Feed Me, Seymour

This post is a bit of self-indulgent, self-pitying drivel. Feel free to walk on by. If you choose to stay (idiot), please refrain from leaving a sappy, pity-filled comment, as it will make me stabby.

In January of this year, I underwent a minor (planned) procedure at a hospital in Illinois. No big deal, should be in and out in two hours, which I was. Hubby packed me into the car (high as a kite) and we headed back home satisfied that all had gone according to plan.

And then things went wonky.

Around midnight, I began to have terrible stomach pains and I was vomiting as if Trump himself had grabbed me by the you-know-what. My left shoulder was hurting so bad that I thought I might have dislocated it, but the pain radiated from my collarbone to my left breast, so clearly that wasn’t the cause.

I stood over my sink and contemplated my options: Do nothing, ask hubby to drive me to the ER, call for an Über, or drive myself to the hospital. I figured Hubby owed me one since I drove HIM to the ER in the middle of the night when he was passing a kidney stone.

We get there, get checked in quickly and the nurse drew some blood. The results made the Doc decide to give me an X-ray and next thing you know, I’m drugged up and told I need to be admitted for pancreatitis.

For those of you who are not familiar with Our Friend the Pancreas, it’s the organ that produces the noxious acids that digest your food. Inflammation and leaks are VERY serious because they result in the acid eating away your other organs. In fact, the first thing they teach medical students is “Sleep when you can and DON’T MESS WITH THE PANCREAS”.

I sent Hubby home since there really was nothing he could do and the kids were alone (relax- they’re old enough to be alone for a few hours- no need to call Social Services). I was checked in, hooked up to an IV and given a shit ton of Dilauded.

Turns out, pancreatitis can’t be medicated. The only way to fix it is to leave it alone. Basically I would remain starved and anesthetized until the inflammation resolved, which took about four days. During this time, I fell in love with Amy, the Nurse Who Gave Me Pain Meds, and I managed to sleep about 18hrs a day.

Once I was released into the custody of my completely bewildered Hubby, I headed home and proceeded to sleep off the pain meds- And let me tell you: Having drugs seeping out of your system can cause MAJOR hallucinations. The next few days were quite interesting. At one point, I awoke in the middle of the night and saw that the cord to my heating pad was glowing and had sparks coming from the outlet it was plugged into. There appeared to be weird, wavy, blurred air lingering above the control unit, as if I was viewing it through mottled glass. I freaked out and used a book (don’t ask me why I chose a paperback) to push the plug out of the outlet. I the. tore it out from underneath my mattress cover, and threw it across the room. I swear I heard it sizzle when it hit the ground.

Come morning, it was plugged in as usual, unscathed.

Clearly, I was losing my mind.

Anyhoo…I was under STRICT instructions: Eat sparingly, avoid ALL fats and NO DRINKING ANY ALCOHOL. Surprisingly, this was pretty easy for me, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Three days after being released, I was back in the hospital- this time, for two weeks.

Again with the pain meds, again with the glucose IV, again with the daily 6am blood draws and a litany of X-rays, MRIs, CTs and ultrasounds.

At first I was told I’d be there “at least a week”. Hubby sucked it up and came through like a champ. He managed the kids’ schedules and extra-curriculars, and worked from home so he could care for our little puppy. He resented the fuck out of me, which I could tell from his tone during our phone calls, but hey- it wasn’t MY choice to stay.

After the first week, I slipped into a routine of giving blood at 6am, having my doctor visit at 7:30am with test results, and bawling my eyes out until 9:00am because he told me I’d be there at least one more day. This lasted for another week.

At one point, I was so depressed that I lied to the nurses so I could double my pain meds and sleep all damn day. Seriously- it was pathetic. The television in my room was never turned on. I needed to sleep with a white noise machine to drown out the beeping in the ICU. I was even mean to THAT GUY, although I have no recollection of it.

I had been receiving IV glucose for a week and a half when my doctor put his foot down: I was to get a PICC line inserted to administer TPN (basic nutrition). I refused. He argued. I told him to fuck off. He sent his physicians assistant. I told HER to fuck off. He sent the lady from the outpatient IV department and, you guessed it, I told her to (say it with me)…fuck off.

Why? PICC lines are notorious for becoming infected and sending that bacteria right to your heart. A blood-borne infection pretty much means you’re done for.

Bottom line, in two weeks I lost 23lbs of combined fat and muscle mass. Sure I wanted to lose weight, but that was RIDICULOUS.

0 Stars. Do not recommend.

Finally I returned home, weaker and still depressed as fuck. Hubby and the kids tiptoed around me, while the dog wouldn’t leave me alone. I was TERRIFIED to ingest anything, but I knew I had to eat to gain back my strength. It took about a month, but I worked my way up from chicken broth -> jello -> applesauce  -> cottage cheese -> cream soups -> toast -> rice -> mashed potatoes…you get it.

Meanwhile, I’m still depressed and hella constipated from the pain meds  TMI, I know  But you knew what you were getting into. And I still needed white noise to fall asleep.

Fast forward to today, about 7 weeks since I was released. I still can’t eat fatty foods and still cannot have alcohol, but I haven’t needed pain meds for weeks.

My body is a MESS. My metabolism is shot- it went into starvation mode and refuses to metabolize anything. I eat no more than 900 calories a day because anything more will result in me gaining weight like Anna Nicole in a pudding factory. I eat/drink 80 grams of protein per day as my nutritionist advises. I can’t walk on the treadmill for more than 20 minutes without getting winded and what’s left of my calf muscles will burn and ache for the rest of the day.  I was told that for every week I was hospitalized, it will take three weeks to recover. Right about now is when I should be back to kicking ass and taking names, but I’m nowhere near it.

In short, I hate my life.

I keep hearing about what a major trauma my body experienced and how I should be patient. Fuck patience- I want my life back. I don’t miss the alcohol, but the Girl Scout cookies Hubby ordered are haunting me.

Sigh.

So that’s my story- it’s not exciting, but it’s my reality. I’ve been avoiding friends and family because I have little patience with them (and with myself). I have nightmares about getting the PICC line and dying of infection, leaving my kids motherless and left to subsist on processed food and (shudder) McDonald’s for sustenance. My mortality bitch-slapped me HARD.

Why am I telling you all of this?

Because over the last two weeks, I realized that no one gets it. The frustration and exhaustion, the emotional neediness, the craving for Thin Mints…no one understands. I do recognize that part of that might be MY fault because I don’t really like to talk about it. So I’m venting here, where I can’t witness your indifference and pity. And maybe, just maybe, some of you will understand why your old friend Gottaring isn’t the person same you remember her to be.

Thanks for the latitude, Wise (and probably bored) Readers.

Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my protein drink and if I don’t finish it fast enough, THAT GUY will hobble over on his cane and steal it. These days, Ensure is a commodity much like Girl Scout Cookies.

Too bad it doesn’t taste as good ☹️.