Key Largo...Montego...baby, why don't we go....to the ER!

This weekend was great.

And it sucked.

Big time.

I went to Islamorada with my dear friend, Casey, to teach improv to 75 students, raging in age from adults to elementary school students. It was fun. It was rewarding. It would have been more fun and rewarding had I not been barfing or thinking about barfing all weekend.

Friday morning, I woke up at 3:30am with the worst Charley Horse I had ever experienced.  I was soaked in sweat, even though I had gone to bed in a t-shirt and shorts.  I had to be up at 5:00am to drive to Boca for our trip, and felt...off. I scarfed some Belvita bars in the car. Casey and I stopped for coffee.  And then nausea began.

I held off being sick until our second stop of the day at about 11:00am.  We were in a Montessori school in a FREAKING CASTLE, and Casey and I walked outside so I could cool off while we waited for our contact to show up.  Casey looked at me and said, "Just go throw up."

I did. It was awful.  But I felt better for a bit. That night we went to a fancy party and ate a ton of free food.  Went back to the condo and ate junk food, watched Hot Rod, and smoked cigars. The next day we grabbed breakfast and went to teach. And I felt it again.  A need to throw up. I dry heaved a couple of times on our way home.  Went to bed at 11.  Woke up at 11. Slept the whole day. Went to the parents for our pre-Thanksgiving dinner. Threw up.  Everything hurt.

I took Monday off of work cause I felt so crappy.  Called my lady doctor and left a message with symptoms.  They called back at noon for more info. Called again at 2:45 and told me to go to the ER.  Got to the ER at 3:30pm and left at 8:00pm.   Mom drove me and brought a book from which she read to me aloud. Was diagnosed with Pelvic Inflammatory Disease, which occurs when an infection exists in the body prior to the biopsy they performed and is then spread all over by the procedure.

They put me on an IV drip of antibiotics.  Took X-rays, CAT scans, blood work, an ultrasound....which showed that I have a number of fibroids, not the one my doctor told me about.

The largest of which is 1cm across. Not the 7mm that my other doctor said.

They gave me oral antibiotics.  Gave me pain pills.  And sent me home.

I am going to the doctor today for a follow up.  I may have to reschedule my surgery next week.   And I feel like absolute shit.

I think I may need to get a new doctor.

Update on lady parts.

I have a fibroid.

It's the size of a pencil eraser that has been used until it's 7mm.

So...it's 7mm. By 8mm.

See that second pearl?  The second one from the penny? That's it.
Imagine that pearl attached to my uterus.
Or don't cause that's weird.

They did a biopsy last Monday.  It hurt like nothing has ever hurt in my life, and I've broken limbs and had a paper cut on my eyeball. The doc asked how I was doing as she stuck a camera up there.

"As good as someone can be with a camera up her hootinanny." I'm a classy chick. 

They always say, "This is gonna pinch."  Or "this is gonna cramp." 

No. It doesn't pinch and it doesn't cramp.  It fucking hurts.  Gynecological science has not gotten past the Dark Ages. It's awful and intimate and made me cry a little.

They are taking that sucker out on December 3rd.  Thank goodness. The Crimson Tide will finally go away. I'll feel better.  And I can finally stop worrying.   Mom is coming to stay at my apartment the night before so she can drive me.  Dad is taking care of Kevin so I don't have to walk up and down stairs. They are great.  It's going to be fine.

EXCEPT WHAT IF IT'S CANCER?  WHY HAVEN'T THEY CALLED WITH BIOPSY RESULTS?  WHY AM I HAVING BLOODWORK THIS MONDAY THAT CHECKS IF I HAVE CANCER? WHY DOES MY CHART SAY I HAVE HAD PRE CANCEROUS CELLS IN MY LAST TWO COLPOSCOPIES?  WHY DO I KEEP LOGGING IN TO MY CHART TO SEE IF I HAVE CANCER? 

WHY CAN'T THEY JUST CALL AND SAY IT'S NOT CANCER?

HOW MANY TIMES CAN I TYPE CANCER?

I think I need a Valium.

CANCER.

Cranky pants

I've been bleeding for a few months.  Off and on. Even with pills and hormones and cycles.  Oh, my.

Yup. I went there.

I had an ultrasound for my naughty bits because they are apparently broken.  I scheduled a bunch of tests for this coming Monday.

I hate tests.

I hate doctors.

I hate the fact that I feel like less of a woman because of these issues. I started worrying that I'll never get to experience pregnancy. I started looking into artificial insemination. Reading blogs of women who have made the decision to have a child on their own. Too extreme?  Yes. But this is me we're talking about.

My friends are all super supportive.  My mom signed me up for Match.com.  Again.  She and I talk about the fact that all of this makes me feel less than.  She wants me to find someone that can be my go to in tough times and in good.  But how do I put myself out there when I feel like I'm broken?

I got super drunk this weekend. I chalked it up to being out of town with no need to drive myself, but that's not it.  I was trying to let off some steam and also just trying to not think about everything that has been going on recently. My clothes don't fit.  I'm losing weight. I'm not hungry. I'm just worried. All the time. Tired.  All the time.  And I hope that these procedures will make it all better. I have my doubts, as I'll still be bat shit once they're done.  But maybe I'll be less tired.  Maybe I'll have more energy.  An appetite. For more than just food.  For life.

Gah, that got depressing.  Here's a picture of a sloth on a stuffed animal to cheer you up.

That time I hit a lady with my car.

The family got together last night and we were drunk, slap happy, and crazy as always.  My brother and sister in law are moving, and the discussion turned to re-registering cars in their new home state of North Carolina.  Brooke mentioned that it is not a No-Fault state so they needed to be careful.  She then referred to the time a biker came out of nowhere on the street and Brooke hit her with her car. This reminded me of the time a lady walked into my car.

She did. I swear.

It's a funny story. Probably not to the lady, but SHE WAS FINE, GUYS.

I had left rehearsal at the Atlantic Theater and was driving home in the rain.  I called my mom and asked if she wanted me to pick up dinner.  She wanted Jon Smith subs.  I turned into the Publix shopping center on PGA and Military, and stopped at the stop sign. As I went to turn left, a lady stepped out from the median and walked into the side of my car. She fell down and started dramatically screaming about her back.

The comedy in this is that I was on my way home from puppet rehearsal, with a puppet sitting in the passenger seat. I had buckled her in so she wouldn't get tossed about, as the puppet had been built and designed for a character I do that is basically Bart Simpson with a head cold.  It was my first puppet, and I loved her.

WHERE DID SHE COME FROM?!?!?

Anyway, it was raining.  I called 911. The lady stayed on the ground, piteously screaming, "WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?"  as I held an umbrella over her head, getting soaked myself.  I apologized and told her to just stay still.  The cops came.  I started sobbing.  The whole time, people stood on the sidewalk staring.  The cops had me move my car under cover. I told them what happened.  Two witnesses told them what happened. The lady's friend told them I came out of nowhere, speeding and hit her poor, poor friend. Ungh. People suck.

I was standing there and heard my name being called. My best friend's mother-in-law was there, hugging me as I sobbed and told her my mom was on the way to pick me up, as I didn't want to drive. She stayed with me until my mom pulled in, and took over the hugging.  The puppet still sat in the car.  I grabbed the puppet. Waited as my mom pulled the car into a parking space.  I was wet and emotionally exhausted.  The cops told me that the lady was going to be fine. Jon Smith subs had closed. We didn't get delicious subs that night.

It's not funny. But it is. WHO HITS SOMEONE WHILE THEY HAVE A PUPPET IN THE PASSENGER SEAT?!?!?

Another depressing blog. Don't read if you are sensitive or are my Mom.

The Ray Rice thing happened.

It wasn't on my radar until yesterday, when my male co-worker brought it up to my GM, whose office is next to mine.   The same male co-worker who said that Jameis Winston's alleged rape victim was asking for it. He said to my boss, "How could she marry him after that?"

I kept my mouth shut, as it's impossible to argue with him. When the Winston case came up in conversation between us, he told me to go fuck myself when I tried to defend the victim. I was defending the victim because I was one myself. Not of rape, but of physical and verbal abuse.

It was college.  I was introduced to a guy while performing in the play Baby With the Bathwater. I should have seen the warning signs as he was attracted to the Crazy Nanny character I was playing. We went out. We started dating. He drank.  I didn't.

One night, he had a few too many beers.  I said something that made him mad. He threw my open makeup bag at me, scattering brushes all over. He screamed at me that he was sleeping on the couch that night.  I went out after a while and tried to talk to him, He grabbed a glass of ice water from his coffee table and flung it in my face.  I sputtered. I cried.  I left. Soaking wet.

He called the next day. Apologized. Made it seem like it was an isolated incident. He just had a bit of a temper.

That temper flared a lot. We had a fight and I wouldn't answer his phone calls. I was in my apartment alone. He had a key. I had closed and locked the door to my room.  He tried to kick it down, screaming at me to let him in. I had headphones on and pretended I couldn't hear him, while texting my roommate to help me. I don't know why I didn't call the police.  I didn't want to be that woman.

He left and my roommate showed up with her boyfriend.  I sobbed hysterically into her shoulder as I told her what had happened. She comforted me and told me to never speak to him again,

The next day he came over and knocked. We told him to go away.  He left me flowers and a card apologizing.  His parents called and told me they would pay for everything if I just didn't do anything.

I went back.  I don't know why.

We moved in together. I thought it would be different.

It wasn't.  He pushed me during a fight. I fell over my bed and landed on my arm. I pushed him out of the room, locked the door and huddled with our dog.  He started beating on the door, telling me to let the dog out.  It was his dog, let him out. I called my sister. I packed a bag. I couldn't take it any more. I opened the door, tore his glasses off of his face, and slapped him as hard as I could. While he was distracted, I left. I went to my sisters empty apartment and cried.

I went back. This time because the apartment complex wouldn't let me out of the lease unless I had a police report. We had separate lives, separate rooms. We were ok for a while.  Then one day I decided to take a shower with my music on. He put a boombox in front of the bathroom door, and turned his music louder. I turned mine louder. The battle continued. Finally, I stormed out of the bathroom with my robe tightly tied around me. I unplugged the boombox, and tossed it to him telling him it was enough.  The boombox cut his arm.  He grabbed me.  The robe opened.  I hit him.  He called the police.  I called my friend to come get me. The next day I found a room in a friends apartment, and left with everything. My furniture went into storage. My life was in boxes.  But I was free.

I worked at the college bookstore and he came in one day. His hands were bandaged, and he was crying.  Begging me to come back.  Telling me his life was miserable and that he wanted to kill himself.  The dog I had to leave behind had mauled him. I told him to leave. I cried. The manager called me into her office and fired me. I had missed too many days dealing with the asshole, and had caused a scene. They were uncomfortable having me around.

I wish I had never gone back.  I wish I had been stronger. I wish that I hadn't played his game.  At the time I felt I deserved that kind of treatment, that I wasn't worthy of someone who could love me without hating me as well. I was broken.  I'm not anymore.  Fuck that guy.  Fuck Ray Rice. Fuck the NFL who looked the other way until they were FORCED to fucking do something. Fuck that noise.

Just...fuck it.

"Good night, bud. I love you."

I say this to my dog every night when I go to bed.

I roll over, put the book of the day on the nightstand, pull the cord to turn off the light, and mid pull I mumble this phrase to an animal that has absolutely no idea what I am saying.

I have a hard time saying this to people. But not to this weirdo mutt of mine.

Kevin is a weird dog.  He would sleep all day and night if he could.  He has a bladder of steel and a bowel of iron.  We used to go on long, rambling walks through the neighborhood.  He now pees in the front of the neighbors house.

I knew that adopting an older dog would be interesting.  I didn't know that it would be THIS interesting. I love this little (42 pound, so guess not so little) furball with all my heart. I spoil him.  I buy him more treats than I do myself. I worry. He limps and I assume he's broken his seal foot. The doctor is very patient with me.  This is my first puppy love that's all mine. And I don't know what I'll ever do without him.

I dropped Kevin off at the vet yesterday as he was acting weirdly. They had no appointments, but said to drop him and they would look at him as soon as they could.  I figured it would be a while, so I went to Lowes for a mold test kit, grabbed lunch and made an appointment to get my hair trimmed, as I'm starting to look like Carol Brady. Not cute.

Midway through my lunch, they called to tell me he was okay and that I could pick him up.  I didn't hesitate. I shoved a couple more bites in my piehole and ran for the car. I got to the vet in 15 minutes, blowing off the hair appointment (Carol Brady is cute to some.)  $9.76 for his anti-inflammatories. New Treats.  A car ride home with him snuggled against my leg. We got home, and I gave him a bone and his first dose.

We went for a walk at around 4:15.  He started eating grass like it was his job. I worried some more.  I tried to get him to stop, as he started eating the tall, rough decorative grasses that lined the walkway and that cannot be good for him.  I got him back in the house and gave him fresh water and food to see if that would help.  He plopped down on the floor and began snoring.

I know he's ok. I'm just not ok. I don't know why my usually spry older dog is suddenly not coming downstairs in the morning for his walk.  I don't know why he is suddenly walking within 5 feet of the house and doing his business when he usually wants to walk to West Palm and back.  I don't know anything and it's really, really annoying.  I want to make him better.  I just don't know how.

I DON'T WANNA WALK!

A rose by any other name.

I am a nickname fiend.

My dad is Papajon, Shtoppie, Shtoop, Popojijo, Popsicle and Pops.  Also, Dad and Daddy.

My mom is Marm. Marmee. TMo. Mama-say.

My brother is Dan. Leinad. Danny boy. Pablo Honey.  Daniel-san.

Brooke is Bug. Brookers.

Kevin is Kevy-Kev. Kevers. Turd Burglar. Turdle. Stinker-butt. Stinker-Dinker-Doo. Chevy-Chev.

I may have a problem.