February 15, 2005
My Heart Wasn't Broken, But It Sure Did Burn
It has become obvious to me that, when Husband chose me, 12 years his junior, to be his Trophy Wife, the desperate, child-laden soccer moms who came crawling outta the woodwork when he went back on the market 5 years ago got together and hired a voodoo priestess to curse our Valentine's Days.
Not that I expect more than a card and a kiss on this bogus holiday anyway, but since we've been married...
V-Day 2003, I spent packing my things to move out.
V-Day 2004, we spent under a tentative truce.
V-Day 2005, he drove me to the E.R. at 2:30 a.m.
Yeah, I was so excited that Husband and I weren't fighting this February. I thought we had broken the curse, but there's more than one way to skin a cat, and if there's one thing those voodoo priestesses know, it's animal mutilation.
About 3:00 on Sunday, my stomach started feeling a bit ooky. Not a huge surprise, considering the amount of cookie dough I had just consumed, but cookie dough over-indulgence is nothing new to my system, so I took a couple of Tums, confident that would take care of it.
At 4:00, I tried some Rolaids to tackle my misery. Nada.
At 6:00, we had PJ, R and Egrau over for dinner (J was home sick). But I thought nothing of having pepperoni-sausage 'za, Pepsi and ice cream cake roll because I know my body and knew the heartburn would be gone any minute.
Oh, what a fool I was. By the time we went to bed, I was sure I had stomach cancer and was almost looking forward to languishing away bravely in a first floor bedroom of an old, woodframe house and being deified in death, the fate of all stomach cancer victims as scientifically documented in "Fried Green Tomatoes."
And if it wasn't cancer, well, surely it was something else horrible. Everyone in the world I know has some illness or another. Younger Step Daughter has Kennel Cough. Older Step Daughter has Consumption. R and PJ has just gotten over Synchronized Projectile Vomiting. J was home with Mad Cow Disease. And Husband is still bravely battling Malaria, Ennui and Cervical Cancer.
All these diseases had probably converged in my stomach and mutated into a whole new disease, and I was looking forward to much media coverage and probably a book deal, should I survive.
Went to bed at 10:00 but woke up at 1:00, praying for death. I was like, "Well, it's just hearburn. I can't go to the E.R. for heartburn. They'll laugh and me and send me home!"
But by 2:30, I was like, "Fuck this. I'm in pain. I'm going to the E.R. They've probably been missing Mr. Drillbit anyway."
And my sweet, sweet husband gave me a great V-Day gift. He insisted that his belchy spouse not go to the E.R. alone, even tho' it meant him giving up several hours of sleep. So I'm there checking in, and the nurse is asking all the embarrassing questions.
"Belching?"
"Oh yeah."
"Diarrhea?"
"Nope."
"Last bowel movement?"
"Well, since you asked, I've had three in the past twelve hours, and that's really weird for me."
And the paper-pushing broad checking me in goes, "Oh, that's totally normal for me!"
Oh my God. You know, just because it's a hospital doesn't mean that anything goes as far as personal information is involved. Ugh. And then I did the math and realized that she poops SIX TIMES A DAY! What the hell is she eating?!
Okay, long story short -- which it's totally too late for, but anyway -- my gall bladder is fine, says Mr. Ultrasound, and they gave me some hospital-strength antacid.
Buffy the Nurse was like, "I recommend that you down it like a shot, and then wash it down with some water." And she wasn't kidding. I can only describe it as chalky snot.
So I stayed home yesterday because, seriously, I'll take any excuse, and that's why I wasn't around here. I'm on Pepcid for a couple weeks, but I'm fine. No romantic death or book deal for me.