OK, I have about five minutes before the Percocet kicks in and knocks me out, but I want to thank everyone for the bounty of love flowin’ my way during my recent plague illness.
My appendix went sour. Not a huge procedure, I’m told, but for the two days it took INOVA to diagnose it — all the while saying, “No, it’s not that.” — it ended up turning gangorous while they pussyfooted around. After arriving there Saturday in the wee hours, I suffered in pain for a few days in the ER. I finally begged them for one more CT Scan on Monday, which they told me flat-out that they were doing to humor me. Well, whoda thunk it, my appendix was leaking poison. Oh, and the nearby ovary is cystic, too, but that’s to be handled another day.
At any rate, the appendix was ripped out post-haste, and I was put into a room with the first of two of the most offensive women on the planet. I don’t know why they would think that I would be comfortable — being 29 and healthy — in a room with 100-year-olds who poop themselves every hour and who snore like buzzsaws (the second one sounded like she was contantly digesting small children). Not to mention — and this is the WORST — both of these bitches kept knocking their IVs loose every five minutes. Every five fucking minutes! I think the nurses closed the door to my room so they wouldn’t have to hear the seven hour beeping shifts.
I had two nervous breakdowns while I was in there. I did. I told them nobody could get better in a hospital. I was on oxygen yet had to smell shit and air freshener through my mask, and on top of that, because I was the only patient under 70, I was the only one required to do for myself. After my operation, I had to crawl into my own bed. When I wanted to go to the bathroom, I had to get myself out of and into bed. If I called for help with unplugging my fucking IV, I was told to just move the dresser and get it myself.
The only good thing is that, while I strained myself beyond repair, I got real used to scooting around — so that I could sign my walking papers and scoot the fuck out of there yesterday.
I awoke yesterday with my usual 105-degree fever, but I was sicker than before. I couldn’t move. My oxygen level wasn’t even at 90 (it’s supposed to be 97 or above). I wanted to die. I asked them to kill me. I said if they didn’t put me in another room, I would rather die than spend another fucking day with that snarfalicious beast next to me — they pampered her miserable ass and had no problem with her screaming morning, noon and night, but god for fucking bid they help me.
As if my luck weren’t bad enough, my damn menses started yesterday. I just finished my regular cycle more than a week ago, but from all the meds, it kicked back up again. So when it took me my usual hour to get out of bed, I called the nurse and told her I had bled all over the bed. (I like to call this nurse Carribbean Jerk, for her nasty Carribbean accent and attitude — I’ve always had bitter relationships with the Island girls.) So she stuck her hands down my ass and declared that it wasn’t my period (mind you, the ass was real sore from scooting around unassisted for four days). I said well, it has to be something. So she stuck her hands in my crotch and found that yes, in fact, I was sopping. So I asked for a pair of underwear and something to catch the blood. She glared at me (her usual greeting) and said, “Why don’t you have extra underwear?”
For the reader, what you don’t know is that I drove myself there in so much pain that I couldn’t exactly pack a vacation suitcase. I’m lucky I didn’t wreck the fucking car. And my friends and I knew what I had, long before I had it. And as good as my friends are, I wasn’t askin’ them to go get me skivvies, especially with my abdomen being all distended anyway.
And not to mention, I told the girl repeatedly, “Because I don’t. I didn’t bring any. I haven’t had visitors since I got here. Please find me something.”
So I stood at my bedside for an hour. Yes, an hour. She finally emerged with mesh panties from the OB ward and some pads. She seemed to have no problem with me standing there, woozy and dazed and bleeding down my fucking legs. Not to mention, but there was tons of stuff on the floor (medical equipment) for days, but nobody would ever move it, so I had to always lift my IV station over it so I could get to the bathroom. They are so lucky I never tripped.
*sigh*
Well, I’m home now. I signed myself out because if I was going to die, I wanted to do it at home.
And I’m better here. There, I had to beg for everything — pain pills (which I got when they felt like it, and I asked every four hours), food (the surgeon had no clue why I wasn’t eating there — um, nobody would give me food?). Here, I’m comfy. I’m with Maddie. I’ve shipped Kadi off to live with Bryan and Paul for awhile (Maddie is thrilled!).
Yeah, there’s a story. I have this bag of poison attached to my incision — it collects all the bad stuff going on in my tissues and holds it outside my body. I have to wear it till Monday. It looks like a thermos of Hawaiian punch.
I knew that Kadi was going to attack it. And sure enough, the second Bryan got me in the door, the cat ran up to me and lunged for my waist. I screamed and cried for at least an hour. It’s not that it even hurt — I was such a wreck from my adventure that this stupid little cat set me off in such a way.
I needed to see Maddie. I found her quickly — before I had left the house, I had grabbed a pair of oversize sleep pants from a storage tub in my room. When I came back, Maddie was in the tub, snoozing in some of my other jammies. She was so cute. She looks like she’s lost a few pounds, but she was so thrilled to see me. That, and when the boys hauled Kadi away, Maddie was locking the door behind them! 😉
One last story, and I must retire to the couch:
One of my co-workers, Deb, came to see me yesterday, just as I’d signed my release papers. I’d called my mom and at that precise moment, snarfalicious in the next bed decided to shit herself. Mom told me to go outside, now that my machines were unhooked. So I got up and inched down the hall, where I ran into Deb, who had flowers from her and a card from everyone at work. (She was stunned that I was leaving — I really did look like the angel of death.)
At that point, Shawn and Bryan showed up to collect my loot and haul me home, so they all took my stuff downstairs. Caribbean Jerk did NOT arrange for me to be taken out of the hospital, so I had to walk the whole way myself. So, I was pretty exhausted when I got to the car. Well, here’s the fun part — the car battery was DEAD.
I almost collapsed from the heat and the excitement. Shawn was trying so hard to be my knight in a shining Tiburon, but with the battery dead, well, I couldn’t go anywhere. So I asked him to call Deb and have her take me home, which she did. She jumped Shawn’s car and went to get me my drugs. She also bought me a wonderful bounty of soft foods to get me started during my convalescence at home. 🙂 Mmm — I so need a refill on the pudding and juice already! She knows how to shop for a sick kid!
I have more stories to tell, of course (and they ain’t pretty), but these are a few.
Leslie, confidential to you — greetings from Alexandria! (*wink wink nudge nudge* — e-mail if you’re lost!)
OK, it’s almost time for my Cipro. If I haven’t returned your VMs, I apologize — this is the longest I have committed myself to anything other than lying on my back and moaning (and not like in one of my previous entries! Sheesh! What a difference a day DOES make!).
Thanks to everyone who visited me in the inferno hospital! (And for not throwing up at seeing me rotting in my own filth — I was not fit for presentation!) I didn’t make this voyage public, so it was wonderful that the few who knew, made sure to be there for me. I also had two surprise guests whom I never expected to see (right as I awoke in the recovery room), but who made all the difference. As did they all. 🙂
Love yas.
