Oct 29, 2008 20:55
The last thing I remember was waking up to the burn of an otoscopic light. Someone must have brought me to the Medic-Floor. I am so ashamed. It is only a matter of simple mathematics. Cardiac output (blood flow x volume per unit time) is computed by multiplying the heart rate (BPM) and the stroke volume, (ejected blood during ventricular systole.) Why is something so trivial so disruptive...?
My chest still burns from the defibrillator.
I will have to stay here overnight. Apparently, the Medical Department has no concern about how far behind I am in my work. I promised Cid over a month ago that I would replace the coolant fan on the R2 propeller engine of the Highwind. The nurses however, were kind enough to bring me my laptop after assuring stabilization. I was told that I could use it as long as it didn't interfere with any of the monitoring equipment. Hmnph-- interference. That's all this is. The IVs, the pulse oximeters, the EKGs, the wires... they are interfering with me.
I've spent most of the day reading online physics journals and encountered a phenomenal theory concerning dark matter. I will write more about that later when I am not so fatigued. For now, my intentions are to write out what the medic told me, per her suggestion.
Isosorbide, Hydralazine, Digitoxin, Nicardipine, Procainamide- 1A, Phenoxybenzamine. Today's collapse was a result of my failure to take the applicable medication in accordance with the prescribed time-table. She told me that if I continued to be so apathetic about my medications that I will die. She seemed troubled when I did not respond. Perhaps she misunderstood my silence-- I did not believe discussing the subject with her to be relevant or of interest.
The truth is, I am terrified of dying.
I have always been this way. I remember as a little girl, pleading my mother to sit near me as I slept-- as if her presence could wave away death like the vapors of a bad dream. Thinking back on it, perhaps she believed that too. I would loose myself to sleep in the sound of her voice, her words painting the walls of my mind with stars and constellations, far away places where physicality was irrelevant and evanescence surrendered to the infinite.
This room is depressing. Fake plants, cheery art. A superficial attempt to distort reality. To hide from the inevitable. A distraction from pain, loneliness... Loneliness.
No... I am not afraid of death. I am afraid of dying alone.
I... Am I... am I crying?
How shameful. My eyes are probably just watering as a side effect of the epinephrine. The medics will have to wait. I have work to do.