This is my last fainting story - for now. However, life is not over and I am still squeamish. If I ever see that movie where the guy cuts off his own arm, I may very well have my next installment...
This story takes place when I was a teenager and attending the small church school I went to essentially all my school years. For some reason, our science class took a field trip to the hospital lab where my father worked as a medical technologist. I have no clue what we were there to see or how it was related to our class. What I do remember is the blood bank portion of the lab tour.
This is where things began to go down hill.
While giving our class what I'm sure was fascinating and valuable information, one of the techs was holding up a rather large bag of someone's blood.
Someone's deep red blood.
The funny thing is, I didn't even realize the blood bag was affecting me. Maybe being contained in the bag helped - if it had been free flowing I'd been out cold in two seconds flat.
Of course, if it had been free flowing, we would have had much bigger problems...
We students were leaning on nearby desks as the woman spoke. I honestly do not remember much at this point other than slowing checking out of reality and leaning over until my head was nearly resting on the nearest person's shoulder. A person who happened to be one of the...well...let's say awkward boys in school.
I suppose someone must of noticed my even paler than usual state, and sat me down.
I'm sure my father was near by, shaking his head.
Or laughing hysterically.
Eventually, I pulled myself together, and - mercifully - the field trip ended.
As if the day could have been any more unpleasant, my friend informed me that the guy next me - the one I leaned on whilst fainting - thought I was making a move. Yes, a move.
Because, what better place to make a move than in front of your father and giant bags of blood?
Showing posts with label Tales of a Fainter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tales of a Fainter. Show all posts
May 4, 2011
May 3, 2011
The Mexican Airport Fiasco
As I take a much needed break from grading, I'll take this time to write the next installment in the embarrassing fainting stories series.
First, a little background. A few years ago I went to school for a month in Guadalajara, Mexico to finish my undergrad degree in Spanish. Being vegetarian, it is always a little concerning to go and stay in foreign countries at the mercy of other people preparing your food. "Oh, you don't eat meat. OK. Chicken?"
Sigh.
This time however, I was very lucky. I even had another vegetarian roommate. The house mother I stayed with was an incredible cook and did not have any trouble making delicious vegetarian meals for us. Therefore, we ate at home for every meal of every day in veggie bliss.
Then, the day before we were scheduled to leave, the school held a banquet for the students and served lunched. My roommate and I decided to forgo the delicious meal I'm sure would have been waiting for us at home and eat at the banquet. This turned out to be quite the unfortunate decision.
Since the main dishes contained meat one type or the other, our lunch consisted of corn tortillas and guacamole. That seems harmless enough, wouldn't you say?
That night at dinner, even though I was presented with incredible home-made tamales, I just didn't have much of an appetite and could only manage to pick at them. I was tired and just felt... strange. I went to bed and at some point awoke with the most excruciating pain in my gut I think I've ever had. Without giving too much detail, I was making frequent, unpleasant trips to the bathroom all night long. There was one point when, after leaving the bathroom, I was so weak and light-headed I couldn't even make it back to the bedroom. So I lay there, sprawled out on the floor outside the bathroom door. All I could think about was how I had a plane back home to catch in the morning and that if I was going to die of e coli - dang it - I was going to do it in my country!
The next morning, slightly better but still suffering, I managed to pull myself out of bed and as I hobbled out into the hall I saw my roommate, looking about like I felt. Funny thing was, she had also been in and out of the bathroom all night with the same affliction and somehow we never crossed paths. It's a good thing too. It probably would have been a little alarming to see me passed out on the floor outside the bathroom...
Somehow we managed to pull ourselves together a little after being infused with Gatorade by our dear house mother. We even got dressed, put on make-up, did our hair, and looked pretty darn good if I do say so myself. At least, good for a couple of pale, slightly green, dizzy girls.
We packed, said our good-byes, and got into the taxi. We did it! We were going home!
Once at the airport, I met up with my group going back to Little Rock, and my roommate went to her check-in line. I was not feeling great of course, but I was considerably better than I had been the night before so I thought things were going OK. So there I was, standing with our group getting our boarding passes and checking in luggage when that all too familiar feeling starts creeping over me. I could almost feel the blood drain from my head. Then came the yellow dots creeping over my vision - threatening to take over my world.
They won.
Things went totally dark.
The next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground in front of the ticket counter. Voices were drifting in and out of coherence. And then I began to make out the concerned faces of my group looming over my head.
Then, to my utter dismay, I saw two uniformed men coming towards me holding...oh no...they didn't bring...yes they did...a stretcher.
Seriously.
You mean to tell me that they are going to lay me down on that thing and carry me out of here in front of all these staring faces! The freak American girl. They probably all assumed I'd had too much tequila. Gringa.
And so, after much prodding from my group members, I reluctantly crawled on the stretcher and let two men carry me out of the airport. Thank goodness for a kind, caring member of our group, Caleb, who came with me. They took me to their small station where they had me lay down.
As they tried to ask me questions about what had happened and what my symptoms were, it was becoming apparent that along with my dignity, I had also lost any ability to speak or comprehend Spanish. Again, I was so thankful for Caleb. He talked to them for me and then explained things back to me. Unfortunately, what he was translating was that they wanted to give me an IV.
Really?, I thought. Are you TRYING to make me pass out again?!
Luckily, everyone around me was much more sensible than I was at the moment and eventually convinced me that it would be the best thing as I was so dehydrated. So while squeezing all life out of poor Caleb's hand, they started an IV. Very quickly, I started to feel much, much better.
Though I was extremely concerned about missing my flight, the IV finished and I was able to make it to the gate with time to spare - and without passing out.
After a long day of traveling and trying to keep my puny self together - and conscience - we finally made it back into Little Rock where my sweet husband picked me up.
You know what some of his first words were? "Wow, you look hot!"
Go figure.
Yes, it's called the e coli diet. Very effective.
P.S. I think it is important to note, that after about six times visiting Mexico, this was the one and only time I ever got sick. I love Mexico. Wish I was there right now.
First, a little background. A few years ago I went to school for a month in Guadalajara, Mexico to finish my undergrad degree in Spanish. Being vegetarian, it is always a little concerning to go and stay in foreign countries at the mercy of other people preparing your food. "Oh, you don't eat meat. OK. Chicken?"
Sigh.
This time however, I was very lucky. I even had another vegetarian roommate. The house mother I stayed with was an incredible cook and did not have any trouble making delicious vegetarian meals for us. Therefore, we ate at home for every meal of every day in veggie bliss.
Then, the day before we were scheduled to leave, the school held a banquet for the students and served lunched. My roommate and I decided to forgo the delicious meal I'm sure would have been waiting for us at home and eat at the banquet. This turned out to be quite the unfortunate decision.
Since the main dishes contained meat one type or the other, our lunch consisted of corn tortillas and guacamole. That seems harmless enough, wouldn't you say?
That night at dinner, even though I was presented with incredible home-made tamales, I just didn't have much of an appetite and could only manage to pick at them. I was tired and just felt... strange. I went to bed and at some point awoke with the most excruciating pain in my gut I think I've ever had. Without giving too much detail, I was making frequent, unpleasant trips to the bathroom all night long. There was one point when, after leaving the bathroom, I was so weak and light-headed I couldn't even make it back to the bedroom. So I lay there, sprawled out on the floor outside the bathroom door. All I could think about was how I had a plane back home to catch in the morning and that if I was going to die of e coli - dang it - I was going to do it in my country!
The next morning, slightly better but still suffering, I managed to pull myself out of bed and as I hobbled out into the hall I saw my roommate, looking about like I felt. Funny thing was, she had also been in and out of the bathroom all night with the same affliction and somehow we never crossed paths. It's a good thing too. It probably would have been a little alarming to see me passed out on the floor outside the bathroom...
Somehow we managed to pull ourselves together a little after being infused with Gatorade by our dear house mother. We even got dressed, put on make-up, did our hair, and looked pretty darn good if I do say so myself. At least, good for a couple of pale, slightly green, dizzy girls.
We packed, said our good-byes, and got into the taxi. We did it! We were going home!
Once at the airport, I met up with my group going back to Little Rock, and my roommate went to her check-in line. I was not feeling great of course, but I was considerably better than I had been the night before so I thought things were going OK. So there I was, standing with our group getting our boarding passes and checking in luggage when that all too familiar feeling starts creeping over me. I could almost feel the blood drain from my head. Then came the yellow dots creeping over my vision - threatening to take over my world.
They won.
Things went totally dark.
The next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground in front of the ticket counter. Voices were drifting in and out of coherence. And then I began to make out the concerned faces of my group looming over my head.
Then, to my utter dismay, I saw two uniformed men coming towards me holding...oh no...they didn't bring...yes they did...a stretcher.
Seriously.
You mean to tell me that they are going to lay me down on that thing and carry me out of here in front of all these staring faces! The freak American girl. They probably all assumed I'd had too much tequila. Gringa.
And so, after much prodding from my group members, I reluctantly crawled on the stretcher and let two men carry me out of the airport. Thank goodness for a kind, caring member of our group, Caleb, who came with me. They took me to their small station where they had me lay down.
As they tried to ask me questions about what had happened and what my symptoms were, it was becoming apparent that along with my dignity, I had also lost any ability to speak or comprehend Spanish. Again, I was so thankful for Caleb. He talked to them for me and then explained things back to me. Unfortunately, what he was translating was that they wanted to give me an IV.
Really?, I thought. Are you TRYING to make me pass out again?!
Luckily, everyone around me was much more sensible than I was at the moment and eventually convinced me that it would be the best thing as I was so dehydrated. So while squeezing all life out of poor Caleb's hand, they started an IV. Very quickly, I started to feel much, much better.
Though I was extremely concerned about missing my flight, the IV finished and I was able to make it to the gate with time to spare - and without passing out.
After a long day of traveling and trying to keep my puny self together - and conscience - we finally made it back into Little Rock where my sweet husband picked me up.
You know what some of his first words were? "Wow, you look hot!"
Go figure.
Yes, it's called the e coli diet. Very effective.
P.S. I think it is important to note, that after about six times visiting Mexico, this was the one and only time I ever got sick. I love Mexico. Wish I was there right now.
May 2, 2011
The Olive Can Incident
For those of you who know me fairly well, you know that there are just some things I cannot handle - blood, injuries, any kind of gross medical talk, and needles to name a few. My aversion to these things has caused me some interesting - and embarrassing - situations in my life. And for some reason, I'm sharing these with all of you. (Even though I should really be grading a million essays.)
I was probably about 15 and had arrived home from school or some other activity. I was hungry - for some reason I hadn't eaten all day. Off I went to the kitchen to prepare something to eat. I believe I was making Haystackes (basically taco salad), and of course, with Haystackes, I must have black olives - it's the law. I opened a new can. Somehow in the process I sliced the back of my hand on the lid. At the first drop of blood, the world began to rock a little and those awful, familiar, yellow dots threatened to take over my vision.
My father, who was the only parent home at the time, comes around the corner to find his daughter inexplicably plopped down on the kitchen floor, sitting in an awkward Indian-style, head hanging, holding the injured hand.
"What happened?"
"I cut my hand on the olive can. It's bleeding."
"Uh oh, we better have a look at look that and get it cleaned up. Let's go into the bathroom."
So I pull myself off the kitchen floor and drag myself into the bathroom where I sit on the edge of the toilet using the cabinet to prop me up while holding my hand over the sink for dad to assess and bandage my gaping, gushing wound.
And then it happens. Things go black, the blood drains from my head, and I slump over the sink.
Then I hear something. A familiar sound. Is it? Yes, it is. Laughter! My father is laughing at me! Doesn't he care about the gash in my hand that will surely need 3 or 4 stitches?! How could he be so insensitive? So cruel?
He must of smeared some antibiotic ointment on it and perhaps slapped a band-aid over it too. I don't remember. I do remember somehow getting up from the toilet lid and mumbling, "I think I need to lie down..".
It's a good thing my bedroom was only a few feet from the bathroom.
Next thing I know, I'm hurtling face-first towards my bed - inches away from the frame, but thankfully landing on the mattress. I have fainted a second time.
Dad has tears rolling down his checks. Not out of concern - oh no - but uncontrollable laughter. Seriously. What kind of parent shows so little concern for the well-being of their child? Ah, the shameful neglect I suffered.
Oh, I did forget to mention one little detail. It's not important really. It shouldn't change your opinion of the story in the least bit. I'm told - though I swear I can still see a scar - that my gaping wound... was...well... the size of a paper cut.
Stay tuned for The Mexican Airport Fiasco and Blood Bank: A Love Connection.
I was probably about 15 and had arrived home from school or some other activity. I was hungry - for some reason I hadn't eaten all day. Off I went to the kitchen to prepare something to eat. I believe I was making Haystackes (basically taco salad), and of course, with Haystackes, I must have black olives - it's the law. I opened a new can. Somehow in the process I sliced the back of my hand on the lid. At the first drop of blood, the world began to rock a little and those awful, familiar, yellow dots threatened to take over my vision.
My father, who was the only parent home at the time, comes around the corner to find his daughter inexplicably plopped down on the kitchen floor, sitting in an awkward Indian-style, head hanging, holding the injured hand.
"What happened?"
"I cut my hand on the olive can. It's bleeding."
"Uh oh, we better have a look at look that and get it cleaned up. Let's go into the bathroom."
So I pull myself off the kitchen floor and drag myself into the bathroom where I sit on the edge of the toilet using the cabinet to prop me up while holding my hand over the sink for dad to assess and bandage my gaping, gushing wound.
And then it happens. Things go black, the blood drains from my head, and I slump over the sink.
Then I hear something. A familiar sound. Is it? Yes, it is. Laughter! My father is laughing at me! Doesn't he care about the gash in my hand that will surely need 3 or 4 stitches?! How could he be so insensitive? So cruel?
He must of smeared some antibiotic ointment on it and perhaps slapped a band-aid over it too. I don't remember. I do remember somehow getting up from the toilet lid and mumbling, "I think I need to lie down..".
It's a good thing my bedroom was only a few feet from the bathroom.
Next thing I know, I'm hurtling face-first towards my bed - inches away from the frame, but thankfully landing on the mattress. I have fainted a second time.
Dad has tears rolling down his checks. Not out of concern - oh no - but uncontrollable laughter. Seriously. What kind of parent shows so little concern for the well-being of their child? Ah, the shameful neglect I suffered.
Oh, I did forget to mention one little detail. It's not important really. It shouldn't change your opinion of the story in the least bit. I'm told - though I swear I can still see a scar - that my gaping wound... was...well... the size of a paper cut.
Stay tuned for The Mexican Airport Fiasco and Blood Bank: A Love Connection.
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