I'm not sure how to start this one. I had a bit of a 'life scare'
recently regarding my health that, for once, didn't relate to rehab or a psych ward (though... nevermind). I couldn't sleep about a week ago and, mid-night, started to
feel a little off. It started in my back, like small spasms. That's
nothing new, as I've had chronic back problems for years. But then it
floated around to my shoulder... then my jaw... then my chest. To be
honest, it was all pretty subtle and my man-instinct told me to let it
go, try to sleep and, "Eh, it'll be gone in the morning."
But,
hey, I couldn't sleep anyway, so why not bother the EMTs, once again
(they know me by name, which is embarrassing). By the time I put on a
shirt and shoes and walked down a flight of stairs, it felt like The
Rock was giving me a bear hug. 15 minutes later, I was in the ER. 2
hours later, I was transported to another hospital's ER. 2 hours later,
I was admitted.
Turns out, it was nothing
serious - I think. No one could ever tell me specifically what was
wrong (something about my pericardium being all sacky and inflamey, probably due to a viral infection).
But a very sadistic nurse told me on Day One that my enzymies were high
and I had a heart attack. I said, "How high? High or Very
High?" And she said with a grave, you're going to die, voice, "Real
High."
I wasn't really bothered by it. Two thoughts went through my head - 1) I wanted to make sure my mom was informed and 2) I wanted one more hug and a kiss from my son.
Sadly, except for those two things, I didn't really care. I think I may have said "This is scary" a couple of
times, but that was it.
Really,
I was thinking about my familial lines, what risk factors the people
around me might have, what I'm passing to my son. I was more interested
in the tests they were performing on me than what they actually meant
to me. With all that I know must be special about life, I didn't much
care. I'll even go so far as to say that I was disappointed when the
tests came back IN my favor. I was hoping for some defect to be detected, forcing me to stay in the hospital. Isn't that disgusting?
God, I hope this changes one day. I
hope that medication doesn't make me "flat" or depressed or angry or a host of other
negative feelings. Depression sucks every ounce of wind from your sails
and nothing, absolutely nothing, brings enjoyment. To the point where
you don't care whether or not you just had a heart attack. Except for
that final kiss from my little guy, I didn't care how things turned out.
And
that's why you can't tell someone suffering from depression to snap out
of it. The odds just aren't in your favor. And with the mortality
rate so high for people with mental illness, a heart attack looks pretty
inviting, minus the pain. Wishing for a heart attack is really no
different than having suicidal ideations. It's just letting nature pull
the trigger for you. I'm guessing that's ideal for a good chunk of
people.
We drink, drug, eat, cut, slice, and
even wish for illness. To the extreme, we overdose, jump, hang, shoot... Therapy will never cure it, nor will medication.
It's intense, it's real, and the chances are good that any one of your
friends has it, but hides it. We're everywhere. It's everywhere. And
it has so many faces, all with curled, sinister lips. It loves you and
makes you hate yourself.
Boiled down, it feels like a broken heart. But don't get me wrong - my family and friends were certainly concerned. I received phone calls and visits and that showed me just how special relationships can be. I truly love you all.
Also, a very big thanks to the nurses and doctors who made my hospital stay... hospitable!
