After spending a night in the hospital last week (more on that in a minute), I decided I needed to take a little blog break. I’d been enjoying it…or so I thought. This morning, however, I woke up and reflected upon my dream. In it, Emily and I were on a quest to find a face cream that Holly had told us to buy at some party we were all attending. It was in Canada for some reason, and so we naturally ran into Amanda at the face cream store. We knew she was there before we even saw her because we recognized her van out front.
Now, I’ve never before had a “blogger” dream. Clearly, I was in some sort of withdrawal, and this was my sign that it was time to get back in the game. Thank you, weird dream.
Anyway, I’m back. I spent last Monday night in the hospital due to an irregular heartbeat. I’m fine now, but you know what’s not at all fun? Waking up out of a peaceful sleep to find that your heart is alternating between normal beats, and what you suspect the heartbeat of [insert famed movie cokehead of your choice here. I’m going with Scarface.] might sound like. Needless to say, it freaked me out.
It was nearing , but I called my doctor anyway, who informed me that I should get to the ER immediately. We called my mom to come over and keep an eye on Toopweets while we were gone. I must say, I’d never been more thankful that my parents live 20 minutes away than I was that night. I mean, it was nearly . Who would we have left him with? And before you say our neighbors, you must remember that we live in an apartment building, and one inhabited by some deeply crazy people at that. Why, on our floor alone, we have:
-- Cranky Old Biddy Who Never Holds The Elevator Door Open For Anyone;
-- Potential Lady Of The Night (I’m still trying to figure her out.)
-- Chain Smoking Old Guy And His partner, Equally Heavily Smoking Closeted Gay Construction Worker Who Keeps Trying To Convince Us That He’s Just Visiting Chain Smoking Old Guy, Even Though They CLEARLY LIVE TOGETHER. (Hey, EHSCGCWWKTTCUTHJVCSOG! We don’t care! Not even a little bit! Stop over-enthusiastically telling us you’re “just stopping by” Chain Smoking Old Guy’s place for a visit every time we ride the elevator together! You have your own key, for crissakes; accept who you are!);
-- The Worst Neighbors Ever (They fight loudly, have raucous sex equally loudly, hammer random things on our shared wall at all hours of the night, and PLAY ELECTRIC GUITAR AT MIDNIGHT.);
Oh, and lest we forget…
-- Teenage Girl Hooligans. I think I've mentioned it before, but I am so scared of teenagers.
(Hmmm. Rereading this, I feel the need to point out that there are a few nice couples on the floor, and we do not actually live in a crackhouse, despite all appearances from the above paragraph.)
In any event, while we waited for my mom to come over, and I came up with a brilliant plan: Despite being clearly told by a qualified physician to, you know, go to the hospital, I decided to Google search my symptoms while we waited.
I can’t adequately express the stupidity of my actions.
I mean, there was something wonky going on with MY HEART. What did I think I was going to find? Websites saying “Freaky, sudden irregular heartbeats are just nature’s way of telling you that you’re going to win the lottery; go back to bed and dream of castles and private islands?” What I found was more along of the lines of “Your symptoms could be nothing, but you might also be dying. Like, right now. We’re not saying you will for sure, but…draw up a will, if you haven't already. And fast.”
Clearly, this did nothing to allay my heart palpitations. Dear Everyone in the World: Never look up any medical conditions via Google, ever. NEW RULE.
My mom arrived, and J and I made it to the hospital. Miracles of miracles, there was only one other person in the ER, so I was taken in pretty quickly.
Whereupon the fun began.
I was seen by a triage nurse who introduced herself as “Diva.” Before I could process the total awesomeness of her name, the smarmiest doctor in the universe walked in to check me out. His hair…oh my God, HIS HAIR. It was like Crispin Glover’s hair, if that makes any sense at all to anyone but me. Crispin Doctor started talking to me in this weird, intimate voice, asking me if I knew my normal heart rate. WTF? WHY WOULD ANYONE KNOW THAT? WHY??
Crispin Doctor ordered an EKG. Then more tests were run. It was determined that I was severely dehydrated, which was causing my heart to act crazy. Obviously, it was a huge relief, and they decided to rehydrate me there with an IV. I was placed on a saline drip, which, due to its drippy nature….can take a while. J and I had nothing but time, and we sat there in my little room, waiting for the IV bag to empty. As I had needles in my arms, I couldn't really do anything but lie there. After learning the signs of a chemical attack from a helpful but horrifying poster on the wall, boredom soon set in. SERIOUS boredom, by which I mean, I attempted to find songs to sing along to the rhythm of my loudly beeping heart monitor. It took a while, but “Shout” was a huge success:
You know you make me wanna BEEEEP!!!!
Kick my heels up and BEEEEP!!!!
Throw my hands up and BEEEEP!!!!
Throw my hands back and BEEEEP!!!
…and so forth. Just when (I imagine) J was contemplating hurling himself out the window to escape my musical stylings, we heard IT: The world’s best doctor/patient conversation ever, taking place directly outside my room:
Patient: [muffled]…so I still don’t feel good. My feet are still itching.
Doctor: You have to finish the cycle of medication. Then see how you feel.
P: I know. Really though...I think I might die.
D: So? I will die. You will die. Everyone will die one day.
D: You need to find someone to listen to you so you’re not so tense. You need to get out. Go to parties. Fix your hair!
P: My hair?
D: YES. Also, dress better.
I know I should find this sad, and be offended by the breach of ethics that I even HEARD this conversation, but really. It was like America’s Next Top ER: “You have to work that tube of antifungal cream for the full seven day-cycle, but without losing your neck in the PHOto. Because I don’t see a MODel standing before me. You’re dressing like you don’t even WANT TO BE HERE. Don’t make me yell at you like I yelled at Tiffany that time.” The humor inherent in a medical professional telling a patient to dress better and fix his hair is too much for me.
In any event, I was released shortly thereafter, and have been doing my best to remember to drink enough water. I'd like to avoid a repeat stint in what is apparently Tyra’s ER.