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6 February 2009
I am still here. I am still here. Alive, and living in my apartment. The journey I have taken the last four months has been a long one, filled with a lot of darkness and taking my mind into places I had thought it could never go.
Dr. Doogie Mormon and the Drug Disaster
All I can think about my family physician is that he is a cross between “Doogie Howser” and “The Mormon” on “House”. He is young, clear-cut, confuddled, unsure of himself, and so ethical he refused to sign a couple of papers (“legal documents!” he screamed”) that would have made my life much easier by keeping on my electricity all year-long ( a “no shut-off due to health reasons” clause) or even give me help temporarily so I could get a Paratransit bus when I needed it (broken bones, broken bones, and more broken bones is what I seem to be good at these days). He isn’t an evil person, I suppose; but he is a moron, and his pharmaceutical knowledge is completely inadequate.
The first thing he decided was to up my Elavil. I realize Elavil is an antidepressant; I watched my mother swallow them down for years in the ’60s. But my neurologist (who is very smart, savvy, and knows her meds) prescribed it for Restless Legs Syndrome; at a low dose, it works wonderfully. If you have never had RLS, thank yourself lucky. If you have gone through it for years, not even knowing what it was, and someone names it and has a cure for it, you would cry when you first went to sleep without it, too.
Dr. Doogie Mormon decided since I was depressed that 50 mg would be better than 10 mg, so he slapped it on me, along with 30 or 40 of Celexa. At the same time. Without waiting to see what happened. On top of a number of other meds I’m taking for other things.
I started to get lost in the deep end. I couldn’t tell what day it was. I couldn’t tell what time it was. I was calling people at 5:30 am because I thought it was p.m. I would sleep for two days and have no idea what day it was. No one was calling or coming to see me; I was totally alone, except for my cats, and the realization that I was sleeping through days left me horrified. Luckily, they are smart, and figured out how to get to their food, and there was always water out. But I couldn’t tell where I was in the Universe. I couldn’t tell who I was in the Universe.
I started having tremors – bad ones, where a lit cigarette would shoot out from between my fingers, and I would desperately have to find it before anything caught fire. I burned myself several times accidentally. I dropped things I tried to hold.
I did things like walk into R.’s old room, thinking that was the bathroom. I put my appointment book into the refrigerator. I was becoming terrified.
Worst of all, perhaps, was that I misplaced my words. That’s what it seemed like to me. I started stuttering; I mixed up words and sentences, putting the words in the wrong order (“I have to bathroom go”).
When Doogie put me on Wellbutrin and, silly me, I managed to swallow one pill, all hell broke loose.
I vomited. I had diarrhea. I slept for even more days. I lost 30 pounds in one week. Sleeping. Not eating. Nearly not aware of anything. I did get some help for the cats before I completely sunk into Never-Never Land, at least.
I became paranoid. And finally, I hallucinated. I saw a cat walk into my mini-fridge and spent the rest of the day checking the washer and dryer and fridge and freezer to make sure that really didn’t happen. I accused R. of stealing from me all these years (there is a lot of grief he has given me, but I don’t think stealing is one of that list). One night, I looked out the window, and my garden was gone, covered over by concrete and parking spaces. I cried and sobbed, and posted to one of my groups online about it. And then the next day, I looked out, and it was all back. At least that is the way it seemed to my mind. Of course, it had never happened.
The horror, the fear, the embarrassment and humiliation drove me to my psychologist’s office in tears, with a silent plea of help. She was angry and said “He had better get your meds straightened out now!” She asked questions about him and his supervisor, and I imagine there was a conversation or two around all this, but I don’t know.
By the time I had my next appointment, I was shaky, but getting back to normal mentally at least. I walked in and told Dr. Doogie Mormon that we were going to straighten out my meds as I dumped the entire pile on the table and went through them, one by one. Wellbutrin? Never, ever, ever again. Elavil? Back to 10 mg a day as intended. Celexa? We’ll see.
If it hadn’t been for my psychologist, my pharmacist, and a couple of friends, I do not know what would have happened to me. But it left me wrung out and strung out by the first of the year (which I spent alone and sans alcohol, to say the least).
I Hate Hospitals
So, of course, I have spent way too much time in them lately.
The first time, I went in because my right leg up to my knee was swollen twice as big as my left leg. Every doctor that saw it agreed it must be congestive heart failure. They sent me straight from my clinic to the hospital, with no chance to be prepared. I called my mother-in-law, who came to be with me and then went home and fed the cats.
Some male nurse who looked pissed at having to be there in the first place stuck an IV in my arm (badly). The pain just kept getting worse and worse as I screamed “You are hurting me you goddamn stupid son of a bitch!” He threw down the “works” and said “I don’t have to take this” before stomping out. I didn’t care; I was just glad the pain had stopped.
S., my mother-in-law, found someone else to do it. She happened to be a doctor, and although it still hurt, it was not nearly as bad as the sloppy job that first jerk had done.
Now, keep in mind that this is the hospital I was born in. This is the hospital I have to go to, due to the insurance R. carries. This is a well-known hospital that has had problems from leaving sponges in people to having a nurse that killed elderly people who were in the hospital. Throw in my absolute fear of hospitals, and you can imagine what I was feeling.
At one point I remember screaming, over and over again “I am in the 7th Level of Hell!”
I wanted to go home. I wanted my kitties to cuddle with. I was terrified, as I have always been, that a night in a hospital means I will die.
S. brought me a stuffed kitty to cuddle with, and I managed to get three whole hours sleep. After which, I was tested, neglected, and not selected. The tests showed nothing. A whole group of doctors shrugged their shoulders and said they had “no idea” what the problem was.
Aren’t they supposed to know?
I ripped off my nicotine patch and told them I was leaving NOW.
Now was a bad time to leave. This hospital is associated with one of those universities that worship football. And a big football game was being played that day. I got caught in the crush on campus, trying to find somewhere to meet my mother-in-law. It was terrifying to be stuck in this huge group of people. I was in tears, and finally asked a total stranger if I could use his cell phone to call S. He was nice enough to let me, and weirdly, while I am trying to do that, some very drunken guy comes up, shoves $60 in my hand, and says “Go get yourself fixed up. It’ll be all right.” I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or punch him.
Somehow, I met up with my mother-in-law at McDonald’s, and she got me home, where I breathed a huge sigh of relief. The leg swelling went down within a couple of weeks, and hasn’t come back since. No one ever diagnosed it, so it remains a mystery.
Hospital Nightmare # Two
This one truly was hell for me, because I could not breathe. I have COPD; something kicked off a crisis (infection, cold, pneumonia – I don’t know which) and I was terrified, unable to breathe. I called the ambulance once, and they gave me a breathing treatment. It didn’t work. My pulmonologist called me after discussing my case with his team, and said he wanted me seen now. I was told to go to the ER, so I called an ambulance a second time, and this time, rode it all the way to the hospital.
My mother-in-law was not able to spend the time with me this time. Too many other obligations. I was desperately worried about my cats getting fed. I gave them some dry food before I left, but I didn’t think it was enough, so I begged my mother-in-law to go feed them again, which she eventually did.
In the meanwhile, unbeknowst to me, in my hurry to get to the hospital, I had not locked the back door. My neighbor K. saw it wide open, with my kitties all huddled on the porch. Had I known this, I probably would have had a heart attack. Luckily, K. herded them all back in, fed them, counted them, and they were all there. Her jerk of a husband actually did something nice, and bolted my back door shut until I got home, so no one else could get in.
My mother-in-law finally made it over very late, and she fed them. So the little suckers got fed three times that day. When I found out, I had to laugh. I bet they tried their best to look pathetic and hungry each time, too.
This time at the hospital, I didn’t sleep at all. I watched TV and read, waiting to go home. They gave me every breathing treatment they had, I think. They were waiting for my blood oxygen level to go back up to 95 or 96. I worked hard with my body to make it get there.
I wandered around the hospital, so lost and so ready to go home. It had been horrible, and when I go through something horrible, I like to buy myself some little something. So I hit the gift shop and found a cute little compact mirror with a cat on the front in Sally Jesse Raphael glasses that said “Be Who You Are”. I liked it. I decided it was mine. So I bought it.
My nurse this time was Della. She was older, and at one point said “You know, this is confusing. You’re sort of a pain in the ass. But you’re a nice pain in the ass.” I had to laugh, since I suppose that sums me up pretty well.
I started crying by the time they were making their rounds because it was 11:00 am and I wanted to go home so badly. They dutifully noted my tears in their logs. They also noted that I had been “noncompliant” with my medications, which really pissed me off. I hadn’t deliberately been “noncompliant”; I had run out of money, and was going to pick up my Spiriva Friday. I ended up in the hospital instead.
Working with my body and doing yogic breathing, I managed to get up to that “magic number” they wanted, so they finally let me go. I ripped off the nicotine patch again, and had a ciggie as soon as I got outside.
I never would have called the ambulance if it wasn’t for my Internet friend, A. There are actually three of us who found each other in a chat room, and we all three have COPD in various stages: D. is the worst, and only has 25% heart blood flow. He is miserable, and wondering if he can face death bravely, and thinking he cannot. A. had a crisis the week before mine, and ended up in the hospital himself, after turning blue. That is why he told me if I had any trouble, to go immediately to the hospital. He is probably in the center of the three, and I am the best off of all three. The other two have quit smoking; D. was threatening that he and A. both would come over and kick my ass if I didn’t quit.
I don’t know if I can quit. I’ve given up caffeine and alcohol, and there is so little left. I tell the doctors I am going to be one of those, like my friend M., who died of lung cancer, who will be having someone holding a cigarette to my lips at the very end. But after listening to D., I am not so certain.
I still am not breathing right. And I don’t have one of those tube thingys to use. I have a prescription; I just don’t know where it is, and figure I can’t afford it anyway.
Another crazy thing that has been happening with my health is that my blood pressure has decided to be high – and I mean off the scales high. I called the insurance company after my physical therapist said “You need a blood pressure monitor for home.” I told them the doctor thought so, too, although he never said anything. I’m sure he would agree. The insurance approved it, so yesterday I spent walking and riding on buses, trying to get my prescriptions together; stopping in at the vet to see what I could do about my sweet guy, Internet, and trying to find the last two books in Robert Jordan’s “The Wheel of Time” series, which no one seems to have. Grrrrrrrr! By the time I got home, my back and head were screaming, and I fell asleep from the pain. But the really nice people at my pharmacy had fixed my walker for free, and not charged me the 20% co-pay on the blood pressure monitor. This is why I go to them; they are human beings who care, and not part of some huge corporation that doesn’t give a crap. Of course, the sliders were destroyed by the time I got home (I just don’t think those things were meant for outside), and then I had to face M., my nasty neighbor, claiming I ruined the thank you I gave them for saving my cats and my home (he had said “Don’t ever call the cops on me again.” I said “Fine. Don’t threaten me again.”)
In the midst of all this, many other things have been going on, of course. R. is the worst, probably. I asked him over Sunday to see Internet. Internet is our oldest cat at almost 21; he is still a pretty happy little guy, but his anus has prolapsed, and I don’t know what to do about it. I have been keeping it moist with K-Y jelly, but I cannot seem to gently push his anus back into place; it just falls out again. He is too lively and happy t be put to sleep, but I do not know what I can do for my beautiful little loving guy.
At any rate, R. did come over, complaining the entire time that he didn’t want to be there, that he couldn’t even look me in the eyes, that he didn’t want to be anywhere around me around a holiday (St. Valentine’s Day in this case), and generally being a fool. I’d like to know how were are supposed to get a dissolution if he can’t even look me in the eyes or talk to me. This is going to take the patience of a saint to get through this painful and difficult journey.
18 February 2009
Painful Journeys
There are other painful journeys I have gone through in the past several months. My mother-in-law’s sister-in-law (I called her my sister-in-law, because it felt more like that, and because it was easier to say), finally went outside her home for a gathering of food and friends (she had a host of problems, agoraphobia being just one). She started climbing up some stairs, and couldn’t make it. The ambulance was called, and they were getting her settled in her room, when she had a heart attack from which she did not recover. She had congestive heart failure, and she was gone, just like that. I never got to say goodbye.
Then my cousin (again, I think she is technically my half-first-cousin, but cousin will do), J., also died of a heart attack a few weeks later. J. was my favorite person of my biological family that I met. She was a cat person, too, and was fascinated with astrology and metaphysical topics. I had hoped to get down to see her over the past several years, but the lack of a car made it impossible. So I never got to say goodbye to her, either. I did ask her daughter for her astrology etc. books, and on Valentine’s Day, there was a knock at the door, and there was her son Steve and a friend, loading up three boxes of books on my porch. It felt like a sweet gesture beyond this lifetime. So maybe we do get to say goodbye somehow.
I’m not sure we really do, though. And I think there is something sad in that fact. So I am writing letters to those I love and care about, telling them what they mean to me and that I’m glad I know them. I think it’s such a lost chance to pass out of this life without telling those people what they mean to me.
I did get to say goodbye to my Cosmo-cat. The CRF finally got the best of him, and he crashed. We did fluids twice, and they did nothing for him at all, so I knew he was halfway into the other world;; I said goodbye and told him how much I loved him, and sent him off to the Summerlands where there is no physical pain.
I still miss Cosmo the most. I sometimes can’t remember how many cats I have, because I still think Cosmo is here. I can’t get used to dividing up the cat food differently because Cosmo is not here. I keep expecting to see him laying on the back of the couch, but no one lays in his place; Internet lays on the left and Esmeralda on the right, each honoring Cosmo’s space in the middle. I broke down in the cat food aisle recently, and just cried, missing him.
I almost thought I was going to lose Internet last week. I was beside myself; Internet is the sweetest, most loving, gentle cat I have ever known. And he still seems to be doing well, even though by my figuring he is almost 21 years old. But last week, it looked like he had an anal prolapse. I spent a week applying K-Y and gently pushing his rear back in. Yes I love my cats enough to do even that. They scheduled another appointment for him, and I took him in. He saw a different vet this time though (they must have take photos when they had him in there last); he said Internet looked much* better than when he saw him, and his anus was not prolapsed at this point; it was a little puffy, but that’s all. He was a little dehydrated, so guess who is immediately back on her least-favorite nursing thing to do (known as “giving sub-Q fluids)? Grrrrrrrrr. I never seem to get it right, although I came close tonight, so maybe I will get it right one of these time soon. Internet is easier than most cats, so I am hopeful.
I hitchhiked to the vet. I have been doing that a lot lately, when time is short, and the buses don’t run right (or pass me by because they don’t want to deal with someone with a walker). I have been lucky, but this time to the the vet, I caught a creepy guy, and wished I hadn’t gotten in his car. There was nothing specific, except he felt and looked creepy and greasy and all that. I was going to take a cab home in case he had stayed to wait for me, and one of the employees at the clinic offered to take me home. That was so sweet of her, and I appreciated it so much.
20 Feb 2009
