History. Pictures. Story, the first.

I am pretty sure you all thought I was being ridiculous when I said my dog was downstairs partying last night. But really, what can you say when faced with this kind of photographic evidence? I left her asleep in her crate and when I came home from church, I was faced with a dog wearing my bra. Not a dog chewing on my bra or rolling around with my bra. But wearing my bra. And not wearing it because I put it on her because I thought it was funny. No, wearing it because she somehow put it on herself.

And we’re back. Because I was in such an exhaustion-filled stupor that I didn’t post this the way I’d intended last night. I left you in the exam room whilst Kim the Derober deblooded me. During this time, Overdose McGee, my roommate, entertained his parents and his boyfriend, Tony. At first, I was quite amused by the way the dude was reacting and interacting with everyone, including asking everyone he saw—whether they were real or not—where the damn TV was in this place. But when his father was pacing back and forth in front of my bed, and every time when he looked up and caught my stare, and the way he did that fake shot in my direction, the one that tried to say, “I’m in charge of whatever is happening here, and whatever is happening here is all fine,” didn’t make it so funny anymore. He sighed and found himself at a loss for words as his entirely inebriated son explained the rheumatoid arthritis was too much and he hoped he wasn’t ashamed of him.

And let’s face it: it was really sad to hear all that going on, but it was still really funny to listen to him. Because I have no soul. At one point, while they were giving him the activated charcoal, he exclaimed, slurredly, “Thisssss … shiiiiiiiiiit tastes like shiiiiit. Maaay. May I-I swear?” The nurse said it was fine so long as no one was on the other side of the curtain. Which I took as my cue to sound as completely virginal as possible in my, “Hi …” in their direction. The nurse said, “Sorry buddy. You’ve got a young lady on the other side of this curtain so there can’t be any swearing.” Overdose McGee’s response mentioned something about the damn hell and the shit he was drinking.

It was in those quiet moments after the McGee family left and Overdose and his buddy were trying to get some sleep before the requisite psychiatric evaluation that I finally realized they were testing my blood for clots. And there was something on the x-ray. And my boss had said he’d wait for me and take me to my car. But since there was something on the x-ray, I realized I’d probably die right there and then I’d be embarrassed when they went to retrieve my ownerless car, what with all the plastic products littering it. And what would happen to my dog, because no one lets her party like I do.

My boss sauntered back in, the good ole way, and informed me that he’d heard from the boss of the bosses who was downtown at the time and wanted to visit. Glee. My boss sat and talked with me a while. He sneezed and I exclaimed, “You are sooo …” and made him laugh. I explained the recent turn of events and that there could be clots. And then I cried. And his phone rang and his wife asked when the heck he’d be rejoining his family, you know, the one who loves him? And I became wrapped up in the guilt of having him there and the fear I wasn’t quite ready to experience in front of him. Or anyone at all.

I called Camille, who I’d figured wouldn’t be home or wouldn’t answer. She answered on the fourth ring and I explained I was in the hospital and George was there and there was something on the x-ray and he said it could be bronchitis but I’m not sick and that scares me and they were testing my blood for clotting and, and … and I guess I just wanted you to know. She asked if I wanted her to come and I sobbed yes. She said she was on her way.

Kim returned to administer one heck of a large Levaquin and I became acutely aware of the IV catheter in my arm, from which tubing was dangling but to which nothing was attached. My fluids were draining into the wastebasket, and as George would explain it at work the next day, he was shocked to see that I didn’t have enough oxygen to keep an earthworm alive, but yet my fluids dripped into the trash can at my side. It didn’t bother me so much—except for knowing this tube was dancing around in my good vein—the one that tickles when they take blood from it—and I swore if that tube screwed something up, they were going to have to cut me to get to blood ever again.

George strolled himself in and out of the room, back and forth between Law & Order in the waiting room and CSI: Secretary in Exam 13. I think it worth mentioning that at this very moment at time, my lungs—they still hurt. A lot more than they should have, or at least ever had. And I wasn’t breathing right … not deeply enough and not clearly enough. It was about then that the exhaustion caught up with me and the prednisone reddened my cheeks and made me hot—oh my, so hot—and I was fresh out of conversation-sustaining banter. I lay there and may or may not have simply ignored George’s attempts at conversation. Also, painfully aware that I was still without a bra or anything covering my shoulders. From my boss. And why won’t someone just give me a bra?

Camille and Wobee arrived and she leaned over me and hugged me and kissed my forehead and held my hand and … it was good.

It was so good. George mysteriously disappeared as we chatted things up and I made entirely inappropriate jokes about the cancer that was making its home in my lungs because look at me—do I look like I have bronchitis that would show up on an x-ray? No, no I don’t.

And then the cop came in. Because everything wasn’t dramatic enough already, a cop came into my room and said, “Excuse me, ma’am. I have the head of the department you work for, which department has a loaded name and which everyone knows and may I bring him in?” And then the seven-foot bossman came, amidst my embarrassed laughs and the strange looks I got from people in the hallway who looked as if to say, “Who the hell is she? And what does he want with her?” Camille and Wobee left to the waiting room and Brother & Sister Boss visited.

Sister Boss asked if I’d had a Priesthood Blessing and did I want one? I said I’d really like one and asked if Wobee could be included. I assured Brother Boss he was a worthy bearer of the Melchizedek Priesthood and I think Sister Boss really wanted to know what the heck a Wobee was and was it legal? George came in to assist and I asked that Brother Boss anoint and George seal the blessing. There was some confusion about whether or not a Wobee was in fact a spice, a drug, or a person, and it ended up that just Brother Boss and George were involved. George gave me a lovely blessing and reminded me that if Father in Heaven knows when a sparrow falls from the sky, then how much greater is he aware of my struggles and pleadings. It was a lovely and reassuring blessing from two worthy men who pleaded in behalf of me—a short little girl whose lungs hurt and whose body was tired and whose mind and soul were frightened.

After the blessing, Brother and Sister Boss left and Camille told George he was free to go home, that they’d see that I got to my car and home safely. Which is where George’s uncertainty to leave me with them endeared him to me forever. He came in by himself to make certain that I was comfortable enough with them and if it was really ok, then he’d go home. And I really ought to take tomorrow off. I told him I’d come in, and he said to call in the afternoon, from home, to tell them how I was doing. So, he left.

Wobee and Camille came and sat with me a while. We talked and I made more inappropriate comments about forming a chemo carpool for when they told me I had cancer. Or how they didn’t need a puppy after all; they could just take Ethel when I died. And how I really don’t like summer so this is a good time to die anyway.

I left for the restroom and on the way back, the doctor met me in the hallway and violated every HIPAA statute known to healthcare as he explained that my blood was ok and I’d need to be on the prednisone and Levaquin and Albuterol and see ya dude. He said he’d send Kim in to rip the tube out of my arm and I could be on my way to questioning unexplained patchy infiltrates on the x-ray and the unwavering lung pain. But by golly, they were going to clear that place out. Camille was waiting for me in the hall as the radiologist approached the doctor and said he didn’t know what was on the x-ray, but he was, “Outta here.” So the doc said I would be too.

Except that didn’t so much work out because, well, no one ever came to remove the IV. A half-hour passed before I felt aggressive enough to face the crowd of nurses gathered around a computer telling jokes and asked that maybe one of them pry themselves away from the entertainment long enough to yank the catheter from my inner elbow and slap some tape on it. Ten minutes passed before the lot fell to some lowly male nurse who came in explaining that he had no idea where Kim had gone. Which is crap—because really, who wants to hear that you don’t know where the person who was given the assignment is? I don’t care to hear it. I want to hear that you’re sorry for the inconvenience and you’d be happy to help—because it’s not like Kim gets a tube-yanking commission, does she? And if she does, then collect on it.

Oh and did I mention? Those things freak me out? I was on a high does of prednisone, the antibiotic had me feeling woozy as I’d not eaten since 10 a.m., and THOSE THINGS FREAK ME OUT. I felt faint and Camille suggested I sit back in the bed as he removed it. My heart was in my throat (probably making its way to my lungs, where it’d heard the cancer party was being held) as he was well aware of my phobia and while applying pressure, asked, “Are you ready?” Which was a snotty, jerky thing to do because he’d already removed it and wanted met to think he hadn’t. Because that’s funny? Because it’s funny that people get scared of things? Yeah.

Eventually I was deported and left to walk in the night air to the car. Which hurt. Camille drove me down to my car and she and Wobee followed me home. I’m grateful they’d do that, and so late. It was midnight by the time I had Ethel walked and back in bed.

So there’s the Monday story. Which was really, really long. The next stories are to be told from the depths of the PCP’s office on Wednesday and the subsequent tests and fear and, did I mention? It didn’t stop being scary until, well, it’s still not all unscary. At least until we put an end to all of this and they say, “You know what’s wrong with you, LADY? What’s wrong with you is that YOU ARE SICK IN THE GOURD.”

History & Pictures.

I said I’d write about what happened Monday and I said I’d do it before Saturday at 11:17 p.m., but really, who was waiting to hear it? No one. And really, how much will my posterity care that I had an acute asthma attack one day and then I was better and maybe had cancer but then didn’t, unless I do and I don’t know it til my follow-up on Thursday? How much? Not much, I say.

I just took my dog out and my downstairs neighbor invited me over. In fact, her exact words were, “Um, sweetie? Do you wanna beer?” and while I was extremely flattered, I declined, citing the dog attached to the leash and my jammies but, “I’m good. Thanks so much.” Which I guess may be an overly sucrose-doused response when beer is involved.

(Ethel did accept the invitation, citing her love affair with the Michelob in the can, and is getting too loud for her britches outside on the front lawn. I may or may not have just called the police.)

So yeah. Here goes.

Last weekend, I had an awesome allergy-induced head cold, which was awesome and filled with awesomeness. It slowed me down and gave me some extra snot, but life was manageable. By Monday, I was worn out, what with the snot everywhere, though, and called in sick for half the day to get my life in order and rid my life of the snot once and for all.

I worked a productive half-day and around 6:00 p.m., I ran merrily around dropping off papers and it was off to the Camry I skipped. The walk was exhaust-filled, as usual, and I experienced some asthma-related ticklings in the hearty ole bronchioles, as was not far from normal. I had a slight reprieve before performing another fume-laced jaunt through another parking structure. By the time I got to the car, the need for an inhaler was apparent and seemingly unforgiving. I hopped in the car and found myself without the jacket that had, at most recent, held my Albuterol.

No good, I thought—but manageable—because I’d been in this position only a few weeks ago (we’ll get to how not having an inhaler does not make me an idiot) and what with my mad skillz at Biofeedback, I’d be back in business in no time. By the time I got the car on the road, I was having the full body heaves associated with a biggun. Traveling down West Temple, I tried short breaths with minimal bronchial involvement. I attempted deep breaths with sharp pain-filled lungs. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t ease the tension in my shoulders and I knew I was dealing with something more than I could handle on my own.

I remembered a cute little inhaler residing in the cosmetics bag in my desk at work and came to a point in my commute that the promise of life outweighed risking oxygen-deprived insanity and I turned around to head back to work. I parked in the nearest parking structure and tried to remain calm as I approached the elevators. I passed some men I know and waved, tensely and nervously.

I made it to my desk and started rifling. I wasn’t having much luck before I realized that, “HELLO YOU FREAK THIS IS MORE THAN YOUR NEW AGEY BIOFEEDBACK CRAP CAN HANDLE. I NEED DRUUUUUUUUGS,” and called work’s emergency number.

“It’s Ashley. I’m. Having. An asthma attack. It’s gotten. Out. Of. Control.”

“Ashley, they’re on their way.”

“O. K. Bye.”

The phone rang again.

“Ashley, do you want to talk to me? The paramedics are on their way too.”

“No. Talk.”

It was then that I had no doubt the camera in front of my desk was on and focusing in on my visually dramatic struggle for oxygen. Thusly, I turned my chair around and waited for the stripling young men to approach. And what would you know, it was the two guys who I’d greeted on the way upstairs. I checked the blanching on my fingertips—during a normal attack, which a normal Albuterol MDI can help, if my fingertips are pressed, they blanch for longer than usual but become pink again, showing a decreased aptitude for obtaining sufficient oxygen, but manageable recovery time to the extremities. It’s an awesome party trick. During this attack, they couldn’t be blanched because they were already white. I think the guys thought I was checking my manicure.

About 7 minutes and 15 liters of oxygen later, I was being administered a sweet, sweet nebulizer treatment by a good, good-looking paramedic and his four or five equally deliciously good-looking counterparts. I may or may not have crossed my eyes, watching that the life-filled mist made it to my mouth safely. My shoulders, still tense, were hunched forward, trying to pull all the air in front of me deep into my lungs. My body and mind knew what was happening but didn’t really want to have to deal with it.

It was when the treatment had finished that they finally popped a pulse-ox monitor on my index finger and I was stable at 91%. An entirely acceptable number, but low, post-neb. I still felt short of breath and my lungs, they hurt. I maintained that I would under no circumstances be transported to the hospital and one of the guys—did I mention I knew two of them, because, awkward?—asked if they could override my obviously silly pleadings. Since I only look twelve, and am in fact four years past legality, all they could do is offer to have me sign a refusal of treatment to have me rethink the situation.

Something about having a really good-looking paramedic standing over your desk—the one where you work, for pity’s sake this isn’t supposed to be happening and PLEASE, SOMEONE, TURN OFF THE CAMERA—and hearing him saying things like “respiratory arrest” and “death,” gives you an intimate awareness of your sustained lung pain and status as someone who is not too good to not go into respiratory arrest, and no matter how much you bat your barely-oxygenated eyelashes, Dr. McCuteGlasses will probably not accompany you home to save you from said arrest. And since I wasn’t comfortable enough in my body’s ability to survive the trip back to the car and all the way home sans respiratory arrest and/or death, and did I mention my lungs really hurt? I conceded to be transported and was fed all kinds of crap about how that was such a good decision and pardon me ma’am, but may I give you a wedgie while I walk you to the gurney? And smile pretty for the camera.

They strapped me in, which didn’t work so well because WOW everything feels so tight and my lungs really hurt guys, and I don’t remember that happening and that man upstairs said respiratory arrest and that’s scary, please make it stop.

I work way up high and there’s one elevator that services the entire building. They’d called that sucker to carry me down to the street and MAN WAS THAT TRIPPY. My body was high on the equivalent ten-plus-concurrent-drags-of-albuterol it’d had and I didn’t remember signing up for the roller coaster ride down, but wee! a freebie! I was wheeled out the way I walk into the building every morning and I became painfully aware of how cold the outside air was as it stung my innards. I wished the 10 liters oxygen I was sucking on like candy were another albuterol treatment and maybe also a shot of adrenaline because I felt my airways closing in around the coldness and the way everything seemed to give me a jolt of fear and gasping.

I faced the rear of the ambulance with two EMTs on my left. The one with the firemanish pants called the ER with my details and sounded downright bored with his current lot in life. I’d envisioned maybe a little more feeling in his delivery, what with the way I was feeling much worse again and why wouldn’t my body stop shaking? And my watch is backwards and why am I thinking about this and why won’t they help me breathe? Because every time we hit a bump it startles me and makes it worse.

EMT Delicious McYummy requested the supplies to start an intravenous drip and blessed my soul with a smaller gauge than was originally offered. I apologized for the lack of any apparent blood flow at all in my left arm, what with the downright freakiness of the lack of veinage. I rolled to my side as he leaned over me and I considered proposing marriage while we were so very close, but he was otherwise engaged (ha) in putting a TUBE in my HAND for me to consider interrupting it. Because those things freak me out way more than any blood draw, shot, pelvic exam, or closed MRI ever will.

Also, everyone stop breathing because you’re using up all the air.

We arrived at the Emergency Room in minutes, if you’re measuring with air in your body and in days, if you’re measuring the way I felt. I was wheeled in to a curtained corner of an exam “room” and manhandled to the hospital bed. Before I knew it, a woman who may or may not have been named Kim but who was certainly not my hero the paramedic, was stripping me down—and excuse me, have we met? Except then I didn’t really care because. So. Tired. Still. Hurting.

My clothes were strewn about my lap and I was haphazardly “dressed” in a drape of a gown. Except why didn’t she put my arm through the sleeve since she had me unhooked from the drip anyway? A random EMT covered me in a sandpaper-reminiscent blanket and admonished me that I might not lose sight of it or allow anyone to take it from me, ever, because that, my girl, is your blanket. The doctor came in, warned that they were chock-fulla-dudes and sorry for the impending wait, but we don’t think you’re going to die so please just continue fondling that oxygen mask until you either die or begin breathing in an acceptable manner. Then he left. Another EMT came in and helped himself to a chair and started asking questions while a registrar-type gal peeked in and asked if a “coworker” could come in.

I’d been in the “room” for all of ten minutes and wondered why one of my work-related responders might be there, but figured it was a mission related to information-garnering and agreed to have him come in. But not before you, missy, cover me up in an acceptable fashion and please, someone, hide my bra. I don’t care if you type things in the computer for a living—you know how to put a bra in a bag, don’t you? She did, as it turned out, and left to retrieve my “coworker.” She returned and pulled back the curtain to reveal my boss, suit-clad and beaming, as I wheezed, “Go. Away.”

He laughed and took a seat. That’s the kind of guy he is.

Then, we were alone. The elderly couple, whose female portion had insisted that her blood pressure was way too low to be released, were gone. Kim, who’d only moments before had brazenly undressed me and never said goodbye, was gone. The paramedics wheeled right on outta there. And there we were. George and me.

He explained that when all that went down at the office, he’d been called or paged or telekinetically summoned or something, and then been given a play-by-play over the CAMERA, DID I MENTION? He’d left nearly immediately to join me at the hospital where he was given the warm welcome I offered at first sight.

He asked if I wanted him to call anyone. My family? (No, that’d open a can I’d rather leave closed on the back of the shelf for now.) My bishop? (No, he probably wouldn’t remember that one girl who’d transferred her records only weeks ago and came into Sacrament Meeting late that one time.) My home teachers? (No, I am well on my way to being the only convert never offered home teachers [even when requested, I promise], ever.) A friend? (No. Because really, I’ve been here and done this before and they’ll do a chest x-ray and send me home in three more hours and calling people just makes it dramatic.)

Kim resurfaced to shove a prednisone down my throat and Greg the bed-pusher did a bang-up bed-pushing job all the way over to radiology where I clung to the x-ray machine and doesn’t anyone else see that I am still shaking? And when do my lungs stop hurting because it’s been a while since I did all this but aren’t they supposed to stop now? AND WHINE WHINE WHINE THEY STILL HURT.

Back to the room, where I discovered George had disappeared to find Law & Order on TV somewhere and where I met the paramedics delivering my roommate. My drunk, overdosed roommate who was out of it beyond all recognition of human function and demanded to know how many milligrams of oxygen they had him on. Milligrams. The young EMT called out to the hall, “He wants to know how many mg O2 he’s on.” His seasoned counterpart responded, “Well, you better tell him something.” “Um, ok. Sir, you’re on forty milligrams oxygen.” “Ohhhhhhhhh. Fo. Fo. For-ddddddddddy sounds ab-about right. I’s. I’sa gonna be a suuur. Suuurjewcal tech.”

I caught the eye of a paramedic enjoying the show across the curtain and summoned him to retrieve my purse from across the room. He delivered it, laughing, “We brought you some good entertainment,” while Drunky McGee maintained that he had, in fact, downed 30 lortab and told his newly-acquired nurse he was a looker.

The doctor returned and sat with me a moment shooting the breeze about prednisone and blood pressure before telling me that there were some shadings on the chest x-ray which may be the beginnings of bronchitis—but it’s definitely not pneumonia or anything like that. And is there any reason you might have acquired some blood clots? And really, wouldn’t that be ironic if you really did pick some sweet DVT up while traveling East to the funeral of your cousin, whose life was abruptly and all-too-soon ended by a clot only weeks ago? And why are you crying?

And then the IV, which EMT McLookyummy had inserted became misplaced in my vast, cavernous hand and infiltrated. Kim returned and whined, “Look, my expertise is really in derobing my clients, not so much in repairing IVs.” And then Cute Boy the EKG tech entered the scene with, you guessed it, an EKG thingy. Better than any Law & Order episode was the way the EKG guys and Kim the Derober concurrently EKGed and IV catheterized me right on up. She had to try twice, but got a good line and took four tubes of blood to test for PE’s. Because I could have clots. Which may have been dancing their way north to plant themselves with whatever may be the beginnings of bronchitis—but definitely not pneumonia.

And now I go to sleep because it’s 1:56 a.m. and this is the third commercial I’ve heard about, “Interactive Male. You’ll find it here,” and the poor homosexual man who comes to town and wonders where all the guys are. They’re on missions, Frank. And really, they’re mine first when they get back, so back off.

Infiltrate this, suckers.

Jackpot! The forearm is next.

Since Monday at 7:00 p.m., I’ve had five tubes inserted in my right arm. For those doing the math, my college dropout figurin’ averages that at one every 12 hours. My left arm is all, “HA! Right arm, you are sooo owned, sucker,” and then my right arm is all, “Pshaw … you’re just … jealous … so … weak.” I am too exhausted to write and laugh about what happened Monday, yet. Lung scan yesterday. Echocardiogram at 3:15. Peaking at 200 (57%) up from 150 yesterday (50%). So tired.