Megan Stielstra's Blog

The flight home from London stalled at the gate for computer reasons, and we all sat there very squashed together in airline seats (economy. sans legroom) for four hours until take-off (at which point everyone cheered). The flight itself was seven and a half hours, so eleven and a half hours total sitting very uncomfortably between the buxom Russian woman and the tiny Lithuanian girl. While I was in the bathroom my book (Dan Brown. Oh yes. Angels and Demons) fell off my chair and slid somewhere far away. The in-flight movies included two cartoons, X-Men and something very bad where Vin Diesl (who I LOVED in Pitch Black, I'll have everyone know) is taking care of small children. Changing diapers, et all. I read the Duty Free catalogue a hundred times (LOVE those ramps you can buy to make it easier for your dog to get on the furniture!). So: what to DO with eleven and a half hours when you have no book, no films, no interesting conversation?

Drink.

I’d been in London for three days and had just (sort of) adjusted to the time change by the time I flew back, so by the time I got OFF that plane I was crazy backwards jetlagged (felt like those scenes in Fight Club where Ed Norton is all "You wake up in Detroit. You wake up in Duluth. You wake up in Hamtramack," etc. but he's never really awake), hungover, pissy, needing a good massage and starving. We rushed home and Christopher took care of me because he's wonderful. He cooked me dinner, sort of fed me—I imagine it like walking someone through an acid trip—and finally, we both passed out.

And woke up at three o'clock in the morning to the sound of tinkling water. No, we hadn't left any faucets on. No, it wasn't the air conditioner. It was Mojo, peeing on the floor BECAUSE WE'D FORGOTTEN TO TAKE HIM OUTSIDE. And he must've REALLY had to go 'cause he's peeing and peeing and peeing. Immediately, the guilt slams through the soup in my head. I'm trying to tell the dog to stop peeing, to hug him and apologize for not taking him out (which he could give a rat's ass about, he wants to go outside), to clean up the pee, to find all the places where he might've peed while Christopher gets his shoes, gets the leash, the poop bag, throws open the door and discovers our hallway light is burnt out.

We live on the top floor of a very high staircase. And it's very, very dark. And we're both still half asleep, and Mojo is running around all happy 'cause now he gets to go outside and Christopher is running all around looking for a flashlight and suddenly he yells, “Christ Almighty!” I run into the bathroom and THERE IS BLOOD EVERYWHERE. THERE IS BLOOD EVERYWHERE and it is coming from Christopher. It seems that he reached into the drawer where the flashlight lives, and for some reason, the various parts of our dismantled food processor were in there as well. Christopher was half-asleep and in a hurry, therefore he didn’t LOOK before he reached and ended up grabbing the exposed blade and slicing off the top of his finger. At this point, we’re both much calmer (a peeing dog equals panic but a true crisis brings out the best in us both). We wrap the finger and go online. We google the following: when does a cut require stitches? and educate ourselves on the various forms of cuts and stitches until a sufficient amount of time has passed and we unwrap the cut to see if the bleeding has stopped.

No, it has not, and off we go to St. Mary of Nazereth (the one with the medivac helicopter landing pad on Division and Oakley). There, the kind emergency room staff welcomes us—they are experiencing some down time after the insanity that was Humbolt Park’s Puerto Rican Independence celebration—and escort us to a room where four people (one triage nurse, the admitting nurse, the doctor and a second triage nurse ‘cause the first triage nurse “doesn’t like to do the gross stuff”) plug Christopher into beeping boxes, stick needles of anesthetic into his finger and sew him up using two sets of pliers.
“Can you give me some information about him?” the admitting nurse asks. She is holding a big clipboard.

I say of course, and tell her his name, address and birthday. I am keenly aware that, after fourteen months together, apartments on two continents and travels to six countries, this is the first time I’ve had to speak for Christopher. I panic a little: I don’t know all the stuff I need to know! I don’t know if he’s had a tetnus shot in the last two years! I don’t know his social security number! Note to self: obtain boyfriend’s medical records and all government paperwork for memorization in case of (knock on wood, salt over shoulder) emergency.

“And who are you?” asks the nurse.

I tell her, “I’m Megan.” Please remember the late hour, the jetlag, etc.

“But who are you to him?” she asks, nodding towards Christopher, who is being bandaged by the triage nurse who is okay with the gross stuff.

“I’m his … ”

“Domestic partner,” said Christopher from the other side of the room, and the nurse wrote this down and moved onto something else. This was an acceptable response for her paperwork. He’s much better at this sort of thing than me.