Earlier this summer my doctor informed me of her deep desire to put me under anesthesia and poke around on me a bit. And so I needed a ride to the hospital. I lined it up accordingly - a friend to drop me off, a friend to pick me up. The procedure wasn't a big deal and I figured I'd be trying on shoes at DSW by 3 p.m.
Anesthesia usually has minimal residual effects on me.
Hell yeah I want some more crackers! and When are you gonna wheel me out of this staph-infested hell-hole! is typically my attitude post such procedures.
And such was the case this time around. I was talking all kinds of smug smack in the recovery room, rolling my eyes at weaker, lesser minded patients, eating graham crackers and sucking down corn-syrupy Sprite like it was my job, scoffing at the suggestion I might want to nap later.
Hahaha, weaklings. Apparently you don't know who I am!
But anesthesia had different plans for me when they wheeled me out. Sinister, evil and totally bitchy plans, which consisted of handing me my ass for about 36 hours for my recovery room hubris.
Even though we weren't really there yet, my schmoyfriend was all, "I'll take you to the hospital... I guess." I believe his thought process went something like, "Well damn, she needs a ride to Christ. If I take her and act all nice then I'll get super duper schmoyfriend brownie points. But if she gets sick in my car, it's freakin' on."
Because the thought of him seeing me in a backless hospital gown (sexxxy!) and an operating room hair net was exactly what I thought we needed, I took him up on the offer and let my friends off the hook.
Hey, you guys, want to know a real quick way to get there with your schmoyfriend?! Nearly throw up in his fancy European car. Better still, nearly throw up in it about 5 times. Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! And demand he pull over each time you feel sick on the 1.6 mile drive from the hospital to downtown so you can puke… in the 'hood, y'all!
As I heaved alongside the car I thought, I am going to be so PISSED if I get shot just trying to vomit on Sycamore Street.
Suddenly, we were there.
What is the blue book value on vomiting in someone's car? What do you owe them for letting you suffer all their couch all night and move the rug around in the bathroom so you can more comfortably puke in their toilet?
Outside of the influence of being vomity, vulnerable and in a post-anesthesia death wish, I don't know what that price is. But under those influences I offered "something nice... how about dinner at Jeff Ruby's."
This sounds self-less, but it wasn't. I happen to love well-done filet mignon (don't hate), potatoes made with heavy cream (read, crack) and fancy wine. And for the generosity of letting me vomit at his place, the price tag was worth every penny.
I think we toasted to hospital gowns.
Sometimes you just need a ride. Like to the airport.
But sometimes you need more than a ride, sometimes you need someone to be there... to help you out of the car and to put the trash can beside the couch so you can throw up.