Remember that time I told you I was brave, strong and capable? That I could handle anything thrown at me with grace AND patient decisiveness?
Thursday started off sane enough. I was finally going to see my darling dentist and get the last of my cavities filled. This meant that I was finally going to feel comfortable eating carrots, tortilla chips and other delightfully crunchy foods. I make plans to go with my friends to happy hour and then off to sushi, thinking all will be well. I lean back in the chair, breath calmly as darling dentist injects me with novacaine, listen to the radio on headphones while he's drilling away at my tooth (a bad omen I failed to consider: Ke$ha continues to haunt me on the radio) and think about all the fun things I'll do this weekend. Like swimming. And eating solid foods. And sleeping.
My dentist and his assistant evacuate the room rather suddenly and he comes back in quietly, breathes a few heavy sighs, and then tells me that I need a root canal. ASAP, because, you know, he's drilled away half my fucking tooth already. I break out into hysteric sobs. My eyes are literally shooting tears volcanically into my dentist's face, snot rolling down my cheeks. He starts to get completely agitated in a sweet nervous father kind of way and pats my shoulder, asks me a million times if I trust him, hands me a million tissues and (I think) pays his assistant under the table to come in and hug me after he fills in my tooth temporarily. Then I go out to make the root canal appointment with the receptionist and I start sobbing again, and she gives me all her tissues, then she sneezes on the computer screen, asks me for tissues back. You know, I never took the time to look in the waiting room to see if my hysterics made anyone run screaming from the practice. So then, I walk downstairs to the Starbucks to wait for my friend. I continue to cry. She calls me and tells me to come up to her office. I cry into the phone, "OMG CHRISTINE I CAN'T I'M CRYING IN THE STARBUCKS I WILL SCARE YOUR COWORKERS."
She says, "get up here, now." She drags me to happy hour, makes me drink. We go out for sushi, I slurp shumai soup and gnaw on some avocado rolls as delicately as possible. I make Em and my friends take me to the grocery store for Tylenol and pudding. We go home, not without more sobbing and complete detachment from reality. Somehow, overnight, I gather my wits. Perhaps they were in my pillowcase. Not sure.
Friday morning, Em takes me to the dentist for Dental Trauma Part Deux, where I'm paired up with a dentist who proceeds to tell me that my personal dentist sends all his root canals to other dentists so he can play "The Hero" and how Root Canal Dentist finds this incredibly annoying. Don't canal my roots angry, dude! He's a charismatic New Yorker who teases me throughout the entire procedure. I figure out that all of the physicians I see went to Georgetown. He compares a root canal to chimney sweeping, I almost ask him to sing songs from Mary Poppins. I'm finally done, adequately numb and not crying. I hang my head as I walk by the receptionist on my way to pay, I pay, I leave. Things are good!
A few hours later, I'm sucking gently on a Slurpee and cursing my allergy to NSAIDS. Em drags me out the door to Seamus' follow up appointment for a nasty eye infection we discovered last week. We sit in the office as he's injected with allergic-reaction-preventing medications and then wait with him as they take effect. Then, the vet comes in and gives him two booster vaccines, tells us that his eyes look ok but that we'll need to consider a cornea-saving eye surgery in the future to the tune of at least $2,000, and then we leave. Not so bad. I lay on the couch while Em takes Seamus for a long walk and when they return, Em notices that his face is swelling. Like all good parents in an emergency situation, we Google his symptoms. Facial swelling, itching, agitation, breathing troubles.
We decide to take him to the emergency vet. The vet tech grabs him and runs to the back as his breathing is erratic and strained, they dope him up and the Doogie Howser-esque vet tells us that he'll need to stay the night for observation. We cry. Rip our hair out. Break our piggy bank on the exam table. Our friends Katherine and Ivy come to the rescue and take us out for late night milkshakes and fried foods. We get home, call the emergency vet, ask about our baby and I fall asleep in mere seconds. I think I was asleep, anyway. I hit the pillow so hard that I may have just knocked myself out. The next morning we pick Seamus up and he's no worse for the wear, still a little poofy and REALLY HUNGRY. We feed him, ourselves and manage to make the next 24 hours as bearable as possible by watching Sex in the City reruns and eating soft foods like pudding. Mmm, puddin'.
Today we woke up and as I prepared to meet Katherine and Ivy for a swim before the TORNADO WATCH took effect, I step in a puddle on the carpet. I assume that Seamus, in his Bendadryl-stupor, peed on the floor. I clean it up, go swimming until it starts to rain, and then we head back to the apartment for sandwiches and movies. Ivy notes that the puddle has returned and we realize that about a 10'x10' portion of our apartment is soaking wet. We call the leasing office, the fix-it dude comes. He vacuums approximately 80 gallons of water from the tray surrounding our disgustingly old water heater, announces that he'll have to turn the water off overnight, sends a carpet dude in to rip it up and start a drying fan, all while Seamus is having a PSYCHOTIC BREAKDOWN in the hallway because he can't be all up in the hot fix-it man akshun. We decide to send him to overnight camp while we field a call from the leasing office offering two solutions to our sans water problem.
We now have a key to an apartment a few buildings down from us for showering and such. Seamus is away at his slumber party. I told Em that I needed nothing but a Slurpee and some donettes to make me feel better, so we stopped at 7-11. I'm now in a diabetic coma as you're reading this, listening to the fan flap our soaking, stinking carpet dry with The Hangover on the television. Oh, and I just finished a phone call with my parents who told me about their awesome two week European vacation and cruise. About lunch at a little cafe in Barcelona for my brother's birthday, about Spanish wine and Minnie Mouse and delightful vacationy things.
I'm not bitter.