Returning
home, I set up camp, so to speak, in the living room. When I take ill
I usually sleep on the couch. That way I can move around without
disturbing J2. Although, J2 did sleep next to
me in a recliner for the first few nights. He was overly worried that
I might stop breath. He is my husband and he should be concerned, but
there are times when I feel I’m not worthy for such distress. Now
settled, I focused on another important task; showering. While I was
almost desperate to wash the hospital from me, I ran into a problem.
Standing. Not something I could do for very long. Then a thought
crossed my oxygen deprived brain and I called J2 who was
picking up my pills. I had him purchase a shower stool. So helpful. I
was all clean and I didn’t fall over. Big win.
I
ended up taking three weeks off work. After shuffling back into work,
however, I sort of wished I reconsidered. Since I was only there for
an extremely short amount of time, I chose to leave my oxygen tank in
the car. It was a little heavy and I didn’t want the attention.
Physical
recovery basically consisted of rest and slowly introducing exercise.
As I felt a little better, I walked a little more. Mentally was more
of a deterioration. When I landed in the hospital my brain
automatically focused on what was wrong, how to fix it, and healing.
After a couple months, when I felt practically normal, the panic and
thoughts started creeping in. Besides having my plate full with
issues, one more was added during this time that was not only
revealing, but also damaging. So everything was compounded into a
nice ball of anxiety in the pit of my stomach.
At
random intervals, thoughts crossed my mind. The kind of dark thoughts
you wouldn’t expect of someone who just had a serious health
crisis. The accumulation of these thoughts spilled over the day we
spoke with our fertility doctor. He didn’t give us bad news, quite
the opposite. He still believed her could help us. Later that night,
after J2 had gone to bed, I felt the weight of everything.
I panicked over the time we had lost. I panicked over the time I felt
slipping from my grasp. Like, no matter how hard I could run, I would
never catch up. Yes, chasing an intangible notion seems very
reasonable. But, nevertheless, a relatable way to describe the
particular weariness that came with the panic. I started to cry.
Then
came the thought that I should have died. Why did I bother going to
the hospital? What purpose did saving my life bring? How easy to
ignore the symptoms. To clarify, I was not suicidal. I didn’t feel
the need to hurt myself, but I just didn’t want to exist. I can’t
even do a breakdown right. I understand it was a good thing to not
be suicidal. But, the impression I’ve always gotten is that my
feelings and experiences are not dire enough to warrant discussion.
So it seems foolish mentioning it.
No
matter the importance, I still felt like the visceral reaction to
seek help was actually the wrong choice. I could provide nothing. I
could offer nothing. I felt like I was losing It all. So why was I
alive? Plain and simple: Luck. Many people die from pulmonary
embolisms. I noticed an issue and looked to solve it. Deserving or
not, it’s happenstance. No deeper meaning. Peace was not bestowed.
Sorry if you thought I’d have some epiphany. I’m broken. In more
ways than one.
Days
passed by. Months. And now it’s been over a year.
I’m
no longer in that mindset. I’ve accepted certain truths and what
not to bother with anymore. We’ve continued fertility treatments. I
did what I’ve trained myself to do; deal with it and move on. It’s
what happens when you’re an in-between. This post isn’t meant to
evoke anyone’s sympathy (not that I would presume it would). It’s
better saved for others that need it.
As
much as what’s in my head has hurt me, it also has saved me.