I seem to have a pulmonary embolism. I've missed a few blog entries and I will probably miss a few more. I've been in the hospital since Thursday and they're not sure when they'll let me out. Apparently blood clots in one's lungs are a big deal and 36 is young enough (no matter how old it feels to me) to make it both surprising and a big deal. So, when they sent me home Tuesday saying "muscle spasms" they hadn't done the test for embolisms because I was too young for it be expected.
Ha, take that ER staff. Proved you wrong.
But really, the ER staff, the hospital staff, the doctors, the food service people, and even those people who come in twice daily to empty the trash have all been excellent and sweet and concerned and very nice. There's only one person this whole time I might have even called just-OK, but except for the pain and the itching and vomiting side-effects from percocet, dizziness and difficulty breathing, being kept from home and forced to learn to give myself shots -- oh and their really crappy tub, barely workable for showers or baths -- it hasn't been too bad.
Alright, you may have missed the cursing angry me and gotten the sad accepting me instead. We're just glad the ER found it because, from what I read online, the other common way to find embolisms is when the morgue struggles to figure out why the otherwise apparently healthy person was found dead on their kitchen floor. Now we just have to figure out why it happened and if it might happen again someday -- and then maybe they'll let me go home.