out my office better. Oh well.” Oh yeah, and how much I loved God, my family and blogging. Whatever! I was dying people.
Oh sure, I look like the picture of health in my red Christmas jammies but I was on the brink. I could hear angels singing. Ok, maybe that was me snoring but I was still on the precipice people.
Finally, Sunday night when they dragged the rubber hose back out my nose,…now that is an experience you sure don’t want to miss…I knew I was on the right side of the bright light. Speaking of bright lights, some people might need to have it explained to them that when a person, like say, their wife, is laying in a hospital bed dying with a rubber hose up their nose, it really isn’t that funny to turn lights on and off behind the bed and ask the hosed spouse if they can see the light. I’m just saying.
There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like...
Anywho, here I am sitting in my hospital bed, coherently drinking a caramel macchiato and typing away on my laptop. Cat scans, upper and lower GIs, blood work and other bodily invasions behind me. Behind me. Get it? Nevermind. There are more tests scheduled for next week . Something about lesions on my liver. Sounds like a country drinking song to me but whatever, I’ll play along. Soon Bob will be here and I will be headed home. You know the first thing I plan on doing when I get there? The laundry and cleaning my office. Right after I thank God for my family and friends.
Poor little stoner. You seemed so normal one time long ago. Or not.
PS…Molly is a little, skinny liar. I did not cry when she read all your comments to me. I had a rubber hose up my nose people. It would make your eyes water too.