I found the Fountain of Youth! But There's Some Teenage Guilt Involved.

Looking for a way to feel like a promiscuous, pill popping, suicidal drug addict? No? Well, I’ll tell you how to feel that way anyway.

On Tuesday, I had a medical “incident”. I knew instantly that something was very wrong; I’d never experienced something like that before. The room started spinning, I started to sweat (I’m consistently freezing, so that’s not normal for me!), I got dizzy and started to feel nauseous. I didn’t feel quite bad enough to call 911, so I opted for my personal 911 service: my dad.  Thats him, doing an unpaid ad for French's Dry Onions.



The ER was overly crowded, making me instantly itchy and a total nose breather. As not to inhale those germs, you see. I always think that those little hairs in your nose act as instant germ catchers. Logical, I know.

It took a couple of hours to get seen, so my dad hung out with me on my gurney while I waited.

“Heeeey dad. Whatcha doin? Nothing? Want to hang out on my gurney while we breathe sick people's air? Yes?”

The last time we got to chat one-on-one was when his motorcycle broke down a couple of months ago, and I sat with him while we waited to be rescued. Odd moments hold opportunity, too.

When the woman wielding needles and vials came around, it got uncomfortable. I am terrified of needles. It drives me bonkers that almost every time that I need to have blood drawn and subsequently freak out, the person taking the blood points out that I have several large tattoos.  Really? I DO? HOW did THAT happen?! But when the sarcasm drops, I point out that a tattoo needle and a “needle needle” look nothing alike. Or else my body would still be a clean canvas and my mother would be happy.

For some reason, my moment of sweaty anxiety seemed opportune to the hospital record keeper.  She decided at that moment to “fill in some gaps” on my paperwork. Ummm….okay. I was under duress but answered anyway.  And then I was transported back to 1990.

A litany of questions followed. Well, not a litany but it felt like it went on for an eternity.

“Do you now, or have you in the past, felt suicidal?” No. I don’t think so. No. Absolutely not.

“When did you have your last period?” Ummm…I don’t know. I know I should, but I don’t.

“Do you take any prescription drugs?” No. Thank God, an easy one.

“Do you drink alcohol?” Yes. But not a lot.  Really. I felt the need to elaborate.

“Do you smoke cigarettes?” No, no. Well, yes. But only, like three in a quarter. I did use the word quarterly, by the way. Don’t know where that came from.

Then I expanded upon that by explaining, “Only when I drink.” Typical over-sharer.

“Do you take any street drugs?” What the heck? I’m already a sweaty mess from this nurse drawing blood!  I’m clearly not an IV drug user, that’s for sure.

The funny thing is that despite the fact that I answered honestly to all of these questions, and I even elaborated, I felt guilty. Then it dawned on me why. It was because my dad was there! That would explain why I was also speaking in a freakishly loud, squeaky voice. I recognized it from my teen years.



See, I found the instant Fountain of Youth. All you have to do is have a “medical incident”, make a parent drive you and sit and keep you company, and answer various drug/alcohol/tobacco related questions. And POOF- right back to your teens.  The guilt lingers, even when you have nothing to be guilty about.  I can only hope that my skills to make my children feel that guilty while innocent is as flawless.

Oh and by the way…thanks, Dad. For being my EMT, my support and my unknowing inquisitor.