So I'm hanging out on Thursday night when suddenly it felt like my guts were actually on fire. I tried ignoring it, I took a warm bath, I put a heating pad on it, I had another sip of wine, but none of my home remedies worked, so I made hubby drive me to the hospital.
Except for a slight language barrier with the intake nurse (english, I spoke it, she didn't), I was content to lay in the triage area whining about my pain. Once my name was called, a nurse wisely suggested that I get in a wheel chair to go to my room. Now I've been to this hospital way more than I care to remember, why would I need a chair? Well the moved the emergency room. No problems but they ran out of money before they could move the intake area for the ER, so it was about half a mile from one to the other! I held my head high as I allowed petite, pregnant nurse push my huge ass self all that way, from one end of the hospital to the other.
I was getting settled in my bed and the nurse gave me the dreaded gown to wear. I was to take everything off except my underwear. Oops! Little problem, I wasn't wearing underwear! I had taken a quick bath and thrown some pajama pants on thinking I was going to bed next, not the ER. Chris said not to worry, because I would probably have to remove the underwear for the Dr. anyway, but somehow that did not fly for me.
Chris had underwear on & he was just sitting there! Decisions, decisions, did I want to be a no-underpants-wearing-to-the-ER kind of freak, or the Ralph-Lauren-too-small-for-me-boxer-brief kind of freak. I demanded that Chris hand over his underwear. Because he loves me & because he knows I can get bat-sh!t crazy when I'm in pain, he promptly handed them over.
Now with a clearer head I can see that wearing his too tight Ralph Lauren man pants just so the Dr. could tell me to take them off was a little out there, but hey, who's thinking clearly before they get the pain meds into you?
To be continued...