Happy Mother’s Day
Hope everyone has a happy Mother’s Day!
My mother is doing a little bit better at the hospital. If you’re not on my Facebook profile (and you should be as I don’t bite!), I was given some shitty news from my stepfather that turned out to be a lie. He was either told the wrong information, or he intentionally gave me the wrong information, and that is really an awful thing to do to someone. So I went into panic mode. I was really afraid that my mother was going to die. Then I went to see her on the 8th. She was stable, her body is fighting the infections she had (pneumonia and sepsis with some fungal infection). She was asleep because of the infections and is now on morphine to stop the pain. But she is alive, she is stable, and I want to repair my relationship with my mother. This bad-ass attitude that I have towards her is really for the birds and I have to get my affairs in order.
As of May 7th, for the next few months, I have a new shrink. I’m not crazy over him, but he seems to want to help. First thing he wants to do is stick me in the institution and have some observations and test run. Of course he does. What the hell? Am I the first schizophrenic patient these shrinks have ever encountered? Oh well. Might as well get it over with while I still have time off from work.
Have a fun, safe Sunday, everyone!
The Warmth of the Sun
It was hot enough to run the air conditioner today. And we dyed Easter Eggs, in the part of the house that had no air conditioning. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Do something like cook hard boiled eggs in an already hot kitchen and then dye them. After all, tomorrow’s Easter, and we weren’t planning on celebrating, with my knocked up and due any day now (C’mon baby! I’m ready to meet ya!), we were going to do a small celebration, but now I don’t think we’re going to just have some toys and coloured hard boiled eggs around the table. I’m not that up for any hard boiled eggs. I can’t stand them when I’m not pregnant.
So I’m five days overdue today. I feel as though I am five years overdue. I feel like I have been pregnant forever. Worse, I feel like I am wasting everyone’s time with being pregnant, because nothing is happening.
I picked a bad time to try and blog. Dennis is due for his medication, and we’re going over double the dose, triple to be exact, and he’s just as scared as I am as to what this new dose is going to do. So here goes nothing. Happy Easter, in case I don’t get back to posting until Monday or so.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not, for behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you this day is born in the City of Bethlehem, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; you shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace, good will toward men’”.
Luke 2:10
March Twenty Fifth
On March 25, 2013, our family is going to change.
I was told on November 5th 2007 that I had had a partial hysterectomy. Turns out that translates to “we cut away 70% of your uterus because it was ruptured, but you’re not thirty yet, so we’re going to keep you nice and fertile.” And fertile I have been. In the past four years, I have had eight miscarriages. That stopped shortly after my birthday, and I had no explanation for it. Until now. As of Saturday, December 22, 2012, I am twenty five weeks pregnant, carrying what seems to be an indestructible baby. I don’t know the gender, but I was first told by a physician that my baby was dead and they wanted to collect the cells from my womb and close off the cervix.
Too late for that now!
I’m not sure how healthy my baby is going to be. I’ve taken Metformin, Cymbalta, Effexor, Fentanyl, Glipizide, blood pressure medication, cholesterol medicine, I’ve gotten drunk, I’ve taken reds, talwin, roxys. And still Little One danced for the ultra sound for us. Little One’s heart beat is strong. Little One will be born on March 25th, 2013.
The doctor who examined me said that it would be a bad idea for a vaginal birth, and I was relieved. I have never had a vaginal birth, and I don’t want one. It’s only recently that I have been waking up having an orgasm, being able to orgasm by simple penetration. Yes, I enjoyed every single minute of it. *swoons*
My husband started drinking on Tuesday night. I’m not sure why, just that for nearly the last week, all he has ingested is two bottle of Jack Daniels’ whiskey a day. His eyes had red rims around them. His face was splotchy pale, and when I demanded that he eat something, he threw it back up immediately.
I’m no longer wearing my wedding band. Back on Wednesday, August 11, 2004, he promised me that he would never drink alcohol again after we had an argument and I ended up falling onto the hard concrete ground, and he thought I had tried to attack him, and he fought back. I suffered a concussion, a broken wrist, on my right hand, a fractured cheek bone, and a broken knee. I still feel the pain from that hurt knee to this day. When I found out through his father that he was drinking heavily again, there were many thoughts that swirled through my head. The one I want answered the most is “Why? Why are you doing this when it’s so close to Christmas?” Then I slipped my wedding ring off. It’s a gold band with diamond “shooting stars” across the top. Inscribed on the back is L’amore è per sempre. Italian for “Love is forever.”, the lyrics to a love song that he wrote for me for our wedding, and is now amongst the hundreds of his on iTunes.
Looking at the ring, I cry. I remember when he loved me enough to not drink any alcohol. When I meant something more to him than a burden. The sadness flows through me steadily because I still love him. But I cannot risk him becoming violent. In my mind, I keep remembering when I was eight months pregnant with Chloe and his brother beat the shit out of me. My head injury was so severe that my blue eyes were black from the retina spreading so big, I couldn’t see, I fumbled for the door to escape, and he struck me from the back of my head. I don’t remember anything after that. I’m hoping that I passed out and that nothing happened between his brother and I. Now I come home from a two-week hospital stabilisation, and I find my love asleep on the living room floor, whiskey bottles surrounding the trash can, the Christmas tree on its side on the floor, no wrapped presents under the tree.
I did the best job I knew how to: I pulled my drunk husband onto our sofa, and covered him with a quilt. I cleaned up the liquor bottles, and started a small fire in the fireplace. My father in law and I picked up the Christmas tree, and straightened out the few presents that were scattered under the fallen tree.
The kids never woke up. I’m going to let Santa take the credit for me cleaning up Christmas.
I’m not sure what I am going to do next. What will be will be. But I know the kids deserve a decent Christmas, and Little One deserves to know their father.
Have a happy, peaceful Christmas, everyone. I’m going to post my usual Monkees graphic because the Monkees never get old! Neither does my graphic!
Did anyone else feel that? The world stopped turning! It’s all over! But it seems there’s internet access in Hell, and MacBook Pros, so it’s not all that bad. Plus instead of drinking from the polluted Styx River, I get an IV drip again. But Paradise wasn’t always so. I sleep more. More so than I should be. I am taken, every day, to that CT room, injected with something that makes me sit still, laying on that cold, sticky table, as I’m injected out and about a ring that I know I’m going to get stuck in. Tears pool out of the corners of my eyes, dripping onto a table where they will dry yellow. Yellow? I’m not crying piss, I promise.
My chosen one has chosen to go back to heavily drinking. Triggered, I requested a new, private room, not to be listed. Change my name if you have to, because when he starts drinking as much as he is, two full bottles of whiskey per sitting, he becomes violent, and having an IV tube so close to me, I’m a sitting duck. I might as well have my head in a noose and be standing on a three-legged chair.
The night nurse is gorgeous. I’ve been lusting for him since I met him on Monday evening after I was transferred to this specialty hospital. I’m the youngest on the Cardiac floor, and one of two patients of my night nurse. I have limited resources, just what I can pop on my phone. Someone sent me a shit load of music videos from the ’80s. I’m not too ungrateful, but I have to wonder why someone would send me Elton John videos along side hair band metal? Apple is probably scratching their heads over this. They must think that I’m some kind of a pervert. Ok, well, I am, but they don’t need to know that!
Last night I had my first shower in ever-so-long. Nurse Sexy said we were going to get in the shower together. I was a little disappointed that all that happened, somewhat, was that he helped me scrub down. I had my first six orgasms in that shower. *grins* He complimented my backside, then quickly corrected himself in saying he was talking about my tattoo. Sure you were, sure. I told him that I was dizzy from the temperature and pressure changes in the shower, so he told me to hold his hand. I grabbed a hold of something else, and he made it a point to tell me that wasn’t his hand, but he didn’t tell me to stop. Best single sided sex of my life.
I’ve been put on injectable insulin. We all knew it was going to happen sooner or later. Better now than never, huh? I don’t inject over four units at a time because my blood levels aren’t that high. Of course I’ve been chowing down on ice cream and Tootsie Pops and Life Savers since getting the news. No more Metformin for a while, we’re going to go straight to the insulin overdoses. Nurse Sexy came in and told me he had something for me to suck on, but not to suck on it too hard because the juice might come out too soon. He then gave me some kind of a medical lollipop, the outer part was to deaden my taste buds for the vile liquid center. And yes, my heart rate sky rocketed when he told me he had something for me to suck on that was going to explode in my mouth.
One thing that doesn’t help is that I have been put in isolation for so long that I feel worse being here. I question why I was admitted, but then I get a new medicine to try out, and my mind goes back to blank.
I’m hoping to get out before Christmas. Hoping. I know that hoping and looking at the actual statistical facts on hand are two different things, but I can dream.
We got a tiny snow storm while I slept last night. Nurse Sexy must have come directly to my room to check on me during the start of his shift; he had whole snowflakes in his hair. I asked how much longer I was going to be here. I actually want to be out in this snowy, wintery mix, amongst the dumbasses trying to drive on it, than be here, tethered to machines, my only escape is an iPhone with shit reception. I have a stack of forty or so unopened Christmas cards from people who just realised that I am not where I’m supposed to be. I want to go outside and play in the snow. Make a snowman and get some food colouring and really go to town.
While I want to leave the hospital, I fear where I am going to end up. Going home seems to be the right idea, but I don’t think I can go back there. I can’t live with a violent alcoholic, who refuses to get help. I can’t expose myself, my children, and the bun in the oven, to violence. At the same time, Chloe is bonded to her father. She loves him dearly, and after studying psychology for years, I know what may happen if I take him away from her. I have not asked why he started drinking again. Eight years sober, and now this. He came in to see me drunk. He said things, made remarks. I asked if Trevor was there, and he said no. When I expressed this to a mutual friend, they suggested that Trevor wouldn’t be honest, if he were in control, because he dislikes me. Trevor wants to sleep around, get high and wired, drive drunk, take swings at cops, then runs away, leaving Dennis holding the ball, getting in trouble. I’m not sure if I believe the Trevor Did It story anymore. There was a time when it made perfect sense, but now it just seems too convenient to be true. Dennis and Trevor have both hurt me. Trevor has never told me that he hates me, but Dennis has relayed to me that Trevor wishes I’d die, and that he never agreed to my marriage to Dennis. Dennis tells me that Trevor was the only one in the system who disliked me and did not wish to see me on a regular basis.
I’m rambling now. I should be trying to sleep, begging Nurse Sexy for another shower or at the very least some good pain medications.
And if the world ended, no one told me. So I’m still here, and apparently, so are you, so there.
Don’t forget to like my page here! You know you wanna, and that you can’t help yourself…
I hope everyone had (or has!) a happy Thanksgiving. Everyone has something to be thankful for. I’m thankful that I can sit here to type this entry up. I was thankful that I was able to take a bath tonight and to get over the crippling nausea, chills and cold sweats that is from eating my mother’s Thanksgiving Day cooking! Or maybe I should say, undercooking? I must say, it was kind of nice to have some company in the downstairs bedroom. The snuggle-fest made my tummy ache just melt away. *all smiles*
Smile! It’s later than you think!
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