A Side of Autoimmune with your Corona

The following post is centered on diabetes and coronavirus. If you’re suffering from either and can’t take the mental trauma right now, please don’t read.  P.S. – I’m considering starting a second blog that either simply looks better than the piece of garbage I have now, or is centered around my chronic illness and my family life, so people know what’s up. Because hey, who doesn’t enjoy serious, soul sucking insight? Am I right?

Right?

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  Bueller? Here we go.

 I know we’re all being bombarded with COVID-19 in our lives, but in this post I want to address the crowd (because you are a crowd, and that’s the problem) who isn’t worried about getting the virus or passing it to others, and has decided not to practice social distancing. Now, I’m not trying to make you care about other people because honestly? That’s just not going to happen.  However, it is evident you care a lot about YOU.

And, because you care so much about you, yourself, and…I? (that didn’t work the way I planned) allow me to give you an important piece of information that could change your nonchalant attitude about your asymptomatic, Typhoid Mary self:

Even if you just get the “sniffles” from the virus, you could still walk away with a permanent AUTOIMMUNE DISEASE.  Welcome to Type 1 diabetes, my friends! (Or lupus, or Sjögren's syndrome, etc.)

Viral infections, even when they aren’t serious, have the rare potential of giving you an autoimmune disease because your body gets confused when fighting a virus and your overzealous cells go rogue and start to attack your body instead. That’s an autoimmune disease – your immune system attacking you, typically a specific organ or type of cell.  You can’t “fix” it, and genetic history doesn’t necessarily matter.  No one in your family has an autoimmune disease? Surprise, you still can.

There’s still a lot of unknowns about coronavirus and which types of viruses trigger autoimmune diseases. Maybe coronavirus can’t trigger this type of response (my belief is that any virus can).  Still, do you really want to take that chance?

I believe this is how I developed diabetes and no, it doesn’t matter how healthy you are or how many reps you do a day, bro. Congrats! 

If you continue being careless and entitled, here are all the things you could be looking forward to the rest of your life, Mr. Florida Spring Breaker:

 --Sticking yourself with needles multiple times a day in various places (fingers, arms, side, back, stomach, hands, butt, anywhere else you can get creative with). Yep, the butt. It’s a grand place to attach an insulin pump.

--Taking medicine forever. Yay.

--Getting some killer bruises, man!

--Waking up in the middle of the night disoriented, confused, shaking, and vomiting

--Being rushed to the hospital for catching the “sniffles” because of how a virus messes with your blood sugars.

--Being at an increased risk for heart attack, neuropathy, blindness, sudden death, skin problems, infections (go figure), a UTI, kidney failure, stroke, high blood pressure, and more wonderful diseases.

--Taking insulin when you eat and when you don’t, then correcting because you didn’t take enough, and finally, correcting your correction because you took too much.

--Leaving important work meetings, family functions, graduations, weddings, funerals, etc. in the most inappropriate moment because your blood sugar suddenly dropped.

--Spending all your paycheck and going into debt just to buy a drug you need to not die

--Counting the carbs in literally every single.thing.you.eat.and.drink.always.

--Getting made fun of by a carbon copy of yourself one year ago. My, how the tables have turned.

Having people accuse you of:

- being a drug user  -  “Gasp, needles!”

- being lazy and fat  - even if you’re skinny

- eating too much sugar - why do people even think this?

- being weak - survival of the fittest , even though there are athletes with diabetes

- being gross  - “Ewww, can you not like, do that here? We’re in a public place.”

-lying - “Type 1 is for kids!” No, and children do grow up. Also, no, it’s not. This isn’t Trix cereal.

-Not trying hard enough - “If you wanted to get rid of your diabetes, you could.” HAHAHAHA. No.

But wait, there’s more!

You’ll also:

- Hear everyone and their dog giving you advice on how you can cure your incurable disease with a fad diet or like, essential oils and stuff.  “Did you know the keto diet can cure you? My grandma drank mushroom water and she doesn’t have diabetes anymore. If you don’t eat meat, your pancreas will come back to life. Stand on your head and hold your breath for ten seconds twice a day for a week. Here’s a magic bean stock. Eat the beans.”

- You don’t understand how annoying this one is. Completely unsolicited advice. You’re never safe from pamphlets, your inbox, a phone call, text messages, in-person meetings, being yelled at from across the hall. They’ll find you, and they’ll tell you their uninformed opinion.

- Be the butt of every outdated, ill-informed, bad joke on the planet.  “Candy Land? More like Diabetes Land!” No. Eating sugar is not how it works. That’s not how ANY OF THIS WORKS, KAREN.

- Get told there will be a cure for diabetes in five years, every year, for the rest of your existence. It’s only been going on since what, 1950?

- Have your “friends” and colleagues actively fight against you in your efforts not to be bankrupt by coming up with ridiculous excuses on behalf of the pharmaceutical companies and why they charge 300% more for insulin than it costs them to make. “Thanks Sally, I’m sure glad I have a friend like you! Wanna have a picnic tomorrow? Oh wait, I’m sorry I can’t. I forgot I GAVE UP EATING BECAUSE I CAN’T PAY FOR MY INSULIN. I subsist on water, air, and dust particles now.”

- Listen to this: “Uhhhhh, are you SURE you should be eating that?” Every time you take a bite of something that isn’t a celery stick.

- Be accused of whining when you could go get “insulin” at Walmart for a couple bucks without insurance. NOOOOOOO. No. No. No. No. No.  I mean, I could also drink Drano, but I DON’T.

- Exist as the occasional doctor’s guinea pig. There are good doctors, and there are bad doctors, just like any other profession in life. Unfortunately, when you have to see doctors as much as you do with a chronic illness, you’re going to be a guinea pig at some point. Buckle up.

Things doctors will misinform you about:

- What type of diabetes you have. If you’re an adult at diagnosis, there’s a good chance they won’t give you the blood test to check for autoantibodies and they’ll say you have Type 2. And if you’re overweight like me? Oh yeah, you don’t stand a chance.  And that’s really, really, really dangerous.  Why? Because Type 2 is not an autoimmune disease, and most don’t need insulin to survive. But as we already established, you sure frickin’ do!

- The different types of diabetes, and how there are more than two. Whaaaat? I’m technically a LADA Type 1.5 (but we say Type 1, because nobody knows what we’re talking about otherwise).  Essentially, it means anyone who gets Type 1 diabetes as an adult instead of when they’re an adolescent. It’s progressive, meaning you don’t always need insulin starting out, but you will eventually progress to it and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Even many nurses will look at you like you’re crazy (you’re a type what, now?). Google it.

- Basic care and how to not accidentally kill yourself. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha………no. I’m serious. They forget to tell you things like what ketones are, and why a high amount of them will kill you. So. Yeah. Cool. Google it.

- Your weight and lifestyle choices, and how it’s your fault that you’re a diabetic even though we’ve already established it’s not. And this is a doctor. A DOCTOR. A DOCTOR! Good grief, for crying out loud. Pro tip: Go to an endocrinologist that specializes in diabetes, not a primary care physician. They’re not all like that, I know, but save yourself the trouble. Type 1 diabetics have to see an endocrinologist anyway.

- How Type 2 diabetics are lucky because they can cure themselves. Whoa. Holy cow, there are doctors going around saying this? You bet. They’re oversimplifying it and telling Type 2’s they can cure themselves with diet and exercise. They don’t think there’s anything inappropriate about using this incorrect terminology. Wrong. You can, if you have enough b cells left to properly coordinate glucose, get off all medication for a while with healthy choices. But you’re still diabetic. Period. In fact, I have my own diabetic joke:

“How can you tell if your doctor is a crackpot? ….They tell you that your diabetes is cured!”

HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAAHAAHAHAAHAAHAHA. Good one, crackpot.

Was this an excuse to complain about stupid people? Sure.  Why else do you think I’d be addressing some of the most foolish people on our planet, who are going around blatantly infecting others because they’re selfish and think themselves invincible?

But it’s also true. You CAN get an autoimmune disease like Type 1.5 diabetes from a viral infection. 

So when you walk into a crowded party tonight and ask for some corona, make sure you ask for a side of autoimmune disease to go.

*Photo credit to their creators. Except you, Diabetes Land. You're a jerk.

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My "Literal" Definitions of 2019 Slang

Let me know if I missed any by writing in the comments 😊

Literally: Still being used to describe anything that isn’t literal.

Extra: A contradictory word that calls something or somebody over-the-top, while the use of the word in the first place ends up being extra.

Ignorant: Liberal word for anyone who has a different viewpoint from you.

Snowflake: Republican word for anyone who has a different viewpoint than you.

Spill the tea: An adorably old-fashioned way of telling someone to give you the news or the gossip.

Sus: A word for monks who are only allowed to speak five syllables a year and don’t want to say the full word “suspect”.

Get Educated: A phrase used by people who never finished school, used on PH.D graduates and professionals because they didn’t agree with them on something they read on the internet.

Arrogant: Another word for someone who doesn’t have the same viewpoint as your mom.

Lit: Something exciting or cool, but is definitely not intoxicated, which was the original meaning of the slang word for the past century. See also: A word that already existed but was turned into slang, which became slang that was turned into new slang. Slang slang.

Slang Slang: A word I just made up.

Racial slurs: Evil words used by people who are evidence against the theory of evolution.

Ghosting: When mean people refuse to respond to phone calls and text messages to their last date because they can’t handle confrontation.

Triggered: To explain to people that you can’t handle the realities of life.

All Mood/Big Mood: When people are trying to sound extra so they add additional words to the word “mood” without changing the meaning at all.

Fake News: When Trump supporters don’t like news programs calling out the president for his policies, and when news programs don’t actually report the truth. Also used any time you don’t enjoy what someone says. Like, “It looks like it’s raining outside.” “What? Fake news!”

Femi Nazi: Used to describe pretty much any woman with an opinion.

Feminism: A word that can only be used if you promise to use it incorrectly.

Woke: A word that was once powerful that has now been watered down to drivel.

Thanks Obama: A phrase dating back to when Obama was president and blamed for everything bad that happened to a person throughout their day. Some of us millennials like to use it just to remind ourselves we’re getting old.

Basic: Use this word to insult another person when you want everyone to know how much of a jerk you are without having to show them multiple examples of it.

Shook: Like triggered, but a happy or surprised version.

Girl Boss: When women try to show female empowerment by calling another woman a girl boss, and accidentally end up promoting gender inequality because people don’t say male boss, so why do we need to say girl boss?

Mansplaining: Often misused to describe any man who simply has an opinion about anything. The original definition was used to define a very real problem when men explain things to women that they already know, especially in the workplace. Now used with angry devil emojis to come after anything male.

Anti-vaxxers: Often surrounded by words of befuddlement of why these people still exist in 2019.

Slay: When you want to compliment someone for being strong, so you use a word that means to murder someone.

Keyboard Warriors: Possibly the best slang of the year, it’s used to describe people who fight with everyone on the internet and purposely incite them with controversial opinions, from the safety of their parent’s basement. Statistically proven to be incapable of engaging in confrontation in actual, real-life scenarios.

Keyboard Activists: A slang term I think I just made up to describe someone similar to a keyboard warrior, but is someone who supports every social cause under the sun online. They will come after people with cyber pitchforks, but can never make it to the town council meeting to promote actual change. I am a partial keyboard activist.

Me: Someone who tells it like it is and offends a lot of people.

I literally can’t believe you read this entire post. I’m sure you think I’m basic, but I think this list was pretty lit. Thanks Obama.

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Why Aren't People Polite Anymore?

There’s the old saying “you reap what you sow”. It’s not always true, but more often than not, it’s the answer to most of life’s problems. I’ve found this to be case when I hear someone complaining that young people just aren’t polite anymore.

Now, to a teenager I may be old, but in general, people would call me young, and I can’t tell you whether people were politer in the 50’s, or the 60’s, or even the 80’s. I wasn’t there, so I have to go off what other people tell me, which is…they were, apparently. It’s a challenge for me to imagine adolescences truly being any more respectful then, but we’ll roll with it.

Okay, so what changed?

The more I think about politeness in the context of today’s culture in America, the greater one particular word resonates with me: offense.

This isn’t a blog post about politics, but there does seem to be a correlation between offense and politeness; that is, as people become more mindful of an increasingly diverse culture and want to avoid offending people, traditionally viewed forms of politeness decline.

People do not want to risk offending others for the sake of being traditionally polite.

As an example, I used to call people “sir” and “ma’am”. I stopped, because the response I received was negative. I had some people say, “I’m not ma’am, ma’am is my mother.” They could be five years older than me, or forty. It didn’t matter, but they still took offense.

The other dilemma is trying to guess someone’s gender over the phone, which is always a risk. Especially if that person does not identify as the gender you’re addressing them by.

So no more “sir” and “ma’am”. What about men holding open doors?

There are still plenty of men who hold the door open for women and children, my spouse included, but that courtesy has declined as well. I’ve heard of well-intentioned men being told off by women, claiming “they could open their own door”. On the flip side, some women get angry when a man doesn’t offer to hold the door open for them. What else can one do except attempt to gentrify this traditional form of politeness, so people stop expecting it, and they can stop getting yelled at for it?

No holding open doors. What else?

Standing up when a woman enters the room, pushing her chair in for her, or paying for a woman’s meal on a date all receive the same treatment: madam guillotine.

I can’t tell you the number of people I’ve had conversations with who say they not only dislike getting telephone calls, but it makes them angry. If someone can convey the same information to you through a text message, why would they call, interrupt what you are doing, and take up valuable time? It’s the same with stopping by their house unannounced. This is one of those elements of politeness that doesn’t have to do with offense, and more with an increasingly technological world.

But back to offense. Do you remember thank you notes and Christmas cards? They were thoughtful gestures, but now you must consider those who would feel your cards were distasteful. They prefer e-cards, because they don’t waste paper and hurt the environment, and they never check the mail. Perhaps the joke you made was culturally insensitive to penguins. People don’t want to pour their time into sending out cards if they aren’t appreciated.

Do you remember when people used to have debates, rather than arguments? Individuals could have differentiating opinions about something without recessing to hurling insults or even fists. It was socially acceptable to see another person’s point of view, even if their viewpoint was unpopular. In fact, it was a sign of wisdom and good etiquette. But now seeing someone else’s viewpoint is synonymous with agreeing with them. As an example, if someone goes to jail for hitting another person and it’s in the news, you are not permitted to question their motives for hitting that person, or sympathize with them in any way. You could consider their actions despicable while still seeing their reasoning, but your understanding is no longer viewed as polite. Instead, your willingness to try to understand someone who is considered socially unacceptable is either sexist, racist, perverted, or all of the above. You must agree with the masses and verbally skewer this stranger.

There are other comparisons I could make, but I believe these are the most-widely known as standards of American etiquette.

So, to answer the question that seems to come to many minds of the Baby Boomer generation, people aren’t as polite anymore because they’re afraid to offend someone. And, in this day and age, the fear seems valid. Plus, when your gesture of respect could end up as someone’s scouring Reddit story, is being polite to one person still worth it? I think the answer to that question is different for everyone.

In the end, I believe politeness has a way of falling in and out of trend, and transforms over time. I’m sure society will come up with new and clever ways to convey the same meaning. It may just not include “yes sir”.

Of course, this is merely my opinion. I certainly hope I didn’t offend you 😊

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With Beaded Breath

In my previous blog post, I wrote about scarves and their predilection for choking me.

And since we’re on the topic of things you wear around your neck…

I have a black, beaded necklace that I like to wear. It’s professional but pretty, and the beads are large and wrap together in thick strands up to the clasp. It looked vaguely similar to the necklace in the picture above.

I really should say I HAD a black, beaded necklace that I liked to wear. Recently, that necklace died in a less-than-subtle fashion.

It exploded.

Maybe it didn’t spontaneously combust into flames, but it did burst into a shower of beads as I sat innocently at my work desk.

I didn’t play with it, I wasn’t chewing it or tugging at the threads – I didn’t even touch it. That thing just blew up.

Also, to paint a wonderful mental image for you, the beads went into every nook and crevice on my person. You’re welcome.

 After my initial, “What the heck just happened?” moment passed, I grabbed the broken strands and tried to undo the clasp to contain the continuous spillage, but of course, it wouldn’t budge. For the first time ever, I couldn’t get the necklace off, so I ran to the bathroom down the hall, a trail of black beads behind me.

I felt like Hansel and Gretel.

Into the bathroom I went, where I leaned over the counter and tried to aim for the trash can as the beads continued to pour down my back, my front, onto the countertop, onto the floor…basically, everywhere. There was nothing I could do to stop the dam.  

Naturally, once the beads had finished um, dispersing, I was suddenly able to undo the necklace clasp without any problems. A couple more beads fell down my shirt.

And that’s when I finally noticed there was someone in the middle stall.

Silence. Throughout the entire ordeal, they said nothing to me. Maybe the door was shut by accident? But no, I saw little shoes underneath. They were there, and instead of acknowledging the fiasco from the other side, they pretended not to exist.

Awkward.

Now, I still had a job to do. I needed to loosen my clothes to get the rest of the beads off my person. The problem was, there are only three stalls in my work bathroom, so whether I chose the left or right stall, it made no difference. When I went inside, I was right next to the mystery person. I tried to be quiet, but as I adjusted my clothes, a flood of beads fell onto the tiled floor, bouncing off their shoes and legs.

I froze. I gasped, and then I laughed.

Nothing.

I think I saw a slight wiggle of a shoe, but that was it.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

Maybe it was Casper? But it couldn’t be. Casper was a friendly ghost.

There were beads all over the floor now. I couldn’t clean them up because I didn’t have a broom. I would have to leave it like this for the custodial crew that night.

Not. A. Single. Word.

I nervous chuckled once more before slinking out of the bathroom and escaping to my desk. I never found out who mystery shoes was, but I’ll give them a 10/10 for awkwardness!

For the rest of the day as I moved about the office, a random trail of black beads fell out the bottom of my pant legs, like I was a vending machine with a leak. I pretended not to notice.

I found more beads later that night when I showered.  I’m still finding the beads at work, by the way, even though it’s been more than a month since the “incident”. There’s some in the carpet by my desk, and they’re nicely dispersed around the corners of the bathroom.

And although I’ve been paying a lot closer attention to people’s shoes at work lately, I’ve never found my victim.

Maybe they were a ghost.

*Image to respective owner

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What the Scarf?

There are a lot of things in my life I never thought I would say but have, like:

“Does anyone have a glow stick I can borrow?”

And

“How could someone completely dispose of a body without a trace? Theoretically speaking.”

And even

“No, China’s not a continent.”

But do you know what I’ve never said? “Man, I wish I had a scarf right now.”

Because other than being a fashion accessory, scarves are a useless creation.

I present to you instead: The turtleneck, the high collared jacket, the hoodie. Or nothing around your neck at all, because your neck was fine in the first place.

A scarf really is the equivalent of a turtle neck, except you just spent an extra ten to twenty dollars buying one more article of clothing. If you don’t feel like you’re slowly being strangled to death every time something’s wrapped around your throat, just stick to the turtle neck. Same difference. Plus, it’s easier to wash a shirt than it is a scarf. You don’t have to worry about putting each individual turtleneck you own into its own wash cycle to “preserve the integrity of the garment”. It’s a SCARF.

On the other hand, scarves are adorable and come in a variety of styles and colors. If your main purpose in wearing it is for fashion and not for warmth, then you’re doing it right.

I always worry I’m going to lose the small but awkward piece of clothing someplace, or it’s going to get stuck in a revolving door and I’m going to be the idiot they have to call the fire department for. I have no idea how that’s possible, but as I’ve said before, I’m clumsy. How about the escalators? The bus doors? Your own feet? So many opportunities to face plant or hang yourself.

Yet in my dresser I still have a drawer stuffed to the brim with scarves. All pretty, all colorful, and all begging to be worn. I keep them, so that one day when I decide I’m suddenly fashion forward, I’ll have a hundred thousand scarves to choose from.

And to anyone who has bought me a scarf as a gift before, I love it. Please don’t hate me. In fact, I used scarves for a while to cover up my thyroid scar. There are a lot of creative reasons I could come up with to wear my scarves.

But it sure won’t be because I’m cold.

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Sleep Talking and T-Rex Advocacy

My husband talks in his sleep, but only when he’s dog-tired.

Typically, it’s the kind of unintelligible drabble that dissipates in a minute or two, followed by soft snoring (I’m sorry honey, did I say snoring? I meant “breathing”). I’ve been known to talk in my sleep before, but it hasn’t happened in quite a while (that we know of).

Recently I’ve discovered his subconscious has decided to take this one-way conversation to the next level. The outcome of this hilarious turn of events is my newfound appreciation for my husband’s surprisingly tender-hearted advocacy for fantasy creatures, great and small.

One night when we were out of town, my husband fell asleep while watching a movie. I tried to get some sleep myself, but mere moments after turning out the lights, I heard the quiet, concerned murmurings of my husband lying next to me:

“Humpty Dumpty….”

“Why can’t they put him back together?”

I opened my eyes, wondering if he was awake. I had my back turned to him, so it was hard to tell. He repeated the same question, a slur in his voice:

“Why can’t they fix Humpty Dumpty?”

“Send all the knights and horses…”

I snorted, grabbing the pillow under my head to stifle it. There was no doubt about it, he was sleep talking. There was a long silence after that, and I thought it might be the end of it. But then I heard a sorrowful sigh, and then a voice that dropped an octave to deliver a serious accusation:

“It was the king.”

I sat up a little, intrigued by this turn of events. It was like a soap opera in his sleep.

“I think Humpty forgot to bring something to his party, so that’s why he did it.”

“…the king murdered him.”

I stuffed the entire corner of the pillow into my mouth to prevent myself from laughing, probably more out of amusement than actual consideration, if I’m being honest. My body shook, and even though my husband isn’t a light sleeper, I was surprised it didn’t wake him.

I choked on the pillow Then I laughed again. I choke-laughed.

“Do you think they’ll serve Humpty at his funeral?”

-Pause-

“Because I think that would be inappropriate.”

My whole body wracked with laughter. I began rolling around on the bed in an absolute fit. I only wished my phone was nearby so I could record it. I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

“Do you like egg salad?”

“I don’t really like it, but you should eat it soon because he’ll go bad quickly.”

That was it; my poor lungs – not to mention my heart – couldn’t take it anymore. I ran over to the light and turned it on as my laughter rang unabashedly throughout the room. Hopping on the bed, I shook my husband awake. He stared at me with a sleepy expression, probably wondering why I had just interrupted a good sleep.

I had a hard time repeating what he’d said through my fits of giggles, but afterward, he told me I should write it down so I wouldn’t forget. I did just that, transposing his little story of intrigue, espionage, and betrayal on my phone. I told him his conversation reminded me of the Five Stages of Grief, except there was apparently a sixth stage, called “Eating your Loved One” at the end.

If that were the end of it, I’d find it funny enough, but a week and a half later – this time, in our own apartment – he did it again. And as I stated before, I didn’t forget my phone this time and recorded it:

“T-Rex…mwfgsjhfdkl….”

 “T-Rex’s have a bad rap…”

“It’s not fair.”

“Why do they always make them bad guys?”

“Maybe they don’t want to be meat eaters. Maybe they’d be nice if they ate plants.”

“Are they bullies? Are they bullied? I don’t know.”

“Does anyone know?”

“I think long necks are the real bad guys; they’re too peaceful.”

I’m saddened to say that there was more, but I couldn’t make out the words. On the one hand, I hope he continues to talk in his sleep, because who couldn’t use another laugh or two? On the other hand…

I’d like to actually sleep too, and I don’t think laughter is the best medicine for THAT.

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"It's just a Flesh Wound!"

Have you ever had one of those days where everything is going according to plan, nothing is out of the ordinary, and then, out of nowhere, you suddenly have a knife protruding from your leg and you’re bleeding in the parking lot?

Oh, so just me then?

Cool, cool.

My clumsiness knows no bounds. I once slammed my finger in the kitchen cupboard, turned around and tripped over the family dog, stood up, and finally stubbed my toe on the base of the banister. It’s a miracle I didn’t fall down the stairs while I was at it – really go for the gold, you know?

And, despite my predisposition to break in every door and baseboard in the house by running directly into them, I have never broken a bone (not officially, anyway).  Not even as a small child, when I ran circles around my family in the living room, screaming at the top of my lungs, and slipped and ran headfirst into the metal fireplace holder. I did get a very stylish butterfly bandage, though. Nor the time when I fell (twice!) out of the van because I missed a step and bit through my bottom lip.

Let’s not forget the innate toddler curiosity that spurred me to place my hand squarely on the stovetop burner. I still have the scars to show for it.

And so, it’s not terribly surprisingly that I would end up, at some point, with a kitchen knife in my leg – not when you really think about it. I didn’t get the normal injuries other kids had – broken bones and sprained ankles from playing sports. No, I go for the spectacular, the kind that make doctors cock their head to the side and say, “How did you manage to do that?”

I’m kind of exciting to doctors. I’m much more interesting than your standard common cold.

About a year and a half ago, I was dog sitting for my parents while they were out of town. My husband and I brought this spunky, Yorkie-Schnauzer mix named Stuart to our apartment to stay overnight, and we planned to drop him off the next morning at my parents’ so he would be comfortable while we were at work. On this morning, I decided to pack a lunch. I wanted one of the best staples there is for lunch food – a classic tomato sandwich.

However, trying to be clever, I decided instead of slicing the tomatoes at home and risking the mayonnaise on the sandwich turning them into a mushy disaster, I would take the whole tomato with me and pack one of our kitchen knives, so I could slice it fresh at work.

You know where this is going. I decided to pack a razor-sharp kitchen knife in my lunchbox. Which was nylon fabric, by wrapping it in paper towels as “protection”.

Nothing penetrates paper towels! Nothing!

Everything was peachy keen as I brought Stuart down to the car in our parking lot. I pushed his hyper, wriggly body over into the passenger seat and set the lunchbox down on the driver’s seat so I could do so. Momentarily forgetting about the existence of the knife (if I only remembered one thing that morning, it should have been the knife), I leaned over the lunchbox to get the dog settled.

And that’s when it happened.

It felt like a schoolyard bully pinching me as hard as they could. I couldn’t figure out what it was – at first. Did I just kneel on the seatbelt buckle? Was there something on the sea-

Oh.

Yes, there was something on the seat.

Remember my tomato sandwich?

For a few seconds, I didn’t do anything. I thought, “maybe I can just stay here in this position, and never find out what I’ve just done. Maybe if I don’t move, I can rewind time. I’ll just turn to stone, here in the parking lot.”

It’s not that I’m super squeamish about blood, it’s the injury that comes with it. I don’t like gaping wounds, or legs that bend unnaturally, or puke. Wait until I become a mother, won’t that be fun?

I closed my eyes and gently sat up. As I did so, the knife that had gone through layers of paper towels as well as my nylon lunchbox, slid out of my leg.

Now, before I tell you what happened next, let me preface by coming to my own defense. I couldn’t feel any pain, and Hollywood has taught me that if you can’t feel pain when you sustain an injury, you’re basically dead. So, there I was standing in the parking lot, basically dead. I watched in horror as my jeans went from a dark blue to red, blood pooling around me. I was in shock for the first couple of minutes because, you know, I was BLEEDING, so I pressed my hand against the wound.

Meanwhile, the dog panted in the passenger seat, completely oblivious of my imminent demise. He smiled at me. I wished for Lassie, or Old Yeller, or the dog from the Cesar Savory Delights commercial.

Nooo, instead I had Stuart the Wonder Dog, as in, it’s a wonder he can be so clueless.

I saw an older man walking on the other side of the parking lot, and I called to him – once, twice, three times you’re out. I know what you’re thinking – maybe he just didn’t hear you? Well, this was a small parking lot and my yells scared away the birds; he wasn’t THAT old.

It was impossible to tell, as I couldn’t feel any pain (remember, I was on my deathbed) how deep the knife had gone, or where exactly the injury was. I saw a hole in my jeans and plenty of blood, and that’s about it. In my confusion, I even used my jacket to tie a tourniquet just in case it was worse than I thought.

Of course, a tourniquet would have been better if I tied it ABOVE the wound and not BELOW it, but hey, hindsight’s twenty-twenty.

I called my husband to let him know I had been stabbed, and to please come get me.

I know, I know. That came out wrong. Again, hindsight.

A few minutes passed and my neighbor came into view, heading toward her car, which was conveniently parked next to mine.  With a polite, “Excuse me?” She looked up and I watched as her eyes widened to saucers. I asked if she could put Stuart back in the apartment, as I was a little…preoccupied.

Sometimes you meet people under the strangest of circumstances. We became friends. We bring her the family chocolates that we make at Christmas time, and she allows me to pet her temperamental bird. I learned that the strange screaming noise we randomly here when watching t.v. is not, in fact, a dying puppy, but a very vocal Aves. The more you know.  

My husband and my mother-in-law arrived a few minutes after my neighbor had helped Stuart into the house, and we got a good look at the knife wound. It was minor. It was embarrassingly so. I guess I wasn’t dying after all.

While my husband drove Stuart home, my mother-in-law took me to InstaCare. I walked in, in a pair of very oversized shorts (my husband’s), limping up to the front desk.

“Hello, I’m here for InstaCare.”

The lady in glasses reluctantly pried herself from her phone screen and looked up.  “Please fill out the tablet. What are you seeing us for?”

“Oh, right. I stabbed myself.”

There were several other people waiting for InstaCare, but for some reason, I was the next person called.

Remember how I told you I made doctors’ days more exciting? This was no exception. He didn’t try to hide the look of glee as he came into the room to do my stitches. “This breaks up the day, between all the coughs and upset stomachs.” I’m sure it did.

I was glad to be of service.

Maybe next time I can up the ante and come in with an axe in the back of my head?

 *Update: I went axe throwing. I did not get an axe in the back of my head. Poor doctor.

*Image Credit to Respective Owner.

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