I went to a concert…and ended up in hospital!
My BestGuyFriend (you remember him? The dude with the vlogs and the awesomely wicked dares, some of which may or may not have involved me trying to find Narnia in a wardrobe in Ikea. With people watching…) wanted to go and see P!nk, and he invited me to go along with him for his birthday one year, as she was playing at the O2 arena in London.
He booked tickets and I stumped up the cash (a reasonable price, even though we were waaaaaaaaaaaay up in the skyseats – but hey – that’s why they have big screens, right?) and we planned our adventure. We spent the next few months emailing and texting back and forth about how great it was going to be, and the fun we were going to have, and how AWESOME P!nk was…
…and then I came down with a sore throat.
Not just a little bit sore – really, seriously, painfully, AWFULLY sore. And the concert was that week – I had time booked off work and everything, and there was no WAY I was going to miss it.
So I kept going.
I sucked it up.
I put on my Big Girl Panties.
I grew a pair.
I SOLDIERED like the troopiest trooper you ever did see.
I went to London, where we met my BGF’s sister for lunch, and afterwards, I was so croaky and tired and hurting, I begged to be allowed to go back to her house (having never met her before, poor woman) and sleep for a bit so I could manage the evening. She was so sweet, and didn’t even mind, and my BGF (with an admirable lack of grumbling, on his birthday, poor thing) forewent an afternoon of sight-seeing and shopping in London to sit next to an unconscious, passed-out from agony, snuffling person, while he watched TV in a small flat, overlooking the inner-citiest of inner-city estates.
When I awoke, I felt the tiniest bit better (by which I mean I was able to stand) and off we went. I even got a bit excited and psyched up by the crowds of people heading for the O2 arena, and all the BUZZ and the P!nk posters and music blaring and…oh it was exciting and dark and sparklybeautiful with glowsticks and people wearing their funkiest concert gladrags.
And I felt worse.
The concert began, and honestly, P!nk was AMAZING! Such a performer. But the noise was so loud that my already-aching ears were a constant ring of agony. And I could feel the vibrations from the deafening music shaking all the way through my poorly, swollen throat, making it difficult to swallow. I barely remember any of it – it was dark and SO LOUD, and bright, and colourful, and exciting, and beautiful, and filled with the most gorgeous music…and I couldn’t wait to leave.
I crawled home.
The next day I rang in sick to work, barely able to speak.
By the middle of the morning I could no longer drink.
By the end of the evening I could no longer breathe properly.
The next day, there was NO way I was going to work either, so I went to the doctor instead, who sent me immediately to hospital with a suspected quinzy (an abcess behind the tonsils, for those who wish to know).
Mum held my hand and looked after me as we waited to be seen. I groaned and tried to find the most comfortable position to hold my head, whilst trying not to drool too much (I think by then I was spitting into wadded tissues, because swallowing was utterly impossible. Fortunately there wasn’t too much drool as I’d drunk nothing for about 24 hours). A white-coated doc came to get us.
He led us to a room and closed the door (he might even have locked it) before instructing me to lay down on the
torture table examining couch. Then he wrapped his hands around my neck and copped a feel of my giant tonsils and bulging glands. My head swam with pain.
Then he held my jaw open (little bubbles of hurt started popping behind my eyes as my jawbone pressed back against my throat, and I choked as my already-compromised air supply was cut off briefly) to look in my mouth, and the surprise on his face should have let me know I was in for a rough ride.
He rummaged around in a drawer and fetched a LARGE syringe. With a wide-bore needle. And commanded me to lay still.
He opened my mouth again and used a smaller syringe to add some anaesthetic, which would have been lovely if he’d used enough, and if it had made any of the swelling go away so I could breathe. Alas.
Then he began.
That giant needle plunged searingly into the raw flesh in the back of my throat, with him pulling the stopper to see if he could find whatever pocket of awfulness was blocking my airway. He did this for what felt like hours, and I lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, terrified to move in case he jammed the needle through the back of my neck and into my spinal cord. He pulled and sucked and pulled and sucked and eventually had a syringe FULL of nasty pus and blood and…oh it was so vile.
But no quinzy. He couldn’t find one! That syringeful was just what had come out of my body – no abcess! no pocket! just awful, proliferated, riddled infection. He sent me to a ward and arranged for an IV line of antibiotics and another to rehydrate me.
At which point my Mum said she’d pop home and come back with an overnight bag for me, and I realised I wouldn’t be going home, but at the ripe old age of 20-something, would be spending my first night ever in hospital, properly sick.
And after she left, I broke my heart crying.
And it was totally ALL P!NK’S FAULT!
Soooo apparently I’m ready for the EPIC TERRIFYINGNESS that is A-Z April. I still have to figure out what a Kokopintensku…Kotokipensy…Kotenpinekku…dangit – one of those – is. And write it. Somehow. Wish me luck!
In a delightful twist of blogging reciprocity (and I’ll try my best not to sound too ‘Mama Morton’ as I sing that), my wonderful Guest Bard this week is none other than LAURA, one of my new favourite people. If you don’t know her yet, well…you should. She loves tattoos and nutella and VidChats and, oh, she WRITES. She can write to make your heart break, or your head spin, and when she’s got her Gaston on…mmmm she’s GOOD, y’all!
Husby and I went on a date tonight. First (proper) one in a while. Because we need to. We need to laugh and spend Good time together, and you know what? It was awesome. We laughed. We talked. We held hands. I wore my new jacket and TOTALLY got *looks* from other people – you know the kind of look? The ‘Ohmigosh I WANT that jacket’ look.
The kind of look I usually only get when I’m wearing a pair of fabulous shoes.
And now, even when I’m tired and zitty and a bit battered around the edges, I know that I can sling this piece of (gorgeously tailored) dead cow around me and look INCREDIBLE! #LoveMyJacket #Arrogance
I got back home from my date to discover that not only had my darling ‘Merican, Sandy, found me some AWESOME glow-in-the-dark BLUE light-up chopsticks, but that they are LIGHTSABER chopsticks, and she’s letting me be an intergalactic Space Princess for the evening. Which makes her my favourite from after-dinner til bedtime.
I wrote again, OH and I had so, so much fun doing it. I LOVE this story, and I LOVE having such an awesome, super-cool Muse who inspires these words, and I ADORE that people are reading it and enjoying what I’ve created.
Seriously – it’s one of the best kinds of writer-high.