dancefloor 1942

This ain’t is a song post for about the broken hearted:

I am fighting a fierce battle with fluid, and rapidly losing the war. I’m writing this from the charred aftermath of another violent struggle in which I fought for the right to sleep and was obliterated where I stood. This is the 5th such battle this week with the same tragic result, and morale is at an all-time low. The fight for the right is very real.

I don’t think this makes any sense. I’m very tired, you see.

Several days before my check up, I learned a fun new dance: a terrible tickle in the back of my throat just as I was trying to sleep. It felt like someone was poking the far wall of my throat with the pointy end of a feather – it didn’t hurt, but it had to be stopped. To make the tickle go away, I would clear my throat. Then I would cough. Then I would cough more, and then I would run to the bathroom and throw up a bunch of fluid. If I was really lucky, this would happen once around 2am, and I’d be allowed to sleep until dawn.

The general consensus was that the water pills weren’t watering hard enough, so we upped the dosage to make more pee go. Unfortunately, it hasn’t helped. Over the last week, the dance has become a massive hit and I now perform it 2-3 times a night. The vomiting has become more violent and pronounced – it’s not just fluid I’m barfing up, but everything that might be in my system. In the beginning I’d fall asleep afterward, but now I stay awake and wait for the next attack – as soon as I lay down and close my eyes, the enemy attacks again like some sort of relentless attacking machine. Last night I was up until 6am, just coughing and barfing and wishing for sleep and loathing my full dance card.

I honestly don’t know how I went from a battlefield metaphor to a dance and then MIXED THEM in the same paragraph (a cardinal sin). I just signed up to give a talk on writing/editing at work next week, too. At this rate, the presentation is going to be “read my blog and be the opposite of this”.

As much as this all sucks so fucking much, it’s still better than what was happening pre-hospital. So far, the most extreme symptoms of my catastrophic* heart failure haven’t returned, and I am very glad for that. Still, it’s really hard not to feel scared and sorry for myself: I was feeling so much better for those three weeks between visits, and the thought of returning to my previous don’t dead open inside state is terrifying.

I miss the good old days, when all the weird things just happened in and around my vagina.

I’m so tired and petulant. I had brunch plans, but I am literally drooling at my laptop because I can’t brain. I clearly shouldn’t leave the house in this state – but I wanted waffles, damnit. Dance War is hell.


*: it’s not really catastrophic. I mean, heart failure will never turn out to be the good guy with a case of the red herrings, but I refer to my condition as “catastrophic heart failure” affectionately/I like big words/because it flows better, like “adorable syphilis” or “inscrutable overdraft”. Adjectives: cathartic!

One thought on “dancefloor 1942

  1. Man, I feel so bad for you and sympathize so much with you. I went through my own catastrophic health event a few years ago (so characterized by the Head of Medicine at the hospital, so I figure that shit is legit!). I don’t have any words of wisdom to help you, because it sucks. It really, really just fucking sucks to live through it and to feel like you’re never going to get better. But you do, and when you look back you’ll marvel at how damn strong you were. Plus it makes for an awesome story. Take care of yourself and try not to push too hard – I had a bad habit of pretending I felt better than I did and then suffering for it. You deserve to rest.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s