My dear, sweet husband has been asking to take me to the ER all day because he’s convinced I have an ulcer. I’m convinced that after his recent finger+hedge trimmer incident we need to avoid ridiculous ER bills for a while and I should try to get in with my GP tomorrow instead. Also, “I’m not dead yet!” and I can sit up and type this, so I’m clearly not ready for the ER, right? RIGHT.
But seriously, what does an ulcer feel like? Generally and persistently stabby? Tell me what it means, Internet masses!
Also, one of the dogs must’ve snagged a toenail or something because we had to clean up blood from the floor earlier. B was certain it was mine and that OMG I REALLY WAS DYING AND IN NEED OF AN ER VISIT (read: several hours sitting miserably in a waiting room for a doctor to charge me for X-rays then send me home with antacids), until I showed him that the pattern of blood droplets followed a dog-path and not a me-path AND ALSO THAT I WASN’T BLEEDING. The dogs have both been thoroughly inspected and they seem fine with no apparent injuries, so in conclusion they planted the blood in order to help their dad’s panic driven case that I needed an ER visit because they were tired of listening to my whimpering and they wanted to nap in peace. Crafty buggers, the whole lot.