A FEW DAYS AGO:
Me: I think I'm a five percent kind of person.
John: What do you mean?
Me: Only 5% of women give birth on their due date. Only 5% of people who have an ERCP get pancreatitis....(I listed off a number of other areas in which I fall in the fifth percentile. Areas that I am much to humble to talk about here)....I guess I'm just a part of the five percent club.
John: I guess so.
THE NEXT DAY:
Me: John, I don't want to be a part of the 5% club.
John: Why not?
Me: Because pancreatitis has a 5% mortality rate.
John: Well, it's not 5% of people who contracted it the way you did--post-surgical?
Me: I don't know, but--
John: Wouldn't that 5% be more likely to happen to people with alcohol problems or something like that? YOU probably didn't have a 5% mortality rate.
At this point I allowed for a long pause to interrupt the conversation, thereby alerting John that he was in need of a mulligan.
John: Uh, wow. Five percent, huh?
Me: Yeah, five percent of people who get this DIE! Aren't you glad I didn't die?
I kind of wish I had known this statistic earlier. I think I could have milked this situation a bit more. I mean, yeah, I had a week off of school and got to watch movies all doped up and everything, BUT I COULD HAVE DIED!!!! Which makes me think I deserve more than flowers and balloons (and yes, perhaps even more than an Irish whistle). I don't know, maybe I should make a t-shirt ("I Survived Pancreatitis"). Or petition Stephen Colbert to wear a bracelet in my honor.
It has given me a bit of leverage, I suppose. Like when John asks if I'd be willing to get him a drink of water or take over some extra Sam duties I say, "John, remember when I almost died?"
And then he remembers how very lucky he is to still have me and gives me a back rub.