Good news: I found a place to live!
Did this stop the brain crabs?
But I don’t have time to get into any of the thousand things they’re screaming I got wrong. I’m sure you can guess anyway, those of you who have also suffered from brain crabs. And if you’ve never had them, fuck right off. Ooh, but first—tell me your secret ways of adulting with confidence?
The reason I’m not going to talk about all the things I’m probably doing wrong is that all packing and moving prep has ground to a halt while Husband is in the hospital.
Hold your sympathy for a minute while you hear what happened: he’s been complaining of stomach pains for three goddamned weeks—pain so bad it sends him to bed, pain that keeps him from eating or sleeping—along with occasional vomiting.
How many times do you think I suggested he see the doctor? Or go to the ER?
How long did it take him to finally go to his doctor?
And in front of that medical professional, did he mention all of his symptoms?
Right, so there we were in the ER at goddamned midnight because I’d been telling him all day that if he was that bad off we should just go in—as opposed to his treatment plan of laying down and waiting for it to go away on its own. And while we were at the ER, he casually mentioned that for the past three weeks he’d noticed—forgive the visual—his poop was completely black.
HIM: But that’s happened before and you said it was nothing!
ME: Okay, but that time you’d eaten half a pack of Oreos!
HIM: (grinning) Yeah.
ME: Did you eat half a pack of Oreos? For three fucking weeks straight?
HIM: No. That would have been awesome.
ME: (deep breath, prays for patience)
HIM: But I mentioned it to Dr. M, didn’t I?
ME: … No. You did not.
ER DOC: It seems… unlikely that he would have dismissed that symptom.
ME: It’s a red flag, hon. You’re bleeding into your stomach.
So they checked him in and the gastroenterologist said he’d never seen anything like it. Normally, said he, a person with such giant ulcers would be complaining of constant pain.
Fibro. Everything hurts, all the time, and he’s used to people telling him to ignore it. He has to ignore it.
Okay but, Gastro counters, he would be having symptoms. Like, for a long time.
I think back. Oh, like all that stuff I told him to mention to a doctor and he dismissed as “just how he is?”
Gastro is stunned. His jaw is on his lap and I’m sitting on the hospital bed in front of him while we wait for my husband to be returned to us. Yuh, he agrees, symptoms like those. Good catch.
I am pleased. Husband will hear about my excellent wifery and also how I am right about everything and should never be gainsaid again.
So now you know how I spent my weekend—running back and forth from the house to the hospital, soothing anxious animals who want to know where all our stuff went (in boxes! They watched it happen! It’s why they’re upset!) and entertaining a bored Husband, who made a full recovery and is now sulking about the fact that he has to avoid basically all his favorite foods for three whole months.
HIM: (via text) I’m bored…
ME: Do you want me to come back?
HIM: You don’t have to…
ME: I was going to try to get some packing done.
HIM: I mean, if you want to come back you can.
ME: I’ll be there in a few.
HIM: (as I enter his room) I got bored enough to call my parents.
ME: You didn’t give them our new address, did you?
HIM: (appalled) NO. I told them about my poop, we didn’t talk about anything personal.
* All gifs today are of the incomparably funny Grace Helbig. Who doesn’t know I exist, but I want to be her when I grow up, and she’s my spirit animal in the kitchen.