Wake Up Goddess

Sick As A Dog, And Treated Like One July 28, 2008

Today is Sunday, July 27, 2008, and I just got home from the hospital.  The first thing I did after four days of being laid up in bed with no solid food was to teeter up the stairs on unsteady legs to take a long hot bath.  As I stripped off my clothes I couldn’t help but notice the purple bruises on my arms, some from punctured veins and failed IV lines and two neat little cuff marks on each arm from over-zealous CNAs taking their job of reading my blood pressure very seriously (until I saw the bruises I actually felt like a big baby for wincing every time they came into the room).  I have more track marks on my arms and hands than a seasoned junkie.  But what’s worse, far worse, than the bruises on my body are the bruises that the experience has left on my soul.

It may sound odd, even esoteric, but my faith in humanity and in myself requires that I ponder the deeper meaning in all of this.  Otherwise, this is the kind of experience that makes you bitter and resentful; that can leave you questioning the motives of others.  Or worse yet, leaves you feeling like a victim in your own life.  And one thing I am not – that I refuse to be – is the victim in my own story.  And yet, there are these bruises that must be reckoned with by the subconscious, by the Self, before I can move on.  This is my attempt at reckoning. 

Keep in mind as I write this, reaching for the spiritual meaning of it all, that I’m still pretty pissed.  Pissed about the three and a half hours I writhed in an emergency waiting room chair begging for a place to lay down while the catty women behind thick glass windows (which I now realize are for their protection from people like me) chatted and chucked about the little details of their lives.  A gesture that in my weakened and vulnerable state felt more like mocking than it normally would have.  Their lack of compassion, their blatant dismissal of the suffering strangers who sat across from them day by day seemed almost unforgivable.  And yes, I told them so (although I think it might have been more effective if I hadn’t been hunched over like Quasimodo in a housedress).

Nearly seven hours after my foray into the ER the diagnosis finally came.  I have diverticulitis.  Okay, not great news, but I can deal with it.  At least that “mystery side pain” that I’ve been dealing with for the past five-years or so finally has a name.  Now I know what to do when my gut hurts so badly that I can’t walk upright, cool.  I promise I’ll never eat almonds again, now give me some pain-killers and send me home.  But as you already know, that’s not what happened.  Not at all.

Instead, I was whisked up the elevator by a total stranger on the world’s most uncomfortable gurney with my ass hanging out of the back of my gown and ice water running through my veins (not very comfortable if you’re allergic to cold).  For four days a parade of doctors, with interns in tow, passed by my tiny foam mattress covered with sheets stinking of bleach.  They took turns lifting up my gown, poking my belly and asking, “Does that hurt” every time I cried out in pain.  They would explain to their interns how important it was to set your patient at ease, yet I didn’t feel at ease at all.  Ironically, the same GI doctor who just three years ago thought that this terrible pain I was complaining of was a hernia was assigned to my case.  Back then, after a CAT scan revealed no hernia, he wrote me off and sent me home.  Now he wouldn’t even let me sip water because I was apparently as delicate as a china doll and could break (rupture) any minute.

Yet for my part, I bought into their drama.  When you’re in the hospital, even for a couple of days, you begin to really think that you’re sick, and you play the part of patient so well.  I even wore their ugly red footies with no skid bottoms as I did laps with my new IV appendage around the well-lit hallways.  I let them shoot me full of morphine and draw my blood promptly at 4:30 every morning without much complaint.  I cracked jokes with the nurses and made friends with my roommate in what they jokingly call a “semi-private” room.  In truth, you forfeit any degree of privacy, and dignity, you ever thought you had when you’re admitted into the hospital.   

Despite my best efforts, by day four my meltdown was eminent.  I started with back spasms and one of those ominous behind-the-eyes headaches that threatened to turn into a full-blown migraine.  I started to panic.  The night nurse came in around 5:30 a.m. and handed me a Tylenol suppository (I still had just enough dignity left to stumble blindly to the bathroom to insert it myself).  The pain got worse.  A misread in my chart had prevented the nurse, a surly woman in scrubs, from giving me my anti-nausea medicine the night before, so the waves of nausea joined the chorus of pain in my head.  At 6:45 a.m., with my IV leaking and my head pounding, my nurse said she’d be back in five minutes.  I never saw her again.

Seven o’clock is shift change in hospital land, which means that you’ll be lucky to even get a nurse to grunt at you before nine.  I was crying by now, unable to open my eyes to the faint light in the room.  I pushed the little red button, the one with the face of a smiling nurse on it, like a mad woman.  Someone brought me another Tylenol suppository, but the pain didn’t subside.  My roommate, Hazel, ran after every orderly and CNA who came within shouting distance of our room, “Get her a nurse, can’t you see she’s in pain, get our nurse in here now!” (In order to get the full effect of this you must imagine it said in the kindly but sharp voice of a Jewish mother).  No one ever came.  By now the pain was excruciating and I was weeping out loud like an helpless child.  The whole scene was so intense that even Hazel’s blood pressure shot up as a result.  She was veclempt, and I was long gone.

Tears, headache and hysteria mingled together.  My day nurse finally showed her face around 9:00 a.m., told me she was busy changing a dressing on another patient, that I wasn’t the only person on the floor, and that she was busy.  Then she left.  I was in pain and I needed someone to help me out of it.  More importantly, I needed some compassion and I was in the one place that, ironically, seemed to be in very short supply of it.  Instead, I was met with callousness, rudeness, and indifference to the pain I was in.  I felt bruised and abused, ignored and disdained.  It hurt not just my head but my feelings, and my very soul.   

Nurse nasty’s attitude never did improve and neither did my headache.  Despite the pain killers she eventually shot into my IV, I developed a full-fledged migraine.  Finally, after another long game of “ignore the annoying sick person,” with my IV beeping for the 750th time that morning (oh, I bet you think I’m exaggerating), I couldn’t take it.  It was like someone was banging a gong on my forehead.  I rang the cursed red button, that emblem of false hope, again and again but no one came.  Finally, I put on my girlfriends sunglasses, unplugged my IV from the wall and walked down to the nurses’ station with my hand over my eyes to shield them from the light.  My nurse was casually writing something that didn’t matter one damn bit to me on a piece of paper I couldn’t even see through my blurred vision.  “Do you think you can make this stop now, if you’re not too busy?”  I asked.  She huffed over and threw open the IV pump like a two-year-old throwing toys in her toy box after being scolded for not cleaning up.

At some point I chastised her for her lack of compassion and may have suggested that she’d be better suited for veterinary medicine.  Later, when I had the audacity to complain about my leaking IV again, she stormed into my room with a big needle and some tubing.  I told her that there was no way in holy hell that I would let her come near me a needle and to get out of my room and get me another nurse, along with the nursing supervisor.  I did get another nurse, but the nursing supervisor, no surprise, never showed.  Eight hours after the migraine started I was given Imitrex.  It was mid-afternoon before I could move my eyes without wanting to vomit.  Worse yet, I was deeply hurt by the experience on a soul level.

I finally got to come home tonight, probably because they just wanted to get rid of me.  But I’m not the same person I was when I went into the hospital just four days ago.  From the waiting room fiasco to the migraine meltdown, I feel like I’ve been torn down, demoralized and de-humanized.  I feel as if my Spirit has left my body for just a little while, and now I’ve got to coax it back, slowly, through these words, through sharing them with you, and though finding a deeper meaning to this whole messy drama – my drama, but one that’s universally recognized by anyone who’s spent even a day in a hospital bed. 

Yet despite the harshness of this experience, I will not become its victim.  I will continue to grow from it, to look for the meaning in it, and to purge the unkindness and the feeling of helplessness from my soul.  I will work hard to become a beacon of compassion for others in a sometimes cruel world.  And, eventually, I will forgive not just the insensitivities of the situation and the people who carried them into my experience, but also myself for believing in the drama and its power over me.  In the meantime, when you see me, please don’t ask me about this event, or this new “condition” I’ve been diagnosed with.  I don’t want to give either of them any more energy than they’ve already gotten from me.  Instead, give me a hug, tell me you’re glad I’m feeling better, and don’t offer me any almonds. 

There’s Nothing Wrong with Fast Girls March 2, 2008

Today I did something I’ve never done before.  And I gotta tell ya, I like the way it feels.  Today I’m finishing up the last day of a three-day fast.

Those of you who know me are probably asking, “What ever possessed her to fast for three freakin’ days straight?”  I thought the same thing when I started toying with the idea a few days ago.  Then, last Thursday I went to lunch with a friend and ordered chili topped with cheese.  It was the first time I’d eaten beef or dairy in a couple of weeks – the direct result of a cow vs. forklift video I was unfortunate enough to catch on the evening news.

By Thursday night my left eye was swelled up like a balloon.  When I woke up Friday morning the eye had gone down some, but the sinus was still inflamed.  Allergies?  Maybe.  But one thing was for sure, I needed to cleanse my system, and this crazy bodily reaction was confirmation that I should go forward with the fast.  I needed a fresh start without all the toxins in my body driving cravings and weighing me down.

Now, usually after six or eight hours without food I’m a danger to others.  But this weekend I’ve learned that the hunger you experience after a carb and sugar orgy is much more sever than the hunger you have after three days of fasting.  Now, if you’d told me this last week, I’d have probably thought you were lying – like when we tell pregnant women that childbirth really isn’t that bad because we don’t want to scare the crap outta them.  But I have to admit, I feel pretty damn good.

Now that’s not to say that I didn’t have a few mild headaches back on day one.  And, on day two I took a four-hour nap (because of the lack of food, my son and husband were afraid to wake me).  And, okay, this morning I did have one minor meltdown – but in my defense my husband was making fried potatoes and they just smelled so good.  Anyway, overall I think I did alright.

Besides, what I learned from this fast far outweighs any of the side effects my family might have endured.  This weekend I learned what it feels like to fully reside within this body.  I felt the simple pleasure of a cup of herbal tea with lemon.  I felt the warmth of a hot bath and the softness of baby oil on my skin.  I felt the joy of a long nap.  I felt the sense of accomplishment in reaching my goal.  And I felt the deep satisfaction of caring for and loving my body in ways I’ve never done before. 

Still Sick, Still Tired January 28, 2008

Every since I was a little girl I’ve hated being sick.  Most people probably don’t love to be sick, but some people deal with it better than others.  I wasn’t a sickly child by any means, but when I did get sick I went full out.  We’re talking fevers of 103 and higher and vomiting with visual and sound effects that could have rivaled that famous scene in The Exorcist (sans the head spinning).

Still there is something about being sick that forces us to stop and listen to our bodies.  Illness pushes us into a place of extreme self-care.  For me, I think being sick is the only thing that can cause me to truly yield to my body’s needs without regard for external responsibilities. 

And yet there have been times in my life that I’ve been so out of balance that even illness – your body’s not so subtle way of telling your that you are, indeed, out of balance – hasn’t gotten my attention.  At almost every job I’ve had over the past seven years I can remember going in with the flu, fever, nausea, headaches, etc., out of some misguided sense of loyalty to someone or something that I placed above my own health.

There were even times that my various crappy bosses (and I’ve certainly had my share of those sisters) have called me demanding that I come in to meet some imaginary deadline or make believe emergency.  And, guess what?  I did. 

Today I woke up feeling terrible and, even though I had a lot to do at my quasi job, I honored my body and my health and stayed home in bed.  Admittedly I felt a slight tinge of guilt, but it passed quickly.  I guess I really am learning to love this body.

Sick and Tired January 26, 2008

I don’t feel well tonight.  I’d love to write something witty and entertaining about the fun new bra I bought at Victoria’s Secret or the ill effects of florescent lighting in JC Penny fitting rooms, but instead I’m going to bed.  I’ll shoot for witty and entertaining tomorrow.