Drink Your Juice and Tip Your Stylist

AAAAARGH, so I’m back from Hospital Part Deux, and I have to sincerely thank all of you for worrying about me so much!  Plus, I know you’re just dying to know what I did to my fool self this time.  So here ’tis:

Friday before last (May 4) , I went to get my hairs cut in preparation for going to a Kentucky Derby Party with the lovely and talented Cinema Sugar (who seems to have deleted her blog for some reason and can expect an ass-kicking).  Anyhoo, the little hair gal had just washed my hair and I was sitting in the chair chit-chatting… when I started to get that feeling… that feeling that I was gonna pass out…

Now, I am very familiar with that feeling, since as a child I would faint at the drop of a… well, a small child.  Everything got fuzzy and far away, there was a roaring in my ears, and when I tried to say something to the stylist, I couldn’t talk.  Next thing I remember, she and Chuckweasel were standing over me (still in the chair, thank goodness!) discussing whether or not they should call 911.

Yes, Hooligans.  I had my very own Steel Magnolias moment.

So, Shelby drank her juice and all was as well as one can expect.  I went home with my partial haircut and promised to eat something to steady out my blood sugar (no, I’m not diabetic, but I do drop like a rock if you let me get too hungry).  Next day, still feeling shitty, but less clammy and sweaty, so I continued to eat even though I wasn’t hungry because I didn’t want to faint again.

AND WE ALL KNOW WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I EAT.

By Tuesday night, the pancreas was fucking KILLING me, so I made Chuckweasel take me to the ER Wednesday morning.  The pain wasn’t EXACTLY the same as before, and I didn’t want to be that asshole who ignores the symptoms of a heart attack until she just keels over flat dead.

Fun Fact:  excruciating chest pain gets you back to be seen at the ER in nothing flat!

So I spent Wednesday night, all of Thursday and Friday morning  in the hospital, having every test known to man to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me.  I didn’t care what they did, as long as the morphine kept a-comin’.

Final decision — heart and lungs are fine, brain is fine (HA!), but pancreas is very angry.  So I have yet another kind of pill I have to take when I eat, and the rest of it is pretty much a low-fat-low-salt-no-booze diet plus pain management (which is an important part that was MISSING from their previous plans, tyvm!).

So, in the words of the Great Sage Granny Weatherwax, “I aten’t dead.”  Get your filthy paws off my stuff.

PS:  Part 2 of this post tomorrow — in which I will reveal a little known facet of the haircutting industry!

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33 Comments

Filed under Chuckweasel, Getchore LEARN on!, La Vida Loca, Reality Bites, White Man's Medicine, Youse Guys

33 responses to “Drink Your Juice and Tip Your Stylist

  1. Ughhh sorry you were sick! Damnit pancreas, BE NICER.

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  2. LeeAnn

    I reported all your pancreas adventures to H, who promptly connected my recent gallbladder fun to it, saying “You know, gallbladder removal is just the gateway to bad pancreas behavior enabling. You’re a codependent enabler. Nah nah nanny nanny boo-boo!”
    I told him to shut up, the psycho-babbling hippy freak. Some people!
    We’re glad you’re back.

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  3. Hey now! Don’t be trying to replicate Shelby scenes from that movie. We all remember what happened to her in the end, right? And I don’t wanna see DSM have to rail against God in a graveyard after your funeral, surrounded by all your bloggy friends.

    Can we just get this thing fixed already and be done with it, hmmm? Cool, thanks.

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    • DSM has a history of inappropriate behavior in graveyards already, so I’ll do my best! And apparently they can take it completely out (which turns you diabetic) or you can just take the pills and grin and bear it… I’m choosing option 2.

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  4. Your pancreas needs to find its happy place.

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  5. Aten’t dead yet? Aw man. And I was about to come over and start putting my name on the stuff I want.

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  6. That sucks so bad. I passed out in public once in a family diner and whoo boy, people freaked the fuck out. I also landed on my face and got nine stitches, so all the blood might have had something to do with all the freak out.

    OK.

    Glad you’re feeling better.

    I can’t stop thinking about the fact that you only got half a hair cut. I know there are more important things, but… Ah… You DID go back and get it fixed right?

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    • I used to pass out fairly frequently, so I’ve got no embarrassment left about it. The worst was when I keeled over AT A BAR while waiting for my food… I wasn’t even drinking and yet I clocked myself in the side of the head on the bar rail. Good times.

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  7. A Reader

    Glad you’re doing better.

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  8. Keep feeling better, great sage Hoody!

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  9. I am glad you aren’t completely fuckered. But dang girl that pancreas of yours sounds like a real old shitbag. I’m sure your half haircut looks awesome. It’s important to look your best when your body starts failing you. Get better x

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    • luckily she had only done the bottom layer — she realized I was unconscious when she pulled the clip out to start the top layer and my head fell back with it!

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  10. Cinema Sugar

    Yeah, sorry about that – you can delete the blog link. There’s no way I’m gonna keep up with it and don’t want one sitting there neglected.

    Lessons I learned from this are the following:
    1. what a pancreas does (kind of. Okay, not really) and
    2. googled diagrams of pancreases (pancreii?) would have one believe they are penis-shaped

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  11. Shelby! Open your eyes, Shelby! Jack junior wants you to open your eyes!

    I thought I was having a heart attack last week but turns out it was just gas. So glad I didn’t go to the ER after all.

    Treat them pancreas nice, girl. We can’t afford them getting all pissy on you again.

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  12. Oh wow. I didn’t even know the pancreas had a function and now I’m getting all edumacated and shit! I was going to offer to trade medical issues, but since I don’t get the pain management — never mind. Your deal is better.

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  13. I’m glad it wasn’t a heart attack, at least.

    I thought I had a heart attack once — I was sleeping on my back, and I woke up with this feeling of intense pressure on my chest. When I opened my eyes I realized it was my 16-pound cat.

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    • Yeah, Callie Jean has taken to sleeping on my chest as a protective barrier against kitten kicks. The younger kittehs don’t understand that using Mommy’s chest as a launch pad isn’t the best idea right now!

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  14. This might be the closest I ever get to knowing Julia Roberts. I appreciate the sacrifices you make for me.

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