Emergency Room Drop Out

The last time I was in the ER, for myself, was when I broke my arm in 4th grade. The way I was raised, most things didn't warrant visits to the hospital. Not because I wasn't hurting or in pain, but because ER's are for emergencies and I had come from a family of nurses. Emergencies are for like, missing limbs, and shit. Last Friday night I learned that sometimes your internal organs warrant trips to the hospital too.

A few Fridays ago I had finished a long day of work when I felt some rumbling in my tummy. Honestly, I figured it was just an overdue poop. About two hours later I was back in apartment and thought I was directly addressing the issue, if you catch my drift. Somehow, that didn't work. Another two hours lying on the couch with one ibuprofen in my system and I thought the pain was subsiding. PSYCH! It wasn't. I went to bed and kept in touch with my own personal nurse, my mother, over the course of the evening. I was certain that I could sleep this off and be totally okay. I've slept off many things and still woke up with all of my internal organs, limbs, dignity, etc. This was fine. I was going to be fine. 11 p.m rolls around and I pull out my phone for the umpteenth time. This time, instead of trying to placate my pain induced boredom, I was looking into the diagnoses appendicitis. I carefully scrolled past WebMD because I wasn't ready to be told I had terminal syphilis just yet. After some reputable source sifting I was pretty certain my appendix was trying to kill me. A quick exchange with my mom and I was desperately asking a colleague to take me to the hospital. I make bad decisions, but those decisions don't include driving when I am incapable. Luckily, my colleague was able to take me and stuck with me through the majority of the ordeal. Here is where the story telling gets really good.

I show up the hospital and instead of explaining my symptoms to the triage person, I flat out told her that I have appendicitis and kind of left it at that. Apparently I have no social skills and can't adult and also think I am a medical professional. Fortunately, when school isn't in session the wait for the ER is much shorter. I had that blood pressure cuff around me in no time.

About the blood pressure cuff. I fucking hate blood pressure tests. SO MUCH. They have always made me panic. The feeling of the tightness on my arm makes me nervous because I feel like my arm is about to pop off. Or that it's going to collapse a vein. Or that it's going to cause an aneurysm. As a result, I give pretty alarming and inconsistent blood pressure readings. Which then leads to even more blood pressure tests. Which leads to more panic and an increased blood pressure and heart rate. Pretty soon everyone, including myself, is convinced I'm about to go in to cardiac arrest.

Moving on. After the standard vitals tests and invasive questionnaire I was given my very own backless gown in a color I like to call "nursing home blue". It even had a boob pocket. My primary nurse was absolutely lovely. A older gentleman from Alabama, he was a traveling nurse and had only been in Iowa for a few months. He was hoping that his next rotation would take him to Alaska or Maine. We exchanged our life stories, mine via standard hospital assessment and his via enthusiastic disclosure. Finally, I was ready for my IV. At this point I was still feeling quite a bit of pain, sort of like my appendix was about to burst. Little did I know this was about to become it's own ordeal.

I am a pale ass motherfucker. Pale. As. Fuck. I hate being in the sun and I've endured enough sunburns to have racked up enough vitamin D for a lifetime. My skin is the lightest possible shade of toilet porcelain, therefore, making it pretty fucking translucent. One would think that this would make it super easy to locate veins. In fact, I can identify four in my left arm right now. Now, shots don't bother me but I am a wee bit put off when there is a needle in my arm and two nurses are playing battleship with my blood supply. All this time I am alternating between watching them miss every possible target and my friend growing paler by the moment as she watches their desperation. At one point I was looking at the cabinets in front of me when the nurses began to pull out the needle to try yet again. The second I felt the needle leave my arm both nurses exclaimed "whoa!" and my friend looked like they were about to become personally invested in the cold, hard floor. I asked them if i just squirted blood and they both emphatically told me I hadn't. I was pretty disappointed because that is metal as fuck. Come to find out, I had ejaculated blood on to the floor, they just didn't want me to freak out like a normal person would have. After three attempts they finally succeeded in nailing a vein inside of my left elbow. At last I was in a morphine induced euphoria. Life was good.

The doctor eventually arrived. He poked my stomach once and said they would do more tests, then left. Basically, I should have been doctor. I'm good at poking stuff and making statements too. The doctor left and a radiology nurse came in. This is the part where the reel tape runs out and the audience misses out on an hour of the story. Some embarrassing shit happened and as much as I love sharing just a bit too much, I'm going to decline this time. What happened was terrible (imagine me looking off in to the sunset, longingly, with pain in my weary eyes).

After my radiology nightmare which will certainly result in 'Nam style flashbacks I was back on the gurney. When I left the radiology nurse, I was told that I would have confirmation about my appendix in less than 10 minutes. Thirty minutes passed and I was still without an answer. By this point my mind had actually fabricated several diagnoses, all terminal. Finally the doctor returned and confirmed I had acute appendicitis and would need to stay over night until the surgeon was in the next morning. At this time I bid my friend adieu and was reunited with my Alabama nurse. He came in to tell me that he waiting on getting me a room prepped, but instead of leaving me, he proceeded to tell me about his most recent visit to his uncle's house. Apparently his uncle had the highest selling Cadillac dealership in the US for almost 10 years and had done very well for himself. So well, that when his father died they paid for all of the funeral costs. But wait, there's more! After he finished elaborating on the financial status of his family tree, my room was prepped and he was going to wheel me down to my room. While being wheeled around in an oversized wheel chair, I was again regaled with another story. This time my nurse informed me that I looked just like his ex-wife. A spitting image. So much so that he had to do a double take when I came in. Right here would have been a great place for him to stop sharing. But he didn't and neither will I. His ex-wife divorced him and got back with her first ex-husband, who was a drunk. They adopted a baby from a crackhead who was black (this was apparently very important to the story I guess). After a year his ex-wife would call him every day, begging to get back with him, but he had to deny her. I have no idea what I was supposed to do with this information. I still don't know what I am supposed to do with this information. We arrived at my room for the evening and the nurse left me to my overnight attending nurse.

By this time it was almost 3 a.m. and I was on my seventh blood pressure cuff for the evening. I was answering the same questions about my health and wellness habits and was trying to fight off the sleep that was baited by the 11 p.m. sleeping pill, further seduced by the morphine drip, and dramatically escorted by the time of night. Shortly after three I was allowed to close my eyes for the first time. Unfortunately, I'm a light sleeper and was woken up every half hour by a visit from different medical staff. At one point a different nurse shined a flashlight in my highly closed eyes. CAN I HELP YOU?

6:30 a.m. rolls around and I've managed less than an hour of sleep when Dr. Sexy McBabe comes in. At this time I became very aware of my bedhead, eye bags, lack of makeup, and vacant stare. This doctor was an easy 10. He actually broke the scale by being in his scrubs and cute little doctor hat. He lost one attractive point by jabbing me in the stomach to gauge my reaction and confirm it was consistent with people who have temperamental appendixes.I thought we had established this multiple times over. He confirmed my surgery for later in the morning and left with his nurse entourage. We would never meet again (imagine me looking off in to the sunset, longingly, with pain in my weary eyes).

Another few hours roll by and I occupy my time by playing with my IV and online shopping. Around 9 something I'm wheeled out of the room to be prepped for surgery. They quarantine me in a room and start pumping some surgery related drugs in to my IV. Now, I'm not a doctor, but I am 100% sure that when a medical professional is putting anything into your body, whether through needle or IV, they should always have on gloves. Based on the IV flush and three other medications, this must not be entirely necessary. I'll report back when I find out if I have some sort of contagious illness that would have been avoided through proper procedure. The nurse tells me the doctor will be in shortly. Shortly meaning an hour later. I don't have my phone and no means for online shopping, and playing with your IV gets old after 20 minutes, so I drift off to sleep. Again, because I'm a light sleeper I jerk awake every time someone walks near the door to my room because god forbid anyone see me sleeping. Around 10:30 a second particularly good looking doctor comes in and confirms that he will be performing my surgery. At this point I'm convinced that the saturation of attractive doctors in this town of 9,000 people isn't because they were in the top of their class. Once again, I'm certain I am going to die.

Just before 11 I get wheeled in to the OR and hoist myself on the crucifix looking operating table. One oxygen pumped gas mask later and I'm waking up to my vitals being taken...again...this time with one less organ in my body. The more I think about it, the more freaked out I am by the concept that medicine has advanced far enough that through a mixture of gases and liquids, a person can be rendered unconscious enough to be cut in to a bevy of times, and wake up an hour later with no recollection of anything, not even the moment they drifted off. It's equal parts fascinating and fucked up.

I drift off and come to a few more times in recovery. I wake up as I'm being wheeled back in to my room. Three nurses surrounded by gurney and ask me to get up and walk to my other bed in the room. I do as I'm told and promptly shriek and collapse back on to the bed in pain. Apparently we all forgot that going from horizontal to vertical requires almost exclusively the contraction and release of the abdominal muscles. The same muscles that were just dissected less than one hour ago. I try to hold back tears as I am then instructed to scoot my body from Bed 2 to Bed 1. I manage to convince the nurses I'm not at all about to sob because I have my eyes closed to tightly nothing can come out. Then, like an angel emerging from the clouds, my mom arrives. I get loaded up with some more drugs and am finally left alone. An hour later the nurse comes back to check on me, telling me that I can go today if I'm feeling up to it, or I can stay. I've already decided I'm not staying, for any number of reasons and wait for more information about my release. On the next set of rounds, the nurse brings me a mug of water in case I was thirsty. Little did I know I was supposed to drink all of it to prove that I am worthy of going home. Two hours later I'm told, condescendingly, that I need to show them I can drink the water and pee before I go home. Irritated and ready for a challenge, I down the mug-o-water like I'm shotgunning a beer (which I've never done because I'm not tacky). I evacuate my bladder like a champ. Clearly, I've proven myself. A different nurse returns and asks how I'm feeling. I ask for some more drugs in order to subdue the pain. This kind lady tells me she will check with my head nurse and come back with some drugs....never to be seen again. I don't recall ever getting the drugs I needed so clearly I'm the victim here. My attending nurse comes back and gets me ready to leave. I'm pretty excited at this point to put on some clothes and abandon that gown with the boob pocket. But for the record, all clothes should come with boobie pockets.

Today I had my follow-up appointment to verify that all of my insides are where they need to be. A brand new nurse who takes me back, straps up that god forsaken cuff on me, and starts talking about how I had my gall bladder removed. For the record, my gallbladder hasn't been in my body for over six years. Again, a quite concerning statement. I corrected the nurse and she proceeded to tell me how she had called me and left me a voicemail telling me that it was acute appendicitis. Again, this is a concerning statement because I never received a phone call. Moreover, I didn't sign the release which allowed me to leave a voicemail about my medical records until 10 minutes ago in the waiting room. So, at some point the week before some unsuspecting individual was informed that they had appendicitis. For their sake, I hope that it true. At this point I am 70% sure I'm missing my liver, perhaps a kidney, and maybe even a lung. But, if anything goes tits up, I have probably at least two malpractice suits ready and waiting to be pursued.

And that's the story about how my body could have killed me because I was too reluctant to go to the hospital and had two very attractive doctors slicing my abdomen open. I always thought that appendicitis was something 12 year olds got that kept them out of school for a few days. Who heard of a 26 year old eating strawberry jello in a backless hospital gown as a direct result of the same affliction?

Arid Ghetto, of Turdy Seconds to Czars

Some of the best feelings in the world include a cozy nap on a rainy day, a soul cleansing poop, and getting celebrities to block you on various social media channels. This is the story of when I, Big Bad Leah, hurt musician-turned-actor, Arid Ghetto's, feeble feelings on Instagram. 

Believe it or not, I don't actually set-out to have my social media privileges revoked on an individual basis. More often than not, a blunt yet innocuous statement is interpreted as a threat to humankind and I am blocked only to become an even stronger and funnier before. It's kind of like a reoccurring boss fight in a video game, except I can never be defeated. This most recent situation was just that. 

The celebrity I emotionally maimed is best known by the masses for his work in a recent Oscar winning movie about drugs and AIDS. Arid Ghetto, as I will refer to him, also fronts an angsty band band that frequents festivals like Warped Tour. I actually saw this band perform while I was in my emo-turned-scene high school days. The show was on St. Patrick's Day and the band members all wore kilts during their performance, because geography, cultural markers, and a quick Google search are hard. I've followed the band loosely since then mostly because 2/3's of its members are sexually appealing, including Arid Ghetto. I wouldn't say I take the band or its members seriously because unlike its almost exclusively white, female, under 21 fan base, I have slightly more refined taste in music. Or more simply put, I have taste. 

Anyway, I follow Ghetto's Instagram account for the occasional shirtless picture. For the most part, Ghetto's posts garner no reaction from me simply because can only withstand sifting through the thirst of a thousand hormonal teens for brief moments. It's kind of like being within three miles of the still radioactive bits of Chernobyl. Actually, it's exactly like that. A few weeks ago Ghetto posted a photo suggesting that everyone should lower their home heating temperatures slightly to reduce carbon emissions. This is certainly a great idea and one I even endorse. Unfortunately, what I don't endorse is celebrities fanning themselves in their ivory towers as we plebeians look to them for scraps of life advice, particularly when these celebrities seem to disregard their own dictates. Being my helpful self, I decided to take a moment to remind Ghetto that he frequently takes private jets to and from shows and this is a massive contributor to climate change that can easily be eliminated. Unlike my last social media blow out with Rat Von P, I never received a response and continued on my merry, and informative, way. It wasn't until yesterday evening that something struck me as odd. I was scrolling through my Twitter feed hoping to find someone as funny as me deserving a retweet. Instead I came across a tweet from Ghetto that linked to his Instagram account. I check my Instagram account pretty frequently and realized I hadn't seen this most recent post, even though I had been on Instagram not five minutes earlier. After some anonymous investigation it occurred to me that I had missed three weeks of Ghetto's posts because he had blocked me. Another few minutes of sleuthing revealed that the last post I ever saw was the one I had (helpfully) commented on. Nothing makes me feel quite as energized as knowing I caused a self-aggrandizing celebrity a moment of unadulterated emotional distress. I wish I could bottle it and sell it. The problem with celebrities blocking me is that I get an unrelenting hard-on that can only be relieved through vaguely aggressive social media commentary. To meet this throbbing need, I took to my Twitter account to ask Ghetto some very important questions, all listed below. 

Do you prefer to look at yourself in the mirror when you masturbate? 

Do you cry before or after every highly redundant song you record? 

Which end of your Oscar do you insert in to your anus first? 

Do you rub your nipples in a clockwise or counterclockwise motion? 

Do you soak your balls in lavender oil or sandalwood oil? 

Do you ever wish you had a clone of yourself to make sweet love to? 

When stroking your ego do you use a water based lubricant? 

Have you ever considered that your primarily female fan base has ulterior motives for their interest in your music? 

Is Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs your acting muse? 

Do you secretly envy every person you have ever had sex with because they got to have sex with you? 

Do you wish to connect with people on a molecular level? 

How excited were you when you found a way to integrate the word "rape" in to one of your jingles?

Have you ever open mouth kissed a bear? 

Do you think everyone has forgotten the one time you were photographed making out with Paris Hilton? 

Are you the reason Lindsey Lohan barely made it out of 2007? 

Who would win in a fight between a tiger and a lion? 

Are you actually a reptile? 

Do you have a toilet paper preference or have you never actually pooped? 

What are your thoughts on the new Star Wars movie? 

Are you a little pissed that God appears in the bible more frequently than you? 

Do well-timed and calculated retweets make you the leader of the social justice movements? 

Should oatmeal and raisin cookies even exist? 

Is it fair for Chipotle to charge extra for guacamole? 

Is it hard to hide your boner when you are directing 14 minute music videos under your pseudonym? 

Can you tell why kids love Cinnamon Toast Crunch? 

Was the moon landing a hoax? 

Is your favorite part of the Illuminati the secret meetings, fruit punch, or dungeon torture porn? 

What is your favorite pizza topping? Smugness? 

Is the Suicide Squad movie going to be bad or really bad? 

How long can you stare directly in to the sun?

Do you think the bubonic plague should make a come back? 

How often do you take Buzzfeed quizzes to find out what type of sandwich you are? 

It seems to me that using this sample size of two instances, 100% of celebrities don't like it when you make valid, ego-crushing statements on their Instagram pages. In fact, 100% of the time they will block you, practically requiring you to turn to Twitter to patronize them. And 100% of the time it will be the most gratifying part of your day.