Thursday, February 2, 2012

Everyone I Know Goes Away in the End...

It's 10:40 at night and I'm lying in bed in Resurrection hospital, watching an inpatient channel, a show on the 40 yr old BABY BOOMER WOMAN's body changes. I may be turning 40 in a few months, and I'm certainly no spring chicken, but a Boomer, I'm NOT. I have body piercings for Christ's sake!

I think I've been here since Tuesday morning, when my mom says I was "unresponsive" and she had a gaggle of beefy Park Ridge paramedics hoist me to the hospital in the way only they can and not mess up anything in my room. She didn't know if I was in a diabetic coma, if I OD'd, what the fuck happened to me. I did NOT want to come here. Coming to the hospital was made to feel like punishment; in fact, it was called as much when I asked my mom to bring my laptop and psychology book for school. "No, you're being punished. You just sit there." 'Cause that's real fuckin' productive, Ma.

Amidst the infectious disease specialists (fever? elevated white count? chills? elevated blood sugar? unable to rouse? You must have a virus. Bye!), the shrink who everyone hates because he never calls anyone back, his nurse practitioner who I snowed in intelligence in about 5 minutes (it sure sounds to me like you OD'd!"and I'm like "Duh, my tox screen was clear!"), the fruity neurologist ("She wears an earring, just not on her ear, it on her eyebrow! And she needs an MRI. and we all in unison, the nurse on the phone and I say "TAPE IT DOWN!") , everybody's had a fucking opinion about what's wrong with me, and NO ONE KNOWS.

Ma even summoned the Pastor, for surely there were evil addicted demons inside me that had to be exorcised. God bless her, she tried everything. Pastor Dave had some words of comfort but i was more interested in hearing if he had a functioning car that would get me the hell out of there.

At least the most humorous, if not the most productive visit was by way of TOC, who at least made me smile, and made an honest and fervent offer to go to my house and get my laptop from the clutches of my mom who refused to give it over. I've got homework to do, professors to email, blogs to write!! Shittttt. He said she'd let me back in the house sometime after the new bathroom was done being installed, which at this point is close to never, so we'll see about that. If I had shoes, or a coat, I'd probably sign out AMA, and walk home. I'd stop at Walgreens for some fucking cigarettes first but by golly I'd get home.

I received very beautiful roses from Kate and Tim yesterday.Yellow roses. They're already starting to open up.

I've deduced that the reason I can't sleep for shit is that I don't have my Curious George. I have nothing to clutch in my arms, in the crook of my neck, when I sleep, and it's causing me to wake up at 1, 3, 4, 5 and 7 am, usually when they're bothering me to do something anyway but still. I MISS GEORGE. I should've sent TOC home to my house to get George in addition to my fucking laptop and homework.

Fast forward to 6:25 am on...Thursday, I think. I'm still running a fever on/off and am presently sweaty with horrible chills. Meh, I don't really care. They were kind enough to give me 625 mg of Tylenol instead of my pain pills w/APAP in them, so we'll see if they work.

Anyway, I hate this day. This is the day Dad died here in this hospital with TOC's dad pronouncing him dead, and here I lie, with nobody having a fucking clue as to what's wrong with me, but goddamnit, I want to get out of here today, if for no other reason than to have like 3/4 of a pack of cigarettes in my dad's honor. Because that's healthy. Well, at least I ain't drinking, so cut me some goddamn slack.

I'm sure I'll have more to say as the day progresses, but now at least my blog stalker can know we're in the same building! If she looks at my records on the hospital computer, I'll have a shitfit. Which goes along nicely given the US Senate Sergeant at Arms checked out my page a couple days ago, Lord only knows why. What the hell does the Senate want with an apolitical apathetic anarchist? I get the craziest motherfuckers following me around on here, like worse than Arlene. As long as I have the US Senate's attention: Be kind to struggling single moms, I vote Democratic, thanks for the Medicaid and give Obama another chance.

Stosh came by and ordered a 5 hour glucose tolerance test on me today, after which he thinks I may be able to go home. He said it's unlikely the paramedics were wrong in their sugar count of me at my house, I have all these crazy sugar issues w/passing out from hypoglycemia, let's see what happens with a massive sugar rush for the whole fucking day. He said today's the 1st day I haven't had a fever, my blood tests are all coming back more normal, and despite the fact I slept like shit and am freezing and want to doze off uncontrollably.

So pray I get to go home after all this happy hoohah is done today and that the fever stays away.

Well, Pastor made another appearance, remarking how hot it is in my room. I have the thermostat set to 80 and I'm freezing. Hello, drug and nicotine withdrawal (I should've asked for a patch). I can't wait to get home and work through getting over my junk with OTC things that I know work, and my benzos, and lots of Immodium, and smokes, because right now I'm pretty fucking miserable. At least Pastor didn't come during the Hindu Indian Ragas portion of my Pandora rotation.

The MRI is back and there's some if not bad, disconcerting news on it. I have 3 areas on my brain, 2 on the left and one on the right, that aren't getting any blood flow. Call me coconuts, but that can't be good. Even the faggoty but decent neurologist was worried about that, saying that I need a spinal tap asap. I told him bluntly that there was no fucking way he was doing it today, and that I was going home today. Period. Plus, it was inconvenient to the neurologist to disturb the spinal tap by having to have my blood drawn once an hour for the glucose test. I need to fucking deal with the grief of it being Dad's day, and work through the junk and get closer to taking an actual shower at home. The neuro thinks I either have cerebral vasculitis or multiple sclerosis, hence the need for the spinal tap.

Perfect Pandora Send off for this juncture of the morning: Eric Clapton's "Cocaine." No, I'm not, never have been, and don't plan on being on cocaine, but a song about narcotics only seemed apropos. Again, no opiates were found in my blood or urine when I got to the ER. I was clean except for the benzos I take to sleep and chill.

She don't lie, she don't lie, she don't lie...

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