I struggled with low blood pressure my whole life. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but I also struggled with tachycardia (too rapid heart rate) my whole life as well. The two issues combined were a recipe for hypovolemic shock. When I went into hypovolemic shock, we called it bottoming out. It was one of the reasons I was admitted to the hospital so frequently.
“Any time you know you’re bottoming out, that’s an automatic 911 call”. Dr Oster had told me.
I could always tell when I had low blood pressure and a high heart rate and was going into shock. My skin would turn bluish-gray and I would alternate between having chills and hot flashes. The world would start trying to pin me down. Exhaustion would overwhelm me along with a pull towards the darkness of the unconscious.
No matter where I was when the low blood pressure hit, I would have to call for an ambulance. If I was at home it wasn’t the biggest deal in the world, but if I was in an embarrassing place it was awful. Pretty much anywhere in public fell under the category of an embarrassing place. The more people around, the more embarrassing it was. Sometimes I would need to call an ambulance from art class. Other times I would be at the mall or the park with friends.
Hearing the doctor confirm that it wasn’t all in my head brought me so much relief. But the relief didn’t last. After getting admitted to the pediatric medical/surgical floor I went through a battery of testing. Nothing else showed up as a problem and because my parents and home care team continued to insist that I was just a psych case, the hospital finally decided that maybe there really was nothing physically wrong with me.
The final decision was that I was anorexic and would need to be transferred to the psych unit for children in a different hospital, where I would be on a unit for 5 to 11-year-olds but have meals and some groups with the eating disorder unit.
At that point I had a special feeding tube in my nose called an NG tube. It went from my nose down my throat, past my esophagus, and ended in my stomach. The part of the tube that came out of my nose was hooked up to tubing that was connected to a bag of a liquid called tube feed that contained all the nutrition I would need in a day. It ran on a pump that set the rate of how fast the tube feed ran in. Until I could start eating enough calories a day to maintain my weight, I would need to have that NG tube.
Jonathan (my 5-year-old brother) was struggling in kindergarten.
“I think he might be on the autism spectrum,” I heard his teacher say to my mom when we went to his classroom to pick him up. The school kicked me out after I got dizzy in class too many times. When they sent me to the nurse’s office for it, my blood pressure would be so low that they would have to call my mom to bring me home and make an emergency doctor’s appointment with Dr. Monroe
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They decided that I couldn’t go back to school until I was eating three meals a day and had a doctor’s note clearing me to return.
That day the teacher pulled my mom aside, my mom sounded angry.
“He is not, autistic” my mom glared at Jonathan’s teacher.
“He needs testing done if he ever wants to graduate kindergarten. At the very least he has severe learning disabilities.” The teacher told my mom, as Jonathan stared intently at a skid mark on the linoleum floor.
It was another whole year before Jonathan got the testing done. He had to repeat kindergarten. But again, Jonathan wasn’t in immediate danger of dying, so my issues were the ones put front and center, and all my parent’s energy was thrown into playing food police on me.
I can trace my descent into chronic illness all the way back to age eight. Up until then, I was actually a healthy kid. Until then there was no mention of hospitals, tube feeding, IV nutrition, terminal illness, or unrelenting pain. None of that. Back then there was no talk about me having an eating disorder.
The first sign of any issues occurred in third grade when I began suffering from frequent pounding headaches.
Another early sign of something amiss was how dry my body was. If I went a couple of hours without sipping on a drink I could put a finger in my mouth and move it around, and my entire mouth would be bone dry.
My skin began to get very dry as well, and I noticed something odd, I no longer could sweat, no matter how hot the temperature was.
Even my eyes were super dry to the point where it made my vision blurry.
My love for Jeff went beyond any love I had ever felt before. I just wasn’t aware of it. What I was aware of was the fact that goodbyes are one of the hardest things in the world, and I never wanted to have to say my goodbyes to Jeff.
All of Jeff’s doctors assured us that he was at the top of the liver transplant list. They kept telling us that he and his mom could get a call any day to drop everything and rush down to Umass Memorial Medical Center to be prepped for the most major, most life-changing surgery of his life. A surgery that could take his life span of months to a couple of years at the most, and add a lifetime onto it.We were in a race against time. There was a strong possibility that his liver cancer had returned. We were waiting on an appointment with a GI doctor, Dr. Xander to go over his scans. The even more frightening reality was that if his cancer actually had returned he would be immediately removed from the cancer list. I might have to say my goodbyes to him. I usually tried to put all thoughts of his mortality out of my head and just enjoy him, in the moment.
Jeff was a 41-year-old man with liver failure who was barely hanging on the transplant list. He lived at an assisted living facility called “Side by Side”. I was a 24-year-old girl dying from a rare neurological disease. Since December 2015, I had been living at Side by Side as well. We both adored Build-a-Bears. Jeff and I were an unlikely romance but we were both desperately in love with each other
Originally I thought that Jeff and I were just best friends. Due to a physical and developmental delay that according to my doctors
“Seems to be a much less dramatic form of Syndrome X, it’s an extremely rare condition that I can’t figure out whether or not is connected to her autoimmune-mediated autonomic SFN.”
I didn’t produce adult hormones and I didn’t age past the preteen stage, the only times I’d ever fallen in love with before were with my Build-a-Bears. However the night before, I’d had a talk with Melody, my main PCA (caregiver). She helped me discover that my feelings were more than just friendship.
Having Melody work for me, turned out to be the best thing in the whole world. Without Melody, i never would have even dreamed of going on a date with anyone. Because of my developmental and physical delay, I didn’t get a period or have adult hormones in my body. This meant that I didn’t feel the same attraction to boys or men that most other people my chronological age felt. But I would never grow to fully be an adult, and Melody wanted to make sure I experienced every wonderful part of life.
Sometimes when Melody came to work she had to bring her two kids, Max and Jared. They didn’t have to come with her every time, but when they did I didn’t mind. Max was eight and Jared was ten. Melody would just sit them in the beanbag chairs in my living room.
“Don’t touch anything except the beanbag chairs and your Nintendo Switches,” she would tell them.
Her thirteen-year-old daughter Serena would tag along to keep an eye on them.
“Max and Jared have a lot of mental health issues. They both have bipolar, ADHD, an attachment disorder, PTSD, and Oppositional Defiant Disorder….”
It took a few days for the fog in my head to clear.. When it finally did, I realized that I was in the ICU. Once I figure out where I was, I couldn’t remember what had happened to land me there. It took a couple more hours to piece things back together in my misty brain. I had gone from having some aching in my suprapubic area to full-blown sepsis. This had happened over the course of less than 24 hours. The day I went to the hospital, I made it halfway through the day. Then suddenly I felt like I was in Antarctica. The chills were so bad that they invaded even the marrow of my bones. In the middle of an online monopoly I terrified Jeff by passing out. He had no choice but to call 911.
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