Monday, June 24, 2013

Open Doors

     It's been over two months since I've posted and it feels like so much longer. Right now, as I type this, I'm unsure of myself, unsteady with the motion of bringing all of this out of my head. It almost feels foreign to me, as ever since my whole domain-hopping nightmare, I've been using my paper journal as the lifeline to keep me within sight of land. Strangely, though, I haven't been writing about anything related to my husband's health issues or, really, anything Marfan's-related. In fact, now that I think about it, I don't know that I ever really have, not since we first started dating and even then, I only skimmed the surface of what was there. I'm sure there's some deep psychological meaning behind that if I felt like looking for it, but I really, really don't. I'm not particularly interested in the "What does it all MEAN?!?!?!" way of thinking most days and shockingly enough, today is no exception. Also, hi!

     Believe me, there has been plenty going on to write about in the past couple of months and it's only my technological idiocy that's kept me away from the blog. Happily, I seem to have undone the damage that my mucking about in things beyond my pay grade temporarily did, so let's go another few rounds, shall we? Um. Where to start. Well, my husband fell in the kitchen last week and landed pretty hard on his back, so there's that. He tried to ride the pain out on Tuesday night, which is when it happened, because we both knew what the hospital would do if he were to show up in the emergency room. He was in no mood to spend his evening trying to convince the hospital staff that he was not a junkie and was instead in severe amounts of pain, so we didn't go.

     By the next day, though, it had gotten so bad that he was left with no choice; he could barely walk. He called me at work (new job, btw, full of people who don't know that my husband is disabled) to let me know and ask what I thought he should do. I said that if he felt it necessary, of course he should go to the ER. He was dreading it, though, because he knew how he'd likely be treated and you can only face that so many times before you decide that the physical pain is the preferable choice over the mental exhaustion of trying to argue the case for your character yet again. His pain-management doctor is kind of a prick, too, and never fails to hassle him about seeking "extra treatment", like he's sneaking massages on the sly or something.

    Knowing all this, I suggested that he call the pain-management doctor's office first and ask them what he should do. That way, his inevitable trip to the ER (which was sure to include narcotics) would be more or less sanctioned and thus not subject to the scrutiny that's the usual order of business. I figured that even if he had to leave a message with the nurse or something, it would be the effort that counted, and a solid mark in the, "I told you I'm not drug-seeking" column. He ended up leaving a message at the doctor's office, calling a cab and heading over the ER. He had to use his cane, which tells me quite a bit about where his back must've been. Actually, my husband later told me that he considered taking his walker, which means he was really feeling that fall, because there are few things on this earth he hates like he hates his walker.

     By the time I left work and got over to the hospital, made my way through the maze of unfamiliar hallways and into his room, the nurse was just unhooking his IV. Can I time an entrance or what? It was vaguely uncomfortable, because my husband and I were making our usual inappropriate jokes about his situation and the nurse was giving me some serious sideways looks, but I didn't really give too much of a damn. It makes us feel better about what's happening and it's our semi-twisted way of coping, so I figure it's all okay in the end.

     He was in no shape to walk all the way back to the parking garage where I'd left the car, so I set off on what felt like an epic trek to get back to the car and bring it to him. I eventually succeeded, though I did drive right by him once without even realizing it. (Though in my defense, if you're going to wait outside for someone to pick you up, try waiting OUTSIDE.) Small details, people, small details.

     See? Nothing so very exciting around here, though I do have some things that have been burning at the back of my brain. They'll work their way out in time, I'm sure, as they always do. I have to get steadier on my feet, though, before I can get into the deep end of everything. It's pretty crowded right now, and sharp, with ideas and emotions fighting for position because they can see the crack of light which means freedom. Even though it's not a door I deliberately closed, it's been closed nonetheless for weeks now and that push to get out has been gaining momentum. I think I'd better get out of my own way and just let it run.


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