So this is what happened
I hadn't been feeling well for a couple of weeks: nausea and abdominal pain that came and went unpredictably. Because it wasn't constant, I chalked it up to stress and poor eating habits due to my long-ass schedule for work. Then I started throwing up. Again, I assumed stomach flu, or something similar. Until the actual puking, I was too focused on working to worry too much about what was going on. Spring Break was approaching, and I needed to make my hours in the weeks leading up. My licensure is approaching, so missing anything that would put that off was not on.
I will admit now that the vomiting didn't even get me to the doctor for three days. I will also admit that I had, on more than one occasion thought to myself, "There is something wrong," and that I did nothing until I woke up Friday morning two weeks ago, started throwing up again and then my nose started bleeding.
Urgent care sent me immediately to the ER, who immediately admitted me, because apparently my gall bladder was seriously infected, with stones blocking all kinds of things, causing bile to build up in my system. After the x-rays, the ultrasound, and the (panic-attack-inducing) MRI, I had the first of two procedures to remove the stones blocking my bile duct and to put in a stint. I had the actual surgery to remove my gall bladder the next day. I was told by the first of my surgeons that, had I waited another day, I would have ended up in ICU. Apparently my bloodwork was worringly high.
You know, when you're in the hospital, there is no such thing as propriety. Your entire body is open for others to push and prod and stick things in. Usually, you're unconscious and completely unaware of what's being done to you. I had surgery twice, so naturally I was catheterized twice. Then again after the second surgery when I was unable to urinate on my own and in so much pain I was crying and shaking, except for that one I was awake and aware of the two nice ladies getting intimate with my ladyparts. Two days after I got home - after 4 days in the hospital - I was able to finally scrub off the tape residue under my breasts, used to keep them out of the way during the sceond surgery. Every day I was asked about my eating, urinating, flatulance, and bowel habits.
It was all very intimate, and yet not, at the same time. I never felt violated. But it is a weird, kind of shaking feeling when I realize I've been touched more through this experience than I have in almost six years.
It's been two weeks, and I am feeling much better physically. The first week was hell and I just sort of existed on my bed, feeling queasy and unable to eat anything of substance. I'm still careful about what I eat and how I eat. The introduction of new foods is an act of faith that I'm not going to be made uncomfortable. Today I had pizza. It felt akin to a religious experience. My insides still feel bruisey and bloated, though I don't look nearly as weird as I did for awhile.
I'm returning to work this week. My emotional reactions to that are complicated and generally not-good. I don't know what to do about that except do it and hope the anxiety lessens. I also cry a lot now. That's gotten a little better. It's one thing to understand, Oh hey, I went through this incredibly painful and traumatic experience. It's another to actually deal with the aftermath and try to be a normal person with a high-stress job that requires being able to appear normal to other people all day.
So this is me now: weird and afraid of things I wasn't afraid of before and really wishing I had another week to stay home and think about all this stuff I went through, and yes, hide. Most times on most days, I really want to hide, and I don't know why. I have hope and faith that this will improve, given enough time, because that's what I tell my clients.
I will admit now that the vomiting didn't even get me to the doctor for three days. I will also admit that I had, on more than one occasion thought to myself, "There is something wrong," and that I did nothing until I woke up Friday morning two weeks ago, started throwing up again and then my nose started bleeding.
Urgent care sent me immediately to the ER, who immediately admitted me, because apparently my gall bladder was seriously infected, with stones blocking all kinds of things, causing bile to build up in my system. After the x-rays, the ultrasound, and the (panic-attack-inducing) MRI, I had the first of two procedures to remove the stones blocking my bile duct and to put in a stint. I had the actual surgery to remove my gall bladder the next day. I was told by the first of my surgeons that, had I waited another day, I would have ended up in ICU. Apparently my bloodwork was worringly high.
You know, when you're in the hospital, there is no such thing as propriety. Your entire body is open for others to push and prod and stick things in. Usually, you're unconscious and completely unaware of what's being done to you. I had surgery twice, so naturally I was catheterized twice. Then again after the second surgery when I was unable to urinate on my own and in so much pain I was crying and shaking, except for that one I was awake and aware of the two nice ladies getting intimate with my ladyparts. Two days after I got home - after 4 days in the hospital - I was able to finally scrub off the tape residue under my breasts, used to keep them out of the way during the sceond surgery. Every day I was asked about my eating, urinating, flatulance, and bowel habits.
It was all very intimate, and yet not, at the same time. I never felt violated. But it is a weird, kind of shaking feeling when I realize I've been touched more through this experience than I have in almost six years.
It's been two weeks, and I am feeling much better physically. The first week was hell and I just sort of existed on my bed, feeling queasy and unable to eat anything of substance. I'm still careful about what I eat and how I eat. The introduction of new foods is an act of faith that I'm not going to be made uncomfortable. Today I had pizza. It felt akin to a religious experience. My insides still feel bruisey and bloated, though I don't look nearly as weird as I did for awhile.
I'm returning to work this week. My emotional reactions to that are complicated and generally not-good. I don't know what to do about that except do it and hope the anxiety lessens. I also cry a lot now. That's gotten a little better. It's one thing to understand, Oh hey, I went through this incredibly painful and traumatic experience. It's another to actually deal with the aftermath and try to be a normal person with a high-stress job that requires being able to appear normal to other people all day.
So this is me now: weird and afraid of things I wasn't afraid of before and really wishing I had another week to stay home and think about all this stuff I went through, and yes, hide. Most times on most days, I really want to hide, and I don't know why. I have hope and faith that this will improve, given enough time, because that's what I tell my clients.