I know, I know. Christmas was a million years ago. We're on to Martin Luther King Day, Valentine's Day (is it me or is there once again chocolate at every turn?). But for some reason (cough! laziness!) I was unable to finish the Christmas Story in one post and I actually thought I could get it done in a reasonable amount of time. Well, it's still January at least.
When last saw our heroine, she was knee-deep in in-laws and wrapping paper...
Presents were opened, lasagne and hand-tossed salad were eaten. Dessert came out and we all made gluttons of ourselves. It was everything Christmas should be.
FIL left around 6:30 (With vigor: So long! Farewell! Auf Weidersehn! Good night!). MIL always has a burning desire escape any of our homes as soon as possible so rather than stay over and get a ride home from G. and T. the following morning, she begged a ride over to the train station on the other side of the Hudson River from J. and L., forcing them to leave early.
So now we're left with Fresh Daddy's older brother, G., his wife, T., and their two year old, T-bone. Let me start by saying that if you've ever seen The King of Queens, you pretty much know G. and T. And they even live in Queens! On the show, Carrie's father lives downstairs, in real life, T.'s mom lives downstairs. I love T. and I also consider her to be crazy. Not certifiable, just wacky. And she's a tough Queens girl. Don't mess with her. She'll kick your ass, Sea Bass.
During the week before our holiday celebration, T. and I were on the phone dishing on the in-laws and discussing logistics for the weekend. Apropos of nothing she says, "Dude, I have a doctor's appointment on January 8th." (Between T. and my FIL, the "dudes" are flying all over the place.) Which doctor? "Gynecologist. Dude, I think I'm pregnant." She tells me that her period is three weeks late. I ask if she's taken a pregnancy test. She says no. "Dude, I can tell. My boobs are sore, I'm tired..." Well, why don't you take a pregnancy test? "Well, that's why I made the appointment. I'll take one in the doctor's office." Did you tell them that you think you're pregnant? "No, I just made it for a check up but when I get there I'll tell them my period is late." Um, why don't you just go out and buy a pregnancy test? "I'd rather save the 20 bucks and just take it at the doctor's office."
Is it me or that totally absurd? Who waits to see the doctor to take a pregnancy test? See what I mean? Wacky.
So when she arrived at my house that Saturday, the first thing she did was pull me aside and say, "Oh my God, can you tell? I'm totally showing." If her calculations were correct, she was 5 weeks pregnant. The little bugger was what, the size of a grain of rice? A raisin, maybe? I tell her she's crazy. (By the way, when I forget to suck in my gut I can pass for a good 5-6 months along myself). So all day long she's very dramatic. Lots of sighing and making a big production out of sitting and needing to put her feet up (mind you, at this point, the in-laws aren't supposed to know).
Now the evening comes and everyone else is gone. The brothers all drink WAY TOO MUCH when they're together and my BIL is stumbling and drunk and passes out by 9:30. Fresh Daddy, T. and I are sitting around talking. T. is getting worked up about having another baby -- there's not enough space in their apartment, what are they going to do about day care, how much maternity leave can she take, etc. And then she says her heart is racing. And she's drenched in sweat. She's not feeling well. I wet down a towel with cold water and hold it on the back of her neck. I'm rubbing her back. Fresh Daddy is drunk but conscious and won't shut up. "It's okay, T. It's okay. Just relax."
Take deep breaths, I say.
She's better. We back off. She drinks some water.
And then she passes out.
Her head just drops into her chest. I'm back at her side and holding her up in her seat. I'm smacking her face. "T. Wake up, T." smack. smack. smack. "Wake up, T.!" Now her arms do a funny little convulsion and she makes some weird gurgly noises. Her eyes are rolled back into her head. I tell Fresh Daddy to call 911 and the idiot goes and wakes up his brother. Not the worst idea but let's call 911 fiiiiiiiiiiiiirst
!!! So I'm yelling at him to call 911. ("Just fucking call 911!!!!"). Now he's on the phone with 911. And he can't even tell the story right. Oh, just give me the phone already. I'm on with the operator. I tell the guys to get her on the floor. Then to put her on her left side (of course Fresh Daddy thinks her left is her right and there's a lot of shoving her around on the floor). Put her feet up. Put a blanket on her. We check her breathing. The ambulance is coming. Now Fresh Daddy is like a maniac, throwing furniture this way and that (his defense was that he was trying to clear a path for the stretcher). Seriously throwing
chairs aside. Hi, we have an unconscious woman on our hands, can we please not wake the children, because that's the last thing we need.
My brother in law is strangely calm the whole time and just keeps repeating some form of this over and over again: "Whatsamatter T? You don't feel well? Wake up, T. C'mon. What happened? You didn't feel so good? Wake up. C'mon, wake up." She comes to before the ambulance arrives which is a relief. The ambulance arrives (it took a little under 10 minutes which is not the greatest but unfortunately we're a few miles from town). The EMT guys are great. I was very impressed. They run a whole bunch of tests. They ask T. a lot of questions, how are you feeling now? do you remember what happened? Fresh Daddy keeps interjecting and adding comments (slurred comments, I might add) and I have to tell him to shut the fuck up. I'm trying to help, he says. I pull him aside and tell him he sucks under pressure. He is thoroughly insulted and acts all sensitive. Oh, for crissakes, take it like a man.
T. is fine. It could have been a panic attack. Maybe dehydration. Or some weird side effect of her possible pregnancy. The EMT workers tell her it is up to her if she wants to go to the hospital but if she doesn't go tonight, she should see a doctor very soon. She declines and says she will go after the weekend.
The ambulance leaves and we all go to bed having had enough excitement for one day.
The next morning she takes a pregnancy test of mine that I have in the closet and it's confirmed -- she's in a family way. We clap, hooray, we hug.
A few hours later they pack it all up and head back to Queens. We wave goodbye from the doorway. So long! Farewell! Auf weidersehn! Good night!
And that was the Fresh Family Christmas, the Saturday before Christmas. On Christmas day we stay home, the three us of, and have a nice quiet day. No shitshoes. No ambulance. No drama.