Roller Coaster

The last month or so of my life has been somewhat of a roller coaster. At the end of May, I moved out of my apartment and into an "apartment" that is attached to my parents' house in Edmond. My friend Melissa came down from Virginia to live with me. Originally, the plan was to train together for the Lighthouse Sprint Triathlon at the beginning of August. However, like many things in life, our plans changed.

For the past 3 summers, I have worked as a therapy tech at a local rehabilitation hospital. However, this summer, my boss informed me that he didn't have hours for me and I would have to find another job if I wanted to work full time. Crap. Knowing that in this economy my chances of getting hired for the summer anywhere else were minimal, I decided to talk to the head of nursing in the same rehab hospital and see if I could be a nurse tech for the summer. Nurse techs work 12 hour shifts and see some pretty nasty stuff. Let's just say that I now know exactly why I'm going into therapy and not nursing.

I think I've mentioned before my obsession with being "normal". I hate telling employers, coaches, teachers etc. that I have health issues. I don't want special regulations or concessions. I want to do what I do just like everyone else. So, I didn't tell my boss about my cystic fibrosis. I didn't tell her that fatigue can make me really sick, nor did I tell her that I'm supposed to be doing a lot of treatments which are difficult to fit into a 12 hour work day. I also didn't stop training for the triathlon with Melissa. Maybe I have a superwoman complex, or maybe I'm just childish, but I honestly thought I could handle it. You see, in my head, I'm not sick. I'm normal, and there was no reason (in my mind) that I could not work an extremely physical job for long hours and still train for a triathlon.

I soon found out how very wrong I was. I lasted a week before the trouble started. After a week (3-4 days of 12 hour shifts) I started to get really fatigued. I hadn't been good about doing treatments so I got sick. It wasn't a "bad" sick at first. It was the kind of thing I deal with often, and fight off either on my own or with a round of oral antibiotics. So, without getting too worried, I started myself on the typical antibiotics and started doing my treatments more (if not perfectly) diligently and continued to work my normal shifts. Instead of getting better though, my health continued to decline. I got sick to my stomach several times a day, coughed all day and all night, and lost my appetite. I lost around 20lbs. I couldn't walk for long periods of time without feeling like passing out, and stairs were almost entirely out of the question. It wasn't until a particularly painful bike ride with Melissa that I finally decided to call the doctor.

I went in to my appointment, they tested my lung function, weighed me, and immediately drew up my hospital admission papers. I spent 4 days in the hospital receiving iv antibiotics and liquids (I was really dehydrated apparently) before being discharged with a picc line and a long list of 3x daily medications and treatments. I am not allowed to sweat (it'll mess up the dressing), swim, or work until the picc comes out.

Looking back, it seems as though I have a tendency to take one step forward and two steps back in life. I get in shape, do the things I want to do, work hard, and then reality (I guess) catches up to me and I end up on the couch with tubes coming out of my arm, forbidden to leave the house (omg she might sweat!). On the one hand, I'm extremely grateful. I feel so much better (I can even do stairs!) and I know I'm fortunate that so little intense treatment "fixes" me. On the other hand though, I'm furious. I'm furious that this happened, that I may or may not be able to do the triathlon with Melissa now (I'll be fighting for that one), that my Dr. wrote a letter forbidding me to work over 8 hours a day and 40 a week, and most of all, I'm furious because I know deep down, that this was preventable (at least to a certain extent).

Basically my ability to see myself as normal is rapidly diminishing. I now have more daily treatments to do even when I'm not sick, and frankly, I'm semi-ok with that. At this point, if it'll keep me out of the hospital (which was a horrible experience btw), I'll do it. I guess my "normal" will just have to change a bit so that my entire life doesn't come to a grinding halt. Call it maturity, call it "all growed-up" call it what you want, but I've always been a path-of-least-resistance type person in most areas of my life and right now, that path is medical compliance.

I signed up for the Redman Sprint Triathlon on Sept. 20th, but I'm not allowed to start training until July 9th. So, until July 9th, I'll be here, grudgingly taking care of myself and treating my disease. :)