Well. It was an eventful weekend in my little world.
As I may have mentioned here once or twice as well as to anyone in earshot for the past couple of weeks, I was scheduled to take my dad to see Lady Gaga and was just a little stoked about it.
Unfortunately my partial snow day Friday was wasted on a trip to the emergency room, because as I had not mentioned here or to almost anyone, over the past couple of weeks, I’d been having some unwelcome and familiar symptoms in my troublesome left leg, with a twinge or two of chest pain thrown in for good measure and my out-of-town hematologist recommended I get an ultrasound right away. I guess that’s what I get for bragging about my good fortune in the blood clot department. Heh.
The doctor I saw was concerned enough with the results to prescribe a type of blood thinner that has to be injected into my stomach once a day (not ideal for a fainting-prone needle-phobe, which I most definitely am) at least until he could have the hematologist there look at my results as it was not immediately clear whether I indeed have a new clot, or if the scans are just picking up the already diagnosed chronic DVT. He told me to return the next night at 8:00 for the next dose.
“OK, Will do,” I said automatically, always eager to be on good terms with anyone who might posess the power to keep me alive.
“Erm, only? Is there any way I could come in a little earlier? It’sjustI’msupposedtobegoingtoaLadyGagaconcertwithmydad” I squeaked like an over-caffeinated mouse, as my heart dropped at the thought of having to tell my dad I couldn’t go.
Fortunately the doctor (and in fact, everyone I encountered at Toronto General) was lovely and good-humoured and said he supposed since Lady Gaga hung in the balance, they could accommodate me a little earlier.
And so it was that we made a pit stop at emerg on the way to the concert. Me in the world’s shiniest superhero pants and jungle-print bustier and my dad, in jeans, a sharp blazer and, because he is the best, gold eyeliner.
I like to think that our somewhat outrageous appearance might have cheered up some of the people we passed in the hospital. Or at least distracted them from whatever they were there for.
We met Red and her dad at the concert and I honestly don’t know who had a better time, us or the dads. As the music started and Gaga took the stage (atop a unicorn, of course) I grabbed my dad’s arm and proclaimed my excitement for the scrillionth time that night. The music vibrated up through my feet and matched my pulse and I thought, well, whatever happens next, tonight, life is pretty damned good.
And now we wait.
Wish me luck!
While we get along famously, my dad and I don’t have tonnes in common.
He’s a 6-foot-tall, 58-year-old stage carpenter with a beard who loves building boats, Bourne movies, and shopping at Canadian Tire.
I can barely grow a goatee.
Both of us have always loved pickled herring and sour cream, neither of us can resist dancing to Billie Jean and we both love Lady Gaga.
So it was no surprise to the friend who suggested we get tickets to her upcoming Toronto show that my response was, “OK, but I’m bringing my dad.”
Hiding his ticket in the Christmas tree and watching him open it and delightedly laugh his head off was absolutely the highlight of my winter so far.
Coming up with his outfit will be a close second.