Enjolras isn't a statue, really (solo_patria) wrote in valarnet, @ 2013-03-19 16:15:00 |
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Current mood: | sore |
Entry tags: | alyssa hamilton, beth cassidy, enjolras, grantaire, illyana rasputin (magik), musichetta |
The good news is, if my temperature stays at 102 now that they've got it down and if the test shows tht it's really trichinosis, they're letting me out of Irvine General with meds tomorrow. The bad news is that I shall never, never, return to another doctor, nurse, pharmacist, chiropractor, therapist, medical assistant, x-ray technician, or anyone associated with the practice of medicine for as long as I continue to draw breath.
For today, I have stared straight into the depths of Hell and I don't think that I'll ever recover. I close my eyes and see the needle coming for me, feel it plunging in deep and ripping out these chunks of muscle that, in reality, felt a whole lot bigger than they were.
They said that they used anesthetic, and I know they numbed the area with something before they put a really painful super HUGE needle into my thigh, with the assistants and nurses trying to be calm at me, and that needle was really supposed to do that job but I'm just going to say that when they finally got around to the extraction with the open needle? None of those was doing its job and they were literally holding my legs and shoulders down because I couldn't not try to writhe away even though I wasn't exactly trying to fight them here.
I think I screamed. I KNOW I screamed, and I don't even know WHAT the hell all I was screaming and apparently no one in the room knew either because they all sounded insanely confused, while they tried to finish up and stitch it and get me back to my lovely little observation curtained area where I proceeded to call my mom at work and sob at her for fifteen solid minutes, in a bid that's just set MY maturity back a good fifteen years or so.
Later, I am going to be even more humiliated than I am right now, but I have never, ever felt anything quite like that. And I never want to again. So doctors, sorry, I am DONE with you. It isn't you. It's me and all of my secret phobias coming out to play and it will make all our lives a living hell if I don't walk away.
Consider this our breakup letter.