I drank a cup of coffee at 11 p.m.
I've been sick. Fever, excessive sleeping, maniacal laughter and whatnot. It started with a sinus infection-type deal on Thursday during the afternoon, but then in the evening when I was ref'ing volleyball games at the rec center, I started really feeling not-good. When I got back to my room that night, I started getting some extreme chills, like shaking, you know. It didn't matter that I was wearing my dad's hockey jersey along with sweatpants, socks, slippers, fluffy polka-dot bath robe... I was just insanely cold.
Friday morning, I skipped math and walked down to our infirmary. Usually, I wait until I'm too near-death to even try to convince my mom that I don't need to go to a doctor, but now I'm supposed to be responsible, and school seems like a pretty expensive thing to be sick during, so I went. After looking me over, one of the ladies gave me some Tylenol and said she wanted to take some of my blood to test it for mono. I shrugged and said "okay," and she left the room.
Now, you can spin me around for hours in an office chair and I won't get dizzy; you can feed me twelve hotdogs and send me on a roller coaster and I won't even come close to ralphing; but I don't have the best track record when it comes to giving blood.
In eleventh grade, some school club was hosting a blood drive, and I signed up for it because I was psyched about being old enough to do something that normally would have required parental consent. I got on that bus, answered "no" to the 52,591,453,845,346,001 sexual encounter questions they asked me, and let them plug me in to the drinking straw-like needle contraption. I thought I was doing well, but then the nurse started peering into my face, looking at me all weird and asking why I wasn't squeezing the ball harder. No matter how much I tried to appear as okay as I felt, she continued saying I wasn't acting normal and had I not eaten enough food today? It's very confusing to be spoken to like this when you're feeling all right. I was just thinking, "Yes, I'm fine, go away, I'm squeezing the stupid thing." I stared out the window, my eyelids getting heavy, my body getting cold, squeezing the ball as as often as I could. Then, suddenly everything turned super-hot and painful, and that moment felt like a really great moment to pass out. But the nurses hurried and put some ice packs under my neck and on my chest, and gave me like five bottles of apple juice. Most of my friends answered the sex questions, gave a pint, and left, all in around fifteen minutes. After apologizing for being so high-maintenance, I left the Blood Mobile after a good two hours.
My senior year, my friend Ethan somehow coerced me into giving blood again. That experience wasn't so traumatic. Of course, it still took over an hour to get the bag full, but there were no drooping eyelids or emergency ice packs involved. I left feeling like a victor. I didn't really notice any side effects until I got up at the beginning of my next class to ask my math teacher a question and noticed I couldn't make my face direct itself toward my notebook. My head sort of just kept lolling backward. This didn't bother me because I was sky-high, but I think my teacher was offended. After a solid minute of studying the ceiling, I muttered, "Oh, I get it," and shuffled back to my desk. It was my habit to make lots of comments during that class, but I guess my comments were a little off that day, because my teacher kept asking if I was following what she was doing. All I said was, "Oh yeah," but a bunch of people started laughing. I heard one guy say, "Whatever she's on, I want some." A few minutes later, when I heard a girl across the room giggle and say "look at Katelyn," I realized I was swaying and grinning down at my pencil. My little sister and I had to sit in my Jeep in the parking lot for about twenty minutes after school, because driving doesn't seem like a good thing to do when you find your head flopping in different directions. It was really awesome though.
But Friday at the infirmary, I figured since they wouldn't be taking a big bag from me, it wouldn't affect me too much. A different lady came in with some little tube things and asked me if I ever had any problems with giving blood. I lied, and she proceeded to drain a small supply of life from my already weak body. Two minutes later, I noticed she was looking at me funny; then she ran out of the room and came back with a wet rag and Capri Sun. Story of my blood-giving life. Anyway, they gave me five days' worth of antibiotics and told me to skip the rest of my classes for the day. I spent homecoming weekend in my dorm, blowing my nose.
Sunday night I didn't sleep well. Not only had I found out that day that I am among the many who are terribly allergic to Pantene hair conditioner, but I also inexplicably kept waking up scratching my hands and feet. So I was itching literally from my scalp to the soles of my feet - imagine the itchy. Monday morning, I wasn't feeling sick anymore, but there were these weird, hurty red spots showing up on the palms of my hands, bottoms of my feet, and even on my face. Figuring I must be allergic to the antibiotics, I went back to the infirmary after I was done with classes.
As it turns out, these spots were about to transform into a wildly contagious viral disease, usually found in younger children. Apparently, in the next couple of days I am supposed to endure lots of pain in my mouth and throat, and I am not to go to classes for the rest of the week. In fact, for the sake of my room mate and everyone else in my hall, the doctor-lady said it would be best if I just went home. So I left the infirmary, went to the GUC, and bought a frozen white chocolate mocha and a cup of frosted blueberry muffin poppers from the Einstein Bros. Both were great, if you're wondering.
I was a little shocked. I mean, here I was feeling better except for these random spots, and now you're telling me that not only is my week going to suck, but I am also exiled from campus? Of course I wasn't angry with the M.D. - she was very sweet - but I was in general disbelief. I had never heard of this before; were they making this up? When I left Lafayette that afternoon, our custodian came in saying she had orders to sanitize Hailey's and my room. I wondered if I should be wearing a mask and gloves.
Actually, I do have to wear gloves at all times, and socks! I mastered Facebook chat today wearing bulky gardening gloves, which was interesting. For all these precautions I'm taking so others don't catch it, my contagious and harmful spots don't seem to be harming ME yet. Also, there's nothing wrong with my mouth. It's cool, though. I get to watch Smallville (somebody saaaaavvve me) and drink hot tea and use my own bathroom. Also, my older sister bought me the Deathly Hallows to read, so that should keep me occupied if I get tired of staring at Tom Welling (not likely).
I started being a dork for Harry Potter toward the end of my senior year when I finally started reading the books and watching the movies for the first time. My reading-for-fun streak, however, ended when college started, so I never got to read the very last book. I miss reading. My senior year, I know I read at least 50 full books. It was the busiest year of my life, so I'm not really sure how I did it - maybe because I worked in the school library. I think reading is actually good for busy people, because it kind of slows them down and takes them outside their circumstances so life never gets overwhelming. Or maybe that's just me because I'm a nerd.
I've been sick. Fever, excessive sleeping, maniacal laughter and whatnot. It started with a sinus infection-type deal on Thursday during the afternoon, but then in the evening when I was ref'ing volleyball games at the rec center, I started really feeling not-good. When I got back to my room that night, I started getting some extreme chills, like shaking, you know. It didn't matter that I was wearing my dad's hockey jersey along with sweatpants, socks, slippers, fluffy polka-dot bath robe... I was just insanely cold.
Friday morning, I skipped math and walked down to our infirmary. Usually, I wait until I'm too near-death to even try to convince my mom that I don't need to go to a doctor, but now I'm supposed to be responsible, and school seems like a pretty expensive thing to be sick during, so I went. After looking me over, one of the ladies gave me some Tylenol and said she wanted to take some of my blood to test it for mono. I shrugged and said "okay," and she left the room.
Now, you can spin me around for hours in an office chair and I won't get dizzy; you can feed me twelve hotdogs and send me on a roller coaster and I won't even come close to ralphing; but I don't have the best track record when it comes to giving blood.
In eleventh grade, some school club was hosting a blood drive, and I signed up for it because I was psyched about being old enough to do something that normally would have required parental consent. I got on that bus, answered "no" to the 52,591,453,845,346,001 sexual encounter questions they asked me, and let them plug me in to the drinking straw-like needle contraption. I thought I was doing well, but then the nurse started peering into my face, looking at me all weird and asking why I wasn't squeezing the ball harder. No matter how much I tried to appear as okay as I felt, she continued saying I wasn't acting normal and had I not eaten enough food today? It's very confusing to be spoken to like this when you're feeling all right. I was just thinking, "Yes, I'm fine, go away, I'm squeezing the stupid thing." I stared out the window, my eyelids getting heavy, my body getting cold, squeezing the ball as as often as I could. Then, suddenly everything turned super-hot and painful, and that moment felt like a really great moment to pass out. But the nurses hurried and put some ice packs under my neck and on my chest, and gave me like five bottles of apple juice. Most of my friends answered the sex questions, gave a pint, and left, all in around fifteen minutes. After apologizing for being so high-maintenance, I left the Blood Mobile after a good two hours.
My senior year, my friend Ethan somehow coerced me into giving blood again. That experience wasn't so traumatic. Of course, it still took over an hour to get the bag full, but there were no drooping eyelids or emergency ice packs involved. I left feeling like a victor. I didn't really notice any side effects until I got up at the beginning of my next class to ask my math teacher a question and noticed I couldn't make my face direct itself toward my notebook. My head sort of just kept lolling backward. This didn't bother me because I was sky-high, but I think my teacher was offended. After a solid minute of studying the ceiling, I muttered, "Oh, I get it," and shuffled back to my desk. It was my habit to make lots of comments during that class, but I guess my comments were a little off that day, because my teacher kept asking if I was following what she was doing. All I said was, "Oh yeah," but a bunch of people started laughing. I heard one guy say, "Whatever she's on, I want some." A few minutes later, when I heard a girl across the room giggle and say "look at Katelyn," I realized I was swaying and grinning down at my pencil. My little sister and I had to sit in my Jeep in the parking lot for about twenty minutes after school, because driving doesn't seem like a good thing to do when you find your head flopping in different directions. It was really awesome though.
But Friday at the infirmary, I figured since they wouldn't be taking a big bag from me, it wouldn't affect me too much. A different lady came in with some little tube things and asked me if I ever had any problems with giving blood. I lied, and she proceeded to drain a small supply of life from my already weak body. Two minutes later, I noticed she was looking at me funny; then she ran out of the room and came back with a wet rag and Capri Sun. Story of my blood-giving life. Anyway, they gave me five days' worth of antibiotics and told me to skip the rest of my classes for the day. I spent homecoming weekend in my dorm, blowing my nose.
Sunday night I didn't sleep well. Not only had I found out that day that I am among the many who are terribly allergic to Pantene hair conditioner, but I also inexplicably kept waking up scratching my hands and feet. So I was itching literally from my scalp to the soles of my feet - imagine the itchy. Monday morning, I wasn't feeling sick anymore, but there were these weird, hurty red spots showing up on the palms of my hands, bottoms of my feet, and even on my face. Figuring I must be allergic to the antibiotics, I went back to the infirmary after I was done with classes.
As it turns out, these spots were about to transform into a wildly contagious viral disease, usually found in younger children. Apparently, in the next couple of days I am supposed to endure lots of pain in my mouth and throat, and I am not to go to classes for the rest of the week. In fact, for the sake of my room mate and everyone else in my hall, the doctor-lady said it would be best if I just went home. So I left the infirmary, went to the GUC, and bought a frozen white chocolate mocha and a cup of frosted blueberry muffin poppers from the Einstein Bros. Both were great, if you're wondering.
I was a little shocked. I mean, here I was feeling better except for these random spots, and now you're telling me that not only is my week going to suck, but I am also exiled from campus? Of course I wasn't angry with the M.D. - she was very sweet - but I was in general disbelief. I had never heard of this before; were they making this up? When I left Lafayette that afternoon, our custodian came in saying she had orders to sanitize Hailey's and my room. I wondered if I should be wearing a mask and gloves.
Actually, I do have to wear gloves at all times, and socks! I mastered Facebook chat today wearing bulky gardening gloves, which was interesting. For all these precautions I'm taking so others don't catch it, my contagious and harmful spots don't seem to be harming ME yet. Also, there's nothing wrong with my mouth. It's cool, though. I get to watch Smallville (somebody saaaaavvve me) and drink hot tea and use my own bathroom. Also, my older sister bought me the Deathly Hallows to read, so that should keep me occupied if I get tired of staring at Tom Welling (not likely).
I started being a dork for Harry Potter toward the end of my senior year when I finally started reading the books and watching the movies for the first time. My reading-for-fun streak, however, ended when college started, so I never got to read the very last book. I miss reading. My senior year, I know I read at least 50 full books. It was the busiest year of my life, so I'm not really sure how I did it - maybe because I worked in the school library. I think reading is actually good for busy people, because it kind of slows them down and takes them outside their circumstances so life never gets overwhelming. Or maybe that's just me because I'm a nerd.
"Don't hang up on me, 'cause I'm hung up on you." - Red Jumpsuit Apparatus
:K
:K
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