Feb. 22nd, 2017

quirkytizzy: (Default)
I wake up too early, headache, heart racing, climbing the walls of anxiety. I took my Xanax and while I'm waiting for it to kick in, I'm going to do what I've always done. I'm going to write. I hope it helps.

It was a strange day yesterday. Jesse and I had a marvelous time together, shopping and then going to a museum of art. We rarely take trips like that and it was immensely enjoyable and connecting. I came home exhausted, of course, but feeling for the first time in foreeever, that the exhaustion was worth it.

We came home and cuddled on the bed for hours, watching Babylon 5. As the hours rolled by, though, both of us were fell with anxiety. The kind that grips your ribcage and doesn't let you breathe, doesn't let you close your eyes, the kind that makes you feel like whipping about the room to try and keep pace with your sprinting heart beat.

Jesse says his was caused by pain. Mine was caused by something ridiculously over-dramatic and pointless.

I was afraid of sleeping.

The last time I felt so exhausted, I fell asleep and almost died. Most nights this is not a problem, so I'm not sure why it came on then. I took my blood pressure hourly, trying to let the numbers - in full health, if not even a few points higher than normal - reassure me. We had been in the sun for hours, which is proven to lead to exhaustion and flares for lupus folks. We had done far more walking than we normally do, which is also proven to lead to utter exhaustion.

It was all explainable and yet, I kept insisting on just one more episode. I love B5. But last night, I used it a reason to not fall asleep.

I fought the exhaustion until 11:30 PM, a time so foreign to me to be awake at. I staggered my meds as to keep an eye out on what each one did to me. Jesse and I talked our way through it alongside the medication. This was extremely helpful.

My meds did relax me and I was able to sleep, but here I am, up far too early for having gone to bed so late, feeling the same fear percolating.

REALITY CHECK: I woke up. I did not die. Fear against facts, my anxiety is unfounded. It is speaking in the tongue of lies. I know what's real - and what's real is that I'm awake and writing. This solidly disproves the theory that I have expired sometime in the night. (Or if I have, the afterlife is bizarrely mundane and still requires scooping out the litterboxes.)

And yet, the fear remains. I think I know why.

I'm day 29 out of the hospital. This should be uplifting. It is instead TERRIFYING, because I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.

For every day I remain away from the life-saving capacities of a hospital bed, that is another day something could go catastrophically wrong. Will it kill me? How close will I get? Will we catch it in time?

I've never been afraid, REALLY afraid, of Death before. I am now. I am and as is my stupid freaking way, only afraid of it a month after it happened. Delayed reactions are SUCH a bitch.

There will always be another complication. There will always be another doctor's appointment. There will always be labs that return with stilted numbers that require some kind of adjustment. That's just part of the package. I'm well on my way to accepting that part of my disease.

But. Will. It. Kill. Me.

I don't know. I can't say for sure because no one can tell the future. All I can do - all ANYONE can do - is live their lives and just hope that nothing comes along and puts them in the ground that day. That's the best we all get. I know this.

Day 29 out of the hospital. Will I make it to 30? All signs, with my new health now that we've gotten my meds under control, point to Yes. But the Magic 8 Ball that is life gets shaken up a lot. At what point will it say "Not likely"?

I've never been afraid of Death before. I am now.

Day 29 out of the hospital. This is a good number and it means good things. Now I've just got to convince myself of that.

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