I despise uncertainty. I always have. I like everything to fit neatly in its box. Be black or white. Be right or wrong. It gives me a sense of comfort to know, for certain. Unfortunately for me, that's not how much of anything works.
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If you've never had the sheer joy of ingesting colonoscopy prep, be advised: It tastes much like this picture - a soupy city walkway covered in Ice Melt (tm), God-knows-what-else, and actual trash.
I'm 37. I'm healthy. I'm active. I shouldn't have any idea what this sidewalk salt tastes like.
I woke up on May 14, feeling well-rested and thrilled for the weekend. The pandemic, while still ongoing, was showing rays of hope with summer and outdoor plans. And then I went to the ER.
I'll spare you too many (re: grotesque) details and give you my elevator pitch of what happened. A freak GI bleed led me to a week in the hospital undergoing myriad tests and procedures and resulted in five blood transfusions and acute anemia. As I write this, weeks later, I'm still not able to work nor sit up, stand, or walk for too long. It's exhausting in every way.
For a person whose phobias include blood, needles, and basically any health-related nonsense, I lived through what I envision Hell to be.
(Disclaimer: I'm not seeking unsolicited (and probably not professional) medical opinions or suggestions on why this happened - NO ONE KNOWS RIGHT NOW BYE.)
So much uncertainty has surrounded the past few weeks. I have no idea why this happened. None of my doctors or nurses can say for sure why this happened. But it did, and now I'm just adjusting to addressing the endless what-ifs running through my brain: What if this happens again? What if I'm never back to my old self? What if the doctors missed something? I COULD GO ON.
Please hold. That's enough writing for right now. I gotta get horizontal, and rest my bloodless body.
It's exhausting just being alive, let alone dealing with blood loss. 0/10. Do not recommend.
And while this all has been traumatic and terrifying and riddled with uncertainty, of these things I can be sure:
My support system is wide and genuine, and I thank God for it. For every person who drove me to the ER (thrice, tyvm); texted; called; sent cards, flowers, etc.; stopped by to check on me; cleaned my house; took out my trash; brought or made food; told me it would be OK; slept over at my house; insisted I stay with them; prayed ceaselessly; took me to another follow-up appointment; watched me cry it out; there is not enough in this world to thank you, particularly my parents and sister who gave up weeks for me.
Nurses are no less than angels (at least the ones at UPMC Passavant) and should never be treated as anything but. You could offer me a trillion skillion dollars a minute, and I would not accept the position. For every nurse who held my hand; told me that they wouldn't let me die; walked me to the bathroom; held me up over a toilet; took my blood every four hours; snagged me an extra Jell-O, coached me through a week of clear liquids; explained things in ways I could understand; ran for a doctor when my vitals dropped; looked me in the eye, and said a bed pan was no big deal; you are more incredible than I ever knew. And that goes for all health care workers. For every doctor who watched the seven-hour video footage of my capsule endoscopy; for every X-ray technician who cheered me on while drinking boatloads of barium, wearing Depends, and being photographed every 15 minutes for five hours; for every IV specialist who kept me from flipping out while they hit my collapsed veins for what felt like the 8 millionth time; for every hcw who worked to make sure my blood transfusions were done just right; for every EVS worker who made friendly chat while gracefully cleaning my hospital room; for every person who read my lab, procedure, and biops(ies) results; for every employee at that Heaven-sent hospital who just asked how I was and told me I was in the best place possible for what I was dealing with; and for everyone who got me stable enough to be sent home ... there is just not enough thanking I can do. You saved my life. And that's just me. One patient. In one week. On one floor. In one hospital.
THERE HAS GOT TO BE A LESS DISGUSTING COLONOSCOPY PREP.
Life is full of surprises, and they're not always the fun kind. One week you can be all #vaxxedgirlsummer, and less than two weeks later, you're wondering what outside feels like.
You can never be 100% sure of much of anything, and it's living with that uncertainty that keeps you present and thankful for the current moment.
Living with uncertainty and not looking forward to drinking more rock salt,
Molly
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