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!