Trip to Emergency - history repeating itself

I have now gone to emergency twice in my adult life. Both times since M.E., and both times for gastrointestinal distress.

Long story short, after my last iron infusion, I developed what felt like a stomach flu. Seven days later while some of the symptoms were improving (diarrhea) the grumbling intestinal distress, burning like pain, and severe nausea were if anything, worse. I had an appointment in a week, but didn't think I could take another full week of nausea.

For a Monday, when I got there, emergency didn't seem too busy but it quickly filled up. (One nurse told me that ours is the busiest emergency department in Canada. My suspicion is this is partly due to lack of family Drs. Even if you have one, sometimes appointments are scheduled weeks out). I was in the waiting room 3 hours sitting up with waves of severe nausea. Just when I was about to call it quits and go home, they called me in. I saw a Dr. for seconds, she ordered tests, a few pills, and IV fluids.

Four hours later (7 total) I was released with no clear idea of what was wrong. They suspected my ulcers were returning and gave me a prescription for a PPI. They told me that they don't do iron studies at the emergency lab so they had no idea if this was infusion or iron related.

The last drug they tried with me before I left was plain old gravol, an anti-nausea pill. While it didn't help much with the nausea, on the positive, it's sedative properties meant when I got home, I dozed off on the couch. Once I dragged myself into bed I passed out completely.

Then I had a night full of drugged dreams, some of which included driving around with my dad.  These dreams, and the whole experience made me miss him even more. Partly because we spent too many hours at that emergency together over the last year (I don't miss those times). Partly, because the lack of his presence wasn't lost on me as I sat there alone. Most people had kids, parents, partners, friends with them. I woke up this morning feeling desperately lonely for my dad. Also aware of my aloneness in the world.

That said, as I write this I'm surrounded by the warmth and love of golden retrievers, and that is something.

Grief and Loss

I've lost people I've loved before. My sister died when I was a teen. When I was in University I lost an aunt I was close to. More recently, I lost my mom and my aunt Laura. Death is part of being mortal, thus loss is something we'll all face and have to move through.

In some ways loosing my dad feels like the hardest hit yet.

Why has this been so tough for me? He was 89 and quite sick the last few months.

I think there are quite a few reasons. For one, I saw him almost every day the last four years. I miss his presence acutely in a way I didn't with some of the other losses I've faced. There is also the fact that we were close. I also think the fact that I was his care-giver has a role to play. This results in me sometimes feeling relief, but also a desperate kind of emptiness. To nurture someone for years and then have them gone leaves a gaping hole.

Taking care of my dad shaped my recent life and gave it purpose. When you have a child you nurture and care for someone, you put all kinds of energy into their well being, and you hold in your heart hope for their future, that all your time and love will hold them up in some way. But when you nurture someone who's near the end of life, what do you hope for? I spent hours upon hours, days upon days, months upon months with him, and now it's over. And to what end?

Those of us with disabling chronic illness know all about loss. We face monumental loss when we get sick, one that a mostly healthy person could never understand. If the chronic illness is disabling, we lose our jobs, perhaps relationships, and often our sense of identity - we can no longer do the things we once did.  I went through this huge loss in my early 30s. While I've been able to build a semblance of a life, I still feel the loss of a healthy body in small or large ways almost every day. (Too sick to go to a movie, a restaurant, a party, not being able to go for a run, or a hike, not being able to travel,  forced poverty or near poverty because I work minimally.) Basically, being disabled means having to deny ourselves almost everything that once brought us joy/pleasure - which is a constant process of loss.

Where am I going with this? Honestly, I guess I'm just kind of rambling.

Am I doing okay? Not really. I feel desperately alone in the world. I'm working part-time online again this semester and trying to motivate myself to so much as look at the screen, it's like torture. It all seems so pointless.

I had an iron infusion on Friday and it crashed me so hard that Saturday I barely moved (and when I did every cell ached). Thankfully I only have one infusion left in this round.