The One In Which I Sweat, Bleed, And Waste Paramedics' Time

I'm on these two diabolical antibiotics for my recent bout of diverticulitis. They make me feel like garbage. I'm dizzy, nauseated, and it perpetually tastes like I've been sucking on a handful of change that's been rolling around in the back of my van. Plus I'm on Coumadin (blood thinners) for life because of my clotting disorder and history of blood clots. And the thing about Coumadin is that everything, everything affects it - medicines you take, food you eat or drink, being sick, everything.

So at school today I got a nosebleed out of nowhere. That indicates to me that my blood may be too thin. It doesn't stop bleeding for some time so I walk to the front office, holding a bloody tissue to my face. The health assistant, the registrar, and the bookkeeper see me, freak out a little, tell me I look like crap, and threaten to call an ambulance. Despite my protests that you don't call an ambulance for a nosebleed, and that antibiotics are the reason I look and feel awful, they continue to beg my permission to call an ambulance so they can ogle the cute paramedics express concern for my well-being. Finally, thinking that maybe the paramedics could check my PT/INR (blood test to check how thin my blood is from the Coumadin), I relent. Well, that and the fact that I was sweating and dizzy and feeling pretty horrible.

So the paramedics arrive, and much to the delight of my co-workers, they're both attractive guys. Fabulous. I explain that I was in the hospital last week and that the antibiotics I'm on are the reason I feel like a shriveled sausage casing filled with the muck that clogs your shower drain.

The one medic agrees that yes, Flagyl is of the devil and will make you feel awful. The other guy gets to work checking my blood sugar, strapping a blood pressure cuff around my arm, and applying stickers to my legs, arms, stomach, chest, face, scalp, and big toe. I'm mortified as he's sticking these leads to my skin because I'm sweating like crazy. My back is stuck to the chair with sweat. Through my shirt. Super classy.


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In the end, it was determined that I was sweaty and disgusting, but I'd live. I started heading back to my classroom as the health assistant came to the determination that she must play matchmaker. 

"What's your number, Dawn? I'm going to give it to that paramedic."
"No."
"Come on. I'm going out there," she said as she grabbed a sticky note and a pen.
"Um still no."
"I'm giving him your number," she trailed off as she headed toward the door.
"What is wrong with you?! No!"

I like to think she's a good-hearted person who just suffers from mental illness.

She actually walked out the door toward the ambulance, so I turned on my heel and headed to my class, confident that she didn't actually have my number. I was wrong. So there's a random paramedic in Orlando who probably thinks that the old, fat, sweaty woman who can't handle antibiotics actually asked the health assistant to give him her number.

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I thought about throat-punching her, but my school has this thing where they frown upon physical violence in the workplace. Plus, if I crushed her trachea, they'd probably call the ambulance back and well, I think I suffered enough embarrassment for one day.