But it ain’t been real FUN.
When I wrote my most recent post, way back in May 2016 titled “Four Month’s In”, I avoided writing about details and sharing anything about my personal life. I’m a loner. I do that. I’m an only child and I’ve always loved that about me. I generally like to keep myself to myself. So deciding to become a little transparent, ok maybe alot transparent, is a big deal for me. Aside from transparency being against my nature, anyone in my profession will tell you that in the deep dark work stations of our mind lies this little fear, that if fed too much (especially after midnite) will turn into a monster. At the risk of offending others, oh hell be offended. I don’t care right now. That fear, is becoming the mirror image of one or more of our crazy clients with nothing but constant problems that never seem to get resolved or overcome. In other words, all us tarot readers etc., are scared shitless of being NORMAL for even a short period of time. OHHH EMMM GEEE anything but THAT. We think that we’ll be seen as hypocritical if WE fall and can’t get up.
Why? Ok I’ll tell you, because I’m being transparent and stuff. Legit practitioners of esoteric arts (fancy schmancy) never stop studying, learning, trying new methods of divination and working on our own brains, while learning to help others, which is after all, why we’re in it to begin with. At the risk of sounding arrogant, I’ve been called ‘inspirational’ for years, and often. There’s a reason for that. Its not because I’m so awesomely enlightened. I was born into a family in ‘religious work’ as it says in the description of my parent’s occupations on my birth certificate. This meant that I was taught to NEVER put myself first and that a life of serving others is what Jesus wanted us all to do all the time. I thought everyone’s mom described them as ‘overly sensitive’. So I learned and truly wanted to BE inspirational and giving. Its also because I’ve gone through alot of ‘normal’ and alot of not-so-much with a big side of traumatic. I’ve always leaned on my personal faith, the strength everyone always kept telling me I possessed, and enough stubborness to get me to the other side of major suckage and on to the next thing. I always thought, not bad for being born 2 full months early and proving everyone wrong who said I’m not supposed to be here. This former preemie kicked ass.
Until 10 months ago.
November 2016: I’m lounging in my office/studio comfy desk chair with my favorite blanky, wondering why I have no energy and even less ambition. I’m thinking, “These allergies are kicking my butt; I need to go to the drug store and get stuff. All I wanna do is sleep.” My boyfriend walks into the room and notices that I look pale beyond my usual, and wheezing a bit. He suggests that maybe I should go to the emergency room because something isn’t right; Robitussin is probably not gonna do it. So the second his aunt got home, who we share a house with, off to the ER I went. I told my boyfriend to stay put, this is no big deal, I’ll be back in a couple hours with some good drugs or sumthin. Alrighty then.
Upon arrival after I communicated to the desk person that I could barely function and didn’t know why, the first thing that happened was that my blood pressure was taken. The next thing that happened was a nurse plopping me into a wheelchair and literally running me to a critical care room to be examined. My boyfriend’s aunt, who was having trouble keeping up, asked her why she was going so fast. She replied “because that’s what we do when someone’s heart rate is over 160.” At this point, I had no idea what that meant. I still thought Dr. Hot and staff would examine me, give me advice and a prescription and that would be that. Not so fast citizen!
After being x-rayed by a huge machine that took pictures of my entire body from the waste up, front and back, being informed by a female cardiologist with a very stern voice (I was pretty sure she was German) that I wasn’t going anywhere, and that they were keeping me ‘for awhile’, I found myself in a room with a parking lot view, one of those stupid gowns, and admonishment not to “MOVE AN INCH WITHOUT CALLING SOMEONE FIRST.” Mannnn…. okay…. I hadn’t had dinner. I was tired, grumpy, and not at all in the mood to be the good patient. But hey free cable, a comfy bed and people waiting on me. Alrighty then, get some sleep and see what happens.
What happened the next morning, when several medical students from Brown University, an M.D., another cardiologist, and the phlebotomist who likes taking blood from my right arm way too often, let me know that I have this heart condition called “Afib”, AND that the main valve thingy in my heart is sideways. Yep sideways. How does THAT happen?! As it turns out, if I hadn’t decided to be impatient about being born, this would not be the case. OR if I had ever had scarlet fever. I never had that so yay preemie sideways valve thingy it is. Probably always had Afib, it just was never a problem till I started taking this evil antihistamine that made my heart race and get out of rhythm, which darn near stopped altogether the night before, when I was just gonna go to the drug store.
The next segment of this hospital slumber party occurred the next day; I got to swallow a webcam (ironic no?) so they could have a good look at my heart. I’m convinced all anesthesiologists are really angels, because I started choking on it, and was out like a light faster than you can read this sentence. Then they used those electric paddle thingies you see on TV to restart my heart so it would return to normal rhythm. “CLEAR!” It worked thankfully.
I went home the next evening, with a prescription to keep my heart from misbehaving, instructions not to get stressed out or overdo anything for a few days at least, and follow up with my own Doc. Okey dokey. Grateful to be back, eating pizza, hangin with my boyfriend and the kitties.
If that had been the end of my ‘normal’ journey, I wouldn’t be writing a long blog post that I have to break up into multiple parts. Sometimes, you see stuff coming but because you dreamed it, you talk yourself out of it. Fiction. Nahhhh that wouldn’t happen.
Then it did. Its Been Real Part 2.