I have been a living corpse for days. On top of the extreme fatigue due to a mix of pain, anxiety and the fuckery that is my brain or bowel causing me to not sleep, the shut eye I DO get more closely resembles a bad attempt at meditation or zoning out in history class, not deep restful slumber. At this poitn I’m not sure if everything is much worse the last week after almost a month of increased sleep problems or if an increase in symptoms is the root cause.
Mr. Mango has been begging me to check myself into the local ER, or at least make an emergency appointment with the GP so I’m taken “more seriously.” Right now he thinks I’m too timid and polite with my care team. That I don’t tell them the worst of the worst or demand better pain relief, faster tests/results or just plain HELP for all I’ve been going through. I know he means well and he may even be right, I don’t complain enough (not that you guys would know, this IS where I get it all out) and in hopes of being the ‘good’ patient and not being a nag, there have been times I’ve left out the severity of certain bad days, or not divulged exactly how many bad days I’ve had.
In truth, I hate hospitals and want to spend as little time around or in them as possible (unlikely at this point… I know) and I don’t ever want to be confused with a drug seeking faker, we already have one of those in the family and I know first hand how it looks, acts and gets received as a patient.
I think I’ve somehow brainwashed myself into believing that if I FAKE being cheerful, happy and like I’m coping with everything well that it will actually come true. Acting miserable because I’m miserable doesn’t exactly seem like it’ll work wonders and fast track a healthy recovery does it? From the Mr.’s perspective, if I’m doubling over in pain on a regular basis, having trouble with basic daily tasks like washing my hands or picking up a glass of water or spending a night(s) curled up in or by the toilet with my phone and pillow that I have a right to bitch and complain about it to the health care professionals who are in charge of helping me at the very least be able to survive alone in my house.
When I argue, he blames feminism and my anxiety…. and he’s probably right to. It doesn’t make me any less pissed at him especially after the shit-storm of a weekend we had. Maybe I’m a little extra pissed because he might be right.
Last night I came close to taking him up on his idea. Well that was before I realized that Monday night meant our ER was shut down. We would have shown up with me huddled in a ball waiting for my intestines to recreate the Aliens dining hall scene while also feeling like a female version of the human torch and immediately turned away because the nurse run staff can’t even give stitches without a doctors OK. Off to the city I would be carted or just told to go home and wait. No thank you, what the fuck is the point. I blatantly told the man of the house that one of two things would happen, I’d somehow start to feel better or it would kill me. Either way leaving the house at that very moment had no point.
As you might be able to tell, I made it through the night and I don’t think the results would have been any different had I been carted around the province to find a doctor to talk to or had I stubbornly insisted on getting an emergency line to mine.
Amazing things will happen today if you choose not to be a miserable cow?
Well, I’ve never heard of a miserable cow (then again I’ve never been to a slaughter house, I bet those ones aren’t too cheerful). I have however heard of a stubborn cow…. I’m pretty sure I’m one of those whether I’m miserable or not.
I’m also pretty sure that nothing amazing apart from an epic lightning show will be happening today whether or not I readjust my attitude.
So I guess a miserable and stubborn cow I stay.