Tag Archives: drugs

The Birth, Part 2

(Continuation of The Birth, Part 1)

So there I was, doing nothing.

200w-3.gif

Eric was trying to stay upbeat and positive for my sake, but every once in a while I’d glimpse over and see this:

200w-4.gif

My cervix continued to be poked and prodded but, like my 4-year-old nephew at the seder table, remained completely disinterested.

Then the doctor had a theory– perhaps my water broke not because I was about to go into labor, but because there was some kind of threat to the baby, such as a virus or infection. So she took my temperature, but it was perfectly normal. “Phew,” I thought, “a fever right now would be bad.”

But you know what’d be worse? Having a thermometer stuck up your butthole. Which is exactly what they had to do in order to get a more accurate reading. Luckily for all involved (besides, I suppose, Eric), at this point in pregnancy I had zero percent shame left, and so had virtually no reaction when they rolled me over (a team effort) and prodded me in my 3rd-trimester-inflated tush.

“Yup! Fever!” determined the nurse excitedly, I guess because that finally offered an explanation for the nothingness that was occurring, but given that I was crouched there with my ass blowing in the breeze, I resented his merriment.

So it turns out I had some kind of minor infection, which triggered my amniotic sac to say “We gotta get this baby out!” and burst, but in its hysteria forgot to relay the message to the rest of my body, including the second body living inside my body, who remained so high up I swear to god I could feel her in my throat. Nora had no interest in coming out, and I can’t say I blame her because as far as she knew, the outside world consisted only of sitting on toilets, vomiting, and the Kardashians.

But now we were on a clock. The longer you sit around with your water broken, the greater the risk of infection for the baby. It was already determined that I had a fever, and although they gave me antibiotics to protect Nora, it still made things slightly more urgent– and as everyone knows, a ticking time bomb is exactly what an anxious person who has been instructed to stay as calm as possible needs.

raw-2.gif

The doctor presented us with a choice:

“We can do a c-section now, or we can give it some more time and see if anything starts happening. If we do give more time, it seems unlikely that anything will happen without the (induction drug) Pitocin, which we have to stop giving you because it’s lowering the baby’s heart rate. But it’s your choice.”

“Ok, well. Let us talk it over,” Eric said, as my catheter bag filled with nervous-pee.

She left the room and we discussed the pros and cons, deciding that it probably couldn’t hurt to wait a few hours. Perhaps we’d get lucky and things would suddenly kick into gear, and I could avoid a c-section. Plus it would give my mom, already on her flight to NYC, more time to get to the hospital and be there for the birth.

So when the doctor came back we told her, “We’ve decided to wait a few hours and see if anything happens.”

Doctor: “Ok, but nothing is going to happen. Your body is not in labor at all, and is showing no signs of starting. There’s really no point in waiting.”

Us: “Well, we just figured something MIGHT happen on its own…”

Doctor: “It won’t.”

Us: “So you’d recommend not waiting?”

Doctor: “There’s no reason to wait. Waiting will just increase risk.”

Us: “Oh. So when you said we had a choice…”

Doctor:url

What the actual fuck?

Thanks for letting us spend half an hour in this hospital room discussing a choice that was not a choice, and having us select an option that was not an option. Cool use of tax dollars!

tumblr_m42vpxhBTM1r9c1z7.gif

I was then told I was getting a c-section.

Now.

They were going to have a 5-minute team huddle, then come wheel me into surgery, and the baby would be out in 15 minutes.

So 9 hours of 200w-2.gif morphed into giphy-3.gif in a matter of 4 seconds and I gotta say, it was a little jarring.

In what seemed like no time, a medical team of six wheeled me into the operating room and whisked Eric away to outfit him in his surgery gear (side note: nothing made Eric happier than when they gave him a hairnet– “See, they think I have hair!” Then moments later he saw that the literally hairless anesthesiologist was also wearing one. Apparently it’s just protocol. They would’ve put Britney Spears circa 2007 in a hairnet.)

giphy 3.gif

So Eric entered the OR expecting, naturally, that there’d be a sheet blocking the scary parts. Instead, he walked smack into my naked body on a metal slab, spread eagle and covered in orange goo. The doctor was literally already cutting into me when Eric opened the door. His demeanor remained calm but his eyes said “I’m am screaming on the inside.”

giphy 2.gif

Fortunately for him, even though a nightmare of epic proportions was taking place below the curtain, above the curtain was nothing short of glam-squad allure:

IMG_0763.jpeg

The nurse asked if I’d like any music playing.

Me: “Ummm…I guess Adele would be soothing?”

So he whipped out his iPhone and Spotify-ed that shit, as any professional would do mid-surgery. But then he continued to look at his phone for another 2-3 minutes, on what I can only assume was Tinder. Which of course is completely fine but if you’re going to be online dating during my c-section at least have the decency to let me see who you’re swiping right on. I mean have some fucking respect.

As Adele played, I closed my eyes and tried to take in the hugeness of this moment, but found the only thing I could think about was my post-surgery snack. I silently prayed that Eric had already picked up one of my favorites, and it’d be waiting for me in post-op. Most people pray for their life before undergoing surgery– or, if nothing else, their child’s life.

I prayed for a muffin.

After a few minutes of tugging and digging through organs, the team began compressions right below my ribcage. Nora was already in the correct position (head-down) so the standard method is to then compress from the top, by her feet, which would force her head to emerge from the bikini-line incision and her body would eventually be entirely force-squeezed out of me. You know, like a sausage.

tenor-3.gif

But damn was this one uncooperative little chorizo. Right before her head was about to emerge, Nora decided “Nope- fuck this noise!” and TURNED AROUND.

Like her mom on a  Monday  work day  day, she caught a glimpse of the outside world and decided

nope-1.gif

She managed to somehow contort her body 45 degrees so that she was now laying across my stomach in transverse position (aka horizontal instead of vertical, aka nowhere near an exit hole). Not sure where this little bozo thought she was going. Clearly someone forgot to read the fine print of her 9-month lease agreement, but eviction day was upon us and, if resistant, tenant would be removed by force. 

The team continued compressing from my ribcage, but with her new positioning, instead of moving down, Nora just swished from side to side. The compressions became more forceful and I could hear and see my body flopping around like a beached jellyfish. I have to trust there was a method to the madness, but eventually the medical strategy simply devolved into this:

0.gif

She would not come out.

I heard the doctor call for an attending, and then for a vacuum. I looked up pleadingly at Eric. He lovingly stroked my hair and, in the most reassuring of tones, whispered, “I have no fucking idea what’s happening.”

I then turned to the anesthesiologist, and he assured me that everything was just fine. You know, like a liar.

tumblr_odzxx0NOoI1qmtcj8o2_540.gif

A few more minutes of flopping, a couple rounds of suction, and a few buckets of sweat pouring from Eric’s pointless hairnet later, Nora emerged to the song “When We Were Young.”  And it was beautiful.

The song, not Nora.

Nora looked like this:Nora birth.jpg

Which some people might argue is beautiful, because everything about pregnancy, birth and motherhood is beautiful, and to those people I say GET OFF MY BLOG.

raw-1.gif

Thankfully, they cleaned her up before handing her to me, because, for christ’s sake, I’d been through enough.

And then, she was beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I simply could not believe she was mine.

“By the way,” said the doctor, “the second I took her out of you, she shit all over me.”

Ok yup she’s mine. woman-raising-hand-medium-light-skin-tone.png

IMG_6495.JPG

 

Advertisements

The Birth, Part 1

(I started writing this 8 months ago. I got one paragraph in and then forgot about it, because #mombrain. “The Birth, Part 2” will come at some point, but this was getting too long and I’m tired and someone should probably check on Nora. Where IS she….)

The evening of August 24th, 2018 was like any other evening in my third trimester of pregnancy: I was rip-roaringly uncomfortable, sweaty, and crippled with impatience. Eric was bored out of his goddamn mind. This general state of misery (misery being a relative term, I’m aware that this all falls under the umbrella of #champagneproblems) had been on repeat every day for the entire summer, and with my due date two days away, I had lost all hope that this baby would be arriving early.

One of Eric’s best friends was having a birthday party that night, and even though I could have technically gone into labor at any minute, I assumed I was going to be pregnant for another 3-7 years, and therefore urged Eric to go. I would’ve gone myself, but alas, breathing while standing was a luxury I could no longer enjoy.

“Have fun,” I told him, while yearning to be in a body that didn’t contain a whole other body.

200.gif

He swore he was only going to have one drink, just in case. “No, whatever,” I replied. “Get drunk. Enjoy yourself. This baby is never being born and I will forever be two people and I’ll never poop alone again and I’ll have two vaginas forever and that’s just a fate I’ve now accepted.”

raw.gif

So obviously after this diatribe he slowly backed out of the apartment, sprinted down the hall, fled to the west side and had himself a few hearty drinks.

And obviously, my water broke.

He got home from the party around 10:00pm, which is when people in their mid-thirties get home from parties. At 3am, I woke up thinking I had to pee, but when I stood up, I found I had no control over it, and bolted penguin-shimmied to the bathroom, luckily making it to the toilet before the major “break.”

tenor-1.gif

“How do you know the difference between your water breaking and just peeing?” many people have asked me. “Doesn’t it feel the same?” Yes, it feels the same in the way a light ocean ripple feels the same as a category 5 tsunami.

NO IT DOESN’T FUCKING FEEL THE SAME.

One thing is normal and the other thing is giphy-2.gif.

If your water breaks and you think it’s just pee, you’ve been peeing wrong.

I flipped on the bathroom lights and screamed, “Eric! It’s happening!” Though questionably drunk, he was out of bed in .5 seconds and ready to call an Uber when I casually removed my torpedoed granny panties and got into the shower.

A strange calm took over. I knew this was it, but I also didn’t feel panicked. I knew I wanted to feel clean going into the hospital, and that I had time. In a voice I didn’t recognize, because calm is a distant stranger I’ve never met, I told Eric to call the doctor while I enjoyed my last shower as a non-mom (had I known what I know now– that Nora would insist on watching me shower every day, curtain open, like a complete tater-tot-sized creeper, I would have cherished that last lone shower even more).

nora.jpg
(actual pic of her outside the bathroom door watching me shower and, I suspect, body-shaming me.)

The doctor said I’d probably start going into labor soon, but it was my choice if I wanted to go to the hospital now and induce, or wait at home for things to get moving. Asking an anxious person to sit around and wait is like asking my sister to emote– technically it can be done, but it will be painful for all involved so why torture ourselves.

We hopped (well, Eric hopped. I groan-waddled) into an Uber where I immediately called my Mom to let her know my water broke, and then immediately learned that you shouldn’t let your Uber driver know your water broke. They definitely surcharge that shit. I assured him that I wouldn’t leak in his ride, because “Don’t worry, Sir, I’m wearing a pad the size of Atlanta,” which definitely smoothed things over and made everyone feel more comfortable and less disgusted.

My mom, who was in the Outer Banks, where my entire family was vacationing without us, picked up the phone. She was 99% excited but I definitely caught that 1% of disappointment that I couldn’t kegel-squeeze this baby inside of me for another week so that her vacation could continue uninterrupted.

“I guess I’ll book a plane ticket!” she said, and I assured her, one last time, that she didn’t HAVE to fly in for this, but Cha Cha is no dummy and knew there would be social media evidence of her absence.

So she flew in for the optics.

When we got to the hospital I was asked by the nurse if I was SURE my water broke. I explained that I’m no medic, but if this isn’t my water breaking then either my body forgot how to pee right, or it turns out I’m a mermaid. For reasons I cannot place, she remained skeptical, and so took me into the bathroom to “test” the liquid.

“Alright, your funeral,” I shrugged, and as predicted, pulling down my underwear triggered another gush, which went all over her shoes. I’d assume labor nurses are used to and cool with this kind of thing, but she didn’t seem the least bit amused when I suggested she grab a boogie board so I don’t know maybe it was her first day?

“Ok, let’s check you in,” she said, now convinced that I was not in fact a mermaid and was maybe just having a human baby.

Another, more chill nurse thankfully then took over, and as she got me settled in my bed I caught a glimpse of my shitty-looking nails and said, “God damnit, I KNEW I should’ve gotten a manicure yesterday,” because that’s something that someone who is ready to be a mother says.

The nurse laughed and told me you wouldn’t believe how many women have glam squads come to the hospital to fix them up for the instagram birth series. That’s cool. I looked like this:

IMG_0753.jpeg

I was then asked if I wanted drugs, to which I replied YES PLEASE THANK YOU AND ALSO NOWWWWWWWW before the nurse could finish saying the word “epidural.” Please note that I was in absolutely zero pain at this point. I just wanted the zero pain to stay that way for as long as possible because, I don’t know, I guess I don’t hate myself?

But seriously, to the women who choose to suffer through the contractions or go all natural all the way, I gotta say damn you are brave. But also why? WHY?!

does-not-get-it.gif

So they started the epidural and then the Pitocin, a drug to induce labor. And then I sat back and relaxed while nothing happened.

NOTHING.

Literally nothing.

When the doctor went to check my cervix, she saw this:

200w-1.gif

Apparently my amniotic sac had decided it was go-time, but forgot to inform my cervix, which remained as closed as Donald Trump’s mind. (Relatedly, if Trump really wants an impenetrable border wall, he should build it out of my cervix).

No man, woman or baby was breaking through that barrier any time soon. I was 0 centimeters dilated. I know this because no less than four arms went up my hooha to check.

You know what’s a bad sign? When your doctor removes her fist from your vagina and says “Hmmmm, that’s odd.”

So we continued to wait while nothing happened. NOTHING.

200w-2.gif

So much nothing, in fact, that when the nurse came in to check on me, he just walked in, grabbed a seat and joined our binge session of The Sinner (great show, btw), which we were watching on Eric’s laptop. He didn’t even ask how I was feeling or if I needed anything– it was clear from the zero things happening that I was feeling nothing and needed nada. So he watched tv with us. Because Netflix n’ birth.

Clearly, it was going to be a long day.

Or so we thought.

giphy.gif

*I’m totally kidding about the optics joke, Ma! I know you love me. Probably not as much as you love the Outer Banks, though, which is fair because the Outer Banks never called you a bitch when it was 16.

Learn From Your Mother’s Mistakes

Being pregnant has given me a lot of time to reflect on all the stupid shit I did as a kid and to wonder if my daughter is going to be as poor a decision maker as I was.

For instance, one time in high school I smoked the world’s most unnecessarily large and potent amount of weed. I definitely could have stopped at one bong hit and been perfectly pleasantly stoned, but I guess I thought if one was fun, 8 would be REALLY fun, because everything fun is better when you overdo it by 7 times.

I was an honors student.

I have no explanation for this.

I was dropped off at home by a sober friend (I think/hope?) around midnight, and instead of going straight to bed, I chose to sit in the bright, incriminating lights of the kitchen and eat a tub of Breyer’s vanilla ice cream with a large wooden cooking spoon, straight from the tub. I must have been making absurdly loud slobbering noises and dropping the spoon one or 12 too many times, because at some point, my Dad wandered downstairs from his bedroom to see what was going on.

I didn’t even attempt to act like a normal human, I just proceeded to dip my big ass spoon in the tub o’ Breyers and stare at the kitchen TV, ice cream trickling down my chin, while Dad carried on what I think was supposed to be a conversation with me. To this day I have no idea what he said, but if he didn’t realize I was stoned out of my damn mind, well, that’s just sad for him.

To make matters worse, I was so high that I ended up vomiting multiple times in the middle of the night, and then oversleeping the next day, when I was supposed to be at my parents’ friends’ house babysitting their kids. I was a total no-show for the job, with essentially no excuse other than “I took 7 too many bong rips, by accident.” I lost out on a ton of money and so badly pissed off the family, who had been my steady source of income since middle school, that they never asked me to work for them again.

So all this is to say, for the love of god, I pray my kid makes better choices than I did.

I mean– Breyers vanilla?

Aim higher, baby girl. When you’re stoned as shit, you shove that oversized spoon into something worthwhile.

The world is your oyster.

benandjerrys-icecream-1432759810.jpg

Hi Again! Here’s Where I’ve Been.

I’ve gotten many comments about my lack of posting lately. Most of you think it’s because I’m too happy and in love to bother writing anymore. HAH! No.

Yes, I love Eric dearly and yes we are very happy together, but that would never be the reason I stop posting. If I’m writing less, that is usually a bad sign. I write more when my energy is good. I make myself write when my energy is bad, too, because it is definitely therapeutic. But you’ll certainly see more frequent posting when my spirits are up.

SO STOP BLAMING ERIC.

Jk, you can blame him a little, at least for the blog’s decrease in entertainment value. My pre-Eric dating life was more amusing. For you guys, at least. Living it was bona fide hell.

Anyway, back to the point. Here’s where I’ve been:

I have felt like absolute dog shit for the past 5 weeks. No, not depression (wahoo!), but feeling this awful for this long was starting to make me FEEL depressed, which is when I knew I had to make a change. I was blaming the new Paleo diet (for those of you not familiar, Paleo is essentially a whole-foods diet…nothing processed, no added sugar, no dairy, no grains, no legumes). I had started feeling this way about 6 days into the diet (after an initial first week of feeling fabulous), so I was certain that my body was just transitioning from carb-burning to fat-burning for energy, and it was taking a little longer than normal because I’ve been feeding it approximately 16 gallons of sugar-coated garbage per day for the past 34 years and now it’s like WHAT THE FUCK DO I RUN ON NOW!?!? CHRIST.

So I was just giving it some time.

But weeks passed, and I still felt incredibly weak and depleted. I essentially felt as if I possessed no muscle whatsoever. My arms and legs were extremely heavy, and when I walked, I felt like I was going to teeter over. It hurt to hold things in my hands (even my phone. I HAD TO PUT DOWN MY PHONE, GUYS). I was so irritable I wanted to punch everything in sight, which is less than ideal when you work with children.

But I really didn’t want to give up the Paleo diet, because the switch to this lifestyle had instantly cured my two biggest life-long ailments– headaches and stomachaches. So I kept riding it out, certain my strength would return, as well as my ability to not be a fang-toothed fire monster.

It didn’t. I started crying every day because I couldn’t run anymore. I could barely make it up the stairs to my classroom at school. I couldn’t carry a grocery bag.  Social events made me anxious because I didn’t know how I’d feel. I pushed myself to go to a friend’s outdoor-concert birthday party, only to end up crying hysterically to her when I didn’t have enough energy to stay on my feet.

Nobody likes the girl who cries to the birthday girl. I know that’s not even a thing, but I made it a thing, and I think everyone involved can agree it was not a good thing.

So I had a ton of blood work done. Checked all my vitamin levels, thyroid, cholesterol, blood pressure. Everything came back fine. I started to think I was going insane (you know…again).

I googled everything I could find on issues with pervasive weakness. About 3 hours into my google search, as Eric tried to gently pry the computer out of my hands and suggest I do something productive, like stand up or blink, I came across a testimonial from a girl who had very similar issues. They were related to her birth control. Specifically, she started noticing herself fall apart as soon as her pharmacy switched her over to the generic form of her pill.

This had recently happened to me. About 7 weeks prior, my mail-order pharmacy had sent me a 3-pack of the generic form (Levonorgestrel and Ethinyl Estradiol) of my regular birth control (Aviane). I wasn’t thrilled about the switch without notice or approval, but I naively trusted it’d be the same thing, and I’d be fine. Well, you know how the saying goes– “naiveté killed the cat.” (Yeah, I know, it’s “curiosity.” But that doesn’t fit this context and there’s no good quote about naiveté so BACK OFF.)

I immediately googled “Levonorgestrel and Ethinyl Estradiol.” The reviews and patient testimonials were insane. Basically, women switched to this pill and turned into Medusa. One girl swore it caused her divorce, because she became a completely irrational and emotional lunatic. Another used to be a marathon runner and then found she could barely walk (um, hello?!). Another gained 15 pounds in 3 weeks despite going to the gym every day and being in the most active, healthy phase of her life. Another stopped having sex with her husband because the sight of him disgusted her (that sounded more like a life problem than a medication problem, but godspeed to that couple.) Overall, the pill had a user rating of 1 star (for comparison, the name-brand pill I’d been taking had a rating of 4 stars).

“Holy shit. I’ve been poisoning myself,” I thought as I scrolled through testimonials that easily could have been written by me. I had basically been waking up every morning and swallowing a tiny little dragon pill that turned my insides to mush, my pupils red, and my breath to Game-of-Thrones-worthy fire darts.

I stopped taking the pill immediately. Didn’t even ride out the pack like they say you’re supposed to. Just stopped mid-pack and threw the rest in the garbage.

I quit it last Sunday. By Thursday, I was myself again. My body no longer feels heavy. I’ve been running every day. I have my strength back (not 100%, as I haven’t worked out in 5 weeks, but it is infinitely better). I can walk up stairs and not lose my breath. I can laugh again. I don’t hate everything.

Needless to say, Eric is relieved.

IMG_9683

So the point here is four-fold:

  1. Know what’s going into your body.
  2. Know that generic drugs are NOT the exact same as the brand-name. By law they do not have to be. They can be stuffed with fillers and binders that might be EXTREMELY harmful to your body, particularly if you are someone who is hormonally sensitive, as I am.
  3. Pay attention to how your medication affects your mood and energy. If it’s not good then
  4. Go off of it before you murder your significant other.

Number 4 is very important. Because if you murder your significant other, it should be because that’s just who you are as a person, not because a pill made you do it.

You’re welcome.

I’m glad to be back!

img_8312

 

 

Adventures in Ambien: A Cautionary Tale

ambien-walrus-adventure (image courtesy of http://ambien.blogspot.com)

Between the ages of 22 and 26, I used to take Ambien every night before bed. It was prescribed to me for anxiety-induced insomnia, but mostly I took it because I was at that point in my life where I was convinced that completely unnecessary drugs were in fact necessary. This is because I had zero coping skills and a general belief that mental health problems could be solved with short-acting band-aid solutions, an attitude that helped me avoid the hard work of consistent therapy and would eventually lead to a complete nervous breakdown at age 26.

But in those days, I loved my Ambien! I loved that it put me into a deep, uninterrupted sleep. I loved that it made me less anxious. But mostly I loved that for the hour between taking it and falling asleep, it made me feel drunk, loopy, and giddy. It’s like I got to have my own private happy hour every night before bed.

Which, in retrospect, sounds really fucking sad.

But anyway. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the effects of Ambien, which is likely most of you, as you are normal humans who only do unnecessary drugs at parties or times of celebration, like when your kid finally goes to sleep (that’s how parenthood works, no?): if you take Ambien and don’t go RIGHT to bed, you’ll experience this bizarre, hazy period where you feel kind of drunk, kind of stoned, very loopy, and then essentially remember NOTHING of it the next day.

So needless to say, weird things can go down during this stretch of time, as evidenced when my friend Suzie was looking for my tv remote one day and I told her to check my bed, where she proceeded to find a half-eaten grilled cheese between the top sheet and comforter. I had no memory of it, but apparently the night before I had cooked that bad boy on the George Foreman and had myself a nice little snack snuggled beneath the covers, before passing out mid-chew in an Ambiened stupor. The crumbs on my thighs the next morning should have been a hint that something strange had gone down, but I had just shrugged it off and hopped in the shower because whatever– mysterious bed crumbs happen, guys.

Sleep eating isn’t unusual on Ambien. Other Ambien users have been known to sleepwalk, sleep dance, and even sleep DRIVE while under the influence, which needless to say is a terrifying and dangerous prospect. Luckily, the only person I’ve ever hurt during MY escapades is myself.

And that’s the last ounce of credit I’ll award myself, because this story is about to go downhill fast.

So one night, at age 23, I was alone in my apartment and decided to take an Ambien. Standard practice. I was living with my sister at the time, but she was on a trip to South America for the week, so it was just me.

I took the pill and everything was normal. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and did whatever else I needed to do before bed with zero incident. Then, after about 15 minutes of laying there reading US Weekly and seriously considering my chances of becoming the next contestant on The Bachelor, I decided (like any normal jew) that I must immediately imbibe a frothy glass of milk at 1:00 in the morning.

I don’t drink milk. Ever. I don’t even know why we had milk in the fridge, but we did. So I leaped out of bed with the grace of a 3-legged cat and stumbled over to the kitchen.

Side note, which will become a key factor in this story: I was wearing nothing but a pair of underwear. No shirt, no shorts, no bra– literally just a pair of full coverage cotton underwear, the kind you might find in your grandmother’s drawer at the nursing home. Clearly I had missed laundry day (common practice back then) and it was slim pickins.

But I digress.

So, clothed in essentially nothing, I poured myself a cold, tall glass of 2% milk. But, seeing as though Ambien affects coordination, and seeing as though I have the natural dexterity of a hippopotamus, I managed to drop the glass mid-pour, and watch as it shattered into hundreds of pieces across the kitchen floor.

Well, when something like this happens and you are naked in a drug-induced state, there’s only one responsible choice to make– wipe up the shattered glass with a few flimsy, CVS brand paper towels.

So there I am, on my hands and knees, cleaning up spilled milk in what can only be described as a scene out of the world’s most twisted nursery rhyme. I don’t know, something about Humpty Dumpty shattering, and then not crying over spilled milk? I swear, minus the nudity and drugs, there’s a shade of a children’s tale in here somewhere.

Once all the glass was safely wiped up and placed into a garbage bag, I decided, as I stared at the various bleeding cuts in my shins, knees and fingers, that the safest thing to do would be to get the entire bag of glass out of the apartment and chuck it down the hallway garbage chute, which was conveniently located about three feet outside my apartment door.

I opened the door and then, by the grace of god, suddenly remembered I was naked. So I quickly shut the door, still safely inside my apartment.

Don’t worry– any inkling of wise decision-making ends there.

I was too drugged to be bothered to fully clothe myself, but somewhere in my brain I knew that entering the hallway completely nude from the waist up would be a bad life choice. So what did I do? I grabbed the knit blanket sitting right there on the couch, wrapped myself in it, and re-opened the door.

Something to note: this was no full-coverage blanket.  It was a small, crochet throw, the kind that fully has holes and gaps throughout, and is definitely not intended to keep you even remotely warm, much less be used as a nudity shield. Basically, this:

3411

So I’m wrapped in what is essentially a thin layer of gauze, and I open up my apartment door and risk the 3-second sprint into the hallway and back. After all, at this point, it’s about 2am on a week day– what are the odds that someone will be out there?

And I was right. The hallway was empty. I was able to dart to the chute, toss the bag, and make it back to my apartment door without a single person spotting me. Which would have been AWESOME, and would have been where this story ends…

…had the door not slammed behind me and auto-locked me out of my apartment.

Without keys. Drugged. Naked. Bleeding. Wrapped in a doily.

I panicked for a good 2 minutes and then sat down in the hallway to consider my options. Then I remembered that our next door neighbor, a dear friend of my sister’s, had our spare key!

Then I ALSO remembered that that neighbor was in South America. With my sister.

The only two people in the world who had a key to my apartment were away, together, on an entirely different continent.

I was left with no choice. That door wasn’t going to open itself, and sitting in the hallway naked until sunrise seemed like a bad idea. I picked myself up, got in the elevator, and went to the lobby, where I subtly (as subtle as one can be when naked in public) approached Steve, the young doorman. Since I was naked, bleeding, and slurring my speech, I didn’t see the point in even trying to make up a story. At this juncture, the situation was what it was (re: ABSURD). So I looked him straight in the eye and said, “So…I took Ambien. It’s a sleep drug. I’m really out of it. I broke some glass. I went to throw it out and then I locked myself out of my apartment. Without my key. I am naked under this blanket. Those are the facts. Can you please help me?”

He stared at me wide-eyed for a solid 30 seconds and then, like music to my glass-punctured, milk-stained ears, said “Yeah. I can, actually.”

He disappeared into a back room and returned with a huge sheet of hard plastic. “Lucky for you,” he announced triumphantly, “I know how to jimmy open any apartment door with this thing.” In hindsight, I should have been very concerned about the door-jimmying hobby of this man who had full access to my building 24 hours a day. But in that moment, I felt nothing but sheer relief that this guy had the skills of a rapist and may or may not be stealing from me when I’m out of town.

We got in the elevator together. And let me tell you something right now– don’t you EVER complain about awkwardness in elevators until you’ve taken a naked 3-flights-up trip with your doorman, clutching your crab-net blanket in all the important places as he wields a huge plastic sheet and chuckles “This is certainly a first” the entire way. I’m not sure how it’s even possible that I am able to ride in elevators to this day.

So we got to my apartment door without encountering any other tenants, which is a shame because what this story really needs is a second witness.

“Give me two minutes,” he said, and then he used the sheet of plastic like a saw, slamming it into the side of the door, pulling it in and out aggressively. I then sat down in the hallway, where I proceeded to watch the progress of my knight in shining doorman attire, pray for god’s forgiveness, and then promptly pass the fuck out.

I was on Ambien, guys. It had been a long night.

Steve woke me from my hallway nap about 15 minutes later (I think– for all I knew, it could have been a week later) to tell me the job was complete. My lock was broken and I’d have to fix it in the morning. But for now, he advised, “Go to bed. Do not leave your room again tonight. Put your clothes on.”

Things you might say to a toddler.

I woke up the next morning, at first with a vague sense that something bizarre had happened, and then, slowly, the full blown realization that yes, I had locked myself out naked, and yes, despite straight A’s throughout my entire educational career and the possession of an Ivy League degree, this was really my life.

I slipped Steve an envelope of cash with a note stating: “Thank you, and let us never speak of this again.”

I was his favorite tenant after that.

So tip your doorman, guys.

I’ve searched high and low, and that’s definitely the lesson here.