{This and the entries around it are excerpts from my journal, written during the return of my 6 month curse. Approximately every 6 months I hurt myself in some sort of spectacular fashion, usually necessitating a hospital visit. This time, though, the injury was a bit more spectacular than usual.}
Emergency room:
I’ve been in this bed since 8:30. It’s now 3pm. I fade in and out of focus but never really fall completely asleep.
There’s talk of admitting me, although they waver back and forth on it. If they can help me write it off like the doctor says than I’m okay with it I guess.
I’ve told my story a thousand times. Each time a new person comes in, usually someone higher up the train of command, I tell it again, watching their reactions to certain parts as they move through some kind of internal checklist.
They don’t know for sure what’s wrong with me. All they know is that I have a white blood cell count that’s three times higher than normal, I’m terribly dehydrated (they have me hooked up to an IV right now), my blood pressure is really low (apparently that’s one of the signs that I could have gone septic and the infection has entered my blood), and I keep spiking fevers.
It’s the fevers that have them worried. And the blood pressure. I’m just happy that, thanks to a pill they gave me, my nausea is all gone.
Sleep time now.