Well, no tribbles but they sound cuter than tribulations – or “I spent my Monday in the ER.” I’m attempting to channel Cathy over at Life on the Muskoka River with this post, so be forewarned.
I’d just had breakfast when, in the space of five minutes, I went from feeling fine to nauseous to tingly to my lungs forgetting how to breathe in and out. Some of you know I have fibromyalgia. Yep, I was having a major flare.
Since I thought I was dying, I let the husband unit call the paramedics. Good thing he was home. My blood pressure was only 80/40 something and not getting any better as I’m gulping oxygen through the mask, so they transport me.
Husband unit had to take down the gate between the living room and family room to let the gurney pass through and strap down my smelly body. Had I showered yet? No. Brushed my teeth? No. Still in my pjs? Yes.
The gate protects the litter box from the dogs, you know. Did he put it back up? No. On the bright side, there was nothing left to clean out of the box later on…
So anyway, I’m transported with light and siren, since they can’t get my blood pressure back up. I’m freezing to death (in 82 degree weather) and they can’t find my veins.
Neither could the ER. I have scores of needle tracks in my hands, wrists, up my arms. Meanwhile, my teeth are chattering. They tell me my veins are collapsing because I’m holding them tense. Hello? Freezing!
Someone finally gets me a blanket, then – joy of joys! – a second one. Within two minutes I’ve thrown up on my beautiful blankets and they’re whisked away. Sob.
I have more leads snaking from my body at this point then a porcupine has quills, so tangled I can’t move an inch. Like all of my hospital experiences, I actually feel worse as time goes on – migraine – and beg to go home to die. My blood pressure keeps wobbling and they want to keep me. No!
I finally get discharged, even though my blood pressure is only 90/57, because the doctor was afraid I’d gnaw on his arm if he came any closer. Have I mentioned I hate hospitals?
So I’m released with a plethora of prescriptions after they’ve ruled out pneumonia, stroke, blood clot, heart. He decides I have bronchitis (no, I’m having a flare!) and gives me antibiotics – why? Steroids – why, again? A nifty inhaler with, you guessed it – steroids. Percocet – which made my headache worse, and anti-nausea meds.
They rip off all the leads for extra torture, including the ones on my legs. The legs I haven’t shaved for two weeks. Husband unit draws me a bath in the garden tub built for a gnome and heads off to the pharmacy.
The anti-nausea drug isn’t covered by our insurance and costs $90. Really? I’d rather puke.
I could go on but the pain on your faces makes me stop. Suffice it to say, I might not be around much for a few days or longer, but I’m at home, so it’s good enough.