If you read my blog, follow me on FB, live in my neighborhood, are my patient or friend, you basically understand that I juggle a lot of balls —often. Perhaps the last few weeks have been crazier than average. Between training to run a ten mile race, painstakingly rallying my amazing team of runners, working every day, building a new office (who knew that there is no such thing as “blue” its #286 blue or is it #257 blue or should it be blue at all, how about orange??) and preparing a keynote address for 300 women, I am at my MAX. Usually when things are this nuts, my spazziness is easily remedied by the inherent sanity and goodness of my husband.
Even he was in over his head this week. And, in the end my beloved demonstrated that really, he is not so good. No. Actually, he is a little mean spirited.
Let’s start with last Saturday morning. It was 3 hours before my big speech. Admittedly, despite knowing about it for 6 months, my frenetic preparation began on Thursday. So, those three hours were critical. I put my headphones in and began meticulously reciting my speech. I would record, replay, record, replay, over and over–until I annoyed the shit out of myself. During one such recording session, Lucy began to bark. On Saturday mornings, the rule is simple, if Lucy barks, a kid gets her. I wait. I record. I replay. She barks over and over and over. The same freaking annoying bark. Finally, I snap. I slam down my headphones and run into Sammy’s room where he is quietly reading a book. “Samuel!” I seethe. “YOU. WILL. GO. GET. THAT. DOG. NOW.” He is visibly frightened but I don’t care. He has to learn. I stomp back to my desk and my ridiculous voice through my ear buds. Not a minute later there is a timid knock on the door. “Um. Mom. I know you are busy but did Daddy take Lucy for a walk? ‘Cuz ummmm she is not in the house.” Sammy is looking pitiful. Just as the volcano threatens to erupt in my head, I notice something.
I still have my earphones in. Lucy is barking alright…in my recording. Apparently the reason for the annoying “same” bark is that it was literally the same bark. In my recording. Which was playing. In my head.
I sigh. I hug him. He looks at me with sympathy and smiles that gentle smile that is all his father’s.
Fast forward to Tuesday night. I begin having this pain in my right side. It comes in waves and worsens to the point where I can no longer ignore it. I sit in my office and weep to my staff that I will need to have my appendix out. Amy examines me carefully. Tom brings me water. Judy rearranges patients.
It is apparent that I will miss the race and all that we have worked so hard for. They get teary with me and agree that I must go to the hospital now. I am in no condition to drive so Judy takes me. I limp into the ER where I am greeted with true VIP niceties and within minutes I am in my lovely hospital gown open in the back. I have not been home so my ridiculous 4 inch heels peek out from the stretcher. I was a sight to behold: gown, heels, mascara tragically streaked down my face.
Luckily, because everyone at the hospital knows me, they do not send in a PA. Oh no. The good doctor MUST be seen by a doctor. And, not any doctor, it is Dr. M : the most freaking adorable young doctor in the universe. There he is with his perfectly fitted scrubs and slightly tousled hair. Oh sure. He has to examine me. I thank God above for my cute Gap panties and that I don’t have my period. I suck in my belly. He can totally tell. He hits my sore spot. I flinch. He is so sorry, but I need a CAT Scan. I cry a little (maybe not totally necessary as I had so expected the CT that I had already drank the contrast on the way over.)
As I am wheeled from my private ER room to the CT Scan I notice several patients and people I know loitering around. I casually pull the covers over my head. I would rather they think I was dead than make eye contact.
Within an hour, Dr. M is back: still looking lovely, still sympathetic. He tells me my CT is normal and gently asks “When was the last time you moved your bowels?” But wait, that is not the most mortifying thing he said. He follows with “And, really I should do a pelvic exam.”
I have never been cured of anything so fast in my life. Within seconds I am out of bed, clothes on and IV is out. I don’t care that I have dripped a little blood in my haste. Chris scrambles behind me. I know he is laughing a little. Bastard.
The kids were at our friend’s where they had the time of their life and reluctantly came home to greet their ailing mother. Sam and Maisy give me cursory “Hey Mom, you ok?” Hadley looks me up and down intently.
I ask “What’s up honey?”
“Can I see?” she asks.
“See what baby? ” I say.
“See where the doctor took your appendicitis out.”
Now Chris is not even trying to hide his laughter. He is howling. “Mama still has all her parts honey, actually she might need to lighten her ‘load’ a little to REALLY feel better. ”
I am glad he thinks it’s so funny. Well, for the record Meyer, YOU NEVER LOOKED CUTE IN SCRUBS! So there.