Monday, March 23, 2015

I'm not dead yet!

My 49th year isn't off to a great start. There have now been two times in my life where I felt close to death. The first time I spent a week in the hospital recovering from emergency surgery that finally confirmed just how damaged my reproductive organs really were. Before I got to the hospital, I was lying on the bathroom floor in the fetal position after vomiting my guts out from the pain. The husband stood over me, worried, and asking if he should call an ambulance. I stupidly said no and we drove to the hospital. Worst car ride of my life.

The second time I thought I was going to die was Thursday morning (3/19). I woke just after 5am to a tidal wave of dizziness and nausea. I barely made it to the bathroom. I spent the next two hours spewing evilness out of every orifice. I've heard the term "flop sweat" before and chuckled at the depictions of it in movies (water pouring down the face, etc.) until it happened to me. An hour into my misery, I broke out into a sweat the likes of which I'd never experienced before...pouring down my face, blinding me, filling my ears, nose draining, everything dripping off my chin into the waste basket I had clutched to my chest. Why was I holding my trash can? I had to sit on the toilet and there was no where else to be sick. My nightgown was drenched and clinging to me. I had sweat running down my back and legs and I was sliding around on my toilet seat trying desperately to stay upright. Thank goodness I'd opened the bathroom window a crack the night before because the cold winter air blowing in was the only thing keeping me from losing consciousness.

I was burning up and the blackness kept creeping in around the edges of my vision. I was sure that if I passed out, I was dead. The boys would find me slumped on the toilet...I'd die just like Elvis did. What a lasting memory THAT would be. So I fought to stay conscious. I'd lost all the strength in my legs and arms. It was all I could do to hang on to the trash can. I'd have long since called 911, if I could have managed to get to a phone. I'd gather myself now and then to yell HELP, but no one heard me. John and Max were still sleeping downstairs in the guest room (Max gave up his bedroom to his ailing grandmother and was keeping it open for her, but was too scared to sleep all the way downstairs by himself.) Tyler was asleep in his room, with his door closed. My bedroom door was closed. He might as well have been miles away. Grandma was in the hospital again...but even if she'd been home with us, she never would have heard me. She takes her hearing aid out to sleep.

I would bang on the wall now and then too. Praying someone would come. Finally, close to 7:30, the boys came upstairs to get ready for school. Max heard my weak cry for help. He took one look at me and turned almost as white as I must have been. He ran for his Dad and I got "What?! What's wrong?!" I don't think I've ever been happier to see him in my life. I was spent. He watched me heaving into the trash can and waiting for the nausea to subside then asked what I wanted him to do. Poor guy had to help me out of the drenched nightgown, clean me up and half carry me to bed. I wanted to lie down (he brought me a bowl, just in case) and see if I started to feel better. I was stupidly resisting that little voice that was screaming at me to go to the hospital.

It kept running through my head. What is making me so sick? Oh God, I'm going to die. Was it the left-over birthday pie? It was days old. Probably shouldn't have eaten it. Could food poisoning make me THIS sick? So so sick. Never been this sick before. Not even the last stomach virus just a few weeks ago, which was really bad, but...not THIS bad. omg. I almost wish I'd die because that would be better than feeling this way.

Then I fell asleep. When I woke a couple hours later, I was feeling a little better. I spent 2 days in bed and the only thing I ate was a bowl of chicken noodle soup. I drank lots of water trying to re-hydrate myself. Now it's days later and I am still recovering. I get dizzy easily. Everything I eat makes my stomach hurt and my digestion...ugh. But I didn't die.

I'm still here. And a little surprised that I am.

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Where is the love?

I got a phone call from my parents on my birthday. They seemed fine and I thought all was right with the world again. The next day I got a card from them. That is their typical delivery method for birthday gifts, so I opened it with some vague hope of a check or gift card. (Theirs was the only card I got via actual snail mail.) It was empty. If you refer to my previous post, this was a message from my mother. You don't gift us in a way we expect? No gift for YOU!

Yeah, I know it's petty. Yes they are in their 70s or older. No, it wasn't totally unexpected. But it still hurt. A lot. By yesterday morning, I was a wreck. I sat down and wrote a letter to my mom. I haven't sat down to write an actual snail-mail letter in many years. I unburdened myself in a cathartic outpouring of emotion, tears and hurt. Then I set the letter aside. I wanted to just stuff it in an envelope and send it immediately but wisdom prevailed. Best to sit on these things for a day or two and revisit them in a more calm state.

My mom made it a point in a more recent phone call to let me know that I "forgot" to get her a birthday gift. It's all a matter of perspective. See, spending weeks trying to convince Tyler to get in a car for 6 hours to go visit his grandma for her birthday was a major undertaking. The whole family getting into a van and heading north at a cost of $70 per fill up (we needed 2), food on the road, sleeping in strange beds...then a pricey gift certificate to her favorite restaurant that, yes, was partly a Christmas gift too because we can't AFFORD more than that...it was all her gift. But she didn't see it that way. Nope. I forgot.

So...no gift for me. Bad daughter. BAD BAD daughter. *sigh*

I'm still on the fence about sending that letter.