We are in the part of the story that is sort of like a Dr. Seuss rhyme — or like that book The Phantom Tollbooth.  It’s the crazy ass part of the weekend that I don’t remember at all — and my friends and cats were completely traumatized.  The part where the friends found me in my sweaty hot apartment with the Dyson, yelling random rants at them about the location of my stairwell, Kamil and where she was, the evil HR person named Melissa, and texting with my family.  

Just to recap.  I’m lucky that they found me.  So lucky to have friends who care that much and knew something was wrong. They’re the reason why I’m alive today.  I’m unlucky because I did not exhibit normal symptoms of someone who had a brain that was bleeding.  I didn’t die.  I didn’t even bother to pass out and land on the floor.  That’s what normal people do.  They just fall down or die.  No.. I took Ambien and Advil (I think) and went to bed (I think).  And who knows what else (I think).  So when my friends found me a day later, they had no fucking clue what was wrong with me.  I could have just been drunk from wine drinking for all they knew.  Me drinking wine is not that uncommon. 

So after they found me, called my doctor, fed me a steak sandwich from Il Posto, and I still did not get better, they decided they needed to take me to the ER.  By this time, Cris had run off to Swine to handle something  — Swine is his bar and restaurant that literally had just opened a few weeks prior.  Thinking at this point that I was just a drunk or an Ambien overdoser, he didn’t realize that I was actually dying of a serious serious brain problem, he went to Swine to handle some stuff.  Christian met him there — and they awaited news….I think this might have been when Cris called my parents and Fucker to alert them that something was up. Meggin and Kamil were left with me, who apparently kept falling off the chair because I couldn’t sit up straight.  (I’m not sure where Jay was at this point. I know he nicely fed the cats while I was on my way to dying. Thank you, Jay.)  But again, I didn’t just fall down and die.  It is just so crazy that I didn’t do that.

When I continued not to get better, Meggin and Kamil decided to take me to the ER.  They took me to a close hospital downtown — one they thought wouldn’t have a long wait time on a Saturday evening.  I will reiterate to them over and over again that they made the right decision.  Just to be perfectly clear. They made the right decision. Another ER might have had a wait time of hours and hours.

Cris and Christian left Swine and went to meet them and me at the hospital.  There, I was admitted and taken under the care of a man whose last name sounds like Gold Shit.  Dr. Gold Shit is literally a piece of shit lame ass lazy doctor who should be ashamed of himself.  He immediately jumped on the Ambien overdose bandwagon despite my friends telling him that at this point, I should be getting better.  Even if I had taken Ambien, 24 hours later, I should be coming into my senses.  I wasn’t.  I was getting worse. And I was complaining that my head hurt.  But instead of testing me for anything, Dr. Gold Shit started giving me painkillers.  Cris called our doctor again — and our doctor even spoke to Dr. Gold Shit — told him I wasn’t the Ambien overdoser type — and I should be tested medically.  All my friends pleaded with him to test me medically.  He finally relented and said he would — but he felt certain that I would be better in the morning.  They left for the night thinking that I was being tested.  

When they returned the next morning, they came back only to find that I had not been tested at all.  Dr. Gold Shit, the piece of shit, had done nothing despite promising my friends and good doctor that he would.  And I was way worse.  And I was complaining of a bad, bad headache.  Again — my fault for not being normal.  I should have just been dead at this point.  Dr. Gold Shit and his hospital still claim to this day that they did nothing wrong because I wasn’t normal and dead.  It never occurred to them to do one single test on me. Not one. They just immediately jumped onto the Melissa-is-suicidal-and-tried-to-overdose-on-Ambien sort of treatment. My friends had to BEG them that I wasn’t that — and BEG them to treat me.  BEG. PLEAD.  (Again.  I’ll say this again. I am SO lucky to have such amazing friends.)

After Dr. Gold Shit’s shift ended, a new set of doctors came on board.  I believe they were residents.  Again — this is all a bit foggy for me.  Actually — it’s not just foggy — I don’t remember a single bit of it.  My brain was exploding after all.  My friends finally convinced these new doctor people to pay attention to me. At one point, they suspected I may have Meningitis and put me into isolation since that is so scary and contagious.  But if you have that, they need to give your brain a scan.  So they decided to do that.  They, unlike the piece of shit Dr. Gold Shit, decided to treat me.  Cris and Kamil left to go get empanadas (and maybe shots of alcohol — at least I hope so) during the scan.  Meggin stayed with me.  No sooner had they bit into an empanada, did Meggin call.  It was urgent.  My brain scan came back.  My brain was full of blood.  Full from the explosion.  I needed to be rushed uptown immediately to Cornell Weill — Columbia Pres.  THANK THE BRAIN GODS. I was heading in the right direction……..

Cris and Kamil quickly got into a cab to meet me, Meggin and the ambulance there. Cris called my parents and told them to get on a plane.  I believe Fucker was also called and made plans to meet them as well.  Others also were called including Kamil’s father who found out the names of the best brain doctors for me to see there. I’m not sure.  I’m not sure at all. It was my Phantom Tollbooth weekend. The weekend I don’t remember.

END.  Of that part.  More to come.