You could say that I am worried about me – I am voluntarily
wearing shoes that are too small for my feet. But that isn’t why I am worried.
Yesterday morning, I was released from the hospital. I wasn’t in the hospital
for any particularly life-threatening reason. I woke up still drunk on Saturday
morning and as I was walking to my friend’s kitchen to get a drink of water, I
fell over in pain and began to throw up on myself. As it turns out, a cyst that
had been residing on my ovary had burst and sent some sort of hemorrhagic fluid
all over my pelvic region. When the paramedics got to my friend’s apartment, I
was curled up with my head hovering over a Victoria’s Secret bag waiting for
the next stream of vomit to involuntarily leave my system. I couldn’t make it
to the bathroom, so my friend brought the first receptacle she could find to my
relief. It’s the first time I’ve thrown up without shoving a finger down my
throat in, well, since I can remember.
I think that it’s my fault that the cyst burst. I had been
having the same pain that I have had since I was in high school, these shooting
pains that sometimes happen when I ovulate, and I decided it was time to get
healthy. I thought I should start exercising regularly, that exercising might
shape my body up to deal with the simple act of ovulation like a normal body
does, but I think that the YouTube exercise videos I did in my parents’ bedroom
actually just made the cyst on my ovary pop. When the paramedics helped me up
from my puking position, I realized that I had undone my pants, and I
apologized for my indecency. Actually, I think I said, “my ass usually isn’t
hanging out when four men walk into a room to escort me into a vehicle.” My
friend thought it was funny.
It was snowing, so my friend hopped into the ambulance with
us instead of driving separately to the hospital. Everything was closed in a
few hours, for reasons of snow, and “polar vortex.” Later, my
friend stared out of the window of my hospital suite and watched the whole city,
pondering about the attractive middle-aged paramedic’s impressions of her. I
thought that this was funny.
In the ambulance, a younger, more attractive paramedic tried
to IV me, failingly, twice. I can’t thank him enough, because now I have a
beautiful bruise running from the inside of my elbow all the way down to a few
inches above my wrist. I have never wanted to wear short sleeves more than now.
When I got to the hospital, the doctor(s) and nurse(s)
wanted to give me morphine but couldn’t because my blood pressure was too low.
I think that my blood pressure was too low because I hadn’t eaten anything
except for a few pieces of pita bread and tabouli and hummus the night before
and had probably drunk more than a quarter of a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. I
don’t even ever drink gin. We didn’t even really do anything. We just made
cupcakes for my attractive boss. My friend is in love with him, and I would be
too, if I cared. But instead, I just think he’s attractive enough to make
cupcakes for. You know, to garner attention.
The night before, I had made it a point to stretch my
too-small shoes out. I brought over one pair of shoes and bought another on the
way to my friend’s house. Yes, I stopped to buy a pair of shoes on the way to
my friend’s house. I figure, if I’m about to spend hours talking to someone who
isn’t a male, I might as well put my feet into shoes that will stretch out into
being comfortable enough to house me into being attractive enough to a male in
the future. Even though that never happens and I am never satisfied. I’m going
too far here, but that’s how it is.
