Thursday, December 6, 2012

Here he is: Doc. P. in all his glory. Thank goodness my scenarios rarely follow through — his legs survive another day. 

Jake was shot in the leg

Just kidding — he wasn't.

But those are thoughts that race through my mind. A lot. You see, I have a little something doctors like to tag "generalized anxiety disorder." In other words, GAD. Kind of sounds like gag, which is how I feel when the word "anxiety" rolls off my tongue.

I tend to have unrealistic fears and worries, dozens of which keep me awake at night. So tonight I'm filling you all in on one of the most intense "what-ifs" I've had in awhile — with the solution, too, of course.

So, back to the leg shooting. Doc. P sleeps on the right side of the bed, closest to the window. We are on the bottom floor of a three-level apartment complex. Every now and again, car lights break through our window curtain and stir my slumber. But most of the time, my anxiety does to the stirring.

On one said occasion, I imagined the occupants of a car barreling out of their unmarked vehicle, only to get into a scuffle with each other. Their fight would escalate until occupant #1 would pull out a gun. (What now, sucka foo.) However, occupant #2 would lunge forward, knocking the gun out of #1's hands. But just to my dismay, the gun would still fire, and because we live on the bottom floor, it would  shatter through the window and pierce Jake in the thigh.

Now that the backstory is taken care of, scenario-leg-shooting turns to solution. What would I do first? Do I call 911 or do I apply pressure? Wait, how do you apply pressure to a gunshot wound? Would I press my fingers over the masacre first or call 911? I'm pretty sure I saw something about a tourniquet on TV once. (That's probably gotta be in the picture somewhere.) Wait, do I need to get him on the floor? I'm CPR trained and was strictly told to not do CPR on a bed. Would Jake even need it? If so, how can I put pressure on his bleeding leg, while getting him safely on the carpet, while calling 911? If it's to save his life, yes to all of the necessary actions listed above.

The task seemed daunting.

After coming up with what I thought was a plausible solution, I "relaxed." First, stop the bleeding. Next, call 911. Third, push him onto the floor without throwing my back out. Fourth, make sure to unlock the door so the dispatchers don't have to break my door down. Not only would that be traumatizing, but expensive, too. They come, they save his life. Problem solved.

Or so I thought.

I attempted to wake Jake up to run my plan by him. You know, with him being a doctor and all, I had to get his stamp of approval. I guess it's his life too. For some reason he groaned and rolled when I said, "Psst. Jake. What do I do first if  you get shot in the leg?" (Guess this wasn't a pressing reason to wake him up. Seemed pressing to me. Cold sweat: Party of 1.)

So the next day, I relayed my plan to him. With a resounding, "WHAT?!" he let me know my plan was completely backwards, as was my brain.

"First of all, multi-task. Aren't you a woman? Call 911 and stop the bleeding. And never use a tourniquet if I'm just shot. Geez. Don't you know that whatever is below the tourniquet dies completely? I'd lose my whole leg. And why are we even talking about this — it will never happen. Bless your little heart, Brookie."

What would I do without him ... and my nutty imagination.

*What crazy scenarios and solutions keep you up at night?

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Time-induced heartburn

You win.
All of you who supposedly obsessed over my repulsively descriptive missionary letters. You win. I've joined the blogging world. 

One of the hardest rules for me to follow as an LDS missionary was this: "Don't write any letters unless it's on your Preparation Day." 

How I interpreted that rule:

"Sister Willardson,
We know your life is full of erroneous happenings that seem virtually unrealistic — however, you do experience ridiculous things that nobody else does. So, in order to not flood the Internet with your exaggerated discourses, just write once a week. K? Thanks. 
President Monson." 

The rule made sense — I had a particular focus of teaching families about Jesus Christ and eternal families. If I were distracted by writing home too often, I would cheat the Lord. My alternative was making bullet points in my daily planner, reminding myself of all the little, irrelevant details that I felt were life-threateningly important. 

Oh, and on an "unrelated" note, I have acid reflux ... and here's why:

On preparation day, we had one hour to email our families. 

I repeat, 60 minutes

My missionary companion Jones — who I will throw under the bus on many glorious occasions — used to say that I just "pretend pounded" on the computer keys because "surely no one could type that fast." Well I did, and I still do. I felt like I needed a shower after every email because I was so worked up. Over time, this resulted in reflux which became a close companion. (Or maybe the reflux companionship came from my obsession with Flaming Hot Cheetos? Either way.)

So here I am: Free to write with no time constraints, free to embellish and free to entertain. And by entertain, I probably mean annoy.

There. I said it.