The Story So Far Pt 3

*This should be the last of my stupidly long, trying to catch up posts. Hopefully :) *

Obviously, being faithful to my somewhat disorderly lifestyle, I’m getting a LITTLE bit low on potassium, according to my doctor.

I wasn’t terribly concerned, but that’s just who I am. Supposedly I SHOULD have been concerned, but I couldn’t really bring myself to care, I felt fine. They could cart me in when I collapsed somewhere, then I wouldn’t have to be conscious for at least SOME if my time in hospital. I fucking HATE hospitals. They’re full of people who confuse lack of concern for stupidity and irritating beeping contraptions. We’ll come back to these strong feelings frequently throughout the post, I promise.

But doctor was concerned. And unable to prescribe me supplements to fix it without a hospital visit. I had figured they’d test my blood, give me the supplements and send me on my merry way. Quick and easy, right? I was forever hearing about how the NHS was always woefully short on beds, or staff, or… whatever it is they were constantly short on. Disinfectant, I imagine (Ooh, check out the cutting social commentary). But the point is, they’re WAY too busy to admit me with my tiny little potassium deficiency, aren’t they?

Wrong.

Within an hour and a half of walking into A&E, I was naked save for a hospital gown, heart monitor ON, ECG ON, Potassium drip IN. And a temperature strip under my tongue. Obviously.

It was like kidnapping!

Up to the ward with me, and there I would stay until told otherwise. Or until my serum potassium climbed from 2.3 to a reasonably safe, not about to die 3.5.

Can I go for a cigarette? No.

Fresh air? No

Can I use the FUCKING TOILET? NO

Not that bad for now, I just won’t eat OR drink anything. Ha! Fuck you doctors!

I HATE hospitals (I told you we’d be coming back around to that). I ALSO hate not being in control EVEN MORE. The ONLY thing in the WORLD I loathe more than that is being treated like I am stupid.

I started to have a panic attack, pretty standard for me at this point, I didn’t want to be there, I had decided I was leaving and two of the aforementioned three Big Hates begin pressing in on my brain. The heart monitor and drip pump both went FUCKING CRAZY on both sides of me as I panicked and struggled in the bed, trying to temporarily silence or just switch off the GODDAMN MACHINES, and this tall Aryan male nurse turns up – I’m sure he meant well or whatever – but at that point he bore the brunt of my rage and frenzied panic.

Maybe I was wrong.

Maybe I overreacted a TAD

Maybe I didn’t NEED to tell him I would break his FACE.

But he brought in the big THREE. He completed the trio of HATE. AFTER being told that I suffered from regular panic attacks, the tall simple-looking murse, treated me like I was FUCKING STUPID. He attempted to explain to me – MID-PANIC – that hyperventilating was only going to perpetuate the panic attack, and that ALL I needed to do was simply RELAX.

He had it coming.

And he looked afraid.

So, I got my (piss-weak) sedative, and for a while I felt better. I drank my oral potassium supplement like a good little patient and sat quietly amusing myself.

Then, a rumbling low down in my abdomen, twenty minutes later.

Eh?

OH FUCK! FUCKFUCKFUCK!

The unabsorbed liquid from my oral supplement is threatening to FIRE out of my arse RIGHTFUCKINGNOW.

They’ll let me go to the toilet now, right? Right? OBVIOUSLY.

No. I’m hooked up to too many machines.

Oh really?

There was the brief suggestion of a ‘commode’. I don’t know what a ‘commode’ is, but they bring it to ME. I have HEARD them lower the obese emphysemic middle aged woman in the curtained off bed next to me onto it. And off again. A COMMODE, you say? Surrounded only by curtains…

OH REALLY?

Well… all of their precious machines unplug, don’t they? The wheels of a control freak begin to turn in my brain. They unplug from the wall AND FROM ME. Give me some credit where it’s due though, it’s not like I ripped the cannula out of my arm, I let the SECOND nurse I had frightened and offended that evening unplug me from the IV. The heart monitor I took care of myself with a suitable amount of fury then LEAPT for the toilet.

Ahhh, much better. Secure. Four walls. A LOCK. Practically toilet heaven, I tell you. Comparatively speaking, of course.

The rest of my hospital stay was actually largely uneventful, interrupted only by the grunting, wheezing, FARTING and genuinely walrus-esque SNORING from the gargantuan woman on the other side of the curtain. Oh, I DID also make an origami lily for the tiny Californian nurse, who was so very lovely :)

See? I’m not all rage and disgust!

But the scales, they never EVER lie. And as soon I was home, I HAD to see what they thought about the SIX LITRES of fluid pumped into my arm…

The scales were not pleased.

Ten pounds, they whispered malevolently, ten WHOLE pounds heavier than when you went in. Look how bloated you are… Retaining water? Excuses… Disgusting…, they told me, all your hard work, set SO far back in just two days. Unacceptable. DISAPPOINTING. Revolting.

And those pounds are clinging to me like herpes on a cheap back-alley WHORE.

DAYS of fasting.

Digesting precious little. THEN digesting NOTHING.

PAINFULLY thorough purging.

And I’ve lost HALF. HALF fell away like they were fucking SUPPOSED TO! And the rest are crawling off me like I’m having to STARVE them back off.

What fucking NONSENSE is THIS? What fresh HELL is THIS?! Whatever happened to peeing away all that WATER?

*Shrill incoherent noise of disbelief*

Et voila, the basis of my newfound RAGE.

Sigh.

Pointe: Thankfully not, another pound down from yesterday! I'm still quite annoyed I haven't lost the 10 pounds I gained in hospital though. Stupid bloody hospital

Alice: Thanks love :) The weight loss has picked up once more!

Adieu, my lovelies. Adieu.