Close Call

November 25, 2014 at 3:09 pm (Congestive Heart Failure, Death and Dying, Hospitalizations, Medical) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Everyone in the room – the doctors, nurses, Rave, and even me – all thought the same thing, but no one wanted to say it.

For me, it became tangible when I realized I was having visual hallucinations and disturbances and couldn’t hear out of one ear. My blood pressure numbers were getting lower and lower and no one knew why. My chest hurt like crazy and I was struggling to breathe both out of pain as well as panic. The doc even asked me what my advanced directives were – like did I want a breathing tube – which they had never done before. That’s when I knew I might actually die, like, right now.

I’ve written a lot about how I hate asking people for rides, that it feels like panhandling. Even when people assure me that I can always ask and they like doing it, I still feel terrible about the whole process. After I left the hospital in October, my team had set me up with a slew of follow-up appointments; the idea was I was not well enough to go back home and return to normal life, but I wasn’t urgently sick enough to warrant staying in the hospital anymore. In particular, Johns Hopkins runs a “Heart Failure Bridge Clinic”, the “Bridge” being between hospitalization and home. You’re able to access services that regular doctors or cardiologist offices don’t offer, like IV diuretics.

I was able to attend my first Bridge appointment, and it was pretty standard. Other than a small med adjustment, it didn’t seem like a big deal. So when I wasn’t able to find a ride to the second appointment, I didn’t really stress over it. But then I missed a PCP appointment as well. It was a combination of people legitimately unable to make it and me not being in an emotional state conducive to putting as much effort in as I should have. Both Rave and I have been swamped with a preponderance of to-do items that are all “very important” and time sensitive as well.

I don’t remember when we first noticed that my blood pressures were off. I know I had started feeling dizzy and intoxicated without any cause. But however we got there, I started getting these ridiculously and somewhat unbelievably low readings with an average around 90/60. My home nurse told me to keep a close eye on it; well, that’s not exactly true, as she first recommended I go to the ER. When I told her I was feeling fairly okay and really didn’t want to go back to the hospital (can you blame me after a series of two-to-three week stays in the last four months?), she told me to keep an eye on it until I saw her later that week.

I decided to ask Dr. Google if there was some easy things I could do to bring my blood pressure up. This is when I was introduced into my current medical dilemma: as a congestive heart failure patient, I should severely restrict my fluid intake; but the one reliable way to raise and maintain a good blood pressure is to drink a healthy amount of fluids. So over the next few days I drank more fluids that I was “supposed” to and as it were, the more I drank the better I felt and the better my numbers were.

Well, not all my numbers. People with CHF have to weigh themselves every day because even small gains may be a sign of fluid retention and could require a change in your diuretic dosing. Every day I “cheated” on my restriction, the next morning would see the resultant weight gain; usually only a pound or two, but by the end of the week I was up over 10lbs. My nurse was pretty unhappy but we all agreed that since I had a Bridge Clinic appointment that Wednesday, I would just wait and see what they had to say.

Except that no one I asked could take me to Baltimore that day. By Tuesday midnight, I sent the message to cancel my appointment. I don’t know what my plan was, but until they invent transporters I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t even decide to drive myself, because Rave’s truck is still too broken to pass inspection and she needs my car to get to work. I didn’t sleep well that night. If I called an ambulance, they would have taken me to Hillbilly Hospital, and that was NOT going to happen. I felt defeated and depressed.

Even though Rave has been in hot water at work over how much time she takes off (mostly to take care of me), on the off chance the PTO gods would smile upon her, she submitted a request before she left work on Tuesday to see if they would let her take me to the appointment. We were pretty convinced the answer would be no, but I didn’t have a lot of other options. We were both surprised that when she got to work Wednesday morning, she saw that her request had been approved. She hopped right back into her car and came back to Hagerstown to pick me up.

We made a mad dash to Baltimore as we were cutting it pretty close, and the Clinic is one of those draconian offices that refuses to see you if you’re more than 10-15 minutes late. We even called ahead to see if that would help, but no dice. On top of that, I had only been to the location once before, and it’s hiding in one of the regular towers (instead of in the Outpatient Center) and I didn’t know which parking garage we should use. To make matters worse, there was practically no available parking in the one we chose, so we spent another ten minutes driving around in circles. We breezed into the office exactly 15 minutes late.

The nurse practitioner took my vitals and saw both the weight gain and low pressure – 80/40. She left the office to call her supervisor. Rave and I figured it was to figure out how much IV meds to give me…until more than 20 minutes go by and she still hasn’t returned. Finally, I gave voice to what we were both starting to fear – that they were going to admit me on the spot. Which is sort of what happened. There weren’t any free beds in the unit I would stay in, and after taking my blood pressure a number of times and getting consistently low numbers she felt the best course of action was to send me to the ER so I could be monitored while waiting for a bed. I am very glad to this day that this is what happened, as if I had not been in the ER when things went south I don’t know what would have happened.

Now, it’s good to know that even though my blood pressure numbers were ridiculously low (normal/average blood pressure should be somewhere around 120/80), I was upright, alert, oriented. I felt a little dizzy, a little fuzzy, and I was struggling more than usual with my aphasia, but overall I felt okay. I was more upset at the prospect of yet another long stay at the hospital forcing me to miss something I was really looking forward to (Thanksgiving with some of my most beloved tribe of the heart) and more medical complications and/or restrictions. But then things starting getting worse.

The first thing that clued me in as to how serious things were getting was when they moved me into the ERs version of an ICU bed. I was wired and constantly monitored. They took my blood pressure in just about every way conceivable – while I was in different positions, on different parts of my arms, and with different sphygmomanometers. My numbers were getting even lower – 80/30. 75/45. 60/40.

All of a sudden one of my ears went silent. It both felt and sounded like someone had slapped a thick earmuff on one side of my head. And of course, doctors and nurses and other hospital personnel are asking me a thousand and one questions and now I couldn’t hear them clearly. I was also getting more confused and finding it harder to understand everything that was happening. At one point, someone offered papers for Rave to sign because I was acting so erratically. (Yes, it’s legal, as she is my designated medical proxy.) I do remember someone asking me to state what was in my advanced directives, mostly about whether or not I had a DNR.

That was the first time I really and truly thought to myself, “This could kill me. They’re doing this because it’s possible this could actually happen.”

That was also when I noticed the visual distortion. I saw fireworks everywhere. Lots of red and off-white lights danced everywhere I looked. After images were causing trails if I moved too quickly (or if the thing I looked at moved quickly too).The light was getting brighter, to the point where I couldn’t really see anything else around me. My sense of chronological/linear time goes fuzzy at this point, so I have no idea in what sequence things actually progressed.

I do remember starting telling people, “I’m really scared. I am really, really scared.” Somehow, my reasoning said that if I refused to lay down I wouldn’t pass out or die. I started breathing more deliberately, again thinking that if I just kept willing each breath I wouldn’t stop breathing. The lowest recorded blood pressure was 40/30, although doctors are skeptical that it actually got that low since, in fact, I didn’t pass out.

That was just about a week ago. I eventually made my way into the critical care unit (which they call “stepdown”, as it is a transition between ICU and a medical floor) where we found out what the hell was going on. It seems there were three forces at play, and all of them were playing to win – which in this case means “messing with Del”.

  • CHF/Edema – In order to avoid retaining fluid which makes my poor heart and lungs work harder, I have to stay under a certain amount of fluid intake a day. I also take “water pills”, aka pills that make your body absorb less fluid and just pee it out instead. However, if I flush out too much fluid it puts a strain on my kidneys, which are already starting to show signs of damage from all this stress. It also leads to…
  • Dehydration – I am only supposed to ingest between 1.5 and 2 liters of fluid a day, and that’s not just what I drink. It includes any substance that becomes a liquid by the time it gets to your stomach, like jello, ice cream, pudding, salad dressing, sauce, etc. But as we all know, bodies need a certain amount of fluid to regulate themselves. I’ve always had low blood pressure, and 9 times out of 10 that’s considered a good thing. But when I was feeling dizzy and ill and I was pretty sure it was due to how low it had gotten, Dr. Google said the best bet to raise it was to drink more fluid, so I did. And even though I had increased my intake to almost 4 liters a day, I was still dehydrated because…
  • Infection – My pannus (the hanging part of my belly, the part that the 2012 surgery was about) is super swollen, which I assumed was part of the water retention caused by the CHF. Turns out that was only half of the story. My pannus is, once again, riddled with infected tissue. There isn’t a collection, like an abscess, that can be drained or removed. It is diffuse through the tissues. So my body was using every bit of fluid to make white blood cells and other infection-fighting stuff, which leads us back to dehydration. The lack of available fluids meant that the infection could proliferate faster and more efficiently. It didn’t help that I had to skip taking some of my meds for a month due to some health insurance stuff, and some of them were my maintenence antibiotics. (Bad Del.)

Yesterday I was transferred out of the critical care unit back to a medical floor I have been to before, which is nice because I know and like most of the nurses here. It also means less wires and other restrictions. The infection is pretty bad and causing a great deal of pain – the doctors keep telling me it’s the kind of healing that gets worse before it gets better. I’m on the good drugs for now – vancomycin (antibiotic version of a nuclear bomb) and dilaudid (painkiller version of a nuclear bomb). I’m in a lot of pain, but in a weird way it’s a familiar kind of pain, which makes it a little easier to deal with.

Most people with CHF really struggle with knowing how much fluid they can safely have without causing problems. Unfortunately, for me it looks like the line between too little and too much is very fine, and I’ve been warned that not only will it take some time and experimentation to figure out exactly where that line is and that there will be a lot of fuckups along the way. Fuckups mean more hospital stays.

My primary care doctor has even mentioned that I could go live in a skilled nursing facility – basically, a special floor in a nursing home that’s reserved for people of all ages who are too medically complicated to live at home but not sick enough to stay in the hospital. The idea is abhorrent to me, but if my lack of transportation is putting my life at risk I can’t fully dismiss the idea. Rave and I have started preliminary browsing to see if moving to Baltimore is even possible. However much we hate living in Hagerstown, the place we have is a godsend of accessibility; Baltimore is full of three-story row houses which will very likely not work for us. But I can’t even think about moving with a full heart until I deal with the divorce settlement, because Mike is claiming I have a part-time job with which I can support myself and therefore he should not have to pay spousal support or cover my prescriptions like he’s been doing since we split. I can’t afford a lawyer and few lawyers do family law pro-bono unless there are custody issues. It’s a big morass I cannot deal with without getting chest pain – and I’m not saying that to be melodramatic, I’m saying it because it really does cause me that much stress.

That’s the story of my close call. The reality and tangibility of the end of my journey is coalescing, and it’s a lot more terrifying than I was prepared for. One of my doctors admitted to me that if he were in my shoes, he’d be freaking out a lot more than I am. He even offered to send me a social worker to talk to, which is probably not a bad idea.

If you wanted to send flowers or the like, you can email Rave at delandrave at gmail dot com and she’ll give you the information. It would be greatly appreciated. I’m feeling kind of lonely and sad these days.

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Hanging In There

August 21, 2014 at 1:42 pm (Disability, Living, Living With Chronic Illness, Mental Health, Spiritual) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

If you’ve ever had any kind of conversation with me, regardless of the medium, there is an incredibly high probability that when you’ve asked some version of “How are you doing?” I have responded with my fallback, favorite, non-pessimistic, doesn’t-drag-you-into-a-conversation-you-didn’t-want-to-have response:

“I’m hanging in there.”

Those who get to know me more intimately hear that phrase so often it begins to lack meaning. Or they’ll see a twinge, a wink, a deep exhalation; something to cue the listener to the “where” I might be “hanging in”.

I learned at a party four years ago that “How are you, really?”, can easily be mistaken for “I know you had a medical ‘thing’ recently; please tell me how miraculous your healing has been so I can feel good about the world.” I know some people actually mean “I read your blog and I have a general sense of the technical side of what’s not working for you; we’d just like some secret stuff not shared on the blog and I know some pretty awesome doctors who treat Ginger Cancer*.” But once the gathering gets past the awkward social niceties, no one is sure what the next step should be. (If you’re roleplaying 1950, I believe it is to take his hat and coat and usher him into the downstairs sitting/crochet/wielding/welding/spelling correction room while asking him about coffee preferences.)

Sometimes people really do want to know how I’m feeling, generally or right in the moment. Maybe they read this blog and want to hear some of the wacky stories straight from my mouth, or they want to ask questions about things I’ve written.

And sometimes people are super grateful when I answer with something so non-committal, so they can skip past the whole ‘Del’s life is hard’ part and get straight to the “Do you want to go catch frogs with me?” mode. Or just about any other question or conversation or activity.

People are correct that when I go to a party or fun gatherings or even just have you over for hangouts, that I am both of the following at the same time:

  • Totally willing to answer any questions or share any details about my medical journey. Remember, that’s what Baphomet said in the beginning of all this, was to share my experiences as far and wide as I can.
  • Sick and fucking tired of every conversation I have with any human being on the planet is somehow related to me being sick, disabled, or in pain. I want to pretend for an hour or three that I’m just an average ordinary Joe doing ordinary Joe things like going to the movies or setting my friends on fire. Y’know, stuff that just happens every day.

I have been getting MUCH better at setting and supporting boundaries around these things, including being totally willing to withdraw into my bedroom if we are hanging out and I’m starting to feel weak, tired, in pain, etc. I warn people before they visit that it will happen, and sometimes it happens for the majority of a visit, and sometimes it was just during the most critical moments of why they came to see me. But there’s nothing I can do about that, so I accept it and move on.

Too Intimidating?

Another social thing I’ve been trying to figure out lately is that many people think of me as being intimidating. I think the first time someone brought this to my attention was a wonderfully powerful and bodily petite Priestess. We had been to a lot of the same events and such, and when necessary we’ve have fun and interesting but politely distant social contact. I couldn’t really tell if she liked me as a person, or if she was being respectful of my experience while secretly disagreeing with any one of my many unusual beliefs or practices, or if she just thought I smelled funny.

Anyway, said Priestess comes striding into my cabin during a camping event, and sits on the edge of my bed. “Del,” I paraphrased, “I am done being intimidated by you.

This is the sort of thing I hear a lot. People saying that they read something I wrote or went to one of my classes or saw me at a party but couldn’t approach because I am intimidating. It baffles me, as I try to be open and warm and friendly, even though I am introverted down to the remnants of my toenails. But it’s a perception, and all I can do to change perception to be reliably un-intimidating (whatever that looks like).

I mean, it’s nothing like what you’re going through…

People are sometimes afraid to talk to me, especially about wellness-related issues, because they’re afraid that being worried/upset/tired/challenged with their health situation when compared to whatever they perceive I’m going through.

What you don’t see is how that reflects on me. Here are some of the things I hear between the lines when people say things like this:

  • You’re so much sicker/weaker/poorer off than I, so much so it’s only okay to talk about your struggles all the time.
  • You’re never going to take my struggles seriously because yours are so much bigger and more threatening than mine,
  • You are so, so ill that even a simple conversation causes you pain, so instead I will only engage in flighty small talk with you.

I’m sure you get my drift.

Now, this is not an invitation to grill me further the next time I tell you I’m “hanging in there”. Sometimes I really do need a little pushing to open up about things, partially because I find myself telling the same stories over and over again (Baphomet sorta promised me this blog would stop that from happening), and partially because I don’t want to waste the 20 minutes of face time I’m going to get with you at the party/gathering/concert/event to be all about my blood sugar numbers and my O2 sats.
I also have a hard time telling who really wants to hear every single detail about what tests I’ve had and what they’ve shown and who all the “charming players” there are (I not-so-secretly nickname most of my doctors and nurses, especially if there are ones that stand out screaming for one. This trip to JH has given us several – Nurses Anxious, Snake, and Afro; Doctors Bopper, Blondie, and Randomly In Charge; even techs like Pocket Fairy and New Best Friend. In fact, I’ve been asked to come up with a new cast of characters and why they got the nicknames they did, so I’m going to end this post a little prematurely so I can take a break and then tackle that. The next post will also likely have much bigger updates as to what’s going on and why I’m not discharged yet…

….and I just may have found my Zebra hunters. Oh yes, another nickname. The “Zebra” thing comes from an old medical school saying – “When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.”

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Dr. Awesome Saves the Day

December 21, 2012 at 8:03 pm (Hospitalizations, Medical, The Panniculectomy, Tuberculosis (Inactive)) (, , , , , , , , , , )

This was an odd week, full of really big ups, some pretty scary downs, and a lot of moving in between.

I’ve been somewhat quiet around here (although I have been keeping up with my other blog. Part of it has been that I’ve just had more to say that didn’t fit here, but there’s a lot of layers to it.

As you may recall, I am now in the headlong stretch towards my radical panniculectomy on December 28th. I’ve had my presurgical appointments and test, and now it’s just a big waiting game for the most part. We’ve been running around on the Wiggio I set up for those who are actively participating in the process in some way, trying to settle all the last minute arrangements and details for those who are traveling to be with me before, during, and after the surgery. In that, there has also been significant spiritual set-up and ritual prep, and I’m very lucky to have two priests and two shamans I trust who are handling that side of things with little input from me.

Yesterday was a pretty eventful day, even though that’s not what the calendar said when I woke up in the morning. I had a little pulminologist appointment so he could clear me for surgery, and a plan to go get pedicures with my boyfriend and my girl. Nice, slow, lazy day.

As I got out of bed and starting getting ready to shower, I made a move that didn’t take the drain (currently attached to my abdomen by stitches) into consideration, and felt a shocking amount of acute pain. (My boyfriend was on the phone with his very Christian mother at the time, so although I wanted to express my dismay at this discomfort, I somehow managed only to stammer with my mouth closed and make some pretty exaggerated body language.) After a minute or two, it went from being intense to being bearable, so I decided to go ahead and take the shower. As I stepped into the bathroom, I realized my drain site was bleeding – more than just a few drops, but not a deluge. My panicked brain considered calling 911, but then I remembered they would take me to the rinkydink rural hospital in the town I’m squatting in, rather than Johns Hopkins which is about an hour away. So I took another deep breath, and called for my boyfriend. After we got the bleeding under control with some gauze pads and pressure, I made a slightly less panicked phone call to Dr. Awesome (not her real name, unfortunately) who is the general surgeon who is monitoring my drain. I explained the situation to her voicemail and then sat down for a bit to get myself together.

Forgoing the shower for the wonderful bath wipes I keep on hand for days when showers are too difficult, I was still able to get myself together enough to get to the pulm appointment on time. After wrestling with the poor check-in secretary who had to deal with all the convulutedness that comes with a legal name change (first *and* last, which I guess is much less common and therefore doesn’t have a lot of set protocol around it), all the while nurses are in the waiting room trying to sweep up the glass from a broken sliding window. It takes what seems like way too long, and then they ask me if I have the relevant records from Johns Hopkins. I sigh heavily, as I *know* that both Rave and I called them earlier this week to make absolutely positive that they had them, and we were assured that they had arrived. They had not.

I go back into the examination room, and I hear the doctor talking to the nurse about how really, this appointment is kinda pointless without the records, and maybe we should reschedule. I interrupt to add that although they are important, I’m also here for presurgical clearance for a surgery on the 28th and unless they can reschedule me before then, we might as well do what we can. He comes into the room and introduces himself, and sits down. “So explain this to me, then. What are you here for, exactly.”

I sigh. I am all too used to having a new doctor look at whatever information they have about me and have no idea where to start. I explain, “Well, there are two reasons, and I guess they relate to each other. I’m having a radical panniculectomy on the 28th, and the lead surgeon was adamant that I see a pulminologist to get clearance; in the whole crazyness that lead up to needing the surgery, an accidental lung CT found a small nodule in my lung, and I think he wanted assurance that between that, my apnea, and my weight, that I was healthy enough to endure a long surgery.”

“How big was the nodule?”

“About 6mm.”

“Oh, that’s nothing. Standard practice with something like that is to re-image in six months and then go from there.”

I sigh. I have now heard this three times. I get it. I add, “Well, I guess maybe they’re a little concerned because I also have inactive TB, for which I’m now on INH. But I haven’t had any cough, no bloody sputum, all the signs I’ve been instructed to be on high alert for.”

He shakes his head, confused but somewhat resigned. “Do you have COPD? Emphysema? Asthma?”

“Nope. And I’ve gotten through several surgeries without issue.”

“Okay. Well, since I don’t even have the time I need to do the testing anyway, and you seem like you’re going to do fine, I’ll write the letter. I just don’t understand why he didn’t send you to a Johns Hopkins doctor.”

“Well, I tried calling, but none of them had any availability until March; even when I told them my surgery was in December.”

Anyway, you get the drift. He made me a follow up appointment to deal with the nodule after surgery.

Afterwards, I was able to secure an emergency appointment with Dr. Awesome for Friday. Still a little woozy from the surge of adrenaline, I decided the three of us (Rave, Alex, and I) would go down to the pedicure place where we had an appointment as a sort of pre-surgery relaxation thing. I almost cancelled it, because I was feeling kind out of it, but decided to push ahead. It turned out to be a really good idea, especially since Rave had never experienced a pedicure before, and watching her face as they took out the various tools was delightful. We ended the day with dinner at my favorite diner.

Today, I saw Dr. Awesome and it was a really good and calming appointment. She assured me that some of the irregularities about my surgery that I saw on the 14th had been cleared up, namely that it was posted as an inpatient, rather than outpatient surgery (oops) and that they had a bed for me in ICU. She threw two extra stitches into my drain to keep it secure, since I only have to have it for another week anyway. Then she sat with me and talked, about the ragey way Dr. Sacks had spoken to me the week before, and answered some of my questions about surgery and afterwards in a much more calm, collected, and caring way. Before I left, I told her my nickname for her was “Dr. Awesome”, and she blushed.

This weekend looks to be a nice one. We are still in high gear in getting the house ready both for visitors prior to surgery, as well as starting packing since we should be moving pretty soon. We’re also going to be stepping up the house looking stuff, since we’ve only been able to see a few places and none of them have worked out one way or the other.

I will try to write one last entry before surgery, but if I go dark for a week or two, you’ll know why.

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3am

September 9, 2012 at 4:45 am (Death and Dying, Living, Living With Chronic Illness, Mental Health) (, , , , , , , , , , , , )

The hospital, as an organism, never sleeps. In the hallways, it’s perpetually noon with the bright lights and the temperature control. There are people wide awake, doing their jobs like evry other day. They aren’t surprised that you’re awake, crying, holding your abdomen in pain.

They realize it’s time for more pain meds. You sigh a little. They help, at least the IV ones do, but your pain is a seven and your best hope is to get it to a five. You start to feel a little disomfort in your arm, but you don’t really care because your belly hurts worse.

The nurse comes back and starts to push the opiate, but it doesn’t feel right for both of you. Your arm starts to swell, and swell, and burn. She disconnects the highly acidic antibiotic and pulls the IV. She tells you that even at 3am, they can get an IV tech to put in a new line.
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Reality and Fear: Being Disabled and Separated

August 25, 2012 at 9:56 pm (Death and Dying, Disability, Living With Chronic Illness, Mental Health, Uncategorized) (, , , , , , , , , , , , )

This entry is for Winter, who suggested I write something about this.

Being separated when you’re disabled is scary. I mean, being separated is pretty damn tough on anyone, even if they know or suspect that it isn’t permanent. I don’t mean to make myself look like a special snowflake, but I’m feeling like being separated when you entered into the marriage a fairly-healthy individual, and are leaving it chronically ill, presents its own buffet of new and interesting challenges.

My spouse supported me throughout most of the marriage. I made money from time to time, but in such small amounts that there’d be no way I could ever support myself in the real world without someone to pay the bills. I never took applying for disability seriously, mostly because he seemed pretty happy and willing to provide, and he made enough money that my lack of a steady income didn’t hurt us in any way. In hindsight, this was a giant mistake, and I knew it the whole time, but between feeling ill and being terrified of bureaucracy, I made it anyway.

 And here I am, now living at a friend’s place temporarily, trying to figure out how I’m going to afford the future. There’s no question I’m entitled to spousal support/alimony, but we seem to have very different views on what that looks like. I’ve started the lengthy SSDI process, but I figure I can’t even begin to dream about that money for at least a year if not longer. I’m seriously looking at some ways to make pocket change working from home, but in such a way that doesn’t threaten my chances with SSDI.

And it’s not only the money, although sometimes it feels that way because it’s the biggest monster peering out at me. I lost the one person who walked through my whole downward spiral with me – who knew me when I was relatively healthy, and saw all the incremental steps towards chronic illness. I lost a person who cared for me, in a physical sense, in that he massaged my legs when they hurt, and stayed with me in the hospital when I was sick, and who did kind things for me when I was unable to do them for myself. He made me feel as though love could actually be unconditional, at least for a time, as he tried very hard to make me feel bad about my failing health.

However, I would be lying if I didn’t think that my illness didn’t play into how things fell out. I needed him to see reality for what it was – to accept that there was no mythical day coming when I woke up and felt completely well again. I think he chose to start a new relationship behind my back because he needed an escape from ours – a place where he was the one taken care of, rather than doing the caring. I think he needed a pair of arms that made him feel masculine and virile, and for some reason I had been failing him on that account.

On my side, I was frustrated beyond belief that he couldn’t see how much living in one room day in and day out was affecting my mental health. No amount of me begging and pleading for him to find accessible housing – or even somewhere I could make due – encouraged him enough to take any real action. As recent as a few months ago, he was trying to convince me that if I could just stick it out for one more year, then we could buy a house rather than rent and wouldn’t that be better? And yet he didn’t understand when I told him no, that wouldn’t be better. I did want to own our own home, but it was a million times more important to me to live in a house where I could move around safely and without pain. When I walked out of that house, I knew for certain that he still doesn’t understand that.

 But enough about our shit. I want to talk about the challenges of being on my own, and how life is changing, now that I am separated.

 

  • I am terrified for my financial situation. There’s all the regular expenses that one has to deal with, like rent and food and utilities; on top of all that, things like health insurance and my many prescriptions weigh heavily on my mind. For now, I am still figuring things out, and hopefully with the help of an arbiter we can come to an equitable solution.

  • I am coping with the feeling of abandonment, especially during a time where my health has been more of an issue. I’ve both been in more pain and had less mobility, and also feel closer to an answer than I have in the past. Losing the one person who’s been with me since the beginning (and who has stated that they are no longer interested in hearing about anything medical going on, even emergency level things) has been very difficult for me to swallow.

  • Not being in the place where I have grown to feel most comfortable in, which has been my shelter from the world for a very long time, is challenging. It doesn’t help that where I’m staying now (with very open-hearted hosts, mind you) is much further away from all of my regular doctors. So what was once a ten minute trip to see my GP is now an hour long trek, and that’s if traffic is in our favor.

  • I am irrationally afraid that this will start some sort of chain reaction, where my other lovers will somehow come to the realization that being in a relationship with me is more difficult because I am ill. It also makes me fear that I will meet no one else who will ever want a spousal relationship with me, seeing as I am very damaged goods.

  • Through many difficult conversations, I have come to realize that living alone is not a real option for me. Thankfully, I happen to have someone in my life who just also happens to be looking to relocate, and so I was able to come to an arrangement with them about finding somewhere together. However, there’s a little part of me, the part that feels abandoned, that hates that I can’t just strike out on my own and prove that I can survive without him; and I fear that this new arrangement will only serve to highlight how very much I can’t stand on my own two feet. Many people have theorized that the reason he betrayed my trust is because he assumed I was physically incapable of leaving him, and I’m worried that’s in fact the case.

 

That’s about all I feel comfortable sharing with the blogosphere at the moment. Obviously, I have a lot of feelings about the situation in general, and I don’t want to lose the point here. I want to find a way to plumb the depths of this experience and find a way to express how it relates to being a disabled person, a person with a chronic illness, a person who has lost the partner they thought was going to walk the whole road towards death with them.

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