This morning, TMZ reported that K-Fed was rushed to the hospital after his heart “showed signs of distress.”  He was in Australia filming a reality show called “Excess Baggage” – not exactly sure what that is, but it sounds terrible enough to cause a serious heart problem.

And take a look at this picture. K-Fed is definitely in a regular car, not an ambulance. So how did he get that oxygen mask? Does he have a medical team on hand? Are his body guards trained in CPR? Does K-Fed even need body guards? At first glance, I was especially confused because it looks like K-Fed drove himself to the hospital. Why was he driving with that oxygen mask on? And then I remembered. He was in Australia. The driver’s seat is on the other side of the car over there. Oops.

In all seriousness, K-Fed, we here at CC wish you a speedy recovery. If your heart is still broken over Britney, don’t worry. Love will find a way.

God I’m tired. Watching two hours of The Biggest Loser followed by two hours of American Idol can really take a lot out of a girl. Especially when that girl hadn’t even cracked a book before that reality TV sh*tshow began. And when that girl had about 200 pages of reading to get done after that marathon ended.

If the Starbucks guy could feed me that Americano through a vein in my arm, we’d be golden.

But until I find a barista with an affinity to intravenous caffeine use, I am just going to have to find something else to get my brain moving on this not-so-fine Hump Day. Like a fun round of “Would You Rather?” Last week we dreamed of a world of haute couture; this week we’ve got something a bit more cringe-worthy to ponder.

So think long and hard – really, really think about this one, peeps – and choose your answer. Then, if you dare, tell us why you made that difficult choice in the comments section below.

Here goes:

Would you rather have to go to the hospital still “connected” to your guy because you somehow got stuck together OR have to go to the hospital because using a carrot as a pleasure stick wasn’t such a great idea?

Things to consider: the call for help; explaining your situation to the doctors, nurses and your parents; wasting food when there are starving children in Africa.

My personal fight with an eating disorder started innocently as a goal to get fit and healthy as a freshman in college. I was never overweight, but I suddenly became very self-conscious in a dorm room filled with girls who were prettier and thinner. I began joining in on the nightly runs and workouts with the other girls – not only were helping me lose weight and get in shape, but I was making new friends as well. It was very difficult for me to be in a new place with no one I knew. I had grown up in a small Christian high school where everyone knew my name, where it was easy to be popular and liked, and where I identified my worth with the achievements, awards, and titles that I held. Now, as I began to compare myself with my new friends, I suddenly felt insecure and as if I had lost my worth. With the praise that I began to receive about how great I looked, I started to believe that being skinny would be what could make me happy and feel self-worth.

In an effort to see more change faster, I began to cut carbohydrates and meat out of my diet, soon only eating fruits and vegetables at each meal.  My sense of accomplishment for having lost weight with just cutting back on “junk food” and exercising every day fueled a deeper desire for more control over life.  During this time, my family was going through some very difficult issues and I had always had a hard time voicing my anger, hurt, and frustration. Restricting my body of food and pushing myself physically through exercise allowed me to “voice” my negative feelings. Rather than sharing how I felt about my insecurity and pain, I turned inward and began to find solace in controlling my own body.

During my second semester I had let my eating take over my life to the point where I had lost 30 pounds in two months. My RA had finally convinced me to go to the doctor with her and when I was officially diagnosed as an anorexic, the dean of women immediately sent home for treatment. Rather than accepting the help of doctors and therapists, I decided to cling to my eating disorder even more tightly. I had fallen beyond the point where I was choosing not to eat, and was now in a place where I was so overwhelmed with the fear of letting go and losing control that I couldn’t make myself eat.

Over the next two years I was sent to different hospitals and treatment centers as my weight continued to spiral down. I had lost sight of the goals and dreams I had for my life and the only goal that mattered was seeing the numbers on the scale decrease. It felt the a war was going on inside of me – one side of me wanted to never let go of anorexia, I had found comfort and control in the disease, yet the other side of me was screaming for help to get my life back, to feel like myself again and to be able to stop thinking about my weight.

It wasn’t long before I hit rock bottom. At 68 pounds I was labeled a chronic anorexic and my doctor told my parents to prepare for my funeral. I was once again admitted to a long inpatient stay and tube-feed in order to regain weight. The experience was unpleasant to say the least and after gaining enough weight to stabilize, I left against medical advice, swearing that I would never be back.  While in the hospital I caught a glimpse of my life passing before my eyes, of the time I couldn’t get back, of the friends I had lost, of the years I spent in hospitals and I finally realized that I had to take action if I wanted to stop anorexia from taking my life. Right then I promised myself that I would get better. I took responsibility for my recovery and began to see the future that I could have once I decided to live healthy and accept the help of others.

As I began to nourish my body physically, I began to feel better emotionally and mentally. With daily baby steps of accepting myself and setting goals  -physically, mentally and emotionally, I was able to get back on track. Most importantly, I knew that God had a greater plan for my life, that I was not meant to live trapped in an eating disorder.

I did not recover overnight. It took roughly two years for me to begin experiencing life again without turning toward anorexia’s habits. With the help of counselors, family, and friends, I was able to voice my disappointment and hurt in order to move on from past pain. A big part of my recovery was finding something that I loved to do that would help others. It is when you help someone who is in need that you realize just how grateful you are for life.  I still had difficult days where I wanted to turn back to anorexia and feel the self-satisfaction of not eating, but I continued to press on toward my new goals of finishing college and starting my career.

Now, after having attained my bachelors degree and being on a career path that I could have only dreamed about, I am overwhelmed with peace and joy. Life is not about what size jeans you wear or how much skinner you are than the girl next to you. Nor is life about hiding the pain and hurt you feel to look perfect on the outside. Life is about giving and receiving love, cherishing the time you have with friends and family, and becoming the person you dream of being. If you have ever struggled with an eating disorder, press on, for life awaits you. If you know someone with an eating disorder, continue to support and pray that they will see their true worth. Together, we can overcome the deadly trap of eating disorders.

[If you have questions for Kristie or need to talk to someone, email her]

As college students, we pretty much think of ourselves as invincible, I know I certainly have. Until recently that is. I’ve been in car accidents, including one where my car hydroplaned off a cliff. I’ve drank myself to the point where I should have gone to the hospital. I’ve had my life threatened. But those things never quite hit me to the point where I realized I could have died.

On January 2nd, I woke up at 4:30 in the morning with a searing pain in my left lung and back. It felt like two cinderblocks were pushing on either side of me and every breath felt like a knife going through my lung. I have a low pain tolerance, but this was the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my entire life. I managed to walk to my parents’ room to wake them up as I was gasping for air. My mom helped me back into my room while my dad furiously researched the new medication my dermatologist put me on, convinced it was a side effect. I eventually fell back asleep, but when I woke up again I was greeted by pain that was even worse than before. My mom came in to check on me, and I told her I needed to go to the hospital.

In the emergency room, one of the doctors listened to my symptoms and said “I think you may have a blood clot in your lung.” What? A blood clot? In an 18-year old? I was so confused and scared; I immediately started bawling. They quickly took blood out of my left arm while putting an IV in the other, and I woke up in the middle of a CT-scan. They did ultrasounds on my legs to make sure there were no clots because that’s where most clots originate. About an hour later, another doctor came in and told me they did find a clot in my lung.

I was terrified.

A nurse came in to give me a shot in my stomach that would start to seal the clot to the wall of my vein so it couldn’t break apart or move to my heart. I called my boyfriend and my best friend not really knowing what to say, partly because I was on a massive amount of painkillers and partly because I thought I was going to die.

The doctors believe that my birth control caused the clot, but they are still running tests. I was shocked. I knew blood clots were a side effect of the pill, but they are so rare, especially in women under 30. I received a shot to the stomach twice a day along with various painkillers from morphine to percocet. I was also told I had to be on a medication called Coumadin, a blood thinner, for 6 months. This medication comes with a lot of rules and requires weekly blood tests to determine if my blood is too thin or not thin enough. Depending on that level, I have to adjust the dosage of Coumadin I take. I’ve been on it for a week and the dosage has changed three times. I can’t eat foods high in vitamin K like salad or broccoli, I can’t drink more than 2oz of alcohol.

I left the hospital on January 6 and was allowed to go back to school on the 8th. I got tired and short of breath, accompanied with a much less severe but still noticeable pain in my lung which would not go away for about 6 to 8 weeks according to the doctors. But I’m alive. If I didn’t go to the hospital, I would be dead right now. The clot would have made its way to my heart or my brain, and I would have died. As much as the situation bothers me, and I keep asking why this happened to me, I am so grateful that I’m still here. Things like this don’t happen to people my age, and if it does, it’s usually too late. You hear about the funeral, not the recovery.

I’m glad I can sit at my computer and share this story with you all because I don’t want any of you to go through what I did. I want you to be aware of what can happen, to recognize the symptoms, and realize that birth control and other medicines do have side effects.

If you feel a pain like that, don’t assume it’s something minor because it’s probably not. Your body tells you things, so listen to it.

After suspecting for years that I have sleep apnea, I finally got around to going to a pulmonologist and discussing it with him. He agreed that my symptoms sounded apnea-ish and recommended that I do an overnight sleep study at my local hospital.

I wasn’t afraid to do the study or anything like that, but I did want to get the best sleep possible since I had three job interviews scheduled for the next day. Error in judgment? Perhaps, but there wasn’t much I could do about it because I’d have to wait at least a month if I wanted to reschedule the sleep study.

Generally, these studies take about 9 hours—an hour to put on and take off the equipment, 7-8 hours to sleep (or perhaps I should say “sleep”), and a little bit of extra time to fill out forms. If you’re not an early riser, you’re out of luck, because at my sleep clinic the wake-up time was between 5:30 at 6 a.m. Luckily, I had to get up early anyway, so it wasn’t a big deal.

When I arrived at the clinic, the sleep technician greeted me and explained what she was going to do—put about a zillion wires on almost every part of my body. She explained to me that the wires on my arms and legs would monitor my physical movements, the wires on my chest would monitor my breathing, and the wires on my head would monitor my brain activity and sleep levels.

It took about 45 minutes to put on all the wires, and I pretty much looked like Frankenstein’s monster when she was finished. She called me the “bionic woman.” Whenever I got up from a sitting position, I had to carry this remote control type of thing with me that was attached to all the wires. Nothing was at all uncomfortable, but I looked crazed because I had a bunch of gel smeared into my hair that helped to keep the wires on and dots on my face that marked where the face wires should go.

She told me the rules: during the night, I wasn’t allowed to go to the bathroom or get out of the bed for any reason without calling her on the intercom so that she could come help me by making sure that all the wires accompanied me to wherever I needed to go. Thankfully, I don’t normally get up and wander around at night, so I didn’t need to worry about that. Toward the morning I woke up and did need to go to the bathroom, but I just held it—not a big deal.

When it was time for bed, she attached a light with a sensor to my fingertip (to monitor my blood flow, maybe?). Then she dimmed the lights and I lay in bed while she went out of the room and had me do a series of movements—breathing in and out, moving my feet up and down, turning my head and eyes from side to side, etc. This was, presumably, to get information about how I normally move and breathe.

Then she turned out the lights and I was on my own. I had purposely woken up really early that morning in hopes that I would sleep like a log at the clinic, but it didn’t quite work out that way. I got to sleep initially without much trouble, but I kept waking up—probably about 10 times during the night. I’d go back to sleep right away each time, but I always wanted to turn around and reposition myself, and it’s really difficult to do that when you are the bionic woman with a tangle of wires attached to all your limbs. Apparently, I tore off two of the wires during the night without realizing it (oops).

In the morning, I got a snack and some juice and filled out some forms to give information about how I thought I had slept (poorly). The technician took off all my wires (hallelujah) and I had a shower and got to go home and then to all my job interviews. I managed not to be a zombie during the interviews, but by early evening I was zonked and feeling really sick, so I guess I had slept even worse than I thought.

I haven’t had my follow-up appointment yet, but even though it wasn’t the most pleasant experience of my life, I’m glad I went if it will help me sleep better in the long run. Sleep apnea is scary, so anything that will help me get rid of it is okay in my book!

[Image courtesy of sleepandtmdcenter.com.]

Shia LaBeouf, the adorable movie star who used to seem so sweet and cute, apparently made a promise to himself to become just another one of those a**hole actors by breaking a bunch of laws in recent months. Early this morning (Sunday, July 27th), LaBeouf pushed his a**shole act up a notch by flipping his car on “the corner of Fountain and La Brea” in Hollywood and smashing up his hand bad enough to go into surgery shortly after. As soon as he got to the hospital, LaBeouf was arrested and charged with DUI.

Updates will no doubt come in as the day wears on, but as we all wait for those updates to happen, we here at CC are going to make our own promise to ourselves: no more fantasies involving actors who are lame enough to think that driving while intoxicated is a great way to get around.

The patient du jour was a dude who collapsed during a protest and who appeared to have no major symptoms other than occasional fainting spells. House, however, usurped the patient with the theory that his niceness (yes, NICENESS) was a symptom of a more serious illness.

After a bunch of tests, the team found out that the guy had neurosyphilis and that the condition was supposedly affecting his brain. Kutner also tested a vial of “House’s” blood that he found lying around and discovered that House had syphilis. Long story short: House planted the blood so he could pretend to get nicer with treatment and make the team believe that his initial opinion of niceness being a defect was correct.

Whew! If that’s all a little confusing, let’s get simple: the dirt in this episode was that Cameron once slept with House (at least, it was strongly implied). Chase is pissed with Cameron (rightly) because she’s now putting him at risk of catching an STD, so there’s some major drama going on there.

In other news, House was sick of never seeing Wilson, so he worked out a visitation schedule with Amber. If you’ve seen the show, you can imagine how well that worked. Wilson was too passive-aggressive to choose sides, so House and Amber ended in a deadlock that probably won’t ever be broken.

All in all, I’d say the episode was valuable just for the tantalizing idea that Cameron and House slept together and the marginally entertaining thread of sarcastic performance reviews, so catch the full episode on Fox’s Web site if you missed it.  If not…eh.

Maybe the writers will have really warmed up by next week.

In case you live under a rock, Britney Spears has officially gone crazier than any of us thought possible.

After freaking her sh*t last Thursday night when it came time to return her two sons to their less insane parent, Spears participated in a three-hour standoff before being rushed to a hospital on a stretcher and checking herself out less than 48 hours later (apparently too early for people admitted with psychological issues). While nobody’s saying exactly why Spears was taken to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, it’s been reported that at the time of her hospitalization, she was “under the influence of an unknown substance”.

As if the circus wasn’t big enough, TV’s favorite media-whore “therapist” Dr. Phil got himself involved in Brit’s debacle, visiting her as she was checking out of the hospital and subsequently telling every news outlet that he was “very concerned” for her.

“My meeting with Britney and some family members this morning in her room at Cedars leaves me convinced more than ever that she is in dire need of both medical and psychological intervention.” The TV doc is quoted as saying. “She was released moments before my arrival and was packing when I entered the room. We visited for about an hour before I walked with her to her car. I am very concerned for her.”

Now, as much as I hope Mr. McGraw visited Britney because he was worried and felt it was his duty to do something no one in her family has bothered to do, I can’t help but wonder if he, like the rest of the world, is just using Spears as a way to boost himself up. Paparazzi egg her on, newscasters tisk their tongues, and bloggers like me make thousands of jokes at her expense, hoping she’ll do something even more insane tomorrow so we can be even funnier. Perezhilton has practically built an internet empire on play-by-play updates on craziness, and everyone surrounding her seems content to play down her psychosis and use her until she hits a wall.

The question then becomes, is Spears insane because of us, or in spite of us?

Here’s hoping someone has at least taken away her keys and Starbucks card. Drinking your weight in caffeine and calories twice a day is enough to make anyone go a little nuts.

Oscar, a two year old stray that was adopted as a kitten by the third floor dementia unit of the Steere House Nursing and Rehabilitation Center in Providence, Rhode Island, reportedly has an uncanny ability to tell when a patient is about to die.

In over 25 observed cases, Oscar the Death Cat (they’re calling him that, not me) goes into a patient’s room about two hours before they kick the bucket. Sometimes he even sits down next to them.

One doctor was “convinced of Oscar’s talent” during his 13th case. A patient the doctor was tending to showed many common signs of approaching death, but Oscar wouldn’t stay inside the room. The doctor thought the feline’s correct prediction streak was over, until 10 hours later. When the patient passed away a few hours after doctors expected, Oscar was right there with her.

While no one is sure if Oscar is actually sensing something supernatural, or just realizing patterns set by the nurses who raised him, his presence on the ward seems to cause more comfort then fear. He even received his own wall plague saluting his “compassionate hospice care.

What a cat is going to do with a complimentary plaque is anyone’s guess, but as long as he uses his cat powers for good (and stays the hell away from my bedside), I’ll salute him.