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battlefields
7/21/2017 12:15am,
Chapter One

How close have you been to death? I’ve been there way too many times to count, from having a gun pulled on me when I tried to intervene in a stabbing, to pissing off the chapter Sergeant At Arms of a well known and savage bikie club (biker, for my American friends), to a motorbike accident where I had a 0.296% blood alcohol and I had to have my jaw reconstructed with metal that I still have today. These are only three out of many, many more examples, my brushes with death have mostly stemmed from something that I have initiated, something that can be placed, for the most part, squarely at my feet.

Not in June of this year. For context, I’d managed to sidestep a cold a few weeks earlier in the season, during the turn in weather that Brisbane experiences well into winter months (seriously, our winter is mild as **** cause we’re close to the tropics). The cold I’d avoided usually consists of my asthma flaring up, a sore throat, and a cough that remains persistent for a month or two afterwards. I was unusually prepped for it this year, the moment I felt it, I hit bed and rested, warding it off at the time.

A few weeks later, mid June on a Wednesday afternoon, a tickle developed in my throat, nothing major. I went home and again, did my best to get rest, although the next morning the tickle had become a sore throat. As I now work with Mr Miyagi, I rang him and let him know I wouldn’t be in to work, forgetting that he was on holidays. I went back to sleep and woke up to a phone call from work, turns out they were concerned that I hadn’t rocked up. After putting two and two together, four reminded me that Miyagi was on holiday and I hadn’t informed work of my absence.

After clearing this up, I went to the docs. The doctor examined me, looked down my throat and concluded it was likely viral tonsillitis, that rest is best and he’d provide anti-biotics, but to only take them if it got worse. The rest of the Thursday was uneventful, rest and Netflix. Woke up on Friday and felt better, throat appeared to be on the mend and I didn’t feel like a truck had hit me, at least not as big of a truck as the day before. I was optimistic, thinking with a combination of sarcasm and seriousness, “sweet, I should be fine by Monday, ready for work!” ****, was I wrong.

About midday I went to sleep with ducted air conditioning flowing warm air into my room. About three hours later I woke up and could barely breathe. My tonsils had blown up in size, and I could also feel something blocking my windpipe further down, just above the top of the breastbone/sternum. I wasn’t too sure what was going on, all I knew was that I could barely breathe. I frantically tried everything I could to reduce the swelling in my neck and throat, when a betadine gargle didn’t work, I warmed some water and threw a whole heap of salt in it to gargle, all while smashing ice cubes into pieces desperately trying to get them down. After all these methods failed to work and breathing became progressively more difficult, I made the decision to go to hospital.

Now, I’ve never had to make that decision on my own, usually the ambulance, police, or friends/family have made that for me, mostly while I was unconscious. And it was only due to the fact that I’d seen signs at hospitals saying things like, “if you are experiencing breathing difficulties or chest pains, please inform nursing staff immediately” that I even considered hitting the Emergency department. Considering I don’t have a car at present and my preferred method of transport is Uber, I began to prepare to order one. Since this incident, people have remarked to me how amusing it is that I went to order an Uber and not just get an ambulance. Hey, as I said, I’m not accustomed to this “going to hospital” caper.

Anyway, just before I hit the request button, my housemate, Brenton, came home and I yelled, with an admittedly comically throttled voice, “hey bro, you gotta take me to hospital!”

He replied, “I thought you’d already be there, alright let’s go.”



Chapter Two

It was around 4:30pm as we set out and he GPS’d the closest hospital, with me only realising halfway there that it was a Private Hospital and although I have Private Health Insurance, I knew it was going to be fucking expensive and I pay a levy to the government for Public Health, so I’m using it. Truthfully, at this stage, I had no idea what was coming and was operating under the assumption that I’d be home later that evening.

We renavigated to the Mater Hospital, not far from where we were. We pulled up at the ambulance/ emergency entrance and there was a security booth and boomgate. Brenton, in his tradie ocker accent, says to the guy, “this bloke can’t breathe!” and they opened the gate, pointing out where to go.

Brenton pulls in and parks in a clearly marked ambulance spot, with an increasingly distressed me jumping out and following him through a door and down a hall. I had tunnel vision by now, could barely focus on anything but what was in front of me and getting as much oxygen as I could. A uniformed ambulance officer chastised us for being in the ambulance section, which was poorly signed, and me being the compliant idiot turned around and started walking back to find the other entrance. Brenton was having none of it, “**** that, he can’t breathe,” he said as he pushed open a door to expose the triage nurse on duty, “hey, he can’t breathe,” he said to her.

“Oh, he can’t breathe, huh?” she said with an air of distrust that must come from the many bullshit artists looking to get special treatment, “let’s have a look then.”

She looked in my mouth with a torch for less than a second and said, “oh wow, yeah, you really can’t breathe!”

And suddenly I was the centre of attention of the Emergency Department.

I was given a range of drugs, not really sure what they were, anti inflammatories, relaxants, painkillers, I don’t know. They were attaching me to a range of machines to check heart rate, all that ****. A team of Ear, Nose and Throat (ENT) specialists came in with some fucking high tech camera thing and they examined the **** out of me.

They were taking my details throughout, Brenton helping where he could, providing the contact details for my sister, whom I had written down as Next Of Kin.

Quick thing, Next Of Kin is no fucking joke, yo. I always thought it was something you put down so they could contact someone to pick you up if the drugs were too strong to be released on your own reconnaissance. Didn’t realise it also meant pick up your dead body if something went wrong.

Anyway, there was shitload of action going on around me and the head of the ENT team informed me of what was going on. Basically it boiled down to this: I had both tonsils infected and they were severely constricting my airway. On my voicebox there was another infection that was basically acting like a ball at the end of a straw, with my tonsil constricted airway being the straw.

The Intensive Care Unit didn’t want to take me because if my throat closed I would die under their care because ENT would have gone home (quick reminder that this is Friday night, around 6pm).

ENT had to come up with a strategy to make sure they didn’t need to intubate by basically slicing open the base of my neck to get a tube in so I can breathe.

Eventually ENT came up with a strategy and informed me of it whilst also having me sign a waiver. I put all my belongings in a bag, except my phone. I did two things with it, one was take a photo with a stupid smile and two thumbs up which I uploaded to Facebook and captioned, “About to go in for an operation”, secondly I messaged my boss after asking the doc if I’d be good to go to a conference in Vancouver and a little holiday in LA that I had organised for a week away and he said it was unlikely. It was odd, but not out of the realm of possibility, considering I still wasn’t 100% sure of what was going on and while the docs explain ****, they also need to take the corners off some of the sharper edges of the explanation, I imagine so they (a) don’t get sued, and (b), don’t freak the **** out of the patient.



Chapter Three

I’ll try and combine my experience of the procedure with the explanation of the strategy. While sitting in the hospital bed, in my new stylish hospital gown, a new doctor came in and began going over the process. Anaesthesiologists and other doctors, nurses and I’m assuming orderlies began moving in and out of this tiny room while he spoke and the gravity of the situation slowly sunk in.

“Firstly we are going to spray this Novocaine up each nostril, which will have a numbing effect that you will experience in the nostrils and the back of your throat, which will act as a local anaesthetic...”

So far, so good.

“...after which we will be placing a tube in each nostril that will extend down your throat...”

Easy, doc, no problems.

“...the reason for this is that we actually need you to be breathing for yourself...”

Odd wording, I wonder what he means by ‘for yourself’.

“...so that when we put you to sleep, we can get this other tube down your throat through your mouth...”

Oh, through the haze of drugs already provided, this made sense, I was warned that if they try to shove the tube down and my throat closes over, they’d have to intubate through the neck and that didn’t seem pleasant.

“...okay? Oh, and the novocaine is going to increase your awareness somewhat.”

I imagine I nodded, or responded with some witty quip, as is my character and also how I keep my spirits positive.

We were on, the operating theatre door opened and holy ****, there was so many people in there. I’ve had serious surgery on my jaw as mentioned in the past, a procedure the doctor at the time told me was extremely difficult considering I’d shattered it into five pieces, but there was only five personnell in the theatre for that, in here there would have been close to twenty. Definitely made me realise this was a procedure that held much more life threatening weight than I had given it credit, despite having all the signs leading up to it.

The novocaine had begun to work, but I clenched when I saw the tubes they were going to be using. Approximately six inches long and look at your pinky, yeah, pinky thickness. In my nostril and down my throat.

The doc put it in my nostril and began twisting it, clearly looking for a soft spot in my sinus, an odd feeling, not painful, more uncomfortable. Suddenly *CRUNCH* and it was through my sinus and down my throat.

The ENT team leader told me, “you’re doing well, mate, good stuff.”

The second nostril wasn’t as numb as the first one, but I no longer had the ability to articulate, what with the tube halfway down my throat and my nostril clogged with a six inch pinky. I was just going to have to cop it sweet. *CRUNCH* the second one went through the sinus wall down my throat.

Again, encouragement came from the ENT team leader, “you’re doing really really well, mate, good on you.”

It is at this stage I should say that I don’t know if I could have handled ANY of this without Jiu Jitsu training, the ability to stifle my own panic response, the ability to experience ANYTHING that I went through in that theatre or immediately before, or the ability to maintain through what came next.

“Okay, we’re putting you to sleep now.”

Nine days later they pulled me out of the induced coma. I had time travelled into the future Intensive Care Unit.



Chapter Four

Wracked with severe pneumonia from having been on a respirator for the entire time, I had majorly atrophied and had several other infections that were regularly driving my temperature up into the 40s and without getting it down, these temperatures will cook your brain and give significant brain damage. I am still on the fence as to whether they managed to keep it down.

There is a timeline here that I can’t quite nail down, considering the cocktail of drugs I was on, as well as the downright scary hallucinations that I was experiencing night and day.

My dad had trekked up from Sydney and was bedside from what I understand nearly every single day I was under, and all the days when I came out of the coma and was in ultimate pain and delusion. “I was in a racecar!” I exclaimed to him on the first day awake, under the heavy influence of one of my hallucinations that I had linked with dad, who actually races cars. I remember this hallucination as it reflected something I would have felt with a tube in my neck, and being immobile, the hallucination was that I had crashed an open cockpit racecar and had a strut or similar go through my neck and I couldn’t move as I was strapped in. Yeah, that wasn’t even the most fucked up thing I saw over this period.

At some stage early after I woke, I felt good enough to eat, the hallucinations seemed to have stopped and my body felt like it was on the mend. I ate a meal and felt okay for about, let’s say five or six minutes before I began spraying a black liquid everywhere, while profusely apologising to everyone in the vicinity and a Dark Hallucination began to take hold again.

The Dark Hallucinations still scare the **** out of me and it took me a while to come to grips with what I had “witnessed”. A simple way of saying it would be like I was witnessing the most metal album covers of all time. But that doesn’t give it justice. It was like I was looking at Hell, from an elevated position, and the souls were slabs of meat swirling around a central ominous light, replete with eyeballs that displayed the fear and pain you’d expect from souls who had been relegated to pieces of meat that were being tormented for eternity.

It wasn’t the scene that terrified me, but the fact that it was me that appeared to be the architect, the overseer, the instigator of these beings’ pain. Like the agony I was in from being riddled with infection was being transferred to them in purgatory. In my hallucinations I had this sword of which was a gold multi sectional extending blade that I whipped across all of the slabs of meat, relishing in the pain it provided. I’m not joking, this really fucked me up, when I stopped having the hallucinations I would occasionally break down weeping from the memory of it.

The Dark Hallucinations dominated my time in ICU, even as they began losing their strength, I still had to fight to remind myself they were hallucinations. Thank **** I have had many hallucinogenics prior, preparation meant I could decipher that I wasn’t really seeing demons. I was able to swipe at many of them with my hand and like ripples in water, could make them disappear in the area I’d just swiped. There was times when I almost convinced myself that some of the demons were voodoo magic from my evil ex, but was able to quell the notion.

There was one point where I suddenly found myself in this beautiful Australian countryside, in between a homestead and shearing shed, this gorgeous dancing light of the sun twinkling through the gum trees. I thought to myself, “wow, this must be a part of the Mater’s treatment, fresh air and countryside.”To my left was a Maori family, short and stocky, as is a feature of many. One of them said to me in the trademarked high pitched kiwi accent, “you’ll be alright, bro, you’ll get better,” to which I turned to my right to find the dad of the family and said, in the same high pitched kiwi accent for some weird reason, “only if you help me bro!”

He chuckled and replied he would, when suddenly *SNAP* I’m back on the ward.

“When did you bring me in from outside?” I asked the nurse, who looked at me wide eyed and head shaking.

“Yeah, you haven’t moved from here.”Which makes sense, I was in the Intensive Care Unit, they don’t do day trips to the countryside, idiot.



There is a Chapter Five, Six, and Seven, however, I'm probably right now in the middle of Eight and going in to Nine, Ten and Eleven, if I'm lucky, more if I'm not.

scipio
7/21/2017 2:52am,
**** a duck - sounds like you had it really bad. I had tonsillitis when I was in my early 20's - terrible experience, not just not being able to swallow but I went delirious for two days and thought I was the Emperor Claudius and all my family were trying to kill me (I was watching I Claudius just before I went down with it). Childhood illnesses are really not to be recommended as an adult... just in case you didn't know.....

Cake of Doom
7/21/2017 3:51am,
**** a duck - sounds like you had it really bad. I had tonsillitis when I was in my early 20's - terrible experience, not just not being able to swallow but I went delirious for two days and thought I was the Emperor Claudius and all my family were trying to kill me (I was watching I Claudius just before I went down with it). Childhood illnesses are really not to be recommended as an adult... just in case you didn't know.....

Word on the street is... Livia still wants you gone.

That sounds fucking horrible. mate. Thankfully, I've never had tonsillitis or any childhood illness in my adult years. Don't want them either.

scipio
7/21/2017 4:16am,
Livia is a sneaky cow, I know she is still after me. I've taken to sleeping with a knife under my pillow...

ermghoti
7/21/2017 5:50am,
Well that sounded fun. Congratulations on not dying!

SneakyGoblin
7/21/2017 8:04am,
Glad you survived to tell us the tale, B.

And hope the nightmares run their course soon enough. It's a sobering reminder of the mental damage that can be inflicted through a serious bout of physical illness.

BackFistMonkey
7/21/2017 10:16am,
**** yeah!

I had a temp pf a 102+ for a couple days this week I thought I was just hot and cheese brained. Nah ... I too was trying to die on yall.

I feel better now glad you are too... and you are correct. You do not get to go outside when your in the ICU. They don't like that nor let it happen after my surgeries.

Antibiotics FTW over here by the way. Nothing dramatic. Just me being stupid.

I don't like the lengthy memories of the procedures I had while "twilighted". Nor do I like I the very vivid memories of a couples seconds of my first lung surgery. I've been through some **** but ... yeah nah. Let your brain process **** how it wants.

Diesel_tke
7/21/2017 1:17pm,
****, that sounds like an overall terrible experience that you are going through. Hopefully you are through the worst of it. Here's to a speedy recovery and quick repression of all the stuff you experienced.

I got in a head on collision going 65mph in which I was the only survivor. They had to pull all my guts out and fix me. I had some pretty gnarly hallucinations through that one, but have tried to forget all of them, which are trying to bubble up as I type this. But I won't let them.

Sending good vibes your way. Not sure which direction you are from Florida, but I'm sure they will make it there.

cualltaigh
7/23/2017 9:50pm,
It's time. Time to move away from the hustle and bustle of the big smoke and embrace la dolce vita up here on the sunny coast. Beaches, bikinis, beers and BJJ. I'm sure I can find a doctor* who will prescribe it for you.


*may or may not be medically registered.

battlefields
7/24/2017 12:54am,
It's time. Time to move away from the hustle and bustle of the big smoke and embrace la dolce vita up here on the sunny coast. Beaches, bikinis, beers and BJJ. I'm sure I can find a doctor* who will prescribe it for you.*may or may not be medically registered.Believe me, bro, this has definitely put my head on straight again and aim for that lifestyle.

SneakyGoblin
8/03/2017 12:04pm,
Checking in: how you doing, battlefields?

hungryjoe
8/03/2017 12:22pm,
Holy **** battlefields. Just saw this thread. How about an update?

I know you'll come through mate. Only the good die young.

SneakyGoblin
8/03/2017 12:43pm,
Only the good die young.

This implies you are going to live forever, Joe.

battlefields
8/13/2017 11:00pm,
Update.

Just so everyone is clear, in the coma I was also put on a respirator, so for 8-10 days I was immobile and had something breathing for me. The perfect time to call me a lazy POS. Later I was informed that for every day in a coma, you will require 11 days of recovery. So I was looking at a lot of recovery. The atrophy I experienced while in the coma meant I had to relearn how to stand up, walk, etc. You wouldn't think that it would have that effect after only 8-10 days, but it is amazing how quickly your body cannibalises itself.

For someone who was training 4-5 days a week up until he went into hospital, being told that I was going to need assistance to stand up felt like a joke to begin with. I looked at the nurse like she had something wrong with her when they said they were going to get me to stand up and do a little walking. Fucking easy, I thought, how patronising!

"Okay, so we're going to get you to swing your legs over the side of the bed and then sit up..."

Face screwed up with an impression that said, "**** off, this is easy!" only to find that it wasn't as easy as I initially thought, but still...

"...and then you'll need to place your hands on the bed and use them to push off the...no, don't grab the frame and pull up, you are to push off the bed..."

Pfft, I thought, basic. I'm going to be the ICU's MVP the way everyone was carrying on. Went to stand up and my core did not move. They were right, my body had forgotten how to stand up. I had to consciously engage my hips and legs and arms and everything only to stand up, wobble, and have to sit back down. They tested my blood oxygen levels and it had nosedived, so needed to take a rest for the day.

Now, I'm not sure if you can read between the lines, but I lost a shitload of dignity in that joint. I have been, shall we say, "cleaned" by cute women in their early 20s. At 34 years old, these young women are still possibilities in the dating game for me. Not these ones in particular anymore. Ah well. I think the worst instance was one particular instance where I said to my dad that I needed to go to the toilet. At this point I'd been "assisted" by one of two orderlies, two big blokes who were good value with their humour, to a seat near the bed that held a bedpan underneath it. Unfortunately I heard the trainee nurse platoon too late and my dad had already engaged the trainer nurse to assist me. So there I am with four very cute young women assisting me with my business from go to woe. I was so fucking angry at my dad for the rest of the day for that.

Anyway, I started improving and was moved to the normal wards, attached with a bit of a reputation that had gone around the hospital, the guy whose throat closed over, was put in a coma and had been in ICU for more than a week. I also gained a reputation for being incredibly difficult to make unconscious, that I drank up their drugs like a sponge and that there were points where they were so sure that they had enough dosage that when I soaked that up and was still awake, they freaked out as they had to go get more. Anyway, that comes into play later.

So yeah, was on a ward after ICU for about a week afterwards, which was fucked because I had to deal with people from the general public. I'm not a snob, I've lived in some shitty areas and known some people who you could describe as being of unable to remove themselves from their socio-economic class through no fault of their own except their IQ level, but these took it to the next level and honestly, I have sooo much respect for nurses and doctors in a Public hospital. Here's a quick description of two men in my ward:

1. An Aboriginal bloke, about 40-45 years old. This guy was an arrogant **** who would regularly call the nurses and doctors names with the most annoying voice in the world. I learnt over the course of my tenure in this ward that the gentleman had cirrhosis of the liver but had decided that he had already outlived his life-expectancy (in Australia, unfortunately due to a range of medical issues, including drugs and alcohol, our indigenous population has a chronically low life expectancy), so he kept drinking. In his own words, "you'll never stop me drinkin' cheap wine, luv" to a nurse. He was also a gigantic piece of **** to the other ward members, but I have a magical knack of endearing people to me early on so I never had a problem with him directly, other than his whiny nasal voice that grated me in the end like I have never experienced.

2. A Caucasian bloke who was so institutionalised that every single person that visited the ward, spoke to him on the phone, or even glanced in his direction received his story. And considering my proximity and at one stage inability to even move without requiring one orderly and a doctor/ nurse, I had the chance to relive this man's injury and subsequent treatment many times over, including knowing in depth how maggot treatment works on a Type 1 diabetes patient that had his foot go gangrenous. At times while I was about to try to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I was actually initially in another ward for about 10 hours, during which another bloke was introduced to the ward. This bloke was the biggest wanker I have ever heard, due to his insistence on referring to his girlfriend as "my baby girl", "baby princess" and the nursing staff as "darlin'" in that smarmy sly way that'd make any dude cringe, but somehow melted the nurses after a short period of time. I deduced, by the things he spoke about and how he spoke about them, that he was a bikie in a small town just south of the state border. Big man in a little pond, so could hear his girlfriend fawning over him like he was King Dingaling. What I didn't know was that the woman that emerged from behind the curtain that had separated us until this point was not the girlfriend. After a couple of "how are you" pleasantries, I mentioned that her man "seemed to be doing okay".

"Well," she said, pointing at a ring on her wedding finger and leaning in close, lowering her voice that had ZERO effect in a hospital room separated by curtains, "that woman in there is his girlfriend, but I am his wife and I want him to come home with me tonight, but it is hard to convince him because she is here..."

I suddenly became witness to a real life, shitty, Real Housewives of Low Socio-Economic Areas Of New South Wales and Queensland. I sat through her story incredulously, like, lady, **** me drunk, you know your bikie ex-husband can hear you, right? Like, I know there has been technological advancements in the world of medical equipment, but I'm yet to hear of a hospital using sound proof curtains in their wards.

Anyway, I wish he did go with her, because once she left, this other ditsy bitch ended up asking him, "aw babe, can you put on that aftershave I love" to which he proceeded to gas the ward with the very scent you have imagined a smarmy POS bikie **** that calls his girlfriend "baby princess" would wear. He also managed to get into an argument with the head nurse about his girlfriend staying with him on ward or else he was going to walk out of the hospital "like this, I swear I will." He was referring to the paper underwear he was provided after the removal of 20+ skin cancers. If it was me, he'd be walking to the car in those underwear, but I was still terribly atrophied and didn't want to cause dramas.

During the argument mentioned above, I called a nurse in because I was trapped in the bed, the bars had been put up and I just wanted to go to the toilet which was less than 2 metres from my bed. Well, this nurse came flying around the corner and abruptly asked, "what you wan?"

She was Asian. I was already flustered by the abruptness, but managed to politely ask, "how do I get these bars down?"

"YOU DON'T, YOU NEED HELP, WHAT YOU WAN? NUMBA 1, NUMBA 2? WHAT YOU WAN?"

Pissed off that now the whole ward, with visitors, know that I am looking to go to the toilet, I manned up like my masculinity was in question and promptly and firmly said, "it's okay, I don't need to go just yet."

The bikie prick kept re-upping his aftershave every hour or so, eventually it became too much for this pneumonia suffering patient. He was a tiny bloke, probably around 5'6", maybe smaller, but I wasn't in fighting form, so around 1:30am I eventually succumbed to the desire to breathe and called the nurse. On my phone's screen I typed out, "TOO MUCH COLOGNE, PLEASE MOVE ME TO ANOTHER WARD" so that I could move without having to cause drama for anyone else.

The nurse came back and said, "we have another room but there is a guy in it who is agitated, " while looking at me like I was a weirdo for suggesting the gassing I felt I was receiving from the cologne, now visible in the air, wasn't as bad as someone saying **** every so often. I replied, "are you kidding? I need to be able to breathe," completely stunned that this cologne drenched ************ had completely charmed this full grown woman to be fine with the air being thick enough that NATO has since banned that brand of aftershave use as a war crime.

Anyway, the agitated bloke they were talking about was the first one I described. The first night there was another old bloke in there who seemed harmless as ****, hippy-type, but the Aboriginal bloke just had it in for him. It was hilarious to listen to the guy go off at this hippy, so much so I took my earplugs out to listen in.

"You fucking piece of ****, you fucking suck, look at you, I'm going to punch you in your stupid fucking face..."

In the most pathetic voice ever, "if you keep threatening me, I'm going to tell the nurse!"

I don't know how people like that survive.

It really pissed me off that I wasn't able to hit the pisser by myself, so the next day I was up and ready for the Physio nurses. Motivated, I quickly improved my physicality and was signed off that I could do everything myself, which meant no more assistance in the toilet, thank ****. Anyway, finally got off the ward and sent home after a number of changes in the meds I was taking, in order to make sure I was mending. My rehab was initially to make it up and down the stairs at home, blow some bubbles with a bubble blowing device, and walk as much as possible.

Four days after getting home, and starting to get into a routine, I ended up craving salt and vinegar chips (crisps, potato chips) as up until then it was yoghurt, fruit, and that was about it. I just wanted something savoury. Anyway, purchased a bag and ate a fraction of it, then went to sleep catching up on Game of Thrones because the new season was to start the next week.

Woke up and figured the chips weren't digesting. In ICU it was pointed out to the doctors that, while I am a fat ************, my belly is not a purple basketball and it was discovered I had severe digestion issues. This fuelled my theoretical "indigestion" and so I ate some yoghurt, drank Yakult, and tried readjusting my seated position to assist the "digestive flow" (another of my theories). Seven hours later I was still in discomfort that appeared to be getting worse, and breathing had begun to hurt.

I remembered this story of a bloke who woke up in absolute agony at home and convinced his mum to take him to the hospital, they went in and signed in for an emergency doctor. While in the waiting room the bloke let out a gigantic fart and felt 100% better. I couldn't get that out of my head, despite being at a point where every little breath had begun causing agony. I checked if I could even simply lie down and I couldn't without pain, so I packed a bag properly, and again my housemate took me to ER. By the time I got to the Triage nurse, every breath was creating absolute agony, but I was still clinging to the idea that it was some sort of salt and vinegar digestion issue.

"It's...ah ****... probably...owww...just someth...thing...argh... to do with... I'm sorry...argh..." was something like how I spoke with the nurse.

They hit me up with some Ibuprofen and I looked at them and laughed, saying, "um, have you read my file, I literally just left here four days ago, I was in a coma and even those drugs weren't strong enough for me."

They had read the file, but nurses aren't doctors and thus can't give hardcore drugs without sign off. Eventually they came along with fentanyl and I enjoyed drifting in and out for a few hours.

The next day I had a CT scan that required me to be food and drug free for a period of time. A test I'd had earlier on my blood came back with a marker for clots. On the way to and in the CT machine I was in agony, every breath out was like a dagger in my side. I was desperate for pain relief but no one seemed to be listening to me, despite the fact I was practically screaming, and apologising for screaming, about the pain I was in.

The doctor came up and said, "we're getting you some pain meds right now that will sort this out, plus, we're getting you a PCA, and here take this, you have clots in your lungs and this will thin your blood."

The nurse then rocked up with a huge syringe of Ketamine. I was in agony, but know how good Ket is so was interested how I'd go with what appeared to be 300ml of it. Unfortunately or fortunately, I don't know, but I only got a portion of the Ketamine, large enough that it washed away the pain and almost sent me on a bit of a mind trip, but I held on because of fear of losing myself back to the Dark Hallucinations.

My respiratory doctor was a cute woman from Canada who noticed that I was having a mini freak out from being informed about the blood clots. My main problem is I've seen House MD, I know what a blood clot on the lung means, I know it means that I am now a high risk potential for a stroke now, I saw that episode! I said to her, probably wide eyed and terrified, "but pulmonary embolism!" Up until this point nobody had given it that name, it was a passive, "oh, just clots on the lung". She ended up realising I had some idea of the ramifications of lung clots. She firmly said, "Battle," because I have legally changed my first name, "two weeks ago you were nearly dead. This, this pulmonary embolism, this we can treat easily."

Okay. I then was put in a room on the Cancer Ward by myself, the result of a lack of beds in the hospital. My PCA, Personal Something Something, that allowed me to regulate my own fentanyl intake. Which was fun. I was released from there about a week later. All in all, about a month in hospital.

Since then I've been informed that I have Lupus Anticoagulant, which is a misnomer on two parts, one, I don't have Lupus and it is not related to Lupus, and the anticoagulant is a prothrombotic agent, which I'm sure we are all acutely familiar with so provided there is absolutely no follow up questions, I'm not going to go over the same **** we all know. According to the doc, this diagnosis could be a "false positive" due to a number of factors, but it means that I have to be on blood thinners for another 3 months minimum, 6 months if they confirm it, or possibly even longer.

The good thing is I have been cleared to wrestle, so tomorrow night I'm back on the mat...

cualltaigh
8/13/2017 11:54pm,
The good thing is I have been cleared to wrestle, so tomorrow night I'm back on the mat...

I know it goes without saying but take it easy mate

battlefields
8/14/2017 12:24am,
I'm pretty sure everyone will treat me with kid gloves for a bit.