Thursday, June 3, 2010

You don't have to go home...but you can't stay here and you most likely can't come back...but Good Luck!

May 24, 2010

After a hellatious weekend of weird pains and NO pain medication I was experiencing the worst case of "the Monday's" that I've experienced since the days when my job was in retail and Monday fell on the day before Christmas.  My MIL was on duty that day because here and my mother had worked out a schedule that had my mom coming Tue & Thurs with my MIL covering Mon, Wed, Fri.

My mood had nothing to do with who was scheduled to spend the day with me at the hospital and had EVERYTHING to do with the fact that I was in pain and apparently my doctor didn't think that was a relative concern to address. 

About an hour after waking up and trying to coax the vomit from not rising while trying to choke down some semblance of a meal the doctor came strolling in to tell me that I was being discharged.  My MIL actually clapped her enthusiasm for this news.  I felt both relieved and anxious at the fact that I would be leaving the hospital. 

28 days is a hell of a long time to be in the hospital and while any prospect of my own bed, a toilet that flushed and the ready access to my family and friends (and NO it's not in order of what I'm most excited about) was extremely a good way of course...there was a part of me that worried about leaving this protective bubble.  I became even more panicked when the doctor followed her good news of "we're letting you out of here" with the very distressing news of "we don't have any word of your Medicaid status and since you don't have any insurance or financial arrangement for treatment I will be unable to continue as your doctor and am unsure of how you will continue treatment at this facility". 

Wow...what a way to ruin a girls euphoria over getting to go home.  I'm pretty sure the only thing that she left out of her speech was "and side effects of non treatment are dry mouth, anxiety, depression and possibly death". 

I let that thought consume me for all of about 5 minutes and then I embraced the fact that it was time for me to go home and the rest would work itself out.  I've come to realize that I can only battle one thing at a time right now and that battle is focused squarely on beating this disease. 

As I sat back and tried to hold down my few bites of food my mother and my MIL worked on packing up all the trinkets and comforts that had been accumulated in my near month long stay.  A couple of hours later it was time to hop into the wheelchair for the ride to the car.  I hugged all of my nurses that were working and told them I hoped to see them again for my next round of chemo.  I tried very hard not to allow myself to think about what would happen or where I would get treatment at if I didn't get approved for Medicaid. 

The drive home was mostly quiet and thankfully vomit free.  Walking back into my house after such a long time gone felt as though I was coming home for the very first time.  Everything seemed both familiar and foreign.  I shuffled my way down the hall and to my very comfy and awaiting bed.  The drive, although I was a passenger, was thoroughly exhausting and before I could even think about it I was asleep. 

I'd like to say that I had dreams of something spectacular, but that would be a lie.  I woke up startled wondering where my IV pole was and then realizing that I was in fact at home in my own bed.  Penny, my dog, was snuggled in tight beside me.  I may have agreed to the warning about not eating any fresh fruit or vegetables but there was no way that I could not be loving on my dog.  Hannah came in to lay with me for a little bit and I felt normalcy for a moment.

Just being home felt like a huge accomplishment and now I would need to tackle being able to eat and keep it down.  Baby steps.

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