The Scoop

I took a deep breath, trying to decide which version of my story to give...I have several: the short version, the inspiring version, the sad version. Depending on my mood or who I'm telling it to, determines my version. They are all basically the same facts, but my voice inflection and added details determine the version. Today, I decided I would present a new version: the no bullshit, this is how it is version.

I began, "Do you want to know my background or what happened most recently to get me here?"

"Both," she smiled. "Definitely both."

"Well, it began in 1977. I was diagnosed with Ewings Sarcoma," I stated matter of factly. I left out the whole story I told you about how I was diagnosed. I went on. "I had two years of chemotherapy and radiation. They didn't really think I would survive. Ewings is a bone cancer and in 1977 had a fairly low cure rate. Mine had already spread to my lungs when I was diagnosed."

Already she was shaking her head in empathy and disbelief. I could tell this part of the story easily because I barely remember the details and only tell what has been told to me. I was only four years old at this time.

"After my treatment was over, the x-rays looked good, and I was really fine for almost five years. Then my leg started hurting, and I didn't tell anyone. I felt bad, ya know. Guilty. Not as guilty as I feel now but guilty."

She wrote something in her notes and nodded for me to continue.

"So, it ended up it was Ewings again, and so I had to have my left leg amputated all the way to my hip," I looked down, as if to say, "see."

"Even though that took care of the cancer, they wanted to do chemo just in case, so I had chemo for two more years. This I remember well. I was sick for 12-14 hours. Vomiting and vomiting and vomiting. And there were sores in my mouth. Hundreds and hundreds of them. It took so much time for my parents. I was treated at the Mayo Clinic, so they were away alot, from each other and my brothers and sisters. I'm a twin, you know. It was so hard on her."

"I can't even imagine," she interjected as if lost in her own thoughts. I sat there looking at her, and she kind of shook herself out of her thought and said, "Sorry, go on."

"Then," I took a deep breath (this is usually where people really ooh and aah), "I had another recurrence when I was 14, this time in my left lung. At this point we lived in Missouri, so I was treated in Columbia at the University."

As I went on I was getting more and more annoyed with telling this damn story - AGAIN. Telling it is itself annoying, on top of whatever reason I'm telling it. 

"How did you deal with this?" she seemed truly stumped.

"Well, up until about two years ago, really well. I was all about advocacy and getting involved, and then I just got sick of it. I withdrew. I couldn't even do my job. I was sick all the time with stuff. I guess I should tell you that I have lots of health issues - heart and lung issues - because back in the day they had just a small idea of what they were doing, and they are now learning I received too much chemo and radiation. I'm glad they know now, but I'm screwed."

"And what has been going on lately?" 

"Oh, lately. Let's see. In the last two years this is what has happened to me: I've had pnuemonia three times; I fell and broke my collarbone; my husband had quadruple bypass surgery and seven months later learned two of the bypasses had closed, so the put stents in; I quit my job; I started a new job where I had a terrible experience and had to file a formal grievance; I got another job (the same one I quit previously) and had to promise I would "screw up" up like I did last time; I had my gallbladder out and learned my stomach doesn't empty correctly; my husband retired from a long, valued career; and most recently, this pain in the ass shingles."

Her mouth hung open.

"I know. I wouldn't even believe it if it was my life. They know me at the ER by name. It's embarrassing, and I feel like some kind of weirdo psycho all the time. There is something wrong ALL THE TIME. I've had it. I don't want this body anymore. I'm tired of being strong and brave and all of that crap that everyone seems to adore." I paused. "So that is why I'm here. That is why I figured heaven seemed like a damn good option over the hell I've been living through."

Again, I thought she was going to cry. "If she cries," I thought to myself, "I am literally going to slap her across the face. I need help. I don't need her to be touched by my sad story. I need someone else to be strong."

She gained composure (thank goodness for her and me), "But you are here and that in itself shows strength and amazing courage. Your not our usual 'type,' and I bet it was hard to come here. So I hate to disappoint you, but you are still showing signs of strength."

She was right but even today - several months down the road - I struggle and will write more about that as I go. Today, however, was a great day. I was up and about all day and working on my art pieces and website. I finally came up with a logo - pretty good for a beginner, I think. Oh, and I announced my blog on facebook, so there might actually be people reading this now - YIKES!

Getting Help

So, I would like to write tonight about how afraid I am that I've completely screwed up my son by my recent "illness," but I don't have my thoughts together on that, and it would probably come out as complete and utter complaining, self-pitying, irrational babble. And, alas, I must continue with the "adventure" I began describing yesterday.

I'm not sure what time it was when I arrived at the hospital. I did manage to sleep most of the way, which was good, because the man sitting in the back of the ambulance kept giving me this really sad, desperate, surprised look. As if to say, "You don't look like most of the crazies we haul around, but please don't freak out on my watch."

When we arrived at the hospital, I kept my eyes closed, partly because it makes me sick to ride on a gurney with my eyes open, and partially because I was scared to see what was ahead. The hospital was deadly quiet, as it was the middle of the night. In a few short hours it would be bustling again.

Since my eyes were closed, the driver of the ambulance must have thought he was sleeping. When we approached "THE WARD," the doors were locked, and they had to be buzzed in. "Wow! Locked doors, even," the driver exclaimed, laughing. If I wasn't at rock bottom, I probably would have told him where to go, but as it was I just sighed, opened my eyes, and stared directly at him. I think he got the message.

A nurse quickly approached and was obviously awaiting my arrival. They were all helpful and amazed when I sat up, hopped off the gurney, and stood there with one leg.

"Well, you get around well," said the nurse. People are always surprised at my mobility.

No reply from me. Not even the usual smile and canned response, "Yeah, I'm pretty used to it."

"You must be really tired. We aren't going to do the normal check in tonight. I'm just going to give you your meds, get your clothes changed, and hopefully you can get some sleep."

Still not a word from me. Just a nod.

She proceeded to give me my medicine with a tiny cup of water. Was there a danger in giving me a larger cup of water? Could I drown myself in a cup? These were my sarcastic, bitter thoughts. I couldn't stop them from filling my head.

Just then my iPhone signaled a new e-mail from my pocket.

"Oh," she cheerily replied as she held her hand out. "I'll take that phone, put your name on it, and leave it right here where we put all patient valuables."

I could feel the lump forming in my throat. How would I get to sleep without playing text twist on my phone?

She handed me a set of scrubs and said I could sleep in them and wear them during the day if I wanted to.

"I'll have to keep those," she said pointing to my sweats. "They have a drawstring."

Holy shit. What have I done? I am sure she could see the fear in my eyes and notice the reddening of my face as I tried to keep the tears from forming in my eyes. My throat was killing me, as I tried to swallow the huge lump that was stuck there.

She showed me a restroom where I could change. I did, still trying not to cry.

When I came out, she smiled, as if I was the most beautiful looking one-legged suicidal girl she had ever seen. I didn't buy it. "Get real," I wanted to scream, but if I let one single word out, in fact even a tiny sound, the flood gates would open. I just kept my mouth shut and my head down.

She led me down a dismal hallway - mint green on the walls, grey carpet on the floors. We entered a room that looked more like a dorm room than a hospital room. The only light coming in the room was from the hallway.

"We don't want to wake your roommate," she whispered cheerily.

That was all it took. The tears started coming, but it was dark enough, that I don't think she could see them. A roommate? I had to share this experience with a stranger? The bed was a wooden structure that went all the way to the floor, and it had a mattress on top.

I did bring my favorite pillow. It is one I don't lay on. I hold it. It is an old feather pillow, and it is my "blankie," my "binkie."

I quickly laid down on the bed, turned on my side, and pulled the pillow to my chest. The tears were burning my eyes, and my throat was aching from trying not to sob.

"Is there anything else you need?" she asked.

Is there anything else I need? Hell yes. I need my mom, my husband's back rub, the sound of my TV lulling me to sleep, my sanity. I need my sanity.

But instead of spewing my thought I simply choked out a "no thanks." As soon as she left the room, I let out a sob and cried and cried.

"This is getting help?" I thought desperately. "I want to go home."