This is (Probably) Your Brain on Drugs

The key to becoming a master writer?
Hemingway: Writing drunk and editing sober.

Upon hearing this, the glowing bits in my liver were like:
- HA HA!
- Sucks to suck

...among other things, because I am sure they are sentient beings and can like, talk and stuff.

But I now realize I don't need to drink, because I am in a state of perpetual confusion! Prescription pain killers: the pregame of choice!!! I now get to double up on the fun because my doctors pity me and I admitted to feeling anxious over having to take Vicodin every 4 hours because that is hardly enough time for a good nap or to forget one is about to be in pain. So, now we have a once-every-12-hour "base" of Oxy and the occasional Vicodin.
I have gone from 0 to Real Housewives of Orange County in a matter of days. Truly impressive.

Once upon a time, I could say: All I need in life is Gatorade and Tylenol. Then it became: I run on Gatorade and Vicodin. Now it would be most accurate to say: In my bloodstream one will find Gatorade and (insert any narcotic Prep school boys snort in the locker room). Oh, and pita chips.

Oh lord, I cannot think. I just want to make weird sounds, roll over, and take another nap because really what else am I capable of these days? I must say I have become fantastic at napping, sweating, and "totally not crying" as in "I am totally not crying during 'Prince of Egypt' because of my newfound narcotics-inspired appreciation for music". I don't know why people take painkillers when they're not supposed to because I actually feel crazy. Maybe I am just a "high functioning crazy".
I should not give myself too much credit. We will go with "functioning crazy".

Lately I've been giving myself points for interacting with human brings outside of the house. This requires me to actually leave the house, so... fuck? Is it socially acceptable to walk around in a blanket as Linus so artfully did? I don't want to be a style-biter or worse, bullied by a tyrannical 9-year-old girl with a bad haircut.
These are the things I concern myself with.

Back to the point system -- Doctors and hospital staff aren't supposed to count but today I've decided that they do because my doctor and nurse told me they loved me in two separate instances. I don't know if it was to see if they could get a react out of me, drug zombie, or I am actually in a relationship with my hospital as I've suspected all along. It would make sense, as I've felt guilty "cheating" on hospital with the other hospitals I've been visiting.

If people can fall in love with ostriches and mailboxes, surely I can be in a relationship with my hospital? Let's not even explore the logistics of that as I've already carried this a bit too far for my liking.
Besides, I'm only back at my hospital to do screening tests for a clinical trial I'm ditching it for next week (hopefully). And get more drugzz, obviously.
The screening tests cover a host of things, but they're mostly concerned with how not pregnant I am. Under the clinical trial's exclusions, amidst all the blood, goo, heart, mind specifics that can disqualify a person, for those who still have some shred of a uterus one must be really, really unpregnant. If there are degrees of "not being pregnant", clinical trial patients should be on the "vagina dentate" end of the spectrum.
Me, clueless, is all: So uhmmm, do I just pick up a pregnancy test?
...Because I have long awaited the day my mother and I would go pregnancy test shopping together.
*drinks bleach*
Clinical trial facilitator: Uh, no.
She informed me I had to go to "legitimate testing center" where they send the requesting facility a report indicating if the eggo is in fact, preggo.

Unfortunately, the testing center we went to was run by a woman who, even after being corrected multiple times, was convinced I was born in 1998. So I am a little bit worried about the results getting...anywhere. Or getting a call from child services. Fortunately the other tests are being handled at a facility where the receptionists have proven themselves capable of entering numbers/can read and stuff.

Things are looking up.

Rap of the Lovesick Sick Kid

Personality Test

Answer the following to the best of your ability:
When left alone in the hospital for several hours, how do you spend the time?
A. Sleeping
B. Watching Maury
C. Learning Klingon
D. Contemplating life and its mysteries
E. Beginning a journey to rap superstardom via Youtube

The title of the post impedes upon the integrity of this exam.

For some perspective, the video involves me in my hospital bed, wearing a hospital gown, and for added fun: with an IV jetting out of my left hand.
It is as terrifying as it sounds.
It required several takes; not for performance value per se, but due to the periodic intercom blaring that added just a tad too much authenticity. Not to mention, nurses get weirded out when they walk in on patients imitating Eminem to their laptops. Apparently such activities are unusual. 

The first few lines of this "rap" should erase any and all doubts of how absurd a person I am. (Or illustrate the dangers of mixing delirium with painkillers. The jury is out.)

Oh, damn
I feel woozy
is this a fever or
did you just kiss me?

Then there is a chorus of cliches and references to iron deficiency, Catholicism. I may very well be the next Lil' Wayne.
At the very least, my hair looks passable because the chemo-shedding had not yet kicked in.
(Hair Update: I have successfully managed to get traces of my DNA all over New York. Fingers crossed there isn't an unsolved murder any time soon.)

The periods of bedridden solitude that serve as fertile ground for the utter strangeness that lurks in my mind's corridors are interrupted by visitors: some announced, some checking for evidence of proper kidney function.

Every morning a flock of white coats in masks (There is a dress code to visit me. I am like the Pope.) arrive and stand clustered in silence at the foot of my bed while the most senior among them asks me questions, commands me to breathe. A med student would later inform me interaction with the attending (physician) inspires a certain kind of terror. I am merely annoyed. This white coat mafia is impervious to my usual escape tactic of inciting pity via demonstrations of wellness and boredom like the greatest of magicians. The attending shows his prowess at silencing bratty patients by announcing an order for massage therapy. (This is apparently a thing. And it is awesome.)

A woman comes by asking if I want communion, which I accept on the account that it is non-forced interaction with a human being who does want to talk about my bowel movements. (Standards. I have them.)

Soon after, a friend comes bearing a different kind of gift that in my heathen opinion is far more deserving of a "nectar of the gods" tagline: a Financier raspberry macaron.

A hopelessly bored medical student also finds his way into my room, probably because I am the only sentient being on the premises under 40 and unfamiliar with the hospital caste system. (As a sub-intern he is essentially an Untouchable.) He, of curly hair and Jewish descent, is a comfort amidst the unfamiliarity: it is as if I never left campus! My heart does not palpitate as it had with the male nurse (which is good, because it would have set off an alarm...) but our chat does prompt some of the usual getting-to-know-you anxiety: How would you describe yourself? What do you want to do with your life? How many children do you want? (I kid on the last one but given five more minutes I swear we would have picked out a white-picket fence for our future dog Baxter.) I should mention this conversation involved a mask and fuzzy yellow clothing cover and not at all in the sexual way!
I like my men like my hospital rooms: sterile.

Amidst all these demonstrations of friendship, I was being pumped with fluids via a technique I will unabashedly refer to as "double bagging". Meant to bump up frighteningly low numbers on the blood pressure monitor, it leaves one feeling like an overinflated balloon in a room of needles. (Sausage fingers: it's what's for dinner...dun dun dun) Sausages trying to escape their casings are terrible for typing, which is how I find myself weeks after the fact recalling all of these treasured moments for your amusement.

Until next time.

I Got a Fever (and the Only Prescription is Hot Male Nurses)

It began as all good stories do: with waves of energy coasting up the body from thigh to neck, gradually flowing back and forth until the change in temperature was palpable. I became light-headed and weak.

I had a 104 fever.

The excitement surrounding this discovery can be boiled down to a few lines:
"Can we bring you in the morning? It's 2am and not a good time to drive."
"...."

Of course, my friends at school are well-versed in the proper protocol for such occasions. They have hailed many a cab with proper snacks at inconvenient times to drag me, sweatpants and all, to get checked out. I once had a first date at the HUP ER and let me tell you, the saline is an excellent aphrodisiac. (Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.)

Anyway, so I was fairly convinced I was going to die. (Not entirely, but I did think to myself "If I die on rt. 3 because my mother insists on driving the speed limit at 2:30am, I will haunt the shit out of these people.")

I was greeted at main campus by a sleeping guard.
disgruntled: "Are you here to see a patient?"
disheveled: "...I am one?"

You're probably wondering what kind of person goes on spontaneous 3am hospital trips.
My best guess? People who should not be allowed in hospitals.
They include: people trying to siphon off morphine. people trying to pull a plug. people unperturbed by a sleeping guard.

I attempt to open the door to the urgent care center only to discover it's been chemo-proofed. Bastards.
The other human gatekeeper "guarding" the door points at the button on the wall: "Enter". Ah yes. That would be it.

With spotty wifi, my sole source of amusement is the unnatural and honestly, unfair level of hotness of the male nurse tending to me. His appreciation of my manicure and book choice confirms my belief that he is the perfect male specimen.
A friend offers practical applications of hot murses: raise a patient's blood pressure, get the blood flowing, other things increasing in inappropriateness.

It is time for the standard chest x-ray, a test used by doctors for the most accurate scapegoating. With each hospital visit I am further convinced this "touch of pneumonia" is just my lung throwing a tantrum. (It never gets what it wants!) I am escorted by a kindly gentleman who I am sure prefers his interaction with 22-year-old girls to not involve wheelchairs. He does get to tell me to breathe though, which I imagine is slightly erotic. Though this is chest x-ray number one thousand I have managed to forget the no bra and jewelry rule. X-ray tech assists with the necklace and all that remains is the question of the bra. I hesitate and decide that yes, I can attempt this sans IV-occupied arm. How hard could it be?
... I sincerely apologize to every guy I ever laughed at.

I would also like to thank Forever 21 for making see-through tshirts that don't appear to be see-through until it is too late. Really spices up those late night chest x-rays.
Working around the IV takes longer than the actual procedure. Also, I have a bra hanging off my arm. Casual.  The tech tucks my see-through shirt self into the wheelchair with strategically-covering blanket. I'm sure this guy is thinking "I really don't need this right now." And I'm thinking "How x-rated can we get up in here?"

I return to base and decide the best (read: laziest) course of action is to replace the offending garment with one of those ever-so-titillating hospital gowns. I wonder aloud about asking the hot murse for assistance with said shirt removal. I then remember the public venue and oh, the fact that I am not in an episode of Grey's Anatomy. I ask mom.

It is now 5am. I am awake because ERs are expressly designed to keep patients slightly on edge with periodic beeps, whistles, and scratchy-voiced announcements. I am surprised there isn't a circle of hell modeled after this. Side note: someone should really do a modern take on Inferno.

Another murse approaches and announces I need a second IV. These are not the kind of surprises one appreciates at 5am. He has kind eyes, so I allow him to fiddle around my arms without fidgeting and/or panic attack. He informs me of the blood spurting out of my hand in the same voice one would use to comment on the weather. I decide I like him.

A doctor comes by and throws around words like "sepsis" and "catheter". Realize I may be here for awhile and that they intend to do something terrible with my nether region.
Blood pressure is elevated: success!

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Check back next time for med student interaction, "rap of the lovesick sick kid", and other bits of amusement.