The Point of Done

I’m done.

I’ve had 7 migraines since the ablation on June 10th, one 3 hours post op.

Yesterday I had one, napped, then had another one. Aura, laser-light show for about 30 minutes, then some part of me goes numb for up to half an hour, then finally comes back to life, then I get the nausea and headache. Twice. Two times.Dos.

Tantrum.

I called my EP’s office and they denied it might be related to the ablation. I made the idiot medical assistant ask him twice, stressing the other doc said it might. He still said no, call your PCP right away.

So I did.

My PCP came by (housecall!) and brought me orders for an MRI of my brain.

This morning I had a fever and noticed a fine rash like little dots of blood below my skin on my legs. I sent my PCP a photo of said rash.

Last night he gave me a log in to the secret, Medical-Professionals-Look-Up-Stuff website so I looked up the rash and fever and it said Endocarditis and that’s bad. It also said you might have a sore throat (went to him for that last week) and a red, hot, runny sore (GROSS)–mentioned a go with something odd like that, too, that became Mt. Vesuvius in my neck suddenly for no reason.

This all means nothing. Or not. I dunno.

But you know what? I refuse to do anything else about it. Fuck it. Fuck. It. I have reached the end of the medical rope by which hysterical women are dismissed and patronized and not heard and not engaged with and I. Am. Done.

My husband said, “Do you want *me* to call…” and I screamed at him no. No, I will not make ANOTHER DECISION. Not for me, not for you, not for what you should do for me, FUCK IT. Figure it out. Wander blindly through the shitty, hurtful forest that doesn’t take you seriously like I have been.

I am no longer directing. The actors aren’t in costume except the ones wearing underwear on their heads, they have broken key bits of the set, the costume designer has changed the color scheme to pink, the set designer infected all sharp edges with rabies, the lighting designer is using sun lamps and the stage manager is a mime. We open soon? It’s important? Fuck. It. Someone else deal with these fools.

If I’m right, they can inscribe it on my tombstone. If I am wrong? I’m sure they’ll put it in my permanent record and tattoo “hysterical” on my forehead. I understand how this game is played, now. I get it.

 

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