Threw you off with that last post title, did I? You all expected me to write about some big gay moment in my life. Then I threw an unexpected hospital visit in. Always check those post categories, folks.
I was released from the closet on Wednesday for a decent room with a view. I can see the hospital campus from here, including the Emergency entrance. The sunrise was beautiful this morning.
While I’m in the sick hotel with great medical support, our precious friends have been helping with Jelly and have provided meals for J. I’ve also had kind offers to visit, which I will take each one of you up on if my stay is much longer. Yes, I’m going a little stir crazy.
Today let’s talk about the infection that initially brought me to the ER. You know how sensitive I’ve become to unfamiliar symptoms since my little finger-scratch incident last month. This time, in tandem with my very high fever, my midsection turned fire-engine red. Red is danger, isn’t it?
I thought so, as did the series of doctors I saw in the following hours. In this time, the red spread, and started to swell and hurt. The doctors didn’t know the source of the strange infection.
Call in Dr. Skin, a very nice man though he’s chosen to spend his adult life examining people’s zits. This wise guy determined that I had cellulitis, a skin infection requiring antibiotic treatment. Usually this type of infection stems from a superficial wound but I chose to skip that precursor–no entry point of note–and went straight to the full-blown infection.
A few days of IV antibiotics later, my infection is largely gone. No more fever, appetite returning slowly–I can’t even remember the last time a wine gum passed these lips–everything is heading in the right direction, except my swollen red trunk. As every other part of me was improving, my red was spreading farther and wider, bringing up the rear (but thankfully not on my rear, only on my front). Today’s Dr. Skin likened the infection to mastitis, that painful infection that nursing mothers get.
I’m no nursing mother, but I currently have red breasts, just like a spring robin. Swelling is a symptom of cellulitis, so my boobs are unrecognizable. I have busted out of my small undergarments. I never knew an infection could increase my cup size.
As it stands, I’m here for a full course of IV antibiotics. In my dreams, I’m allowed to finish this intervention at home. I’ve told the charge nurse that if she again tries to move me from my single abode to a room for four, as she dId last night, I will be leaving the hospital and retiring to my germy home instead. Her persuasive arguments–you are statistically at low risk, we need a room near the front desk–fell on profoundly deaf ears.
I have suffered enough through my extended ER stay and appetite-suppressing hospital food; being exposed to others’ germs and their chatty visitors would put me over the edge. My mental health matters too, doesn’t it? Don’t make me get my Sadness doll!