It probably seems ridiculous that I’ve got some serious shit going down, but rather than doing anything about it, I retreat to my fuzzy cocoon and whine to anyone who will listen (or read, in this case). I’ve had some very long nights of keeping myself awake out of fear that I wouldn’t wake up in the morning.
I recall a specific instance when I was discharged from the hospital after having been admitted for hyperkalemia. The day of discharge, I was given four doses of kayexalate, then sent on my way without having my potassium levels rechecked. I didn’t feel ready to be discharged. When the zofran began to wear off, my face was back in the plastic basin. I broke down and started crying, practically begging the nurse to postpone my discharge (and you know how much I hate hospitals). She paged the Resident and when I explained to him how awful I felt, he treated me like I was just another hysterical female he was tired of dealing with. He ordered another shot of zofran and told me I’d be better off at home. The nurse allowed me to hang around long enough to stop vomitting, supplied a few emesis bags to take with me, then gave me the boot and the phone number of a taxi company.
I called a cab and made my way to the pick-up point. I was so weak, I had to hold onto the wall rails where there were rails, or with my arm against the wall where there weren’t rails. Every single muscle in my body was on fire. When I got home, I climbed up the stairs and planted myself in bed. Within a couple of hours I had so much edema in my midsection that it was a struggle to breathe. I called one of my friends in SC and asked him to call me a few times during the night and if I didn’t answer, to please call security forces so they could do a welfare check. I wasn’t afraid of death. I was afraid of dying and decaying for months before being found. I guess I’m afraid of making a mess. I survived this experience, obviously.
What hits me is that I was not okay. I should not have been discharged, but I was. A smart person would have been right back in the ER after that. Not me. I kept telling myself that I was fine because the doctor said I was. Every time I’ve felt like I’m at deaths door, I tell myself the same thing. “The doctors say I’m okay. This will pass.”, then I hunker down and wait. Wait for it to pass, or wait for my mess to become someone else’s problem. I’ve done this so often that I don’t even have a nagging internal voice anymore that tells me something is very wrong. I just assume I’ll be fine if I wait it out long enough.
If I’m wrong, I have my bases covered. I pay the bills, so I’ve got usernames and passwords written down so MC can take over, should something happen to me. I go through frequent purges of personal items so that my burden of shit is lower. I bought him easy to follow cookbooks and have showed him how to make a menu and weekly grocery shopping list.
For someone who says she’s fine, this is odd behavior.