So sorry AGAIN for descending into a weepy yucky negative place while posting. I should probably rate my misery on a 1-10 scale before blogging - anything coming from me at more than 5 is bound to be a train wreck.
On another joyful note, I just home from the hospital. I found out on Tuesday that I was being admitted and thankfully I didn't have to stay longer than yesterday. I had a minor surgery which went fine, until they tried to wake me up from anesthesia and apparently my body decided instead to blissfully snooze the day away. Oops. I guess my heart rate got really low and I was in and out for a while. They eventually did get me awake and somewhat lucid, but my blood pressure was still hanging out in the lower realms. One of the nurses asked me if I was a runner, to which I wanted so badly to answer YES but unfortunately I had to admit that no, I haven't run in months, and my freakishly low blood pressure is not a sign of marathoning greatness.
Now I'm back home, feeling much better but still woozy. I've been trying to eat but my stomach is kind of angry with me. My head is also killing me, which I think is dehydration since I haven't had much water. I get headaches a lot and Advil usually works like a charm, but this sucker is persistent. Trying to drink lots and eat and relax.
So I guess in summary, I'm fine. The whole thing has sort of shaken me, though. It never fails to amaze me how resilient the human body is, but also how fragile. I've probably been to more doctors and hospitals in the last two years than the first nineteen years of my life combined. Stuff just keeps going wrong. Maybe I'm still young enough that I can almost always bounce back, but I'm scared that one day, I just won't. I've gotten used to explaining to doctors that I'm recovering from anorexia, which usually helps account for all the freaky stuff my body tends to do, but it never gets any easier or any less humiliating. As my mom put it last night, "You're twenty-one years old. There shouldn't be anything wrong with you."
One plus of the past few days: I love the doctor who did my surgery, Dr. B. He's a super big deal around here, apparently, but my uncle (also a doctor) knows him and pulled some strings to get me in last minute. When I first was telling Dr. B my medical history, he asked all the right questions, including "How is your recovery going?" and "Have you gained any weight?" Part of me wanted to chuckle and be like, GOOD ONE, DOC BUT COME ON NOW, LOOK AT THESE THUNDER THIGHS but mostly I just appreciated that he didn't draw any premature conclusions about me based on appearance alone. I had a doctor last year who told me my pants looked baggy and that I needed to gain weight without even having me get on a scale, even though I was nearly weight-restored at the time. Or another doctor this past winter who told me that my BMI was "great," even though I was still XX lbs from my goal weight. Of course there was also this meanie who gave me a lecture, or these lovely but clueless nurses.
Okay, now I forget what my point was. Blame the drugs still lingering in my bloodstream for making me rambly and loopy. I'm off to slurp up something to make this headache go away and take a nap. Then my bff from high school has promised me a movie night. Have a happy and healthy weekend!