So. How was your weekend?

FAIR WARNING!!!! Today's blog post contains material of a frank and graphic nature that you in no way want to know about. Like, in a Boss #1 kind of way. Trust me, you just really don't want to know. Which sucks for you, because I'm about to tell you. Because Saturday was one of the more painful and mortifying experiences of my life and if I don't talk about it here and exorcise those demons...well, I'm going to have to go back to therapy. And that shit's expensive. So here we go.

(You've been warned.)

As I've been talking about more and more on the old blog, I haven't been feeling well recently. I've been having "tummy problems," shall we say. At first I thought I had food poisoning, then I thought I had an ulcer and Saturday morning I thought I had the devil in me. I woke up at 9am, saw what time it was, laughed out loud, and immediately went back to bed. A few hours later, I woke up at 11 in the worst pain of my entire life. It felt like gas pains, plus period cramps, divided by a roundhouse kick to the womb by Chuck Norris and then just shoot yourself in the face because you're still nowhere close. I ran to the bathroom expecting to have an..."explosive bathroom situation"...but nothing happened. I just sat there doubled-over in pain wishing to god that something, anything would happen to make it go away. I had never felt pain like this in my entire life. It hurt so badly I felt like I was going to throw up. I was hot and cold and seeing stars and was scared I was going to pass out. Yet, nothing was happening. Where had I seen this before...? And then it struck me: Oh my fucking lord―did I not know I was pregnant?! This situation could not have been more textbook IDKIWP if I was a 21-year-old TGI Friday's hostess slash psych major at the local JC. A surge of fear shot through me, the likes of which I can not describe. And it wasn't fear for the child's safety (although let's not lie, had I been pregnant, it would have come out wearing cowboy boots, a fringe dress and sitting on a crescent moon because that thing would have been pure Miller High Life) and it wasn't for my own safety; I was scared because when you get right down to it, I am far too lazy to deliver my own child. I had really been looking forward to lazing around my apartment that day and the thought of having to call 911 and go through labor and push the damn thing out and deal with it and the after birth and cutting the umbilical cord and going to the hospital and all of the emotional brouhaha all sounded really...well, time consuming to me. Luckily a few seconds later the...explosive bathroom situation...I was waiting for finally came.

I was relieved, to say the least, until I turned around and saw the aftermath. I looked in the bowl and saw (and I'm so sorry for this) a large a mount of blood. "Hm..." I thought to myself, "That's...not...right." But, frankly, not wanting to deal with it, I adopted a "go with god" attitude, flushed and crawled back into my bed to recover. Unfortunately, the pain didn't subside and neither did the...explosive bathroom situation. From the hours of 12-6, I alternated writhing around my bed in pain and running to the bathroom to take something that rhymes with "schmoody schmiaherra." Unfortunately during the sixth hour, it stopped being schmiaherra and was just schmood, so I finally gave in and recognized that perhaps something was wrong. Then I did the only thing I know how to do in moments like that; I called my mom.

My mom told me to go to the clinic and see if they could fit me in, to which I informed her that walking anywhere that wasn't to my bathroom or directly to the Pearly Gates was not an option. Canceling family dinner plans (sorry Bec!) they hopped in the car and took me to the clinic. (If I'm going to shit my pants in anybody's car, it's going to be my parent's and not a cabbie's. Don't judge me.) Unfortunately the clinic was closed for renovations and seeing how much pain I was in, they decided to take me to the ER. Now, being in Dupont, there was a cornucopia of ERs to choose from. We could have gone to Georgetown, GW, Sibley, Holy Cross...the world was our oyster. However my parents, bless their hearts, decided to drive me back to Olney and take me to Montgomery General, that way I could spend the night at home after I was released and be under their watchful eye. (Yes, I realize I will be 25-years-old in April. No, I am not ashamed of myself.)

I was admitted to the ER rather quickly, got hooked up to an IV of fluids and was treated by an extremely nice and soothing PA who introduced me to my new best friend: Mr. Intravenous Morphine. God I miss him. He made me feel like candy was flowing through my veins and after seven hours of poor man's labor pains, it was much appreciated. Mrs. Lovely PA then informed me that she was reeeeeeeally sorry, but she had to do a rectal exam. Honestly, she could have told me she had to do a nationally televised breast exam and I wouldn't have given two shits at that point. "Just roll me over," I told her. And she did. And pulled down my underoos. And went to town. When she was done she walked away to look at the results, came back in and with her back towards me said, "Well you don't have any hemorrhoids or fissures, but there is quite a bit of blood there and that's―" she turned around and saw me laying on my side, bare ass still out to the world. "Oh. Ms. McBlogger, you...you can put your pants back on now." "CAN YOU DO IT FOR MEEEEE??" I slurred while pointing to my butt. She then proceeded to pull up my underwear and roll me back onto my back for me like I was a newborn and she was changing my diaper. "THANK YOUUUU!!!!!" I cooed with a big smile on my face.

After that she called my parents back in the room, told them we needed to wait for the blood results before taking any further steps and left. It was then that I noticed a male nurse staring at me from across the way. "Shit. He's hot," I thought to myself. Now let me tell you something about how I looked at that moment―not well. I hadn't showered since Friday morning, I didn't have AN stitch of makeup on, I was cracked out on morphine and I had a giant zit directly in the center of my forehead. But like, directly in the middle. It couldn't have been more perfect if you had a compass and a level. The male nurse and I locked eyes and it struck me, man he looks familiar. Where had I seen―oh my god. I know him. I know him because I used to hook up with him. You know him because I wrote about him last New Year's Eve. And there he was. A nurse in the hospital―of allllll the hospitals we could have gone to―where we ended up. I couldn't tell you the last time I saw this kid but I did not want him to see me now. I closed my eyes and my face turned bright red. He saw me. There was no way of getting out of this.

"Oh my god," I muttered. "What's wrong?" my mom asked. "I'm...having a situation." I said through clenched teeth. "What kind of situation? Do you need the bathroom? Should I call the nurse?" "Nope...Just let it burn. Just let this moment continue to burn." My parents looked at each other in confusion. "What do you mean burn? What's burning?" "I need someone who will understand the weight of this moment. Give me my phone. I need to call Teresa." "You can't make a call! What's going on??" I then (loosely) told my parents what was going on and they, rightfully, got quite a kick out of it. "Oh who cares Meghan, it was a million years ago." Which is true. And I really shouldn't have cared. I think he's still dating that chick but I have zero interest in him and I'm completely over it. But intrinsically, when you see someone you used to hook up with (especially if not hooking up anymore wasn't your idea) you want to have just lost 20 pounds and be feeding your hot bike messenger boyfriend olives off of your Academy Award because that's an average day-in-the-life when you run into him again. You do not want to be in the hospital with a case of explosive, infectious diarrhea looking like a Proactiv before. That does not communicate, "You know you miss this."

If it weren't for Mr. Intravenous Morphine giving me a vein massage at that moment, I would ripped that shit out and run for the hills. All I could do was lay there and wait for him to come over and say something. "You should throw the blanket over your head, maybe he'll think you're dead and move on," my mom suggested. Best call of the night. I pulled out my pony-tail and started to re-do it. "Oh honey," my mom said, "I don't think trying to fix your hair is going to do anything at this point." Second best call of the night.

A few minutes later, he came in and said hello. It was pretty much your standard awkward-catching-up-with-someone-you-haven't-seen-since-they-were-fingerblasting-you-on-a-couch conversation, except, you know, I was in the hospital with a case of explosive, infectious diarrhea and my parents were watching. So just think about how awkward and horrifying that would be and it was exactly like that.

"So you're not in New York anymore?"
"Nope." My explosive diarrhea and I moved back to DC.
"So what are you up to?"
"Uhh, living in Dupont. Designing. Writing. Same old." Shitting my brains out, not washing my face, clearly only shaving my legs every other week.
"Well, we should hang out some time."
"Definitely!" When I'm not having a butt abortion.
"Facebook me, haha."
"I'll do that." Please don't tell anyone...

After he left my mom looked at me and gushed, "Oh Meghan, he's cute!" IS HE MOM?! IS HE?! Well why don't you just slap some rouge on me, hike up my hospital gown and tell him he has your blessing to administer my next rectal exam, huh?!? Look at what a tasty dish I am; how could he resist?!

After that the PA came back in and explained that I indeed had a severe case of infectious schmiarreha. Given how I'd been feeling the past few weeks, this could be an episode of a bigger problem like Chrone's or Ulcerative colitis, but for the time being I'd be fine with fluids and antibiotics. Fine that is, except for my pride. For which I'd need another round of liquid morphine that, thank god, I got. Right before I was about to be discharged, my mom remembered that I never gave a stool sample and was about to say something to the PA when I turned to her and under my breath manically hissed―"SHUT UP DIANE! JUST SHUT UP." Knowing me and my luck, I would obviously have to give ex-hook up my stool sample, or he'd pass me coming out of the bathroom or any number of mortifying scenarios that I can't even think of. And as much as I understood that my mom was worried and just wanted all of our bases to be covered, that stool sample could have held the cure to fucking AIDS and I wouldn't have given it up. Thankfully, I think I adequately conveyed a look of "IM'MA CUT YOU" to my mom and she piped down and I was finally released. Sans stool sample.

As I sat in the car waiting for my dad to get me bananas, rice, applesauce and toast from the Giant, I called Teresa. She picked up, "If you're calling to let me know Mr. Whiteford from middle school is on Facebook, I already know," (Third best call of the night.) No, that was not why I was calling. Instead I told her what had just happened and as I'd needed her to, she laughed and laughed and laughed at my misfortune. "The thing is," she said, "of all the people this would ever happen to, of course it's you." That's also what I needed to hear. Feeling better, my parents took me home where I lethargically oozed around the house with glassy eyes, repeatedly asking my dad for "hugsies."

All in all, not a horrible weekend.