My life is totally awkward. Not in a good way. Like in a really awkward way. It's a good thing that my only emotional response to awkwardness is laughter, or I would spend a lot of time being upset, shocked, or whatever other emotional responses to awkwardness that exist. I don't even know what they are, that's how consistently I giggle over them. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Anyway...
Last Saturday, my sister and I went to the symphony. One of the greatest things about going to the symphony is that it's an opportunity to wear pretty clothes. You can put on a nicer outfit than just something that's "cute." You get to put on a dress and heels. I usually wear makeup. (Gasp, people. This is shocking & rare.) We were dolled up as usual.
I was sitting calmly in my seat (also quite the feat for me!), when two men filed into the row in front of us. One of the guys looked at my chest (oh, don't even think about noticing a girl's face! Start with her chest!) and then proceeded to bend over, still looking. He was bending over at the waist, looking for an angle to look up my skirt.
Yes, you read that right. He was trying to look up my skirt.
It became especially funny because he kept having to bend farther and farther over because, you see, my skirt was knee-length. He wasn't terribly smart because it took him a while to realize that no amount of bending over was going to give him the right angle to see up my skirt. My skirt was simply too long. He wrinkled his forehead, straightened up, shrugged (never looking at my face, mind you) and proceeded to sit down next to the other guy. Then, imagine my surprise when he began blatantly publicly displaying his romantic affection for the other man. Dude, you were just trying too look up my skirt. Don't try to pretend that this makes it all ok. It's still weird.
But whatever. Pervy dude. I moved on.
After enjoying a couple of hours of Beethoven and Brahms, my sister and I headed back to the parking structure. We were in the throng of well-dressed, symphony-departing, generally middle-aged and downright old crowd, but we ended up waiting at a corner for the "white man of walking" (as I affectionately refer to him) to give us permission to cross the street. As we stood there, the line of cars turning right slowly passed us. A car, one away from the light, suddenly turned on some very loud, very percussion-heavy, melody-lacking music. The driver rolled down his windows. Then he drove past us reeeeeally slowly, while intently staring at us. He was also smiling. He was in an old, but fuzzy-interiored car. He was wearing one of those perky hats, a sweatsuit, and had generously accessorized major bling. And he was black. I don't say that last part to be racist, but it's integral to this guy's image, I think. He nodded at us, winked, and proceeded on his way.
Me and my sister and I looked at each other, mirroring each other's shocked, but highly amused expressions. This is the conversation we had:
me: "We just got checked out by a pimp."
her: "Yeah."
(short pause)
her: "Maybe he wasn't a pimp..."
me: "You know what they say about ducks? Looks like a duck, quacks like a duck...?"
her: "Well, maybe that doesn't apply to pimps."
(You can tell even from this short exchange how nice my sister is about people that are different than her. I'm like Judgey McJudger over here.)
Yes. So that was our Saturday night. It was awkward. The end.
Showing posts with label Story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Story. Show all posts
02 May 2014
02 April 2014
Bridget Problems, North Carolina Edition
(N.B. - I had SO MUCH FUN on this trip. These are just the mandatory mishaps that always happen to me, no matter where I am. But I really had an awesome trip. The people I met (this year and last year) and hung out with were awesome.
I loved every single minute. Minus the choking on the blood part. And
the asthma attack. But people were very kind and considerate during my
mini-disasters. I love these people already.)
Y'all know that I couldn't possibly travel across the country, live on a college campus for four days, and travel back home without some interesting &gross occurrences occurring. And I know that y'all are just dying to hear all about it. So here it goes.
(If you follow me on twitter, you'll have heard about most of these things. I live-tweeted my trip. Here, however, I am not constrained by a 150 character limit. Bahaha.)
Awkward introductions
I arrived at about dinner time on Thursday. I didn't have too much trouble adjusting to the time zone difference because I was pretty wiped out from the trip. Once we got on campus, my brother brought me to his dorm. This was weird. Really weird.
Having attended a college where inter-visitation is strictly prohibited (except in the case of medical emergencies), the whole concept of walking into a guys' dorm was just freaky. I tried to remain inconspicuous, but I started giggling so uncontrollably that I caught the attention of every.single.person. in the hallway.
I was so flustered that when my brother introduced me to one of his residents, I extended my hand and said, "I'm a girl. Nice to meet you."
*facepalm*
Freaking out about stupid stuff
Friday night we went to Walmart. Why? I still don't know. Apparently, it's fun. They do it all the time there. Whatever. When in Rome, right?
So I walked to Walmart. Part of said walk is walking over the freeway on an old set of train tracks.
This turned out to be a bit of a problem for me. 1) I'm scared of fast cars. 2) I'm terrified of heights. Walking on a tall thing above lots and lots of fast cars zooming by was just freaky. Thankfully, I had a brother to whom I could cling. I did a lot of whimpering, nonetheless.
ps - so we walked to Walmart, stood in the liquor aisle for 10 minutes, didn't buy anything, and then walked back. I still don't know why.
Unintended physical consequences
I had encountered some second-hand smoke early on Friday. The stress of the walking over the freeway combined with my already-swollen, blood-blister-coated throat caused me to have a doozy of an asthma attack on Friday night.
I had set out with the intention of finding hot tea and/or booze. I got a walk in the rain and an asthma attack instead.
Klutz attack
When I got back to the apartment where I was staying late Friday night/very early Saturday morning, I was exhausted. The whole wheezy thing + phobia thing doesn't equal a wonderful aid to your energy. I got ready for bed, put my sleeping bag on the couch, and then lay down on top of it. I couldn't bring myself to get back up and get under the sleeping bag.
By a series of pulling and twisting motions, I tried to wiggle myself under it. All I actually managed to do was lift myself up and slide myself off of the couch and on to the floor.
Obsessing over fashion
In my desperate quest for coffee on Saturday morning, I got sopping wet. Pants, hoodie, shirt underneath, etc. I didn't particularly care, but my brother offered to throw my clothes in the dryer and I could wear some of his in the meantime. Pictured below is the outfit he chose for me.
As you can see, it wasn't exactly fashionable. His soccer shorts reached well past my knees, and he gave me one of his dress sweaters. Then he had the audacity to suggest I wear it to lunch. As it was, I had to leave the building, lugging big brown boots on since it was still raining and those were the only shoes I had with me at the moment. It wasn't an attractive look.
Trying to die via normal, every day occurances
So, I mentioned those blood blisters? Those are important here.
Saturday night was the "Black Light Dance." This concept sorta freaked me out in itself. I'm not really a black light dance sort of person. I like my steps. And my propriety. Wiggling is not my thing. In the interest of "expanding my horizons" or "being a good sport," I went in with a tentative, but open mind.
We walked in the doors and you could feel the concussion of the bass in your chest. Like your heart and sternum were smacking into each other. Uncomfortable. But I didn't let it phase me that quickly. I figured if everyone else could handle such concussions, I could, too.
Well, I'm not normal.
After about 10 minutes, I started coughing uncontrollably. Lo and behold, there was blood everywhere. In my mouth, in my throat, in my lungs. Blood everywhere.
After inspecting my throat in a mirror, I discovered that all of those blood blisters that had been lining my esophagus had been systematically popped by the extreme volume of the subwoofer. I was choking on my own blood. Blargh.
Subwoofers are evil.
Weird encounters with nature
It was almost two in the morning. I was walking back from saying goodnight to my brother at his dorm. The apartments where I stayed are on the opposite side of campus, so I had a bit of a walk. I wasn't wearing shoes because it was raining and I needed my shoes to be dry for Mass, which was in nine hours. Since I didn't have any desire to schlep through the mud in my bare feet (not that I don't like mud, but I didn't want to get mud all over the apartment), I stayed on the sidewalk. In the course of this walk, I discovered that there are basically no direct sidewalk paths between one side of campus and the other. They all wind back and forth.
As I made my way across campus in the rather chilly rain, I pulled my hood up. I zoned out a bit, just blindly following the sidewalk (this is, perhaps, why I didn't take a very direct route - I just followed the sidewalk instead of paying terribly close attention), when I suddenly heard a large whooshing noise and felt something heavy land on my head.
I stopped. I was incredibly confused. What was happening here?
Then I felt claw-like things grab my hood and, consequently, a bit of my hair. Whatever it was was getting a good grip.
Then it tried to carry me away. I kid you not. It started pulling on my hood in any upward and backward direction.
It didn't actually get me off the ground because I'm far too heavy for that mysterious animal to carry. It did drag me backwards a bit.
Surprisingly, I didn't scream. Or yell. Or even meep. I felt my face wrinkle in confusion. Internally, I was freaking out, but I guess I was too tired to get that translated to the outside.
After about ten seconds, the mystery animal gave up and left without its snack. I suppose I should be grateful. I'm mostly bemused.
The mandatory HOW...??? moment
I fell in the mud during the early afternoon on Sunday. That story isn't very interesting or original, though. I just slipped and fell. What happened later was pretty interesting, though.
I was waiting outside the basilica for my brother.
It was the magic, golden hour of sunset. My brother was singing for Mass, even though we had already attended Mass in the morning. He was singing a special piece because the choir needed a bass and he is a very bassy bass.
I was perched on the little brick wall that surrounds the front portico of the basilica. I was completely mesmerized by the sunset. And those blossoms. It was so beautiful it hurt.
My arms were hugging my knees to my chest. I was incredibly sleepy. I hadn't slept well the night before and it was so quiet and peaceful sitting there alone.
I put my head down on my knees.
The next thing I remember is lying face down in the pine needles. Some guy, who I didn't know, was standing over me, nudging me with his foot. I looked up at him and he asked, "Did you really just fall off that wall?"
I remember smiling in a rather bemused fashion. "Probably. We haven't met, but that would be a normal thing for me to do."
He gave me a hand up and I found my brother.
"Oh, that was you who fell off the wall? Figures."
Y'all know that I couldn't possibly travel across the country, live on a college campus for four days, and travel back home without some interesting &gross occurrences occurring. And I know that y'all are just dying to hear all about it. So here it goes.
(If you follow me on twitter, you'll have heard about most of these things. I live-tweeted my trip. Here, however, I am not constrained by a 150 character limit. Bahaha.)
Awkward introductions
I arrived at about dinner time on Thursday. I didn't have too much trouble adjusting to the time zone difference because I was pretty wiped out from the trip. Once we got on campus, my brother brought me to his dorm. This was weird. Really weird.
Having attended a college where inter-visitation is strictly prohibited (except in the case of medical emergencies), the whole concept of walking into a guys' dorm was just freaky. I tried to remain inconspicuous, but I started giggling so uncontrollably that I caught the attention of every.single.person. in the hallway.
I was so flustered that when my brother introduced me to one of his residents, I extended my hand and said, "I'm a girl. Nice to meet you."
*facepalm*
Freaking out about stupid stuff
Friday night we went to Walmart. Why? I still don't know. Apparently, it's fun. They do it all the time there. Whatever. When in Rome, right?
So I walked to Walmart. Part of said walk is walking over the freeway on an old set of train tracks.
This turned out to be a bit of a problem for me. 1) I'm scared of fast cars. 2) I'm terrified of heights. Walking on a tall thing above lots and lots of fast cars zooming by was just freaky. Thankfully, I had a brother to whom I could cling. I did a lot of whimpering, nonetheless.
ps - so we walked to Walmart, stood in the liquor aisle for 10 minutes, didn't buy anything, and then walked back. I still don't know why.
Unintended physical consequences
I had encountered some second-hand smoke early on Friday. The stress of the walking over the freeway combined with my already-swollen, blood-blister-coated throat caused me to have a doozy of an asthma attack on Friday night.
I had set out with the intention of finding hot tea and/or booze. I got a walk in the rain and an asthma attack instead.
Klutz attack
When I got back to the apartment where I was staying late Friday night/very early Saturday morning, I was exhausted. The whole wheezy thing + phobia thing doesn't equal a wonderful aid to your energy. I got ready for bed, put my sleeping bag on the couch, and then lay down on top of it. I couldn't bring myself to get back up and get under the sleeping bag.
By a series of pulling and twisting motions, I tried to wiggle myself under it. All I actually managed to do was lift myself up and slide myself off of the couch and on to the floor.
Obsessing over fashion
In my desperate quest for coffee on Saturday morning, I got sopping wet. Pants, hoodie, shirt underneath, etc. I didn't particularly care, but my brother offered to throw my clothes in the dryer and I could wear some of his in the meantime. Pictured below is the outfit he chose for me.
As you can see, it wasn't exactly fashionable. His soccer shorts reached well past my knees, and he gave me one of his dress sweaters. Then he had the audacity to suggest I wear it to lunch. As it was, I had to leave the building, lugging big brown boots on since it was still raining and those were the only shoes I had with me at the moment. It wasn't an attractive look.
Trying to die via normal, every day occurances
So, I mentioned those blood blisters? Those are important here.
Saturday night was the "Black Light Dance." This concept sorta freaked me out in itself. I'm not really a black light dance sort of person. I like my steps. And my propriety. Wiggling is not my thing. In the interest of "expanding my horizons" or "being a good sport," I went in with a tentative, but open mind.
We walked in the doors and you could feel the concussion of the bass in your chest. Like your heart and sternum were smacking into each other. Uncomfortable. But I didn't let it phase me that quickly. I figured if everyone else could handle such concussions, I could, too.
Well, I'm not normal.
After about 10 minutes, I started coughing uncontrollably. Lo and behold, there was blood everywhere. In my mouth, in my throat, in my lungs. Blood everywhere.
After inspecting my throat in a mirror, I discovered that all of those blood blisters that had been lining my esophagus had been systematically popped by the extreme volume of the subwoofer. I was choking on my own blood. Blargh.
Subwoofers are evil.
Weird encounters with nature
It was almost two in the morning. I was walking back from saying goodnight to my brother at his dorm. The apartments where I stayed are on the opposite side of campus, so I had a bit of a walk. I wasn't wearing shoes because it was raining and I needed my shoes to be dry for Mass, which was in nine hours. Since I didn't have any desire to schlep through the mud in my bare feet (not that I don't like mud, but I didn't want to get mud all over the apartment), I stayed on the sidewalk. In the course of this walk, I discovered that there are basically no direct sidewalk paths between one side of campus and the other. They all wind back and forth.
As I made my way across campus in the rather chilly rain, I pulled my hood up. I zoned out a bit, just blindly following the sidewalk (this is, perhaps, why I didn't take a very direct route - I just followed the sidewalk instead of paying terribly close attention), when I suddenly heard a large whooshing noise and felt something heavy land on my head.
I stopped. I was incredibly confused. What was happening here?
Then I felt claw-like things grab my hood and, consequently, a bit of my hair. Whatever it was was getting a good grip.
Then it tried to carry me away. I kid you not. It started pulling on my hood in any upward and backward direction.
It didn't actually get me off the ground because I'm far too heavy for that mysterious animal to carry. It did drag me backwards a bit.
Surprisingly, I didn't scream. Or yell. Or even meep. I felt my face wrinkle in confusion. Internally, I was freaking out, but I guess I was too tired to get that translated to the outside.
After about ten seconds, the mystery animal gave up and left without its snack. I suppose I should be grateful. I'm mostly bemused.
The mandatory HOW...??? moment
I fell in the mud during the early afternoon on Sunday. That story isn't very interesting or original, though. I just slipped and fell. What happened later was pretty interesting, though.
I was waiting outside the basilica for my brother.
It was the magic, golden hour of sunset. My brother was singing for Mass, even though we had already attended Mass in the morning. He was singing a special piece because the choir needed a bass and he is a very bassy bass.
I was perched on the little brick wall that surrounds the front portico of the basilica. I was completely mesmerized by the sunset. And those blossoms. It was so beautiful it hurt.
My arms were hugging my knees to my chest. I was incredibly sleepy. I hadn't slept well the night before and it was so quiet and peaceful sitting there alone.
I put my head down on my knees.
The next thing I remember is lying face down in the pine needles. Some guy, who I didn't know, was standing over me, nudging me with his foot. I looked up at him and he asked, "Did you really just fall off that wall?"
I remember smiling in a rather bemused fashion. "Probably. We haven't met, but that would be a normal thing for me to do."
He gave me a hand up and I found my brother.
"Oh, that was you who fell off the wall? Figures."
23 August 2013
Funniest Customer Service Experience To Date
The title? I know, I know. A big build up. But this is seriously the funniest thing that has happened to me in my corporate America experience. It didn't involve any errors on my part, which may be part of why I enjoyed this so. much. Ok, ok, I'll stop. I'll tell you the story now.
I answered the phone.
me: Hello, Doctor -------------------- office, this is Bridget, how may I help you?
her: Hi. I need to make an appointment for my father. He called me and left a message that he needs to see an eye doctor as soon as possible, so I want to make an appointment for him.
me: Ok. Have we seen your father before?
her: Yes.... I think it was last year.
me: Can I get his name?
*She gives me his name.*
me: ok, please hold while I pull his chart.
*puts phone on hold. looks for five minutes, but can't find it*
me: Thank you for holding. Can you spell his name for me? I can't seem to find his chart.
*She patiently spells his name. I put her back on hold. I find chart buried in our vault of patients we haven't seen for five years. So much for the one year theory.*
me: Alright, I found it. Do you want the soonest possible appointment?
her: "Yes, please."
*we spend five minutes negotiating a time that works for her*
me: Ok, well, we'll see you then!
her: Oh, well, here's the thing. He doesn't know I'm making this appointment. And he can't find out that I did.
me: *stunned silence*
her: Hello?
me: Yes, sorry, still here. You said he can't know you made him the appointment?
her: Yes, that's IMPERATIVE. He'll be really, really mad if he finds out I made an appointment without asking his permission.
*I check the chart. He's 93 years old. Not a lot of killing power, but I suppose his daughter knows best.*
me: Ok. How shall we get him here, then?
her: Oh, I'll call him back and tell him to call you. Just lead him to believe that he was the first one that called and tell him that the soonest appointment you have is the one that we just made for him. He'll take it.
me, in my head: Yeah, because that's a fool-proof plan.
me, out loud: That sounds great. I'll wait for his call and take care of it.
her: Thanks!
I got off the phone, briefed my coworkers on the situation, stifling tears of laughter. Don't get me wrong, I was laughing. Just trying not to laugh so hard that I started crying. I was doing an ugly snort laugh, though. Not my proudest moment. Hey, it was Friday afternoon. Ten minutes later, the phone rang.
me: (see above phone greeting)
him, shouting: I CAN'T HEAR YOU. TALK LOUDER, HONEYBUNS.
me: Sorry, sir. Can I help you?
him: WHAT?
me: *sigh* CAN I HELP YOU?
him: YES. I WANT TO MAKE AN APPOINTMENT.
me: HAVE WE SEEN YOU BEFORE?
him: NO, I DON'T NEED YOU TO CLEAN MY FLOOR.
me, figuring out this was the 93 year old man, left that question alone. I told him that I needed to go get his chart. Of course, this was a complete lie. Well, I had to go get it, but by "go get it," I mean I had to reach across my desk to where I had put his chart earlier. I put him on hold and counted off 30 seconds.
me: OK, WHEN DO YOU WANT TO COME IN? THE FIRST AVAILABLE APPOINTMENT IS AT ----------- on ------------.
him: WHEN?
me: repeated time and date.
him: WHEN???
me: repeated time and date.
him: OH! I'LL BE THERE, SWEET CHEEKS. DON'T YOU WORRY. YOU'RE JUST THE DARN CUTEST THING EVER. I LOVE THE WAY YOU OFFERED TO CLEAN MY FLOOR.
me: YOU'RE WELCOME, SIR.
Yes, working with patients can stink to high heaven. But days like today, it takes off years with laughter.
I answered the phone.
me: Hello, Doctor -------------------- office, this is Bridget, how may I help you?
her: Hi. I need to make an appointment for my father. He called me and left a message that he needs to see an eye doctor as soon as possible, so I want to make an appointment for him.
me: Ok. Have we seen your father before?
her: Yes.... I think it was last year.
me: Can I get his name?
*She gives me his name.*
me: ok, please hold while I pull his chart.
*puts phone on hold. looks for five minutes, but can't find it*
me: Thank you for holding. Can you spell his name for me? I can't seem to find his chart.
*She patiently spells his name. I put her back on hold. I find chart buried in our vault of patients we haven't seen for five years. So much for the one year theory.*
me: Alright, I found it. Do you want the soonest possible appointment?
her: "Yes, please."
*we spend five minutes negotiating a time that works for her*
me: Ok, well, we'll see you then!
her: Oh, well, here's the thing. He doesn't know I'm making this appointment. And he can't find out that I did.
me: *stunned silence*
her: Hello?
me: Yes, sorry, still here. You said he can't know you made him the appointment?
her: Yes, that's IMPERATIVE. He'll be really, really mad if he finds out I made an appointment without asking his permission.
*I check the chart. He's 93 years old. Not a lot of killing power, but I suppose his daughter knows best.*
me: Ok. How shall we get him here, then?
her: Oh, I'll call him back and tell him to call you. Just lead him to believe that he was the first one that called and tell him that the soonest appointment you have is the one that we just made for him. He'll take it.
me, in my head: Yeah, because that's a fool-proof plan.
me, out loud: That sounds great. I'll wait for his call and take care of it.
her: Thanks!
I got off the phone, briefed my coworkers on the situation, stifling tears of laughter. Don't get me wrong, I was laughing. Just trying not to laugh so hard that I started crying. I was doing an ugly snort laugh, though. Not my proudest moment. Hey, it was Friday afternoon. Ten minutes later, the phone rang.
me: (see above phone greeting)
him, shouting: I CAN'T HEAR YOU. TALK LOUDER, HONEYBUNS.
me: Sorry, sir. Can I help you?
him: WHAT?
me: *sigh* CAN I HELP YOU?
him: YES. I WANT TO MAKE AN APPOINTMENT.
me: HAVE WE SEEN YOU BEFORE?
him: NO, I DON'T NEED YOU TO CLEAN MY FLOOR.
me, figuring out this was the 93 year old man, left that question alone. I told him that I needed to go get his chart. Of course, this was a complete lie. Well, I had to go get it, but by "go get it," I mean I had to reach across my desk to where I had put his chart earlier. I put him on hold and counted off 30 seconds.
me: OK, WHEN DO YOU WANT TO COME IN? THE FIRST AVAILABLE APPOINTMENT IS AT ----------- on ------------.
him: WHEN?
me: repeated time and date.
him: WHEN???
me: repeated time and date.
him: OH! I'LL BE THERE, SWEET CHEEKS. DON'T YOU WORRY. YOU'RE JUST THE DARN CUTEST THING EVER. I LOVE THE WAY YOU OFFERED TO CLEAN MY FLOOR.
me: YOU'RE WELCOME, SIR.
Yes, working with patients can stink to high heaven. But days like today, it takes off years with laughter.
07 June 2013
Too Weird to Make Up
You know that sometimes you have those experiences that are just too strange to make them up? Still, you resist telling people about them because you think "Oh, they might think I made this up and judge me for it!" so you keep your mouth shut.
Well, my life is full of those moments. I had one yesterday. And I am braving your judgmental judgyness and telling you.
I was zipping my shorts up (and don't pretend to be weirded out by this, people. Zipping pants up isn't even remotely exciting. We all do it. Unless we're really old or super young, in which case we are blessed with elastic waistbands, our denim shorts all zip up. And we all occasionally have to zip and unzip them. So deal with it.) when something strange happened.
I gave myself a papercut on the zipper.
Ok, technically it's a metal cut... or a zipper cut... but it's one of those little sliver cuts that bleeds a little and then really hurts for days and threatens to get infected. Seriously, the whole top of my thumb is pink and kinda swollen. And it HURTS.
Yes, so that is the weird thing that happened to me yesterday. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. I mean, really... who gets a paper-metal-zipper-cut? It's beyond my wildest imaginings.
Well, my life is full of those moments. I had one yesterday. And I am braving your judgmental judgyness and telling you.
I was zipping my shorts up (and don't pretend to be weirded out by this, people. Zipping pants up isn't even remotely exciting. We all do it. Unless we're really old or super young, in which case we are blessed with elastic waistbands, our denim shorts all zip up. And we all occasionally have to zip and unzip them. So deal with it.) when something strange happened.
I gave myself a papercut on the zipper.
Ok, technically it's a metal cut... or a zipper cut... but it's one of those little sliver cuts that bleeds a little and then really hurts for days and threatens to get infected. Seriously, the whole top of my thumb is pink and kinda swollen. And it HURTS.
Yes, so that is the weird thing that happened to me yesterday. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. I mean, really... who gets a paper-metal-zipper-cut? It's beyond my wildest imaginings.
25 May 2013
The Path of Frugality Leads to an Ambulance
This story takes place in 2005. It was adventure of a lifetime. Also super embarrassing, pretty gross, and way too much information to be sharing with you guys. But that hasn't ever stopped me before. Ha! :)
I had spent eight days in Ireland with friends, having the time of my life. We saw as much as was humanly possible in eight days. This involved not really ever getting out of the car, except for short stints through a town to pick up more nutella. It was an incredibly cheap trip - my part, including airfare, was about $500.
When I got home, I was incredibly sleep deprived and jet lagged, but nothing else seemed wrong with me. That turned out to be very not true.
About two weeks after being stateside, I noticed a strange tingling in my feet. It was like they were constantly "waking up." You know the feeling... numb and tingly and remarkably painful. You also know me (to varying degrees), so you know that I wasn't terribly worried about this development. Stranger things are always happening to me. I just carried on with my pseudo-normal life.
Later that week, it was getting harder to ignore. All of the muscles in both of my legs were completely contracted. Yes, this seems impossible since they go in different directions, but that's what happened. Every muscle was tensed, which put all sorts of strange strain on my joints, tendons, ligaments, and patience. I couldn't walk normally. I did the toddler walk: all joints locked, just swinging the whole of my leg in a weird semi-arc.
This was incredibly unusual, even for me. To the doctor we went. Since I had recently been out of the country, the first assumption was that I had acquired some sort of water-borne parasite. I was sampled from many, uh, angles, but nothing showed. "Everything looks fine," they said. Obviously things weren't fine because a fourteen year old couldn't walk, but whatever.
I related this tale to my physical therapist during one of my routine appointments and she... freaked out. Ok, KC was prone to panicking when it came to me, but this merited a bit of panic. Especially after she ran some neurological-muscular system tests. And I failed. All of them. Spectacularly.
She ran to the nearest phone and called her friend, the head neurologist at Children's Hospital and asked him to come back to the hospital. He had just gotten home after a 24 hour shift, but she insisted that he come back just for me. Then she trundled me across the street to the hospital. I was x-rayed, catheterized, rectal examined, and prodded til I cried. The neurologist took my frighteningly bad test results and told me either I had this thing were the end of your spinal chord starts fraying like a horse's tail, which basically meant I would die OR he had no idea what was wrong with me so I would probably die before they knew how to fix me. GREAT. Just what I wanted to hear.
He ordered a STAT MRI, which ended up being at like midnight or 2 in the morning or something crazy like that. He told us he'd call with the results as soon as he could get them. I went home, limping and crying pathetically, to await the news.
When I woke up the next morning, the rigid muscle thing had spread up to my stomach and back. Breathing required Herculean effort. I was lying on the floor, gasping for air, and Mum called the hospital. The order to ship me to the hospital was given and we packed me into the car. It was raining, the freeway was backed up and Mum decided that this was just a stupid way to take someone in respiratory distress to the hospital. She pulled off at the fire station and requested help. The station's own paramedics were out on a call, so they called the neighboring station to come get me. As eight incredibly good looking young men got out of their red vehicles, they were all laughing to themselves about how they had never rescued someone at someone else's station before. They found it super amusing.
I was not terribly amused. I was not terribly thrilled, either. I had always thought that it would be fun to ride in an ambulance. Lemme tell you, though: it's not. Especially when you're strapped to a backboard and poked full of IVs and attached to a 18 lead EKG. It's just bumpy, uncomfortable, and you repeatedly slide nearly off of the gurney. Not fun. At least until they pump you full of morphine. Then it's fun. I don't remember much of it. I just remember being incredibly pleased with life.
Once in the emergency room, the doctor ordered more x-rays. I protested, insisting that I had already had x-rays and that I was tired of them. She didn't heed my protestations, but wheeled me off to the x-ray tech. The doctor came in with my x-rays, put them on the board, turned to me and said, "You're full of it."
Uh, what?
I stared at her, still very drugged, but awake enough to realize that I should be incredulous. "Full of it," she repeated. "Full of poop." She pointed to the abdominal x-rays and explained the significance of the big grey blob. "See this?" she said. "This shouldn't all be there. There's so much stuff in there that it's pressing on your spinal chord. That's why you're having neurological symptoms. We'll just give you an enema and you should feel pretty normal in a few days. It will only take about a year to be absolutely fine."
"Buuuuut...." I couldn't really formulate a more cohesive thought than that. I was incredibly embarrassed. Specialists, MRIs, culture analysis, an ambulance ride, etc... all because I was constipated?
"Don't worry, honey. I know this is embarrassing. But really, it's actually completely appropriate that you were rushed here in an ambulance. A few more hours, you would have gone septic and would have been in the hospital for months. You really could have died."
Oh. Death by constipation. That was a novel concept.
And so, the moral of the story is: don't travel too cheaply. If you don't eat right and don't ever get out of a car, you will throw off your internal equilibrium and end up in the hospital. And hospital bills are much larger than food bills.
I had spent eight days in Ireland with friends, having the time of my life. We saw as much as was humanly possible in eight days. This involved not really ever getting out of the car, except for short stints through a town to pick up more nutella. It was an incredibly cheap trip - my part, including airfare, was about $500.
When I got home, I was incredibly sleep deprived and jet lagged, but nothing else seemed wrong with me. That turned out to be very not true.
About two weeks after being stateside, I noticed a strange tingling in my feet. It was like they were constantly "waking up." You know the feeling... numb and tingly and remarkably painful. You also know me (to varying degrees), so you know that I wasn't terribly worried about this development. Stranger things are always happening to me. I just carried on with my pseudo-normal life.
Later that week, it was getting harder to ignore. All of the muscles in both of my legs were completely contracted. Yes, this seems impossible since they go in different directions, but that's what happened. Every muscle was tensed, which put all sorts of strange strain on my joints, tendons, ligaments, and patience. I couldn't walk normally. I did the toddler walk: all joints locked, just swinging the whole of my leg in a weird semi-arc.
This was incredibly unusual, even for me. To the doctor we went. Since I had recently been out of the country, the first assumption was that I had acquired some sort of water-borne parasite. I was sampled from many, uh, angles, but nothing showed. "Everything looks fine," they said. Obviously things weren't fine because a fourteen year old couldn't walk, but whatever.
I related this tale to my physical therapist during one of my routine appointments and she... freaked out. Ok, KC was prone to panicking when it came to me, but this merited a bit of panic. Especially after she ran some neurological-muscular system tests. And I failed. All of them. Spectacularly.
She ran to the nearest phone and called her friend, the head neurologist at Children's Hospital and asked him to come back to the hospital. He had just gotten home after a 24 hour shift, but she insisted that he come back just for me. Then she trundled me across the street to the hospital. I was x-rayed, catheterized, rectal examined, and prodded til I cried. The neurologist took my frighteningly bad test results and told me either I had this thing were the end of your spinal chord starts fraying like a horse's tail, which basically meant I would die OR he had no idea what was wrong with me so I would probably die before they knew how to fix me. GREAT. Just what I wanted to hear.
He ordered a STAT MRI, which ended up being at like midnight or 2 in the morning or something crazy like that. He told us he'd call with the results as soon as he could get them. I went home, limping and crying pathetically, to await the news.
When I woke up the next morning, the rigid muscle thing had spread up to my stomach and back. Breathing required Herculean effort. I was lying on the floor, gasping for air, and Mum called the hospital. The order to ship me to the hospital was given and we packed me into the car. It was raining, the freeway was backed up and Mum decided that this was just a stupid way to take someone in respiratory distress to the hospital. She pulled off at the fire station and requested help. The station's own paramedics were out on a call, so they called the neighboring station to come get me. As eight incredibly good looking young men got out of their red vehicles, they were all laughing to themselves about how they had never rescued someone at someone else's station before. They found it super amusing.
I was not terribly amused. I was not terribly thrilled, either. I had always thought that it would be fun to ride in an ambulance. Lemme tell you, though: it's not. Especially when you're strapped to a backboard and poked full of IVs and attached to a 18 lead EKG. It's just bumpy, uncomfortable, and you repeatedly slide nearly off of the gurney. Not fun. At least until they pump you full of morphine. Then it's fun. I don't remember much of it. I just remember being incredibly pleased with life.
Once in the emergency room, the doctor ordered more x-rays. I protested, insisting that I had already had x-rays and that I was tired of them. She didn't heed my protestations, but wheeled me off to the x-ray tech. The doctor came in with my x-rays, put them on the board, turned to me and said, "You're full of it."
Uh, what?
I stared at her, still very drugged, but awake enough to realize that I should be incredulous. "Full of it," she repeated. "Full of poop." She pointed to the abdominal x-rays and explained the significance of the big grey blob. "See this?" she said. "This shouldn't all be there. There's so much stuff in there that it's pressing on your spinal chord. That's why you're having neurological symptoms. We'll just give you an enema and you should feel pretty normal in a few days. It will only take about a year to be absolutely fine."
"Buuuuut...." I couldn't really formulate a more cohesive thought than that. I was incredibly embarrassed. Specialists, MRIs, culture analysis, an ambulance ride, etc... all because I was constipated?
"Don't worry, honey. I know this is embarrassing. But really, it's actually completely appropriate that you were rushed here in an ambulance. A few more hours, you would have gone septic and would have been in the hospital for months. You really could have died."
Oh. Death by constipation. That was a novel concept.
And so, the moral of the story is: don't travel too cheaply. If you don't eat right and don't ever get out of a car, you will throw off your internal equilibrium and end up in the hospital. And hospital bills are much larger than food bills.
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