Let's Never Do This Again, Shall We?

Okay, I'm back. And I am expected to survive, and I've still got the interview sometime within the next couple of weeks. Right now I'm at Mom's, where I am being taken care of with scary nursing precision, and by tomorrow at this time I fully expect to be insane from so much fussing-over. But just at the moment it's kinda nice to have my Mommy bringing me milkshakes.

This will be a long story to tell, so I can't imagine finishing it all tonight; there is so much fertile snarking material in the health system that I may NEVER finish this post. But my summary--my main idea, for those of you who remember third-grade comprehension classes:

Don't get gallstones. They suck.

Or, stated otherwise:

Holy shit, that hurt.

So I wrote my post the other night about the omens, and I decided the shower would better wait for morning and I'd just deal with what I could and not worry about the rest of the interview stuff. It would work or it wouldn't, and I'd live either way. And I went to bed.

Around 1 AM LJ came home and we started talking. Or rather, he started talking and I started noticing a distinct pain in my belly and an overwhelming desire to puke again. (This had nothing to do with LJ.) So I ran back and forth between the bed and the Ghetto Turkish Bath, barfing and hurting and barfing and hurting and finally realizing that maybe I just needed a little something on my stomach--a peanut-butter sandwich, maybe. So I go downstairs, realize we're out of bread, smear some peanut butter on a rice cake, take two bites, and....yeeeeeccccccchhhhh. Not happening. Everything that goes in is coming out, at escape velocity.

But I AM, goddammit, going to this interview. I will FORCE this stomachache to go away. I will not be cowed--I am Gladys Cortez, Slayer of Pain!!!

Yeah right. At about 5 AM, after a couple of remarks from LJ to the effect of "Man, I've seen you bad, but I ain't NEVER seen you THIS sick," I said "Give me the keys--I'm going to the Emergency Room." (Firefly and I have had a running debate ever since over whether or not he should have driven me. I still say no, largely because I had no idea which hospital I wanted to go to and wasn't in the mood to communicate, on this point or any other. I don't mean "argue"--I mean "speak".)

So I point the 'ho at the nearest hospital of which I am aware, which will be referred to as Our Lady of Holy Christ, What Were You Thinking??? I mean, this hospital? Is HOOD. Even people from the hood think this hospital is hood. So--bad choice. But remember: I am GLADYS, Slayer of Pain, and there's nothing wrong with me that some industrial-strength Maalox won't fix. Hood hospitals do not deter me--they can dispense meds, right? Because meds are all I need, because there's Nothing Wrong.

I park in the Emergency lot and totter into the ER. I am the only person in the ER. But it's 5 AM and that doesn't seem too shocking. I flop into the chair by the window, blather out my name, and shove my insurance card at them. "What's the problem?"

"Abdominal pain and vomiting." I am doubled over, sweating profusely, and gasping for air. I pause the discussion to fling myself into the nearby bathroom and puke a few times.

"Take a seat." There are two people behind the window and neither of them seems terribly excited to be helping me. Nor do they seem moved, several minutes later, when I flop back into the chair and straight-out BEG them to help me.

(Thing about me: I'll barf, yeah. I'll sweat and double over. I may even whimper. But if you get me straight-up begging??? Know these two things for certain: First, I am in extremis. Second: Oh, you'll get yours, buddy. Maybe not right away, and maybe not even so you'll remember it's me--but I WILL get my revenge. Except under specially-mandated and consensual conditions, Gladys Cortez does NOT beg.)

They take me back to triage after maybe half an hour. Then the Piss Fascist starts in with the specimen jar. I have sweated, retched, and heaved out every single last iota of liquid in my body by this point, but this bitch wants to start coming after me with threats of a Foley catheter?? Um, no. You will get your piss jar when I am capable of forming the full and coherent thought required to complete a piss, uninterrupted by the need to spew. How bout THAT, Pee Mussolini?

Yeah, she got her pee jar. But it was begrudging.

So I'm in triage, in one of the little curtain cubes, sitting on a table cuz I can't lay down, with a big pink emesis basin at my feet. (Emesis basin=barf bin.) And I am using it for the purposes for which God created such a thing. There's literally NOTHING left in my insides right now. I am a dry well. But my insides are still commanding "Retch! Retch!"

And here's where Gladys, Pain-Slayer, gives up and admits that yes, we're totally in the shit. All the signs say "no cell phones", but I have at least two calls to make. I call the recruiter and leave him a message, finally admitting defeat: I won't be making that flight, I tell him. I'm in the Emergency Room. And I call Mom, telling her where I am. She says she'll be right over.

Next: Maalox and Lidocaine: Paris Hilton's Trendy New SoHo Club Drink!!!