Expect the unexpected
Last week, as I write this, was like most of my recent weeks. I’m really looking forward to vacation. It’s been a bit of a grind since my last vacation, way back in November. Sometimes it’s not the days, it’s the mileage.
Work’s been a wee bit stressful lately. It comes with the job description–the one that comes with living, not with any specific job title. And then there’s been my ongoing inability to get in a line that doesn’t feature the slowest cashier employed by the current establishment, coupled with an argument or someone who gets to the front and hasn’t thought about what donuts they want. For the love of all that’s good in the world, it’s a donut place. What did you think was going to happen when the guy asked for your order?
Nothing’s been major, just a lot of little crap that makes every day a new exercise in expanding patience.
Until Thursday morning, that is. Thursday morning, at about six-thirty, I started to experience tightness in my chest. I can’t say it really hurt, but it was uncomfortable. I didn’t feel right. And it didn’t go away.
So I did what every manly man does. I kept working. Hoo-rah! We are men; that’s what we do.
By noon, it hadn’t gotten better, so I did what non-morons do. I drove to the emergency room. (Okay, really, I stopped at the Minute Clinic and asked the nurse practitioner if she’d see me if I had chest pain. If you’re scoring at home, the answer is no.)
The magical let’s-look-at-your-heart machine was busted on Thursday–which is the hospital equivalent of someone getting to the front of the line and not knowing what donuts they want. So they had to admit me. It was okay. The hospital had wifi and room service.
They had to wake me up every 56 seconds to take my blood pressure, draw blood, or ask why my pulse is so low. (For the last time, yes, I run a lot so 44 is a normal pulse for me. Now let me go back to sleep.)
By a little after ten the next morning, I was laying on my back, not moving, while a potent cocktail of fun juice snaked through my veins. Various parts of my body were shaved and I had more stickers than an entire mall full of dollar stores. Then they cut a hole in my wrist and put a little tube in with a camera and snaked it all the way to my heart to see what might be the matter. It was all good, though. I had fun juice.
Other than being three sizes too small, there’s nothing wrong with my heart. It is, in fact, stellar for someone of my advanced age. That’s right, ladies. I am the model of cardiovascular health.
So took away the plumbing and I got to hang out in recovery with a nurse named Amy who had exactly the same birthday as I did. She was fun, I think. For some reason, I found out she likes Stella Artois beer. Unfortunately, they didn’t have any at the hospital. Mostly I don’t remember what I did in recovery.
That’s life. One minute you’re answering IMs from work, the next you’re looking up at a computer monitor the size of a Jumbotron, watching the inside of your body.
Things going too well for your characters? Maybe it’s time to go back, drop a hint, and let them experience a surprise or two.