My nurse du jour is on her way.
The last one warned me that these home visits won’t last forever. That’s up to them, I guess. And I have been thinking about it and I suppose I am prepared to give getting to the clinic one more try.
But my finger will be hovering over the abort button the entire time. I just finished taking the daily dose of Gabapentin and Naproxen I have needed for pain control ever since that fateful day three weeks ago when I experienced terrible pain when I got home.
Home from that very same clinic, I might add.
I may have done myself permanent harm that day. Then again, I have been doing remarkably well on my tiny sojourns sans walker lately.
So maybe I am ready, maybe not. We will see.
But if they cut me off from home care when I am certain that the next walk from the car to the CCC could be my last walk anywhere ever, my MP will definitely hear about the people who made me choose between crippling myself or not receiving necessary medical care for my wounds.
And if push comes to shove, pretend you’re not home. Maybe then, push will find someone else to shove.
Seriously though, if push comes to shove, I will tell the people at the CCC what will happen if they cut me off.
Hell, I will go full Karen if I have to. If they make me.
Because to them, it’s a job.
To me, it’s my goddamned life.
More after the break.
Shove’s not here, man
So the nurse came and changed my bandages.
Don’t remember her name, and I feel bad about that. I don’t ever want to stop seeing my caretakers as individuals and start seeing them as interchangeable background characters in the grand farce that is my slow and meaningless death.
Wow, that got dark so fast I thought I’d moved to the equator for a second.
To make things worse, we didn’t talk much.
I guess neither of us are the type to find it easy to start and sustain conversation with somebody we don’t know.
But I swear I used to be able to do it. But somewhere along the line, I turned even further inwards, and that little part of me that kept track of potential conversation topics and socially useful tidbits of information about people just plain died.
These days, I feel lucky if I remember a topic I wanted to discuss with my friends.
And it’s so…un-Acadian of me. I feel like I am disappointing my ancestors.
And a big part of me wants to be more social. I am happier when I am around people, despite what my crippling social anxiety and video game addiction would say.
They don’t know what the fuck they are talking about anyhow.It’s not like following their rules has made me happy.
At best, they distract me from how goddamned sad I am.
That’s not even treating the symptoms, let alone a cure.
I am rotting on the inside in more ways than one and if something doesn’t change real soon, life will crush me and spit out my broken bones.
And I have been told by multiple people that if that happened it would be tragic.
I’ll have to take their word for it.
I will talk with you nice people again tomorrow .