18 March 2009
My Monday Night
Taylor here. So I was having constant chest pains all last weekend -- nothing terribly painful; just a constant pressure. Of course, that meant the whole weekend I was thinking thoughts like "should I jack up my life insurance?" and "Which one of my friends is Steph going to marry when my heart stops this week?"
Finally, the pain worsened enough to scare me into submission. Monday night I spent three hours in the emergency room, where I explained my symptoms to at least 15 people, was prepped for an IV (on both arms b/c they screwed up the first drilling site) to which I was never hooked up, got an EKG and a chest x-ray, and read the latest issue of Probate & Property (riveting, of course). Oh, and I spent at least twenty minutes throughout the night staring at my heart and blood-oxygen monitors, seeing if I could make the numbers go up or down just by thinking about it. (For the curious among you, it worked.)
After all my tests were done, the doctor (who could not have been more than two years older than me -- is that not scary?) came in to give me my prognosis. I have to admit, for a few seconds I was terrified. Then he uttered those glorious words: "You have pneumonia."
I never thought I'd be so happy to hear that I had contracted the eighth-most deadly disease in America. Of course, when you're thinking that your bad heart is about to make you another government statistic, the mind finds joy in strange places.
And, to make things even better, it looks like I have a bacterial infection, meaning they loaded me up with all sorts of wonderful pills. Pills are good -- they make it so I'm not contagious and they let me go to work when I probably should be home resting. If everything works out, I'll be clear before the baby comes.
All in all I feel fine -- just playing the waiting game while my lungs drain themselves. And, yes, I am accepting sympathy cookies for anyone who's thinking of dropping them off.