I woke up Thursday morning feeling like someone had kicked in my ribcage. Since Pookie has promised to stop assaulting me in my sleep, I assumed that I had simply slept too long in one position and was just stiff. Yes, I have reached the age where a simple good night’s sleep will render me stiff and sore and kinda bitchy.
However, as the day wore on (and on and on), the soreness didn’t go away. In fact, it got progressively worse. By the end of the day, it was difficult to breathe deeply, move freely, or sneeze without screaming ‘fuck’ right afterwards.
I got up the next morning, got dressed (fuck you socks, you sadistic bastards**) and went to work. Where I was promptly told to go home. As an aside, they could have fired me on the spot and I would have only felt relief that I could go home. That’s how much I hurt.
So I came home, hopped in the shower ( Ha. ‘Hopped’. Good one), and then woke Pookie and asked him to take me to the doctor. ( I told him the hilarious, yet fraught with peril story of me shaving my legs in the shower. He expressed disbelief that I was able to. I told him that only complete unconsciousness would justify taking hairy legs to the doctor, even if there’s no chance the Doc will see your legs. Back me up on this, fellow girl type people!)
The waiting room at the local ER was a funfest. I think the lady who kept telling her little girl that the policeman (actually a security guard) was going to spank her if she didn’t act right was my favorite. The young couple who were playfully wrestling and threatening to whip each other’s ass while jarring my chair ran a close second.
After a miserable 45 minutes of waiting to be triaged (so that I could tell SOMEONE that I was dying and to please make it stop now), Pookie went and got a pop from the machine. I took the smallest sip that has ever been taken of a beverage since the beginning of time and a nurse (?) popped up at my elbow to tell me to please not eat or drink anything in case my distress stemmed from my tummy.
Which made me cry. Apparently, I can take most anything, but if you tell me that I can’t have a sip of Diet Dr. Pepper while I am dying, I get a little upset about it.
I was called to triage not 2 minutes later, where another nurse apologized to me and explained that she had noticed my physical distress and without knowing what was wrong with me, wanted to make sure that I could be assessed and treated as quickly as possible, so she had sent the other nurse out to talk to me.
I then felt compelled to explain (in a very sexy ‘lungs can’t expand without killing me’ kind of way) that it wasn’t really being told not to have a drink that made me cry. She said, ‘I know. Broken camel. It’s ok.’. Which was exactly right and why I now love her.
Anyway, I had many x-rays, during which I was repeatedly asked to take a deep breath and hold it, which would have made me laugh if I wasn’t too busy DYING.
Turns out that Pookie did not, in fact, give me a good elbow shot to the ribs while I was sleeping.
I have Pleurisy. Which sounds like that nastiest little old disease in the world, but it’s actually pretty benign, unless, you know, it turns into pneumonia.
So I got a big shot of something very thick and painful in my hip (read: ass) and a prescription for some Naproxen.
I’m doing much better now (as evidenced by the fact that I’m on the computer. When your lungs are caved in there is simply no comfortable way to sit up straight and type.) and I go back to work tomorrow. Where I will be essentially useless since bending over still makes me see stars and prolonged time on my feet makes me really breathless and kind of faint. But I will Be There, by God. Unless they send me home again.
** At least the socks and panties only kicked my ass long enough for me to get them on. The bra kidnapped me, transported me across state lines, ravaged me and then left me at a rest stop after telling me it knew where I lived and would burn my house down if I didn’t keep my piehole shut.