ICU

This week has been intense. Within the space of just 22 hours, I went from being fine, to unconscious in an ambulance, to the ICU, and discharged again.

I think I took too many pills. Well, I know I did. But I honestly don't know if it was just trying to make the shit stop, or if I was trying to make it all stop.

I collapsed in the backyard. No seizures this time, I'm pretty sure, but I was completely unconscious. Mum called an ambulance.

I'm trying to figure out timelines between my notes and questioning my family. They said it all happened around 8pm, and I was home at 6pm the next day.

Much to my horror, the ambos cut off both my handmade-and-actually-fits camisole and the only black bra I had, but I guess that happens when they need access to your chest.

When I woke up some hours later, I was in the Intensive Care Unit with cables and tubes everywhere - even a catheter. They asked me if I knew where I was. I thought I was in private A&E, when really the ambulance had to take me to the public hospital, and I was in fact in the ICU. I wouldn't have recognized it now, nearly ten years after a particularly nasty OD landed me there for over a week.

Some things never change though. One of the nurses in ICU actually remembered me from the big OD.
"My gosh, you've grown!"

I was covered in different types of stickers, monitoring my heart, my breathing. A chest X-ray while unconscious showed no signs of anything being amiss. I went for an ECG, and couldn't help but smile when they said "Oh my god, there's nothing of you!"

Eventually, lunchtime rolled around. Unsure what I'd want, he brought with him a hot lunch, morning tea (Swiss cheese on crackers), and an Ensure. I screwed my nose up, and asked if they had vanilla. Unfortunately they did not, and I was stuck with chocolate. I managed just under 1/4 before it made me gag. I panicked and asked mum to bring the kitchen scales in so I could weigh the remainder. I also had two crackers with half the slice of cheese, a scoop of mashed potato, and a few peach slices. Hospital meals can result in truly crazy combinations.

As a nice gesture from the ambos, they came back to the hospital to return a bracelet that fell off during the hassle. I've worn it for the last few months, now on my upper arm to try to prevent it falling off. It never leaves my arm. It says "Tough Times Pass - Death is Forever" printed on a black band, with the phone number for Lifeline (131 114) on the inside, to support the Suicide Prevention Awareness Network.

Eventually, the psych reg came to talk to me. Thankfully the Horrible Psychiatrist was no where to be seen. She asked why I took the pills. Like I said, I'm not too sure. I told her about the 29th being a painful trigger, and that I just wanted today to be over. Between that and fudging my weight a little, she seemed pretty happy to leave me be.

On Monday, after hours of begging, they finally removed the catheter and cables. They brought me a walking frame, and we did a slow lap around the ICU. But it didn't matter - I could move! I could pee! How exciting.

After a sleepless night where time seemed to lose all meaning, I got word they wanted to transfer me downstairs. I just wanted to go home. It was a stressful move, and when we got to my new room, I lost it. I put my hands up in the doorframe to block the nurse from pushing the chair in. There were not one, not two, but four beds.

There was a lot of hassle between mum, the nurses, and various hospital staff. No, sharing with a lady does not make it easier. I wasn't even supposed to be there - they'd contacted the safe, private hospital hours ago to see if I could be transferred, but hadn't heard back. My ICU nurse went to make some phone calls and we waited in one of the day rooms for what felt like ages to hear what'd be happening.

The clock was ticking, and I knew dinner would be getting there soon. I crossed my fingers and hoped I'd be transferred or discharged beforehand so I could get back to my safe food routine ASAP, but before long, the same nice man who'd presented me with a mini smorgasbord at lunch came in with a tray.
"There you are! I've been trying to track you down."

This time, he bought two Ensures, Banana and Fruits of the Forrest - the only options he could find besides chocolate. Even though neither are flavours I'd drink, when he came to collect my tray, he told me to take them home with me. Another addition to the supplements collection.

For meal #2, I had the mashed potato, the diced carrots, a couple green beans, and more peaches, again skipping the protein/main dish, but it was better than nothing.

The nurse came back and shook his head. There's was not a single empty room in the hospital. No one had heard back about the transfer to the private hospital, either.
"I have to go home then. I'm sorry for wasting your time, I just can't stay."

One new experience I've had with this hospital admission, is the unpleasantness of pressure sores/bed sores. They kept turning me, but even still, in those 22 hours, I managed to get pressure sores on my back. They still hurt today. I had to change the dressings, and they're craters, like seven cigarette burns dotting my spine.

When I showed them to the dietician on Tuesday, she was shocked. She'd never seen pressure sores on someone so young, prompting her to up my goal intake to 500 minimum (it's been going up 50-100 every few weeks).

I think the scariest part is that I didn't really see it coming. Earlier in the day we'd been out for one of our tourist-esque drives the day before, stopping in at Ballarat for lunch. Outing #2 for the year, achieved. On the menu was a Cornish pastie and long black before heading back home. Then, that night, everything sort of fell apart.

Pressure wounds, the day I got home. Potentially the most awkward selfies I've ever taken. 

xxBella

The Good, The Bad, and the Manic

Last weekend, I managed to get out to see one of my few-but-precious friends (who really needs a blogname) for drinks, which was lovely. He accounts for probably 90% of my social encounters since I started blogging.

But before I get into that, due to popular demand (hah), here is the Sneaking Out story.


I'll keep it short, but at and of November, I got a friend request on Facebook. No one I'd met before, but we had a lot of mutual friends, and maybe spoke a few times sporadically over the years. We messaged for a few days, then one night, I can't even remember how, he decided to drive the 90 minutes from Melbourne to come see me.

Not wanting to, or knowing how to, explain my little adventure, I got dressed up and told him to meet me in the lane way. He waited by the garage, texted me, then I went down the backyard and jumped fence - skinning my knee on the way down. We drove back to his place, did things I'm not entirely proud of or sure why I did. I told him I'd have to be back by 5am, so mum wouldn't realise I'd left.

It was 6am before we woke up. So he drove me back, and as I opened the front door, mum had just woken up, and I panicked to explain where I'd been and who this strange person accompanying me was. Most awkward introduction ever. But her reaction?
    "Next time, just use the front door."

We went back to sleep for a powernap before he had to drive back home. When I woke up, I'd had seizure #2. Apparently I'd had a seizure, then went totally unresponsive for a good 15 minutes. I woke up to him asking if I was okay. In retrospect, this really pissed me off. He knew my mum was around. I could've been fucking dead, and he did nothing, said nothing, just waited...

When I got up, we made coffee and I told mum about the seizure and talked a bit in general. Before he left, mum told him, again, to just use the front door next time.


I really think I was manic at the time. There's no explanation for what I did. I'm still not 100% on identifying episodes, but Christmas time always seems to trigger one off. I only realise I'm manic after I do stupid, impulsive, dangerous, self-destructive things that I'd never do in a million years. I did leave a note before I left. No where too obvious, but basically saying if I didn't come back, I left with [name] of [town] around 9pm, but what's a note going to do if I ran into trouble?


Then, a few days later, was this 'date'. Ugh. What a fail. We made some pre-marinated roast with a side of sweet potato fries, which I nibbled at ("You must be starving!"). Then we went to a strip club to play pool (yes, we were actually playing pool) and have a few drinks. So romantic.

There was going to be a third meeting, but divine intervention got in the way. Mum was driving me to Melbourne, and we stopped for coffee on the way. Numb-nuts here decided it would be a good idea to balance my long black between my legs and take the lid off the add sweetner, while travelling 100km/h, spilling it all over my legs and skirt. Mum panicked and pulled over, and I decided "You know what? Let's just go home."


I know it was stupid and dangerous. Honestly, I'm embarrased by it, which is probably why I've put off posting for so long. I can't even explain it myself, let alone anyone else. I don't know why I did it. It's such a complicated and unhealthy issue, I've avoided even writing about. Is it self-destruction? For advantage? Because I can't say 'no'? Because I don't believe I can say 'no'? It's just a total mess. So I go along with it.

He isn't a good influnce. He makes me feel like shit. He likes how thin I am - no dramas - despite knowing I have AN. Plus, the fact he was talking about "I think I'm falling in love with you" and moving to Melbourne city so we'd be closer, teaching me to drive, after meeting me twice... something just isn't right there.


Now, on a happier note, last weekend I went over to see one of my friends, R. We watched a movie and I drank three glasses of wine and nibbled at a few rice crackers before my stomach decided to reject it's contents. I spent the rest of the night by the toilet. R got me his dressing gown, helped pull my hair up, made me a mug of ginger tea and rubbed my back. 

Unfortunately, this isn't uncommon. My stomach rarely holds alcohol these days, regardless of alcohol content or volume. Thankfully, R puts up with me. The first time, I threw up pasta all over his bathroom. 

  "S'ketti everywhere" he grinned

Eventually, I had to wake him at 4:30 to get a lift home. My sleeping patterns have been messed up since. 

It was just a nice break from all the crap that's been going on. I felt safe. I told him about seizure #2 and how my friend just sat and waited as I went unresponsive, not bothering to ask for help. 

  "What's his name, and can I punch him?"

I was having a heated discussion with mum the other night, so I took the leap and messaged him asking if he was free for a little. It was good to get an objective opinion. I spilt the beans about trauma, lack of appointments, and upcoming anniversaries. I felt safe, protected. 


Love you all. You guys keep me sane. Even when I'm not posting, I'm always reading, and commening when possible. Apologies for worrying anyone with my lack of posting lately, but I promise, I'm not about to go anywhere. I'm just not functioning. I've tried every day to blog, but just couldn't. It was only today I managed to drag myself to the bath and get myself freshened up for the first time in over a week (ew, I know, feel free to judge). I feel like I'm grieving, actual grief, for all that has been lost, but this post is long enough as it is. I'll try to update on appointment progress soon.


xxBella