I’m sorry, there’s just nothing else to think or to say when you wake up at 6:30 in the morning totally and completely dehydrated. I sat in bed for an hour just fuming. I mean give me a break, POTS! I FLEW TO TEXAS TO FIX YOU—and you can’t even let me go one measly week without an IV? I’m in a PROGRAM.
You’re just a jerk. Jerk face.
Well—now that I’ve gotten that out of my system I can tell you what happened next. What happened next was I got my dehydrated, angry ass out of bed, put on my big girl panties and called my insurance company to make sure an ER visit would be covered under our plan. Then I woke up my mom, called the front desk and made sure the hotel’s shuttle was available to take us to the hospital.
Then I put on every jacket, shirt and scarf in my suitcase and went to the emergency room.
Then I spent an hour going through triage and another waiting for a nurse.
Then some nurse put an IV in my hand after I specifically told her I had bad veins that collapse easily when I get an IV. So of course—let’s put it in the most painful area with the thinnest, most sensitive skin and smallest vein. Good plan.
Then I met a cool doctor who totally got POTS and looked like a Texas lumberjack. Rad.
But then he left and I waited another hour for a bag of saline—and for another nurse to start a new, better IV on my other arm. Then another half an hour for the original nurse to take out the now throbbing, old IV in my hand.
This whole time my mom is hacking up her lungs—but she’s not sick—she’s just hacking up her lungs.
Once the IV finished and I was discharged—we waited outside for the hospital’s shuttle to come and get us.
And we waited.
….and we waited.
And an hour later we figured out that she’d gone to pick us up at the POTS Treatment Center across the street.
Needless to say we never even got to the 10:00 appointment. Dr. K said we could double up on sessions one day next week.
We spent the next few hours working from the hotel room. And didn’t come out again until 8:00PM when we trudged across the freezing parking lot to Walgreens to buy laundry detergent, rice krispy treats and Pedialyte.
It’s just been that kind of day. What happened to the days when my most humble desire was to look like Fran Drescher? To have some eel sauce with my sushi? Aren’t I spoiled Jewish girl from Boca Raton? What am I doing here in Texas, without my poodle or my boyfriend off of my regular IV schedule getting hematomas in my hands from unfamiliar nurses?
I’m just feeling a little discouraged. Is there such a thing as having such a bad case of POTS that you can’t even get through the treatment program? I know. I’m just having a small hiccup in the journey. I’ll be back at the center tomorrow, deep breathing and all that—I just hate watching my symptoms mess up my proactive, productive plans to actually have a normal, healthy life.
Alright. Pity party over.
By the time I actually post this I’ll probably be riding roller coasters and eating deep fried cream cheese while take ecstasy and flying airplanes anyways.
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