The time I was gifted two kegs.

Let's say a friend of a friend of yours is pretty well off. Really well off. Like, in a 'I run a country' well off.

And this friend comes in town over Labor Day weekend, so your friend orders a keg of his favorite beer to have in his hotel room while he is here.

Of course, he had already planned ahead and had his own means of libating (is that a word? It is now. Chelsea definition: drinking)

And so at 4pm on a Saturday afternoon you get this text:

(insert salsa dancing iPhone emoji here, because I probably did that little shuffle across my kitchen when I read the text)

Well... this was my life Labor Day weekend. I may have done the dance again when I go to pick it up and it's not one keg, but two kegs of Pacifico.

Conveniently, my mama's 21st birthday* is the last day of August. Birthing a child on Labor Day weekend? Genius. Who doesn't want 3day celebrations for the rest of their life?

We had a big cookout shebang at their place Saturday night. Of course, I pulled the best daughter EVER card and make her entire party incredibly well hydrated.

Killed one of two that night. Movin right along! Loaded up and took the other to a pool party the next day with a very firm "no one is leaving until this keg is floating". A full day of sun and beer lead to a lot of other shenanigans.

To say anyone made it past 10pm that night would be a flat.out.lie.

Dear friend of a friend, thank you very much for helping us to celebrate our labors, it was very much appreciated. 

*Yes, my mother turned 21. Again. She has turned 21 every year since her coughcough 50th birthday.
 

Blip.

It's weird nowadays to not immediately be connected to someone. And not that hypothetical connection, but social media connection. How many times do you go out on the weekends, meet someone new, and within the hour have instagrammed photos with their twitter handle and snapchat name all in your phone?

I was flying home from Vegas on Southwest a few weeks back. I did what every single (or not so faithful person) does, hopped down in an empty row, holding out hope that the next attractive person who steps in the cabin chooses seat 14b.

And he did. And after he slid his bag under the seat he rubbed his temples and sighed the loudest sigh I've ever heard for a Sunday evening flight. I tossed my phone into my lap and decided to pry. 1591 miles is a long trip, might as well strike up conversation. When I asked him about his rough weekend, the adorable southern twang that replied was the last thing I expected.

Three hours later I literally knew more about him than any first, second and third date I had ever been on. He actually works in my industry, for my competitor a few states away. I learned about his family, his friends, the bachelor party they had, his dog, how he spends his holidays, his trips to Costa Rica, his absence of a girlfriend, his hatred for Texas. Literally.... everything.

And when we touched down in Indy and deplaned, he waited for me at the end of the gate and the conversation kept flowing all the way through the terminal and down to baggage claim.  When I headed toward carousel 3, he smirked and thanked me for entertaining him the flight back. And like that we parted ways with a "have a good one!"

And it was the weirdest thing. Not that I necessarily wanted to keep in touch, but I guess it was just caught me off guard that he didn't even try? (yes, I realize how conceited that sounds, but I'm just being honest).

Looking back though, I like it. It makes me smile. He was just this blip that popped up on my radar, made me laugh for a few hours, and then faded off into the distance.

[rearview mirror] second week of august.

One of the best parts of having a blog is easily looking back on what you were doing this same time in years past.

Apparently August likes to bring a lot of drama with it. Also, I'm apparently never single in August

Three years ago I put an offer in on a house. That was a first. (Hint: I didn't get that house, and was heartbroken. It all worked out perfectly in the end though)

Two years ago I was positive I was exactly where I was supposed to be (Hint: two weeks later I was freshly heartbroken, and a week after that brought the plot twist of a lifetime.  It all worked out perfectly in the end though)

Last year I was chasing the racer, experiencing what I thought would become the new norm. (Hint: that ended less than a year later. Hey - it will probably all work out perfectly in the end though. Of course!)

Behind the wall.

Despite my rendezvouses with the porcelain bowl lately, life's been far from doom & gloom.

I checked another gem off my hypothetical nonexistent bucket list and watched a NASCAR race from the pits.

Friend of a friend (the best kind of stories always start this way, no?) owns a team and invited us along for a weekend of up close and personal racing fun. Well, twist my arm.

Needless to say, as I was sitting in the ER Saturday afternoon, a tiny (huge) part of me was hoping they would release me so I could still go to the race Sunday.

The ER doc heard my wishes and Sunday morning I walked through these pearly gates. It was a pretty cool experience all around. I've been in the garages and pits, but always returned to the grandstands for the actual race.

Never have I gotten to listen to the national anthem or watch the flyover while standing on the track.

Never have I been able to watch the green flag drop while in the pit lane wall.

Never have I witnessed a pit stop from 6 feet away while leaning up against a stack of tires. I've also never had that much fun at the Brickyard. Anyone who has been knows it's a pretty boring race, so seeing it from a different point of view in the pits spiced it up a bit.

I'd also like to think our driver had the best tuxedo racing suit I've ever seen, hands down!



 

#GlugGoesMyGullbladder

What. the. hail.

Apparently #popgoesmylung wasn't enough fun for one year. Now I bring you #gluggoesmygallbladder

I don't remember who coined that term this past week, and I really don't even know yet if it is my gallbladder... but if this was one of those reality shows where you guys got to vote for what happened to me next, C) Gallbladder Removal would definitely have won by unanimous vote. 

I'm either keeled over in pain, or am feeling pretty much fine. Oh but when it's bad, it's BAD. I spent the better part of this past Saturday puking my guts out yet again. 

I saw my doctor Friday afternoon, she was ticked about what little they did in the ER. But really all she did was push around on my tummy, tell me to stop taking the prescriptions the ER gave me, and send me home. I go tomorrow morning for an ultrasound of my abdomen (Should I post the ultrasound photos on IG like every one of you who's knocked up?) 

My home away from home

In true Chelsea fashion, I ended up at my home away from home yet again this past weekend.

You see, for the better part of last week I wanted to die every time I ate. My stomach would just go wack and hurt so.damn.bad. Naturally, I threw back some tums and sucked it up. As I'd be clutching a pillow to my gut, tightly curled up in the fetal position.

On Friday I thought maybe it was alcohol causing it, so I decided not to drink all weekend. And I still wanted to die. But the pain would fade every time, and being the stubborn little lady I am - I kept on truckin' without much of a second thought.

Saturday morning my friend picked me up and we headed out to the track to enjoy a little pre-Brickyard fun. We grabbed breakfast on the way, and walked over to the track. Stupid Move #1: I ducked into the gas station to grab some pills because my stomach hurt so bad I was struggling to walk. I figured if I took some antacids it would ease up.

We proceeded to get our pit passes, and head into the track. As we're standing there talking to a car owner I'm eyeing my surroundings trying to spot the nearest restroom. I duck out, nearly at a run, and start dry heaving as soon as I lock myself into the stall.

A good thirty or so minutes later, after I've puked every ounce of ANYTHING out of my body, I still have the most excruciating pain in my abdomen. I regain as much composure as I can, and go back to find my friend. It doesn't take long before he tells me he's taking me home and we trek back to his truck.

The thing is, I couldn't even walk. I literally sat on a curb and waited for him to go get the truck come pick me up.

I got home and resumed the fetal position on my couch. Except it wasn't easing up, if anything it was getting worse. I finally threw the white flag and called my dad and asked him to come get me. And he ushered me off to those all too familiar emergency room doors at the nearest hospital.

An IV, some pain meds, a bazillion labs later, they tell me that the only thing that didn't look normal were my slightly elevated white blood cell levels. They tried to toss it aside as nothing, really, handed me three prescriptions (for nausea, an antacid, and a pain pill) and sent me on my way.

Something just doesn't quite add up for me, and some friends have given insight. Fingers are being pointed at ulcers, gallbladders and pancreases. I really don't know... I do know, however, that I'm hoping that was the last time I don that gown this year.

(Updated:  Lo & behold... glug goes the ol' gallbladder )

Puphawk.

I figured since Russell enjoyed expressing his creative side so frequently these days, it was only fitting he had a haircut to match.

[before]

 [after]

Thus the puphawk was born.

And he's a lot less of an ass now. Imagine that.

Left and lift. Left and lift.

He smelled like motor oil and tire rubber. A reassuring chuckle came from his mouth as he showed me the four switches I would flip to turn the car on, while double-checking the tightness of the five-point harness. 

A shrill beep came through the earpieces as he tested my radio. "Clutch in, watch my signals, listen to your spotter" he said as latched the safety net up and threw me the thumbs up. I flipped the visor down on my helmet, followed the sequence of switches to start her up and headed out on pit row for what was about to become the wildest ride of my life.

See, I've done a lot of "bucket list" style stunts. Cliff-diving, co-piloting a stunt plane (side note: how bout that hair - phew!) , but none where I was ever completely in control of what was going on. Racing a stock car was in a whole 'nother playing field. There was no one else to rely on. Aside from the spotter talking in my ear, I was completely in control of every single action and consequence.

As we followed the pace car the first few laps I started to get a feel for the car. When the pace car pulled away I tested out her speed. When I hit that first corner I became ever so thankful my spotter could only talk, not hear me as I threw out a handful of "ohshitohshitohshit"s. When I hit the apex I threw my foot down on the throttle again and lit her up.

Judging by the adrenaline rush I was feeling, I knew my brother and pops who were in two of the other cars, were also having a blast. My mom set it up for all three of us to go racing, for them it was a Father's Day gift, for me... well, I was a shoe-in since I'm always doing the reckless things!

It was easily one of the scariest things I've done. For fifteen laps I feared every single turn I entered, almost positive I was going to get loose and slam the wall. You see nothing behind you, and very little next to you. You have to have complete trust in this eye in the sky who's telling you lift and left, lift and left whenever someone is near you

The thrill of flying around that track was beyond explainable though. I have a new found jealousy and appreciation for everyone I know who wheels any type of car around a track week in and week out.

Paleo Fail-eo

I've been telling my friend Whit I was going to do the Whole 30/Paleo thing for, oh who knows, somewhere around the past 2 years?

So after a brief string of multiple migraines(which I'm pretty sure I can attribute to both the lung and the ex, but who's keeping tabs) I decided I was finally going to take the plunge. She was so pumped, and even said she'd do it with me.

I read a bunch of blogs, scoured the internet for recipe ideas, loaded up a grocery cart with kale and spaghetti squash and coconut oil, the whole shebang. I was a little hesitant, because frankly a world without Goldfish crackers or bourbon isn't exactly a world I want to live in. But I committed.

I was kicking ass and taking names for two whole days, until this gorgeous sunny day happened upon central Indy and I just HAD to meet a friend at a local brewhouse patio for an afterwork wind-down.

I opted for a steak salad and tequila, the most paleo-friendly of liquors. One thing led to another and somehow the waiter decided to bring us shots of Jack and as I stared into that little brown vessel of amber whiskey I realized there was a very slim chance I could go another 28 days on this super strict plan that told you no cocktails were allowed, and so I lifted her high and took her down in one swig.

The night quickly snowballed into cucumber vodka lemonades, lobster mac & cheese and halfbaked cookies. We did however make some lovely new friends who felt it necessary to pick up our tab at the end of the night, which counteracts the guilt I had for only lasting 2 days.

At least I came out of that little experiment with a newfound love of spaghetti squash. And a heavy appreciation for anyone who can commit to something like that. That's gotta count for something right.

Pop Goes my Lung: The Post-Op

[ Pop Goes My Lung Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 ] 

It was somewhere shy of 4AM when I came to. I blinked a few times to register my dimly lit surroundings. SICU5127 I read on the wall. Surgical Intensive Care. I was in a post-op room. The surgery was over. I wave of relief washed over me.

And like that, the relief disappeared, instantly replaced by misery. The pain was nothing I had ever experienced before. Breathing hurt, lying still hurt, simply being alive hurt, moving... ha... moving was out of the question. The incisions on my side were throbbing. The weight of the blanket on my chest was unbearable. The oxygen tube in my nose itched, my lips were so dry, I was so thirsty. Vaguely remembering the device tucked into in hand, I pushed the button to administer pain medicine as I shifted ever so slightly and let out a moan of agony.

Mom jumped out of her chair and immediately came to my side. "Pain," I told her, "I hurt... so... bad". Without missing a beat she pushed the call button on my bed and a nurse hurried in with two pills in hand. Mom tried to gently massage my neck and shoulders, any wince would cause my entire core to tense up, bringing me to the worse pain my body had ever felt.

"The surgery went well," she proceeded tell me, in that soft, comforting voice that only a mother can maintain. "They found the hole at the top of your lung." She paused to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "You have your own room! Luis made sure you got your own room, they brought you up here around 1:30 this morning" she smiled, and continued to rub my back. Thankfully, at some point within the story the pain pills started to take over my blood stream and I dozed back off to sleep.

Pop Goes My Lung: Into the Operating Room

[ Pop Goes My Lung Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // current post // Part 5 // Part 6 ] 

I think the first time I really cried was in that tiny, 8x10 room.
Seven days.
It took seven days for it all to sink in. I was about to undergo a pretty major surgery. Someone was going to be inside my rib cage, messing around with the very thing that keeps me alive, that allows me breath. That's pretty terrifying once you let it sink in.

And I cried and cried. The whole time. I think my mom even cried with me. And then my dad showed up and did the typical dad thing and was all "ohmyyoucrazywomen. I'm going to go get a milkshake" Which made me cry even more, because I was on an NPO (nothing to eat or drink). They both just kept reminding me that this was the hard part, and after this I would get better. This was the clicking as we climbed to the top of the rollercoaster.

We waited and waited. Somewhere around 7:30 that evening the phone in my room rang, it was my surgeon, she briefly explained the surgery and said she would be on her way to the hospital soon and they would take me down as soon as she got there. I shot LT a simple text saying I was heading to surgery soon, then stared at the blank walls trying to calm my mind.

One of the resident doctors came in with a sharpie and began detailing surgery spots on my rib cage and back. He wrapped up his sketching session, and smoothed my gown back into place. Luis was his name. He had an accent, and somehow his quirky demeanor momentarily helped me feel at ease.

The clock closed in on 8:30 as the nurse walked into my holding cell and told me it was time to go.

It's funny the things I remember. Being stopped in the hallway to sign a handful of forms. The head anesthesiologist being very upset that I had not been given a pregnancy test the entire time, and having to sign paperwork saying I was aware of that and would not sue the hospital. The girl going over the entire surgery with me step by step, detailing that I would be put under full anesthesia, a breathing tube inserted down my throat, an art-line placed in my wrists for monitoring my heart, two incisions on my right ribs - one under the breast for tools, one a bit further down for a camera. The tools would act as sand paper, tediously used to scar up my lung.  The bottom incision would then encase my new chest tube, a bigger chest tube, a more painful chest tube. They warned me of the pain multiple times that evening but it wasn't until I was laying there just a few yards from the operating room doors that it hit me.

I was so nervous the muscles in my left leg were twitching to the point it looked like I was tapping my leg. I gave a half-hearted "brr!" but I know no one believed it.

Reliving this now as I write it actually has me in tears. I remember my mom and dad kissing my forehead as they headed into the waiting room, with a simple "See you in a little bit kiddo. Love you" And like that I was on my own. Wasting no time, I was wheeled into in the operating room, lifted onto the operating table, the nurses piled warm blankets on me to control my shivers but they had no effect. They were nervous shivers, not cold shivers.

I remember a lot of people in the room. At least 6 or 7. I remember being so, so cold, and wondering why operating rooms were so sterile and white, couldn't they just add some cheerful paint. I remember commenting on everyone's bright, colorful hats. I remember one girl slipping a pale blue hair net on me, gently tucking the stray strands of hair behind my ears. I remember the anesthesiologist began messing with my left arm, inserting the art-line with a quick but painful prick in my wrist, and another girl rushed up and took my right hand, holding it and squeezing it. She kept telling me softly that I would be alright, she would be here the whole time.

I remember being so.freaking.scared.

I never even saw my surgeon. The nurse to my right was talking with me, just fulfilling her job description I'm sure, calming the patient and ensuring their comfort. I began blinking more, and longer. The anesthesia was running through my veins now. The blinks became lazier and my mind began to blank. I let my eyes stay closed as my grip on her hand loosened. I remember her thumb gently stroking my hand as I faded away from the reality of that cold, white room.

Pop Goes My Lung: The Persistent Leak

X-Ray was taken when I first got to the ER.

The hilarity here is that I shot my boss an email that Sunday evening (yes, two days after my lung spontaneously combusted) saying I probably wouldn't be into work Monday but I'd be back Tuesday. In retrospect, I crack up at how naive I had been. In reality, I did not return to work for 6 Mondays following that email.

(the next part of the Pop Goes My Lung Saga continues below. Click here to catch up on part one and part two!

After the ER doctor inserted the chest tube, her little optimistic self assured me that my lung would re-inflate and heal itself and I'd be out of the hospital on Monday.

(This is the waterseal that my chest tube connected to, don't ask me exactly what it did... besides something to do with monitoring breathing and sucking out air)

Little did she know that not once in my life has any aspect gone the "easy" route. So naturally, when my lung refused to re-inflate and heal itself time and time again in those following days it really came as no surprise to me.

My life that week was a constant hypocritical, anxiety-inducing battle. One minute I'd be telling everyone I was getting out of the hospital the next day, and the next minute I was discussing surgery with my doctor. Having never spent any time whatsoever as a hospital patient, I was uneasy and restless, but quickly settled into some semblance of a routine.

Every morning involved an x-ray, every meal I would get the fresh fruit cup, every passing hour involved HGTV, every four hours was pain pills, every afternoon was sprinkled with visitors, and every evening my mom would pull out the recliner and sleep by my side.

Somehow in the grand scheme of things I was graced with a little bit of luck on my side, and my doctor who was assigned to me once I was settled into an inpatient room, had wifed up a thoracic surgeon. Which means he would hurry home every night and tell her thoracic surgery-loving-self about my lung's activities for the day. (At least that's how I imagine it in my head. Why wouldn't my organ be the thriving topic of their dinner conversation?!)

After six days of that roller coaster ride, it finally became evident to all parties involved that my lung was not going to heal on it's own using the traditional method. And surgery became inevitable. The moment that sealed the deal was when I began to squeak. Hinting that not only was my chest tube not doing what it was supposed to,but also that air was leaking out of it. If I laughed, sneezed, breathed in deep, my chest would squeal like a dying dog toy.

So while my doctor wrote up the transfer orders to send me to the hospital where his wife did her surgeries, Mom and I packed up six days worth of flowers, candy, balloons and other random goodies and I got to experience my very first (and hopefully last ever) ambulance ride.

The laughs and smiles ended shortly after the paramedics wheeled me into my new hospital room. I went from having a new, spacious room to myself to sharing a tiny, cramped, outdated hospital room with what seemed to be a crazy, crack addict. After a few hours of her constant requests for drugs and more drugs, I had a breakdown and asked every nurse, doctor or cleaning person I saw to please, please, PLEASE get me out of there.

[The story continues on with Part 4 here]