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11 October 2008 : Digging at the Base of the Mountain.
I like to think that I have forever been the kind of woman who knows her body, and knows that she knows her body, not in a pretentious way but the most static way imaginable. This is how it is supposed to be, so this is how it is.
Mostly that is not true. Mostly, until maybe four years ago, I lived a life outside the body. One that was constrained, maybe, by the ways I could move, constrained but never colored. Never shadowed.
There are a lot of things I can say, about bodies. About all of your bodies. About the bodies I have known. My mother's, soft and warm in all the beaten blood ways of archetype. My father's, rough hewn all my life until it was - in a moment - reduced to the too-pink cheeks and grim smile that are the sum total of my memory, that lifeless facsimile in his casket. My best friends and myself engaged carelessly, glorying in the contact sport that is adolescence.
Our bodies are nothing short of miraculous and this is both a wonder and a dread fact, the undertow of which I tread against ceaselessly in recent days. My particular illness, my kind doctor with his furrowed brow, all these things have rolled me downhill to the dirty bottom where I run my fingers through my hair to catch tangles and spit dirt and detritus from my mouth, the dirty bottom this: the responsibility of being mortal.
If we are lucky, if we are smart, I think we learn to draw lines. We understand somewhere instinctively that there is a basic middle ground between Iron Man and the shaking drunk in the corner reeking of cigarettes and failure (what failure? the failure to rail against one's own baser pleasures?). My lines have been drawn for me this past year, baseball metaphors and tiny white pills that I never let linger long enough on the tongue to know if they were more than metaphorical in their bitterness.
I have been unkind to my body in so many ways. These were my three strikes: cigarettes, birth control, obesity. Then the ominous fourth, the omnipotent family history. A father dead at 45 from the same heart disease that killed his own father. I am lucky because I know my downfalls, I know exactly what I must not touch.
Cigarettes, birth control, obesity. Genetics.
Since March I have lost, on average, about one pound a week. This with careful deliberation, with a new kind of notebook constantly at my side, filled not with fanciful observations or brief snippets of poetry but with every single thing that crosses my lips. A handful of popcorn snatched from a friend, an ounce of creamer poured into my coffee. I have become a master of these things, I can eyeball a liquid ounce, weigh meat in my palm and know.
But even in this I have been unkind, because I have treated my body like a science experiment, and it has repaid me by becoming a stranger. The way it functions, the processes that make it mine, they have all changed, and it frustrates me, it infuriates me. I have been through something like this before, during that lost year in San Francisco, when the money was as tight as it was ever brave enough to be, and what I consumed was primarily found - day old pastries from my roommate's coffeehouse job, whatever Scott was kind enough to buy. Then I was calm with understanding; it was pure abuse, a price I paid for being inconsiderate, for never taking a moment to consider that truly this body is the one thing I'll ever have that is mine alone. Mine to own.
I am infuriated now because I do everything right. I read the labels and even if I want it, I put it back. I make my concessions, give up a midnight snack in favor of putting those two ounces of cream in my morning coffee. I have rigidly and without pity taken in 1400 calories a day, refused anything containing corn syrup, made the most of my allotment in stacks of vegetables, in carefully portioned lean protein consumed in at least a 1:2 ratio with carbohydrates. It feels ridiculous, it feels outrageous, it feels obsessive. But then I have to remind myself of this, which is an admission I have yet to make in a public forum: I have an eating disorder. It's not the sexy kind, it's not the acceptable kind. The media wouldn't give it much consideration because it's not the kind that makes you thin. But it's there, and I have to rage against it every day in the most basic of ways.
What I really want to rage against is the change. The loss of the simple comforts of knowing exactly what was going on in there and why. It isn't so bad that I get up some mornings and have to notch my belt a little tighter (though when it comes time to replace my clothes, my destitution may prove to be an issue), but there are things about being a woman - cycles and circles, rituals and rites - that feel utterly sacred. Like the fact of their existence should contain no loopholes.
Giving my body some of the respect it deserves, finally, should not have made us strangers. If anything, we should be falling in love all over again.
At the end, how will I wear it? When the mountain has fallen, I am a little uncertain about where I'm going to store my tools: someplace far enough away to be safe (from obsession, from envy, from the unrealistic expectation that being thin will change everything) but close enough to find at a moment's notice, should I need some visual reminder that I tunneled through. Where will I lay my hands in repose if not on the shelf of my belly?
The puzzles of the flesh I know will not be unraveled in a single day, metaphor being what it is, but terror holds me back even more than laziness and the unfortunate psychology of the world from which I come.
posted by lindsay at 18:40 :: 2 comments
24 September 2008 : Not a Very Bad Day
I thought all of you (two) who read this would like to know that my ultrasound this morning came out squeaky bitchin' clean, by which I mean not only did they not find a blood clot (well, the same one, really) anywhere, but they also did not find any scar tissue or anything else abnormal, which means that as far as DVT survivors go, I TOTALLY WIN.
In your face, suckers.
And though I have yet to get word on the 18 million vials of blood drawn to be tested today (which was better than the 27 million drawn on my birthday last year), for the time being I am assured that I am as healthy as I am capable, despite that nagging pain in my leg. The final absolute word in DVT diagnosis should be in by this time on Friday.
Until then, I'm going to eat some ice cream and read some more of this awesome book, and listen to some more of this amazing album (at least until my package arrives from amazon containing every other item in his discography), and be grateful for the sunshine, and my pretty hair, and my supportive friends, my mother, and maybe even my (annoying) (hairy) cats.
I hate to be a cliche, but relief is a wonderful, giddy thing that makes the sky bluer and the coffee smoother. Now if only it would shave my legs for me.
posted by lindsay at 16:22 :: 1 comments
22 August 2008 : at last.
Happy One Year Deep Vein Thrombosis Anniversary to ME!
In one hour and eight minutes, I will swallow my last ever dose of blood thinning rat poison.
And then I have to just switch to aspirin for the rest of my life, but HEY, you know how the alarm on my phone goes off at 9pm every single night, and every single night everyone gets annoyed and someone (usually me) says "Is it nine o'clock already? CRAZY!"
Well, that part's over.
I am in the middle of a precariously redesign, and have much to say, should I ever find the time to say it (which looks...vaguely likely).
I'm doing my best, but for right now let's all celebrate that I can ride on Fingers' motorbike without fearing for the brain hemorrhage I will have regardless of the awesomeness of his extra helmet. Just sayin'.
posted by lindsay at 19:47 :: 1 comments
17 July 2008 : Recent incidences of aging.
I know it's been brought to everyone's attention quite frequently in the past year or so that I am not so much in my twenties as in my geriatrics, so much so that during my brief sojourn in Lexington, KY, I received a loving thoughtful package in the mail from two (perilously close to former) friends, that contained a tube of Gold Bond medicated cream.
I am doing a lot of considering as the year anniversary of my ridiculously overwhelming life changing illness (which sometimes comes out far more dramatic than it really was, excepting the fact that I happened to have just embarked on pretty much the only career path that could be immediately put to death by my diagnosis) looms ever nearer. This anniversary means a lot of things, like I can get another tattoo and I can take the Med-Alert tag off my keychain (it's been lolling around in my purse so long at this point that the words have faded, and the permanent marker I inked over them has also faded, so should an emergency occur I hope there'll be someone in the know on hand to inform the paramedics what my now-generic keychain is supposed to be warning them about).
Those things in themselves indicate an increasing trend toward youthfulness. However, since the illness occurred last August I have worked a couple of different jobs, all of which required me to be on my feet and running around like crazy for eight hours a day. Good for circulation, good for the reduction of swelling. Now I'm working in a cubicle, the health benefits of being on my feet all day are no longer available. I have traded in my stinky, sweaty foodservice odor and tired aching feet for a swollen ankle, and the swollen ankle is the problem that could prove to be life threatening.
In the spirit of such, while at the pharmacy the other day picking up the scheduled refill on my anti-coagulants, I tossed a pair of compression hose into my basket.
Tomorrow I'm going to go to my doctor and beg to not have to wear them, though the last two days of sitting on my ass have yielded not so much as a bulge in my once-again svelte right ankle.
Combine that with the fact that the gentleman who promised to call tonight for dinner and various other activities around 8pm called at 11:30 to apologize and see if I was still up for other activities, and my response was "Sorry, bud, I'm going to bed," I'd say that my superficial signs of aging have officially turned inward.
Eight hours of sleep has officially trumped staying up late to make out.
Holy crap.
posted by lindsay at 23:35 :: 0 comments
19 February 2008 : Sicko.
2007 tax return check, large enough to subsidize:
- laser hair removal (goodbye sideburns: hello wearing a ponytail without looking like a boy)
- a week in California with Lindsay and Logan
- every season of every television show I've ever liked on DVD.
- several bottles of Johnny Walker Blue.
- winter coat fetish
- taking three weeks off work to do whatever the hell I want
- a credit hour or two at the University of Indianapolis
Instead, this year, I will be signing my check over to the imaging center in Lexington, to pay off a third of what I owe them for two (2) procedures my insurance company is refusing to pay for, as I did not get forewarning on my medical emergency and near death experience, thus forewarning the insurance company accordingly.
I love you, Aetna. Will you marry me? I know I have sideburns like a boy, but I think we can make this work.
posted by lindsay at 09:23 :: 1 comments
24 September 2007 : junkies like us...
hi, i'm lindsay. the veins in my arms finally crapped out.
by which i mean, i finally encountered what i've been dreading for five weeks now but have been lucky enough to avoid: the utterly incompetent phlebotomist. i hadn't had blood drawn in over a week; my veins should have been just fine.
before he came in to draw my labs, i heard him yell "i wouldn't care to stick her" from the other side of the lab. for those of you outside the bluegrass, that's kentuckian for "i wouldn't mind drawing her blood."
smelling really good and calling me "darlin'" do not a phlebotomist make. it took three seconds for him to not be able to find a vein in my arm, two more for him to not be able to get enough blood out of the back of my hand, and another six for him to decide to use my wrist:
exhibit a, yesterday at about 4pm.
exhibit b, yesterday at about 11:30pm.
i promise never to joke about sticking the needle between my toes again.
posted by lindsay at 11:07 :: 1 comments
15 September 2007 : missing the point.
On Thursday morning, I got the phone call again. Emergency room, blood too thin, spontaneous internal hemorrhage, blah blah blah. One source says its my sucky diet causing me to be so sensitive to the meds. One source says its a genetic predisposition (genetically sensitive? I totally buy that). Either way, I was in danger (again) of bleeding to death from a papercut, so I hauled my ass in for blood tests and vitamin k shots.
But wait - there IS something new to report here. This particular doctor, unlike the other (four...no, five) I've seen in the past three weeks, was concerned when I mentioned that I'd had an obnoxiously constant headache for oh...two weeks, maybe more. The fact of this, combined with my utter lack of clotting ability, instigated my first CAT scan experience. To those of you who are Buffy fans, the answer is no: they do not call it that because the machine is shaped like a cat.
I've decided I think CAT scans are a scam. I laid on an uncomfortable piece of plastic with my head in a vice, held real still for five minutes in the donut hole of a circular piece of tan plastic that made some whirring noises. I never saw the results of the test, no cool neon photos of my brain showed up for evidence, and yet I'm going to end up paying thousands of dollars for that wasted five minutes of my life. I believe nothing of actual consequence happened in that dimly lit room, and the ER staff merely wanted a little extra compensation on the side for having to reassure me that my brain was not bleeding.
Jerks.
But the worst part is that I expected to get a little something more out of the deal. Yeah, yeah, no brain bleeding, who cares? So my headaches are just a side effect of all the powerful drugs coursing through my system - I already knew that. I'm probably a little dehydrated - these things happen when you don't drink a full 8 ounces of water each time you take a pill. And the headaches are pretty bad, yeah, but they haven't prevented me from being a functioning member of society (well as much as any girl can from the cave of first year grad work, anyway).
I just wanted...more. When the pretty doctor walked back in and said, "So, your results are normal - you've got a brain and it isn't bleeding," I just stared at her. I think this confused her, and I was supposed to be excited - jump carefully around the room avoiding sharp objects and such.
But seriously, that's it? I don't want to hear that it's normal. Where's my "Your brain is not bleeding, but we did discover activity in an area of the brain that's never been used by a human before! Why, you're some kind of supergenius! Here, try to detach my foot and float it around the room, and then reattach it, using just the power of your brain." They could have called it the Lindsay's Area (or you know, something clever).
I spent the rest of my day grateful to not be in the hospital, but bitterly disappointed by my physical normality. Though in retrospect it occurs to me that if I could have detached her foot and reattached it using only the power of my mind, I might have suffered a fate a little worse than a hospital stay. There probably would have been really big syringes and white coats and then I would be forced to join Secret Ops or something even more sinister.
Since camo, mind control and track marks have all gone the way of the baggy, one strap overall, and I've already got some wicked bad track marks, I think I'll try to be a little more gracious in the future about my lack of supergenius.
posted by lindsay at 17:16 :: 3 comments
09 September 2007 : probably not for the faint of heart; definitely not for me
[just a warning that this is really long]
i got out of the shower this afternoon only to realize that my towel was exactly where i'd left it three days ago (also known as "the last time i showered") - on the floor of my bedroom. i hate it when this happens, and yet it happens a lot. so i ran my dripping wet, freezing cold, naked ass through my apartment to where the towel was, hurrying back to the bathroom before i got everything i own wet.
the bathroom, which was covered in blood.
i thought i was hallucinating, too little sleep or more likely too much; blinked twice, twice more. it was still there, little puddles of it on the floor, pink rivulets traveling lazily down the sides of the tub, the toilet tank, the sink.
i panicked, of course. spent at least two important minutes that could have been better used checking myself for mortal injuries staring blankly at the carnage and thinking i need to call my doctor which doctor i have so many doctors and what do i say i need to call before i even bothered to look.
there was nothing, i couldn't see anything. even in the mirror, nothing but my skin, lately paler white than ever, blue veins alarmingly prominent in the more delicate areas. lately, the backs of my hands are disarming, fragile looking, the webwork of capillaries exposed to the world.
it took a while to figure it out. an infected hair. one. on my leg. it's been plagueing me a while now, probably because i can't help but poke at it, make sure its still there. among other things, i've been disallowed the time honored custom of removing my body hair with razor blades, so i know it's been at least three weeks since it popped up post shave. and it finally gave up the ghost. a little tiny pinprick of a nothing bodily annoyance, so small i have to contort into a ball to get a good look at it. and so much blood, any normal person would have at least cut off a hand to achieve such stunning results (never doubt that i'm an overachiever).
this is the truth of my current existence, a moment bringing skillfully home what i've been dealing with (read: avoiding) for a while now.
everything has changed.
-----
a couple of weeks ago, my leg swelled up and started hurting like a little whiny bitch. like a constant charley horse in my calf, if you can imagine. stoic that i am, i chalked it up to a tendonitis flare up, iced it down and went about my business. it didn't get better. three days, four days - the swelling didn't go down even after propping it above my heart for an entire (restless) night. so i went to the doctor.
in hindsight, i realize her reaction was telling. i think at the time i was too tired to notice. this, i would later learn, is the conversation going on just outside the door:
"we need to call KIC, i've got a young woman in here with a blood clot."
"a blood clot, really? how old?"
"twenty four."
"shit, are you joking?"
(two weeks later, that second doctor would say, "consider yourself lucky, hon. i've seen girls your age have strokes." needless to say, i was not comforted.)
two seconds, my leg in the on call's small hands, and i was out the door with a prescription for one ultrasound ("IMMEDIATELY") in one hand and written directions to KIC in the other. i got lost three times. i'll admit it: i was bawling like a little baby. too much stress, too much shit. alone in a new city, four hours from home. now was not the time for this.
i cried all the way there, through the ultrasound, the waiting room where finally they said, "didn't anyone tell you that you're going to the hospital?", all the way to the hospital, through triage, registration and on up to my room. by the time night rolled around, it would take a lortab 750 to kill my headache. i don't handle crisis well, i don't deal in stressful situations, and i don't like being lonely.
it was only a couple of days. bed rest, injections, pills - all manner of pills. my mom and my brother were there within five hours. i slept, i caught up on L.A. Ink, i pressed the call button and made an announcement to whoever answered, every single time i had to pee.
the problem, see, is not the issue itself, not the blockage or the pain or the swelling. not the degradation of being totally helpless, trapped in bed for 36 hours. not the side effects of the medications, or the inability to do anything on my own even after being out of the hospital. that doctor was right, i was lucky. i could have had a stroke. i could have had an embolism. so many people my age have it so much worse.
the problem is my body. this body, that i've loved, cherished my entire life. this body that gets potatoes when it craves potatoes and water when it craves water. and now i'm alone in this city because i'm trying to do something, because i want more than an office job and a husband, because i have to not spend the rest of my life being ordinary. but my body, it isn't, apparently, up to the task. the first four weeks i lived in lexington, i was sick. i've felt like it betrayed me, it gave up on me, it faltered when i most needed it to be strong. but let's put blame where blame is due. when i asked for the pill, last august, i was asked to sign a paper stating that i had been informed and understood the risks of taking it. see, a girl isn't supposed to get the pill when she smokes a pack of camels every single day and has a dad who died of heart disease at 45.
i can't even explain the helplessness.
i did it anyway. took the damned pill every day, smoked my cigarettes and thought nothing of it. me? i'm 24. i eat lots of leafy green vegetables, never get constipated, drink at least a gallon of water a day. i'm fucking invincible (a theory which, despite this interlude, has yet to be disproven. just saying.).
it was pretty much a year to the day of popping that first tiny hormone tab that i landed in the hospital with my leg on a pillow (did i mention the awesomocity of being moved to a negative pressure room upon the nurses' discovery of my fun shingles?). the saddest part?
in that entire year, i never got laid.
true, i was considerably less pimply and almost never pre-bleed cranky, but mostly it was completely worthless. now, i'm out the pleasure of cigarettes, and i am never, ever allowed to use any kind of hormone birth control, ever again. the pill, the patch, the shot, the ring.
seriously. never again. i'm pretty sure this is divine retribution for that time i went to boarding school, celebrating the fact that my new absence meant i didn't have to get confirmed into the catholic church, a fate i'd been certain for years i'd be unable to avoid.
-----
so let's just say that everything's gone a little haywire since then. i'm on all kinds of medications right now, keeping my blood as uncoagulatin' as safely possible. disallowed the indulgences of things like spinach, oatmeal, and a second cup of coffee. breaking, rather successfully (but with a little help from my new best friend) my smoking habit - though that, i think, is made more difficult by the fact that i can't drink on these medications. not smoking is a lot easier than not drinking - case in point, i forgot to take any chantix at all today, and cigarettes never occured to me. i also have instructions to lose 75 pounds. that's going fairly well for me, but who knows for how long. fear only motivates as long as it sticks around. and yeah, this episode has been rife with the fear, but it's receding into the past pretty quickly, buried in piles of textbooks and the detritus of everyday living.
it's pretty nutso. tap me on the shoulder, it leaves a bruise. under my clothes, i'm pretty uniformly mottled with purple and yellow. insanely frequent blood tests have left me looking like a junkie and on a first name basis with all staff at the hospital lab (yesterday, i asked how long it was gonna be before they had to stick the needle between my toes - no one was amused). and on saturday morning, at 6:14 am, i got a phone call.
"i just got the results from your blood test," the on call told me. "i need you to go the emergency room."
i'd been in bed for maybe three hours. "huh?" i said. "blood test?"
"the emergency room. NOW."
i went, driving slowly; i was shaking and i get disoriented when i drive in glasses.
"i think they called about me?" i told the triage nurse. "my inr was over ten yesterday." she startled. maybe it was just my familiarity with the jargon.
there was no wait. they gave me a vitamin k shot (i considered asking for a smack on the ass, too, but it seemed in bad taste), another blood test, three heated blankets, and a couple of hours to sleep on a bed. i'd been carefully following the restrictions on my diet: one cup of coffee per day, no leafy greens, no cranberries. the list of prohibited foods is taped to my cupboard. set alarms to take my medication every twelve hours on the dot. screwed up my courage and found a blank spot on my belly to give myself a shot, twice a day. but there's no telling, no way to ensure things don't spiral out of control. the new blood test indicated an inr so high they couldn't read it.
among other things, this apparently meant that i could just start bleeding spontaneously out of random important places - like my brain. internal hemmorhage was at any moment another moment away. i was told not to clip my toenails. it would take about 24 hours for the vitamin k to work its mojo, but until then something so simple as cracking my hip against the counter could be fatal (so, clearly, i decided to enjoy a trip to indianapolis later that day - evil was weighed against evil, and i decided that four hours risking a car accident at someone else's hands was infinitely preferable to having an anyeurism in my living room when every single person i knew in lexington was in indianapolis. plus, i like getting what i want, and i wanted to go to that show). now it wasn't just my body working against me, but everything that was supposed to help it. doing what i was told put me in more danger.
fortunately, that's past. things seem to be under control (at least until i start getting billed).
but, like i said, everything has changed. i hadn't given up smoking for all the things that went along with it: coffee and crosswords with frank, tv nights with lisa. it's hard to change everything all at once. no cigarettes, suddenly. no liquor. a new diet.
i falter. and i'm going to need help. that's the point of this post. routines need to be deconstructed: no more coffeeshop chainsmoking, no more delighted group bingeing on various things (booze, pasta, etc). did i mention that losing 75 pounds decreases my risk of a recurring event by 90%? and that air travel is going to constantly be a fearsome adversary? and that i'm supposed to go to africa next summer? and that it apparently takes something like 40 hours to travel from indianapolis to lusaka, zambia?
i haven't got much time, which means i haven't got much time for relapses. i hate this shit. i hate that i have to be this girl. but, friends, you're what i've got. so i'm asking for support. and i'm telling you all of this in the way of an obligation, a binding contract. because this, it's serious. and because i'm fucking serious. so it's gotta be.
posted by lindsay at 01:26 :: 2 comments
05 November 2003 : i was feeling disquieted.
all i cared about was whether or not he wore a wedding ring.
in january, i moved by myself to a new town. i put everything in my car and drove alone and carried everything upstairs to my new apartment with no help. really, there was no one. it was january 9th.
it only took one week, maybe it was the stress of public transportation. i had to learn it like i was a child, because i had never used it. had never been on a bus. after i started to figure out how to use the trains and the quickest way to get to the grocery store, i started to hurt.
a trip to the emergency room yielded this: one doctor in disbelief that a girl like me could be sexually inactive. he held my breast in his large, furry hand and said 'but how can you be sure?' i wondered if it was the infection itself, or just the way i looked. it also got me a syringe in the hip, an hour sleeping on a gurney, and a prescription for vicodin. two refills.
come back, they said, if it gets any worse.
after my drawing class the next night, i went back. it was after midnight. this time, a roommate i barely knew dropped me off outside the glass doors. it hurt too much too drive, and anyway, what would i do if i had to drive home in the rain on pills? inside, i remember that the nurse wore green and he was asian, good looking. i told him i was afraid of needles and he believed me, so he numbed my hand before he went looking for a vein. very kind, that handsome asian nurse was. he shooed everyone out when i started to cry and he held my hand when i told him that i was totally alone and he screamed at the switchboard operator until she gave up and called my mother long distance and he gave me an extra gown when they told me i had to wear mine backwards for easy access and he told me that he recognized pain in my eyes, made me point at a series of happy/sad faces on a chart before he determined my dosage.
morphine feels like a flashbulb, one of the old fashioned ones that breaks after one use, explodes inside your head and the heat is a reaction to the light. it was fine now that i was warm and they took me upstairs in my backwards gown so everyone between emergency and medsurg saw everything i had, but it was so warm that it didnt matter. my mother called and i dont remember talking to her, i only remember that the doctors were busy and nurses were so gentle and my roommate was old and dying and there was a channel on the television that showed an empty altar covered in flowers beside a window.
i kept that station on all day to see how the shadows changed as the sun rose and set in a world outside that i couldnt remember. morphine in my iv and no food for 24 hours.
the morning nurse sang to me and danced in tennis shoes, stopping only when the doctor came in. she, like everyone else was busy, but since she was the only surgeon in the hospital (apparently) who dealt in breasts, she was stuck with me.
she gave me 2 to 2:15 pm, noted it in her black book and left the room, and the nurse was sympathetic. when she was gone, i realized that she was a beautiful woman. i realized that i wasnt afraid to be exposed in front of her eyes, that i didnt care if her busy eyes thought i was ugly. she was going to fix me.
on tv, the shadows got longer across the altar. little flower heads were creeping across the floor, ready to leave the screen and come to me. no one even knew i was here; surely i had to get flowers from somewhere.
when she came at ten after two, i took off my shirt and lay on my back waiting. i closed my eyes and the singing nurse held my hand, because he also knew that i was afraid of needles. and mostly, i couldnt feel the front of me. they were poking around at my sternum and the crease there, where the breast folds against the body and i felt nothing. this, the most sensitive spot on my body. but i felt the scalpel, i felt every movement of this doctors delicate white hand, saw it mirrored in the swinging of her hair.
it wasnt supposed to hurt, but it did. it wasnt supposed to make me cry but i felt the sides of my pillow and the hair around my ears grow wet, wet, cold. she was squeezing now, this dark eyed woman with the lovely skin had set down her scalpel and was bearing down, searching for infection.
he was surprised, that handsome singing nurse told me later as he rested me back on a new dry pillow, at how well i held up. surprised i hadnt screamed. he had gone home last night and told his girlfriend about me, how i was lost in this hospital with this scary sickness when i had just moved by myself to this big city. how i had been here for six days and this was all i knew.
i wondered if i should tell him that if i called my boyfriend, if i even could get ahold of him from this bed, that he would not come. that we were not really together, even though i had seen him a few days ago and slept in his bed. that he probably wouldnt care, like he hadnt cared to show up at the airport on time, like he hadnt cared to make good on anything he had said in the last few weeks.
that nurse had looked away, his handsome face had turned and his eyes closed and i tried to feel for a wedding ring on that hand that held mine so i could squeeze.
i could feel his sympathy, as he saw my stomach white and bare and my nipples standing up in the cold and all the blood running between my breasts. i wanted to know if he was afraid for me because he loved a woman, if he was seeing those tears and that blood and the glint of the blade on the pale flesh of the woman he went home to every night.
i bet she had dark eyes. kind, like his.
i would drive, later, two days later when i got to go home, to someone with pale eyes, blue ones. i think he mouthed his sympathies maybe gave me a hug. it was fine; they sent me home with another vicodin prescription, four refills. when he climbed into bed with me that night, there was no pain. every noise he made, i vibrated with it from head to toe.
it was a kind of magic, anyway.
posted by lindsay at 02:26 :: 0 comments
I like to think that I have forever been the kind of woman who knows her body, and knows that she knows her body, not in a pretentious way but the most static way imaginable. This is how it is supposed to be, so this is how it is.
Mostly that is not true. Mostly, until maybe four years ago, I lived a life outside the body. One that was constrained, maybe, by the ways I could move, constrained but never colored. Never shadowed.
There are a lot of things I can say, about bodies. About all of your bodies. About the bodies I have known. My mother's, soft and warm in all the beaten blood ways of archetype. My father's, rough hewn all my life until it was - in a moment - reduced to the too-pink cheeks and grim smile that are the sum total of my memory, that lifeless facsimile in his casket. My best friends and myself engaged carelessly, glorying in the contact sport that is adolescence.
Our bodies are nothing short of miraculous and this is both a wonder and a dread fact, the undertow of which I tread against ceaselessly in recent days. My particular illness, my kind doctor with his furrowed brow, all these things have rolled me downhill to the dirty bottom where I run my fingers through my hair to catch tangles and spit dirt and detritus from my mouth, the dirty bottom this: the responsibility of being mortal.
If we are lucky, if we are smart, I think we learn to draw lines. We understand somewhere instinctively that there is a basic middle ground between Iron Man and the shaking drunk in the corner reeking of cigarettes and failure (what failure? the failure to rail against one's own baser pleasures?). My lines have been drawn for me this past year, baseball metaphors and tiny white pills that I never let linger long enough on the tongue to know if they were more than metaphorical in their bitterness.
I have been unkind to my body in so many ways. These were my three strikes: cigarettes, birth control, obesity. Then the ominous fourth, the omnipotent family history. A father dead at 45 from the same heart disease that killed his own father. I am lucky because I know my downfalls, I know exactly what I must not touch.
Cigarettes, birth control, obesity. Genetics.
Since March I have lost, on average, about one pound a week. This with careful deliberation, with a new kind of notebook constantly at my side, filled not with fanciful observations or brief snippets of poetry but with every single thing that crosses my lips. A handful of popcorn snatched from a friend, an ounce of creamer poured into my coffee. I have become a master of these things, I can eyeball a liquid ounce, weigh meat in my palm and know.
But even in this I have been unkind, because I have treated my body like a science experiment, and it has repaid me by becoming a stranger. The way it functions, the processes that make it mine, they have all changed, and it frustrates me, it infuriates me. I have been through something like this before, during that lost year in San Francisco, when the money was as tight as it was ever brave enough to be, and what I consumed was primarily found - day old pastries from my roommate's coffeehouse job, whatever Scott was kind enough to buy. Then I was calm with understanding; it was pure abuse, a price I paid for being inconsiderate, for never taking a moment to consider that truly this body is the one thing I'll ever have that is mine alone. Mine to own.
I am infuriated now because I do everything right. I read the labels and even if I want it, I put it back. I make my concessions, give up a midnight snack in favor of putting those two ounces of cream in my morning coffee. I have rigidly and without pity taken in 1400 calories a day, refused anything containing corn syrup, made the most of my allotment in stacks of vegetables, in carefully portioned lean protein consumed in at least a 1:2 ratio with carbohydrates. It feels ridiculous, it feels outrageous, it feels obsessive. But then I have to remind myself of this, which is an admission I have yet to make in a public forum: I have an eating disorder. It's not the sexy kind, it's not the acceptable kind. The media wouldn't give it much consideration because it's not the kind that makes you thin. But it's there, and I have to rage against it every day in the most basic of ways.
What I really want to rage against is the change. The loss of the simple comforts of knowing exactly what was going on in there and why. It isn't so bad that I get up some mornings and have to notch my belt a little tighter (though when it comes time to replace my clothes, my destitution may prove to be an issue), but there are things about being a woman - cycles and circles, rituals and rites - that feel utterly sacred. Like the fact of their existence should contain no loopholes.
Giving my body some of the respect it deserves, finally, should not have made us strangers. If anything, we should be falling in love all over again.
At the end, how will I wear it? When the mountain has fallen, I am a little uncertain about where I'm going to store my tools: someplace far enough away to be safe (from obsession, from envy, from the unrealistic expectation that being thin will change everything) but close enough to find at a moment's notice, should I need some visual reminder that I tunneled through. Where will I lay my hands in repose if not on the shelf of my belly?
The puzzles of the flesh I know will not be unraveled in a single day, metaphor being what it is, but terror holds me back even more than laziness and the unfortunate psychology of the world from which I come.
posted by lindsay at 18:40 :: 2 comments
24 September 2008 : Not a Very Bad Day
I thought all of you (two) who read this would like to know that my ultrasound this morning came out squeaky bitchin' clean, by which I mean not only did they not find a blood clot (well, the same one, really) anywhere, but they also did not find any scar tissue or anything else abnormal, which means that as far as DVT survivors go, I TOTALLY WIN.
In your face, suckers.
And though I have yet to get word on the 18 million vials of blood drawn to be tested today (which was better than the 27 million drawn on my birthday last year), for the time being I am assured that I am as healthy as I am capable, despite that nagging pain in my leg. The final absolute word in DVT diagnosis should be in by this time on Friday.
Until then, I'm going to eat some ice cream and read some more of this awesome book, and listen to some more of this amazing album (at least until my package arrives from amazon containing every other item in his discography), and be grateful for the sunshine, and my pretty hair, and my supportive friends, my mother, and maybe even my (annoying) (hairy) cats.
I hate to be a cliche, but relief is a wonderful, giddy thing that makes the sky bluer and the coffee smoother. Now if only it would shave my legs for me.
Labels: it's a sickness
posted by lindsay at 16:22 :: 1 comments
22 August 2008 : at last.
Happy One Year Deep Vein Thrombosis Anniversary to ME!
In one hour and eight minutes, I will swallow my last ever dose of blood thinning rat poison.
And then I have to just switch to aspirin for the rest of my life, but HEY, you know how the alarm on my phone goes off at 9pm every single night, and every single night everyone gets annoyed and someone (usually me) says "Is it nine o'clock already? CRAZY!"
Well, that part's over.
I am in the middle of a precariously redesign, and have much to say, should I ever find the time to say it (which looks...vaguely likely).
I'm doing my best, but for right now let's all celebrate that I can ride on Fingers' motorbike without fearing for the brain hemorrhage I will have regardless of the awesomeness of his extra helmet. Just sayin'.
Labels: it's a sickness, Old grandma
posted by lindsay at 19:47 :: 1 comments
17 July 2008 : Recent incidences of aging.
I know it's been brought to everyone's attention quite frequently in the past year or so that I am not so much in my twenties as in my geriatrics, so much so that during my brief sojourn in Lexington, KY, I received a loving thoughtful package in the mail from two (perilously close to former) friends, that contained a tube of Gold Bond medicated cream.
I am doing a lot of considering as the year anniversary of my ridiculously overwhelming life changing illness (which sometimes comes out far more dramatic than it really was, excepting the fact that I happened to have just embarked on pretty much the only career path that could be immediately put to death by my diagnosis) looms ever nearer. This anniversary means a lot of things, like I can get another tattoo and I can take the Med-Alert tag off my keychain (it's been lolling around in my purse so long at this point that the words have faded, and the permanent marker I inked over them has also faded, so should an emergency occur I hope there'll be someone in the know on hand to inform the paramedics what my now-generic keychain is supposed to be warning them about).
Those things in themselves indicate an increasing trend toward youthfulness. However, since the illness occurred last August I have worked a couple of different jobs, all of which required me to be on my feet and running around like crazy for eight hours a day. Good for circulation, good for the reduction of swelling. Now I'm working in a cubicle, the health benefits of being on my feet all day are no longer available. I have traded in my stinky, sweaty foodservice odor and tired aching feet for a swollen ankle, and the swollen ankle is the problem that could prove to be life threatening.
In the spirit of such, while at the pharmacy the other day picking up the scheduled refill on my anti-coagulants, I tossed a pair of compression hose into my basket.
Tomorrow I'm going to go to my doctor and beg to not have to wear them, though the last two days of sitting on my ass have yielded not so much as a bulge in my once-again svelte right ankle.
Combine that with the fact that the gentleman who promised to call tonight for dinner and various other activities around 8pm called at 11:30 to apologize and see if I was still up for other activities, and my response was "Sorry, bud, I'm going to bed," I'd say that my superficial signs of aging have officially turned inward.
Eight hours of sleep has officially trumped staying up late to make out.
Holy crap.
Labels: it's a sickness, Old grandma
posted by lindsay at 23:35 :: 0 comments
19 February 2008 : Sicko.
2007 tax return check, large enough to subsidize:
- laser hair removal (goodbye sideburns: hello wearing a ponytail without looking like a boy)
- a week in California with Lindsay and Logan
- every season of every television show I've ever liked on DVD.
- several bottles of Johnny Walker Blue.
- winter coat fetish
- taking three weeks off work to do whatever the hell I want
- a credit hour or two at the University of Indianapolis
Instead, this year, I will be signing my check over to the imaging center in Lexington, to pay off a third of what I owe them for two (2) procedures my insurance company is refusing to pay for, as I did not get forewarning on my medical emergency and near death experience, thus forewarning the insurance company accordingly.
I love you, Aetna. Will you marry me? I know I have sideburns like a boy, but I think we can make this work.
Labels: it's a sickness
posted by lindsay at 09:23 :: 1 comments
24 September 2007 : junkies like us...
hi, i'm lindsay. the veins in my arms finally crapped out.
by which i mean, i finally encountered what i've been dreading for five weeks now but have been lucky enough to avoid: the utterly incompetent phlebotomist. i hadn't had blood drawn in over a week; my veins should have been just fine.
before he came in to draw my labs, i heard him yell "i wouldn't care to stick her" from the other side of the lab. for those of you outside the bluegrass, that's kentuckian for "i wouldn't mind drawing her blood."
smelling really good and calling me "darlin'" do not a phlebotomist make. it took three seconds for him to not be able to find a vein in my arm, two more for him to not be able to get enough blood out of the back of my hand, and another six for him to decide to use my wrist:
exhibit a, yesterday at about 4pm.
exhibit b, yesterday at about 11:30pm.
i promise never to joke about sticking the needle between my toes again.
Labels: it's a sickness, life in the bluegrass
posted by lindsay at 11:07 :: 1 comments
15 September 2007 : missing the point.
On Thursday morning, I got the phone call again. Emergency room, blood too thin, spontaneous internal hemorrhage, blah blah blah. One source says its my sucky diet causing me to be so sensitive to the meds. One source says its a genetic predisposition (genetically sensitive? I totally buy that). Either way, I was in danger (again) of bleeding to death from a papercut, so I hauled my ass in for blood tests and vitamin k shots.
But wait - there IS something new to report here. This particular doctor, unlike the other (four...no, five) I've seen in the past three weeks, was concerned when I mentioned that I'd had an obnoxiously constant headache for oh...two weeks, maybe more. The fact of this, combined with my utter lack of clotting ability, instigated my first CAT scan experience. To those of you who are Buffy fans, the answer is no: they do not call it that because the machine is shaped like a cat.
I've decided I think CAT scans are a scam. I laid on an uncomfortable piece of plastic with my head in a vice, held real still for five minutes in the donut hole of a circular piece of tan plastic that made some whirring noises. I never saw the results of the test, no cool neon photos of my brain showed up for evidence, and yet I'm going to end up paying thousands of dollars for that wasted five minutes of my life. I believe nothing of actual consequence happened in that dimly lit room, and the ER staff merely wanted a little extra compensation on the side for having to reassure me that my brain was not bleeding.
Jerks.
But the worst part is that I expected to get a little something more out of the deal. Yeah, yeah, no brain bleeding, who cares? So my headaches are just a side effect of all the powerful drugs coursing through my system - I already knew that. I'm probably a little dehydrated - these things happen when you don't drink a full 8 ounces of water each time you take a pill. And the headaches are pretty bad, yeah, but they haven't prevented me from being a functioning member of society (well as much as any girl can from the cave of first year grad work, anyway).
I just wanted...more. When the pretty doctor walked back in and said, "So, your results are normal - you've got a brain and it isn't bleeding," I just stared at her. I think this confused her, and I was supposed to be excited - jump carefully around the room avoiding sharp objects and such.
But seriously, that's it? I don't want to hear that it's normal. Where's my "Your brain is not bleeding, but we did discover activity in an area of the brain that's never been used by a human before! Why, you're some kind of supergenius! Here, try to detach my foot and float it around the room, and then reattach it, using just the power of your brain." They could have called it the Lindsay's Area (or you know, something clever).
I spent the rest of my day grateful to not be in the hospital, but bitterly disappointed by my physical normality. Though in retrospect it occurs to me that if I could have detached her foot and reattached it using only the power of my mind, I might have suffered a fate a little worse than a hospital stay. There probably would have been really big syringes and white coats and then I would be forced to join Secret Ops or something even more sinister.
Since camo, mind control and track marks have all gone the way of the baggy, one strap overall, and I've already got some wicked bad track marks, I think I'll try to be a little more gracious in the future about my lack of supergenius.
Labels: it's a sickness, life in the bluegrass
posted by lindsay at 17:16 :: 3 comments
09 September 2007 : probably not for the faint of heart; definitely not for me
[just a warning that this is really long]
i got out of the shower this afternoon only to realize that my towel was exactly where i'd left it three days ago (also known as "the last time i showered") - on the floor of my bedroom. i hate it when this happens, and yet it happens a lot. so i ran my dripping wet, freezing cold, naked ass through my apartment to where the towel was, hurrying back to the bathroom before i got everything i own wet.
the bathroom, which was covered in blood.
i thought i was hallucinating, too little sleep or more likely too much; blinked twice, twice more. it was still there, little puddles of it on the floor, pink rivulets traveling lazily down the sides of the tub, the toilet tank, the sink.
i panicked, of course. spent at least two important minutes that could have been better used checking myself for mortal injuries staring blankly at the carnage and thinking i need to call my doctor which doctor i have so many doctors and what do i say i need to call before i even bothered to look.
there was nothing, i couldn't see anything. even in the mirror, nothing but my skin, lately paler white than ever, blue veins alarmingly prominent in the more delicate areas. lately, the backs of my hands are disarming, fragile looking, the webwork of capillaries exposed to the world.
it took a while to figure it out. an infected hair. one. on my leg. it's been plagueing me a while now, probably because i can't help but poke at it, make sure its still there. among other things, i've been disallowed the time honored custom of removing my body hair with razor blades, so i know it's been at least three weeks since it popped up post shave. and it finally gave up the ghost. a little tiny pinprick of a nothing bodily annoyance, so small i have to contort into a ball to get a good look at it. and so much blood, any normal person would have at least cut off a hand to achieve such stunning results (never doubt that i'm an overachiever).
this is the truth of my current existence, a moment bringing skillfully home what i've been dealing with (read: avoiding) for a while now.
everything has changed.
-----
a couple of weeks ago, my leg swelled up and started hurting like a little whiny bitch. like a constant charley horse in my calf, if you can imagine. stoic that i am, i chalked it up to a tendonitis flare up, iced it down and went about my business. it didn't get better. three days, four days - the swelling didn't go down even after propping it above my heart for an entire (restless) night. so i went to the doctor.
in hindsight, i realize her reaction was telling. i think at the time i was too tired to notice. this, i would later learn, is the conversation going on just outside the door:
"we need to call KIC, i've got a young woman in here with a blood clot."
"a blood clot, really? how old?"
"twenty four."
"shit, are you joking?"
(two weeks later, that second doctor would say, "consider yourself lucky, hon. i've seen girls your age have strokes." needless to say, i was not comforted.)
two seconds, my leg in the on call's small hands, and i was out the door with a prescription for one ultrasound ("IMMEDIATELY") in one hand and written directions to KIC in the other. i got lost three times. i'll admit it: i was bawling like a little baby. too much stress, too much shit. alone in a new city, four hours from home. now was not the time for this.
i cried all the way there, through the ultrasound, the waiting room where finally they said, "didn't anyone tell you that you're going to the hospital?", all the way to the hospital, through triage, registration and on up to my room. by the time night rolled around, it would take a lortab 750 to kill my headache. i don't handle crisis well, i don't deal in stressful situations, and i don't like being lonely.
it was only a couple of days. bed rest, injections, pills - all manner of pills. my mom and my brother were there within five hours. i slept, i caught up on L.A. Ink, i pressed the call button and made an announcement to whoever answered, every single time i had to pee.
the problem, see, is not the issue itself, not the blockage or the pain or the swelling. not the degradation of being totally helpless, trapped in bed for 36 hours. not the side effects of the medications, or the inability to do anything on my own even after being out of the hospital. that doctor was right, i was lucky. i could have had a stroke. i could have had an embolism. so many people my age have it so much worse.
the problem is my body. this body, that i've loved, cherished my entire life. this body that gets potatoes when it craves potatoes and water when it craves water. and now i'm alone in this city because i'm trying to do something, because i want more than an office job and a husband, because i have to not spend the rest of my life being ordinary. but my body, it isn't, apparently, up to the task. the first four weeks i lived in lexington, i was sick. i've felt like it betrayed me, it gave up on me, it faltered when i most needed it to be strong. but let's put blame where blame is due. when i asked for the pill, last august, i was asked to sign a paper stating that i had been informed and understood the risks of taking it. see, a girl isn't supposed to get the pill when she smokes a pack of camels every single day and has a dad who died of heart disease at 45.
i can't even explain the helplessness.
i did it anyway. took the damned pill every day, smoked my cigarettes and thought nothing of it. me? i'm 24. i eat lots of leafy green vegetables, never get constipated, drink at least a gallon of water a day. i'm fucking invincible (a theory which, despite this interlude, has yet to be disproven. just saying.).
it was pretty much a year to the day of popping that first tiny hormone tab that i landed in the hospital with my leg on a pillow (did i mention the awesomocity of being moved to a negative pressure room upon the nurses' discovery of my fun shingles?). the saddest part?
in that entire year, i never got laid.
true, i was considerably less pimply and almost never pre-bleed cranky, but mostly it was completely worthless. now, i'm out the pleasure of cigarettes, and i am never, ever allowed to use any kind of hormone birth control, ever again. the pill, the patch, the shot, the ring.
seriously. never again. i'm pretty sure this is divine retribution for that time i went to boarding school, celebrating the fact that my new absence meant i didn't have to get confirmed into the catholic church, a fate i'd been certain for years i'd be unable to avoid.
-----
so let's just say that everything's gone a little haywire since then. i'm on all kinds of medications right now, keeping my blood as uncoagulatin' as safely possible. disallowed the indulgences of things like spinach, oatmeal, and a second cup of coffee. breaking, rather successfully (but with a little help from my new best friend) my smoking habit - though that, i think, is made more difficult by the fact that i can't drink on these medications. not smoking is a lot easier than not drinking - case in point, i forgot to take any chantix at all today, and cigarettes never occured to me. i also have instructions to lose 75 pounds. that's going fairly well for me, but who knows for how long. fear only motivates as long as it sticks around. and yeah, this episode has been rife with the fear, but it's receding into the past pretty quickly, buried in piles of textbooks and the detritus of everyday living.
it's pretty nutso. tap me on the shoulder, it leaves a bruise. under my clothes, i'm pretty uniformly mottled with purple and yellow. insanely frequent blood tests have left me looking like a junkie and on a first name basis with all staff at the hospital lab (yesterday, i asked how long it was gonna be before they had to stick the needle between my toes - no one was amused). and on saturday morning, at 6:14 am, i got a phone call.
"i just got the results from your blood test," the on call told me. "i need you to go the emergency room."
i'd been in bed for maybe three hours. "huh?" i said. "blood test?"
"the emergency room. NOW."
i went, driving slowly; i was shaking and i get disoriented when i drive in glasses.
"i think they called about me?" i told the triage nurse. "my inr was over ten yesterday." she startled. maybe it was just my familiarity with the jargon.
there was no wait. they gave me a vitamin k shot (i considered asking for a smack on the ass, too, but it seemed in bad taste), another blood test, three heated blankets, and a couple of hours to sleep on a bed. i'd been carefully following the restrictions on my diet: one cup of coffee per day, no leafy greens, no cranberries. the list of prohibited foods is taped to my cupboard. set alarms to take my medication every twelve hours on the dot. screwed up my courage and found a blank spot on my belly to give myself a shot, twice a day. but there's no telling, no way to ensure things don't spiral out of control. the new blood test indicated an inr so high they couldn't read it.
among other things, this apparently meant that i could just start bleeding spontaneously out of random important places - like my brain. internal hemmorhage was at any moment another moment away. i was told not to clip my toenails. it would take about 24 hours for the vitamin k to work its mojo, but until then something so simple as cracking my hip against the counter could be fatal (so, clearly, i decided to enjoy a trip to indianapolis later that day - evil was weighed against evil, and i decided that four hours risking a car accident at someone else's hands was infinitely preferable to having an anyeurism in my living room when every single person i knew in lexington was in indianapolis. plus, i like getting what i want, and i wanted to go to that show). now it wasn't just my body working against me, but everything that was supposed to help it. doing what i was told put me in more danger.
fortunately, that's past. things seem to be under control (at least until i start getting billed).
but, like i said, everything has changed. i hadn't given up smoking for all the things that went along with it: coffee and crosswords with frank, tv nights with lisa. it's hard to change everything all at once. no cigarettes, suddenly. no liquor. a new diet.
i falter. and i'm going to need help. that's the point of this post. routines need to be deconstructed: no more coffeeshop chainsmoking, no more delighted group bingeing on various things (booze, pasta, etc). did i mention that losing 75 pounds decreases my risk of a recurring event by 90%? and that air travel is going to constantly be a fearsome adversary? and that i'm supposed to go to africa next summer? and that it apparently takes something like 40 hours to travel from indianapolis to lusaka, zambia?
i haven't got much time, which means i haven't got much time for relapses. i hate this shit. i hate that i have to be this girl. but, friends, you're what i've got. so i'm asking for support. and i'm telling you all of this in the way of an obligation, a binding contract. because this, it's serious. and because i'm fucking serious. so it's gotta be.
Labels: it's a sickness, life in the bluegrass
posted by lindsay at 01:26 :: 2 comments
05 November 2003 : i was feeling disquieted.
all i cared about was whether or not he wore a wedding ring.
in january, i moved by myself to a new town. i put everything in my car and drove alone and carried everything upstairs to my new apartment with no help. really, there was no one. it was january 9th.
it only took one week, maybe it was the stress of public transportation. i had to learn it like i was a child, because i had never used it. had never been on a bus. after i started to figure out how to use the trains and the quickest way to get to the grocery store, i started to hurt.
a trip to the emergency room yielded this: one doctor in disbelief that a girl like me could be sexually inactive. he held my breast in his large, furry hand and said 'but how can you be sure?' i wondered if it was the infection itself, or just the way i looked. it also got me a syringe in the hip, an hour sleeping on a gurney, and a prescription for vicodin. two refills.
come back, they said, if it gets any worse.
after my drawing class the next night, i went back. it was after midnight. this time, a roommate i barely knew dropped me off outside the glass doors. it hurt too much too drive, and anyway, what would i do if i had to drive home in the rain on pills? inside, i remember that the nurse wore green and he was asian, good looking. i told him i was afraid of needles and he believed me, so he numbed my hand before he went looking for a vein. very kind, that handsome asian nurse was. he shooed everyone out when i started to cry and he held my hand when i told him that i was totally alone and he screamed at the switchboard operator until she gave up and called my mother long distance and he gave me an extra gown when they told me i had to wear mine backwards for easy access and he told me that he recognized pain in my eyes, made me point at a series of happy/sad faces on a chart before he determined my dosage.
morphine feels like a flashbulb, one of the old fashioned ones that breaks after one use, explodes inside your head and the heat is a reaction to the light. it was fine now that i was warm and they took me upstairs in my backwards gown so everyone between emergency and medsurg saw everything i had, but it was so warm that it didnt matter. my mother called and i dont remember talking to her, i only remember that the doctors were busy and nurses were so gentle and my roommate was old and dying and there was a channel on the television that showed an empty altar covered in flowers beside a window.
i kept that station on all day to see how the shadows changed as the sun rose and set in a world outside that i couldnt remember. morphine in my iv and no food for 24 hours.
the morning nurse sang to me and danced in tennis shoes, stopping only when the doctor came in. she, like everyone else was busy, but since she was the only surgeon in the hospital (apparently) who dealt in breasts, she was stuck with me.
she gave me 2 to 2:15 pm, noted it in her black book and left the room, and the nurse was sympathetic. when she was gone, i realized that she was a beautiful woman. i realized that i wasnt afraid to be exposed in front of her eyes, that i didnt care if her busy eyes thought i was ugly. she was going to fix me.
on tv, the shadows got longer across the altar. little flower heads were creeping across the floor, ready to leave the screen and come to me. no one even knew i was here; surely i had to get flowers from somewhere.
when she came at ten after two, i took off my shirt and lay on my back waiting. i closed my eyes and the singing nurse held my hand, because he also knew that i was afraid of needles. and mostly, i couldnt feel the front of me. they were poking around at my sternum and the crease there, where the breast folds against the body and i felt nothing. this, the most sensitive spot on my body. but i felt the scalpel, i felt every movement of this doctors delicate white hand, saw it mirrored in the swinging of her hair.
it wasnt supposed to hurt, but it did. it wasnt supposed to make me cry but i felt the sides of my pillow and the hair around my ears grow wet, wet, cold. she was squeezing now, this dark eyed woman with the lovely skin had set down her scalpel and was bearing down, searching for infection.
he was surprised, that handsome singing nurse told me later as he rested me back on a new dry pillow, at how well i held up. surprised i hadnt screamed. he had gone home last night and told his girlfriend about me, how i was lost in this hospital with this scary sickness when i had just moved by myself to this big city. how i had been here for six days and this was all i knew.
i wondered if i should tell him that if i called my boyfriend, if i even could get ahold of him from this bed, that he would not come. that we were not really together, even though i had seen him a few days ago and slept in his bed. that he probably wouldnt care, like he hadnt cared to show up at the airport on time, like he hadnt cared to make good on anything he had said in the last few weeks.
that nurse had looked away, his handsome face had turned and his eyes closed and i tried to feel for a wedding ring on that hand that held mine so i could squeeze.
i could feel his sympathy, as he saw my stomach white and bare and my nipples standing up in the cold and all the blood running between my breasts. i wanted to know if he was afraid for me because he loved a woman, if he was seeing those tears and that blood and the glint of the blade on the pale flesh of the woman he went home to every night.
i bet she had dark eyes. kind, like his.
i would drive, later, two days later when i got to go home, to someone with pale eyes, blue ones. i think he mouthed his sympathies maybe gave me a hug. it was fine; they sent me home with another vicodin prescription, four refills. when he climbed into bed with me that night, there was no pain. every noise he made, i vibrated with it from head to toe.
it was a kind of magic, anyway.
Labels: it's a sickness
posted by lindsay at 02:26 :: 0 comments