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Thursday, October 7, 2010

My life exploded.

For over a week, I've been debating whether or not I should blog about what has been going on in my life. My first inclination was not to write -- after all, who wants to announce to the world (or more accurately, my small pool of readers) about how they've failed?

After talking to my husband, I had a change of heart. My blog is an anonymous outlet for me, and I've decided to share my story. It will probably come in installments as a narrative, because I just don't feel that motivated to write about everything all at once. I don't really feel motivated at all. Life sucks.

Day 1:

I'm in the emergency department of the hospital where I work, barefoot, lying on a stretcher. Familiar nurses are doing an EKG, putting IVs into my arm, hanging saline. My husband, somewhere.


“What did she take?” Someone asks.


I wake up in the ICU. I'm in room 8. My shirt is gone. My bra is gone. I'm wearing a gown. I don't remember taking my clothes off. I try to sit up. It doesn't really work. It's like the force of gravity has doubled. I succumb to my hospital bed, fading in and out of sleep.


My nurse (also one of my coworkers), Claire, comes in. I like Claire. She lives in the country, has a little farm with her husband. “Hi E.,” she says. “We're just going to monitor you for a while, make sure you're doing okay.” I close my eyes.


“E.? E, it's Dr. Nolan. Can you tell me what happened?” Dr. Nolan is one of the intensivists. I used to assist him with procedures when I still worked days, inserting central lines, doing lumbar punctures. He must think I'm such an asshole. I wish this bed could engulf me.


"I.. I.. took some pills. I was just really tired. I just wanted to sleep. I had gotten in an argument with my husband about the schedule for my physics class and I was just really tired and upset, and he refused to let me sleep, so I took the whole bottle. " It was stupid. It was stupid and impulsive. There are people here who are actually sick, unlike me. I'm just wasting your time, destroying any kind of once positive rapport we might have had, I thought to myself.

He continued to ask me questions for his history and physical in a detached manner.
"Past medical history?"
"Chronic sinusitis; aseptic meningitis."
"Surgeries?"
"Tonsillectomy."
"Anything else I should know?"
"I think my finger is infected. I had cut it a few days ago, and it's just been getting worse. I had been waiting to see if it would get better on its own." I held up my hot and puffy finger.

The rest was a blur.

I wake up again. Lauren, one of the aides, tells me she needs to draw blood cultures. I stick out my arm, barely aware of needles, of any kind of pain. I drift back to sleep.

5 comments:

  1. blogging is therapeutic. and all is never lost. you never know where life will take you tomorrow

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  2. God Mezzo, I was wondering what had happened to you. I hope you're doing better now. Keep blogging. Ella is right. It helps.

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  3. i should probably just speak for myself, but, i'm sure: nobody is judging. life is hard for most ppl. you will get through this.

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  4. I am so sorry you have been having a bad time EG. I am glad you chose to write something, I was wondering what was going on with you too. And I also hope you are doing better.

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  5. Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone has made a bad decision. Very few have the courage to tell people about said mistakes. By willing to share your troubles you are helping not only yourself but all those too ashamed/embarrassed to share theirs.

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