Psh. She’s only braver than me because she’s in shock. So what if she’s 5?

It appears that I don’t cope entirely well with hospital visits.

To be fair, I haven’t really had any practice, I’ve never really been sick in my life beyond the odd headcold.
I’ve never had to stay overnight in hospital – not even when I fell through the glass door and needed surgery to repair the nerves and tendons in my wrist – they sent me home after I woke up and I didn’t even get to see what a shitty hospital dinner tastes like!

On Monday, my Doctor gave me the flu vaccination because apparently people like me – those incubating another human inside them – are one of the three groups most highly recommended to have them, and I figured that since he’s been to medical school and I haven’t, it would be best to listen to his advice.

Approximately four hours later, I began to regret that decision when The Worst Cold Plus Other Things started happening to me.

My chest became tight, but I ignored it because over the past few months, a giant ball of baby has begun to sprout from my midsection, and I’ve found that occasionally, this causes all my breathybits to get squished.

I stood up to relieve the pressure but it didn’t really help, and before I had the chance to sit back down, my head began to pound like the drums of Moria after Pippin dropped the stone in the well – this was also something I ignored because Did You Know, hormones create headaches?

As I began to loudly vocalise these problems to my coworkers, my throat started aching – a deep, broken bone kind of ache – not even the “I’m getting sick” ache! It was weird, and so I vocalised this observation too.

“Apparently it’s pretty normal to feel like you’re getting a cold”, reassured one of my co-workers who had just paid a visit to Dr. Google.
“I don’t think your tongue is meant to start stinging though, right?” I replied, trying to get a look at it.

Around 40 minutes had passed since the initial tight chest and now, along with the headache, sore throat, stinging tongue (and lips), every joint in my body had its own little headache and I wanted to cry, and/or die – whichever came first.

I decided to call my dad to pick me up. I needed groceries to make scrambled eggs for dinner because my lifelove had had his wisdom tooth removed around the same time I was getting stabbed with THIS POISON THAT WAS NOW RUINING MY LIFE!

A few short minutes later, I had all my ingredients and climbed back into dad’s car, where I decided it might be time to phone the medical centre again because I was pretty sure I was about to vomit, and shouldn’t really be shivering like this.

They wanted me to come in – the stinging mouth was slightly concerning.

Check-ups were made and consultations with the Bible of Vaccinations were undertaken and it was determined that I wasn’t having an allergic reaction, but a “documented, but rare reaction”.  This is fairly common practice for my family. We don’t do medication normally.

Doc determined that I would feel better if I went over to the Emergency Department to get some IV fluids into me.

By now my fingertips were going slightly blue and I was shivering more than a medieval bride waiting for her gross old husband to make a woman out of her.

I wasn’t allowed to move my wrist, because my veins are almost non-existent and we were forced to IV me right there where my hand comes off my arm – that part of you that you don’t realise you move a lot until you’re no longer allowed to. In fact, were you aware that you bend your wrist approximately INFINITY TIMES A SECOND?

I really needed to move that wrist – I wanted to be on my side. Preferably watching television on my own lounge and for these pain feelings to not be in me. Life was so unfuckingfair.

I looked at the clock with big, hope-filled eyes. Ten minutes had passed. Ten minutes out of the approximate two hours that I would be required to spend there. Fuck a thousand ducks.

I moaned my complaints to my visitors – my ever patient and loving mother – who advised me that I’d already had some miniscule hundred mls of the fluids and only had ONE MILLION MORE to go.
My back hurt. My bones hurt. Even the air that touched my face hurt.
My other visitor – my lifelove with his recently removed wisdom tooth – patted me sympathetically, smiling through the swelling of his face.

Then the emergency ward began to buzz with life as a little girl was brought in – a suspected broken elbow due to a fall from a trampoline.
Apparently it was a bad one. She needed immediate surgery and she was so brave, she was barely making a sound!

That’s because she’s lucky enough to be in shock!

Really, you should worry about me, my body not even protecting me from my own incredible pain.

Plus, the morphine you gave her probably helped! I only got Panadol – and it was in tablet form – tablets I had to sit up to take when I couldn’t even bend my wrist. I had to wriggle my way upright with one hand and then get my mother to hold the cup of water while I popped the tablet in my mouth. Then we had to swap again so I could pick up the SECOND tablet!

My brow definitely needed mopping after that ordeal.

Two and a half hours later, my IV bag emptied of its precious life-saving fluids, I was allowed to go home.

“See you again in a few months” said the Emergency Department Dude, nodding at my bellybump as I held the plaster over the gaping wound that had been gouged into my arm by the needle.

Thankfully I have shown that I bear the burden of pain stoically.


Nice things, and why we can’t have them.

Britard woke up wearing last night’s pants, and the sweat of last night’s booze. It had pooled in the folds of her skin while the sun sang her to sleep.

Mornings like that were not so common for her anymore and hers was a sad, angry shame-awakening, for the second weekend in a row.

This one was going to be fairly bad if her first flashback was anything to go by. It was the computer. YouTube. Two friends on the spare bed next to her, one trying to sleep, the other suggesting songs that Britard was going to ignore.
The music was at a terribly loud volume for Morning Suntime but it wasn’t as loud as her voice, concerting its way through the neighbourhood, creating what had to be the world’s worst Human-Rooster Duet.

Groaning at the memory, Britard reached onto the cluttered table beside her bed, her fingers blindly stalking its surface to avoid exposing her sandpaper eyes to the harsh, evil air of sunshiney reality.

The next flashback came courtesy of her fingers’ inability to locate her phone. With a heavier heart than the one she’d been carrying last night, she gritted her teeth, and prepared to face a day of disappointing treasure hunting – a game called “Oh Shit. I did that last night? I did. Shit.”

In an unprecedented turn of events, today’s game was multiplayer, and as a result, Britard took less of a health hit through Guilt Damage than she usually did in this game.

… until she realised that her phone was not the only missing person from her entourage – She had also lost her glasses – a week before attending the ballet with her family for an event called “Combined Birthdays in a City Eight Hours’ Drive Away!”

“This is why we can’t have nice things, Britard”, said Britard, squinting into the distance.

Seven days later, staring through a new pair of glasses, she sat perched in the middle back seat of her parents’ car, twenty minutes into the eight hour trip home.

Her fingertips traversed the floor of the car, in search of her phone.

“This is why we can’t have nice things, Britard”, said her partner, five minutes later, hanging up the call he’d made to her phone. “Your brother will post it back to you tomorrow. Along with your wallet. And your handbag”.

Reason #458973 as to why I am trying not to drink. Also – this if a family warning. Do not read this if we are related. Trust me. You don’t want to know this shit.

Sharing drunken war wounds with Darbiel, the Sunshine Angel, I was reminded of that one time that I scared a man out of my apartment.

It was during Melbourne Whore Week, a week spent with a fellow wordpress blogger who shall remain anonymous unless she chooses to reveal herself, where we were stoned, drunk and/or having sex, the entire time.

It was seriously, the most fun week of my life.

I wish I could say that it was the most debauched, but to be honest, the events of this week are quite tame in comparison to the everyday life I lived when I first lived alone in that beautiful, cold city.

Nevertheless, on this particular occasion, my cohort and I met two men outside a popular eating establishment. We struck up a conversation, and, because I was guilt-ridden and hated myself for drinking, and was terribly, completely lonely, the only way I could alleviate that guilt and loneliness was to coerce others into drinking with me – any time of the day, any day of the week, any person who showed an interest in being an accomplice to my next drunken adventure. And that is how two men we met outside Hungry Jacks ended up naked in my apartment.

Well, one of them ended up naked.

The other one, I chased out of there with a broken wine bottle.

At least, that’s how he saw it.

What really happened was that he and I were standing next to the concrete wall in my bedroom. My wine bottle was empty. I didn’t enjoy that, so I broke it on the wall. I didn’t anger-smash it, I just “naughty bottle!” tapped the base of it against the wall, where it cracked and broke in an awesome crazy-heartbeat shape.

The fact that I was so clearly enjoying the sight of this broken bottle in my hand apparently alarmed this gentleman, who began to back out of my bedroom, saying nothing to his friend.

I looked up and saw him leaving, asked where he was going, and slowly began to follow him. I’d forgotten all about the broken bottle I was holding in my right hand.

It didn’t take long for his walk to turn into a bit of a run, until I was standing on my balcony in a t-shirt and my undies, holding a broken wine bottle and asking a man in unbuttoned jeans why he was running away from me.

“Because you’re holding a broken wine bottle like a crazy lady!” he shouted, as he ran down the stairs.

And that’s when I remembered that I was holding a broken wine bottle like a crazy lady.

I walked back into my apartment, put the bottle in the bin, went back to the bedroom and informed the naked people in there that I had just accidentally scared the other one away with a broken wine bottle.

Thankfully, the other guy was so enamored with my friend, he didn’t care.

Later on that week, we jumped into an already-taken taxi, and kidnapped convinced the passenger in there to not go home as the sun was coming up, but instead join us for our trip to the 24 hour bottle shop on Chapel St, and then to my apartment at Hawksburn station.

For half a day, he’d given us a fake name, because he was scared that we might possibly harm him.

Ha-ha. Those common misunderstandings!