300th Blog Post Contest: What’s Your Cringe-Worthy Sick Story?

letsfeelbettercontest

Yay me! It’s my 300th post on LetsFeelBetter.com!

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And to honor the readers who have stuck it out with me– I’m throwing a blog contest. In which you can win prizes. Yay prizes!

The Contest

Ever had a moment so cringe-worthy you kind of just wanted to curl up and die? Oh my god. Me too. In fact, you’ve probably read about 299 posts talking about them by now. But enough about me. What about you? What was your worst public chronic illness moment to date? Did you faint in front of a boardroom? Or puke on a first date? (I know I’ve done my fair share of dry-heaving into my handbag.)

So in a few words, tell me your flare-up horror story in a comment, FB comment, or tweet with the hashtag #LFB (for Let’s Feel Better) with a link back to this entry.

Come on, you know airing out your dirty laundry is the best way to put it all behind you!

Winners & Prizes

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  • Winners will be chosen based upon how hard I laughed and the distance of the spray of Gatorade that comes from my spit-take.
  • One first place winner will receive a  Feel Better Goody Bag with a $25.00 Amazon Gift Card and some Global Genes loot.
  • One second place winner will receive a Hope Hat, GlobalGenes Magnet and Bumper Sticker.
  • One third place winner will receive a Global Genes Magnet and Bumper Sticker.

Rules

  • You can only submit one cringe-worthy story, so do some soul searching and submit carefully.
  • Entries on FB will only be counted if they’re commented in the FB comment box below this entry.
  • Post comments must include your email so I can get in touch with you if you happen to be one of our lucky winners. (I can DM twitter winners and message FB winners)
  • Entries on FB and Twitter must include the hashtag #LFB and a link back to the original post (bit.ly’d that for you: http://bit.ly/1x2B2zv)
  • All entries must be in by midnight (ET) on July 25th, 2014.

Fine Details

  • Don’t get butt-hurt about losing a contest on the internet. It’s not like I was giving away iPads anyways.
  • No, I won’t accept that entry that came in at two minutes after midnight. I’m so serious about deadlines, you don’t even know.
  • Yes, the more you tweet and post about my blog on your social networks, the funnier I’ll think your story is.
  • No, by entering you are not committing to join an email list, handing me your newborn or exposing me to all of your passwords.
  • If you do not respond to my email/message/tweet notifying you that you are the winner and that I need a mailing address I will assume that you don’t like prizes and move on to a replacement winner. Life’s tough.

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*US and Canadian Entrants only!

Comments

comments

  • Lauren

    The most embarrassing moment that was related to my POTS and Vasovagal syncope would be the time I spent the night over at my now-best friend’s/guy I’m crazy into’s apartment. We had been up watching movies, and I was too tired (and admittedly, I had a drink, even though I know better), so I spent the night on his couch. The next morning, he was sweet enough to start getting breakfast made, so I thought I’d use his bathroom to wash up and try to make myself a little more presentable, since I was still trying to catch his eye. Well, I definitely got his attention, as I took not three steps from the couch and rolled into a face plant onto his floor. Moral of the story: Not eating or drinking much water the night before or the morning after + the slightest whiff of alcohol = fainting into a hot med student’s hallway in basically my undies and t-shirt because I hadn’t expected to sleep over.

    Thankfully, my friend listened when we talked about my condition, so he wasn’t caught totally off guard. But, still, the embarrassment … Gah!

  • It was the big H day – H standing for “heart surgery.” There had been an earthquake the night before which I took to be a good omen. I like a nice bit of natural disaster before I have major surgery (there was a severe thunderstorm the day before my latest one). I was in pre-op hamming it up with my parents. I had declined the happy drugs they had offered, but felt that was no excuse not to be silly. I was new to this world of the sickly and was innocent enough that I wasn’t scared. Well, not much. It was heart surgery, after all. More importantly, my dignity was still shiny and in tact. I had not yet collapsed in class, been naked in front of a room full of people at a teaching hospital, or had a catheter put in. But that was about to change in the most horrible, sitcom-y way possible.
    My parents were ushered out of the curtained area that was my “room” so I could be prepared for surgery. Prepare me? What did that mean? I was already dressed in a boxy paper gown, hooked up to an IV, and had my hair tucked into a heinous hospital blue cap. I felt pretty prepared already.
    But there was still one thing left to do.
    A very, VERY large woman barged in through the curtain. She had to be at least six feet tall and with enough meat on her to play professional football. The short blonde hair that framed her face could not soften the sharpness of her stern features. She wasted no time stalking over to my bed and unceremoniously flung my papery hospital gown up so it was nearly over by head. I was abruptly, and without explanation or warning, completely exposed in front of this frightening woman. She glared down at me with steely eyes and finally spoke in a thick Russian accent, “Hello my name is Olga and I’m here to shave you now.” She punctuated this with a few revs of the electric shaver I hadn’t noticed she was carrying until then. I barely had time to process what was happening before she was shaving me like a cat about to be neutered. She was not gentle. She had no mercy.

    That was the day that this sickly girl lost her innocence and dignity at the hands of a very large woman named Olga. I still cringe at the memory years later.

  • Tiffany Early

    I had just started teaching middle school. I was in the “I know I’m not like normal, healthy people, but I don’t know if there’s a name for my particular brand of sick” point of POTS and associated illnesses. I was lining up my class of 7th graders for class change, and I remember feeling a little dizzy and moving to lean against a wall across from where my class was standing. The next thing I knew I was lying in the floor with little, grimy middle school hands shaking me and one particularly hysterical girl screaming, “Oh God! She’s dead!!!” When I faint my hearing/ general awareness comes back before I can speak or move, so I just laid there like a potato while middle school kids tried to piece together their limited knowledge of first aid. (Thank God I came to and another adult showed up before I ended up in an unnecessary mouth-to-mouth situation with a preteen!) As I regained consciousness, all my students were trying to tell their version of what happened. (There was also a strange conversation about whether my smile had always been crooked or if maybe I’d had a stroke- nope, I’m just lopsided!) In the end, that class was my absolute best behaved class ever. If any student started to misbehave the other students would start yelling, “Stop it! She’ll die!” Not my best day.

    • admin

      lol omg, “Stop it, she’ll die!” Best disciplinary tool ever!

  • I live with Primary Adrenal Insufficiency ( along with POTS and a few other labels tacked on). Although I do have several stories of collapsing on people (freshman year of high school band camp, in the shower in college, on my roommate while taking a break from studying) and even projectile vomiting on people (a rude ER nurse that wouldn’t take my Addisonian Crisis seriously, my co-worker… and all over his carpet… poor coworker), I don’t consider those necessarily “cringe-worthy.” That’s just life with Addison’s Disease.

    However, there is one story that to this day still embarrasses me. The summer after I graduated from college, I moved in with my aging grandmother until my big girl job started in August. I decided to join a local gym as an excuse to get out of her house. I was required to give the personal trainer my driver’s license to complete my registration. As he took it from me, he looked at the horrible photo and then looked back at me and cautiously stated, “Well, it looks like you have already lost a bunch of weight.”

    To which I respond, “Oh that? Nah. My face was just super puffy in that picture because my steroid dose was WAY too high!”

    He gave me the weirdest look and I could not for the life of me figure out why. He filled out the rest of the paperwork in silence. As I was retelling the story to my mom to try to figure out why he treated me differently, she pointed out that for most people steroids are BAD. Personal trainers are especially taught that steroids are BAD! Never once did I mention the fact that I was on steroids for life due to Primary Adrenal Insufficiency. I just said “steroids.”

    I go into a gym and openly admit I’m on steroids to a personal trainer. My bad, y’all.

    NOTE: For people unfamiliar with steroids, the steroids I take ARE NOT anabolic steroids. They are corticosteroids and mineralocorticoids. But gym junkies are just taught, “All steroids = bad.” No wonder he didn’t speak to me much afterwards.

  • I stopped cringing decades ago, but love to make others cringe specifically if they are in medical professions dealing with GI issues who ignore rather than partner. I will share my unexpected bonanza experience. How come everyone but we patients tend to forget a person prone in a bed in an ugly hospital gown is NOT an idiot outside the parameters of the hospital environment? We know our bodies, we can advise or warn off things we know that will not work, or cause harm, pain and trouble for all involved, especially ourselves!

    This particular time, after a difficult peristomal hernia repair, I had severe Ileus in post operative healing. Their answer was an NG tube. I fear, loath and disdain them, but agreed to try anything at that point. My only request was to knock me out to place it. I was ignored. I put up a roar, told them I gag and clench no matter how much I don’t want to – but it did no good. The Head Uber Anesthesiologist came himself with his pack of students. Counting nurses, students I’d say there were about 15 in my room. We are bugs on a bed to be examined, after all. Talking over me, and about me, sometimes to me, this doctor promised he could get the NG tube into my while I was awake, having an anxiety attack, sweating, paining and barfing every two seconds … I plead to just be doped. He came close in Horse Whisperer genteelness, and told me I could be a WINNER if I only mellowed out and let him do his magic NG tube placing. Backed into the bed corner, I capitulated as I wanted relief from the ileus and no dope was forthcoming. I tried Zen Happy Place, I really DID. He started feeding the hose into my nose, got past my throat, I started to lose it, but he had people holding me in “comfort”, and it seemed he was going to impress his entourage when he hit my last good nerve. I don’t recall much, but that my 100 pound body did a Hulk Shrug Burst of tossing hands off me, grabbing the tubing in a vice grip and proceeded to yank it out of my body despite the fact that there was already goo coming filling the hose and receptacle. The Doctor had hit pay dirt, but my mind was GONE. The Doc is no fool, he’d been watching my eyes the whole time and he saw that I was about to bolt – he deftly steps out of the way as the tube flies out of my body while I proceeded to hose down his closely gathered audiences with godknowswhat funky poison Ileus days old gunk that coated EACH of them quite artfully, and may I add most thoroughly. I created lab coat art patterns of sick up stink, hair product and chart paintings … as I dropped the Effing NG tube, passing out, I said, “I asked for dope, I told you, now you smell like I feel.”

  • Rachel

    After being diagnosed with vasovagal syncope at the age of 3, the last 18 years of my life has been full of embarrassing moments. The moment that sticks out the most would have to be my first visit to the OB/GYN (sorry for any TMI moments in advance!). I was there for a routine pap and half way through I begin to feel one of my notorious fainting spells coming on. There is no worse feeling than knowing you are going to faint (FYI I “flail” and seize when I am unconscious) with a stranger all up in your…junk, for a lack of a better word. When I woke up all I saw was an extremely passed off doctor, covered in the lubricant my flailing legs had just knocked over and spilled on her, and the medical tools from the table scattered across the floor. I was at a loss for words and couldn’t think of anything else to do but cry. Possibly the worst part was walking out of the room being followed by the stares of every employee who had just heard how I kicked the doc in the head and spilled lubricant all over her…

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  • My embarrassing sick story is suffering from ist which causes me to faint at random times I went to a nursing interview and the interview was a group one … Doing my talk I fainted .. Only to the embarrassment of wetting my pants In front of over 30 people and 3 teachers .. And I never did get on the course … But when I went to the hospital .. I did discover I was pregnant so the embarrassment went away after the lovely news I received #lfb

  • Ashlee Carmack

    I was 12 years old when I met Allen, a guy from youth group at church. We talked at church functions and I quickly developed a crush after he poured dressing on my salad for me at a church dinner. Since we were just 12 and 13, he asked me if I wanted to go with him and his folks to the mall and a movie. I excitedly said yes not knowing my first date would live infamy for all eternity, with the story even making the yearbook my senior year of high school.

    So Allen and I went to the food court in the mall and he asked me if I’d like a tea. I wanted a tea, but I knew I shouldn’t drink it because it had caffeine in it. But…I decided it wouldn’t be cool to not drink the tea. I would have to explain why I couldn’t drink the tea. I didn’t want Allen to know I had a heart condition, so I decided to drink the tea and play cool. What guy would want to date me if he knew I had a heart condition? I figured if I just drank it and never mentioned my condition he’d never know. It’s not like I had episodes of SVT everyday or anything. I guess this is just a perfect example of a 12 year old’s logic at work and we shall see the end results of my “logical” decision.

    The heart condition I had as a child is called Supra Ventricular Tachycardia or SVT. During these episodes, my heart rate went up over 200 beats per minute and my heart would beat very hard. Very seldom it would go back to normal rhythm on its own, but more often than not, I had to go to the ER and have it chemically converted back to sinus rhythm. The arrhythmia was dangerous and my doctor emphasized the importance of going right to the ER when it happened by saying, “Heart beat too fast, you go to Heaven.” I must have been a rocket scientist or something for drinking that tea!

    Back to the story, although I think anyone could guess what is about to happen…

    Allen and I then headed upstairs to the arcade. As we were riding up the escalator, I felt that all too familiar feeling. My heart was flying and pounding. Still, I decided I needed to play cool. Maybe it would go back to normal on its own without requiring chemical cardioversion at the ER. As we kept walking toward the arcade, I became dizzy and it was difficult to see. I started pouring sweat. Reluctantly, I told Allen about my heart condition very quickly and then told him it was happening, like right now and I needed to get to the ER pronto.

    Allen was visibly upset and he helped get me back downstairs where he paged his mother to come to guest services. She came to get us and when I told her what was happening, she turned white and didn’t say another word to me the entire evening other than, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” We loaded up in the car and headed to the ER. Allen’s mother dumped me off at the door and they drove off and left me there.

    I got checked in at the ER and they got me back to a room. The doctor came in, told me he was a new resident and asked me what they normally do for this when I come to the ER. He asked if they shocked it back in, doing the accompanying charade of the shock. At this point, I was getting nervous because they had never shocked it before. They usually put something in my IV.

    After lying in the ER for three hours, I was beginning to freak. I tried to scratch my nose and arm wouldn’t move. I was gasping for air. The doctor came back in and again, he asked me what to do for it. I started crying. I said, “I’m going to die! You keep asking me what to do about this and I don’t know. I’m 12 and you’re supposed to be a doctor!” Finally he decided to call a cardiologist to come to the ER. She must have flown! I was given the medication to chemically convert my heart and I was fine, other than slight PTSD. As for Allen, he called me a week later to ask me to go on another date! #LFB

    ashleecarmack@charter.net