I pass out. (And no, NOT [always] because of the wine or vodka). I’m a pain-pussy. I admit it. Childbirth was, to say the least, a gruesome experience for all involved.

(Especially when, after my epidural wore off, and they tried to put another drip into the tube in my back, and they pulled the tube out, and the drug, rather than numbing me just gave me a wet back because it poured out of the tube, and….oh mah gawd, they wouldn’t believe me when I told them that I wasn’t numb and then they proceeded to stitch me up for the next 3 fuckin’ hours, without an painkiller…and….ah ah ah. deeeeeeeeeeeeeep breath. Yah. A pain pussy.)

Aaaaaaanyway.

In addition to being a wuss about pain, I’m also a wuss about others’ pain. Even if they’re not in pain.

My unconciousness, let me tell you about it.

---

The first time I passed out, I was in the pediatrician’s office with my sister, Ski. We were both there with some minor ailment. I was about 10, which would have made her 4. The Doctor had Ski’s shirt pulled up to listen to her heart, and noticed a little skin tag on her chest. He asked Mom if she wanted him to remove it. She told him to go ahead.

So, out comes his little scalpel; he scrapes it up against her little body. The next thing I know, Mom is picking me up off the floor. “We heard a thud, and there you were, out cold on the tile. You slid right out of the chair.”

The next time I remember passing out, I was working as a veterinary assistant. We were spaying a rabbit. (Seriously y’all. I bet during the 10 months I worked there, we spayed 25 rabbits. Before that, I didn’t even know it could be done.) This wasn’t the first rabbit we’d spayed. And I had assisted on many other surgeries, but this time? Kerthunk. Apparently I thought too much about what was going on in front of me. Because, y’know, when you’re holding a rabbit’s freakin’ uterus in your hands, you should think about what you’re doing.

One time, Mr. Hot (who is a vitamin freak and has taken an aspirin every day since, well, for-freakin’-ever because of the sheer volume of heart-attacks in his family), had a little scrape on his face. It was between the bottom of his nose and one side of his mouth. Right……

….where that blue arrow is pointing.

And this scratch started bleeding. Y’all? It.would.not.stop. That man’s blood is so thin, if he was the one that gave birth 16 years ago and got ripped like I did? He’d still be bleeding today.

As he tried, for like, 20 minutes to get this teensy tiny little cut to stop.fuckin’.bleedin’.already, I started feeling sweaty and clammy and like there was a bit of a fog rolling in. Then I got these little pin-pricky things in front of my eyes. And I watched, fascinated, at the buckets of blood pouring from his face and there was no wound. It was like a damn stigmata y’all.

So, the next thing I know, I’m picking my ass up off the deck while he’s staring at me, holding a napkin to his face.

That brings us to today. Shortman’s surgery was over in less than an hour. Mr. Hot called me and told me they were on their way. I fluffed up Shortman’s pillows, got his television remote ready, and straightened his sheets and blankies. I moved the step stool so that Poopy the Puppy could jump up into bed with him.

When they came in, Mr. Hot and I helped the patient up the stairs and adjusted everything. Then Mr. Hot handed me the “Home Care Instructions following Tooth Removal” pamphlet. I read through everything carefully; got to the part where we must “Change gauze every 30-45 minutes up to 4 to 6 hours.”

***Warning - Squeamishness may ensue.***
At the 45 minute mark, I told Shortman we needed to change his gauze (yeah, I delayed it to the very last minute, so what?). He pulled out the bloody pieces. I took them from him and wadded up the clean ones to put in his mouth. He has a horrible gag reflex, and my fingers in his swollen mouth didn’t help matters any.

After 4 attempts at getting the freakin’ gauze pads in the proper places, and having his blood on my hands, I realized that I was going down. And I was going to go down fast.

I looked at him and said, “Shortman, I think I’m going to faint.” I sat on the stool, put my head between my legs, and breathed. Again. and Again. I finally felt like I could stand up.

He was almost grinning (well, as much as someone can grin with swollen cheeks). “Ah oo a-raht? Oo k? Wha me call Dah?” The little shit was laughing at me!

I stood up (shaky, but I did not hit the floor) and told him to open up his mouth. Took a deep breath. And stuck those damn gauze pieces right into the back of his mouth. (And tried not to look while I did it.)

—- He’s eating vanilla milk shakes. The drugs are doing their job (he’s very funny and not at all crabby…..like when he was 8!). Mr. Hot is going to get applesauce so we can at least pretend he’s having something nutritious. I’m adding wine to that grocery list to celebrate my reduced level of wussiness. —-

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