CHAPTER I:
Waking the Dead
“Your Aunt G could certainly use a
few days off from the Mortuary” my Mom fretted long-distance over the phone as
my fever continued to spike. “She’s only
a couple of hours away, and I’m sure she’d be happy to come take care of you”. (EEK!)
Granted I was a wee bit hazy from
the elevated temperature, but as the phrase “take care of you” may imply a cold
compress and a comforting cup of broth to most clans, in my Addams Family, more
than likely I was looking at a full-on road trip with my Aunt G in the Hearse,
casket with my measurements already on board, a lovely selection of satin
pillows awaiting my final consent to descend.
“I’ll be fine!” I conjectured,
cranking on the air conditioner until I was a proper blend of cold and clammy;
an unnatural shade of gray washing over my face like a pall just in time for my
High Holy Holiday of Halloween. (Hmm...
Did I thereby qualify for the roles of both ‘The Decedent’ AND ‘Pall
Bearer’? But I digress!)
To be quite honest, I wasn’t
entirely convinced that I’d truly walk amongst the living ever again. Would the postal carrier become frustrated by
the overflow in my snail mail box and eventually dial 911? Would ever-so-handsome EMTs break down my
door to strap me into a gurney as I sucked my last earthly breath? And if so, would I have the strength to daub
on a bit of makeup before being rushed to Cedars-Sinai Hospital where all of
the A-list celebrities seem to go to die?
>><<
*knock
knock knock*
“You look like Hell” my Midwest friend
Tina stood on my doorstep, hamburger bag in hand (acutely aware of the healing
powers of Cow). “I’m taking you to the
clinic” she asserted, passing me the beef as if its presence might at least
provide an modicum of comfort as I clutched Cow like a teddy bear.
“Can’t tie shoes” I whimpered,
staring down at my skull and crossbones pajama pants (with the festive green
palm trees!), refusing to budge without my verdant matching sneakers. (Don’t
know why, but in my feverish state, Cow and I determined that this particular
fashion choice was non-negotiable.)
With my weight, blood pressure and
temperature taken (all a tad elevated that day), a lovely Phlebologist dressed
like a Supermodel clippety-clopped in her stiletto heels for a few vials of my vital
fluids. “Do you always dress like that
for work?” my friend Tina asked skeptically (Cow and I merely assuming we were
suffering from delusions).
“Oh, this? No, I have an audition in a couple of hours!”
the practitioner beamed, temporarily blinding us with her Chiclet-white teeth.
“Now you may want to look away” she suggested helpfully (yeah, like I could see anything after the ‘bleach party blingo’ in her
mouth), under the guise that perchance I might be faint of heart at the
sight of blood. Unfortunately however,
apparently SHE was the one infinitely most uncomfortable as she mercilessly poked
and prodded me like a toddler playing her first ever game of Pin the Tail on
the Donkey.
“I hope you get the part!” I offered
sincerely as the worst Phlebologist whatever lived clopped out the door,
leaving me wincing at the disturbingly monster-sized bruise developing in the
crook of my elbow. (“And call me if they need to cast the role of ‘Heroine Junkie in Skull
and Crossbones Pajamas’, FFS”, I thought.)
Now despite my friend Tina’s angelic
attempts to help keep my spirits up, the longer I sat in that God-Forsaken
room, the higher my anxiety levels became.
And picking mindlessly at a patch of dry skin my chapped lip, I suddenly
found my face spurting blood like a hemophiliac. “Here’s a tissue” lovely-but-useless
Chiclet-teeth gagged as the paper membranes stuck unpleasantly to my mouth like
mummy wrappings.
“A wet towel is best” another woman
jostled her way past, urging me to apply pressure to the wound.
“I take care of this” a Doctor
suddenly appeared with gauze and a styptic pencil, dabbing at my face until a
large black coagulated lump appeared; an ugly blob which left me looking like
I’d barely made it through one boxing round with Mike Tyson. “I speak to you when test results are back”
he informed me smugly lest I sat unaware of his brilliance, his intuitiveness
and overall generosity for not performing a labial amputation.
“We’ll just get a urine sample from
you now before you leave, and you can bring the rest of these items back
tomorrow” Ms. Wet Towel informed me, politely handing me a to-go goodie
bag. (Oh
boy! Trick or treat!” I thought
happily. “I hope it’s the good candy
like Snickers and not the cheap crap!”)
Hmmm...
While I’d not in fact been given any
Snickers, clearly The Universe was having a hearty chuckle at my expense; as
for the life of me (if you will), I
stood stupidly in my kitchen, unable to mentally process the utility of the items
before me.
Now granted there’s not much of a
formal dress code on the streets of West Hollywood (particularly around
Halloween and Carnival), but how on Earth was wearing a plastic cowboy hat with
only half a brim going to cure me of that which ailed me?
Regrettably, examining the
accompanying vile vials with the “TOXIC” labels and the enclosed instruction
manual, I learned far too quickly that whilst the Stetson may be one man’s
fashion choice in Texas, my “hat” was clearly designated for a, shall we say,
more southern destination – the mere thought of which immediately trussed up my
giblets like an uncooperative turkey on Thanksgiving Day.
However, assuming that the worst of
my woes were over, and texting my friend Tina for a ride the next day (my fever
had broken, but I had no business driving just yet), I simply typed “the eagle
has landed”. And scuttling back to the
clinic with my “goodie bag” (joke’s on
me!) and the same God-Forsaken room, we waited ‘patiently’ (if you will) for the benevolent Doctor
to grace us with his presence.
Unfortunately, “malevolent” would’ve
been a significantly more appropriate adjective, as I sat in a stupor whilst
Dr. “Ish-Kabish-I-AM-speaking-English” trampled all over my native tongue in an
attempt to explain my blood work, my mortally critical condition and my
perilously on-the-verge-of-death diagnosis.
Had he his way, apparently I needed to be shipped IMMEDIATELY to a
facility in The Valley for weeks of observation, followed by extensive visits
to his colleague Internist Dr. “Tabouleh-Salad”, wherein I could theoretically
live out the rest of my pathetic life in Western Civilization under the thumbs
of a team of Middle Eastern “shah-men” intent on dressing me in draperies and
pelting me into submission with rocks until I subserviently agreed to whatever
the f**k else they could think of to hemorrhage my insurance carrier.
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
Did he say “The Valley?” (Insert
blood-curdling scream!)
>>><<<
CHAPTER II:
Dawning of the Dead
Blissfully back under the care of my
Chicago-born primary Physician (now that’s an accent I can
understand!), he admitted to being baffled by the
interpretation from Evil Dr. Ish-Kabish.
“Your cholesterol’s good, thyroid’s good, you’re not anemic; frankly
there’s nothing here to suggest anything other than you probably had the flu
and maybe some wicked menopausal hot flashes that kept you from eating right
and getting well” he handed me my clean bill of health. “In fact the only number which strikes me as
kind of low is your platelet count.”
“Meaning?” I inquired.
“Eat more leafy greens and take a B-complex
vitamin with Folic Acid” he suggested.
“Platelets help to make your blood clot.”
And just like that, my world made
sense! No WONDER my lip had bled so
profusely! Why, I hadn’t eaten anything
green in probably three years weeks!
And as if The Universe wished me to be in on the joke, I couldn’t help
but laugh that with all of my vampirific tendencies of lurking about on
unemployed late nights, my monster bed lovingly named Vladimir and the fact
that for decades I’ve had a coffin as the centerpiece of my bat-cave’s décor,
OF COURSE my body had selected an appropriate albeit unusual malady! (I was
about to insert a blood-curdling scream of delight here, but until I ingested
some leafy greens, I didn’t wish to waste valuable platelets on “curdling” lest I needed to clot later.)
>>><<<
CHAPTER III:
Twilight of the Dead
With an early morning appointment
set up for a couple of routine ultrasounds as a baseline for Dr. Chicago, I
polished off my daily salad (no Cow, but plenty of cheese!) and chilled out for
the evening. As I had been forbidden any
food or water 8 hours prior to the testing, I’d barricaded the refrigerator so
as to remind me should I sleepwalk for some refreshing H2O in the middle of the
night, and as I slurped my last sip at 1:29am, I curled up in Vladimir for a
relaxing, rejuvenating respite.
*sniffle,
sniffle, sniffle*
And nonchalantly reaching for a
tissue, I innocently blew my nose as a warm stream of something very, VERY
wrong poured down my elbows. “Well, that
can’t be good” I surmised, stumbling into the bathroom for a look-see as oceans
of blood drained from my nostrils like a faucet without a stopper.
Oh, but I’d had nose bleeds before,
so how bad could it be? More than
likely, one hearty blow and the irritant would be dislodged, right?
WARNING:
Those of you who are TRULY faint of heart at the sight of blood, need IMMEDIATELY scroll down past the photo
below.)
Hmmm...
Forcefully pinching my nostrils shut
with fistfuls of tissues and toilet paper, I managed to scrounge under the sink
for some old tampons – a nifty little trick I’d learned from an episode of “Sex
and the City” – and cramming a couple of Tampax up my nares, I was certain that
I’d fixed the problem.
Unfortunately, saturating useless
tampon after useless tampon, each with its own gruesome dangling globule, I was
beginning to panic as the Tampax box was nearly empty, and the clock evinced
that I’d been hemorrhaging for a full 45 minutes. EEK!
“911, what is the address you’re
calling from?” the lady on my landline inquired as shared my location and asked
if she might send over a Paramedic to assist me. “You just sit tight Penny, and try not to
move too much” she spoke comfortingly.
Try not to move too much? But I had a million tasks to tackle before I
could POSSIBLY allow strangers into my Sanctuary!
Remarkably, I had the presence of
mind to kick a rock under the security gate to prop it open (as well as slide
an area rug over a carpet stain); I too managed to remember to leave my door
ajar with the living room lights on (brushing away a cobweb); I’d already
pulled on my skull and crossbones pajama pants, but as matching verdant
sneakers were un-tie-able with only one hand, the laces needed to be tucked
into the shoes themselves. Additionally,
I’d moved my purse with ID, cash, credit cards, proof of health insurance and
cell phone onto my coffin-table (and recycled an Amazon box so as not to be
deemed a ‘hoarder’), confirmed that my house keys were within reach, and
finally settling down in the bathroom to switch out my blood-soaked paper
towels (yeah, “twice as absorbent” my
ass), I waved in the Firemen and Paramedics who wished me to meet them
halfway. “OK” I replied with a
muffle. “But you’re going to need to see
this” I pointed to the carnage splattered all over my restroom like a scene
straight out of Hitchcock’s “Psycho”.
“Just sit down here” a female voice
guided me by the elbow to a chair as I couldn’t quite see through all of the
red streaks on my glasses. “I’m sure
it’s not that bad” she assured me as I twice challenged her choice to have me
lower my paper towels. “Okay, WOW, it IS
that bad!” she grimaced, immediately placing my hands back over my sanguine streaming
face. “We’re going to have to take you
to the hospital” she announced, waving over two EMTs (I couldn’t even see if they were handsome, darnit!) to strap me
onto the gurney.
“Where are we going?” I asked as the
rest of the life-saving team thoughtfully collected my purse and keys.
“Cedars-Sinai” someone replied.
Of course.
To be continued...
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