The Month of March, Part 2

Please read Part 1, here.

There were complications. Following the directions of my neurosurgeon, I went back to the ER. After some quick x-rays, I was re-admitted to the hospital.

I was put in the same room, in the same bed with a view of the outside world. I don’t know if that was done on purpose, or if things just worked out that way, but it was a nice coincidence. The same nurse who was there when I was discharged was there when I was brought back. He remembered me.

I would spend the next 8 days in that room that I would come to loathe. The first stay was fine. Other than the fact that I had two surgeries, I felt ok. I had an appetite. I was confident things were going in the right direction.

But coming back, dealing with the complications… now I was scared. Constantly on the phone with my mom, and alone. I didn’t want Jay to come visit, because he had three dogs to deal with. They were what was important. I needed to know they were taken care of. But I also needed someone to take care of me.

So my mom came.

My lifesaver. It didn’t matter whether or not I wanted her there. I needed her there. No matter how old I get, I need my parents. I needed my mom, and there she was.

It’s hard to get much sleep in the hospital. They take your vitals every 4 hours, and there are constant beeps, moans, and always a flurry of activity. I woke up abruptly, covered in sweat, numerous times.

I was also throwing up. At first, it was from whatever concoction they had given me upon my re-admittance, as nausea was a side effect. Then, it was due to infection. The infection caused my fever to spike. It broke overnight, but came back with a vengeance, at 103.

You can’t be discharged until at least 24 hours after a fever breaks, and mine lasted two days, so that was another 3 in the hospital. I had no appetite, so I wasn’t eating much, but every night I would throw up. Since I wasn’t eating, there was nothing there. I ate a lot of ice chips (at least I stayed hydrated!).

I remember telling the nurses I had -5% energy. I felt like a blob. I could barely move, except to roll from one side to the other.

It might be the worst I’ve ever felt.

For so long, I concentrated on my mental health. I had been working to get my head into a good, better place. I took the physical health part for granted.

When something is taken away, you definitely notice and miss it. You realize that you took that thing for granted, and you vow that if you get it back, once you get it back, you won’t ever take it for granted again.

You will. It’s human nature. And it’s ok.

My fever broke again, and stayed down.

I spoke with one of my doctors, who told me that in 16 years, she had seen only 5 cases like mine. And, of course, my symptoms were reversed from those other few cases.

After 8 days, I was discharged, for the second time.

Now, I’m home. I can’t really go anywhere, and I’m not cleared to do much of anything. I feel trapped inside of my apartment, and I feel trapped by my body, which is slowly recovering.

One moment I’m ok and the next, I burst into tears.

This is not the type of thing I like to admit, but I share it because it goes back to the mission statement of why I started this blog in the first place.

People should not feel alone. Even when we think we are, we aren’t. We have to reconcile the reality in our head with the actual reality outside. It’s a hard line to navigate. We don’t have to navigate it alone.

To those who reached out, called, texted, face-timed, sent cards, sent flowers, sent food… words are not enough to express how grateful I am for you. Please accept this completely inadequate and emphatic thank you.