2003-01-27 - 8:41 a.m.
There are people in this world who insist on reminding me how much I am loved.
I know, I know, this isn't the usual flavor of postings here but ... damnit ... there are good things in this world and I'm going to share one of them with you.
Diabetic coma.
Or, rather, narrowly escaping diabetic coma.
Last July I went to the hospital with what I thought was ... actually, I don't know what I thought it was. I had been extremely thirsty for, like, 2 months! I have a 32 oz bottle for water at work that I was emptying 8 times a day. My skin was dry, my lips were always cracked, I couldn't sleep through the night with out water, and in the morning my legs would cramp so that I couldn't flex my feet. My calves would just seize up and I would have to wake my husband to push against my feet to release the cramp. My primary care physician told me to wait for it to go away. So I did.
Monday, July 22 I felt really dizzy. I actually woke up to the worst feeling of heartburn I had ever experienced. I drank from the glass of water that I had gotten into the habit of keeping by the bed but the water burned my stomach, too. My husband gave me some apple juice, which tasted like the best thing on the planet and actually cleared my head for a second, and tried to get a hold of my doctor. I lost the apple juice 5 mintues later. He was becoming very impatient with the doctor's staff and began insisting that we go to the hospital. "I don't think they'll take me", I remember saying.
We got into the car and went to the hospital. I just wanted to go back to sleep but he wouldn't let me. He'd seen The Abyss too often and kept yelling at me to stay awake.
We got there and I had to climb 12 stairs to get from the car to the emergency room. I almost passed out. I couldn't breathe, I could barely move, my husband had to hold me up at the top. I have since walked that length of parking lot and it takes me a minute, 2 tops. That morning I wanted to cry because it was so hard to move.
We get to the er (look at me, I'm the NBC generation) and the nurse starts asking me questions. I answer them as best I can and what it eventually boils down to for her is "are you pregnant?" "No" "are you diabetic?" "I don't think so." So she goes to get a monitor, pricks my finger, and tests my blood. The little electronic chime goes off after 45 seconds ... 440. The range for the average non-diabetic human being is supposed to be 80 - 120.
I would like to take this moment to realize something. I wouldn't have gone to the hospital on my own. I would have waited until noon and gone to my primary care physician, and I would have tried to drive myself. I am going to say some uncharitable things about my ex-husband in the rest of this entry but, be not mistaken, I am alive because he was home and could drive.
They put me in a bed and hooked me up. I had the little round white stickers on my chest and they, eventually, succeeded in starting an IV. I was so dehydrated that they couldn't find a vein. They tried about 4 spots on my arm and finally had to settle for my hand. I had huge bruises up my right arm for the better part of a week.
I still didn't feel like I could breathe. As you are reading this, breathe deeply but fairly quickly so that your lungs fill up. Deep inhale, shallow exhale. My blood/oxygen level was great but I was hyperventilating. My next memories of that day consist mostly of my mom saying "slow down your breathing, sweetie" and having Rocky Raccon stuck in my head. I desperately wanted to say something funny, to reassure them, to let them know that I was ok. But it just wasn't true. I watch enough "er" to know what "monitoring" means. It means that they don't know what is about to happen to you and, if it goes the wrong way, it will be really bad.
They eventually got me a bed in the ICU. Big, cushy, private room. I got tv that I couldn't see (nearsighted, you know) and hourly visits from a very personable staff. Some one always seemed to be rotating through changing my IV bag (they were pushing fluids on me and I was absorbing a bag an hour), poking me with sharp things (I got very used to the sight of my blood filling up a test tube), or checking the beeping machines (I couldn't seem to sleep without dislodging something tempremental). But it may be that is all I remember because that's all I was awake for. My mom says that I was "very far away" those first couple of days.
I remember the first couple of nights, too. I was exhausted because they were checking my blood sugar every hour. Every hour some nice person had to come into my room, stick my finger, and wait for the chime. (here is where the uncharitibilty comes in) My husband could only bitch about these people. He could only bitch about the fact that the machines went off in the middle of the night, disturbing his sleep. He could only bitch that the chair they had in there for overnight family members was terrible for his back and he was all stiff. I don't have enough time to fully express my anger at these memories. But let me just say this: it was MY fingers pocked with lancet wounds, it was MY arm that couldn't bend because of the IV, it was MY body that had suddenly decided that Beta cells were a bad thing and sent me as close to death as I have ever gotten ... his fucking BACK?
By the third day I was out of the woods, they moved me to the Med/Surg ward for further observation. But the consensus was that I was no longer going to go to sleep and never wake up again. I was feeling much more alert and centered and so began to ask questions. Had someone called my dad? No, no one had. Well, to be fair my mom had tried but did not have the current number. My husband had the current number, I had the current number in my handheld and my husband could have thought to look ... but he didn't. My father did not know anything was wrong with me until it was "over". I understood him not wanting to call my best friend. My best friend is also my ex and had always been a threat. I don't agree, and in fact called him as soon as I got home, but I understand. That's the petty fucking way that my husband worked. It didn't matter to him that it might matter to me. But my FATHER? How could he not think to call my FATHER?
Gonna let you sit with that for a second, I need to work so ... to be continued ... some time after 11:00 am pst.
M
