Friday, October Twenty-Second

What to write? Or how much can I write before I feel like falling apart?
Well, if falling apart is the case, I should have ceased before even starting to write- but where would that have left us?

I have some sort of upper respiratory infection going on, which is truly unpleasant. Truth be told, I don't think the doctors know what is wrong with me, and therefore prescribed me the universal "z-pack" in super form. (By super, I mean a five day script versus a seven or ten day one.)

So not having done anything for two whole days, I became restless, as any soul might would had been holed up in their room for two days. Don't get me wrong, I love sleep, but being in bed not communicating with anyone except for Gram was kind of driving me nuts. Also being fully aware of the fact that attendance and participation counts towards our final grade, I figured that I had missed more than enough assignments to suffice for the semester. So what did I do? I set my alarm like a good little twenty-two year old who is trying to act like an adult. Not only did I set it, but I woke up with more than enough time to get ready to go. I packed tea, Gatorade, cough drops, Dayquil, and a roll of toilet paper- I was now entirely prepared for class! Knowing that I had to work directly after getting out of class, I packed my work clothes and headed out the door.

Once in class, I decide to take over an entire row of chairs/desk space, much like I normally do. I laid all of my wonderful sick-y treasures out on the table and proceeded to cough, hack, and blow my nose all the way through Philosophy class. After that was finally over it was time for Educational Psychology- WAhOOO! My favorite! (insert sarcasm here). Now, I usually don't mind taking the stairs, even though three full levels of narrow, windy staircases really isn't my thing. But that day, Oh no, stairs and my lungs? Uh uh. After slowly tredging up one set of stairs leading from the dungeons of the theatre building that was entirely unavoidable, I got to the basement of the next building and pushed the button for the old, creaky elevator. And who decides to join me but four obnoxious freshmen/sophomores from my Ed Psych class who think they are God's gift to funny. And then, to make it even MORE interesting, Mr. Philo-teach shows up. "Sorry you're sick." "Yeah, thanks." "I know what that's like. But you just gotta get back to school. The world doesn't stop because you're sick, ya know?" "Yes."

Oh you M*&$@#F*%^)*@ DumbAss! Why the hell do you think I came to your class this morning? Because I enjoy it? Have fun lying to yourself about that one. [end rant].

Get to class, proceed to be exiled from class. Why? Because they are discussing the test that I was out sick for. Joy. Come back to class from the wonderful world of hallways (which consisted of laying out on the floor and taking a fifteen minute nap), and do... absolutely nothing, because I have not yet printed out the module we were working on in class.

Leaving class, I schedule to make up the test, and applaud myself at being so entirely prepared for that day of school.

Now, I could stop there, but it does, in fact, get better.

Still hacking my face off, I decide it will be a good idea to not call off work. So I drive straight there from school, just so I will have enough time to change in the bathroom like a homeless person before clocking in. Yay! Plenty of time. I do my best to hide the hacking, but let's face it, everyone knows I'm sick, so there's really nothing to hide. Every time I need to cough, I hold it in and wait until I REALLY have to cough, then go to the backroom and release coughing. This process continues for the next four hours. (Mind you, all of the customers STARED at me because I sounded like a frog). But I was feeling better, I was, I was!

4:30 hit and my back started doing funny things. It was like growing pains, only deathly and concentrated. So I stopped for a few seconds before rushing back in to whatever it was that I was doing. 5:00 it. Was the clock right? Did I really have two hours to go? I don't think I can make it. Sure you can! Toughen up! Get back to work! It's only two hours!!! Okay, back to work.

5:30 hits. Breathing becomes increasingly difficult. I struggle to hold on to thoughts and words, looking to my shift manager for direction every step of the way. (Keep in mind, I have been working there for over a month, I know what to do, but I also know that this is the one boss who I feel like nothing I ever do is going to meet her standards/I.do.nothing.right.) I keep telling myself, "one more thing. One more thing. then you can ask to leave a little early." So eventually I did. Ask to leave early, that is. Now I'm a sucker for work, if you need me I'm there. Plus, admitting I needed to leave early to my shift who I really want to please was kind of humiliating, in a sense. She said that she didn't know, because x,y,z, etc,etc. All I heard was "no! you must work until you die! or until 7 pm, in which case then you are free to leave."

So I sucked it up. I mean, come on, who needs lungs to breathe? Not this girl. Okay, I lied. 6:12. "Sam? (girl I work with) "Yeah?" "Where's the closest ER?" "Uhhh..." "K, I'm gonna go call my aunt to take me, ok?" I proceed to run (ok, awkwardly walk/skip/something due to failure of lungs) to the back room, pick up my cell and call my aunt. "AB?" "Yeah" "U hom?" "Yeah..." "I..ah wor... need hospital...u com take me?" "On my way."

Shift manager bursts in the backroom. "KAT!" "ye." "Come on! I'm taking you! Sam told me, why didn't you say anything? Let's go!" "k."

The next four/five hours proceeded painfully, as I arrived at the ER alone (I told my shift I was ok to be alone because AB was n her way). Trying to tell the people at the desk was wrong/not being able to understand, think, or speak properly/them not realizing that I just moved from out of state proved to be an issue. I was doing the best I could, really I was, but all I could hear and feel was AGIHAWWLLKKKK, mucus dribble, KACALLLLTKKK, chunk of mucus, inability to breathe, etc. It had escalated on the scale of asthma attacks to the point where after taking x-rays of my lungs, the doc ordered not one, not two, but three super nebulizer treatments for me. Plus an IV of steroids. Plus more steroids for home. Plus more neb treatments for home.

It did not actually proceed as quickly as that, in fact, I was coughing up my right lung for over an hour before they actually did anything. Which sucked. A lot.

So now I am once again, suck at home, with doctor's orders that if he finds out I have gone to work or school, he will personally beat me up.

(I'm pretty sure God is saying the same thing.)

Damn, I am hard-headed.