(scene: Saturday night, my house, just after dinner)
Nathan (washing dinner plate in the kitchen): *huge, long-winded, gross burp*
Me: Blergh, what do you say to that?
Amelia (also in kitchen): HIGH FIVE, WAY TO GO!
Alex (cuddling me on the couch): THAT WAS FREAKING EPICALLY AWESOMELY AMAZING!
Nathan: See Baby? The KIDS know how awesome burps are.
Amelia: *immediately starts burping by sucking down air*
Alex: *applauds*
Me *headdesk*
Recently, I decided to turn the room in which we shoved things into and closed the door before actually looking into my office. I’d been running things (for the Band (which is now up and running!), not my criminal empire – SADLY) from my thoroughly beat-up dining room table which was fine, until you take into account the “open floor plan” of our second floor. Then? You realize that a dining room, kitchen, and office don’t always need to be on the same damn floor.
I’ve waded through the stuff that you put somewhere else to deal with it sometime else and found that holy shit, Nathan is a hoarder. I began to slowly unbox things and put them where they’re supposed to go (seriously, I have an inversion table in here that looks to me to be some sort of rack used to pull people apart.
Mental note: don’t let kids use this. Or do. Whatever. Maybe it can make them freakishly tall (only freakish because Dave is an inch taller and our poor, poor, poor, short kids) It’s oddly imposing but definitely is big enough that it appears as though someone is also down here on the first floor paying rapt attention to me, which is a plus. No idea what the fuck I’m talking about? May I present to you THE RACK:
The Rack
In the two years we’ve been together, I’ve never seen Nathan so much as glance at it, but here it sits, taking up space that should include those gigantic unicorns you can ride on. And bean-bag chairs. Obviously bean-bag chairs.)
Alas, I digress.
In the midst of a clean-out that I will be honest about – it’s a “work in progress” – which is, what I think people say when they’re tired of a project they’re supposed to do, and it’s annoying and frustrating, and OMGBBQ Nathan has too much stuff, I gravitated to the best part of having an office: decorations.
As a reward for doing an excellent job with my “progress,” I wanted something totally cool for my office (besides My First Bacon, which oddly, we have TWO of) and Amazoned it right the fuck up. One of the first things I was drawn toward was one of those stupid but cute cardboard containers with lots of space for…erms… I don’t know – pens? paper clips? slide-rules? guns? tiny gnomes?
THIS particular one was a shade of blue I like AND had some succulents in it. I nearly screamed with glee – I’ve been LOOKING to do shit with succulents for awhile and they’re remarkable easy to grow – until, that is, I noticed in other pictures of this bullshit product, there were no flowers.
It was something you COULD do, if you wanted to.
I’m good enough with plants to know cardboard isn’t a great growth medium, unless you like fungus, in which case, I’ve got a shitton of boxes for you. But that idea never left the annoying part of my lizard brain that likes to remind me of all the cool shit I should buy, so one night, as Nathan was watching soccer and I was pretending to watch soccer, I went on Etsy.
Mistake #1. Now, I love me some Etsy, I really do. The problem for me is that I never know how to find anything on there and each item I come across makes me want a different, more wholesome life, where burlap and twine rule. While I rock at Amazoning and Targeting, I such at Etsying – which is probably best for my budget. Besides, I don’t REALLY need 37 wooden cut outs to adorn my wall with the word “blessed.”
Mistake #2. I went onto the site and typed in “box of succulents” which is what I’d wanted. Just a simple box of succulents to make my office, well, awesomer. When I put it in my cart, it said ONLY ONE LEFT, and so I HAD to purchase it right now, without looking at any other information about it. Yay! I crowed as Nathan began to yell “GOOOOOAAALLL” which is my favorite part of soccer.
I waited patiently (or as patiently as I possibly can, which is not much) for my box of succulents to arrive. The weather had freaked the fuck out, so I had to make sure to catch the delivery, lest my precious flowers freeze and die.
My box came one evening just as Nathan got home from work. Prettyish box (if you’re into brown, which I am decidedly not) and under the tissue paper, I saw my gorgeous succulents. Quickly I opened the (surprisingly light) box, ready and willing to warm the plants with my body heat and possibly let them listen to the rhythm of my heart, if they were feeling lonely after such a trip, and peeled back the scads of tissue paper. SO PRETTY. I was in the midst of instagramming them when I realized WHY the box was so light.
The product was exactly as described: A Box Of Succulents. The period, I think, should have been bolded so that dumb asses such as myself are prepared when you realize that you’ve just bought yourself ONLY plants. With no grow medium. With no stones or charcoal, no instructions, no nothing. Except tissue paper.
Shit.
While the sensible side of my brain said to fuck it and let them live until they die, then toss ’em, the lizard part of my brain began to sob about sweet little plants bound to die a horrifying death alone. Would they be in agony or would they simply drift off to sleep peacefully? I didn’t know if plants had feelings, but I figured that ones as pretty as mine probably didn’t. Vapid, vapid things. But STILL.
(annoyingly painful aside: I very happily eat both vegetables and meat without feeling a bit of regret. You’ll never see me weeping into my poor, lonesome spinach before shoving it down my mouth hole)
The battle was won by lizard brain.
Back to Amazon, I went, dutifully buying the things I needed to keep the plants alive – sorta the way you feel when your kids win a fish somewhere and now, good fuck, you’ve got to spend $145 bucks on other equipment because a 10 cent fish is now your daughter’s favorite thing in the world and you can’t just let it diiiieee, Mooooommmm.
The plants (and the fish) are happily alive and will remain in my debt for the rest of their puny fucking lives.
The office, though, it’s coming together.
There is a picture of me, somewhere out there, probably still on my dad’s phone unless they’ve turned into Christmas Card people, in which case, the picture is most definitely out there in the world for all to see.
I hope it is not.
I didn’t see the picture until I was 5 months sober, staying in the unfinished basement at my parents house, grateful that I was no longer homeless, while I hunted for a job. Before this, I’d been staying there after a stint at a ramshackle, rundown motel, the kind of place you probably could dismantle a dead body, leave the head on the pillow, and no one would think anything of it. But it was my room, and despite the lice they gifted me, I loved it. Until money dried up and suddenly I was, once again, homeless. I’d moved in there after I was discharged from the inpatient psych ward, in which I was able to successfully detox after a suicide attempt. Got some free ECT to boot.
(WINNING)
Despite what you see on the After School Special’s of our childhood, I didn’t take a single Vicodin, fall into a stupor, and become insta-addict – just add narcotics! No, my entry into addiction was a slow and steady downward spiral of which I am deeply ashamed. It’s left my brain full of wreckage and ruin, fragmented bits of my life that don’t follow a single pattern. Between the opiates, the Ketamine, and the ECT, I cannot even be certain that what I am telling you is the truth; what I’ve gathered are bits and pieces of the addict I so desperately hate from other people who are around, fuzzy recollections, and my own social media posts.
About a year and a half before I moved from my yellow house to the apartments by the river, Dave and I had separated; he’d told me that while he cared for me, he no longer loved me. While we lived in the same house, we’d had completely separate lives for years, so he moved to the basement while I stayed upstairs. I’d been miserable before his confession and after? I was nearly broken. Using the Vicodin, then Norco, I was able to numb my pain and get out of my head, which, while remarkably stupid, was effective. For awhile.
Let me stop you, Dear Reader, and ask you to keep what I am about to say in mind as you read through this massive tome. I’m simply trying to make certain that you understand several key things about my addiction and subsequent recovery. I alone was the one who chose to take the drugs. No one forced me to abuse opiates, and even later, (SPOILER ALERT) Ketamine. This isn’t a post about blaming others for my misdoings, rejecting any accountability, nor making any excuses for the stupid, awful things I’ve done. I alone fucked up. My addiction was my own fault. However, in the same vein, no one “saved” me but myself. There was no cheeky interventionist. No room full of people who loved me weeping stoically, telling me how my addiction hurt them. No letters. Nothing. It was just me. I was alone, and I chose to get – and remain – sober.
The delusions started when I moved out, sitting in my empty apartment alone, paralyzed by the thought of getting off the couch to go to the bathroom. Always a night-owl, I’d wake at some ungodly hour of the morning, shaking. It wasn’t withdrawal, no, it was pure unfettered anxiety.
It was the aftermath of using so many pills, all the fun you think you’re having comes back to bite you with crippling anxiety and depression.
Which is why I’d do more.
Yes, opiates are powerful, and yes, I abused them, but things really didn’t become dire until I added Ketamine to my life.
Ketamine, if you’re unaware, is a club drug, a horse tranquilizer, and a date rape drug. You use too much? You may wake up at some hipster coffee bar, trying to sing “You’re Having My Baby” to the dude in the front row who may or may not actually exist. In other words, it’s the best way to forget how fucked you are.
The delusions worsen as time passed. I could see into the future. I could read your mind. I was going to be famous. I was super fucking rich. In this fucked-up world, I could even forget about me, and the life that I’d so carelessly shattered. I remember sitting in Divorce Class at the courthouse, something required of all divorces in Kane County, weeping at all that I’d thrown away – using a total of three boxes of the low-quality, government tissues. I left with a shiny pink face and completely chapped nose and eyes that appeared to be making a break from their sockets. I went home, took some pills, took some Ketamine, and passed out.
I retreated ever-inward. I didn’t talk to many people. I didn’t share my struggles. I was alone, and it was my fault.
The hallucinations started soon after Divorce Class ended and my ex and I split up. He’d left my house in a rage after a fight and went to live with his sister. I got scared. His temper, magnified by the drugs, the hallucinations, and the delusions, grew increasingly frightening. Once he’d moved out, the attacks began. I’d wake up naked in my bedroom, my body sore and bruised, and my brain put the two unrelated events together as one – he was attacking me. It happened every few days, these “attacks,” until I found myself at the police station, reporting them. I was dangerously sick and I had no idea.
My friends on the Internet (those whom I had left), sent me money for surveillance cameras. I bought them, installed them – trying to capture the culprit – and when I saw what I saw, I immediately called the police and told them the culprit.
The videos in my bedroom captured an incredibly stoned, dead-eyed, version of myself, violently attacking myself, brutally tearing at my flesh. In particular, THAT me liked to beat my face with one of my prized possessions – a candlestick set from our wedding, take another pill or hit up some Ketamine, then violating myself with the candlestick. It lasted hours. I’d wake up with no memory of events, sore and tired and unsure of how I’d gotten there.
I’d never engaged in self-injury before – not once – so the very idea that I’d hurt myself was unbelievable, but right there, on my grainy old laptop, was proof of how unhinged I’d become. Charged with filing a false report, I plead guilty.
In early September of 2015, I decided to get fixed, and made arrangements with work to take a few weeks off to do an inpatient detox, and, for the first time in a long time, I woke up happily, rather than cursing the gods that I was still alive.
It was to be short-lived.
Several days later, sober, I was idly chatting with my neighbor about her upcoming vacation (funny the things your brain remembers and what it does not), standing by my screen door, when karma came calling. It sounded like the shucking noise of an ear of corn, or maybe the sound that a huge thing of broccoli makes when you rip it apart – hard. It felt like a bullet to the femur. I crumpled on top of my neighbor and began screaming wildly about calling an ambulance, yelling over and over like some perverse, yet truthful, Chicken Little: “my leg is broken, my LEG is broken!”
I don’t remember much after that. I woke up in (physical rehab) and learned that my femur (hereafter to be called my “Blasfemur,”) had broken, fairly high up on the bone, where the biggest, strongest bone in your body is at its peak of strength. Whaaaa?
The doctors and nurses shrugged it off my questions, with a flippant “It just happens” and sent me home, armed with a Norco prescription, in November, to heal. I added the Ketamine, just to make sure.
A couple of weeks later at the end of November, I was putting up the Christmas tree with the kids and my mother. It was all merry and fucking bright until I sat down on the couch and felt that familiar crunch. Screams came out of me I didn’t know were possible, but I’d lost my actual words. My mother stood over me yelling “what’s wrong? what’s wrong?” and I couldn’t find the words. I overheard her telling my babies that I was “probably just faking it” as she walked out the door, my screams fading into an ice cold silence. They left me alone in that apartment where I screamed and cried and screamed. Finally, I managed to call 911 and when they asked me questions, all I could scream was my address.
I woke up in January in a nursing home. When I woke up, I found myself sitting at a table in a vast dining room, full of old people. For weeks to come, I thought that I’d died and gone…wherever it is that you go.
This time, I learned, my (blas)femur and it’s associated hardware had become infected after the first surgery, which weakened the bone, causing it to snap like a tree. They put me all back together like the bionic woman, but the surgery had introduced the wee colony of Strep D in the bone into my bloodstream, creating an infection on meth. I’d been in a coma for weeks. Once again, I learned to walk, and once again, I was sent home in late January with another Norco prescription. The nursing home really wanted me to have someone stay with me to help out, but I insisted that I was fine alone. In truth, I had nobody to help me out, but was far too ashamed to tell them.
The picture I referenced above was taken some time in May, as far as my fuzzy memory allows me to remember, after my third femur fracture in March. This time, I’d been so high that I fell asleep on the toilet and rolled off. Glamorous, no? Just like Fat Elvis. Luckily, my eldest son was there and he called 911 and my parents to whisk him away. I remember my father on the phone, telling Ben that I was a liar and I was faking it. I was swept away in the ambulance for even more hardware, and finally? A diagnosis:
It’s an autoimmune disease that leaches calcium from the bones, resulting in brittle bones. It is managed, not treated. There is no cure.
But, I had the answer. Finally.
After my third fracture, I once again was sent to the nursing home, and quickly discharged with even higher doses of Norco, when my insurance balked, I’d used up all my rehab days for the year. By this time, I’d lost my apartment, my stuff was in storage (except the things that we’re thrown away, which my father gloated about while I was flat on my back) and my parents let me stay with them, which was about the only option I had. They couldn’t really kick me out if my leg was only freshly attached. I feel deeper into a depression, self-loathing, and drug abuse as I realized what a mess I’d made with my life. How many bad choices I’d made. How many people I’d hurt. How much I’d hurt myself. How much I loathed myself. How I once had a life that in no way resembled sleeping in my parents dining room. How I’d been a home owner. How I’d been married. How lucky I’d been. How I threw it all away. My life turned into a series of “once did” and “used to.”
The only one who hated me more was my father.
While we were once close confidants, in the years after my marriage to Dave, his disdain had become palpable. My uncle had to intervene one Christmas, after my father mocked me incessantly for taking a temp job filling out gift cards while I was pregnant with Alex. It may seem normal to some of you, this behavior, but in THEIR house, NO ONE was EVER SAD and NOTHING was EVER WRONG. WASPs to the core, my family is.
When I moved back in, broken, dejected, and high, our fights became epic. For the first time in my life, I stood UP to one of my parents. Then, I was promptly kicked out.
Guess I’m not so WASPy after all.
I want to say that the picture was taken around May of 2016, but my estimate may be thoroughly skewed, so if you’re counting on dates being correct and cohesive, you’ve got the wrong girl.
This is a picture of me, though you probably wouldn’t recognize me. I am wearing the blue scrubs that you associate with a hospital: not exactly sky blue, not teal, not navy, just generic blue hospital scrubs. These are, I remember, the only clothes I have to my name. I was given them in both the hospital and the nursing home, a gift, I suppose, of being a frequent flier, tinged with a bit of pity – this girl has no clothes, we can help. Whomever gave them to me, know that you gave me a bit of dignity, which I will never forget. Thank you.
I am wearing scrubs, the light of the refrigerator is slowly bleaching out half of my now-enormous body, as opposed to the darkness outside. There is a tube of fat around my neck, nearly destroying any evidence of my face, but if you look closely, you can make out my glasses, my nostrils, my hair cascading down. My neck is stretched back at nearly a 90 degree angle from my body, my head listlessly resting on the back of my wheelchair. My mouth gaped wide, which, should I been engaging in fly catching, would have netted far more than the average Venus flytrap. I am clearly, unmistakably, and without a single shred of doubt, passed the fuck out.
It is both me and not me.
High as i was, I don’t remember a thing about the photo being taken. But there I was, in all my pixelated glory.
By the time I saw the photo, I was once again in my “will do” and “can do” space. I’d kicked drugs in September 2016 and had found a job that I enjoyed. I stayed with my parents while I began to sort out my medical debt and save toward a new car and an apartment of my own. My spirits were high, my depression finally abated to the background, and I was tentatively happy. I’d apologized until my throat was sore, but my fragmented memory saved me from the worst of it, but I was not forgiven. I don’t think I ever expected to be. And now, I never will.
It’s okay. I can’t expect this. I know I fucked up.
My father, who’d actually grown increasingly disdainful of me, the more sober and well I became, confronted me when I came home one day after work, preparing to do my AFTER work, work.
My mother shuffled along behind him, Ben, the caboose. All three of them were in hysterics, tears rolling down their cheeks as I sat down in my normal spot on the couch. After showing them a video of two turtles humping a couple of days before, I eagerly waited to see what they were showing me.
What it was was that picture. Of the not me, me.
They could hardly contain their laughter, my father happier than ever, braying, “Isn’t this the best picture of you?” and “You PASSED OUT, (heave, heave) IN FRONT OF THE FRIDGE!” punctuated, with “I’m going to frame this picture!” The tears welled in my eyes while my teeth clenched, they laughed even harder at my reaction.
Like I said, if they’ve become Christmas Card sending people, this will be the picture of me they show, expecting others to laugh uproariously. Before I moved out, in fact, my father made certain to show the picture to anyone who came over. “Wanna see something hilarious?” he’d ask. Expecting memes or a funny cat playing the piano, they’d agree. I could see it when they saw it, my dad chortling with laughter, nearly choking on his giggles, the looks on their faces: a mixture of confusion and pity. Even in my drug-hazed “glory,” I’d never felt so low.
Maybe that picture is splashed all over the internet, in the dark recesses I don’t explore, and maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s hung on their wall, replacing all of the other pictures. Maybe it’s not.
Maybe we’ll meet again.
Maybe not.
I was eight, sitting at the top of the stairs on the nasty blue carpeting that infested nearly all 70s era houses. I’d been crying all day, my stomach in knots, and I couldn’t formulate any response to “What’s wrong?” I didn’t KNOW what was wrong, only that it was probably me and most definitely my fault. My friends never cried for weeks on end – or if they did, they didn’t spill their (embarrassing) beans to me, unable to eat or sleep or feel that they could ever possibly feel safe. Their stomachs probably were never tied up in so many knots that they felt like barfing at a moment’s notice. But I did. All day, every day.
I was powerless against these feelings.
But it was late, and I wasn’t supposed to be out of bed, but I couldn’t sleep, so 11PM found me sitting on the top of the stairs, quietly weeping, to no one in particular. I simply could not handle laying in my bed a single moment longer, hot and itchy, scared, my pillow drenched in tears. I tried to be quiet, listening to the murmurs of my family talking below, knowing that if I got caught on the stairs, I’d get yelled and and forced back into my horrible bed. Eventually, my brother – 18 years old – came home and saw me at the top of the stairs. He mocked my weeping for a bit (cry-baby) until he realized that I wasn’t whining about not getting my way and his face went slack. He slowly climbed those disgusting stairs until he approached the landing.
“What’s wrong?” he asked in a kinder way than he ever normally spoke to me and it was this kindness that opened the floodgates. I became hysterical. I didn’t exactly KNOW what was wrong and I had no idea how to make it better. All I knew is that I didn’t want to be alive anymore. So I told him, “I want to die.” It was the plain, simple truth: I no longer wanted to live. It wasn’t because I hated school, which I’d initially blamed it on (my teacher was an ass), but something far deeper: complete and total self-loathing.
This was my first nervous breakdown.
My confession flew my parents into a tizzy of making appointments with doctors, therapists, and everything in between. That tiny, small confession turned my world upside down. As years passed, I saw a slew of therapists and learned how to say the things they wanted to hear, not because I was self-defeating, but because I liked the way they seemed to be genuinely proud of me. I “made progress” with the therapists until they decided that BAM, I’d been cured.
I wasn’t.
November of 1994 found me, once again, desperate to end my life. I’d been broken up with by a guy I’d *pink-puffy-hearted* loved and in reaction, I didn’t see any reason to continue. This time, though, I decided to end it. Swallowing a bottle of Prozac (which likely wouldn’t have killed me anyway), I realized how stupid I’d been and called my best friend. Off we went to the hospital and there, I vomited so hard that I was amazed my organs were still intact.
In that way, I had my second nervous breakdown.
Afterward, my parents twittered around and got me a new therapist and psychiatrist, neither of whom were worth a damn, much as they tried. I spent the next few months in bed, unable to care enough to get up or go out. I missed scads of school. I took my meds and eventually returned to the real world (no, not the show).
The depression was kept at bay for a good many years. I called it remission, but I never thought about it returning. But, because depression is a wily fucker and determined to fuck your shit up, it’s plagued me for most of my life.
I’d quit taking my antidepressants after I’d gotten pregnant with Alex – the doctor made it clear that it could be dangerous for my kid, after Alex was born, I didn’t even recognize post-partum depression for what it was. Instead, I caught myself weeping in the kitchen day after day because the ice-maker had stopped working. It felt like my best friend had died, I wept and mourned the damn thing for about a week before I realized that being THAT upset about an ice-maker was absurd. Back to the doctor I went, and the next day, I had some new antidepressants.
That was like a quarter of a nervous breakdown, but had I waited, I’m certain it would have been a particularly bad episode. Depression is sneaky like that.
I’d had a nervous breakdown at the end my of marriage for Dave,* and after he decided we should get a divorce, I was a wreck. Not a cute, wipe-the-eyes-daintily kind of wreck, I had no fainting couch, I was a huge slobbery, disgusting mess. After witnessing and living with my own mother’s breakdowns and hysteria, I realized that I needed to get away from them for their own sake. While I should’ve hearkened back to my over-the-top reaction to that damn ice-maker, I was not in my right mind. Now I know that I should’ve checked myself into an inpatient psychiatric unit, but at the time, my brain felt like the neurons bouncing back and forth – I went by gut instinct (which NEVER fails, right?) and moved out. I had no money, no job, a huge addiction to pain pills to contend with, and no time or room to get through this bad patch of depression. It was impulse after impulse.*
And it was a colossal mistake.
I paid a steep price for it. While I maintained our joint custody arrangement, on the days when the kids weren’t around (Monday and Tuesday), I was positively a fucking mess. Days would turn into nights and then back into days and I could barely get off the couch to urinate. Every single second felt worse than the ones before it and I was utterly convinced that I was the biggest, ugliest, worst person ever born. I was a failure. It’s no wonder Dave wanted a divorce – I mean, why hadn’t he gotten one sooner? I was an unfit parent and even more an unfit human.
As the depression grew, the addiction flourished. Once the pain pills didn’t work, I added Ketamine* (prescribed as a part of a numbing cream by my doctor). For a long time. In that time, I alienated people, I lost friends, lost my pride, and my dignity. I didn’t hate – I LOATHED – myself. Didn’t care if I lived or died. Hoped that I wouldn’t wake up in the morning. Even on medication, I was insane. I knew it and I had no idea how to stop.
The day before I fractured my leg for the first time, I’d finally realized that I needed help. Real help. I needed to get off drugs and reclaim my life.
The very next afternoon, I fractured my femur. Standing up in the living room of my apartment, talking to my friend, it broke. The feeling is indescribable (and for another time). Pain pills became necessary, especially when it broke again, and yet again before I got the diagnosis: hyperparathyroidism. By that time, I’d lost most of what I loved my life: my job, my ability to walk, my apartment, my kids, and my dignity.* Depression mixed with addiction creates a hole so deep and dark, you cannot see the light. The dragon had slayed me.
I tried to take my own life once again after I became homeless. The worst thing? I cannot even remember a bit of it. I don’t remember driving to the pharmacy, I don’t remember the pills, I don’t remember being resuscitated. In fact, I have no idea who I could thank for preventing my death.
Months later, I woke up on the psych floor, bedsores on my ankles, and 70 pounds thinner. After intense therapy and a change of meds (along with daily ECT), I was fortunate enough to – for the first time, ever – feel like might just be worth living, after all. I learned to walk, first with a walker, then with a cane, then with my own feet. I got a job I loved and fell in love with an old friend. Now? My life couldn’t be better (unless I had a pony).*
Why the fuck am I yapping this at you?
First Kate Spade and now Anthony Bourdain. They’re both dead. This week. Their demons had taken over and they didn’t see another way out. And I’d be willing to bet a good bunch of you also understand the darkness and the battle against it. I know that I do. And I bothered writing out these words because I very much want to let those of you still in the thick of it that things do change. Life goes on. You can too. Maybe not today or tomorrow or even in a year, but things do – as they are wont to – change.
If you’re feeling like you’re alone, you’re not. I’ve got your back and I’m a hell of a scrappy bitch. I’m also working to get Band Back Together up and running. It was hacked and I’ve not been able to fix it… yet.
You do matter, you are so so so loved, and we are, after all, none of us alone. Depression lies.
If you’re truly feeling like hurting yourself or others, please please please call the Suicide Hotline in your country.
Argentina: +5402234930430
Australia: 131114
Austria: 017133374
Belgium: 106
Bosnia & Herzegovina: 080 05 03 05
Botswana: 3911270
Brazil: 212339191
Canada: 5147234000 (Montreal); 18662773553 (outside Montreal)
Croatia: 014833888
Denmark: +4570201201
Egypt: 7621602
Finland: 010 195 202
France: 0145394000
Germany: 08001810771
Holland: 09000767
Hong Kong: +852 2382 0000
Hungary: 116123
India: 8888817666
Ireland: +4408457909090
Italy: 800860022
Japan: +810352869090
Mexico: 5255102550
New Zealand: 045861048
Norway: +4781533300
Philippines: 028969191
Poland: 5270000
Russia: 0078202577577
Spain: 914590050
South Africa: 0514445691
Sweden: 46317112400
Switzerland: 143
United Kingdom: 08457909090
USA: 18002738255
* I will expound annoying on these juicy items at a later time.
According to medical reports, sweating is normal — especially in areas around the crotch. The same medical reports have associated sweating with many medical advantages. It is, however, essential to note that excessive sweating is not healthy and it causes discomfort and, more importantly, irritation. Medics have invested time in studying and learning about excessive sweating, especially around the crotch. This piece explores some of the cause, remedies, and long-term solutions for this medical phenomenon.
Some of the reasons that cause sweaty crotch include the following.
Although 95% of all extreme causes excessive sweating are lifestyle-centered, hyperhidrosis is one of the few medical reasons for uncontrolled sweating. According to pundits, this medical condition affects more than 3% of the human race. On a global perspective, hyperhidrosis affects millions of people. Under this umbrella term, there are also different types of hyperhidrosis.
Depending on the excessive sweating, the condition can either be general or focal hyperhidrosis. Focal hyperhidrosis, as a unique medical condition, affects all the areas surrounding groin, underarms, and sometimes faces.
Did you know that the underwear must give the body a chance to breathe? According to experts, there are tons of misconceptions about lingerie. These irrational beliefs have contributed to excessive sweating among American citizens. Medical professionals point out that the ideal underwear must give the body a chance to breathe. Good air circulation can regulate excessive sweating.
Whether you are on a summer trip or just carrying on with your daily life, natural fabrics are irreplaceable. Also, the choice of summer wear should be not only trendy but also comfortable. Using the ideal underwear also prevents other complications such as unexpected reactions with the body, especially when using synthetic underwear.
Some of the lifestyle and medical reasons for uncontrolled and excessive sweating include the following: diabetes and obesity, for example, are the leading causes of uncontrolled sweating among USA citizens. Medics have also established a link between excessive sweating and high levels of anxiety.
On the other hand, lifestyle causes of excessive sweating revolve around hormonal imbalance caused by lifestyles. For example, lack of proper hygiene can lead to excessive sweating as the body tries to readjust to the new state of hygiene.
Did you know that the body reacts to old age by excessive sweating? Medical professionals have established a link between excessive sweating with menopause and aging. Although the degree of sweating may differ from one person to another, more than 70% of seniors experience a certain level of sweating.
Did you know that more than 40% of all cases of excessive sweating requires medical attention? Hyperhidrosis, for example, needs medical care. The medical duration depends on the magnitude of hyperhidrosis and, more importantly, how the body responds to treatment. Regardless of the body’s response to treatment, professionals point out that lack of professional diagnosis is a recipe for other complex conditions.
Choosing the right underwear can solve unto 20% of all excessive sweating cases. Although the right choice of underwear is subjective to many factors, the following guideline is essential. First, experts advise on loose underwear as opposed to the tight ones. There are tons of advantages of wearing comfortable underwear compared to tight pieces of clothes.
Second, changing underwear regularly is an ideal remedy for excessive sweating. Finally, some clothes are sweat resistant. Although the functionality of these clothes is subject to discussion, they are suitable in some cases, especially on summer holidays.
There are tons of advantages associated with these three categories of products. Unlike other remedies, they work instantly and they are affordable. Antiperspirants, for example, are one of the essential commodities in controlling excessive sweating. The ingredients make it safe for use and, more importantly, a long-term solution for excessive sweating.
On the other hand, there are a wide variety of powders and creams. Unlike antiperspirants, these two products have a unique approach to preventing excessive sweating. They, however, absorb moisture and, therefore, make your summer holiday fun and comfortable.
Hold your nose, ’cause here goes the cold water
When I started blogging in the Dark Ages of the Blog, most of the blogs I came across were on LiveJournal, which is sorta like the Facebook of today. People posted pictures of their food, vaguely-directed passive aggressive insults to (presumably) other LiveJournal users, and various GIFs. There was very little of the actual person represented, which I found somewhat tedious: tell me your juicy stories, tell me what you’re really going through – I didn’t want the made-for-television version of, well, you and your life. I wanted the unsanitized truth, not perfect pictures of perfect families living perfect lives with expertly executed decor in their perfect house. If I needed to feel badly about my highly imperfect self, I’d have picked up a magazine.
Sometime while I was sleeping or eating cheeseburgers or both, it all changed. Blogs (or the blogs I stumbled across) became substantive. I learned – really learned – about the lives of these people. I mean, their lives stripped away from the pretense of achieving perfection. When I’d find a particularly awesome blog, I’d start at the very beginning and work my way to the present – creepers or not, I felt like I’d gotten a window into someone else’s life, internet voyeurism at it’s finest. Good or bad, I felt like I knew these people and was easily entangled with their daily lives.
Until, they’d just… stop.
I’d seen it all, from how they like their morning eggs, to how much they loathe their in-laws, to their biggest insecurities, and then …. radio silence. I wanted to know more, and if I couldn’t have that, whelp, I wanted to hear the end. A neat summary of why they’d stopped blogging. I mean, yeah, sure, they’d make the occasional return to blogging Christmas-card style: bullet points, updates, and follow-ups, but you could tell that their heart was simply no longer in it.
When I took to Mommy Wants Vodka, I couldn’t imagine the idea of an “end.” People’d ask me, “why do you blog?” and my answer was usually something along the lines of “I can’t NOT.” My compulsive nature took over and writing was simply something that I just did.
When my life took a swift veer into the shitty, I, too, slowly stopped. It didn’t fulfill me. It made me anxious. It made me unhappy. It scared me. Between my divorce and my rampant drug use, I simply had nothing more to say. My words were gone, my life was in shambles, and every time I bounced to the bottom, there was an even worse, more gruesome bottom for me to hit.
And my blog succumbed to the fate that so many others had before me. It was over. Done. Fin. (insert some other foreign words for “piece of shit”)
It’s bothered me ever since.
There’s some quote or something literary that goes something like “if you hate where you ended, keep going.” Actually, I think it’s more like, “if you don’t like the ending, then it’s not the end” which sounds a bit clunky to me, if I’m being honest.
Which is why I’m back. To put something to bed that should’ve been done a long time ago. I need to give this battered old bag ‘o’ bones a proper send-off. Can’t say when or where it’ll end, because I’m not done yet.
I’m only getting started.
——–
That early, early morning, the July sun filtered languidly through the windows in the basement of the church, where we sat waiting for (what I called) “Marriage Class.” I looked at Dave, half rolled my eyes and he smiled at me. Not a child of the church myself, churches made me anxious – I always felt that in church, God, or the priest, or the hobo outside would scowl down at me for not being “chosen,” or “Godly,” or “good enough” to walk those hallowed halls. It’s kinda like that when you grow up having been baptized in a stream while Joan Baez sang tinnily from the boombox: you’re always outside looking into The Church. You can’t sing along at funerals, your idea of prayers at dinner include the always-catchy “Good food, good meat, good God let’s eat,” and you NEVER quite get when precisely you’re to bow your head or say an “Amen.” When we’d decided to get married in a church, this Marriage Class was part of the requirement, and there we sat, itchy and feeling decidedly UN-holy, waiting for the end of the class the moment we sat down.
If I am being completely honest, despite my discomfort with Church Things, the class was a good idea. It wasn’t all “RESPECT THY HUSBAND AND THE TINY BABY JESUS;” it was more about learning navigating life with another person, which, as you all know, is harder than nailing Jello to the wall, but we were bored. We’d already done the co-habitation, the kid-rearin’, and the Life Plan (tho my goal is “don’t die,” so perhaps I am not the best person to make any sort of plan with) and we’d both become well-versed on the way that nothing quite goes as planned. Three painful, boring, dusty hours later, we were handed a test. I squeed with joy – fresh out of nursing school and my NCLEX victory – I love tests. Pink-puffy hearts. I love tests so fucking much that our marriage would’ve likely had a quite different turnout if everything was multiple choice.
Alas.
This was a personality test, so while there were technically no wrong answers, I deeply understood that some choices were simply better than others. I gave a “I’m gonna win this shit SO HARD” sneer to Dave, who laughed, before saying, “I’m gonna kick your ass SO HARD.” He choked on his now-cold coffee, snorting it up his nose. “We’ll see,” he bantered back.
When I graded my test (SO easy! Stupid Meyers-Briggs! SAD!) I was left with a bunch of letters. Four of them: ENFP. I was singularly unimpressed. Dave got some other ones, I can’t recall which, and we compared notes, which seemed as good as any a way to pass the time when everyone else was still taking the test. We did a minor victory dance, gloated at what was certain to be the best test compatibility in the history of EVER and waited to hear the interpretation of the (teacher? pastor? priest?). After what felt like an hour and a half (it was 12 minutes), he made his way to us, and I preened as he read over our tests, his forehead creased and flickered very briefly. I looked to Dave for reassurance but he hadn’t noticed. What did that flicker mean? Were we extra awesome? Were we a terrible match?
The (teacher? pastor? priest?) tried to assure us that we’d be okay … probably. He explained in elusive terms like “connection” and “mutual interests” that confused me more than reassured me. He mentioned “opposites” and “attracting” but warned us that things could be tough for us, which I quickly compensated to mean “we’d overcome ALL THE THINGS.”
I mean, what couple goes into a marriage expecting it to blow up? No one truly wants to believe in divorce.
But, like all things nasty in life: child loss, miscarriage, mental illness, abuse, rape, chronic illness, and cancer (to name a quite narrow few), you don’t believe it’s going to happen to you, because you can’t believe it could. Like you’ll live forever without the nastier bits and complications because you’re special, well, you’re going to have a long fall from that high horse.
I can assure you that I did.
And it took me a hell of a long time to truly get back up.
Life marches ever forward.
In most endings, there is also a beginning.
This is mine.
Late September, 2015, changed my life forever.
I was standing at the door of my apartment, talking to my friend – and neighbor – Tanya. I can see the moment that altered the course of, well, EVERYTHING as clear as day. It was dusk and a beautiful, clear night. She was getting ready for a visit to Florida and we chatted about Disney World – which, for as much of a badass that I am, I fucking love. I was in the middle of defending why Epcot was full of the awesome when it happened.
It felt like a gunshot had gone off inside my leg.
I felt the bone crack. There are no words to describe how it feels when the biggest, strongest bone in your body breaks.
Grasping for something, anything to break my fall, I grabbed Tanya.
And I began screaming.
I didn’t stop until they gave me something in the Emergency Department.
Emergency surgery made my femur bionic. It also infected me with a group D streptococcus bacterium.
Rehab followed the surgery and, in looking back, did not help in the slightest. The rehabilitation center kept me for a week, not the month I should’ve had, but not knowing any better, I was just glad to come home. Until, of course I got home. I was in such agony that I could barely move, let alone DO anything for myself, which is especially hard when, y’know, you LIVE by yourself.
I went back to work a couple of days after I returned home. I was summarily fired on a technicality I knew nothing about. I’d been preparing for it – another one of the nurses had been fired for going on FMLA (not, of course for taking it – that would make it illegal! – but on a technicality. Same old song and dance.
There were bits and blurbs I can remember from October to December, but really, most of that time was erased from my memory banks. I was told that in cases of severe stress and pain, our brain (thankfully) “forgets” those times. Permanently. I do remember that every time I went to see the orthopedic doctor who’d performed my surgery, my leg made no progress toward healing. I do know, thanks to my Facebook feed, that I, much like Chicago’s voters, I fell early and I fell often.
At the beginning of December, I fell again. This time, there was no cute Facebook post whining about a fall. This time is completely black. I can remember waking my child with my screams. He called 911. I remember parts of the ambulance ride and what I described in the post below.
What I now know is that my orthopedic doctor called in a trauma surgeon to treat me. I’d managed snap the titanium rod into pieces. And, as a precaution, both my femur and the hardware were swabbed for bacteria.
My second femur break:
I didn’t wake up following the second surgery.
I didn’t wake up for weeks.
I ran extremely high fevers.
I was septic. No one knew why.
9 days after the surgery, the cultures taken by my infectious disease doctor grew a rare form of Strep D. They pumped me full of more antibiotics and prayed they weren’t too late.
Nothing.
ECT snapped me out of it, albeit slowly. When questioned as to why that happens, I was reminded that the brain is a mysterious organ and the exact reasons behind my awakening were unclear.
They used the term “miracle” a lot.
Once my fevers cleared, I was sent to a rehab facility located in a nursing home. I remained in and out of consciousness (in this world, at least). Finally, I became aware in the middle of January.
I came home in the middle of February, alone. While the rehab facility strongly suggested having someone else with me, no one really wanted THAT job. As frustrated as I was, it was – by far – the best thing I could’ve done. I’ve gone from being dependent upon my walker (who I named Mrs. Hernandez) to walking alone, even though I walk like I’m drunk 8373% of the time (which, of course, is NOTHING NEW TO ME).
At my most recent ortho appointment, he showed me the x-rays taken minutes before. See all that swirly stuff? That’s BONE, bitches! I done got me some motherfucking BONE GROWTH! (I’d use more exclamation points but I tend to multiple exclamation points only when being ironic and/or obnoxious)
Now? If you can read this, the bitch is, indeed, back.
And? It feels fucking divine.
Growing up, we always had a spot for canes – or “walking sticks” as my father referred to them as – by the front door. While I’m certain that other people had cane holders like we did, I recall being baffled that my friends all thought it was weird.
As I recall, these canes were highly ornate and boasted these beautiful gold filigree handles. I couldn’t understand how exactly my father used them on his nightly walks without screwing up the gold (gold is a naturally soft metal) but they always managed to stay intact.
Sort of like this – only prettier.
This assortment of walking sticks helped tremendously when we played dress-up: pretend you’re a 1920s gangster and the cane was used as a Tommy gun.* Or a pretentious poet who used o!, and, despite being very thoroughly American, added a “U’ into words like color in an non-ironic way. Or you used it as a “shovel” while “mining for gold.”
When I got older and popped out a few crotch parasites, House, MD made canes and Vicodin cool. This helps tremendously, well, NOW.
After the hospital, I went to a old people home to receive twice-daily IV antibiotics and physical therapy. When I was relearning to walk, I realized that my right leg was shorter than my left, because I was, well, WOBBLY.
(And not just because I was drunk.)
My PT confirmed that my right leg is about an inch shorter than my left. My orthopedic further confirmed: when I rebroke my femur in December, the breaks in my femur, hip, and usage of additional bits (that allowed me to begin the slow process of becoming totally bionic) worked in tandem to shave an inch off my right hip.
Here’s the downside: my right leg doesn’t yet know it’s now closer to 5 foot 4 inches than 5 foot 5. I’ve set that motherfucker up for a total self-esteem crisis. It’s going to want to go out and pick up bikers in bars and wear too much liquid black eyeliner, and I’m going be the one that has to say “motherfucker, NO. Just no.”
Alas, I digress.
Some of the time, when my leg isn’t being stiff or hurty, my right leg is fine and (no matter what the stripper tells you) there is absolutely NO sex in the champagne room. I walk mostly normally** – for a 35 year old using a fucking walker, but there are times, mostly when I am half-asleep, post-frat party, or after a particularly strenuous PT session, that I wobble.
Which is why it’s likely that I will graduate from my super sassy walker to cane. Unfortunately, my father will not allow me to use one of his walking sticks (I think it’s because of the frat parties). However, fortunately, there appear to be any number of truly awesome and beyond bizarre canes available:
There’s this one:
Which nattily matches the stick shift knob in my car.
Or this one:
Which nattily matches my life.
So I started thinking about how awesome it would be to stop hiding my flask it my purse, and wound up here:
(pointless aside, the website I found ONLY stocked patriotic flask canes)
Or this, if’n I decide to spell colour incorrectly and become a beat poet as well as a drunk:
But, that’s where things take a decided turn for the truly weird and fucked up:
Now, I heart me some dogs. Fucking love them. Can’t wait to HAVE one of my own.
That said, why the fuck would I want a porn-lighting cane that actually LOOKS like a dog? I can’t picture any situation in which this could be used comfortably OR fashionably. Believe me, I’ve tried.
Now this one wouldn’t be a bad cane to own.
It’s from an antique cane website, looks amazingly similar to a cane my father owns, and it’s tasteful (if boring).
HOWEVER.
If you squint at it long enough, it becomes clear that the last word on the cane is “coffin.” The first word appears to be a name. Which, after you Google “weird ass canes,” for long, you realize it may actually be a cane that just might store a part of a dead person.
Then we have this, which is not only offensive, but frightening:
And this, which is just fucked the fuck up:
I mean, I GET that it’s supposed to be a Victorian woman cane, but seriously, that cane would keep me up all night, every night, in mortal fear that it would come to life and eat my face off. That bitch would TOTALLY boil a bunny.
I could totally kick those damn kids off my lawn with this:
Or this:
And now we are at the ridiculously tasteful canes section.
If you’re reading this at work, you may want to skip the last two and go directly down to my challenge below.
Who DOESN’T want to be able to perform a vaginal exam every time they go, well, ANYWHERE.
As an aside, this item is being sold by *blink blink* Sears, which, for the low low low price of $17.42.
And then, then we have this is this horrifying monstrosity which is INCREDIBLY NSFW (I never EVER warn against this unless I fucking mean it), unless you work at THOSE kind of jobs. If you think that makes it challenge-worthy, well, you’re my kind of person.
If’n you need clarification, just look.
(but know that you CANNOT unsee it)
I have no real words, except for this: I call The Butthole a “chocolate starfish” for a reason.
*St. Charles, due to its inability to properly allow anyone in or out, was, for that reason, home to many a Mafia princess, so we ALL knew the gangster stories from birth. They nearly sent us home with an “I (heart) Uncle Capone” when my mother was discharged.
“**As if ANYTHING a 35-year old who writes a blog on The Internets called “Mommy Wants Vodka,” can be considered “normal.”
———-
I’m throwing down the gauntlet, Pranksters: these are the most outrageous canes I could find after a morning of fat-fingering Google on Friday.
You?
You can do better. Leave a comment with the most outrageous canes your fast googling fingers can find. Find me a good (bad) one? I’ll absolutely add it/them to the post.
Or, in the event that you’re so inclined, leave me a can I SHOULD own after I’ve graduated from my walker.
Prolly best to listen to while reading this post. Honestly, if you CAN listen to it, you should. It’s an excellent song:
Nothing could’ve prepared me.
They could’ve told me that I’d been depressed and I still wouldn’t have expected that walking into my apartment, I’d see just how depressed I’d been. I confirmed my fears with Ben, who explained that my house had ALWAYS looked like this.
It was an epic fucking disaster – and not just because I’d been in and out of there for the past 5 months. Certainly, the hairballs and fur on the rug were from the cats who’d been, I can only imagine, expressing their displeasure at my absence. Or perhaps it was just 5 months of cat hair untouched by a vacuum.
Either way, I wanted to scream.
They tell you to make sure you’re wearing clean underwear every day in the off-chance you get struck by a bus and require an extended recovery far from home. You don’t want the doctors to see your stanky underwear now, do you?
(the toe-tapping guilt trip is, as always. implied)
But they DON’T tell you that you should prepare your home the same way. And I think they should.
It’s the same feeling – magnified about 3,927,383 times. If you get hit by a bus unless you’re on Grey’s Anatomy or happen to be a place where a bazillion doctors operate, the paramedics are the ones who’ll be seeing your stanky underoos. And if you’re in particularly bad shape, you’ll have those puppies torn off you like BAM.
But your home? The place you live? The direct reflection of you? That’s a little different and a HELL of a lot more telling of a lot of things. Including ones mental state. Which is what I learned when I came home.
No doubt that my life had been in shambles more times than not after I moved out of Dave’s house, but I hadn’t realized just how bad things had gotten. And how horrifically depressed I’d been. I could only see that once I came home, well, happy.
Life notwithstanding, I’ve got a lot to be UNhappy about:
I lost my dream job after my second fall – they just couldn’t give me any more time off. Despite being massively hurt, I understand completely. That means, though, that I have to find a new jobity-job by the end of April – which is always a tremendous stress. I’m living on such a fixed budget, I can’t even pay my bills, which are, naturally, mostly medical now. Bills are, by nature, a big stress to me, and not because of the money. Even when I have money, the act of paying bills freaks me the fuck out. I’d moved away from St. Charles for a while and have to move back to be closer to my family, so if this – God forbid – happens again, I have local help. St. Charles happens to be wicked expensive, so I need to find a decent job. More stress.
Once again, I have to start over from scratch. While before this would have led me down a sinkhole self-loathing, I’m absolutely fine.
Inexplicably, I have the coma to thank for it.
When the doctors told my parents I was a goner (which may or may not be my memory filling in the gaps – I was lucid during the coma, just in another reality. I spent most of that time trying like hell to get back to this life), they were visited by a psychiatrist who suggested, as a last-ditch effort, ECT.
Because they had nothing left to lose, they agreed to ECT. Shock therapy. Y’know, the highly controversial medical procedure used to treat major depressive episodes and treatment-resistant depression?
Before you skip to the comments to tell me why this was a Colossally Bad Idea (capital letters, of course, implied), let me make this clear – I am NOT getting into a debate about the relative merits and pitfalls of of ECT. It was absolutely the BEST thing that’s happened to me.
Why? I can hear you screaming into your computer from here. Why o! why are we not going to have this debate?
Because it fucking woke me the fuck up. I snapped out of that fucking coma like WOAH.
And because I was told it was a miracle that I woke up, I have a new lease on life. I’m happy. For the first time in a long fucking time, I’m truly happy. No longer dark and twisty.
But don’t worry, Pranksters, I promise I’m not going to turn into a person who has inspirational quotes at the bottom of my emails. My handwriting may have changed completely since I woke up, but my blog will not suddenly become one of those “look at my perfect life” blogs. Those still make me want to fling poo.
My house is SLOWLY getting back into shape. (Because my second break and subsequent repair were far more invasive, my ability to bend down and pick heavy things up has been compromised). I updated my resume and started the job search yesterday. Things are progressing – albeit more slowly than I’d like – and I’m taking it one day at a time.
And for the first time, well, ever, I’m trusting that things will work out the way they work out and that’s that. I’m no longer fighting The Universe about things I cannot control.
It’s just time to let go.
———
So, now I’ve caught you (sorta) up to date on what’s been going on with me, what about YOU, Pranksters? I’ve been gone a good long while and I assume your life has drastically changed as well. Pull up a chair, grab a Vicodin-chip cookie, and tell Your Aunt Becky all about what’s been going on with you!
She comes into full view from my spot on the gurney and I only know that my parents are going to be so pissed at me.
Rebecca, keep your eyes OPEN. Now, open them. No, don’t cry – everything will be okay.
I try to tell her that I’m sleepy, that I should go to sleep, but what comes out is my address:
734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101.
Rebecca, do you know what year it is? Do you know what happened? Who’s the current president?
I try to remember the answers that should be staring me in the face. The words are elusive. What comes out is:
734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101.
She motions to someone out of view – another parametric? The driver? I can’t be certain if we are, indeed, moving.
Suddenly another face appears in my line of site. This one looks extremely concerned.
734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101.
I can hear myself speak, my voice is wobbly and nearly impossible to understand.
The new person produces a pair of scissors and begins to cut off my pants while the first parametric continues with the questions and begins palpating my leg. I scream. Fuck, I realize, I broke my hip and femur again.
Rebecca, who is the current president? Do you know what happened to you?
Trying to shake my head no, I realize they have stabilized my neck. Frighteningly, I have absolutely zero memory of the incident leading up to this ambulance – I only know that my femur and hip are broken. For the second time in two months.
Once again, the correct answers get hung up somewhere between my gallbladder and my pancreas and can’t make it to my mouth:
734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101. 734 Bluff Street apartment 101.
Then it all goes black.
———-
Surgery went well, the surgeon updates my parents. We removed all but one screw of the old hardware from her last hip and femur break. The last break, when exactly was that?
End of September, early October. She had an orthopedic doctor before – why isn’t he involved in her care?
This break was far more extensive and the surgery was far more complex than the last one, so Dr. Choi called me in. I deal with traumatic orthopedic surgeries. She’d snapped the titanium rod in two pieces.
Wow.
It was by far one of the worst breaks I’ve seen in all my years doing this.
Thank you for your update. When can we see our daughter?
There was a complication with the surgery.
A complication? What happened?
Well, he faltered a bit. She still hasn’t woken up from her surgery.
WHAT? Why? What happened?
We’re not sure what happened. We’d like run some additional tests, and do an EEG to determine if she has brain activity.
Yes, absolutely. Please run all the tests you feel important.
———-
She has an infection, this may be contributing to why she hasn’t yet woken up after surgery, I could hear the doctor. The cultures from her femur are a nasty group d streptococcus. She’s going to both need a central line and indefinite antibiotics.
Indefinite?
Yes. Absolutely indefinite. We don’t know what’s causing the coma, we only know that she has brain waves indicative of excellent brain function.
It’s been 4 weeks and nothing. Not a single change in her condition.
I’m terribly sorry, the doctor continues. There’s only so much we can know about the inner-workings of the human brain brain and its response to traumatic events.
———-
She is terminal. We are very sorry. We’ve done all we can, I can hear them say. Her children should say their goodbyes.
I’m right here, I try to scream.
———-
I woke up the next day.
