Saturday, January 10, 2015

Somebody Get Me A Doctor: A Pox On The House of April

Somebody get me a doctor. You better call up the ambulance I'm, deep in shock. Overloaded baby, I can hardly walk. Somebody get me a doctor (Ooh!) Somebody get me a doctor. How’s my health you ask? Well let me tell you… Somebody Get Me A Doctor; Van Halen

A pox on the house of April:

Common Colds and Ear infections: Before coming to Haiti, I had been battling a cold, given to me by my boyfriend. That cold decided to morph into something else.  Thusly, I came down with an ear infection to end all ear infections. I truly felt as though my ear was rupturing or that maybe my brain was going to start pouring out of my ears. I wasn’t really sure. So that sucked.

Food Poisoning: My Aunt and Uncle have a beach house and that’s where we went to ring in the new year. New Year’s eve there was an amazing dinner. I made sure not to over eat or to mix to many things.  Before going to bed (after midnight 1/1/15) I made, what can only be described as a colossal error in judgement, and had 2 oysters. In hindsight, they likely had been there for a few hours and I do recall noticing that they were sitting a puddle of water were the ice had been. But-fuck it, I’m on vacation and had them anyway. So you can imagine what happened next. At about 2 am my new teeny tiny stomach decided to take out its anger and frustration out on me. Thus started horrifying diarrhea and projectile vomiting on and off all night and through-out the next day. While I felt better that day, I didn’t eat anything and wasn’t feeling all that great. Which leads us to the following night/morning (1/2/15).

Head injuries and midnight runs to the hospital: Here’s what I remember; I remember waking up to go to the bathroom (Remember my stomach was still pissed at me) next thing I remember is my aunt and cousin standing over me calling my name. I’m pretty sure I got slapped, hard, a few times. I remember thinking that my nose was bleeding and I said as much when they were trying to get me up. My aunt took me to bathroom and told me that it was my head and not my nose. Full disclosure, I freaked out when saw all the blood—but my stomach was still annoyed and I said so to my aunt/cousin.  Someone, I’m not sure who, escorted me back to the bowl. I was in bad, bad shape kids.

Picture this. Me, a grown woman of 42, sitting on the toilet, dizzy as hell, bowels ravaging with an audience.  An audience? Yes. An audience. 2 Aunts one of whom was praying out loud. I think the Hail Mary, 1 (hysterical) mother, 1 (panicked) father, 1 Uncle, 2 cousins, 1 housekeeper, 1 cousin-in-law and I think someone else. My dad picked up a wrapped sanitary napkin and starting furiously fanning me with it, like a man possessed.  When he realized that wasn’t working—maybe because I was looking at him like he was stupid, he got a fan. Out came the—get ready for this cause it’s a good one—the smelling salts. Yes kids. Smelling salts. Smelling salts were followed by a demitasse (cause we’re fancy) of sugar water.

The mad mob of Haitians, force the sugar water, which was really more a simple syrup if you ask me, down my throat.  I will grudgingly admit that this helped perk me up some and I’m was feeling a bit more like myself. This is when I realized that I needed to, you know, take care of business (i.e. wipe my ass). Here’s the breakdown:
Me: I have to wipe.  (No one makes a move) So I say it again, louder and en francis.
Me: I have wipe myself.
Everyone: OK so go ahead.
Me: NO. I need some privacy. They reluctantly leave the bathroom, expect for my aunt.
Me: Ummm you need to go.
Aunt: Oh.
She actually didn’t leave, but just barely, turned her back. I had very little fight in me and figured that was the best I was going to get. I took care of what I needed to and got up to move towards the sink.
Aunt: What are you doing?
Me: Washing my hands.
Aunt: Oh (But somehow giving me the impression that she wished that I was less concerned about washing my hands.)
Uncle: (In the background) April’s feeling better. She’s being smart again.

While I was battling for some semblance of pride, a decision was made to take me to the hospital.
Me: I need to put a bra on.
Everyone: NO you don’t. Let’s go.

So off I go, tits bouncing and swinging. In the car: My mother, my cousin, her husband and the dude who works for my family. First stop Urgent care. Fail. Urgent care closed. Next stop hospital in next town. Cousin-in-law driving like a lunatic.
Me: You drive to fast and you’re on the wrong side of the road.
CIL: Sorry. (But not really listening to me at all)
We get to the hospital and usual happens. My mother—teacher by trade, not a medical professional, pulling a Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment telling the nurse that I need an IV.
Me: I don't need an IV.
Mom: Yes you do.
Me: (Defeated) OK then.
Nurse, maybe just to shut my mom up gives me an IV—which after about 15 mins, even though I hate to admit it, helps me feel better.

Hop, skip jump, got a few stitches, some pain killers, antibiotics and back home I went.  More embarrassed than anything.

For the rest of the trip my family have been force feeding me Gatorade (think those fois gras ducks) and asking me to eat. In the entire history of my existence no one has begged me to eat. EVER.

I’ll tell you this, it touched me to see my mother cry when telling the story. I do, however, feel like every time she tells it, I get closer to being in a coma. My family loves me and they were concerned. I get it.

While I am feeling better, I don’t quite feel myself and have an appointment to see the doctor this week.


  1. its disgusting that you put those pics in. whats wrong w you

    1. IMTHATDUDE: I'm trying to give the people some context!

  2. Best blog addition ever!!