Wednesday, March 30, 2016

Betrayed, again

     On the other side of my hospital room door, there was someone my doctors took much more seriously than me, their patient. They took him so much more seriously that he already knew why I wasn't receiving any of my meds, not even the anti-inflammatory I've taken for decades.
     It's as if the doctors chose to treat me like a child and my husband like he was my daddy.
     Finally, someone explained to me that all meds had been discontinued out of concern over possible interactions that could be taking place between them and the wacko drug, Fycompa.
     "I told them it was a bad plan, that you're smart enough to figure out something isn't right, but they wouldn't listen," my husband said, once the cat was out of the bag.
     I felt even more betrayed by my doctors.
     After coming to them in a manic, delusional state and placing my complete trust in them, no one had bothered to explain my own treatment plan. Instead, they told my husband and then refused to listen when he warned them of the storm to come once I figured things out on my own.
     My respect for them was completely obliterated by this latest bit of info.
     Fycompa had killed my appetite weeks earlier, but I stopped trying eat after finding out the dirty trick my doctors had played on me. Pushing the tray away without a glance, I ordered a steady supply of  sugary, caffeinated soda.
      If my purse hadn't been in lock-up, I would've lit up a cigarette in the bathroom because I knew they weren't going to kick me out for it. I was their prisoner at that point, something to be studied, like a rat in a cage.
     My plan to use the forced hospital stay as a perfect opportunity to quit smoking went out the window because I realized nothing else would be relieving my pain any time soon.
     The drug was no longer compelling me to chat, so I spoke only when I had to. The "eager to please for early release" patient was permanently gone.
     Unfortunately, my mother called at my absolute lowest point, when my own doctors had come the closest anyone ever has to breaking my spirit. I was laying there, waiting for the seizure that would set me free from the room of torture and pain, when my cell phone rang and I saw her beautiful face on the screen.
       My voice was monotone when I answered.
      "How are you?" she asked. I could feel her worry through the phone and her desperate need to hear me say that everything was better.
      Instead, I told her the truth.
      It's the most horrible thing I've ever said to her. I described exactly how I felt at that moment in time. My voice was as dead as I felt inside when I delivered my message.
      "Mama, I'm so desperate to get out of this place, I would let every man on this hall come in here and take turns with me if it would mean I could walk out that door.
      Believe me when I say this, Mama, I wouldn't feel a thing while they did it."