Blorft
Life has become even more stressful. Mom hasn't been feeling well the last few weeks. She refused to go to the ED or call her doctor. It finally took badgering from both the Gruffvet and I to get her to take her physical woes seriously.
Because, you know, a pulse of 190 with a diastolic of 45 isn't something to take lightly, right?
We arrived to find a packed waiting room. The constant influx of ambulances made empty beds scarce. Half the ED is devoted to the containment of COVID19 patients. Mom groused about the long wait, and then groused when they came to put an IV in.
"Why do I need an IV?" she drew both arms close to her chest.
"In case you need more labs or meds," I said. She scowled at me as though I had told them to stick her.
"In case you need more labs or meds," said the nurse. She offered a limb for poking.
The first attempt blew a vein. For some reason, her blood is exceptionally thin. It seeped from the cotton pad as gravity pulled it down her arm and into the gown. The second attempt worked.
"How much longer," she asked after radiology took pictures of her chest.
"Dunno," I replied, and hastily followed up with, "But we're going to wait."
It's good that we did. Her troponin I and T levels came back a little high. We don't know when the minor heart attack occurred. It could have been at any point up to ten days ago.
She was told she'll stay overnight in observation in case a large one was on the way. I left to bring some supplies from home.
The drive home was horrid. The stress that had eaten me for weeks finally broke free. I furiously wiped away tears and snot and prayed I wouldn't get pulled over. And then, because I'm overwhelmed, I broke into fresh tears while trying to gather the stuff she needed.
2019 and 2020 are are possibly the two worst years of my life. No matter how much I strain to shit out hope, all I do is pass gas and say, "excuse me". My dad passed away last December. My husband's hemoglobin is high and he might have cancer. And now my mom had a heart attack.
“I was a little excited but mostly blorft. "Blorft" is an adjective I just made up that means 'Completely overwhelmed but proceeding as if everything is fine and reacting to the stress with the torpor of a possum.' I have been blorft every day for the past seven years.” ― Tina Fey, Bossypants"Blorft" is putting it mildly.I don't particularly identify with 'possums, but Tina Fey's prospective on stress does fit my current state. The 'possum's tonic immobility is a good metaphor regarding the paralyzed emotions and thoughts cemented in my brain. Everything is fine. See, everything is normal.
"Playing dead is an involuntary response on the part of the opossum. The stress of the confrontation facing the opossum causes him to go into shock. This shock induces a comatose state that can last from 40 minutes to four hours." - Bethney Foster, "Facts on Opossums Playing Dead"I remain blorft all day, and come around for an hour every night. This unfreeze usually takes place in the bathroom. I can lock the door, put on music, and silently cry my ass off. It's a cathartic tool that helps shake off that mental thanatosis just long enough for me to emotionally compose myself. I feel. It's okay to feel. And, hey, I'm overwhelmed but hey, I feel. It's... okay, not okay, mostly because it it were all okay I wouldn't be in this bathroom, in the dark, with headphones on...
I love my life. Really. My therapist called earlier this morning to confirm our appointment. Yes, I'll be there tomorrow. And then I learned of my mom's cardiac cath tomorrow morning.
I need to be with her tomorrow morning. But I can't get back in if I leave to see that therapist. Maybe I can go in the Heart Center doors and return via the ED? Yeah, I'll be there. I need to be there. I will just, um... brain shuts down.
Like a "bag possum living in a closet", I tend to bristle while protecting my own.
A what, you ask? Even if you didn't ask...
... bag possum.
Today is a new day, however. We have some answers and those answers scare me more than is good for me. "I have AFib," she said in a light tone. It's not an attempt to spare my emotions; she's not fully grasping the situation.
She had her atrial valve replaced (and a double bypass!) two years ago. We don't need a quivering heart or that valve to fail. I'll be shitting kittens until her chemical stress test and cardiac cath tomorrow morning.
Hopefully those answers are filled with good news.
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Couldn't find the artist for the colored possum. The possum sketches might be Omar Rayyan's work. It's alright if they aren't - I'll still point you towards his portfolio and mind-blowing imagination.
Also, if I have one more fucking panic attack, I should sedate myself and ask my Better (Best!) Half to shuttle me to visit mom.
Unless the stress is really causing a heart attack. Then my mother and I can share a room and fight over the TV remote.