Difficult Choices

February 18, 2015 at 1:46 am (Uncategorized)

Recently, I feel like my life is like a very specific staple scenario from low-budget horror flicks. The Victim is running away from The Monster. Victim surveils the options; hide in that closet, climb ¬†that tree, shoot the gun, or step behind that curtain and surprise attack. In the proverbial theater, audience members already know the Victim’s fate: when they bury themselves in the closet, a strange hand emerges from the old coats and drags you through a gate to the Monster’s basement laire.

I’m not really a horror writer, partially because I am extremely picky about what kinds of horror stories I will read or enjoy. And usually I find myself confused and lonely when I realize that I’m the only one rooting for the Monster – or even having empathy for them.

But how this relates to my current circumstances? Let’s start with the practical.

I’m back in the hospital after yet another terrifying encounter in the Emergency Department’s ICU room.¬†Again, my blood pressure plummeted to ridiculous proportions, and this time I also had sepsis. I was stuck in the ED ICU for over 30 hours, as beds in any of the departments prepared to handle my case were rare at best. There was a fleeting discussion of putting me in the pediatric ICU (and if that had happened, it would not be the first time I was routed through peds to get a critical situation taken care of quickly). Eventually, I was admitted to “Stepdown” – more intense than a regular medical floor, but less so than ICU. This time, the floow I was on was much closer to ICU than the one I stayed in last time. There was a fight about whether or not I could use the bathroom on my own, and the “door” to the loo was a curtain that left much to …glare at.

Eventually I was transferred to a more typical medical floor, where the doctors are working to once again give me the Violet Bureagards’ treatment. My attending doc, who I will call “Dr. Nice Guy” because he really is a very sweet guy, made it abundantly clear to me that this time things are going to move slowly and take a lot of effort. At least I’m in one of the newly designed rooms (in fact, the exact same one I had when I graduated from the Janitor’s Closet) which has a lovely view of the Dome.

But no matter how lovely the view is, I’m frustrated and angry and depressed. Having an occasional break from the world is nice; not being able to make plans or have privacy whenever I want or need it are not. It may seem like a terribly small issue in the face of a terminal diagnosis, but it really is the little things. I don’t need fireworks or beach breezes in our gauzy sand boudoir. I just want to be able to read in peace, to chat or speak to friends as so I choose, to order chinese or eat dessert first.

I feel shitty. I have a lot of pain directly related to the CHF or the renal insufficiency. I don’t get good sleep in hospitals; I barely get good sleep at home unless I can sleep from 8a to 12p or something like that. I have a lot of raw skin and blisters. I very rarely get excited over what kind of food we’re getting for lunch.

There are other stressors, too. My soon-to-be-ex is exacerbating my current situation as much as he’s helping. It is his insurance which gives me access to the doctors and programs, but there are new vaireables that have been introduced that only make it more complex and fucking depressing. Both my beloved Duckbus and Rave’s truck bit it within a few weeks of each other. We purchased LRH; a fat, sweaty, charismatic white minivan that looked better on paper than in real life.

Hel has declared this year The Year of Difficult Choices. That was not Her first pick, nor even the second, but it was the one I thought I could both live with and explain to other people when needed. I’ve already been faced with some very taxing choices, and there are many more to come. I was very assured that so far I’m doing a good enough job choosing the path(s) She finds the most pleasing.

I find myself thinking about my childhood and young adult years; about the people I would have killed for then, for whom I wouldn’t even push someone out of line at the supermarket for.

I’ll write more later. In case you’re curious, I am in the Nelson tower in room 788 and would like visitors (who let me know when they are coming ahead of time).

Permalink 5 Comments