I had been overwhelmed for a long time. Depressed, anxious. I kept saying to people, "I can't do this anymore," and bless you all, hearing "You can do it" helped. But only for a while. August 20th the knot in the end of my rope slipped apart and I fell.
I didn't want to die. Well, alright, maybe I did. But I couldn't leave P. I self medicated with the intent to have a night of sleep that was not interrupted by night terrors, panic attacks, insomnia. I just wanted to NOT BE for a while. I popped 3 of my Klonopin and 8 benadryl on top of the 2 large glasses of wine I'd had.
And then I panicked. What if I didn't wake up for P the next morning. What if I couldn't stay awake? What if I'd overdone it. I just wanted to sleep. But the panic won and I went and told my mom what I'd done.
My step-dad took me to the hospital and the rest of the night is a little fuzzy. IVs, bloodwork, HIV test after nurse pricked herself, confusion. I was admitted and had a babysitter all night. I slept on and off. New babysitter the next morning, a change of rooms, a lot of sleep. I didn't want to talk to anyone. My daytime babysitter was uber talkative. I wanted to tell her to shut the fuck up. Seriously, after overdosing do I look like I want to talk? Not so much.
The crisis center psychiatrist came to visit. I had met him once before because of my trip to the crisis center. Case worker. I don't even know who else.
My choice: agree to be sent to a psychiatric hospital or be forced. The outcome was the same, so I agreed. I thought I'd only be in for a few days. Not so much. Try 9.
I hit rock bottom. The bottom of the barrel. I gave in to the pain, to the voice in my head telling me that I didn't want to be alive. I cut my arm. Big angry cuts.
I have never been so low. So alone. So scared. My illness won that night. I pray I never get that low again. I want to tell you about my time "on the inside" but that will be another series of posts.
I want to be honest, open. I overdosed. I broke. I hit bottom. But I'm still here. I'm alive and kicking. Weakly kicking, perhaps, but I'm prepared to do the work necessary to get myself stable.
Every day is the first day of my life.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Thursday, August 9, 2012
The Right To Die
*This is my point of view. I welcome comments, but please keep them respectful*
My Oma is 87 years old. She recently had a quadruple bypass with atrial valve replacement surgery. At 87 years old.
She has been depressed for years, since Opa died over 5 years ago. She has repeatedly said she is ready to die, and in fact wants to die. But she was convinced to have this surgery. She was told over and over how much better she would feel after.
But no one seems to have told her about the recovery period, the pain, the struggles, the depression that comes with it. I tried. I tried to explain, but she wouldn't hear it. She believed that my dad, the doctor's had her best interests at heart. When asked by doctors if she was depressed, she said "no". I was at one of these appointments, and I told the doctor the truth. But none of this mattered.
She even told me she hoped something would go wrong during the surgery. Part of me thinks she agreed so that she could die.
Post surgery is not going well. The depression is terrible. And thus the healing process is terrible. At one point she was refusing food. She will not take anti-depressants.
She is 87 years old and ready to die.
Generally speaking, if someone is depressed and suicidal we try to fix that. But this woman has lived a long, hard life. And her greatest wish is to die and join her husband. But there is no way to make that happen, not legally. And it frustrates the hell out of me. She should have that right.
I have a friend whose doctor's have told him he most likely has cancer. He has been in the ER for things that indicate it is progressing. But he is refusing to get treated because of no insurance. And because of depression. Which he will not get treated because of depression as well. He is ready to die.
My opinion on this differs a bit. He has 3 children. He is a single dad. And he won't tell anyone what is going on. Again, I believe in a person's right to die, but he isn't even willing to fight for the sake of his kids. This saddens me. Had he been through umpteen treatments and was tired and knew it would make no difference that would make sense. But this...this is simply depression speaking. I KNOW that. But I can't force him to do something. It's his choice. All I can do is make sure he's made preparations for the children.
Here's the thing. I get wanting to die. More than I would like to. My son is what gets me through. My son and my friends. I would probably be dead without you, without him. But I FIGHT. The fight is gone out of them. And with healthcare being what it is, not only are they not allowed to end their lives, my friend can't even get treated. He doesn't make enough to find individual care, and he makes too much to qualify for medicaid.
I can't make someone fight if they've made up their minds. I firmly believe if my grandmother wants to die after a long, full life that she should be able to find a way to do that. I feel that someone who has fought a life threatening illness for ages with no relief in sight should have the right to end their life peacefully instead of painfully.
It hurts me so much to see the pain, to not be able to help (not without going to jail, anyway). Sometimes it is just time. Yes, we have the medical technology available to keep a heart beating, but not the soul.
Sometimes it is just time.
My Oma is 87 years old. She recently had a quadruple bypass with atrial valve replacement surgery. At 87 years old.
She has been depressed for years, since Opa died over 5 years ago. She has repeatedly said she is ready to die, and in fact wants to die. But she was convinced to have this surgery. She was told over and over how much better she would feel after.
But no one seems to have told her about the recovery period, the pain, the struggles, the depression that comes with it. I tried. I tried to explain, but she wouldn't hear it. She believed that my dad, the doctor's had her best interests at heart. When asked by doctors if she was depressed, she said "no". I was at one of these appointments, and I told the doctor the truth. But none of this mattered.
She even told me she hoped something would go wrong during the surgery. Part of me thinks she agreed so that she could die.
Post surgery is not going well. The depression is terrible. And thus the healing process is terrible. At one point she was refusing food. She will not take anti-depressants.
She is 87 years old and ready to die.
Generally speaking, if someone is depressed and suicidal we try to fix that. But this woman has lived a long, hard life. And her greatest wish is to die and join her husband. But there is no way to make that happen, not legally. And it frustrates the hell out of me. She should have that right.
I have a friend whose doctor's have told him he most likely has cancer. He has been in the ER for things that indicate it is progressing. But he is refusing to get treated because of no insurance. And because of depression. Which he will not get treated because of depression as well. He is ready to die.
My opinion on this differs a bit. He has 3 children. He is a single dad. And he won't tell anyone what is going on. Again, I believe in a person's right to die, but he isn't even willing to fight for the sake of his kids. This saddens me. Had he been through umpteen treatments and was tired and knew it would make no difference that would make sense. But this...this is simply depression speaking. I KNOW that. But I can't force him to do something. It's his choice. All I can do is make sure he's made preparations for the children.
Here's the thing. I get wanting to die. More than I would like to. My son is what gets me through. My son and my friends. I would probably be dead without you, without him. But I FIGHT. The fight is gone out of them. And with healthcare being what it is, not only are they not allowed to end their lives, my friend can't even get treated. He doesn't make enough to find individual care, and he makes too much to qualify for medicaid.
I can't make someone fight if they've made up their minds. I firmly believe if my grandmother wants to die after a long, full life that she should be able to find a way to do that. I feel that someone who has fought a life threatening illness for ages with no relief in sight should have the right to end their life peacefully instead of painfully.
It hurts me so much to see the pain, to not be able to help (not without going to jail, anyway). Sometimes it is just time. Yes, we have the medical technology available to keep a heart beating, but not the soul.
Sometimes it is just time.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
What A Difference 2 Years Makes
2 years ago today we transferred 2 of the most gorgeous embryos ever. I might be biased. I still wonder what happened to P's brother or sister. Tangent, sorry.
Of course, we have no idea of knowing which embie is P, but my bet is the lower one.
2 years ago I was amazed at being PUPO. 2 years ago all of my hopes and wishes were riding in those 2 microscopic bundles of cells. 2 years ago + 4 days was the first day I thought I might be actually pregnant.
2 years later...we have this gentleman. It's rather amazing, isn't it?
Of course, we have no idea of knowing which embie is P, but my bet is the lower one.
2 years ago I was amazed at being PUPO. 2 years ago all of my hopes and wishes were riding in those 2 microscopic bundles of cells. 2 years ago + 4 days was the first day I thought I might be actually pregnant.
2 years later...we have this gentleman. It's rather amazing, isn't it?
Thursday, August 2, 2012
And Then The Hot Sauce Attacked The Floor
Murphy's Law, right? This is my life, and I can't make this shit up.
Yesterday morning I went into the kitchen to get P's breakfast. He was not happy that I was not in the room with him and so was crying at the gate. I opened the fridge to get the milk and out jumped a large bottle of hot sauce. It was on a kamikaze mission. Consider the floor attacked.
Hot sauce puddle. I am of course barefoot. So I picked up the broken glass without moving my feet (why didn't I go get shoes? Who knows. I'm an idiot.) Step OVER the puddle of hot sauce, grab paper towels, turn around, and found one last piece of glass.
With my foot.
A piece of glass easily half an inch wide and 1/4" long. It was a piece of the bottom and side, so rounded. Which means easy to pull out. Let me tell you, the feel of it going into my foot was something I would like to never experience again. It made me sick to my stomach.
So now P is at screaming stage, and I'm bleeding profusely all over the place. For whatever reason I decided I needed my mother to clean it up. Panic or something, I don't know. She helped me wipe up the blood and put a bandaid on it. After which I wrapped it in guaze to keep the bandaid on.
Famous last words: "Oh, it's not that bad, you don't need to go to the hospital."
The damn thing kept bleeding all day. Sort of leaking blood. And it would not close up. I tried to stay off of it, but dude, I have a toddler. I limped on my toes (which by the way, now feel as though I've been wearing high heels just on that foot).
No way am I taking a toddler to the ER with me knowing they are going to hurt me, and I won't be able to keep an eye on him while they stitch me up. So I search for super glue. Finally find some, except it's all bloody dried up. Fail.
Plan B is going to have to be the ER. My friend Dave mentioned he was thinking of coming down for a couple hours because I'd had a horrendous night the previous day. Like the worst I've had in a while. The please let me die variety of a night. Anywho, my parents agreed to keep an ear out for P after I put him to bed, and Dave took me to the ER.
It's my left foot. I could have easily taken myself, but ummmm, I just didn't like the sound of stitches by myself. Which, it turns out, was a good call.
I had the RN, PA, and registration lady in, if you will excuse the cheesiness, stitches. They liked that the hot sauce attacked the floor. We had Jack Johnson radio playing, which the PA was grooving to while he tended to my foot.
I always wondered if stitches hurt. It turns out I didn't find out. Because he stuck a needle in my foot repeatedly with numbing stuff. That hurt like a motherfucker. Poor Dave had to deal with me squeezing his hand REALLY HARD. I was so incredibly thankful when he was done with the needles. Keep in mind I have tattoos on the top of my foot. This was worse. Left me shaking.
But oh, the numbness. Yay for numb. He came back, cleaned it up, and put in 3 stitches. None of which I felt. Woohoo!
I spared you the pic of it bleeding while I waited for the stitching part.
Now, these lumpy fuckers are on the bottom of my foot. The care instructions say things like "Don't bump the stitches. They could tear open." Translation: Stay off your foot you moron. Riiiiiiight. I have a TODDLER!!!! And they did not provide crutches. I have some, but they are in storage in the old 'hood.
We are going to Musikfest Saturday. Which requires a ton of walking. Sigh. Should be interesting. Oh, and no pool. For at least 5 days. Sorry kiddo, Mama can't go in! Ideally no pool until the stitches come out. So twice that time. No flip flops. REAL SHOES. In the summer. I barely wear real shoes in the winter! *insert pity party here*
You may notice a time stamp on this post. 4 am. That's because an hour ago I woke up in excruciating pain. Like can't put any weight on my foot at all for fear of screaming pain. By some miracle, the Tylenol I took seems to be dulling it a bit. Thank goodness! Off to find crutches as soon as P gets breakfast.
Moral of the story, folks: when your hot sauce attacks the floor on a kamikaze mission, put your shoes on before cleaning up the carnage.
Yesterday morning I went into the kitchen to get P's breakfast. He was not happy that I was not in the room with him and so was crying at the gate. I opened the fridge to get the milk and out jumped a large bottle of hot sauce. It was on a kamikaze mission. Consider the floor attacked.
Hot sauce puddle. I am of course barefoot. So I picked up the broken glass without moving my feet (why didn't I go get shoes? Who knows. I'm an idiot.) Step OVER the puddle of hot sauce, grab paper towels, turn around, and found one last piece of glass.
With my foot.
A piece of glass easily half an inch wide and 1/4" long. It was a piece of the bottom and side, so rounded. Which means easy to pull out. Let me tell you, the feel of it going into my foot was something I would like to never experience again. It made me sick to my stomach.
So now P is at screaming stage, and I'm bleeding profusely all over the place. For whatever reason I decided I needed my mother to clean it up. Panic or something, I don't know. She helped me wipe up the blood and put a bandaid on it. After which I wrapped it in guaze to keep the bandaid on.
Famous last words: "Oh, it's not that bad, you don't need to go to the hospital."
The damn thing kept bleeding all day. Sort of leaking blood. And it would not close up. I tried to stay off of it, but dude, I have a toddler. I limped on my toes (which by the way, now feel as though I've been wearing high heels just on that foot).
No way am I taking a toddler to the ER with me knowing they are going to hurt me, and I won't be able to keep an eye on him while they stitch me up. So I search for super glue. Finally find some, except it's all bloody dried up. Fail.
Plan B is going to have to be the ER. My friend Dave mentioned he was thinking of coming down for a couple hours because I'd had a horrendous night the previous day. Like the worst I've had in a while. The please let me die variety of a night. Anywho, my parents agreed to keep an ear out for P after I put him to bed, and Dave took me to the ER.
It's my left foot. I could have easily taken myself, but ummmm, I just didn't like the sound of stitches by myself. Which, it turns out, was a good call.
I had the RN, PA, and registration lady in, if you will excuse the cheesiness, stitches. They liked that the hot sauce attacked the floor. We had Jack Johnson radio playing, which the PA was grooving to while he tended to my foot.
I always wondered if stitches hurt. It turns out I didn't find out. Because he stuck a needle in my foot repeatedly with numbing stuff. That hurt like a motherfucker. Poor Dave had to deal with me squeezing his hand REALLY HARD. I was so incredibly thankful when he was done with the needles. Keep in mind I have tattoos on the top of my foot. This was worse. Left me shaking.
But oh, the numbness. Yay for numb. He came back, cleaned it up, and put in 3 stitches. None of which I felt. Woohoo!
 |
| My first non-surgical stitches ever. And that's saying a lot considering how accident prone I am. |
 |
| I don't know if you can see it, but the local anesthetic turns your skin white, and it travels, so there were tendrils of it going up my ankle. Soooo bizarre. |
I spared you the pic of it bleeding while I waited for the stitching part.
Now, these lumpy fuckers are on the bottom of my foot. The care instructions say things like "Don't bump the stitches. They could tear open." Translation: Stay off your foot you moron. Riiiiiiight. I have a TODDLER!!!! And they did not provide crutches. I have some, but they are in storage in the old 'hood.
We are going to Musikfest Saturday. Which requires a ton of walking. Sigh. Should be interesting. Oh, and no pool. For at least 5 days. Sorry kiddo, Mama can't go in! Ideally no pool until the stitches come out. So twice that time. No flip flops. REAL SHOES. In the summer. I barely wear real shoes in the winter! *insert pity party here*
You may notice a time stamp on this post. 4 am. That's because an hour ago I woke up in excruciating pain. Like can't put any weight on my foot at all for fear of screaming pain. By some miracle, the Tylenol I took seems to be dulling it a bit. Thank goodness! Off to find crutches as soon as P gets breakfast.
Moral of the story, folks: when your hot sauce attacks the floor on a kamikaze mission, put your shoes on before cleaning up the carnage.
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