Medical Anxiety

After my first trip to the ER in over two years this past Friday night, I am still reeling. I was reluctant to even go because I hate hospitals, needles, blood draws, and everything associated with anything medically related. But my blood pressure was high, ironically, hovering around 190 over 130 for about an hour before I decided it was time to succumb to the fact that I may need some professional help to get it under control. My blood pressure had never registered that high before and it didn't appear to be a fluke. I was weak, dizzy, nauseous and felt feverish. My mom drove me to our closest ER and there we sat for about an hour in the sweltering waiting room before being escorted into the ER where they had apparently just experienced what the male nurse formidably referred to as a "code." A code what? I wondered. My mind automatically jumped to the worst conclusion possible and assumed someone had just died there in the ER and that was surely the reason for the waiting room holdup.

The sickening smell of saline solution and rubbing alcohol filled the air of my room where a friendly nurse about my age promptly drew blood and started an IV. I am certain she sensed my anxiety right off the bat as I instructed her to please take as little blood as possible because I was already lightheaded. "You're going to be just fine, I promise." That was reassuring. Really it was. How often do we ever hear a doctor say anything like that with such certainty? She then did an ekg and said that it looked beautiful, and at 96 beats per minute it wasn't even tachycardic. That also helped me relax a bit. What didn't help me relax was the fact that I ended up laying there for a good six hours sweltering with no food or drink and a small cup of ice chips that I had spilled on the floor. My nurse was nice and did check in on me from time to time and once even came in to perform orthostatic blood pressure readings because I had mentioned POTS to her. They never did reveal the results or what they indicated but at least someone had sense enough to collect that kind of data.

I had a slight temperature at 99 point something, but nothing alarming. I was just flushed and felt overheated without sweating. I hate that feeling. Finally someone brought me a cool rag. At one point, the male nurse from earlier walked by and closed the door for "privacy issues." My mom said I must have been showing too much leg for his liking. That's what happens to overheated patients when left unattended. In the state I was in I lost all ability to reason or care about nuisances such as modesty. I was simply trying to keep myself cool. And at this point I was agitated and so famished from lack of food that I was about ready to murder the next nurse who told me not to eat anything until the doctor gave approval. Low blood sugar makes me do and say crazy things. The doctor who had come in at the beginning to examine me for all of about two minutes asking if I had consumed any caffeine that day was leisurely sitting in front of her computer down the hall enjoying a diet coke and a snack. Lucky her. I know this because I walked my weak self down the hall to beg for food and drink. Lo and behold the nurses instructed me I had to wait until I heard from the doctor and that it would just be a few more minutes.

Finally a nurse walks in, not to tell me I could eat, but to collect a urine sample that they had forgotten to collect in the beginning. To top it all off I had just emptied my bladder when I had gotten up to beg for food and water a few minutes before. So she hooked up another IV and let it run for a few minutes until I was ready to produce a sample. Finally, the night was nearly over. In walks a nurse with a cup of ice water for me to drink! I had never been so thankful in all my life! Then, my regular nurse walks in with yet another cup of ice water and 2 big and bitter pills to swallow called Cipro. In comes the doctor for a brief appearance to inform me they had found a probable urinary tract infection so it was the law that I had to take these pills before leaving the hospital. So two nurses, a doctor, my mom and my ex-boyfriend had all arrived and were all hovering about me in this tiny room waiting for me to swallow these damn pills. Talk about pressure. I wasn't convinced I had a UTI in the first place as I wasn't experiencing any symptoms. But I reluctantly swallowed the pills, breaking them up with my teeth first, making the doctor and nurses wait as long as possible for me to finish since I had waited so long for their company.

At last everyone else went out in the hall while my primary nurse unhooked me from everything and asked me how long I had been suffering from anxiety. I said that no one had ever diagnosed me with anxiety before but admitted that hospitals and medical stuff did tend to make me feel very anxious. Of course anxiety wasn't listed anywhere on any of my discharge papers, simply "probable UTI, tachycardia, and weakness" (they neglected to even address the weird high blood pressure issue). Although she herself was not a doctor and did not have the legal authority to diagnose, she revealed quite an astute observation, saying that I clearly exhibited symptoms of anxiety and she understood why: "all you did was go to the dentist to get your teeth out and ended up with a permanent health problem. I get it, believe me. I understand why you'd be anxious around doctors and places like this. You just can't let it define you though. Life's too short." This nurse was right. Life is too short to let one awful life-changing event define you. I was so many other things in my life before POTS, there was so much more to me than being sick. I hate being the sick girl and don't want to be thought of that way. So going to strive to get the old me back one small step at a time. My first goal: stay the heck out of the ER for as long as possible!

Am I Overly Sensitive?

After abruptly bursting into tears today after my mom announced that Trader Joe's no longer carries my favorite chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches, I felt a little silly. I wondered if I perhaps have yet another problem to add to the list: over-sensitivity. Lately I have become a bit of a crybaby as the tears seem to come at the drop of a hat. The only other time I can recall crying over such seemingly insignificant things was senior year of high school when I might have been a bit stressed out/sad after losing my great grandmother.

One night a popular anchor on the 5:00 news callously announced that Keiko the whale, otherwise known as the orca Free Willy, had died. Just like that. She actually used the word "died." Didn't even use a euphemism for it, and then promptly moved on to the next story. Gave his death maybe ten seconds of airtime, at max. The second I heard the news (and the way she delivered it), the tears came shooting out of my eyes involuntarily. And I just couldn't control it. I cried and cried and cried and couldn't even pinpoint why I was crying so much over a whale and couldn't even bring myself to stop. I remember my mom feeling sorry for me, perhaps feeling sorry for how pathetic I was and saying, "Oh Kristina, you're just under so much stress right now. I know that movie meant a lot to you." And truth be told it did. That was my all-time favorite movie growing up. My best friend and I watched it over and over, maybe hundreds of times. We had even memorized the moves to Michael Jackson's music video at the end of the VHS tape. As special as that movie was to me, I remember thinking that no sane person would cry over such a thing.

The next day at school I had a heavy heart but put on my usual happy face. One of the few friends who knew that my real favorite movie was 'Free Willy' asked me if I had heard the news. Of course, some nosy and obnoxious boys who sat behind us asked "what news?" and she responded with "Keiko the whale passed away yesterday." The waterworks exploded from my eyes again. In the middle of material science class. In a room full of boys. I was crying at school, more like sobbing. And there was nothing anyone could do to comfort me. It didn't help that the two boys behind us were now laughing as if my sudden tears were the funniest and most outrageous thing they had ever seen. Embarrassed beyond belief, I excused myself to the bathroom and took a long lunch that afternoon, even arriving late to the latter half of the class. Luckily the teacher was sensitive and didn't say anything to me at all, probably didn't want to ruffle my feathers. Here I was, number one in my class, the president of nearly every club and student organization with a reputation to uphold and I was hysterical, over a whale. A whale I had never even met.

The next few days were even more torturous as the two boys, as luck would have it, shared many classes with me. They began to torment me. Of course, it wouldn't have looked much like tormenting to an outsider. All they did was say the words "Free Willy" or "Keiko the Whale" mockingly in my presence and I burst into tears. This torture went on for about a week. It was like a conditioned response. Anytime I heard the whale's name I cried.

Lately the same kind of thing has been happening to me. Not about any one thing in particular, but just little things that will set me off. For instance last night I opened the fridge to make myself a sandwich and grabbed the pickle jar from the top shelf. Attached to the pickle jar was a sticky (and heavy) jar of caramel that fell smack dab on the top of my left foot, same side I am still recovering from a sprained ankle on. I have a nasty bruise on top of my foot today and it hurts when I touch it but it is really no big deal compared to everything else going on in my life. And in the grand scheme of things it was nothing that should have made me cry. The problem is, it's not any one big bad thing that elicits the tears, but rather a series of little things that happen every single day and the cumulative effect of all this bad luck seems to be me bursting into tears literally at the drop of a jar. Lately it just seems like the universe is against me and dispensing subtle daily reminders of just how powerful and relentless he is. Like a big, fat bully. Mr. Universe is not always kind, as many of us know all too well from dealing with chronic illness on a daily basis for years on end. But does Mr. Universe really have to throw a sprained ankle, mounting medical bills, an excrutiatingly painful 3-month TMJ headache that insurance won't cover, relatives who desperately need to see the shrink, an overheating imac and a broken printer into the mix? Take away the one thing that gives me any solace (TJ's ice cream sandwiches) and it's a recipe for tears. Maybe because it feels like Mr. Universe is launching a personal attack on me.

I feel pathetic when I cry over such minor issues, but I really can't seem to control it lately. Is there something wrong with me? Other than the obvious of course. Do any of you experience moments of extreme and sudden sadness? What do you do to combat these emotions?