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one year, one month, 14 days.

i keep writing and erasing things, because after a year i still don't know how to talk about this.

i remember the anger and futility, the fear and uncertainty, and finally relief the night i was admitted.

the bewilderment. because clearly i was much sicker than anyone would actually say.

the way the dilaudid coursed through my veins. i could literally feel it inch through my body, relaxing my everything, making the edges foggy.

i remember the waiting. and waiting. the constant interruptions of sleep, and then when things were finally quiet, sleep wouldn't come. so i wandered the halls in my gown, making friendly with the night shift.

so many lovely visitors, and people taking care of the details while i couldn't. love from most quarters, surprising silence from others.

the night everyone was gone, and my IV infiltrated. it took two hours, eight nurses, and twenty attempts to find a vein. easily two of the worst hours of my life, and no one was there with me, because my husband's band had a commitment they couldn't back out of. he still feels guilty about it, but what could he have done? it's probably better he didn't see it.

surgery, and the apparently very amusing things i said going in and out of anesthesia.

going home, only to return in 24 hours.
and going home again, only to grow so sick and weak i couldn't lift my head.
after that they wouldn't let me leave until i was completely better. they were scared. so was i. the first course of medicine hadn't helped at all.

i remember what eating something besides broth or jello, after a full month, felt like. at first i didn't want to eat. everything tasted strange, and i was afraid of how my body would react. i watched food network and anthony bourdain so that my appetite might return, and when it did, the mush on the trays wasn't cutting it. i would coax people into bringing me food or walk down to the cafeteria in my robe and pajamas, toting along my IV.

i remember the worst night, the third check-in, the fever, the pain that they couldn't give me anything for, totally weak, completely spent.

the last room, the smallest, was where i spent most of my time but i remember it best because there i was finally (eventually) well enough to read, browse the internet, watch tv - basically give a shit about doing anything besides just laying there.

i remember how reserved my oldest was around me, and how joyous my youngest whenever they came to visit. having them snuggling up around me in my bed and sneaking the things i didn't want (which was pretty much everything) off of my trays.

i remember the day i was told i could leave, and the mixed feelings. before, leaving meant getting sicker, and though i was much better, i was afraid of going home. i put it off for six hours.

the busy month after, when my weak body healed itself slowly. i took on too much at first and suffered set backs.

and then it all faded in the distance and life got busy and i didn't think about it much at all.
until last month when i lost my shit on the fourth of july, realizing a year before had been the IV incident. it all feels so far removed, like a different life, like it happened to someone else, because i have pushed it so far from me.

and i still don't know how to deal with it.
the fact that one year, one month, and 14 days ago I nearly died.

7:23 p.m. - 2012-08-14

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