The thing is, I've recently gone all Life is Beautiful on people since my escape from the hospital. I could be stuck in traffic for three hours with noting to listen to on the radio except Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer" in a car with no air conditioner and broken windows that won't roll down while I'm 45 minutes late for an important meeting and I just remembered I probably left the oven on and I'll smile because I'm just so thankful I can poop.
Maybe it has to do with the increased consumption of red wine and reggae music. I just don't know. I don't ask questions. God works in mysterious ways. We're all alive. Hallelujah. Puppies and kitties on Pinterist. Amen.
And my stomach hole is officially closed! My stomach might look like the after photo from one of those backpackers in Eastern Europe who wakes up in a bathtub filled with ice and a bloody and jagged scar running down their stomach and one less kidney after a night of heavy drinking but hey, whatareyagonnado? I'm alive right? I might get a few horrified stares at the beach this summer from all the little children but they can suck my dick. You hear me, kids? You can all suck my non-existent dick. That's my new life philosophy.
But let's be honest here, we all know there was bound to be an expiration date to Bridget's New Mental Stability and that clock ran out the day after I got home from Key West. My first morning back in Boston I had a doctor's appointment to follow up with some stomach issues that had continued to plague me a bit since surgery.
The doctors were a little concerned and threw around some words that I didn't entirely understand, but what I did understand was when my breathtakingly handsome internist put both of his strong hands on my shoulders and told me that the reason I was having crippling pains might be because my cancer was back. He then brushed his auburn hair from his perfectly chiseled face and rolled the sleeves of his white coat up to reveal even more perfectly toned arms and asked me how my pooping was going. Naturally, this succession of words [poop + cancer + you probably got it] is not something you want to hear when you are sitting in a doctor's office alone, deliriously tired, and so bloated with booze you can't even button your jeans without looking like you're having an epileptic fit.
I wandered down to the radiology department to get another CAT scan and when I was finally admitted, my nurse took me through all the usual outpatient steps. When she asked me if there was a chance I might be pregnant because they were about to shoot my body all up with a shit ton of radiation, I snorted in her face because woman? I just had my intestines splayed out all over an operating room table and THEN my intestines all shut down and my body couldn't make shit and THEN I had an infection so bad I was walking around with an open surgery wound in the middle of my stomach for MONTHS so no, no nurse, I have not been getting very romantic with my adoring husband, no matter how sexy he thinks oozing stomach holes might be.
But then I froze. My head rolled back as images from drunken nights in Key West came flooding back to me. I waved the nurse back over.
"Um ... might it be possible to just take a test ... just in case ... I just don't ... I mean ... I'm usually on the pill but since surgery ... and then ... drunk?"
I've convinced myself I've been pregnant before, but this time my mind really worked itself up to a lather. I was pregnant. No doubt about it. And it was floating around in there with all the gallons of rum I had just consumed. There was so much rum in my body that baby probably has diabetes. OH GOD THERE IS SO MUCH RUM IN THERE THAT BABY IS SPECIAL NEEDS AND HAS DIABETES.
Mental Stability Level: YELLOW.
My mind was put at ease when the test came back negative and they wheeled me right in to the CAT scan. I mean, let's be honest though, there was so much booze and painkillers in my system there was no way anything could survive. A cockroach wouldn't even have a snowball's chance in hell.
The following week I called my lady doctor to see if my body could handle going back on The Pill because responsibility is just not my strong suit and it would just put everyone at ease if at least one thing in my body was under my control. Once again I found myself being asked by a nurse if there was any way I might be pregnant. With a recent hospital performed pregnancy test tucked under my belt, I confidently replied that no, there was no way I was pregnant.
"Are you absolutely sure? You have had absolutely no unprotected sex since your surgery?"
Unprotected sex? I'm married; doesn't that make all of my sex protected? When she put it that way ... the wheels started spinning again.
"I ... uh ... well ... there was this night, but I took a test last week ... but ... um ... I guess since then I might have ... and now that I'm feeling normal again ... I am awfully hungry all the time..."
"Honey, it takes a minimum of six days for your body to register that you're pregnant. Just make sure that you're not before you start your medication again. And don't forget that it can take a week or two to kick in, so keep using that protection. Thanks for calling, have a great day!"
Once again, I worked myself up so thoroughly I was convinced, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was with child. Diabetes, special needs, RADIATION child because let us not forget all of the scans and x-rays I've had recently in addition to the tequila, rum, red wine and other things that I had been self-medicating with on the weekends along with all of my unprotected sex. Oh, and I probably have cancer. Ohhhhhhhh ggggaaaaaaaahhhh what have I doooonneeeee?
Mental Stability Level: ORANGE.
I stopped at CVS on my way home from work but the pharmacist behind the counter was the same dude who frequents all of the same town bars as myself and my friends and cheerfully greets me by name every time I walk into the store and/or bar. So I worked myself into a sweat pretending to browse the nail polish while weighing the option of either waiting until tomorrow to get my prescriptions or going to another store until I finally decided to just fuck it.
I grabbed a basket and picked up condoms, a pregnancy test, my BC prescription, a prescription for intestinal distress, some lube (when in the CVS sex aisle ...), and an Easter card for my grandparents. The only other customers in line behind me were the geriatrics of my very small town who I couldn't help but notice were peeping all over my basket and I don't think they judged me any less when I tried to cover the pack of condoms with my hallelujah christ has risen Hallmark card.
Now I was pregnant with a some twisted form of life that could survive the post-Apocalypse that was my body AND I was the town sex addict. With cancer. Naturally.
Mental Stability Level: RED.
As my mother assured me when I called her on the phone in a panic about my poor little radiation baby, I was, in fact, NOT pregnant. I would know. I took five tests. THANK BAJESUS. The next morning my doctor called me to let me know that my intestines look totally fucked still, but on the plus side I DON'T have cancer. This had quickly turned into the best day ever. No radiation baby and no cancer all at once? Someone get me a beer! Fuck, someone get me ten beers!
I've been back on the happy train since then and as constantly remind B, I am so motherfucking zen right now it's like a whole new me. A whole new me who is allowed to drink as much red wine and listen to as much reggae music as I want and once again enjoy those quality times with my husband without waking up the next morning in a blind panic that just makes every day the best day of my life. I'm back, motherflippers. I'm back.