So, I wake up Wednesday with a bit of a sore throat. No big deal, right? Half the population woke up with a sore throat Wednesday. My temperature begins to rise. 102.7? That's not too bad. Extra water and maybe some Ibuprofen should do the trick. My fever subsides, which is cool, but now I can't really talk, as my voice is dead except for a few manly grunts here and there, but hey, I'm Communicator Girl and it's what I do. So, I do my rounds, but I have to confess that there's a definitive lack of pep in my step. I don't get around to sleeping until Thursday morning and when I do sleep, I sleep for a good three hours, waking up every fifteen minutes or so. At this point, life is grand if you overlook the fact that I'm having difficulty breathing. I can actually talk a bit, though my speech is somewhat stilted, what with the lack of oxygen and all. I call to see if I can get an appointment. There's nothing available which fits my schedule. *insert sigh here*
I get dressed for work in attire which is slightly inappropriate for the office, but let's face it...fuzzy slippers have healing powers. I drive to work without overly exerting myself, which is fairly easy to do, as I don't even have to keep my foot on the pedal. Let's all give thanks for cruise control! It's time to work. I'm having difficulty breathing again, but that's just going to have to wait until I finish these reports and whatnot. I'll get around to stressing in a few minutes. I finish my reports and I begin to realize that I'm slightly weak. I haven't eaten since Tuesday, but it's highly dubious that I'll be able to slip anything down my swollen, raw throat. That's when I get the brilliant idea of "eating" broth, which, believe it or not, I had some in my car from my grocery shopping earlier in the week. I prepare the broth. It's hot. I spoon the liquid fire into my mouth, taking it like a man as it scalds the flesh of my throat. A little cauterization isn't going to kill me.
Fortified with all the sodium I'll need for the next three years, I get back to work. The night passes so slowly and my relief arrives late, but the minute she steps in, I very briefly brief her, and I make my way, rather quickly, out of the door. Driving home is just as easy as driving to work. I'm freezing, but I can't breathe so much with the heat on. Shucks. I can't really breathe without the heat on, but even as silly as I am, I know it's easier to breathe in a cooler environment. The war within begins! I can't decide which evil to choose. Freeze and have a better chance of breathing or let warmth seep into my being and limit my chances of breathing even more? Breathing it is!
Dude! I'm home. I promptly collapse onto my bed. I sleep, but I'm deliriously fitful, in and out. My alarm hammers at my brain, cruel in its relentlessness. I pop tall, shower, dress (Oh, yeah! I'm sportin' the fuzzy slippers to the Sheriff's Office!), and drive to work.
Work isn't too bad. The girl I work with has blood which seems to be thicker and more heated than molten lava. She keeps the temp in the sixties. We have a party turned riot, with a stabbing or two. Someone removes the victim, refusing to let EMS stabilize him. We receive threats because we haven't captured the suspects, but right now, it's all we can do to herd the rioting mass of stupid people out of harm's way. I can't breathe and I'm having to scream to be heard, though it still sounds as if I'm whispering, but I'm taking 911 calls left and right because stupid people do stupid stuff.
Yay! My shift is finally almost over. My relief is here, but she steps outside to smoke. She was only fifteen minutes late and she'd already been 10-8 for shift for three minutes. Of course she needed a smoke break! The radio crackles to life! Harper's voice is loud and clear, letting the three hundred units know that we've had twenty shots fired in close proximity to my home. That's not cool. How am I supposed to sleep with such a racket? I'm stubborn, so I go home and TRY to sleep. I can't. Stupid people won't stop shooting. The streets are teeming with cops, lights and sirens only adding to the noise. I'm still having difficulty breathing, deprived of sleep, and cross because I don't feel like listening to gun shots and sirens. I keep an overnight bag packed, so I grab it, advise my Mother that I'm 51 to her residence, and out the door I go.
As I pull onto the street, this black car pulls out behind me. At first, I don't think anything of it, as I'm pretty much raging against the world. I don't want to be driving for the next thirty minutes. I want to be sleeping, but I can't because stupid people do stupid stuff. I start to pay attention to this vehicle as it takes every turn I take and starts to ride my bumper. As I study it in my mirror, I process the fact that it matches the vehicle in which the suspects fled in. Great. Because I'm a goober I purchased a Police Interceptor and people tend to think I'm a cop. I'm guessing these nerds figured I was a cop due to my car and since they were on the prowl to make the "pigs pay", I seemed like a good target. Anyway, I send up a silent prayer and suddenly, several squad cars show up, causing those fellows to abandon their pursuit of my non-cop police car. I was fully prepared to reason with these guys, using logic and my fuzzy slippers to convince them that I'm not a cop.
Anyway, I make my way to my Mother's house where it is blessedly quiet. I sleep for four and a half hours. That's a great deal of sleep for me. I only woke up because I couldn't breathe again. I lounge around, hoping that if I take it easy, the pain in my chest and lungs will go away. It doesn't. I can't go back to sleep, so I might as well drive home.
Driving home, I begin to seriously hurt. My lungs feel like they're on fire. My throat is so tender and raw that the cool air I'm trying to draw into my lungs makes my throat feel as if someone has just scraped it with a metal spatula. I haven't been able to breathe properly since Wednesday and it's Saturday evening. My heart is racing, but it's to be expected with the pain and the lack of oxygen. I figure I'm in a mild state of tachycardia. I call my Mother so I can tell her that my lungs are hurting and that I'm going to the ER, but I end up dropping the phone as I drop to my knees, my body racked by a violent attack of coughing. I pull up my huggies, grab my phone, advise my Mother and my supervisor of the situation, grab my insurance card, and head out. I'm hurting so badly that I begin to drive it like a stole it.
I finally make my way to the ER. Great! I'm the only person in the waiting area. The receptionist, however, ignores my attempts to tell her that my lungs are hurting and that I can't breathe. She's too engrossed in the football game to notice little ol' me. Gasping for air, I finally get her attention. She shoves some forms my way and tells me to fill 'em out. As I'm filling these forms out, my body is yet again racked with violent coughing. I feel like I'm dying and all I can think about is thumping the receptionist's left eyeball because all she can say is, "If you're going to be sick, don't do it here. Wait for a pan." If I could induce vomiting, I'm afraid I would do it out of spite, but it's just not one of my many talents.
Anyway, I try to give this woman my insurance card and my DL, but she won't take it. She's watching the game again. She's a lost cause. She doesn't even seem to understand that slam dunkin' is reserved for basketball.
Now I'm just waiting. I'm still having a difficult time breathing. Each ragged breath I take leaves me feeling weak and as if someone has beaten the mess out of my lungs. I don't even want to describe the coughing.
Some nice little nurse with curly hair comes out, takes me to a room, and starts taking my vitals. I tell her that my pulse is going to be high, that I'm mostly likely in tachycardia and that my blood pressure normally runs relatively low. I am one smart cookie. My heart rate was 148 beats per minute and my blood pressure was 83/63. She thinks maybe the machine messed up with my reading, so she takes my blood pressure again. Same result. Suddenly, five women descend upon me, each bearing some little sticky pad thing and wires. I'm being hooked up to a heart monitor and they're getting me ready for an EKG. This older man, stick-thin and kind of creepy lookin' walks in with a big machine on wheels. I have to sign a waiver stating that I'm not pregnant. I sign it, they start me on an IV, and this guy x-rays my chest. It's time for a urine sample. I do my best, but it doesn't work out so well, as I'm behind on my water consumption and I had recently visited the ladies' room. Now it's time for another x-ray, one without my bra on. Fortunately, I know how to remove a bra with one hand, but getting it over my IV is a whole 'nother ball game.
Tests. More tests. Even more tests. Pain medication for my lungs, breathing treatments, and Ativan to bring me out of tachycardia. I can breathe a bit easier, my lungs still hurt, and my body is covered in a rash.
It's Sunday morning and I can't go to work until at least Wednesday. The basics? I have Strep throat/Scarlet fever, pneumonia, and like my lungs, the muscles surrounding my rib cage are inflamed due to the strain of those violent fits of coughing.
Now that I've blogged, I'm going to attempt to sleep. It seems to be the best choice, as they've doped me up. It's really hard to concentrate and even more difficult to walk without slamming myself into a wall or the floor.
Have a lovely day!
