Going to be tooting my own horn today. Not loudly mind you, but I went above and beyond this weekend and damn, I need to share. There was grossness and sadness and hilarityness. I'm a relatively unselfish person by nature, albeit totally self-centered (yes, it is all about me, duh), but I am a giver. Experiencing pain is no exception. I'm like napalm. I'll get it all over ya.
Friday was a typical day, not so bad and the work tards had left me alone. I was picking up whitey at the mall by work since he car is still broken. (God damn Budget). We were planning on getting some sundries at Trader Joe's, going home and making dinner. Spending the rest of the night lounging and snogging on the couch. This was SO far from what happened.
After being stuck in traffic for a million and a half years, we decided we were starving and needed food before getting food. We piled at Olive Garden and were sufficiently stuffed. Went to TJ's and waddled our way through the store getting supplies and made our way home, skipping one last errand because my stomach was about to split and I was whining. I unpacked and put away our groceries and flopped onto the bed. As I tried to decide if I wanted to take a nice relaxing shower or never get up again, my cell phone rang. Uh oh...
It was my best friend Shawna and she was hysterical. I could barely understand a word she was saying, but I got enough to know that she was horribly ill, in pain, and was alone with her youngest son. I went through the obligatory questions of what can I bring and realizing my presence was the only thing necessary, rinsed my work stank off and flew over to her apartment.
I found her doubled over and sobbing with pain and frustration. I quickly assessed that this was not a normal range of symptoms and there was nothing I could do for her. We needed pro's. As she was trying to get ready to go, and I was stuffing diapers and toys into a miniature backpack, I heard the barfing. Oh christ. My kryptonite. Now, let me just say, I know I wasn't the sick one here but this is my blog and my story and we should all keep our focus on me. Heh.
I ran into the bathroom (she's going to kill me for this) and found the poor thing heaving red jello into the bathtub. Sorry for the graphics, people, but it's gonna get worse. We got her up and I threw everyone into her car and we took off. Half way to the hospital her son, who was directly behind me, rocket launches something yellow and cheesy practically onto the back of my head. Twice. Now I know I'm doomed. That's it. Point of no return.
The smell hit me and I lurched forward, trying to concentrate on not killing us all in a puke-filled car accident. We made it to the ER and I dropped them off at the doors while I tried to park the car. I was doing that whole self-talk chant. "You won't throw up. You won't throw up. You won't throw up". And I really thought I had it too. But, not so much. I'd only pushed in the emergency brake when it hit me. I flew out of the car and hurled in the parking lot. Twice.
I gathered our two tons of shit together and slunked my way into the ER where we all tried not to blow again. Shawna and I were successful, her son was not. They were both treated for a nasty virus and Shawna had gotten so dehydrated she required 2 bags of IV juice. The doc said we made the right decision to come in because drinking fluids would not have helped, she needed more.
Here's another lesson to listen to your instincts. I took one look at her and new it was bad. Her son's little contribution to the crap was an unpleasant surprise, however, and nearly put me off cheese for the rest of my life. But I am strong and will not give up my dairy delights, although I never, ever want to see a fucking goldfish cracker again. Ever.
But the point was, we could have tried to pour gatorade down her gullet all night and it wouldn't have done a thing, sometimes you need help and it's OK to go get it. I'm a firm believer that ER's should not be used as anyone's doctors office. I have very strong opinions on that and could do an ace rant, but it was late and if not a 911 emergency, definitely a situation where professional intervention was needed. Aren't I smart?
We rolled in at 9:00 and rolled out about 1:30. After getting them re-settled I didn't get home until 2:30 and needed another shower to wash the hospital off of me. Whitey was a doll and gave me extra hugs for not letting anyone puke alone. I was queasy for 24 whole hours too and was worried I'd get whatever crud they had, but so far so good.
I managed to make it for my early riding lesson the next morning where I learned a sick pony, that we thought was going to be OK, had actually taken a turn for the worse and had to be put to sleep. It was heartbreakingly sad. Her empty stall with bouquets of flowers in front. Her uneaten hay on the ground. It was awful. There's nothing you can do in a situation like that so I donated a hefty wad of cash to a memorial tribute being run in a local paper and a plaque to be displayed. Tough for everyone. Even tougher life lesson for the pony's 10 year-old owner.
By the time I got home on Saturday I was physically and mentally done. Whitey totally understood and had no problem with me turning into a slug for the rest of the night. I barely remember being vertical for more than a few minutes. I slept forever. Riddled with bad dreams, but I felt like I caught up as much as possible. A bit of a bummer, but I was needed the night before and there are lots of Saturday nights for fuckery.
Sunday we both woke up before 9, a miracle for me sleeping past 6, and sprang out of bed. Our plan was to go the local county fair that's in San Diego every summer. We got ready, coffeed up and headed over. Where we ran into the 100 thousand other people who had the same idea. Seriously, it was that crowded.
Whitey tried to make me take odds on how quickly I'd freak out at the throngs of buttmunches, but ha ha on you Mr. Funnypants, I did not freak out once. OK, I called that one little girl ugly but we both yelled at the kid in our way and made fun of the overly-loud obnoxious lady with the microphone. Actually, this place was rife with freaks and I'm not talking about the carnies who were surprisingly clean and toothfull.
We had such a great time I'm still smiling and laughing outloud today. We walked until our feet were dead, we ate so much greasy food we could wring oil out of our skin, and we laughed so hard it hurt. We saw just about everything, at least what we wanted to, and were blown away at the photography exhibit. Talk about inspiration. There was picture after picture more amazing than the next. I can't wait to start taking photog classes and really get into it.
To my complete delight, we got to pet a brand-new baby horse and watch it spaz out, testing its long legs and new ability to run and jump. It went off the cute charts and was all I could do not to climb into the ring and squeeze it. We pet a bunch of goats that were actually not very stinky and some were pretty cool, almost dog-like. They'd make good pets if they didn't shit all over your house. One took a nibble on my knuckle but it wasn't as bad as the cow who licked me. Ick. One warning, never go into the chicken house. It smells just like what that kid threw up in the car. Almost ruined me. Bleh.
When we were almost out of steam we headed for the Midway. Unfortunately, in my ripe old of age of 30flingenshmidlysomething, I've lost my ability to be spun upside down in a metal cage hooked together by rubberbands and super glue. Sorry, babe, no crap rides for you. And when I admitted that no past boyfriend had ever won me something at a fair I was met with shock and disbelief and a promise that that would be remedied post-haste.
And it was! My man was a stud and promply won me a big orange Nemo fish. On his first try! And so what if he had to kick that little kid's ass to do it. Suck it Beaver! That fish was mine! Then I threw a bunch of germ-infested ping-pong balls at floating bowls and won myself a Madagascar zebra to scare the cats with. Whitey was not done, however, and threw darts at balloons while I screamed and clapped and the carnie double talked us both into confusion and ended up with a lot of whitey's money. But I walked away with a white tiger and I was happy.
We got home a decent hour, washed off the goats and deep-fried sweat, and cuddled in front of the TV. Whitey was gratefully rewarded for his most excellent boyfriending and I went to sleep with a smile on my sun-burned face. It was a great, great day. And I didn't freak out once!
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