I have terrible vision.
My prescription is something like -6.00, -4.75, for you optometry nerds out there. Really, really bad. (I accidentally put my boyfriend's contacts in my eyes this morning and his eyes are even worse, if that's possible. I thought I'd awoken with supersight! I could see the details on the details of EVERYTHING.) I always need to wear contacts or glasses.
The weekend before I leave for college for the first time ever, I had gone downtown to have a proper send-off with my dear friends at our local hookah bar. In all these popular TV shows, they have folks hanging out at the local bar (which is always too loud and full of sloppy people in the real life) or the local coffee shop (also loud, replace sloppy with pretentious). Nope, the hookah bar was "our place." We would smoke a couple, dance the Cupid Shuffle every now and then to earn a free shisha (is dancing in exchange for goods kind of like prostitution? Damn.) and generally have an uproariously good time.
However, there were two things significant about this weekend. Maybe three.
1) Hometown College just went back into session. And HC kids are notorious (like, Playboy top list notorious) for knowing how to party. Or going over the top with the partying.
2) My family would return that evening, at midnight, from a two-week jaunt to Alaska. I missed them terrible and had painted a huge welcome home sign that hung in front of the house.
3) I was super emotionally strung out after my BFF getting into a vicious car accident (with who turned out to be her true love soulmate, and they met at said hookah bar) and getting "back together" with my *~*high school sweetheart*~* Vomit. Vomit. We decided to get back together for the whole week I had left in town. Soooo romantic. Not.
So I am super emotional, surrounded by raging college kids, when I realize the clock is fast approaching midnight. It is IMPERATIVE that I be home to greet my family, because we are supertight and I missed them terribly and... I don't know, I would have just felt like a shit daughter if I couldn't manage to greet them at the door after a two and a half week absence. Must run out the door and hop in my car. Must get home. NOW.
Have you ever tried to run after smoking for two hours straight?
Run, run, pant pant, wheeze, wheeze, oh God, I'm going to die, my lungs, unghhh... after sitting on the sidewalk for five minutes, regaining my breath, I hopped in my car.
And gunned it.
I was flying so fast, I almost breezed through the police checkpoint.
I slowed to the officer waving me over, and rolled down my window. It must have smelled like a cloud of smoke billowed out. The hookah smell definitely soaked into my clothes, hair, upholstery, ect. (Thank you, Bernie the Honda Accord, for being so forgiving.) Here I trembled, a very clearly almost freshman girl, reeking of smoke, speeding, and my first confrontation with the police.
Don't taze me, bro?
Officer: You were going pretty fast there, miss.
Me: Oh um, I don't know, there's a lot of hills on this road. (Wait, what the hell does that have to do with anything?)
Officer: Hmmm, yes. What were you doing downtown? (What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? It is now 11:55. I need to get home. Puppy-dog eyes: GO. Chin tremble: GO.)
Me: I was just saying goodbye to some friends before we all go to different colleges... forever. Please, officer, I just want to go home and see my family. Sniff, sniff, they've been on vacation for weeks and I really miss them.
Officer: Sure thing, just let me see your ID. Then you should go straight home. You shouldn't be downtown. (Rude. I can handle myself, thankyouverymuch)
He took my ID. And examined it. And flipped it over.
He continued to hold my ID and glare at me with an increasingly suspicious look.
Me: Is anything wrong? (I don't have a fake; it's not expired; Ireallyfreakingneedtogethome; shouldn't you be bothering other people for breathalyzer tests?)
Officer: Well it says on here that you need corrective lenses to drive.
Me: Yes... ?
Officer: Where are your lenses?
Me: I have contacts. They're in my eyes.
Officer: Are they? Are they REALLY?
Okay, WTF.
There were drunk, STD-laden college kids careening around town in Hummers, and I was being harassed over a license restriction. Tax dollars at work, as they say. If I was going to lie about something, wouldn't it be the pervasive odor of smoke, or the reason I was downtown, or about being drunk/high/trafficking illegal immigrants or whatever else the kids do these days? Why would I LIE about contact lenses?
Me: I have them in my eyes so I can see.
Officer: Are you sure?
Okay, it was almost midnight and I was already walking on an emotional highwire. Tears started coming.
Me: YES. Yes I am wearing contacts. In my eyes. I can't see without them. If you want to ask me how many fingers you're holding up, I'll do it. PLEASE. I need to get home. I can... umm... I can take them out and show them to you! Here!
The second I touched my eye the officer recoiled in disgust.
Um, rude.
He warily said that he believed me and handed my license back slowly. I rolled up the window and gunned it. Again. Surprisingly no one left their breathalyzer/contact-alyzer posts to chase after the girl careening 15 miles above the speed limit.
And after all that strife, my family was late getting in.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
The Heart Attack Incident: Another Caffeine Story
As I sit here, drinking my (not-very-caffeinated) Sprite and reading my last post, I realize two things:
1) This damn Sprite is not gonna cut it.
2) At least I'm not as bad as my father.
You know how doctors are supposed to be about health and stuff? They make you feel all bad for pumping your body with carcinogens and lard, but then after work you see them puffing on a cig or eating a whole box of donuts, and you suddenly realize: DOCTORS ARE JUST AS BAD AS REGULAR FOLKS. OR WORSE.
The MD is not a doctorate in common sense.
In the days of my youth (i.e. 9th grade maybe?) Dr. Dad was diligently in the throes of preparing for a super huge important major big presentation. Dr. Dad gives lots of lectures and presentations, as one of his job titles is "Overlord of the Residents" or something similar. I had even written skits for some of these presentations, usually involving some boring policy change and my costar (little watz) facing a miserable fate. But this presentation was A BIG DEAL. He commandeered the formal dining room as a full workspace (not like we have formal dinners anyways). He constantly asked me questions about basic powerpoint functions (to create a new slide, you need to click "insert slide." No, no, next tab. SLIDE. Insert. Slide.). I think he even offered me 50 cents to practice his presentation in front of an audience.
Of course I have no recollection of what this presentation was about. I thiiiiink it was about the new HIPPA regulations (Like I said, boring policy stuff) and it was to like, a bunch of higher ups and his resident underlings. Or something.
I know Dr. Dad gave a presentation about HIPPA at some point, because I went to the dentist a couple months later and he began explaining the new privacy rules to my mom - and I interrupted him, saying "yeah, yeah, we know all about HIPPA, but you should clarify XYZ because it's confusing to laypeople." I am now used to that startled and slightly suspicious look from medical professionals.
Anyway, the night before the presentation arrived. We didn't bother my dad as he sat in his presentation bunker. I tried to answer Dr. Dad's technology questions with minimal amounts of snideness. I talked him out of using ridiculous animations for making the text appear and crazy slide transitions. I advised him to not wear a stupid tie. Then I went to bed.
I woke up, startled, sometime in the middle of the night. There was no light under my door - we always left the hall lamp on. I decided to venture out and get a glass of water, maybe say hello to Dr. Dad if he was still working -
WHO THE HELL IS ON THE COUCH.
Opening my door (I'm on the second floor, with a cut-away balcony that hangs over our living room) spilled light downstairs, on a strange figure ON OUR COUCH, covered by some sort of a coat?
This clearly wasn't Lady Mother, as her moving to the couch in case of Dr. Dad's snoring involves
1) her facing the other end of the couch
2) a pile of 3 or 4 blankets
This ... person was not one of my parents. But what sort of murderer/rapist walks into a house and falls asleep? Were my parents alive? Gripping one of my BETA club awards as possible protection / defensive projectile, I determined to slip across the balcony to wake up my brother. He tends to be more rational in these situations. I began to creep -
The creature shuffled and turned on the lamp. I bit back a scream and clutched my trophy for dear life. Ready to strike.
The person shuffled out from her windbreaker and groggily identified herself as our neighbor. A bit more light proved this to be true, and I slightly loosened my grip on my projectile. Only slightly.
"Why are you here? Where are my parents? I'm waking up my brother." I tried to mask my fear with being angry. Didn't work well.
"Oh, don't worry," she groggily said, pulling her windbreaker back over her. "Your mom had to drive your dad to the hospital because he was having bad chest pains. She'll be back in the morning. Go back to sleep."
GO BACK TO SLEEP?!
This woman casually informed me that my father showed major signs of a HEART ATTACK serious enough to warrant a trip to the hospital AS A PATIENT and I only found out by accident because my parents DIDN'T BOTHER TELLING US.
WHAT IF HE DIED?
I went back to my room, turned every light on (because clearly this makes matters better) and pulled out my middle-school diary. I'd updated it once a week, sometimes monthly, usually yammering about my crush-of-the-day or how much I hated my parents. I turned to an entry from a couple months ago, with an angry black scrawl five-lines high: I HATE MY DAD SO MUCH I HOPE HE DIES. I crossed it out. One, two, three lines through it.
"Please don't let my dad die," I wrote next to it.
I paced my room. I tried to read. I decided not to wake my younger brother up, but to let him enjoy his last few hours thinking he had a dad. What was the last thing I'd said to him? He'd said "goodnight, I love you," and I'd said something along the lines of "you're stupid, don't wear a dumb tie." Worst daughter in the world.
I finally conked out and woke up again around 6am, and this time saw mom was downstairs. I ran to wake up my brother, with some jumbled freak out yelling at both him and my exhausted mom:
"Is dad okay / why didn't you tell me / heart attack / stupid tie / almost threw my BETA Club award at the neighbor / didn't get to say goodbye / what the hell is going on?"
"Did he... have a heart attack?" Little Watz asked slowly, getting to the point.
Lady Mother explained that Dr. Dad had woken her up around midnight with chest pains, tightness in his chest, a bit of tingling, fluttery heart palpitations - all classic heart attack signs. Add to a history of high blood pressure / cholesterol, a slight beer gut, and a doctor's instincts, and he needed to go get checked out. Immediately.
Lady Mother, in classic deal-with-shit mode, talked him into going to the hospital, called a neighbor, called the hospital, drove him, dealt with the emergency room folks (which probably meant prying Dr. Dad away from 20 different conversations. He is kind of popular at the hospital.), got him into tests and whatnot, and came back home in time to drive us to school. Wonderwoman.
She told it that it wasn't a heart attack, but it could still be something serious so they were running more tests.
And yes, this was the morning of his VERY BIG DEAL presentation.
Cut to that evening. Dr. Dad blasted through every stress test and the like with flying colors. Midway through the day he tried to use his sly bedside manner to get out of being a patient and go give his presentation. No dice. The people in charge (Overlords of the Overlord of Residents?) were so shocked/amazed that Dr. Dad was actually sick, that they of course moved everything and rescheduled. People kept visiting to make sure he was alive, and to also see the mighty Dr. Dad as a patient. This must be what celebrity rehab is like.
Dr. Dad has been sick maybe four times in my life. However, every time has warranted a trip to the emergency room.
After wowing everyone in cardiac-utopia with his amazing physical prowess (though hopefully not too many hot young nurses, heh heh) and getting results saying there was a 95% chance of him NOT having a heart attack in the next five years, they came upon a solution.
HE HAD DRANK TOO MUCH CAFFEINE.
It is possible to overdose on caffeine! In preparation for this REALLY BIG DEAL talk, the day before he had drank three or four cup of coffee, multiple sodas, and a cup of black tea.
Dr. Dad blames the tea.
The insane amount of caffeine in his body, as a usual one-cup-of-joe-a-day guy, added to the perfectionism stress, made his body freak out. I mean, really. HEART PALPITATIONS. Who gets heart palpitations?
I told him he was stupid and hoped he wouldn't wear and ugly tie when he finally gave his presentation.
When a brief wave of guilt sweeps over me at my third soda of the day, I think to myself: "At least I've never been to the emergency room for it. Now that's a caffeine problem."
1) This damn Sprite is not gonna cut it.
2) At least I'm not as bad as my father.
You know how doctors are supposed to be about health and stuff? They make you feel all bad for pumping your body with carcinogens and lard, but then after work you see them puffing on a cig or eating a whole box of donuts, and you suddenly realize: DOCTORS ARE JUST AS BAD AS REGULAR FOLKS. OR WORSE.
The MD is not a doctorate in common sense.
In the days of my youth (i.e. 9th grade maybe?) Dr. Dad was diligently in the throes of preparing for a super huge important major big presentation. Dr. Dad gives lots of lectures and presentations, as one of his job titles is "Overlord of the Residents" or something similar. I had even written skits for some of these presentations, usually involving some boring policy change and my costar (little watz) facing a miserable fate. But this presentation was A BIG DEAL. He commandeered the formal dining room as a full workspace (not like we have formal dinners anyways). He constantly asked me questions about basic powerpoint functions (to create a new slide, you need to click "insert slide." No, no, next tab. SLIDE. Insert. Slide.). I think he even offered me 50 cents to practice his presentation in front of an audience.
Of course I have no recollection of what this presentation was about. I thiiiiink it was about the new HIPPA regulations (Like I said, boring policy stuff) and it was to like, a bunch of higher ups and his resident underlings. Or something.
I know Dr. Dad gave a presentation about HIPPA at some point, because I went to the dentist a couple months later and he began explaining the new privacy rules to my mom - and I interrupted him, saying "yeah, yeah, we know all about HIPPA, but you should clarify XYZ because it's confusing to laypeople." I am now used to that startled and slightly suspicious look from medical professionals.
Anyway, the night before the presentation arrived. We didn't bother my dad as he sat in his presentation bunker. I tried to answer Dr. Dad's technology questions with minimal amounts of snideness. I talked him out of using ridiculous animations for making the text appear and crazy slide transitions. I advised him to not wear a stupid tie. Then I went to bed.
I woke up, startled, sometime in the middle of the night. There was no light under my door - we always left the hall lamp on. I decided to venture out and get a glass of water, maybe say hello to Dr. Dad if he was still working -
WHO THE HELL IS ON THE COUCH.
Opening my door (I'm on the second floor, with a cut-away balcony that hangs over our living room) spilled light downstairs, on a strange figure ON OUR COUCH, covered by some sort of a coat?
This clearly wasn't Lady Mother, as her moving to the couch in case of Dr. Dad's snoring involves
1) her facing the other end of the couch
2) a pile of 3 or 4 blankets
This ... person was not one of my parents. But what sort of murderer/rapist walks into a house and falls asleep? Were my parents alive? Gripping one of my BETA club awards as possible protection / defensive projectile, I determined to slip across the balcony to wake up my brother. He tends to be more rational in these situations. I began to creep -
The creature shuffled and turned on the lamp. I bit back a scream and clutched my trophy for dear life. Ready to strike.
The person shuffled out from her windbreaker and groggily identified herself as our neighbor. A bit more light proved this to be true, and I slightly loosened my grip on my projectile. Only slightly.
"Why are you here? Where are my parents? I'm waking up my brother." I tried to mask my fear with being angry. Didn't work well.
"Oh, don't worry," she groggily said, pulling her windbreaker back over her. "Your mom had to drive your dad to the hospital because he was having bad chest pains. She'll be back in the morning. Go back to sleep."
GO BACK TO SLEEP?!
This woman casually informed me that my father showed major signs of a HEART ATTACK serious enough to warrant a trip to the hospital AS A PATIENT and I only found out by accident because my parents DIDN'T BOTHER TELLING US.
WHAT IF HE DIED?
I went back to my room, turned every light on (because clearly this makes matters better) and pulled out my middle-school diary. I'd updated it once a week, sometimes monthly, usually yammering about my crush-of-the-day or how much I hated my parents. I turned to an entry from a couple months ago, with an angry black scrawl five-lines high: I HATE MY DAD SO MUCH I HOPE HE DIES. I crossed it out. One, two, three lines through it.
"Please don't let my dad die," I wrote next to it.
I paced my room. I tried to read. I decided not to wake my younger brother up, but to let him enjoy his last few hours thinking he had a dad. What was the last thing I'd said to him? He'd said "goodnight, I love you," and I'd said something along the lines of "you're stupid, don't wear a dumb tie." Worst daughter in the world.
I finally conked out and woke up again around 6am, and this time saw mom was downstairs. I ran to wake up my brother, with some jumbled freak out yelling at both him and my exhausted mom:
"Is dad okay / why didn't you tell me / heart attack / stupid tie / almost threw my BETA Club award at the neighbor / didn't get to say goodbye / what the hell is going on?"
"Did he... have a heart attack?" Little Watz asked slowly, getting to the point.
Lady Mother explained that Dr. Dad had woken her up around midnight with chest pains, tightness in his chest, a bit of tingling, fluttery heart palpitations - all classic heart attack signs. Add to a history of high blood pressure / cholesterol, a slight beer gut, and a doctor's instincts, and he needed to go get checked out. Immediately.
Lady Mother, in classic deal-with-shit mode, talked him into going to the hospital, called a neighbor, called the hospital, drove him, dealt with the emergency room folks (which probably meant prying Dr. Dad away from 20 different conversations. He is kind of popular at the hospital.), got him into tests and whatnot, and came back home in time to drive us to school. Wonderwoman.
She told it that it wasn't a heart attack, but it could still be something serious so they were running more tests.
And yes, this was the morning of his VERY BIG DEAL presentation.
Cut to that evening. Dr. Dad blasted through every stress test and the like with flying colors. Midway through the day he tried to use his sly bedside manner to get out of being a patient and go give his presentation. No dice. The people in charge (Overlords of the Overlord of Residents?) were so shocked/amazed that Dr. Dad was actually sick, that they of course moved everything and rescheduled. People kept visiting to make sure he was alive, and to also see the mighty Dr. Dad as a patient. This must be what celebrity rehab is like.
Dr. Dad has been sick maybe four times in my life. However, every time has warranted a trip to the emergency room.
After wowing everyone in cardiac-utopia with his amazing physical prowess (though hopefully not too many hot young nurses, heh heh) and getting results saying there was a 95% chance of him NOT having a heart attack in the next five years, they came upon a solution.
HE HAD DRANK TOO MUCH CAFFEINE.
It is possible to overdose on caffeine! In preparation for this REALLY BIG DEAL talk, the day before he had drank three or four cup of coffee, multiple sodas, and a cup of black tea.
Dr. Dad blames the tea.
The insane amount of caffeine in his body, as a usual one-cup-of-joe-a-day guy, added to the perfectionism stress, made his body freak out. I mean, really. HEART PALPITATIONS. Who gets heart palpitations?
I told him he was stupid and hoped he wouldn't wear and ugly tie when he finally gave his presentation.
When a brief wave of guilt sweeps over me at my third soda of the day, I think to myself: "At least I've never been to the emergency room for it. Now that's a caffeine problem."
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