Push

Holy hell.

My body hates me. (Not that that's the biggest surprise to anyone who has read this blog, ever.)

I returned to boot camp today since I have no real reason no to. And I miss it.

Yeah, I said that. No, I wasn't paid. No, there's not a gun to my head.

I actually (gulp!) like getting up at 5am to kick my own ass. And on days I don't feel like doing it, someone else will. All I have to do is show up.

So I showed up today, unsure of what to expect, unsure of what my body could handle.

Turns out, it could handle encouraging people. So thanks, M, for letting me push you. Thanks, D, for eye daggers. They helped me do more than I thought I could. 

See, in pushing you, I had to push myself. 

And I learned that I am totally out of shape!

All the hard work I've done over the last 9 months: gone! These exercises hurt!

I think I'll go cry now, if that's ok.

Best day ever. Not.

Why do people ask a million questions when they see you can't breathe?

I went to the ER Monday. 

After several hours of feeling lightheaded and being unable to breathe, I gave in. I walked my sorry butt into Grady Memorial Hospital. It was really more like two step, pause, hold on to wall step, pause, hold wall... And then I sat in the waiting room. FOR OVER TWELVE HOURS. I kid you not. I was there so long, my breathing returned to normal. I considered leaving, but figured it would eventually start again, and surely it wouldn't be much longer, right? Right?

I was all cracked out from not eating, sitting in a freezing room, and being force fed CNN. Which, by the way, plays the same crap. All. Day. Long. The same stories, every fifteen minutes. Different reporters, same stories. No changes. No new angle. No updates. What'd they do, film it all at once? If I had a long stick, I would have jabbed the tv's eyes out. Or just turned it off.

The ER waiting room is a strange place. There are no plugs in which to charge things that need charging. things like telephones. There were people in there for happy hour. Seriously. They were just socializing. 

Things I overheard:

"What are you in here for this week?"

"Girl, how you been? It has been a month of Sundays!"

A hacking sound, from the bathroom, followed by a plea for housekeeping. 

"Oh, yeah, I'm uh, at a restaurant around the corner from your house. Yeah, a Mexican restaurant. You know. Just down the street."

(Dooood! No, you are in the fucking ER at Grady. Why you wanna lie like that? No, don't look at me. I am soo not interested. I just heard you lie to a girl, remember?)

To girl sitting on the floor: "When are you having your baby?"

She was actually sitting on the floor. Which, if you don't know, hospital floors are about the most dirty thing. Ever. 

The entire thing was the strangest sociological phenomenon I've seen. 

Eventually, I was taken to the ninth circle of hell. I mean, a holding room, to wait for a stretcher. I froze there for another two hours before being escorted to a lovely stretcher along the hall. 

I never thought I'd be on a stretcher in the hall at Grady. 

See, the people that usually line the hall here are not, shall we say, the people you'd want to be your next door neighbor. They are off their meds, coming off whatever high they were on, and slightly drunk. They are in pain, dirty, and stinking of rotten body odor, blood, vomit, and piss. They yell. A lot.

I was wheeled into a room, attached to a telemetry unit and a blood pressure machine about 4:30 or 5 in the morning. The door was closed, and the lights were out. Suddenly, sleep seemed less like a far away dream and more like a real possibility. Until the blood pressure machine went off, squeezing my arm more than any spygmomanometer (You like that? Turns out, the blood pressure cuff has an actual name. Just don't ask me to say it.) ever has. Eventually, the pressure subsided and I slipped toward a much needed sleep. I was jolted awake moments later by the dang bp cuff. It released, and I slipped towards sleep. The shit of it is, it went off again five minutes later. The hour progressed like this. Every five minutes the machine would turn on with it's peculiar hum, the cuff would inflate beyond comfort, and release me to sleep. I thought about killing people.

And my sweet nurse. She is a new nurse (Yay! Someone got a job!) and she destroyed my arms. I had blood drawn once in the waiting room. She drew blood, realized she should have started an IV, blew two veins before jabbing me with the most painful IV ever- in the same place I'd previously been jabbed while in the waiting room. I look like a heroin addict. But only around my elbows.

I was warmly welcomed on the telemetry unit just before shift change at 7 in the morning. I waved maniacally to a fellow nursing student as I was rolled by the nursing station. He looked at me in confusion. 

The barrage of doctors, nurses, tests (more blood work/ pin cushioning, yay!) and meals prevented me from sleeping more than about two hours. And then, sometime after lunch, visitors! I surprised my self at how excited I was to see people. My people. Coach Awesome and my brother both came to see me. 

I learned more in this trip to the hospital than any clinical has taught me. I learned what my patients go through. And it isn't pretty. 

What I haven't learned is the thing I want to know most: 

What the crap is wrong with me??

The blood work, urinalysis, EKG, and echocardiogram all came back within normal limits. Sort of. My heart rate flip flops between normal speed and slow speed. But I'm into exercise and stuff, so that's maybe normal. And my thyroid. 

Oh, thyroid. You may be my nemesis.

My thyroid (TSH) level was 11. Normal is 0.5-3. Yeah, I'd say that's a little off. 

And then they tested it again a few hours later.

It was TOTALLY normal.

Lab mix up or bizarre case of hypothyroidism/ not?

So really, I have no answers. Just a slew of follow up appointments for more testing.

I left the hospital and went to get my car. Only it wasn't there.

It was towed!

This is the Best day ever. Not.

Something useful.

It has been weeks since I've run. 

Weeks.

I'm not sure what to do with myself anymore.

I walked around the block last week and thought I might die. I usually walk halfway across campus, stop to rest, and continue on my way to class. Whatever is going on with me, it is truly a pain in the ass.

I've been lost, depressed, and roaming. My advisor made me promise I'd do something useful for myself over spring break. 

And so I started baking. 

Well, really, I started baking sometime at the beginning of nursing school both as a necessity and as stress relief.  Cooking led me to a slightly unhealthy love of all things Anthony Bourdain. It borders on obsession, really. I love the snark. 

As it is spring break, and I promised my advisor I'd do something relaxing, and running (my go to relaxation) is out of the question, I've done some reading. Most recently, Medium Raw. 

It made me think of some of the most memorable meals I've ever eaten. 

When I was a toddler, we had blueberry bushes on the left side of the house. There were three of them. I think they were always taller than me. My mother used to send me out into the yard to pick blueberries in the summer. I remember always picking the largest berries off the bush and popping them directly into my mouth. I'd pluck the juicy berries, dropping them into the Budweiser bucket that my mother gave me to fill (it later held my father's wallet and loose change). I remember the how the array of colors provided a never ending surprise (who knew one fruit could look so different?!). I loved the way each fruit exploded in my mouth, as though it were totally different from the last. Indeed, they were. And for some reason, I could never leave a big one in the bucket. (Confession: I still have this problem.) I think I usually came back into the house with three or four berries and empty bushes.

The pea pods in the dark soil, tasting of green crunch and dirt also stand out as clearly as the sharp splinters of the sundeck.

I am in 9th grade. It is summer and I've spent the better part of a week re-roofing a house in the Appalachian Mountains in Virginia. I am in what my teenage suburban self thought was the middle of nowhere. I am dirty. Even after scrubbing, I have dirt in the cracks of my hands. I have a sense of fulfillment like no other I've ever known. I've met wonderful people. People who not only let strangers into their home, but also let strangers destroy part of their meager existence and actually trust that they will put it back together. They thank us for this. And not only this, but they fed us. 

It is more food than I remember at any Thanksgiving. Creamed corn, fresh tomatoes, raw pea pods, and greens fresh from the garden, a chicken from  the yard, gravy, canned beets and more tomatoes from the previous year. Piping hot biscuits slathered in butter and unsweet tea. I eat till my belly hurts.

Fast forward ten years to a little homemade food truck, parked on the corner of the street, with a line of people forming around it. Only instead of tall, complaining Americans, these are local people, just getting off work. Forgoing the bright lights of the nearby restaurant, I head directly to the line. On a paper thin plate, corn tortillas appear filled with beans, rice, fish, corn, cilantro, and a salsa so spicy my eyes water. Steam pours off the top of each taco, and I close my eyes to savor each bite.

I am still in Mexico, or at least I think I am. My head pounds angrily at the bright sun that even my dark sunglasses fail to shield me from. My feet seek out sure footing on the cobblestone street. I sink mericfuly into a chair, the metal cool on my back. Dark, acrid coffee appears, making everything a little less awful. Soon, plates of fruit join the coffee: pineapple, papaya, mango and coconut followed by eggs with a smoky salsa. After a few bites, I come to life enough to realize I can still hear the ocean. I close my eyes in bliss.

A little pub, tucked away in the corner of the bend, is home to more meat pies than I care to think about. After a long day of traveling, the green carpet, American music on the jukebox, and pint glasses of unfamiliar lagers and stouts call my name. We are boisterous, despite the 12 hour car ride. Though it is only 7:30, this pub is winding down, and our loud, American voices draw the looks of everyone in the place. Stringy chicken, a lamb from the farmer in the back yard, and fish from the day's catch are paired with vegetables. The comfort of the legendary English staples of bland potatoes and carrots, overcooked to mush, and saved by the familiarity of onion, pairs well with the drizzle outside. 

These meals stand out as much for the company and the locale as much as for the food itself and I wonder if it is possible to have such a great food experience when one is at home, stuck in familiarity.

And so I cook. I bake. I play with flours and recipes, trying to figure out just how weather effects gluten free flours. 

I make gluten free French bread. In a bread maker. And I come up with chocolate chocolate chip cookies. Light and fluffy, the batch I took to my co-workers was gone before I realized it. (Not that I am disappointed. This not working out thing has me feeling all kinds of fluffy.)

Also, in my time of not working out and therefore having a few moments that are not filled with sweat, I started playing the mandolin. 

I love the internets. I'm  starting to think it is possible to learn any and everything from YouTube. I'm still quite terrible and have no aspirations of being able to do anything more than strum a string of chords together without sounding too awful. Mostly because I am not willing to go through the pain. I discovered that for about an hour after playing, my nerves are scrambled and my phone is confused by them. As in, it doesn't work. At all.

So I'm baking cookies and sitting on my ass instead of working out.

I'm not sure how useful any of this is. 

In fact, I'm pretty sure this isn't going to end well.