Growing up, my mom always reminded us over and over to change our underwear. The old mantra goes something like, “change your underwear in case you have to go to the emergency room.” I always changed my underwear, of course, but I could never figure out why it mattered. In my little mind, I thought the only reason I’d go to the emergency room would be if I got into a car accident. And, of course, if I got into a car accident I would probably wet myself (or worse), so obviously my underwear wouldn’t be clean when I got there.

I made it almost twenty-one years without ever going to the emergency room. Well, wait. I went once when I was fifteen, when I was more depressed than I’ve ever been in my life and didn’t want to be in my head anymore. But I went to the Behavioral Health section and spent the night locked in a narrow room, lying on a narrow bed. I didn’t get any IVs, though I did get to wear a gown (never understood why hospital gowns have open backs; they’re so freaking cold!), and little booties. The only other times I’d been to the ER were to bring someone else, and I almost went in that time I got stung by a wasp and my hand went numb but decided not to sign in and went home instead. (I like to push my luck, what can I say?)

So I pretty much made it twenty-one years without anything really major happening to me, until Tuesday.

I held my face over the plastic bowl we normally use for baking, balancing on my hands and knees. My entire body kept shaking, but not from being cold. I’d been randomly twitching and shaking for the last couple of hours, but hadn’t said anything because I’d felt so out of it. Spots danced in front of my eyes and my vision kept flickering, like strobe lights. I had no idea how many times I’d thrown up in the last five or so hours.

“Mom,” I said. I couldn’t breathe through my nose, so my voice sounded strange. “I wanna go to the hospital.”

She didn’t hear me in the other room. She came rushing in with two cold cloths — one to clean my face and one to cool me off. I felt like a prisoner inside of my own head. I couldn’t calm down, but I knew that I had to stay calm or things would only get worse. I felt dizzy and nauseous, and the fact that I was still shaking and my vision was still off scared me more than anything.

“I want to go to the hospital,” I said again.

“Okay,” she said. I stayed on the floor while she called my dad and told him she wanted to take me. I couldn’t keep anything down; not ginger ale, not chamomile tea — nothing. I hadn’t taken any of the pain medication my oral surgeon had prescribed me in about ten hours because I’d been so nauseous and sick, but the pain was besides the point. I didn’t have any strength left in me, and I was terrified.

We drove to the hospital at about eleven-thirty that night. I could barely remember the day or even the last couple of hours. I remember clinging to the door handle the entire ride there, my eyes closed. I remember it feeling like my mom was speeding, even though she normally drives the speed limit.

The emergency room was nearly empty by some stroke of luck. They took my vitals and information as soon as we walked in. I couldn’t stop apologizing, to myself or my parents. “I was doing so well. I was taking deep breaths and that was helping with the nausea. I was sipping the tea.” I think I was delirious.

In less than twenty minutes they had me in a gown lying on a really comfortable gurney. My nurse — Emily — popped an IV in me and gave me fluids and some anti-nausea medicine. Within ten minutes I began to feel a little better. I could stop fighting — almost.

The doctor who saw me — Dr. Sanders — said I was dehydrated. We’d been so worried about me getting dehydrated that none of us had realized it had already happened. Dr. Sanders was really nice. For some reason, I had expected her and all of the other staff to be rushed and stone cold. Maybe I watch too many movies. Maybe they all had an extra supply of TLC because the ER was so slow. Maybe I just looked pathetic.

Once the fluids and the Zofran kicked in, the pain volume went way up. Normally, I think I’m pretty good at dealing with pain. I mean, I deal with it every day so I think I’ve gotten pretty good at managingignoring it. But at that point, I was just too tired. I had used every ounce of energy in me fighting the nausea and the pain for the last two hours. I didn’t want any more Vicodin (what my surgeon had prescribed me initially), and I didn’t want any Percocet (what my surgeon prescribed me after the Vicodin stopped working).

“Can I have Tylenol?”

Emily went to go grab Dr. Sanders for orders for Tylenol. She came back with morphine.

My eyes widened. “It’s not gonna make me sick, is it?” The thought of throwing up one more time sent me into a frenzy; if given the choice, I’ll take pain over nausea any day.

“No, it won’t make you sick. I’ll give it to you real slow. And I have extra Zofran in my pocket, just in case.”

“Okay,” I said, deciding that maybe at that point I could throw up one more time, if it meant that the mindless throbbing in my mouth would stop.

There really are no words to describe the pain. Basically, it radiated from the four holes where my wisdom teeth had been into the top of my head, my jaw, and my ears. It was like a red pulse, except I could feel it and it did NOT feel good.

And suddenly, it was gone. My head felt light and airy. I felt like all of the pain had been soaked up into some invisible atom inside of my head.

“Mommy,” I said. “My head feels spongy!” Emily, Mom, and Dad all laughed, and I laughed with them. I felt like I was floating on clouds. I could feel my mouth, but there was no pain. At all. My teeth felt like they were sinking into my head. Like a sponge.

I stayed for another little while, long enough to finish up the fluids and for Dr. Sanders to write me a prescription for more Zofran and Tylenol with codeine (AKA Tylenol 3) in lieu of the Percocet. I was advised to drink tons of Gatorade and to start out eating soups, working my way up to solid foods. Then they discharged me. I went home, had some tomato soup and some Gatorade, and passed out.

I got the best sleep I’d gotten — and would get — in days. And my underwear? Were clean the entire time.

What was the scariest thing that’s ever happened to you? Tell me, I demand to know!