So I’m currently binge watching a show where they keep putting a girl under medical testing. Each time she gets more familiar with it but it never ceases to hurt. The last time they showed her she went under and was crying to be let up/out.
It’s weird what you remember and cling to after traumatic events. After being so sick there’s a comfort in being at the hospital. I’m terrified of something going wrong suddenly again and being at home and shrugging it off. At the hospital, I may be treated strangely but I feel safe. Some of my transplant team considers former alcoholics as permanent addicts and when we go back to the ER we are only seeking drugs, not worried about our life after transplant. Which is pretty terrible, but at the same time the voice in the back of my head tells me I deserve that treatment. However, just so you guys know – non-alcoholic fatty liver disease will be the leading cause of liver transplants in the next 10 years. I guarantee they aren’t going to police fat people on their diets or consider them “food” addicts. #Americanstigma
So this made me think of some of my procedures in ICU. Just so everyone knows I wasn’t brave, I just didn’t have another option. I just had to lay there and let the doctors do what they were going to do to save my life no matter how much it hurt. In the ICU there are a lot of procedures, some semi-surgical that they can do in your room. One of my first nights I had a “Swan Tube” put in bedside which is a right heart cath. They had to make sure I was “sterilized” so I had a surgical blanket or whatever it’s called put over my head. So I was laying there, under a blanket in an insane amount of pain breathing my own air with my collapsed lung laying on my left side. Sucked. But still I knew nothing was going to happen to me. I felt comforted.
One time in between my liver surgeries I woke up in my room. See the morning of my liver transplant the procedure began in my room bedside again. They were putting a line into my leg I think for my bypass. Anyways, I woke up in between surgeries in my room with another procedure finishing up. My pain medicine and anesthesia had worn off but whatever that paralyzing medicine they give you for major surgery hadn’t. so I was under the same blanket, in crazy pain trying so, so hard to scream or move anything to let them know I was awake. Fortunately for me and my tear ducts functioned and a nurse peaked under my blanket and saw tears and told the doctors, “um…I think she’s awake she’s crying”….then blackness…nothing. Thank God…again comforted.
I guess all this to say, it’s weird how someone that goes through so many procedures and pain both loves and hates the hospital. Despite how some people treat me there.
Also, if anyone reading this works with addiction or health issues/medical field…despite what your prejudices tell you, those people are people too and deserve to be treated accordingly. This last time I even had a nurse step over her bounds and lecture me about how I need to stop coming into the hospital or they won’t give me another liver in 3-4 years because each time I get admitted even though (according to her) I was legitimately sick with infections someone will chart it as me seeking drugs. And to watch my step. Good times. Saturday recipe to follow. Cheers all.