Here’s the burn, peeps. I’m super sick. Not like “need to spend time in the hospital” sick, just the level of barely functional lung/face funk that makes it impossible to interact with polite society because I AM FULL OF GOO.
The thing though, because this is the level of crazy I operate at now, is that I’m most upset by this because this sickness happened to fall during my fertile week. Oh my gosh, sound the alarms folks! I’m oversharing on the Internet! The thing is though that Hot Cuban/Husband (we should change his name, I think Hot Husband makes more sense now.) and I have been trying to get knocked up for months. It’s supposed to be simple and a natural conclusion to doing, you know, what married people do. The other thing that married people do, not the part where we watch six hours of How I Met Your Mother. If that led to pregnancy we’d be grandparents by now.
I never wanted to be this kind of person. The kind of person who frets and hand wrings over ovulating. But sadly, much like learning to knit or suddenly deciding I wanted to be a journalist, I go all or nothing. So I’ve learned everything I can about trying to conceive. I’ve picked up on the insipid code words and acronyms that the online baby making communities use. I don’t pray to get pregnant, not that there’s anything wrong with that if that’s your deal. I don’t “sprinkle baby dust” in the forums to wish other would be mothers success. Again, not that there’s anything wrong with that, it’s just not my journey.
What I have been doing a lot of us is thinking about the kind of mother I want to be. Examining my reasons for wanting a child in the first place. I think that, and prenatal vitamins, are about the only things I can really do to maintain control over something that is completely out of my control.
Anyway, this has always been a dumping ground for whatever wildly inappropriate overshare I decided to foist upon the Internet at large. So as I lay here, surrounded by tissues and a complex system of pills and liquids that allow me to breathe out of both nostrils for minutes at a time, this is what I’m thinking about. I’m sad that whatever creeping crud has infiltrated my body has kept me and Hot Husband from being able to seize my ovulation window properly. And yeah, I know you can get down when you’re sick, but honestly I haven’t been conscious enough to even be aware of it until today.
Man, three years ago if you’d asked me what I’d be writing about today it would not have been my Hot Husband or my bordering on psychotic desire for offspring. I think I probably would have said cable knitting without a cable needle or how that boy I like still doesn’t like me back. My my, shit changes quickly.
You guys remember the depression nest right? The post break up bear den of sadness that you feather with tissues and Brat Pack DVDs? Right. Imagine that, but pepper it now with Vicodin and a Kindle, featuring not only an unshowered sad sack of snot but also a puffy face and a physical inability to eat solid foods. Sounds super emo, right?
Two days ago I had my lone wisdom tooth removed. It came in about six years ago but was fine really and didn’t cause any problems. I only got the one. I hate, let me repeat HATE, the dentist so I had it checked then when it started coming in and then left it alone. Back then the dentist told me I should probably pull it as a precaution because eventually it would cause problems. I shrugged it off with a “we’ll see about that, pointy stick voodoo man” and when it started getting achey and throbby a few months ago I just chewed on the other side of my mouth. Problem solved.
Two weeks ago it started causing problems that couldn’t be solved by soft foods and aversion so I scheduled an appointment to get it extracted. Generally I have to be sedated before I even get to the office for a cleaning, so I made it clear the only way this was going down is if they put me all the way out to take the tooth out. A little xanax before the appointment and off I went. The doc introduced himself to me and I caught “Hi, I’m Doctor….” before I passed the fuck out. I woke up to a nurse telling me I had a panic attack coming out of anesthesia (which is normal for me) and they gave me valium. Woo. Bonus.
Half way home I look in the vanity mirror and notice I have strings hanging out of my mouth. At this point it’s been 10 hours since I’ve had any food or drink so the only thing in my system is Xanax, IV anesthesia and Valium. In my delirious state I assume they’ve used a tampon to pack the socket where my tooth used to be. I also decide to take my confusion to Facebook (natch.) and post a picture of myself looking smokin’ hot with no make up, puffy faced, druggy eyes and what I assume to be tampon strings hanging out of my mouth.
Fast forward to today. (Mostly because I don’t remember yesterday at all.) I wake up this morning with every intention of going to work. Then I realize a few things: 1) I look like Marlin Brando 2) I sound like I’ve been smoking unfiltered tobacco and fiberglass for at least 40 years and 3) my guts are threatening actions akin to Pompeii. Obviously I call in sick. I lay back down. I pray for sweet sweet death.
Then the worst thing that has ever happened to me happens: I throw up. I throw up without being able to open my mouth more than about a half inch because of aforementioned Brando Face. Pompeii has erupted through the eye of a needle. It is horrible. It is the worst possible conclusion to a morning fraught with agony and pain.
I clean myself up, I swish with salt water. I pray to Sky Wizard for the end to be near. And then I do what comes naturally, I make myself a cup of tea and bring it to the blog.
Let me tell you folks, after my harrowing experience this morning I want nothing more than to bury myself in pain killers and fro yo, but I can’t get comfortable and the idea of ingesting anything that could possible come back on me sounds like a losing bet. So I’m writing it all out and hoping that focusing on the blinking cursor keeps the ick at bay. So far so good.
What I should be doing is writing an article that is due by this weekend to my editor. Or maybe putting away the ironing board that has become a receptacle for all the mail I have ever received in my life. Or showering. Showering could be beneficial too.
Yeah. None of those are going to happen so I’ll go back to watching 30 Rock and spooning the dog. If ya’ll have any tips for how to survive the seventh ring of hell that is post wisdom teeth extraction, hit me up. What can I eat that isn’t chicken broth or pudding?