And what do they want from us?
Seriously. What is the point?
I was told this by a family member.
Yet, August 13, there I was. In the Urgent Care of the same hospital where I had had a partial colectomy a week prior. I was there because of a 102.5 fever and vaguely feeling unwell. (My gut said, “Something is wrong here,” and I listened.) I was met by my surgeon so fast the attending hadn’t seen me yet.
After my ninth CT with contrast, the words came out of the attending doc. “Two PEs.” Even my dilaudid (narcotic) cloudy mind got it: Pulmonary Embolisms. In. My. Lungs. “We are admitting you.”
When did the hatred for my physical self start?
In the shower this morning, a month post-colectomy, I dug deep into the question. My recovery has been rougher than I “planned” (don’t ever plan a medical recovery because it is a fluid thing). I have lost a lot of weight and don’t recognize myself. I get zaps and twinges of pain, bouts of nausea, headaches… And am trying to be less if an impatient patient. My mind is foggy. My physical body weak.
It’s the day before my birthday and I’m not in a great place. August was a challenge and I crumbled.
Trying to see the end of this tunnel and have faith, and trying to get to normal, but my body has been permanently changed and is slow to adapt.
I breathe deep and anxiety fills me up. I struggle to break out. Every little pain or strange new feeling in my body freaks me. Down the rabbit hole I go. After two complications it HAS to be another.
My husband has been my rock. He has to be sick of this whiny, scared, impatient woman because I am and I can’t get rid of her.
My regular doc yesterday told me that if she had been through what I have in the last month, she’d need a Xanax script too.
Pulmonary embolism. Blood thinners. Seriously.
So I’m skipping my birthday. I can’t drink or eat cake so I’m in denial.
September. WILL be better. I will force it into submission.