TRAUMA: LIFE IN THE ER (a true story)

Last week, when I was in California, I was talking to Claire about what it'd be like when I got home. I knew it was going to be stressful, just transitioning back into my family household. I knew it might stress me out that my brother would be back; just one more person to observe me and have an opinion about how I was living my life. But there were other factors, other dramas that I won't get into here for privacy's sake. Let's just say that I was not eager to return.

But, oh, how I needed to see Sadie. And my sister and friends and yes, even the crazy stressful family.

I got home and fell into routine, which had improved in LA. In California, I ate meals instead of snacks. I didn't drink sugary substances (aside from wine) and I rarely looked for candy or Chips Ahoy to feed my impulse. I carb-counted before every meal and dosed correctly most of the time. (Type 1 can be unpredictable. It can also be managed.)

My blood glucose was the best it's been in the nearly two years of taking insulin. My target number is 150 and I was close to that, hovering around 175. My doctor was proud.

Upon exiting the airport, I felt the old familiar sores begin to rise in my mouth. I had a batch in California, which forced me onto prednisone and made my numbers inch up. But it was nothing compared to the numbers my glucose meter ran early this week, when my doctor diagnosed me with two infections, multiple sores, and a sore throat and cold. I was on antibiotics again, and a higher dose of prednisone, and an antifungal. 

My numbers soared. I saw my first 300 in over a month and I realized just how heavy and terrible I feel when my sugar is that high. I had been so used to it for so long. 

When I hit 500, I want to stop breathing. I wanted to kill everyone in my sight, because they all seemed to be blaming it on me.

"Jeez, why are you just laying there? Come into the sun, get fresh air." Like I can move when maple syrup has replaced normal blood.

"Eat some salad." I literally ate half a pancake and four nuggets yesterday. These numbers had nothing to do with my eating.

"Silence." From everyone I reached out to who couldn't handle my weight this week. Which I understand. But still feels shitty when you're in the ER alone.

"You'll be fine at home." versus the doctors urging me to come into the ER.

Which is where I was last night. Alone, and in brutal fucking pain, and angry because the steroids had released their toxins into my body. And I couldn't relax or think straight.

So when I finally go discharged at midnight, and tried to eat, and realized someone had coated my precious mac and cheese with HOT SAUCE, which nearly killed me, which hurt so bad I dry-heaved...I blew up. I stormed into the house and grabbed ice cream. And my dad yelled at me that I was loud and he was stressed out. I had just spent 7 hours in an ER and I was on so much steroids, the Hulk would be a fitting description of my anger and flame.

It seems to be that while I might be a joy and blessing to my family and friends, I am also a huge fucking burden. I flip out and I try to move on and I push myself and I ruin things. I ruin family vacations. I am a huge fucking burden. And it seems everyone is tired of me. Me, you, them. It has been a really long 6 years since cancer. And it has fucking sucked. And while it sucked before that, nothing has reallly sucked as badly as the post-cancer years.

And I am never going to get over this. I can only move toward acceptance, but that's hard to think of when you're in the shit, just hoping to avoid a prolonged hosptial stay with a dying elderly woman as your roommate.

This is never going to change, this having of the diseases. They are with me until death. And in moments like this, I cling to the idea that death could be soon. That my suffering will be abolished, and I will devastate and relieve you all with my absence. Some days I think of others who have died, who have died with grace and beauty, and think I am not like them. I am angry. I am messy. I throw up a lot. I am always running a fever or a sinus infection. I hurt and It is not fucking pretty. I am an asshole. I am amazing when I'm not, though. But I am still a shitty person sometimes, just as everyone is a shitty person sometimes.

And that's OK.

This was another setback in my year of healing. I was so good in California, though. I wasn't perfect but I was better. 

So. Here's to the summer being more like my month in LA than this past hellish week.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for allowing me to be honest. Thanks for reading my unedited rambling.

I love you all, for who you are, for how self-aware you are, for your tips and your silence, for your acceptance and encouragement.

Thank you.