I looked at my little calendar and guess what? I haven’t seen the light of day as not filtered through a window in a month! This is only slightly longer than usual. If I didn’t have appointments, my inclination was to stay buried in my hidey-hole. My safe place. For four months, it wasn’t an option. I was so burnt out on people, I was considering shipping myself to Kodiak and living with the grizzlies.
Now it’s people 24/7. No privacy whatsoever. My ass is on display when I need to air out and you know what? It’s nice to not have to abide by the rules of normal society, where pants are required in order to interact with other humans. Fuck pants.
Only abnormal humans would find any of what goes on with me each day the least bit interesting. As weird as I am, I’m bored to death by it. Same shit, different day.
Mr. Intensivist told me my transplant status was updated this morning, as UNOS requires updates every seven days. This is based on current medical interventions that are keeping me “alive”. My everythings are crossed with the hope that I drop off of the list altogether. I took a survey to see how I’m REALLY doing yesterday by talking to all of my providers (because saying I feel fine doesn’t seem to work if it’s contradicted by clinical evidence to the contrary). These aren’t the type of people who are into telling me what I want to hear, dagnabbit.
The poor RT crew is getting a complex. My spirometer keeps making its way onto the floor. Don’t ask me. I’m pretty sure the boogeyman has something to do with it. I’ve gone through four already. I’m not even going to talk about PT because, well, I haven’t gotten that far yet. My legs try to tear themselves in half with spasms after short walks. Someone was finally ballsy enough to give me a spasmolytic and I am secretly worshipping this person.
By the time I saw the cardiologist, I was so tired of hearing “no” in regards to potential discharge that I told him I don’t care how many people he has to blow, I want out of here by Monday. Oy. I plea the 666th amendment (I’m not responsible for anything I say because methylprednisolone makes a devil out of me). I’m a lion in a gladiator pit.
It’s worth mentioning that my guts, minus my stomach, are doing much better. Ah, the bitch that is my stomach – it’s not emptying at all so I don’t have a free nostril to stick my finger up anymore. Tubes. Tubes everywhere.
The blips on my ecg require secret translation. I keep seeing “R on T”, then when I ask wtf it means, they’re all like “oh, you were probably coughing or moving.” Okay, fair enough. That still doesn’t explain what it IS. I want to know everything. Hellooo, Google.
“a cardiac event in which a ventricular stimulus causes premature depolarization of cells that have not completely re-polarized. It is noted on the electrocardiogram as a ventricular depolarization falling somewhere within a T wave. The R-on-T phenomenon may result in ventricular tachycardia or ventricular fibrillation.”
I understand that only presenting information that’s vital is the best way to keep us laypeople from freaking out, but consider me a member of a certain subset of laypeeps that feels better with the more she knows. If it were an artifactual reading, then my frequent v-tach events must just come from the magical mists of arrhythmitopia.
I’m sure they’re wishing they could knock me the fuck out by now. Funny, I’m wishing for the same thing. It’s easier to be a patient patient (or a patient with patience) while unconscious. Be careful what I wish for, eh? If you were to ask me how I’m doing, I’m of the opinion that I’m fine and dandy. That’s the only opinion that matters, right? Right?! 😉