Christine is an *almost* forty year old, who’s love of her life is twenty-six years her senior. No, she’s not a gold-digger, and she’s not commenting on whether he’s a dirty old man or not. She lovingly refers to her husband as “Mister”. They are a team in this crazy thing called life and they both feel it’s each other’s job to make the other one happy. It’s true love. *le sigh* Christine has three kids; 16, 13, and 11. Mister is their step-dad, which everyone in the family agrees that he does a wonderful job at.
Something interesting about Christine’s life is that Mister is retired, so this means the two of them spend almost every waking moment together. This might drive some couples batty, but they thrive on it. (I get where they’re coming from. Nathan works at home and I homeschool. We’re together all-the-time and I wouldn’t have it any other way.) Christine and Mister are BFFs and love to do all sorts of stuff together, like ride their bikes. Um…no…not the pedal kind that I ride. I’m talking about freakin’ MOTORCYCLES!
Occasionally Christine will blog over at The Dash Between. Only occasionally because she’s busy living life to the fullest with Mister. I hope you enjoy her T.M.I. Tuesday story and keep an eye on her blog.
I went to the Urgent Care last week because I thought I was going to die. Or, at the very least, hack up a lung. Actually, I had been having a severe case of allergies since Mid-March and the week before I went to the Urgent Care my symptoms had become asthmatic.
I should note that I’ve never had asthma in my life. My son was diagnosed with Reactive Airway Disease when he was one and a half. Which is a really super-duper nice way for him to be diagnosed with asthma without actually being diagnosed with asthma and having that become an excluded medical condition with insurance in the future. So, having seen my son deal with his symptoms and subsequent care for it, I knew I was right with my self-diagnosis.
I ended up using his inhaler and nebulizer until the night before my Urgent Care visit. The meds were no longer working, and I could not breathe without coughing (which leads to more not-breathing). After a miserable night I told the Mister, “[wheeze-cough] We musssst [cough-wheeze] goooooo to [wheeze-wheeze-wheeze] the Urgent Caaaaaaaaaaaaaare [struggle-wheeze-wheeze-cough] right away [sighhhhh-wheeze]. You know when you can’t breathe really well so all your words end up getting drawn out? Sort of like if you might struggling to move something really heavy and big and you just groan out some weird sound? Yeah, that’s how I sounded to Mister.
So he rushes me to Urgent Care and as I walk in he tells me there are face-mask thingies at the counter. Sigh. I don’t want to look like I’m contagious with some horrible disease, but I put it on because I can’t stop my wheezy-cough thing I got going on. I grab the paperwork to fill out, and while I’m doing that two dudes walk in to be seen as well. I didn’t pay much attention to them until I had a coughing fit while doing the paperwork. The kind of coughing fit that is so hard on you that you actually cough-fart. Yeah, that happened. But I felt so much like crap I didn’t care WHO heard me fart, as long as somebody could help me to breathe. And ass-breathing didn’t count. Knowwhatimean?
The nurse calls me back, and I get back to the room. I had thought Mister was following me, because I could barely speak without going into some wheezy-cough spasm. By the time I got to the room, I noticed he stayed in the waiting area. Ugh. So, I wheeze-cough-groan-talked to her about what was going on and she got the doctor for me. While she did that, I went out to the waiting area and told the Mister I needed his speaking services ASAP. The doctor came in and asked me what was going on. Didn’t I just freakin’ tell the nurse who told you?! I start in and Mister, thankfully, stops me and takes over. Conservation of oxygen, you know?! You’d think the doctor would consider that too! He listens, does the usual eyes/mouth/ear inspection and tells me I’m gonna get an xray, steroid shot, and another breathing treatment. So off he goes, and back comes the nurse.
And we FINALLY get to the TMI part. Although the cough-fart was TMI too, because I’d normally NEVER admit that. The nurse comes in with this big ol’ shot and tells me she has to stick me in the butt with it. I get off the table, unzip my shorts, and pull down the left side so she has access to my somewhat voluminous ass. All right, it’s huge, okay? And here’s the ensuing conversation:
Nurse: I need you to move your hand for me.
Me: Oops, sorry!
Nurse: No problem, I just need to find a little corner here.
Brad: I don’t think it’s possible to find a “little” corner there.
Me: [gasp/laugh/wheeze/hack/groan/laugh] You booger!
Nurse: Don’t worry, I’ll smack him for ya!
Then, to make matters worse I tell her, “I remember getting a shot from a male Physician’s Assistant when I was 13. He slapped my ass and gave me the shot and then asked me which hurt worse. My mother about slapped him across the room.”
Silent pause. The nurse replies, “Well THAT was highly inappropriate.” Yeah. It totally was. Why did I just tell her that? I blame the oxygen deprivation.
Anyway, all is well now after the lovely meds they gave me. Also, the Mister shared the conversation at the dinner table. My son laughed so hard he fell out of his chair. My two daughters had tears streaming down their faces. I sorta made matters worse when I said, “The nurse said the needle would pinch, but the liquid would burn. Funny thing is, must’ve been my big ass cushion that kept me from feeling the needle.” And, everyone at the table lost it. Again.
Looks like the joke is on me. Literally.
Do you have a fun story for T.M.I. Tuesday? Send it to me: email@example.com and you might be featured here next time!