On May 3rd, I collapsed. I hadn't felt anything all day, but when the pain hit it was like someone shot me in the sternum. I was cold and pale and sweating, couldn't hear or stand or breathe. One ambulance ride and a few hours later I listened to a doctor as he calmly told me I had too many blood clots to count in my lungs. My husband was there, my mother was on the phone telling I don't know who what had happened to me.
So I stayed. For a week, I was in the hospital being poked and prodded and injected and dosed. My sister came home to cover my classes. My mum spent the week sitting in my room and passed the time by hand-beading a costume. My husband only left me for the last two nights I was there, working from the hospital room. These people were there for me. Me! Me, who never felt like she merited that much attention. It's hard to explain to someone what that week was like now that I've been home for about four weeks, but all I know is that at the time I felt very small. Very. . .not me.
It's strange, reclaiming yourself after something like that. Mum worries, Fahnz encourages, and the rest of the world seems larger somehow. Sometimes it seems as if I'm in a borrowed body, one that has broken and is carefully, slowly, delicately being put back together. I'm back at work in a lessened capacity and it's glorious, because I almost lost it and even though I can't do much I feel like I'm able to give more. Strange to think that my life is now numbers and blood draws and pills, but I feel more alive than ever.
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