Mondays are known far and wide for bank holidays overseas and for inspiring general feelings of loathing here in the US. The start of the Work Week--the Day After Weekend's End. Me, I sort of look forward to Mondays--hey, maybe an agent read my stuff over the weekend and will get back to me, gushing about how brilliant my book is. (Writers dream Big Big. You knew that, right?)
But yesterday evening, Monday hit the official "Garfield The Cat" Level of Ickiness. A call to 9-1-1 puts a damper on the entire day, you know?
Loving Husband had chest pains. I couldn't even blame my cooking, because we'd had pizza for dinner.
So, a nine-eleven it was. And the EMS guys and gals swung by, hooked up Loving Husband to a bunch of machines that made beeps and boops, and we told our Tax Deductions that Daddy was wearing silly necklaces that the doctors brought with them. (To their credit, our precious TDs didn't buy that for a second. But they were really interested in the cool paramedics truck in our driveway. They got the full tour. Then they got bored and played outside.)
Loving Husband was (and is) fine. But just to be sure Nothing Bad had happened, we agreed (read: I strong-armed him into agreeing) that he should go to the hospital for the full regimen of tests. My best friend came by to help me usher the TDs to bed, then she did the babysitting thing while I zoomed over to the hospital. I wasn't really worried, but God and I had a little talk, anyway. (Well, more accurately, I did all the talking, and God did a lot of patient listening. He's really good about that kind of thing.)
I was a tad disappointed to see that they let Loving Husband keep his underwear and shorts on under the hospital smock. I'd been hoping for a bit of tushy flashing. No such luck. Hospitals. They take all the fun out of being sick. Must be a managed care thing.
So he's fine. They're not sure what happened--it could have been gas. (Like I said before, it wasn't from my cooking, so I'm hopeful that it was gas.) It could have been a muscle spasm. What they do know is that it wasn't a heart attack, or anything in the Realm of Serious Shit. Thank God.
Am I sorry that we did the 9-1-1- thing? Nope. Not at all. If there's one thing you don't mess around with, it's your heart. It breaks easily, you know? It needs a lot of love and attention.
I'm thinking that tonight, now that the minor crisis has passed, Loving Husband and I will play doctor. And I'll make sure he's dressed appropriately.
Officially breaking my seven-month dry spell, I have a new short story sale to add to my portfolio! "Giving the Devil His To-Do's" was purchased by From the Asylum and is slated for the August 2006 anthology, as well as online publication. This is a humorous horror tale about what happens when Hell gets outsourced. Woo hoo! I don't suck!
Samuel Ezra Hurowitz was born on June 23, 2005 at 6:30pm, weighing 6 pounds 8.5 ounces, measuring 20 inches in length. Mommy and baby are doing extremely well and Daddy is on laundry duty indefinitely. Mazel tov!