The year that almost killed me
With great skill, I managed to survive another year. Twenty-twenty-two tried to kill me. I went to the emergency room three times and to MedExpress once.
In June, I got food poisoning in Egypt. It was bad. The hotel doctor had hooked me up to an IV in my room. The fact that the hotel HAD a doctor should have been a clue. The fact that they tried to keep me alive without rushing me to the hospital meant that they also had a public relations department. I spent four days in that room, in bed, overlooking the Red Sea.
In the same Red Sea, while I was there, several people were attacked by sharks. In retrospect, food poisoning might’ve been the safer alternative.
Side note: There was a beach there called Shark Bay. Never vacation at a beach named Shark Bay.
But I digress, like I do. Four plane rides later, I picked up my bags from the carousel at Pittsburgh International Airport and went straight to the ER at St. Clair Hospital. I was hospitalized for another four days.
In July, I thought my appendix was about to burst, but it turned out to be shingles. A nerve caused such sharp pain that I had to be sedated.
In August, I ate a fish sandwich that caused the third trip to the ER. I think my body never fully recovered from the food poisoning, but I can’t get a doctor to confirm that. They believed I was just “unlucky.”
Shout out to the makers of Dilaudid. While I realize that America has an opioid addiction problem, that particular drug saved my butt all summer long.
I made it through autumn without incident.
On Christmas Day, I volunteered to get bottles of water and soda from the basement when I slipped on the first step and fell down the entire flight of stairs, 13 steps.
Somewhere around the fifth or sixth step, my life flashed before my eyes. I saw too many hospital visits in my vision of things past. The six seconds that I tumbled down the steps felt like an eternity as I bounced down one step to the next, a bruise for each one.
My cousin Nicole stood at the top of the stairs with her mouth agape. At one point, as I bounced down, my head careened in her direction. I looked up at her as I slammed into another step on the way down, and thought, “This would be a stupid way to die.”
I was convinced I broke a bone in my foot. I went to MedExpress the next day for an X-ray. The technician posed my foot in several different ways like I was the centerfold for Foot Fetish Magazine, but, luckily, I didn’t break any bones.
On New Year’s Day, I tried to cross the street before the light had changed, but a friend pulled me up on the curb at the last minute.
I need to make it through 2023.