So I'm home. For some reason I always expect things to be different when I leave the hospital than when I went in. Never the case. With the exception of Oxycontin to control the pain in my chest and Adavant to stifle the crying jags being home is only slightly less depressing than being in the hospital. Here I'm not tethered to an IV pole 24-7 or forced to lay in a damp bed as I sweat through fevers and watch endless episodes of Lost. I get to sit on the couch, accompanied by my ever-faithful little Penny during the day and my sweet sweet man at night. I get to sleep in my own bed and turn the air conditioning up high enough that not even a stupid fever (which I'm still running) could make me sweat. I have my satellite dish back rather than the 15 cable channels (9 of which were either news or sports) that I was being charged $6 to enjoy. So yes, home is a fabulous step up.
But I still feel like shit and there isn't a damn thing that I can do about that except continue chewing down those mind-altering substances and sitting...just sitting. Getting to the door of my apartment is like a quarter mile hike. I took a shower last night (the first one I've been allowed in way too long - woohoo!) and when I got out I had to lean against door jambs until I could just plop my ass on the couch and try to get my head to stop swimming. Besides being drugged and exhausted (well probably in large part because I'm drugged an exhausted, I've been on the verge of tears since I got home. Everything makes me weep. The beautiful flowers that surround me, sent by caring friends and relatives. My boyfriend's head on my shoulder as we watch Jeopardy! And of course there was the ultimate crying jag once I got to bed last night. He just held me and tried to calm me and let me cry it all out. Except it's not all out and I don't know how I'm ever going to get it all out. I ended up taking a whole adavant (half is usually my limit as they tend to make me stumble over things that aren't really there) just to stop thinking, because think is the enemy at this point.
I'm in limbo until we find out if these new drugs are going to work. I won't be getting any better, hopefully I won't be getting worse. I have no news on the jobs front and I just feel stagnant, useless. I feel like I've lost a huge chunk of myself. Death is always at the forefront of my mind. Like what do I have? 10 years? 15? 20? It's scary to think that the length of my life will now be dictated by how long the doctors can keep my meds working. And then there's the other elephant in the room...a baby. I've always been a mom-to-be. Anyone who knows me knows that. When presented with our beautiful little ray of joint-custody sunshine a year and a half ago, I jumped right in and fell in love immediately. And he is amazing and I don't want to belittle in anyway my feelings toward him. Having him reach out to hold my hand as I grasped at the pain in my heart or curl up on my lap and ask what every bruise on my arm was from, play with the oxygen cannula, and just hunker down and give me five hugs and five kisses, just to make me better - these are things that fill up my heart in a way that I never imagined, simply because you can't really imagine it until you really have it. He has a mom though and I can never be his mom, even if I can come close. She will always be the first one he runs to, the first one teachers defer to, and the first in his little heart, which I know is the way it absolutely should be. There's just a physical, aching maternal need that I feel to have a baby of my own. To take the test; to excitedly tell him and my parents the news; to watch my belly plump as a little part of us becomes a whole new person inside of me; to see him/her on a sonogram; to tell people that they really can't touch my belly; to see that little scrunched red newborn face for the first time and know that this little person will have an unbreakable bond with me for the rest of my life. To be "Mom". I really don't know how to deal with losing that. It feels like losing an arm. It feels like I've been robbed of this sacred part of womanhood and god dammit it's unfair, it sucks, it's just not right.
I keep thinking "why me" and I hate that too. I've worked for the past five years (since my pulmonary embolism and last hospital stint) to eliminate that damn little self-pitying phrase from my mental vocabulary. Things happen because they happen. Lousy genes, birth control, hormones in beef, drugs I did in my teens, all of these could or could not be contributors. One cannot deny the existence of a supreme deity that is directly involved in the lives of man and then ask why such a being would do this to them. So I feel like an asshole for pitying myself. I feel helpless to stop these feelings though and I absolutely despise being depressed (not that I think anyone out there enjoys it. I cry and stop and cry harder and try to relax. I take comfort in what I have. Being in love. Being loved. Having completed a Bachelor's degree. When the sun is out things are a bit less depressing, but I still can't help but weep at just about anything.
Well hopefully I can just get through this weekend, comfortably numb and distracted enough to not cry as I help my six-months pregnant step-mom unpack dishes at their new house. Monday I can call my shink and get in there asap and I can call my doctor and get them to give me a portable oxygen tank so that I can actually move myself and things without nearly passing out.
Ugh. Enough bitching for today. I hate bitching. I just wanted a smooth ride for a bit and it seems that a hurricane has blown in early…