Post-Post-Post-Partum Depression

We had a good Thanksgiving. My husband had time off, the food was good, the weather was amazingly warm for late November.

Still, I’ve been run down lately. Tired, droopy and a little sad over some sick relatives and family I miss.

Monday night I felt rotten. I threw the biggest fit and ran off to the bookstore, like a big, bratty toddler with car keys and a credit card.

I considered driving to Fredericksburg. They have an Aldi. This is how boring my running-away plans are.

In retrospect I was probably already sick with whatever knocked me down yesterday.

I woke up late, poorly rested and with a pounding headache. It took two Motrin to get me ambulatory, but I remained so nauseated that I almost lost my oatmeal in the Trader Joe’s parking lot. And there’s not much more gross thing to un-eat than oatmeal.

Before dinner I was talking to my buddy, Boonie Sooze. I hopped up and walked to the pantry in my kitchen when my heart did a little bump and grind, and not in the good way. Bump-bump. Bump-bump……BUMP.

My husband got home about then and I got off the phone with Susan. When I stood up from a kitchen chair, I had to lie down on the kitchen floor for a minute or five. (It smells like cat food. Remind me to mop it. Remind me to buy a mop.)

My husband is remarkably calm when he finds me lying face down on the floor. If I’d felt better, that would have bothered me.

I would totally freak out if I found him on the kitchen floor. Because freaking out is directly related to how much you love someone.

So, after a call to my friend Dana, a RN/EMT/professional fire fighter, and a call to our insurance nurse, I was blackmailed persuaded into a trip to the ER.

I politely declined a ride in an ambulance. I knew I was okay and for some reason the thought of riding in an ambulance mortifies me. Too much attention, like jazz hands.

The ER was busier than nickel night at the cat house the church picnic. I have not seen so many snotty toddlers since that Wiggles stage show during cold and flu season in 2003.

Still, you go right to the front of the line when you say “cardiac event”. I had an EKG within thirty seconds.

After that prompt attention in triage, we had a nice long wait. I felt well enough to chat with the nice lady who drew seventy-two vials of blood from me. She was impressed I knew she was Persian. (I love Persian people!)

Later my friend Dana drove an hour to wait with me and my husband. Dana is officially “friend of the year”. Her certificate will be in the mail soon along with a leftover birthday tiara and a t-shirt that says “I’m With Stupid”.

She was totally ready to hold my hair back if I puked. It was a possibility, because I was clinging to a sexy emetic basin that my insurance company will be charged two hundred dollars for.

Anyway, I’m starting to bore myself.

Dehydrated. Low blood volume makes your heart beat funny and makes you all pass-y-out-y. It took two nurses, a doctor, four needle sticks, a blown vein on my hand and an ultrasound machine to get an i.v. in me to deliver two quarts of high-test and some anti-nausea medicine into my cold, irritated body.

Dana stayed until after 11, we stayed until almost 1. I got a chest x-ray, a cold sore and an appointment with a cardiologist.

In the end, there’s nothing really wrong with me. Thyroid: low normal. Blood sugar: perfect. Blood chemistry: peachy keen, jelly bean.

Probably have a virus. Or post-post-post-partum depression. That’s a thing, right?

The worst part was, I forgot my souvenir emetic basin. At least I got a cool plastic bracelet.


EDITED NINE MONTHS LATER: Hey, it’s my thyroid after all. That only took ten years to diagnose! Still, it’s such a relief.

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