FA+
Shop
No Subject
Posted 9 years ago"The real lover of cats is one who demands a clearer adjustment to the universe than ordinary household platitudes provide; one who refuses to swallow the sentimental notion that all good people love dogs, children, and horses while all bad people dislike and are disliked by such."
--H. P. Lovecraft
--H. P. Lovecraft
Six Years Ago ...
Posted 9 years ago... I almost died. Some think that when I say this, I'm telling a tall tale, or perhaps falling into exaggeration at the least. But on the day I was admitted to the hospital and prepped for emergency surgery, I had 48 hours to live.
I looked terrible. My neck had swollen up to the size of my head. The right part of my face was numb. I was so messed up at the time I thought it was the left side. I was in so much pain that the specialist doctor, who had seen me for about 5 minutes that morning, shot me full of drugs and strapped me to a gurney.
I still don't remember several days leading up to my hospitalization. My regular doctor had prescribed me oxycodone and xanax to get through the weekend before my appointment with the specialist. And my memory of the 48 hours that followed surgery is still vague.
For someone who gets a panic attack when their blood is drawn, 7 full days in the hospital with an IV in my arm was living nightmare. The nurses were my saviors, but the doctors were the worst. The surgeon went on vacation immediately after working on me. And the bastard doctor he left in charge wouldn't tell me what had happened, if I was going to get better, or any other question regarding my care.
Finally, I had to threaten to get out of bed, wearing my gown, and carry my IV stand across the street and see the doctor in his office if wouldn't come to me. A few hours later he appeared in my room with a belligerent attitude. "Why are you bothering me?" I pulled together every last bit of sanity and strength and tore him a new one. I'm still left wondering at what point doctors loose their sense of empathy and compassion.
At the end of the week (Sunday), I was discharged. Unfortunately, during the week I was there, my backpack with my clothes and belongings had been lost. I was lucky that my wallet and keys had been put in a separate lock box. I waited around for hours while nurses and staffers looked for my backpack. One nurse was kind enough to fish some clothes out of a donation bin for me to wear.
While I sat there, in a stranger's clothes meant for the homeless, the three drainage holes in my neck covered with pads and my head wrapped in gauze to keep them in place, still in pain, I also waited for two friends of mine to pick me up. Due to some miscommunication (which I am still mystified by), said friends were instead picking up supplies for Burning Man and their ETA was unknown.
Around 4pm I decided I had spent enough time in that hospital. I belted up the pants that were eight inches too big for my now 30" waist (I had lost around 20-25 lbs. during that week). I gathered as much of my stuff (including a small clinic's worth of supplies to care for my wounds) as I could in two paper shopping bags, sadly leaving behind flowers and few other things. I went to the lobby and bought a ridiculously big sun hat to cover some of the bandaging. I walked out the front door and to the nearest bus stop. Looking like your average SF transient, I rode the bus and walked about 8 blocks home.
My apartment looked as though a family of squirrels or possums had been staying there. The dirty dishes and cat mess from the weeks prior to hospitalization were now disgusting. Still dizzy, sweating, feverish, and wiped from the short journey home, I cleaned the apartment as best as I could.
Needing to fill prescriptions for vital meds and buy some food for my empty kitchen, I walked down to the nearest Walgreens. There I found a family dejectedly waiting for their prescriptions -- a sick toddler, an exhausted mother, and a father, wearing a FedEx vest, checking his phone every few minutes. I went in and out of consciousness several times. I looked at the clock and saw it had been 15 minutes. The miserable family and I were the only customers, and three post-college age girls stood idly behind the counter giggling and chatting.
I turned to the family and told them not to be scared, but that I would get them their prescription. The mother looked at me confused. I walked up to the counter and using my best authoritarian/father voice said, "What the hell is wrong with you three?! Don't you see that these people (motioning to family) have been waiting a long time?! And does this (motioning to my head wrapped in gauze) look comfortable?!" We had our prescription in less than 5 minutes.
Recovery was difficult but I did get better every day. The hardest thing to deal with (even worse than getting a drug-resistant strain of staph) were the nightmares that came every night. For at least a week I woke up screaming and sweating in the middle of the night. There are some nights now when I have those dreams, but mostly they're gone.
My entire life was changed by that experience. I'm still the mostly self-centered person that everyone thinks they know. But I learned a lot about myself and the world around me. On the downside, it's almost impossible for me to trust anyone. I'm skeptical of the motives of most people. And now I assume that most individuals only care about themselves.
On the good side, I figured out which friends I could truly depend upon. And now, I no longer give a fuck about much of anything. When I see bullshit, I call it out. When people lie or are less than honest, I call it out. When people try to screw with me or blame me for their problems, I tell them to fuck off. I'm not trying to be mean (even tho it usually comes off that way), but I'm done dealing with other people's crap. If I can pull myself through death and the worst time in my life, then others can deal with being honest.
So what's the point in writing this? It's time to open up about this experience. Many who knew me then don't know anything about this. And those who do only have parts of the story. I've never told it all like this, because no one ever asked. Perhaps that's my fault too. I don't like to make a big deal about it, because the memories still hurt. And I'm not trying to make anyone feel bad. I guess I'm ready to share and open up, but afraid of being shut down by the emotions of others.
I looked terrible. My neck had swollen up to the size of my head. The right part of my face was numb. I was so messed up at the time I thought it was the left side. I was in so much pain that the specialist doctor, who had seen me for about 5 minutes that morning, shot me full of drugs and strapped me to a gurney.
I still don't remember several days leading up to my hospitalization. My regular doctor had prescribed me oxycodone and xanax to get through the weekend before my appointment with the specialist. And my memory of the 48 hours that followed surgery is still vague.
For someone who gets a panic attack when their blood is drawn, 7 full days in the hospital with an IV in my arm was living nightmare. The nurses were my saviors, but the doctors were the worst. The surgeon went on vacation immediately after working on me. And the bastard doctor he left in charge wouldn't tell me what had happened, if I was going to get better, or any other question regarding my care.
Finally, I had to threaten to get out of bed, wearing my gown, and carry my IV stand across the street and see the doctor in his office if wouldn't come to me. A few hours later he appeared in my room with a belligerent attitude. "Why are you bothering me?" I pulled together every last bit of sanity and strength and tore him a new one. I'm still left wondering at what point doctors loose their sense of empathy and compassion.
At the end of the week (Sunday), I was discharged. Unfortunately, during the week I was there, my backpack with my clothes and belongings had been lost. I was lucky that my wallet and keys had been put in a separate lock box. I waited around for hours while nurses and staffers looked for my backpack. One nurse was kind enough to fish some clothes out of a donation bin for me to wear.
While I sat there, in a stranger's clothes meant for the homeless, the three drainage holes in my neck covered with pads and my head wrapped in gauze to keep them in place, still in pain, I also waited for two friends of mine to pick me up. Due to some miscommunication (which I am still mystified by), said friends were instead picking up supplies for Burning Man and their ETA was unknown.
Around 4pm I decided I had spent enough time in that hospital. I belted up the pants that were eight inches too big for my now 30" waist (I had lost around 20-25 lbs. during that week). I gathered as much of my stuff (including a small clinic's worth of supplies to care for my wounds) as I could in two paper shopping bags, sadly leaving behind flowers and few other things. I went to the lobby and bought a ridiculously big sun hat to cover some of the bandaging. I walked out the front door and to the nearest bus stop. Looking like your average SF transient, I rode the bus and walked about 8 blocks home.
My apartment looked as though a family of squirrels or possums had been staying there. The dirty dishes and cat mess from the weeks prior to hospitalization were now disgusting. Still dizzy, sweating, feverish, and wiped from the short journey home, I cleaned the apartment as best as I could.
Needing to fill prescriptions for vital meds and buy some food for my empty kitchen, I walked down to the nearest Walgreens. There I found a family dejectedly waiting for their prescriptions -- a sick toddler, an exhausted mother, and a father, wearing a FedEx vest, checking his phone every few minutes. I went in and out of consciousness several times. I looked at the clock and saw it had been 15 minutes. The miserable family and I were the only customers, and three post-college age girls stood idly behind the counter giggling and chatting.
I turned to the family and told them not to be scared, but that I would get them their prescription. The mother looked at me confused. I walked up to the counter and using my best authoritarian/father voice said, "What the hell is wrong with you three?! Don't you see that these people (motioning to family) have been waiting a long time?! And does this (motioning to my head wrapped in gauze) look comfortable?!" We had our prescription in less than 5 minutes.
Recovery was difficult but I did get better every day. The hardest thing to deal with (even worse than getting a drug-resistant strain of staph) were the nightmares that came every night. For at least a week I woke up screaming and sweating in the middle of the night. There are some nights now when I have those dreams, but mostly they're gone.
My entire life was changed by that experience. I'm still the mostly self-centered person that everyone thinks they know. But I learned a lot about myself and the world around me. On the downside, it's almost impossible for me to trust anyone. I'm skeptical of the motives of most people. And now I assume that most individuals only care about themselves.
On the good side, I figured out which friends I could truly depend upon. And now, I no longer give a fuck about much of anything. When I see bullshit, I call it out. When people lie or are less than honest, I call it out. When people try to screw with me or blame me for their problems, I tell them to fuck off. I'm not trying to be mean (even tho it usually comes off that way), but I'm done dealing with other people's crap. If I can pull myself through death and the worst time in my life, then others can deal with being honest.
So what's the point in writing this? It's time to open up about this experience. Many who knew me then don't know anything about this. And those who do only have parts of the story. I've never told it all like this, because no one ever asked. Perhaps that's my fault too. I don't like to make a big deal about it, because the memories still hurt. And I'm not trying to make anyone feel bad. I guess I'm ready to share and open up, but afraid of being shut down by the emotions of others.
No Subject
Posted 9 years agofinally back into my account. so many many pics in my queue it's bursting all over my face. <licks>
Going to FurCon!
Posted 10 years agoIf anyone is interested, I'll be at Further Confusion in San Jose next weekend (1/15-1/17). This is my first con in over 10 years! I'd love to meet some people and make some new friends. Are you coming? Let me know...
