Mad Merry Maudlin

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So about a week ago, friends, I suddenly developed an acute case of Hedgehog Chest, where every time I eat or breathe or eat or move too quickly or eat or sit or eat, a hedgehog hurls itself at my sternum. An angry hedgehog. Oh my God he is so angry.

No one seems to know what's wrong with me. It's not heartburn. It's not the flu. It's not Kuru. Although "furiously angry hedgehog" seems pretty self-explanatory to me, I've had to describe it to people enough times at this point that I have just drawn a diagram on the back of my car insurance payment envelope (which I will remember to mail in tomorrow) to use as a handy prop. Observe:


(As I was trying to figure out how to spell "uvula," guys, I also came across this picture of a uvula piercing. I never actually realized that was pierce-able. I have learned something new today. Thanks Internet!)

(Also, this picture of a spineless hedgehog, which is perhaps the most tragically adorable animal-related photo I have EVER SEEN.)

(Except for these guys, who have TINY BROKEN LEGS IN CASTS!)

Anyway! After having spent a week doing nothing but eating Wonder Bread soaked in milk and wishing that my esophagus wasn't lined with broken glass and sharp metal pointy bits and also that I could sleep, I have grown tired and testy. You should pity Erik the Swede, if you don't on a regular basis already.

So it was in this tired and testy state, on my way to work, that my mother decided to call me and inform me that she had scheduled a chest x-ray for this evening. Because she and my father had talked about it, and she was pretty sure I had some sort of hideous growth pressing down on my esophagus.

"The hedgehog," I said.
"No, like a tumor," she answered.

Which is why it is dangerous to have a nervous mother with a medical degree.

(You'll notice that Dad didn't say he thought it was a tumor. But he was probably unable to say conclusively that it wasn't a tumor, and I imagine that's all the confirmation that was needed.)

I give you all this as background so you have an adequate explanation as to why I was at the hospital all evening wearing nothing but a poorly-tied robe whilst an incredibly rotund man strapped lead clamps to my ovaries and took photos of areas of me normally covered by stylish undergarments.

We got along fine, me and the Incredibly Rotund Man, although there was a bit of a rocky moment when he said "ndihaftoskutis buterubyaneechnspgnat?" to which I replied "Excuse me?" to which he yelped "I'm so sorry but we are required to ask all our patients!!" to which I replied, "Um, no, what?" to which he yelped louder "NOW I HAVE EMBARRASSED US BOTH!!" to which I finally realized he was asking if I was pregnant and answered "No" and put the poor man out of his misery.

Because a potentially-cancerous esophageal hedgehog is bad enough, without it being a pregnant potentially-cancerous esophageal hedgehog.

We'll have the results back tomorrow, so I want you to all cross your fingers that they actually do find a tiny spiny pissed-off mammal sitting in the middle of my rib area. Because if they don't, Mom is threatening to have me scoped. Scoped, guys. Much as I would like the chance to throw the word "esophagogastroduodenoscopy" around in casual conversation, I really don't want to go through it personally.....