July 01, 2019

Moving Interruptus, and Why Hospitals Suck

In the event, June turned out to be the horrible month I had expected -- but June also proved unexpectedly resourceful. It was horrible for reasons I hadn't anticipated. Or, rather, I had known those reasons would surface again at some point, but not, I futilely hoped, right smack in the middle of my moving.

At the end of May, I signed a lease on a new apartment, and put down all the money required for the first month's rent and a security deposit. Huge and eternal thanks to all those who made donations! I'm more grateful than I can possibly say. So I was all set to move at the very beginning of June. And then my bad health grew steadily worse. I was unable to do anything in the way of moving preparation. And then the rectal bleeding started. Sorry for the perhaps unpleasant detail, but it was the bleeding -- bright red blood! and lots of it! -- that made me think that the time to call 911 was once again upon me. I still waited a couple of days, but I felt so, so awful and was so unnerved by the sight of all that blood, that I finally made the call.

I was in the hospital for the better part of a week. It turns out that the rectal bleeding was not a cause for major concern -- upper and lower g.i.s revealed nothing of serious import. And the bleeding stopped. But there was other medical news. Yes, there was. It was bad. Very bad.

More on that another time. I'm still not ready to discuss it like "an adult," whatever the fuck that means. But I'm not going to die in the immediate future. Well, any of us could die in the next few seconds, but if we have no particular reason to think that, then it's not at all likely. Or even reasonably possible. With my heart condition and related issues, the odds of my dying soon are certainly increased, but not to the extent that I expect to die this year, or even in the next few years. If I'm very careful, and the gods are kind. But the gods haven't been all that kind of late, have they? Fuckers.

So I'm still in the middle of this move. My current (that is, old) landlord has been very kind, and hasn't pressured me at all about getting out of here quickly. To some extent, he's obliged to be accommodating, since it's obvious that other tenants also stayed well past the move-out date of June 5; in fact, my next door neighbor is still here as I write this, although he appears to be making moving-type noises today. And I suspect this week is it. I also don't want to be the lone tenant in this building for more than a couple of nights. Just doesn't feel safe to me.

I may need to make a payment to the old landlord; after all, I have remained a full month past the move-out date. So that's an expense I hadn't counted on. I also have to pay July rent to the new landlord this week. Since I remain in a very weakened state, useless for anything connected to moving, the expenses for moving/junk hauling/etc. are likely to be more than I'd expected. Oh, another unexpected expense: prescriptions. I got a bunch of 'em. Haven't had them filled yet, since I don't want to spend the money when I still have this goddamned incomplete move looming over me.

Therefore, once again -- and with my heartfelt,angst-ridden apology for this miserable broken record -- I could certainly use some financial support. I would be very deeply grateful.

Oh, I haven't addressed "why hospitals suck," as my title promises. Well, you know why. As the sage remarked: "When you're sick, especially if you're seriously sick, the very worst place to be is a hospital." When they discharged me, I told them I thought there was something wrong that was just beginning to surface. They ignored me, of course. They ignored me in the particular way doctors ignore you: they act as if they're taking your comments seriously, and may even use an instrument or two to show they're even acting on the basis of your comments. Isn't that wonderful? And then they say it's nothing, you're fine, good to go, shut up, free up the bed, and get the hell out of here.

So I got the hell out of there -- and, sure enough, less than a day later a humongous, horrible, terrible, awful chest/sinus/everything cold/flu erupted. Two weeks later, and I'm still not over it. Sleep is very difficult, impossible for the most part lying down. Feels like I'm suffocating. Have to sit up. Thanks, doc! I'd see you about this horrible cold/flu/whatever, but who knows what you'd give me for that visit? The hospital committed numerous other indignities upon my person, but ... ah, what's the point. The question I'm always left with (two questions) after these encounters with the medical profession: Are doctors predisposed to treating human beings who are effectively helpless in their hands so horribly -- or is this a skill they're taught? A combination of the two? And: Is it possible that doctors are actually unaware of how excruciatingly, nauseatingly awful they are in their dealings with other human beings?

I'm exhausted. Back to bed. Many thanks for your kindness and consideration.