Give me a break!!!!! (please)
in The awesomeness that is the inner workings of my somewhat disturbed and unarguably juvenile mind.
as after school special, Autoimmune Hemolytic Anemia, eviction notice, immune globulin, Lupus, made for T.V., Single mother, unemployed single mother
So this is fun…
As many of you know,
I almost died this January when my body revolted against me and decided to mistake my red blood cells for intruders and proceeded to kill most of them off. I spent weeks in the hospital and received 12 blood transfusions, immune globulin and a boat load of steroids.
I was back at the hospital for weekly blood tests and after a crop of new symptoms, sent to a Rheumatologist who tested me for Lupus.
One of my tests came back positive.
How’s that for an intro to a post?
Less than 2 months after returning home, despite not being fully recovered and being plagued by a barrage of new symptoms, I started my job search, as it was clear that I wasn’t in any shape to go back to work on-call, night shifts, as an intervention counselor at the women’s shelter. As rewarding a job as it is, being awake all night, working with mentally unstable, syringe wielding and often aggressive and violent drug addicts is just not an option for me anymore.
I’ve sent out a slew of CVs, made phone calls, posted my profile on employment sights, begged everyone I know to spread the word etc… And I still haven’t found work. I’ve even applied at F#$@ing Starbucks. I feel like a living breathing, low budget, Canadian, made for T.V. after school special.
You know, the one about the single mom who is almost 40 and is applying for jobs that only teenagers will do and nobody will hire her but eventually she gets a job a McDonalds, even though she is a vegetarian.
She hates her boss because he is a misogynist creep who makes her wash the floors and leers at her while making snide comments about her age or single moms or something.
Of course, on the show, a handsome customer comes in and orders a McSalad and they fall in love. He gets on great with the kids and he just loves dogs. He magically gets her a job writing for the New Yorker and her article about McDonalds gets the whole chain closed down forever and she gets a brass awesomest-person-in-the-world plaque with her name on it and they live happily ever after in his penthouse suite, overlooking Central Park.
Where was I?
Anyway…
With no employment in sight and not even an interview in my foreseeable future, I took a week off momming and job-hunting because my boyfriend had (months ago) bought me a “HURRAY! YOU LIVED!” gift of a plane ticket to meet him in Barcelona during his European tour.
It’s the first time in my 30 something, almost 40 years of life that I have ever been outside of North America, ever.
Despite missing my kids desperately, worrying incessantly about whether or not I would have a “flare-up” while I was there, being entirely financially dependent on my boyfriend’s limited funds and most of all stressing terribly about what I was coming home to (i.e. hateful answering machine messages and/or eviction notices) I actually managed to enjoy parts of the trip.
“This is a once in a life time Jen, be mindful, take it in” This was my mantra when my mind tried wandering to the dark side.
It’s been a week since I arrived home. I have yet to find work and I am late on the rent again, as I have been a few times since being hospitalized.
My landlords (understandably) hate me for this and are hellbent on evicting me, which is great fun. They’ve given me 2 days to pay the rent “or else”
and also, just to add a little flavour to the pot, they’ve also now sent me a completely unprovoked registered letter stating that I am not complying with my lease and must get rid of our family dog within 10 days “or else”.
Now, we had the dog long before these landlords bought the building from my previous landlord who, despite neglecting to include this information on the Lease itself, gave me permission to bring my dog when we moved in here. I can probably fight them on the whole dog thing because it’s clearly just a plot to get me out of here faster but I can’t magically come up with this month’s rent or next month’s which is due in a few short days.
So here I am, Wednesday June 23rd 2010 feeling like a trapped animal, chasing my own tail again, wondering if this is ever going to stop. Wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with 3 kids a dog and an eviction notice. Wondering if the world is ever going to cut me some slack, wondering if I’m a spoiled brat for expecting that I might deserve some.
Wondering if I should have stayed in Barcelona and sent for the kids… and the dog.
Vegetarian fish loaf?
in The awesomeness that is the inner workings of my somewhat disturbed and unarguably juvenile mind.
as Autoimmune Hemolytic Anemia, Fish Loaf, Jennifer June Chapman, The Lady's Lounge
So… after 6 days of a fever of over 104, violent and uncontrollable shaking and an inability to get from one room to the other without sliding my body against the wall for support, my silly boyfriend decides that it’s time to haul me kicking and screaming (or dragging and whimpering rather) to the clinic.
The doctor takes one look at me and decided due to my canary yellow hue, that my liver has clearly aborted all obligation to me and and that I was to be rushed immediately to the hospital.
After about 2 billion blood tests, which were especially fun because I have no veins, it was determined that my liver is in great shape.
“So I can still drink?!?”
As are my kidneys.
The only thing is, that my over enthusiastic immune system has decided for no apparent reason, that my red blood cells are actually an evil virus and has formed anti-bodies that are rapidly killing them off. Autoimmune Hemolytic Anemia.
The next morning, I had my first of 12 blood transfusions. I was terrified. First they warn you of all the potential reactions you might have to the blood, then they reassure you that only 25% of recipients have a reaction.
“ONLY 25%? I may have chartreuse eyeballs, I may be in a fever induced semi-coma but I can do basic math. There are four people in this room things aren’t looking so good for somebody.”
Then they come look at you every 15 minutes to remind you that you might react.
“Are you feeling anything strange? Heart palpitations? Difficulty breathing? Itching?”
“No, no I’m fine” scratch scratch, wheeze, choke.
My room was #666 ( I kid you not).
My roommate was a loud groany man, who wasn’t as offensive as he was exhausting. I kept catching him heaving his body off the end of his bed, gown around his thick neck, his stark white ass in the air, letting out these long winding farts, tugging on his colostomy bag, muttering and swearing in Italian.
“Mr. Primiani, you’re not supposed to get out of bed by yourself.”
“I go see my wife!” He announces authoritatively.
I push the alert button.
The Preposé comes running and cram him back into place, threatening to restrain him and what have you.
Repeat every 30-40 minutes.
It was our thing.
After having some of my blood accidentally transfused into a bag of saline, the visiting hematologist requested that I be transferred to a hospital more equipped for my condition, like one with actual doctors for example.
The next hospital gave me a private room and reverse isolation. A calmer, quieter place to obsessively question my mortality and berate myself for having put off doing laundry all week, never having written a will or planned for the potential orphanage of my children.
It took several days before I could walk the four feet to the bathroom without help from Francois, who devotedly dragged my IV stand behind him back and forth, and refrained from showing any resentment towards me for having to use the toilet about every 15 minutes. He slept in the chair beside me, holding my hand and reassuring me that everything would be OK. I reassured him that I knew everything would be OK and silently prayed to god to let me live.
They have successfully suppressed my immune system enough to slow down the execution of my blood cells and now we watch and wait, as I get slowly weaned off the steroids, to see that the anti-bodies don’t kick in again. We’re not entirely in the clear, I’m still heavily medicated and having my blood tested every couple of days but I was discharged from the hospital yesterday, to come home to heal. The condition being that my mom is not allowed to go home for at least a week (sorry mom) and my kids promise to be angels. Hear that kids?
For real though, I’m happy to be home to listen to them bicker, to listen to the landlord renovate the apartment upstairs, so happy to not eat “vegetarian fish loaf” for supper, so happy to be home to sleep in my own bed, even if Bowtie/Boots/Duncan/Eli/Whose cat is that? only lets me sleep on a third of it. Thank you for the flowers, wishes, visits, prayers and piggy truffles. Thank you to my sweet boyfriend who insisted that I was beautiful even if I looked like Marge Simpson. Thank you most of all to everyone who came together and managed to miraculously stabilize my children’s lives through all of this. I can’t thank you enough, but thank you, thank you, thank you.
