Around the holidays in December of 2003, I was almost seven-months pregnant with our son and big as a boat. Truly. I was miserable and waddled a lot.

We had volunteered (why?) to host a holiday party for my husband's section at the hospitalm as well as a division at the hospital they work closely with. So, not only did we have the doctors and wives I knew, but we had what seemed like 40 other people I didn't know from a hole in the ground. Normally, this would be no big thing. I could do my best and running around (read: waddling), and HDHusband could do the small talk with the guests. We could be a team! YAY!

Except ... we didn't plan on HDH coming down with a raging sinus infection. He spent the majority of the party upstairs in bed, sick as a dog. I spent the party, waddling around, making introductions, and trying to keep everyone from seperating like the damn Red Sea.

The evening progressed, and the Other Doctors kept getting more and more shit housed. One in particular kept trying to open wine bottles, but continued to break them.

When HDH finally was roused to come downstairs and at least hang out for a little bit (read: threatened with his life by me), he was given a speech I shall never forget.

HDH: Yah, I've got this pressure under my eyes. It's horrible.

DrunkDoctorWhoBrokeWineBottles: You know, so-and-so thought he had a sinus infection. But he didn't have a sinus infection! OH NO! He ended up with a tumor behind his eye and it blew up. BLEW UP! You don't want to fuck around with that!!!

DrunkDoctorsWife: Shut up, DD. You're scaring his wife.

Me: Giggling at the "you don't want to fuck around with that" part. We've now used this term a million times over and over again.

After HDH went back up to bed and the party continued, I went up to check on my husband. He was just knocking back the last little bit of the cough syrup with codeine. This syrup was old, I thought, so I didn't think much could happen. Um, yah. I was really waaaaaaaay off that ...

Me: Here are some warm compresses for your face. Just lay back, k?
HDH: Hey .... (big pause) ... What team do you play for?
Me: What do you mean, 'what team'?
HDH: You know, what NBA team do you play for??

OH MY GOD.

I hid the bottle in my jewerly box (and told him I played for the Pistons). I put him to bed and prayed to God in heaven my husband didn't come down to the party in his underwear. It was possible that night. Trust me.

Finally, guests leave, the Nice Doctor's Wives cleaned up my kitchen ... but this, you see, is when the real party began.

I find my way upstairs, into bed, and pray my husband is asleep. Maybe by now he's gotten zonked out, right? Nope. Instead, he's moaning and making all sorts of horrific noises over there, but I keep still, hoping he'll make it through the night and we'll both get the last little bit of sleep we'll ever have again (cue baby in March).

Thirty (fast) minutes later: HDH jumps out of bed - all bald, 6'5" and 230 of him - and goes into the closet. Bear in a damn china cabinet. He's mumbling about 'needing pressure' on his face. He's looking, he says, for this sleeping eye pack they give you on international flights. He can't find it .

I'm closing my eyes (read: rolling them) to sleep as he gets back in the bed. And that's when I hear it ...

I look over and see my husband, flat on his back, with SKI GOGGLES ON. He's breathing like Darth Vader and swearing this is his last night on Earth.

And it almost was. I could have punched him them and it would have been enough pressure, believe me.

He might try to dispute this story ... and I welcome it, but all and all, this is a pretty freaking accurate description of the worst holiday party of my LIFE.

We have hosted other parties since, but none related to the section/division. I'm not sure we will ever again.