Don’t worry, I get it.
While my deep and thoughtful prose is great, while my ditties are perfectly whimsical, while my abstract and metaphorical posts are . . . abstract and metaphorical . . . it’s the funny ones that you really stick around for. I get it, I do. Thoughts on God(/god/gods/the gods) are a dime a dozen. But no one else gets themselves into the scrapes I do. In me, God, like every good storyteller, provided some cosmic comedy relief.
Okay, so it’s occasionally irksome to have to suffer through a harrowing blind date or near death experience to find out who really reads this thing. But there’s nothing quite like being able to share the painful experiences of your life with your loved ones and watch as they compassionately try to restrain their laughter. At the really dire points in life, my one thought of consolation is usually: “This will make a really stellar blog post.”
And last week I had both a blind date AND a medical catastrophe.
Fortunately, not at the same time.
Imagine being set up on a blind date.
Now imagine being set up on a blind date where your entire family came with you.
THEN imagine being set up on blind date where my entire family came with you.
That was my week.
Well, that was my Tuesday. Evening.
The only person you possibly have more right to feel sorry for is the poor guy. Who, it was generally agreed, handled it quite well. Uh, considering . . .
On Tuesday I also gave myself my second shot by myself. Well, first, technically. (Queasy Easy? That was your cue to stop reading. But remind me to tell you about the time I pulled out my IV and blood went EVERYWHERE.)
My first move was, instead of removing the cap from the needle, to remove the needle from the syringe—breaking the airlock and spilling some dark red liquid on our living room carpet. I’ve seen enough episodes of “House MD” (ironically, not an in-home medicine show) to know that was probably not a good thing.
“What happens if I inject myself with air?”
“Heart stops” said my dad, passing through.
“Oh, it can cause an aneurysm in your brain,” said my mother, very matter-of-factly. “You might have wanted to ask the doctor how not to do that.”
I love needles.
Well, not love, per se. But four years of regular doctor’s visits hasn’t made me exactly. . . squeamish. So when the doctor gave me the option of injecting myself with 4 1/2 ml of liquid twice a week, of course I jumped at the chance. (You still think I’m being sarcastic, don’t you?)
It’s my mother who’s not such a fan, so she wasn’t very sympathetic when a week later I was not too keen on the whole idea anymore. Sure, I’d done it the week before, at the doctor’s office. But it’s a little different when you’re on your own.
To my credit, I did stick the needle in. All three inches. You’re supposed to plunge it, nearly to the hilt, into the muscle next to your hip. That’s about as awkward as it sounds. Lot’s of twisting, aching, teetering. I think I was off by several inches, because at that angle it was nearly impossible to maneuver in such a way so as to actually inject the liquid, much less see what I was doing.
“Mumma!” I yelled. “I don’t feel so well . . . Can you come and tell me if I’m really injecting myself with anything? The plunger doesn’t feel like it’s moving at all.” Though it sure was painful enough. The room starts spinning ominously. “Whoa . . . I’m really dizzy.” It may have been that, but I think she rolled her eyes pointedly.
She injected the liquid, and I tried not to pass out. Well done, Emily. (Well done, momma.)
And here it’s almost Tuesday again. And I’m not dead of a brain aneurysm. And I’m not unexpectedly married.
I consider that a pretty successful week in my house.