Life After Divorce











{March 18, 2009}   Welcome to the Hotel California…

As Heckle and Jeckle rolled me into the ER, I was still really anxious.  Not just from the massive anxiety attacks, and not just because I hadn’t really eaten anything in 5 days.  But because there is always that moment when you are afraid to tell anyone that you are anxious because they might dismiss it… or tell you that you are crazy… or worse… tell you that you should go see a shrink and that there isn’t anything wrong with you.  And that is the worst thing you can hear at a time like that.

I was transferred onto a bed in the ER and listened to the EMTs relay my vitals (incorrectly, I might add) to the nurse when my mom and Lori wandered in.  I was losing track of time, somewhat, but was surprised they were already there.  Not too surprised, as the Stooges got lost on the way to the hospital [dramatic eye roll].  But as they begin to hook me up to machines that dripped and beeped, I was begging for something to take away the disco.  I don’t really know how long it took them to give me something, but I am pretty sure I was mostly unconscious within moments.  I kept fading in and out and would hear the strangest things…

No one told me she was diabetic!  I don’t know anything about that! [Mom – we have had this conversation MANY times.]

… and us whiteys always get the shaft [groan… let me not hear more of this conversation]

I am going to spank that crying kid!  That crying kid is the patient… in the ER… I am going to spank him anyway! [double groan]

And apparently, through it all… I am told that I was actually unconscious AND arguing with people.  With gusto.  Interesting!  I remember coming to right about the time my mother, for the thousandth time, was for some reason butchering the last name of a friend of my brother’s.  I can’t imagine how on Earth he came into conversation, but I hissed out the appropriate pronunciation – “HE-BERT… not A-Bear.”  About that time I noticed that I was no longer alone with my mother and Lori.  I noticed that my Aunt Mary was sitting directly in front of me.  That was unexpected, but explained the spanking comments [giggle], and to my right… my dad.  After a blood test or 12 (again… no idea) and a chest x-ray… I heard the words I had been waiting to hear:

Ok, we are going to admit her.  We are just waiting for a room to open up.

A choir of angels began singing softly in my head.  Oh, Thank God!  This is when I get better!!  Right?

I was finally taken upstairs to my own room around 8 pm.  Lori had left to go care for her daughter.  Dad and Mary left… somewhere.  I was so exhausted… I asked for some more panic medication… it kept the nausea at bay long enough for me to pass out for the night.  I slept hard.  It hardly bothered me when nurses and techs would come in all night long.  I don’t know if someone called Steve or not… He was mentioned several times while I was unconscious, as I recall, but the general consensus was they would rather poke themselves in the eyes with red hot pokers than expose me to him while I was doing so very poorly.  (See previous posts for why)  I didn’t care.  I didn’t want him there either.  They knew that well enough… as I was too tired to poke out my own eyes at that point.

Monday… sitting… sleeping… vomiting…

Tuesday… sitting… sleeping…

Wednesday… massive party at the disco.  I had a male nurse this day for the first time, and my assessment of him was that he was incompetent  a typical malea douche bag.  I was ridiculously anxious and began vomiting relentlessly.  I begged repeatedly for something to help me out.  After several hours… I was laying face down on my bed willing away the anxiety.  Quietly.  Miserably.  The douchebag comes in and asks me something.  I don’t remember what.  I said, “I am having SEVERE anxiety.  Can you PLEASE help me.”

DB: I have seen people with anxiety.  You look pretty calm to me.

Me: It is a facade.  I am attempting to keep myself from running down the halls screaming.

DB: [Mumble]

Me: I hate you.

Shortly thereafter, I saw a familiar face.  The GI doc from my last trip to the hospital a year earlier appeared.  I told him it was happening again and that I was in agony.  He immediately doubled my Lexapro dosage and ordered a CAT scan.  DB nurse came back in after the doctor left, right about the time my mom showed up after work.  He came in with two giant cups of barium flavored ass lemonade for me to drink within an hour.  I remembered this from before, of course… but as I was still throwing up violently, I had no idea how I would possibly get it down and keep it down.  Mom sympathized, but DB nurse whips out some dog tags he is wearing around his neck, regaled me with some story about his dad storming the beach at Normandy, and then basically told me to suck it up.

When he left the room… I thought my mom was going to come unglued.  I was glad that I wasn’t the only one noticing his douchebaggery.  I ended up drinking every drop of that vile concoction… and keeping it down.  As I was wheeled into the CAT Scan room, the tech asked me if I managed to keep any of it down.  “All of it.  Why?  Was it an option to just have a little??”  Fuckers.  I will spare you the details of this procedure… you can experience that fresh hell on your own [shudder].

Thursday, the doc came back and said he thought my lap band had slipped, but other than that, everything looked fine.  Uh, genius… a slipped lap band is a VERY big deal.  Sadness… pain… fear.  And that was BEFORE he showed up.  I don’t know how he finally got wind of my situation, but there he was.  Sauntering into the room like he belonged there.  With a new apartment lease in hand.

I just wanted him to leave.  But, he stayed for hours.  I tried to feign sleepy, but it didn’t work.  He was pleasant enough, but I was uncomfortable.  I didn’t want the cause of my anxiety infringing on the sanctuary of my private room.  He kept hinting for me to sign that lease.  The lease I promised to sign so that he wouldn’t become homeless.  The lease that he was using as a life preserver to cling to our dying relationship.  I hated that lease.  I was annoyed.  I told him a wise person once told me never to sign anything in a hospital.  I also told him it was time for him to go.  So he did.

Friday… another procedure.  This time, a camera going down my throat.  Oh joy.  They decided that I was well enough that afternoon to go home.  By this time, I just wanted to be anywhere but that bed.  I was keeping down “food” (if you can call it that… it is a hospital, after all), so they thought that was ok.  They also tried to convince me that I was an Insulin-dependent diabetic and sent me home with insulin and needles.  Uh… that is new… and doesn’t make sense.

After a LONG trip to Walmart and some dinner, I settled in at Mom’s house.  And amazingly enough…

I began to hear the music.  The lights dimmed.  The disco ball dropped.  And I was twirling out of control. 

Again.

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fancylori says:

I LOVE strikethroughs!!!

And I’m laughing at myself again because I literally gasped OUT LOUD when I read the part about him walking into the hospital room with the apartment lease. Wooooow. It was like being punched in the stomach. Even though I already knew it had happened…



jrzybeth says:

fantastic. nothing like a good dose of snark first thing in the morning along with a cup of coffee. douchebaggery is a nice touch.



Eileen says:

mmmm…. gotta love it when the staff forgets why they’re there in the first place…



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