Doped Up (a.k.a./vis-à-vis: I'm on "That Shit")

Dr. Chetan Rajbhandari was the most beautiful man I saw both Monday and Tuesday. If it weren't for him prodding around elbow deep in my uterus, I would certainly have flirted with him. But there was never really an appropriate moment to blink slowly, look at him from beneath my eye lashes, or lick my lips. My pain was like living inside a new consciousness. A blinking, red consciousness. Just like in a movie. Nothing mattered except that it continue to torture me. We're taking its point of view, you understand. It didn't care if I breathed. It didn't care if I passed out. It didn't care if I was adequately clothed when my mother rushed me to the Emergency Room. I know that I was being punished for something. That is the only explanation. I do not know what. I'm watching myself closely, and have promised God that I am going to be a better sort of person in the future.

The pain came from nowhere. The day after Christmas, I didn't get to sleep until after 6am from having been up all day Christmas day. So, I slept until 2pm. The ringing telephone woke me. I answered. Went to the bathroom. Crawled back under the blanket. Went right back to sleep. Woke up, again, with a start sometime after 3pm because I was dying. Apparently. I have never, NEVER experienced pain like this. And it came on me like the snap of fingers. Instantly. No warning. Nothing gradual about it, just WHAM! Unmitigated torture. I told my mother I couldn't even tell which part of my body the pain was coming from, it seemed to swim all over me. But the very vague epicenter seemed to be somewhere around my pelvis. Off to the side. My mother thought it was my appendix. (Pretty good, for a nurse, because that's exactly what my Dr. Goud thought, too.) Fortunately for me it wasn't. No surgery. Just a cure and some of the strongest and personality-altering narcotics available to human beings.

I'm taking what the kids call "hillbilly heroin." It's medical name is oxycodone. It ain't pretty. Below you will find a list of things about which I have burst into full-fledged tear-streaming hysterics about since I've been taking this drug:

-My sister chastising me for going to see "Brokeback Mountain" the day I left the hospital.
-My father saying he will bring me some left over turkey from Christmas dinner.
-Greenhushpuppies telling me that I "look tired."
-My "friend" Frankie telling me that the love of my life will probably cheat on me.
-Thinking ahead, I convinced myself that the same (imaginary) love of my life will forget my birthday and not get me a present. My birthday isn't for six weeks. Still. I was inconsolable.
-My friend DQ tells me that a friend of mine from elementary school asks about me when she sees him. They both live in New York and I haven't seen him for at least four years--just before he became a bonafide broadway star.
-Frankie telling me that no one was going to send me flowers just because my fallopian tubes were all tied up in a knot. (His own bullshit diagnosis.)
-Remembering this Christmas morning conversation I had.
-Marveling at the articulation of my own affection I was able to achieve in a love letter I once wrote.
-Telling Greenhushpuppies about the controversial campaign speech I gave in the seventh grade for student body president.
-Getting "Shalimar the Clown" from And_Yeah for Christmas.
-Seeing these really beautiful globes in the map store Greenhushpuppies and I have been saying we were going to go to for ages...I love myself some maps-I do, I do!


It's been quite a rollercoaster these last couple days. I've been sleeping for hours on end; I'm only up for about 3 hours without needing a nap. I can't drive. My voice, no matter how long I've been talking, sounds like I just rolled out of bed. My speech is a tad slower than normal, just a tad. My roommate says everything I say sounds like a whine. But no it doesn't. What kind of bedside manner is THAT!!?

And I've never been this kind of sick. As in--I got a real live I.V. I had to have a CT scan. I had an ultrasound, although I've had that before. And I had to give a urine sample. I was in so much pain I was hyperventilating and that made both my arms go numb. Everything I know from like TV and the movies says that my sick room should be filled up with flowers. I haven't gotten so much as a bulb. Although I will say that Greenhushpuppies took me out to lunch and And_Yeah came over for a marathon visit last night and bought me dinner.

Still.

This room really needs some flowers. I'm allowing myself that one pout.

Oh, and noboby ever comments on this blog anymore. What's up with that? People used to talk back to me. They have stopped.

I feel thoroughly abandoned.

So...I guess that's two pouts. Technically.