Boss sent me home at noon. He says I’m of no benefit, making gel runs through tears. Says that I have his sympathy, but I need to get it together. Go home, make a doctor appointment before my scheduled appointment. I did. I can’t get in sooner than the 22end. Ridiculous, since my consultation appointment is the 19th. What am I going to do? The pain is unbearable, and I just have one-half of a Lortab left. Doctor Asshole won’t call me in any pain relief. Told me to take Tylenol. I said I was taking that. He told me to lose weight. Um, fuck you.
I called Keith back and asked him what should I do? I can’t get any pain relief, I can’t go to the ED because I have an existing balance there, and I can’t get an appointment until waaay after the already scheduled physical. He said not to worry; he was not planning on replacing me, just focus on getting well. That would be great, if I could do that. Right now all I can think of is the pain in my cheek, the pain in my leg, and the pain radiating across my abdomen. What’s worse than the pain is the despair; I cannot see relief in sight at all. I just lay in bed sobbing or sitting at the table, sobbing. Tylenol masks the pain for ten minutes, and I find myself reaching for another dose, despite the fact that I am at the limit of safe doses.
My doctor is a paradox. He says I have liver failure, but he will not provide me with pain relief beyond Tylenol. Take Tylenol, take Tylenol, take Tylenol! That’s all I ever hear from him! Tylenol only works for a few minutes! So he tells me to take more! Um, if I take more, that’s going to advance the liver failure! He says no. Whatever. No one knows more than him, right? After all, weight loss is a cure-all for him. Asshole. I want a new doctor. And I want one now. Stupid insurance won’t let me have one, though, and no other doctors here will take me on, for some strange reason.
I’m waiting on Mark to get here to take me to the Apple store. He was supposed to leave work at 6pm, but he’s late, late, LATE. He’d be late to his own funeral. I shouldn’t say that.
For anyone who didn’t get any frantic text messages from me yesterday/last night, Doc Dan took away my car keys and license because of my head injury and the pink pills I’m taking to keep food down. Other than that, he put me on a hormone therapy because apparently, my lack of internal reproductive organs is messing up chemicals in my brain and neurons, and my other hormones are not ready for the ‘change of life’ hormones.
So what happened to me?
Tuesday night, I went in search of forbidden objects. Mostly my nephew’s things that still make me cry, two years after the fact. I found a plastic bin of his things on the shelf in my closet, and had to stand on a small chair to even pull the bin off the shelf. I lost my balance, fell onto the floor, and while I was sitting there, trying to recover, I was whacked in the head with a 2000+ page, hard-cover organic chemistry text book. It was my text book. WTF. I knew my research was dangerous, but I didn’t know it was that dangerous.
Yesterday, I was dizzy and vomiting. At 10:30 in the morning, I had an appointment with Doc Dan. He was at the Cancer Center all the way across town. Seeing the lumps and bumps on my head, he ordered a CT. The results were injuries. He immediately took my car keys, my driver’s license, and said I had to call for a ride home. We then discussed hormone therapy and my other tests.
I called every single local person in my phone, and at 8:40pm, right when Doc Dan was coming back with my papers to admit me to a hospital for the night, Mark comes walking in, and announced he was my ride. Doc Dan remarked that my ‘husband’ had gained weight, height and 20 years in the past six months. He was kidding. Mark didn’t take it so lightly.
Mark had to practically carry me into my house. I ended up dashing to the bathroom to wash off the cop smell (haha). He offered to stay the night, but I assured him my 73 year old father-in-law was a good enough baby sitter for me. I did beg for a ride to the Apple store today and a ride to the post office tomorrow. He said he’d be here. That was nearly 24 hours ago.
All night long I vomited and took pink pills. Pills that were supposed to stop the sickness, but seemed to make it worse. More than once the dizziness woke me up. Confusion clouded my mind, and I often woke up thinking I was in a hospital room. My husband was gone all night long with his band. He came dragging ass home at 5am, and never noticed that I was sick. I guess this in itself pisses me off more so than the harasser emailing me today. But what do I know? I feel better, if anyone cares.
My husband is out with his band mates right this minute, so here I sit. Alone. Dizzy. And waiting.
I’m surprised I’ve made it this far. I woke up sick, I’ve been feeling ill all day. Considering “all day” is roughly three hours, it still feels like it’s been an eternity. I have chest pains. I feel like I am going to throw up at any minute. I have an appointment with Doc Dan, because my extensive tests are in, but that won’t be for another six hours. I don’t know if I can hang in that long. I have to. Working in this condition really sucks. I wish there was something I could do, but my boss told me that unless I pass out, I can’t go home. I wonder if that applies if I puke? It’s not like there’s any work to do. We’re just hanging out, doing reports, and waiting for something to come in. For the first time that I have had this job, we’re not bogged down with crime case evidence. One of my co-workers joked that we solved all the crimes in town. Right. I’m sure we did.
Think happy thoughts for me. I will get through this!
“Day turned black, sky ripped apart
Rained for a year ’til it dampened my heart” ~ George Harrison
Bad diagnosis. Bad prognosis. Bad words exchanged with my doctor today. All that bad makes me not want to go to Boards tomorrow. What’s the point? What breaks my heart the most was that during it all, I was alone. I was alone when I got the bad diagnosis. I was alone when I got the bad prognosis. When I tried to explain to my thick-headed doctor that I am still in pain, and that since I have advanced liver failure now, there’s no point in not making me an addict, he still denied me pain medication. “Take Tylenol.” “Oh, okay. I’ve been doing that for the past two months. I take three 150 count bottles per week. You think this might have caused the advanced liver failure?” “No. I think it was all the drinking you did as a teenager. Plus your weight.” Of course. It’s always my weight. I’m not obese, but the ten or fifteen pounds that I am overweight is the thing that is going to kill me. Makes perfect sense. So that is where I kind of lost it. I told my doctor that I was in severe pain, it has been here for a good four months now, and I wanted him to prescribe me something. If he didn’t, I was going to the nearest dealer and get heroine. I wasn’t kidding. Apparently, being aggressive pissed him off, and though I was still speaking, he told me to shut up, started rummaging through the drawers in the exam room, eventually pulling out a needle and a vial of something yellow, then injecting me with it. He told me it was morphine, but it wasn’t the same consistency as the morphine I got in the hospital. It didn’t even make me drowsy or sick.
After the injection, he dropped the bomb on me: The only cure he could possibly think of for my advanced liver failure is surgery. Of course since I’m ‘too scared’ of surgery, he said I could just live out the next ten months of my life suffering and on street drugs, and he didn’t want to see me again for another five months, to see if I’ve changed my viewpoint on life. WTF? I argued with him because I want a better quality of life! I sat there in silence in the exam room after he left, wondering what he meant, when the nurse came in. She calmly explained to me that without surgery, I have about ten months to live. Oh, and the doctor is convinced I’d rather do drugs and party than have surgery to save my life. Brilliant man, he is. I didn’t even bother making my appointment for October.
I left the clinic in tears. My husband’s guitarist had taken me to the appointment because my husband was tired and wanted to sleep. On the way home, I had to explain what happened, and he was barely listening. “Ten years is a long time!” Oh lord. I just shook my head and focused on things passing by the window.
I did tell my husband what happened, when he finally got out of bed. In response to my health issues, his band is only going into the studio three days per week, starting next week, and they’re going to go in at a different time so he can spend the nights with me. I hate that I have made such an impact on their lives. If I could have this all be over, I would. If I could have it be different, I could. I don’t want to become that sick person who is a burden to everyone they come in contact with. I’m actually making an effort to get around more on my own, even if it is painful.
On that note, I’m going to go off and spend some time with my family. My husband and I are going to the cemetery tomorrow, for the anniversary of our daughter’s death. I don’t know if we should take the other kids or not. It’s probably not a good idea to get them hanging out in cemeteries at early ages.
Since I know the one or two of you who still visit this site might have a small interest in my car accident repairs, I feel obligated to update about my health status (I’m kidding about feeling obligated and the 1-2 people who still visit here. My stats say otherwise, so COMMENT AND SAY HI ALREADY! I KNOW YOU’RE THERE!!). I have a blood clot in my abdomen. It’s a direct result from the impact of the accident. I can feel it if I am laying down on my back and pressing down on my stomach. It’s hard and teeny, but there. I’m going to see the surgeon Monday, so no worrying about me, ok? I just felt that I should update and let everyone know I have a blood clot in my abdomen region. Also, if the surgeon thought it was bad, he’d have me in the hospital already and I’d be in surgery or on clot busters. I’m not. So let that be a clue that I’m not going to die. Yet. Probably not of this. Maybe soon. Definitely sooner than later if I keep riding with my crazy husband on those back roads where he tries to turn in front of people who have the right-of-way. But no worrying about me, ok? No crying. No mourning. I’m still here. Things are bright from this side of the monitor and I feel better than I have in what I dare say is years, so smile for me! I insist!
So… where do I begin?
How about with the accident itself? It wasn’t pretty. I don’t know of any accidents that are, but when you’re the one in the accident, it’s far more scary, far more horrific than when you’re read about one or see on on the news or in movies. A woman pulled out in front of me, and then stopped. At a green light. We weren’t in the turning lane, but I think she wanted to get in another lane. I totaled her flimsy, fiberglass car with my steel front end. Not that it’s anything to brag about. I had the signs/symptoms of a low blood sugar, and I was temporarily distracted while I was looking for some candy.
My head hit the airbag, and went through to the steering wheel. The center of the wheel exploded when the air bag deployed, and pieces of the wheel pierced my chest. Particularly my breasts. The top of my head went from the wheel to the ceiling of the car. My head cracked my moon roof! I lost consciousness, but I came to while the driver of the other car was cussing me out and screaming at me that I was going to ‘rot’ in jail. Of course when the ambulance got there, and the cops, she was ‘paralyzed’. Christ on a cracker.
As for me? I had blood streaming down my shirt. I wasn’t clear on what happened. I thought I was seriously injured, as in my insides were outside. I could not put pressure on my right knee. I didn’t know what had happened. I couldn’t shut off my car. I couldn’t get the key out. My glove box was locked, and I couldn’t get to my insurance and license. The cops here are royal assholes. They were very unsympathetic. Because I couldn’t get my key out of the ignition and unlock my glove box and get to my license and registration and insurance, I was ‘resisting arrest’. The asshole cop demanded that I get out of the car. He actually had a gun pointed at me! He was barking orders. I was confused and scared. I started crying. I was bleeding. I was feeling the pain. I had chest wounds. I could see pieces of the plastic sticking out of my shirt. The cop opened my door and yanked me out. He threw me down on the median and handcuffed me. Later I learned that he did this because the woman I hit lied and said I came at her with a knife, then cut myself and got back in the car. WTF? Bitch I didn’t even know my name at the time. My car was searched, and when no weapons were found in the car, I was un-handcuffed. No apology. I was given a breathalyzer test. It was negative. The EMSA worker did a blood sugar stick test. My blood sugar was in the 40s. I was shaking, weak and confused. I was scared. They took me to the hospital. My car was towed.
Once at the emergency room, things got fuzzy. I don’t remember what I told the triage nurse or the doctor or even the police who came back. I woke up around 8pm, being wheeled to nuclear medicine. I had a bracelet on, but it didn’t have my real name on it. I don’t know why I gave the name I did, but it wasn’t my real name. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was x-rayed several times. Then I had an MRI with the painful dye. I cried, I fought. They had to sedate me. I don’t do well with MRI machines. I had a brain MRI, a brain scan, more head x-rays. When my ex husband came in to give me the results, I was so out of it, I thought we were still married, and I asked him if he was there to take me home. I think I hugged him, too. All this time, I was snapping pictures with my iPhone and texting everyone I could get their number from. I was looking for my current husband’s number, subconsciously, while consciously, I thought I was still married to Sean.
The result? Minor head injuries, morphine was pushed. I got sick. I vomited in the trash can as Sean was telling me that in the morning they were going to drain part of my brain, breasts and abdomen. After I finished vomiting, he prepped me for a minor procedure: Getting the pieces of the steering wheel out. I was given more morphine. I was crying. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what was happening to me. The nurse was trying to put an IV in, and I fought her all the way. She got one in on the third try, but only because Sean was holding me down at the time.
When Sean finished bandaging my breasts, I was taken up to a room. I just had my wristlet and iPhone. Nothing else. I had been stripped and a gown put on. I was sore. I didn’t understand why I was being stripped. In my room, I was given a third dose of morphine. I threw up. I remember jumping out of bed and grabbing the basin, dumping out the toiletries and vomiting into it. I don’t do well on narcotics. I was vomiting bile and green and blue stuff. The nurse told me that I wandered the halls after throwing up. She said I kept saying I was looking for my baby and husband. Sean found me wandering the hall, and I spilled the beans to him: “We have a daughter. I had her just seven months after you got mad at me!” Oh dear. That did not go over well. Sean took me back to my room several times that night. I kept getting up and wandering the halls. Searching. I was NPO, but I took money from my wristlet and bought chips, Red Bull and mints from the vending machine. I ate while staring out the window in the ‘hub’ of the floor I was on. For some reason, I didn’t try to take the elevator or the stairs. I was told the next morning that I pulled my IV machine behind me, and doing so I tore the vein. Before my drainage the next day, I had to get a new IV put in.
At 4am, the surgeon came in and I was a little surprised to see it was my friend from years ago. He joked with me that they were going to have to shave my head. We went through some physical exercises and I guess I passed. He told me I would be awake during the drainages and he would ask me questions. I tried to smile and asked for a cheat sheet. It turns out that because he recognised me, he called my husband. At this point, after my drainage, my family had no idea what had happened to me. I had gone to school on Thursday morning and never returned. The police refused to take a missing person’s report because I was over 18 and three days had not passed. I was awake during the drainages. I remember my friend asked me who was president and I accidentally said “Osama”. Ooopsie.
By 6:30pm, I had been fed a strange meal of a melted banana popsicle, a tiny can of Sierra Mist, and iced tea that the sugar wouldn’t mix into, so it was a bitter cup. I was given more morphine. Sean came in and cleaned my wounds, yanked off my bandages, and told me to ‘stay off the roads’. A few minutes later, my real husband came in and I was flooded with the memories of the last six years. I was happy, suddenly. I knew everything would be ok. We hugged and cried, and hugged and he asked me what happened, and I told him as best as I could. I had another MRI on my brain, more morphine, more vomiting, more Valium, and then I was discharged. My head injuries were somewhat serious; my blue eyes turned brown from the dilation of my pupils.
I have pictures and a video of some of the things that happened. There is one of my breast injuries, but it’s PG.
My car is permanently totaled. I’ll never get another one, by personal choice. I loved that car. I brought my boys home in it. I went to school in it. It was my first own car.
Close up picture. You can see where the steering wheel exploded:
Injuries to my arm:
Breast injury after the steering wheel piece was removed:
My IV after tugging it around all night:
They covered it:
The view from my room, late at night:
The IV bag:
More injuries to my IV site:
My bed had a trapeze above it!
IV attempts and blood draws:
Blood sugar sticks:
New IV bag.
A long way to go:
Window view during the day:
My hand was in this position for 24 hours after my brain drain:
The nurses’ station from my room:
All that I got:
The city as I’m going home:
Breast injuries, yesterday and today:
The video is in my journal. Add me there to see it.
Hm. I come back from one of my close friends’ funerals to find my husband is a cherry-KoolAid-red-head. Again.
Oh, and I had another low blood sugar on the ride home from the airport. I searched for one of my Tootsie Pops in the car, and guess what? They were all gone. It’s so nice to know that the valet who parked my car helped himself to my diabetic emergency candy. And yes, it was in a bag marked “diabetic emergency candy–do not eat!” I knew I should have slapped a couple of my radiation stickers on that bag. Hopefully, that will be the last low blood sugar I’ll have.
I’m fine now. Thanks for wondering.
I got the results of my blood test back. I should probably stop drinking so much and stop taking the Lovastatin. My enzymes are dangerously high. High to the point where the nurse who called said that I was ‘likely in the early stages of liver failure’. However, my doctor is persistent on me staying on all my current medications. He’s still threatening me that if I do not test positive for these medications, he will see to it that I am committed to a mental facility that will make sure that I am taking the medications.
I don’t know what I am going to do at this point. Part of me wants to cry, another part of me wants to strangle the idiot. Then there’s a tiny part of me that wants to find another doctor, one with some common sense: If I’m dying of a common side effect from one of my medications, isn’t it a good idea to stop taking said medication?
My husband and I have a check that will pay almost half of the insane phone bill that we got today. The problem is the bank that we used to go to keeps telling us that there’s this and that wrong with the check. Today they flat out told us that they weren’t going to cash it. We have to go to the bank that issued the check to cash it. Ooookay. See, that bothers me. I wonder if they’re going to take a percentage of the money because we don’t have an account with that bank? They shouldn’t, but they might. We weren’t even going to pay on the bill until tomorrow, but it’s the idea that we have a check here for over $1000 and can’t get the money.
In the mean time, Dennis did something stupid this morning. He took my meds. Just to see if he’d have a low blood sugar, and guess what? He didn’t. I tried to explain to him that he wouldn’t have a low blood sugar because he truly is a diabetic. The medicine stimulates the pancreas to make more insulin, and since mine is making plenty, when it’s stimulated, it makes extra. So I have a low blood sugar. The readings I’ve been getting are insanely low. I’m teetering on comatose every time it happens. It’s scary. I lose awareness. I feel as though I am drifting away, yet I feel heavy at the same time. I researched it a little, and that’s a sign that my kidneys are shutting down due to the extremely low blood sugar levels. I don’t have any symptoms until the levels have been so low for so long that it is effecting my kidneys. In other words, if this happens at night, and I’ve stopped eating so late at night, I might not wake up. I tried to call my doctor about this, but the woman at the desk said that he ‘was busy’ and ‘would get back to me’ if ‘time allowed’. What ever. I’m sick of that clinic. I wish there were more local doctors who took patients who paid their bill on time yet didn’t have insurance. My current doctor says he can only release my medical records to a new physician, not my financial records. Bastard.
Chloe has been acting strange lately. She ran to the door yesterday when I attempted to cash my check, and I really didn’t want to take her with me because she acts so badly in public sometimes. She was quite good yesterday. I was surprised that she wanted to go somewhere with me and not her daddy. She loves him far more than she does me, and I don’t know why that is. Probably because he took her home after she was born and I had to stay in the hospital for a few weeks to heal up and get over the staph infections that I had. They bonded almost instantly.
Tomorrow is my older brother-in-law’s birthday. He’s ten years older than Dennis. We’re all supposed to go out to eat and then maybe a movie. My brother-in-law still drinks like a fish, so I don’t want to really be with him with Dennis there. The temptation might be too strong. I trust that Dennis won’t go and get drunk tomorrow, but you never know when things might change. Of course his brother still has a thing for me. He constantly asks me why I married his brother instead of him, and he gets hateful with me when I tell him that I won’t leave Dennis for him. I almost dread this time of year because he hits on me constantly. This year is worse than the last eight years because he’s no longer with his girlfriend. She was abusive to him, but that’s no excuse to try and break up his little brother’s relationship. Maybe tomorrow will be a sick day for me.
I went and seen my idiotic doctor today. He flat out called me a liar about the low blood sugars. Apparently, a blood glucose level of 38-42 is not “low” and “normal people” have blood sugars around 20. Riiiight.
He also informed me that I was ‘fat’. To which I replied, in Bruce’s voice, “Oh no! When did that happen?” He didn’t catch my sarcasm.
Can I quit now?
currently viewing: %%range%%