I love my primary care doctor. In fact, MC and I both do. He was the first one around here who seemed to give a shit about helping me (when I want to be helped). Another great thing is that he had appointments available without a ridiculously long wait. Unfortunately, this has changed. He got promoted (that happens with military doc’s), which means not only does he have to doctor crazy fools like me and MC, but he also has to do special training for the non-doctor part of his job. He has been gone for most of January. MC needed referrals put in for cardiology and cardiac rehab, but the PA keeps fucking them up. He’s whigging out over changes in his nails. While I roll my eyes at this, he does need to be seen. I mean, the dude JUST had major open-heart surgery done two months ago.
In my little corner piled high with shit, I’m fending for myself. I submitted to allowing myself to give up. Whatever happens, happens. If I live, cool. If I don’t, I hope I die in the bathroom. The thing about being okay with dying is…fuck, once I realized dying is a very real possibility, I wasn’t okay with it anymore. It’s scary as hell. Even scarier than the prospect of living another 10, 20, or 50 years feeling as awful as I do now.
My autonomic system is seriously screwed. My blood pressure, while mostly low, is all over the place. I had a little panic attack over it going up to 145/116, then a huge panic attack when it went up to 170/123. Five minutes later, it was 82/47. Last night as I started to doze off, I’d snap awake because my body didn’t know how to breathe without me consciously doing so. All. Night. Long. I really wanted to sleep. Sleep would have been nice. I’m so fucking tired I’m hallucinating and my left eye is drifting out, giving me one hell of a headache. I took way too much advil trying to tame it.
Despite me staying awake last night to keep breathing, my oxygen saturation is down to 87-92% (92 if I’m making myself hyperventilate, 89% seems to be the most consistent reading). That’s not good. I called the cardio desk at the clinic and asked for a return call from a nurse or a doctor who could give me a little advice…like, is this acceptable? Is it okay for my oxygen to be a little low? I imagine short term, it’s not a big deal. But I’m also stupid. Barfing up blood blobs isn’t a big deal either. See where I’m going with this? I needed someone with a brain to weigh-in.
By 3, I hadn’t heard back from anyone and I didn’t have the option of calling Dr. Awesome because he’s gone until February. Shit. I did leave my stats with the receptionist and I’m going to assume if I didn’t hear from anyone, it’s fine. Even though I know it’s not fine. Or is it? Fuck if I know. Thanks, Trump.