2003-01-27 - 11:37 a.m.
Back now.
So, where was I? Right. I was moved to Med/Surg and my husband had forgotten to contact my father.
For the next 2 1/2 days I watched too much TV and tried to find new ways to sit in a hospital bed. My mom, my savior, brought me clean underware, sweats, and a GAWD AWFUL green tie-dye t-shirt. But it beat the hell out of the hospital gown. I actually got to take a shower and was aware enough to be bored. I kept asking when I was going to be sent home and they kept saying tomorrow. For 2 1/2 days. That may not seem like a long time to you but if you only have Law & Order to keep you sane and the shameful realization that you have bedsores is no longer deniable ... you want the fuck out. Plus they were fucking up my diet, but I didn't know that until later.
Finally they did let me out. They had been fiddling with my insulin dosage until I tested 126 and then they let me go home. I don't remember what I did, besides call my best friend and CHANGE, or even how I felt besides off balance. It was actually the feeling of soaring blood sugar, as I came to realize later. They had given me a diet with 9 servings of starches per day it in and I was testing in the 390's every morning for a week! But I was afraid to move, afraid to leave the house, afraid to eat, afraid to cook or bake. Everything that I knew made me happy was terrifying. But I'm getting over it. One of these days I may even use my Kitchen Aid again.
I wouldn't deal with how serious my condition was for a long time. I couldn't look my mom in the face. The farmiliar discomfort was back between me and my dad because I didn't know what to do with his fear. But I finally talked about it with my best friend. I finally admitted that I knew how bad it was because of how scared everyone else was. How the last thing I ever wanted to do was have my loved ones watch me in pain. How I don't even know if I could have stood him to be there because I was so weak. How I was so out of control of the situation. How that was the week "the wife" died. How, upon consideration, I really find the reality in which I didn't wake up unacceptable.
And I realized that people love me. Him, my mom, my dad, my step-dad. They (and many more) people love me very much and would have been very sad if I'd gone. That, no matter what I wanted, they would have been there with me through all of it. They would have, collectivly and individually, stomped on anyone who got in my way. Even, and especially, my husband. That makes me smile. And all I can do is reciprocate. This makes moving to Portland difficult. But I still have to because what I realized, sitting on my plastic, bendy, icky hospital bed, is I just don't have time to fuck around with shit that doesn't make me happy. Neither people, nor places, nor things. There just aren't enough hours in the day nor dollars in the world for that kind of life.
Yes, I am working at a job that I hate. But my life has forward momentum again and I am not going to lose that for anything because I still have to face those numbers every morning. Everytime I get heartburn I do a little diagnostic check of myself to see if I need a shot. Everytime I splurge and have a cookie, or pizza crust, or a truffle I also make sure I have my insulin and that the person with me knows what's going on.
I don't want to live like this. I hate the thought of constantly being on meds. But I will if I have to because ... well, the alternative is simply unacceptable.
Take care,
M
