Oh, you guys. I spent last Friday night with my ex-wife and parents at the emergency room. I know, right? TOTAL PARTY. Best night ever. We got wasted on IV fluids, tongue depressors and that cart full of unlabeled medications. We just absolutely wrecked the place.
After going out to dinner with my family to celebrate my victorious return to the United States without dying in a horrific plane crash or murder by the locals, I went home and had a good cry into my pillow for roughly one hour wherein I may or may not have bemoaned to Janie (who did her best to console this person she’s not particularly fond of at the moment on account of divorce and feelings and that thing about not being married anymore) how much I hate my stupid self so much. YES, OKAY, IT WAS NOT A PLEASANT EXPERIENCE FOR ANYONE. I was so inconsolable that Janie asked if I was drunk because the last time I was this hysterical I had secretly enjoyed too many wines and so you can’t fault her for asking. I decided to get up and go to the bathroom because that’s what one does from time to time. On my way there and back I stopped for a look in the mirror because my face felt kind of funny and DEAR. GOD. Let’s just say there was some swelling. And by some swelling, I mean I couldn’t really open my eyes and also my top lip was so fat it touched my nose. This caused a bit of concern because normally I am able to open my eyes without a struggle and also my lip does not look like someone just blew it up with a bicycle pump. Basically my face looked like it was preparing for its journey in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade (you’re gonna want to click that link to read about how police were forced to stab and stomp a Barney balloon among other wonderful details including what a balloonicle is). So I says to Janie, I says “THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH MY FACE,” to which she said “Yeah, I know. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that for a couple of years but I didn’t want to be mean but now that we’re divorcing I can be as mean as I want and also I think you’re a fat whore and I hate you.” It was just the sweetest thing.
Actually, what she really said was, “LET ME SEE IT, ” and when I looked at her she said, “OH MY GOD YOU ARE A FAT WHORE AND I HATE YOU.”
Okay. Seriously. She called the 24-hour nurse phone line thingy where there are nurses that you can call 24-hours a day, where they help you, talk to you, ask you questions and deduce whether or not you might die. And so as I lay back in bed and cried some more and thought about my awful life (it’s not awful, it just feels that way most of the time), she spoke to the nurse about my giant face and how maybe it could possibly be because I was hysterically crying for an hour, but it seemed like the swelling was maybe excessive even for that because YES SHE HAS CRIED LIKE THAT BEFORE, BUT SHE WAS DRUNK AT THE TIME. The nurse needed to talk to me and so I got on the phone and she asked why I was crying and I thought – THIS IS IRRELEVANT. MY FEELINGS HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH MY FACE – so I just told her “Oh, you know. I’ve had a bad day.” Then she asked me about my face and if Janie had beaten me or if I was in any sort of danger and when I assured her I was used to the abuse and that this was different, she said I would probably be okay but just to be safe maybe I should go to the ER so they can feel better about their chances in court if I die when my airway closes up in 1 minute to possibly never. That’s when I gave the phone back to Janie who was told by the nurse to give me some Benadryl, but since we didn’t have any she gave me two sleeping pills instead because that makes total sense. Then she started putting my shoes on and I was crying and saying “PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME GO, I WANT TO STAY HOME. PLEASE. I AM FINE. I AM OKAY! I DON’T WANT TO GO. PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME GO,” but she refused to listen and so for a minute it was like we were still married. Then she just kept telling me , “NO. You have to go. You can’t die here. No one wants to buy a condo where someone just died.” After she got my shoes on she called my sister and I am sure my sister is sick of getting middle of the night phone calls from Janie about how I have lost my mind, but too bad! That’s what you get for being the only one who cares about me now (That’s not true, either. It just feels that way most of the time).
Somehow we got to the emergency room but I don’t remember exactly how because the sleeping pills started to kick in and I was a bit delirious. I remember Janie speaking to the front-desk check-in lady and telling her that the nurse suggested we come in because of a little bit of facial swelling and that she was my partner and CERTAINLY WE WEREN’T IN THE MIDDLE OF A DIVORCE. Oh. No. Certainly not. Then the check-in lady started asking me all sorts of intrusive questions like my name, date of birth and why I had been crying. Seriously? SERIOUSLY? No one asks what I’ve eaten or if I’ve doused my face in acid. No. They all just want to know why I has the sads. Vicious gossip mongers. ALL OF THEM. I know your angle, naughty night shift nurses and checkers-in. I know you just need to keep the night alive with wild soap-operatic stories about divorcing lesbians but I’m saving my life story for Hollywood, thank you very much. Seriously. There’s a movie in here somewhere. It’s just that ridiculous. After checking in and getting a hot red and white medical bracelet, I sat in a chair and took some pictures of my face that I will not put on this website because when I showed it to my friend Dana today at lunch she laughed so hard she cried and then told me never to show it to anyone who doesn’t love me because it’s really fucking awful. I already regret emailing it to my brother because the last time he had a terrible photo of me – one that looked like I was legally retarded and in need of round-the-clock care – he taped it to all my Christmas and birthday gifts and made fun of me until I cried and then we didn’t talk for two years.
I was invited into an exam room by a cute nurse who took my blood pressure and tried not to look directly in my giant face which, on account of the sleeping pills and their curiously similar ingredient list to Benadryl – was somewhat less giant than it had been before. She also asked why I had been crying and I just really was over trying to explain so I just told her to fuck off, already. No. Not really. You guys, I AM SO NICE. I stuck to the party line: Yes. It was a bad day. Then I got to go into a regular room and sit around until, all of a sudden my parents were there! What!? Who? Why? My poor dad who had just spent a week in the hospital with a mystery ailment of his own was so tired and I could tell he had no interest in being in this place with the doctors and the needles and the machinery, so I entertained him by falling asleep. At some point the doctor came and looked at me and told me they’d give me about 14,000 different IV medications to get the swelling down, and that in his educated medical opinion I am allergic…to something. It’s a crap shoot, really. This could happen again at any time in the future because it’s is such a mystery! Isn’t that fun! YES IT IS. Doctors go to school for 20 years just to be able to tell you this shit.
After a while my parents disappeared and my IV stopped working and then started working again and, finally, after four hours, I got to go home. My face looked a bit more deflated and they suggested I take more Benadryl at some point in the future. I have no idea what the hell happened for the rest of the weekend because I was delirious all of Saturday – I think I went somewhere and ate salad and drank coffee with Carrie and Emilio? Was Target involved? I think so because I had some Target bags on my bed at some point and a receipt for spending way too much money on things that I didn’t need…so I think I had fun. Then I got really sick and spent all of Sunday in bed, passed out and HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO JANIE, I hope you liked your presents, and by presents I mean one full day of me being completely asleep and unable to bother you in any way.