I spent most of my childhood and early adulthood fearing Friday the 13th. Not so much the actual day itself, but it seemed bad shit happened the week of such a Friday. Then I met the husband, who doesn’t believe in superstitions, and what can I say? His line of thinking rubbed off on me.
That is, until last Friday, November 13.
On that day, a co-worker walked off the job after a very public argument with my manager.
The next day, I ended up in urgent care for severe pelvic pain that I’d been experiencing for three days. One shot of toradol, and off I went, feeling much better. For a few days anyways.
Who knew that three weeks later when I finally made it to the emergency room with a high fever and nausea, it would turn out that there was a 10 cm abscess of unknown origins in my right pelvic area that was threatening to throw me into sepsis.
Yeah, I just wanted to pull the covers over my head when the alarm went off this morning. Stupid superstitions.
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