I’ve told my husband many times that one day it would finally be me laying in the hospital bed being pumped full of kick-ass drugs while he sits in the uncomfortable chair watching bad tv and worrying. Well, without the haze induced by Demerol, Versed, or Morphine (all of which my husband has been administered in copious amounts) laying in an uncomfortable hospital bed in a freezing ER while fully conscious is the most annoying experience of my life.
Ok, so I passed out in my sister’s bathroom for no apparent reason. They (my sister, her fiance, my husband and my mother) all inform me, as I still lay sprawled out on the cool tile floor, that I am extremely pale and my lips are purple. My future brother-in-law uses his EMT training and starts holding up fingers and asking me questions. I think I pass his tests, but I’m the one with the purple lips, so what do I know? I get propped up on some pillows and, while still a little woozy, I don’t pass out again. I hear someone mention the ER and I want to protest, but my husband’s face looks so worried, that I just go with it. I get lifted to my feet, which is more difficult than it should be because I managed to wrench my knee all out of whack on my trip down to the floor. With help, I make it through the bedroom and to the kitchen before the black dots start edging their way into my field of vision and I have to sit down before I fall down. There is no question about the ER now. I’m helped back onto my feet, half carried to my car and rushed to the hospital which is, luckily, only about two miles away. Once there, my husband finds a wheelchair and I am rolled into the chaos that is the ER on a Saturday night.
Four hours, an EKG, a heart monitor, 20 blood pressure readings, four vials of blood, two cups of pee, and a chest x-ray later I am told by the doctor that my diagnosis is (drum roll please): Syncope (pronounced sink-uh-pee). In English: I fainted. No shit. All that to figure out that I got “the vapors” and I didn’t even get so much as an ibuprofen for my knee. Check please!
Later, I find out that my family and every other person they called, had diagnosed me with a raging case of Bun-in-the-oven (pronounced knocked-up) and had already gone so far as to name the baby. My mom’s boyfriend was already planning on teaching it how to sail. That was enough to make me want to pass out all over again.
No, I am not pregnant. The pee test in the ER and the fact that I am in full “that time of the month” mode totally confirm it. So, keep your baby names for someone who won’t throw heavy objects at you if you so much as mention them to her again.