Finally Home

Okay, so I don’t have anything brilliant to say, or song titles to use. In the end, it’s really simple. I hate being in the hospital. I have to learn the hard way, apparently, that my body has limits. I can’t keep trying to push through things that normal people can, even if I choose to ignore pain, or fatigue. My body is not the machine that my mind is. Trying to be a terminator will get me killed. Sometimes you actually have to listen to the signals your body is giving you. They might save your life.
 
I determined that I would be the one employee at work that would not be conquered by the recent illness that swept Nanaimo the day school started. The ignoramus parents who allow their contagious, sick kids to go to school and spread their diseases need to be wiped out by something for a change. You’ve got no idea who the other kids go home to. They could have cancer patients as brothers, sisters or parents, or like me, diabetics with poor immune systems. There is a trickle-down effect, you see. You send your kid to school because they can grin and bear it. After all, it’s just a cold. But then they infect someone else, who infects a bunch of people, namely me. So I get sick with a cold, and suddenly my immune system is like a small army of armed guards, trying to fend off this unwanted bacterial attacker. The army is no longer watching the other entrances, so they don’t notice when the bigger, meaner viral flu slips in for a visit. By the time they notice, half the guards are down, and the ones left are split between these two perps. Suddenly it’s a one-on-one game and I’ve got illness criminals running around turning my body into a petri dish. So please, ladies and gents, your kids’ "nothing" colds mean a week in the hospital, away from work, not making any money to pay for my medication or bills, for me. Let them stay the fuck home. PLEASE.
 
I had been monitoring this infection I knew I had for a few days, hoping my body would fight it off and get over it, however, LAST saturday, about an hour from the end of my shift, I was standing between the two CVAPs, the toasters, the grill and the two fryers (a place that is usually positively roasting), and I felt the need to put on my hoodie. I had a serious fever, and painfully low blood pressure. So, I went to the hospital! I also had the misfortune of being sick enough that it piqued my blood sugar for a few days, and I got a lovely case of thrush. You try having a yeast infection in YOUR mouth, and see if you’re happy. So they pumped me full of saline solution and penicillin for a few days, I swelled up like a boiled Johnsonville Bratwurst, turned as red as my blog page, itchy as all hell, EVERYWHERE. I’m allergic to penicillin now. Stupid genetic shortcomings. Then it turned out that I tested positive for a resistant strain of bacteria in an infected lymph node in a rather uncomfortable place. So I was put in an isolation room on contact precautions. I couldn’t be visited, or leave my room without wearing an unsighly yellow jumper and blue poly gloves. I was roomed with an AIDS patient from Surrey, who groaned like a man, a lot, shat herself repeatedly and loved making the many sounds of bodily functions. My room smelled like all 7 levels of hell. Thank God for whatever drugs I was given that knocked me out.
 
And something else I’ve learned: the determination of nurses to poke me with needles, needlessly, in every vein they can find, is intolerably annoying. You warn them that you have tiny, hidey veins that hate being poked, you tell them where to stick their needles, and they try every other possible place first (sometimes twice). By the time they poke you where you told them to, your body hates sensation so much, that the one vein that would have given way has hidden itself deeper than Atlantis. They tried and failed 11 WHOPPING TIMES to put an IV into me, every time with a different, "better qualified" nurse or doctor. They tried every vein they were medically allowed to try, bruised my hands, wrists, arms (and a foot), before putting in a PICC Line. (Peripherally Inserted Cardiac Catheter). It’s a hand-assembled, blue tube that they insert into one of the two major veins in your arm, using ultrasound, and feed it all the way into one of the top chambers of your heart. They’re most commonly used on ICU patients (i.e. Cancer Patients), and can last for up to a year. They removed mine, but now I’m susceptible to multiple forms of infection, directly to the heart, blood clots, stroke or anyeurism. Happy-happy-joy-joy.
 
They sent me home yesterday. I’ve never been happier to get the hell out of anywhere at anytime in my life except my last relationship. There was much celebration had. I go back to work on Wednesday. It’s going to be hard. I’m still on heavy-duty oral antibiotics and sulphites, drops, and walking is still troublesome.
 
Needless to say, next time I get wiped out by an illness, I’m taking a goddamned day off. My family and friends were all extremely supportive, and visited me a lot. I’m extremely grateful to everyone. It made this hospital stay a lot less excrutiating. My boyfriend, John, was a serious trooper through the whole thing. He took me to the hospital. He visited me every day. He hand-made me a teddy bear at Build-A-Bear that has a bad-ass leather jacket on. It has a heartbeat and a sweet get-well message. He bought me many sugarfree vanilla lattes and kept me company for piles of hours, braving the extremely ugly yellow jumper and blue gloves many times. And he also picked me up from the hospital. I’ve found someone truly worthy of my heart. ♥♥♥
 
♥Kдssi
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~ by Kд§$ị (ИovΔ) on 09/28/2008.

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