The Barnes Er.

The wait was short in registration, long in seeing a bed. My pain level went from annoying to “periodic knock out and frequently disorientation.” The wait went on so long that my father had to go start his shift at 1 that morning.

By the time I got to a room I was so disoriented from pain they had to throw something into my IV to render me coherent, and I described the pain, the bleeding cystic mass, the torn abdominal muscles, and the sickness I felt on sitting up. Somewhere in the middle of this an IV drip was started, freezing cold and stupefying. I managed to describe how the pain and nausea kept me from eating for two days and how despite that long of no intake my fasting glucose level was 103 as read in an ambulance.

I was told that everything that could be done had been done, and in my current state the recommended ultrasound was not possible (one needs to be awake for that in its entirety), and without the ultrasound nothing could be done about the bleeding mess—though I was told to avoid aspirin until further notice…

Which means the only thing that works on my back pain is out.

Anti-nausea drugs, stacked like mad. Acetaminophen, stacked on the tramodol.

Agreement with the doctor's judgement that my pain is undermedicated. Disagreement on what to do about it.

That was as far as I got. The room fuzzed out on me along with one pain spike, and I was out.

“We didn't put anything drowsy in there.”

“Here's the thing, sir—being in constant pain is exhausting.”

I don't know how much time passed, but when I woke up they were back to the back and forth on how to manage the situation. A bag was changed. A comment was made on my dehydration. I was asked… Something. I don't remember. I remember answering “Huh?”

“Get some rest, kid.”

I wake at morning in no knowledge of where I was, exhausted, and mildly delirious. I was also given my discharge papers. I had a sense—there were no windows—that it was dawn out and I knew my father wasn't present. They offered to help call him. I thanked them for letting me sleep the pain off and not tossing me out like Memorial does, and I was wheeled to the exit, along with the seven blankets that kept me from catching a chill.

For the record he was unamused with the results. I registered just long enough to explain the why before I was out again.

Then I slept until two.

Now what?

I have to survive this long enough to take all the appointments. I've also been advised to slowly, slowly increase my sitting up (heavily medicated for nausea and vomiting, of course) with back support. I'm not supposed to push it, and after such a stretch of no food I am to EASE into solid food again, no matter how much I feel like I can eat seven giant sandwiches, so that I don't hurt myself. Continue with the Gatorade because calories in.

Just writing this has worn me out. I'm going to rest until I'm due for the late pills.

I step across my threshold with nothing on my mind except the prescription bottle that I’ve forgotten on my bed. I’ve been sans a nerve pain pill for two doses and at this point I have excruciating pain in four places and an alarming lack of sensation in a fifth. The first thing I’m going to do is take a missed dose.

The first thing I actually do is drop four F-bombs. Sitting on my wall is something I can only describe as a fucking corpse blow-fly (DON’T google that!). It’s about as long as the first joint of my thumb—I have long thumbs—and it’s…not actually doing anything. I avoid aggroing it as I get into streets and prepare a snack to take this med with. It is then that I notice something…odd about the air in the apartment. It smells vaguely like battery acid and hate. I get the distinct impression that I should check my glue trap.

“Ay, Yemaya help me!”

I realize that they don’t have actual collarbone an are also all around flexible, but even Eldritch Mouse shouldn’t be bent in such a position. It clearly didn’t approve of the plan I had laid out for it. Its body is twisted double—triple-jointed even, using the entire available width area of the glue trap. From the looks of things, I got him shortly after leaving for work—maybe that was the noise I heard when I thought I dropped a pack of caraway seeds.

Worthy opponent aside, I’m not looking forward to moving that trap. But if I don’t get up to do it now, it won’t get done…

*cringe/shudders and gets up*

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*drag* *bump* *CRASH*

“Whuf!”

*drag* *scrape* *SQUAWK*

“Move, dammit!”

Oh, furniture-moving.

The condition of the apartment started bugging me—the décor’s gotten old (only took five months this time), and so I had to rearrange things. The good news is this one wasn’t flashback related—this is just me being bored with my surroundings.

Which explained why I had to put down a chest of drawers and knock on their door, explaining the racket (“Don’t worry, I didn’t drag the bastard here to disembowel. I’m just redecorating. =D”). I began the work a little before Jeopardy started, so I’ve been at it on and off for…damn, four hours now. The bed is now flush with the wall—I’m going to have to run an extension cord through underneath the bed for access to the stuff there. The couch is now flush with the bed—I needed room to move my work area—and the chest of drawers now faces the other direction. All in all I have added about a square foot to the apartment’s space.

Within an hour and a half I was awake again, attempting to do handstands and walk a lap around the apartment, because it sounded like a great idea at the time. When I finally realized how very bad an idea it was I was split between the bed and the floor giggling. High? A BIT.

That was when the apartment got hot. Unbearably hot. Mental images bombarded me, none of them unpleasant…but all of them incredibly distracting.

Right about then the best idea was making a grape soda cold enough to hurt my teeth until the sensation passed. I was asleep AGAIN in a little less than half an hour. I woke up at six AM and was about to throw on clothes for work when I remembered—no work today.

I totally need a vacation.

…or caffeine.

“A-HA GOT IT.”

The floors a mess, but the apartment is widened ever so slightly due to the positioning of the furniture. Even my work area is functional, no longer a place to throw mail—and it will stay neat, because it is in view of the entrance now, and a bad looking work are doesn’t exactly go over well. Stove is clean, fridge is organized—ish. Floor will be cleaned and swept shortly, and then I’m crashing out. I got a LOT done today; and the position of my new office-area—right in front of my bookshelf—serves as a constant reminder to do what it is I do: write.

Now if you’ll excuse me, there is a glass of pineapple-orange soda and a clary-sage soak with my name on it.

 What's your WebStory today?

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