Almost dying....Part 2

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.