Please don’t hurt me for boo’ing the weekend. People who work Monday through Friday are probably pretty stoked about this whole weekend thing. Yay for you, getting two days off to do OTHER work, because the work week doesn’t actually signify the end of all work unless you happen to be a man (sorry for this generalization, manthings).
Weekends mean two things for me. First, I’m asking “what do you want to eat?” three times per day, instead of once. This also means more dishes that need to be done. Second, if I’m sick on a weekend and need treatment, well, I’m SOL. Sort of.
I’m a little “slow” in determining when a trip to urgent care is needed. I want to make sure that I’m actually kinda-sorta dying before I waste my time, and theirs. If I can’t stand up without passing out, that’s usually a good sign I need to go. If I can’t eat or drink anything for more than a day, this is also a good sign. If I’m in so much pain, a portal to hell opens right next to my bed and spews flaming sulfur at my face, that’s another important sign that necessitates a trip to ye olde ER.
I’ve never gone to the ER and had it turn out that it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Not-a-once. I’ve actually received calls from my doctors to go to the ER after they receive lab results, even if I don’t feel any worse than usual (my baseline feels suck schweddy balls). That makes it even more confusing. Normally I let the idea ruminate in my brain and let the severity of my symptoms dictate what my best action would be. Then, I outsource for other opinions because I don’t trust myself. I don’t want to be that girl who a) shows up at the ER for no reason and everyone knows her face and hates her or b) dies on the toilet because she should have been in the hospital five days ago.
It’s the dance of chronic illness.
Now that I’ve been unable to tolerate oral intake beyond fluids, and those fluids promptly shoot out of my butthole like napalm, I’m doing that awkward dance with myself. If I let this go too long, we’re looking at severe electrolyte imbalances that can lead to my heart going kaput (I already know my sodium is bottoming out because my BP is in no man’s land and my resting HR is in the 130’s), the possibility that I picked up a hospital acquired infection when I had my enteroscopy done and this infection causing massive damage if left to its own devices for too long, and of course – everyone’s favorite, acute kidney failure. The last one is by far the most common occurrence, and it happens whenever my shit is out of it’s usual balance.
It’ll play out like this:
I go this evening after MC eats his din-din, even though I should have gone yesterday…or the day before. They admit me for the weekend. That’s when people are more likely to die because staffing is at reduced capacity. Fewer nurses, and basically only interns and the odd resident running around to do patient care. At least it’s a nice quiet environment to die in?
I wait, and either croak (highly unlikely, but not outside of the realm of possibilities), or find myself in such bad shape that they have to keep me for multiple weeks to return me to superhero status.
As you can see, the options are shit. If option three were an ice cream cake, there’d be no contest. This is why I’m not a fan of weekends, particularly when my body is trying to purge my soul.