Sometimes things happen in my life that are so embarrassing, so bizarre, that I feel like I have the responsibility to share them with the people who have not given up on this blog (as I obviously have).
Like a few weeks ago, for instance. My right eye had been bloodshot for about two weeks. It finally got to the point where people were actually uncomfortable talking to me, and my jokes about smoking illegal drugs were growing stale. So I went to the doctor. The diagnosis? Staph infection. In my eye. Of course I freaked out a little bit, but the doctor acted like it wasn't a big deal and gave me some antibiotic eye drops and sent me on my way.
I got back to the office, and like any normal person, I started looking up staph infections on WebMD. I think it was around the third case study I read (about a wrestler whose staph infection in his eye spread to his brain), when my arm started to hurt. Naturally, I assumed that this was ol' staph doing his thing and spreading throughout my body.
Then came the nausea. And the black tunnel.
I fumbled to the door frame of my boss's office and mumbled a "I think I'm going to pass out" before hitting the ground. She slid me into her office to let me pass out with some dignity. I don't remember much about the next few minutes until I thought "OMG. I need to go to the restroom to vomit." I jumped up and ran away from the office and fumbled down the hallway again, this time bouncing between the walls like a pinball in the machine.
Then I passed out again in the hallway. Cold.
My only thoughts when I came to? "I'm having a bad hair day and this is NOT the way I want to look on a stretcher!" And worse: "I'm not wearing my cute undergarments!"
Seven paramedics and a complimentary barf bag later, I'm happy to report that I am not dying from staph infection. But if it was possible to die from embarrassment, I'm afraid I'd be a goner.
