My Opinion

“Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look really swollen,” my brother said, upon walking into my hospital room on Monday night.

“I hate you,” I said from where I was stretched out on the bed as a nurse checked my heartbeat and changed my IV bag for what had to be the 100th time that day. “But yeah, my face does feel kind of swollen.”

“It’s not just your face, it’s your arms,” he said.

“My arms are exactly the same as they always are!” I said and started laughing for the first time in what had to be hours, but felt like decades.

You know how sometimes you think “it can’t get any worse than this” and then it immediately does? Yeah. That was the last four days for me. I’m not one to complain much in this space, mostly because no one wants to hear it, but also because I don’t have much to complain about. But this week was just terrible.

Just when I thought things were getting better on Tuesday night and I was finally being released from the hospital around 10 p.m., my brother told me that Pawley had attacked Rosie and Rosie was bleeding. So, Tuesday night I returned home to a house crammed full of unpacked boxes, a mattress Pawley had torn a bowling ball sized hole in, and a dachshund with blood on her neck and ears.

I began trying to do damage control with the dogs and on Wednesday morning I unpacked enough boxes to at least make a path to my bed. Then I got sick again. And Pawley turned into something resembling Old Yeller post-rabies. And Rosie became such a nervous wreck that she couldn’t be anywhere but in my lap.

And then I began crying. And then I started panicking that the tears would make me dehydrated because I can’t keep anything in me. And that made me cry harder because no one should have to be worried about tears causing dehydration. And then I basically became a vortex of self pity. It wasn’t pretty people.

But, I’m glad to say I’ve pulled myself together. I’m at work today and so far I’ve managed to keep down four whole saltines. This is huge progress. This morning Pawley and Rosie touched noses and Pawley didn’t attempt to eat her. Also progress. Also, I passed a homeless man curled up under a bunch of old blankets on my way into work and it occurred to me that my life is not nearly as hard as I’m acting like it is. Mental progress.

So yeah, that’s the update. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all of your kind words, emails, calls, and texts. My brother told me that to pay him back for his help while I was in the hospital I could post the photo of me that he took when I was being wheeled out to the car on Tuesday night. But I’m not doing that because it turns out he’s right. I do look swollen.

For weeks I’d imagined January 23rd. Two very important things were meant to happen that day. First, the magazine where I recently began working was hosting an introductory lunch for me. Second (and what I was really looking forward to), that night would be the first night in my home with my dogs and furniture. I imagined a long, chilly walk around the new neighborhood and unpacking boxes in our cozy home with a glass of wine in hand.

Unfortunately, the first time I dated something 1/23, it was when I was signing in to the local ER around 1 am. I missed the lunch- the one held for me. And my incredibly kind roommate was the one with the dogs night- dogs who are likely very confused as I brought them to a new place, promptly became violently ill, and then left.

I’m still in the hospital. For someone who has never been in an ER or hospitalized for any reason, the last 36 hours have been a little overwhelming. There have been lots of tests and questions, and not nearly as many answers as I’d prefer. On the other hand, I’ve become pretty partial to my IV, particularly when it administers pain meds.

I’m hoping my doctor will release me today. It’s not that I don’t enjoy endless hours of “Law & Order” reruns paired with cherry jello, it’s just that the timing is pretty inconvenient. And I’ve already seen most of the “Law & Order”s.

30

Today I turn 30. At first, this blog post was going to be all wise about the passage of time and stuff. Then I remembered that I’ve spent the last month living out of suitcases and basically couch surfing around DC before throwing on a backpack and heading to Central America. I’m writing this on an iPhone while sitting sunburned on a beach it took me an hour to hike through the mud to. No one thinks I’m wise.

So then I was like maybe I’ll write about how 30 isn’t that old. But I kind of feel like a hypocrite because I’ve been moaning all over Panama this week about how I’m basically a senior citizen. (Sidenote: Bless you random travelers who indulged our friends in a game of “guess how old she’s turning.” You’re liars, but I’ll never forget when you said 22. Actually, I probably will forget it. Soon. I’m old now, you know?)

So anyway, I’m just going to say this. I wouldn’t trade one single second of the last 30 years and that’s due entirely to my amazing family and wonderful friends. I’m immensely grateful for these three decades. Thank you to each and every one of you.

Yesterday my friend Christy got really sick and spent the day in bed in our room. She was quite brave about it. As someone who is certain I’m at death’s door every time I catch a cold, I felt new admiration for Christy.

Then, last night, as I sat down for dinner with friends around 9:15 pm, it occurred to me that I wasn’t feeling my best. We ordered though and when my pasta dish came, it was so good that I didn’t want to stop eating despite the fact that it seemed likely it might not stay down. I justified this by thinking I would need the energy from the food. I’ll do just about anything to justify eating noodles.

Anyway, I got sick. But because I’ve had food poisoning four times this year (seriously, I don’t know what my problem is) I’ve become pretty good at self diagnosis followed by heavy dosages of prescription meds. By this I mean that I crawled into bed moaning like a baby and begging my friend Katie to bring me drugs.

They worked though. And this morning I’m fine. Christy is still struggling a bit. And we know of at least two others in our small hotel who are sick. Katie and Joanna are now terrified and referring to it as “the plague.” I think I heard them whispering last night about quarantining us, but that may have just been feverish hallucinations. (Just kidding. I didn’t have a fever and those jerks were discussing abandoning us and going to another hostel for the night. That’s right K and J. We could hear you.)

Anyway, we’ve all survived the night and are headed out for the day with hopes of surfing. I will only be eating French fries and drinking wine for the remainder of my time here because they seem like the safest. (See what I did there with the justification? I’m pretty good at this.)