Did I ever tell you about the time I attempted a murder-suicide? No?
Maybe because it happened JUST LAST NIGHT.
I’m sitting behind the wheel at the gas station waiting for my husband (whom I shall refer to as Clark Kent, even though his name is Ron) to fill up the car. I’m impatiently waiting, because I have to go to the bathroom. Like real bad. Like my tummy and some of my intestines aren’t happy kind of bad, like I ate something off kind of bad, if you know what I mean. I don’t want to get too graphic on you so let’s just say it doesn’t involve anything having to do with the number: 1.
I mean, things are cramping and I’m in a parked car where it’s 100 degrees and now I’m getting hot and it’s making things worse and I want to get home NOW and Clark Kent goes inside the station store to get some gum and now I’m doing that Lamaze breathing because I really really really don’t feel good and he finally hops in the car and while we’re only a mile or so from home, I can’t drive fast enough.
Because once we pull off the main street into our neighborhood, I am dying. And I’m hot, even though the A/C inside the car is blasting now. And I’m breaking out in a clammy sweat. And I feel like I’m going to pass out. And as I adjust the air vents directly at my face which I normally hate, I announce that I don’t feel good. At all.
This is where my memory isn’t totally accurate, so what I’m about to tell you is what is known as “my side of the story”.
The way I remember it, Clark Kent asked me if I wanted him to drive and I said no. And then I went around a corner and he asked me if I wanted to pull over, and I said yes. And I did. Because somewhere between “no” and “yes”, I decided I wasn’t going to make it. And I got out of the car and laid down on the curb and now I’m sweating something fierce and I need to get home because I have to go to the bathroom! And Clark Kent is asking me what’s wrong and should he call 911, and he says talk to him, just say something, I’m scaring him.
But I’m so hot and as far as I know, I have to go to the bathroom like no human being on this planet has ever had to go before and I’m afraid speaking will make it worse, but I squeak out something that implies not to call 911, that this is just another one of my passing out thingies. Except it doesn’t occur to me that he’s never actually seen one of my passing out thingies, although he’s heard of them.
And then some guy walks by saying he’s trained in emergency something or other and thinks I’m suffering heat exhaustion, which quite frankly, is a silly idea because I’d only been in the actual “heat” for a few minutes. And I wasn’t about to go into my whole passing out thingie with him.
Did I ever tell you about my passing out thingies? Yeah, my body doesn’t take the heat well. Or being told medical stories. Or learning things in high school Sex Ed class. I just get queasy and lose the blood in my head and pass out. I haven’t actually lost consciousness in a long time. Many years. I always get enough warning so I can prevent it by simply sitting down or lying down or whatever.
But last night, I pushed it because I wanted to get home before I had an accident, but my head was busy having power struggles with my gut and simply took over the reins of my system and I stupidly tried to drive too far, and I now know this because my recollection is a little different than Clark Kent’s recollection.
Apparently, as I was informed later, when I pulled over, I failed to put it into PARK, and we began rolling forward as my head sort of lolled a bit and I stared right through Clark Kent as he tried to get my attention. Then he totally did a nose dive for the foot brakes with his hand and then put it into PARK.
I guess I don’t remember that part.
But anyway, he thought I was having a stroke or a heart attack or he just plain didn’t know until I said (as I was lying on the grassy strip between the curb and the sidewalk) it was a passing out thingie. So, back to me on the ground, sweating profusely…
I don’t like the fact that this other stranger guy is standing there while I explain in as non-graphic of a way as possible to Clark Kent that I HAVE to go to the bathroom. I’m cramping. Also, my Aunt Flo had recently arrived which tends to exacerbate or even create tummy aches and I need to go home this second and once I do, it will get better, I just need to get back in the car and not pass out and can he please just take me home.
So Clark Kent helps me up, gets me in the car and we take off going 90 down our residential street. Or at least that’s what it felt like. We were home in literally 30 seconds (now you see why I was so tempted to drive all the way home earlier….SO CLOSE – I mean we were already ON OUR STREET!) The whole way home he’s telling me to talk to him and then to count and I say (and this I don’t remember either), “Count what?”
Instead, I’m rattling off directions to him on how this is going to go down, because I am insane, but also because normally you have to drive past our house another few hundred feet until you hit the roundabout, drive all the way around the roundabout and then come back a few hundred feet to be able to park right in front of my house, and I simply did not have time for that, so I told him to pull over across the street from our house and I would simply walk across the street.
Instead, he gets all Dukes of Hazzard, or Streets of San Francisco on me and he veers over to the left side of the street to pull up in front of our house facing the wrong direction and we get out and he hands me his keys and I don’t know which one goes to the front door as we are walking up the walkway and he grabs them and fiddles with them and drops them and curses and lets me in the house where I have never been happier to see a cold-seated toilet in my entire life.
Clark Kent periodically knocks on the door for status updates and when I finally emerge, he greets me with a glass of cold water and a cold wash cloth, also the perfect remedy. We recount the events and even though he claims he could never be a blogger, he totally recognizes, even before I do, that this is so going to be a blog post. He was already composing his own Facebook post in his mind as I quickly recuperated on the bed drinking my cold water.
This is also when I learn HE was the one who put us in PARK from the passenger side of the car and now he has to go get a pain reliever because he wrenched his shoulder diving for the foot pedals, and as far as I’m concerned the only difference between him and Superman is that Superman would not have required Tylenol after saving my life. Probably.