Death of Intuition

near-death-experience

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.

 

17 thoughts on “Death of Intuition

  1. PS the Patients’ Bill of Rights specifies that if you feel you are being wrongly discharged, you can ask to speak with an advocate from the Administrator. We all know this might not make us so popular with the house staff, but if it saves our lives, fuck the house staff.

    Liked by 3 people

  2. Oh Kara, this is not nice to read. I’m so mad for you. I was treated similarly after my laparoscopy operation (turns out dragging a hypermobile person around by their hips will really fuck them up) and if it wasn’t for my sister refusing to take me home, I would have been discharged too – not that staying in did me any good. I was just left in pain in a hospital bed instead of my own bed.

    It’s so maddening. I wish I could help x

    Liked by 1 person

    • I was attempting to get enough info together on gender discrimination in patient care to write something about it, but I’m so fucking disorganized I never got around to it. In my own somewhat biased view, having a vagoo automatically makes it more difficult for us to receive the care that we actually need/deserve. It IS maddening. 😦

      Liked by 2 people

  3. I want to talk to your husband. I’m on 20mg prednisone, which sometimes like today, makes me feel like an axe murderess. Give me an axe and point me in the right direction…I am ready to serve. Convenient, because I was already headed to D.C. to talk to somebody.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Fucking hell…tell me about it. Every time I hear a plane overhead, I wonder if the orange fuck-face is on board. I’m a bundle of alternating rage and sadness. Being at the epicenter stinks. His face will be in every. single. government building. Barrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrf

      There’s this freaky thing that happens when he hears a female voice – his ears turn off! Do your best Darth Vader impression and you might be heard. Although, an axe swinging at his head might make him pay attention. 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

  4. I also have a fear of dying and decaying for months before being found. I keep telling myself that I’ll be dead and I won’t care, but as you mentioned, what a mess. And I really dislike messes. So, let me reiterate to myself: You’ll be dead, fool. You won’t care about messes anymore. 🙂

    I know you’re not well enough to come visit me, but I had some nice thoughts about you disappearing and MC finally coming to an understanding of your worth. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that crap. But I’ve come to the conclusion that MC will never grow up. How nice for him. 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

    • He misses me when he abandons me, so that’s something. Today he went to Annapolis to walk around and also talked about going to the Mall in DC. I called him a whoreface because I was jealous. 😉

      After he left, it dawned on me that I’ve got a wheelchair. Like I haven’t been moving it out of the way so I don’t trip over it for almost three weeks. Oy. If he wants to do cardiac rehab, he can push me around for a few hours.

      I’m over the 50 pound restriction, but how much weight is actually transferred to him? Man, I should have taken physics.

      Liked by 1 person

  5. I’ve nearly died without having the faintest clue, a couple of times. The last time (a repeat of Pancreatitis) the ER doctor was going to send me home until he got my blood tests. He was very young and only stayed around to play with my elastic tummy skin. When he got my blood work back, he was sooo sorry. I don’t want to die at home. Even if it means crawling out into the garden, I’ll do that. Or on the toilet: at least it’s a room that can be easily washed down. Please walk away from the light and get your husband to push your skinny ass to a hospital. Vagina and all.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Oh, and if you want evidence that a poon gets you ignored by doctors, my Dad and I are perfect examples of the difference a cock makes. The surgery manager runs after my Dad to give him a flu jab etc. He totally ignores my begging to see my GP and not a locum.

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