The Closest Call

This post contains some material that could be difficult for some to read. Please proceed with caution.

Sometimes, I wonder why I feel like I have to write.

I know, it’s been a while. But it’s also been a wild ride. In this year I’ve lost five people. Five. I’ve wanted to write. But I had no idea what to say.

This year started out with some of the most unbearable pain I’ve ever experienced. I have anxiety coupled with depression, and the two paired together make a nasty concoction of unease that can peak during times of stress. There was a political BS incident where one of my students was disqualified to show at our fair, and the parent lost their temper and because in today’s society, when you’re angry you have to blame someone for it, so I was put in her crosshairs.

And so it began. At this point I had already lost my Grandmother over the summer but I was dealing with it as best I could. She was in substantial amounts of pain. I was okay. So I thought at least.

School started. Things were off to a good start. I had a fair amount of new students, was teaching a new class, I was busy again. The anxiety was a beast below the surface, but it wasn’t rearing its ugly head. Depression seemed to be under control.

Then county fair happened. I was dealing with an angry parent and while I agreed with her on the anger at the fair itself, I didn’t deserve the way she was treating me. Teachers get abused by parents all the time. This was nothing new. But at the same time, knowing someone is after your job for something that isn’t your fault is a pretty frustrating thing.

Then the pain started.

At first, I honestly thought I was having a heart attack. I had to stay home from work to be able to try to get relief. It felt like someone was stabbing me in my ribcage on my right side repeatedly, over and over. I went to a Cardiologist. I was put on medical leave from work. I underwent extensive testing for my heart. A nurse told me there was nothing wrong. That I was going crazy. My husband started thinking it was a manifestation of my anxiety. Everyone in my life was telling me that I had nothing wrong, except for a couple people, who believed me.

Do you know what it’s like for a doctor to look at you like you’re crazy from a phantom pain? I do.

It sucks.

A month passed. My heart was tested over and over. I took a monitor home that gave me a rash under all the stickers that connected the wires to the device. Nothing showed up. No irregularities. Nothing. I went to the ER. They couldn’t find anything wrong either. Two shots of morphine didn’t help the pain at all. I was loopy, but still hurting.

I was miserable. I couldn’t get a release to go back to work. Couldn’t find anything wrong with my heart. Then my mom suggested going to see a Gastro doctor. I was unsure, but I went.

Initial diagnosis was a gallbladder filled with stones and to get it removed. All it would take was one test and it was a laparoscopic procedure and I was done.

The test didn’t show anything.

Except for a tumor on my liver.

So I had lost the possibility of a diagnosis again, and this time, I find out I have essentially a growing blood clot on my liver.

Great.

Went to get a second opinion. Asked the doctor if I should remove the tumor. He said there was a risk of bleeding out if they removed it. Awesome.

Went to a fertility doctor because David and I have been trying to get pregnant for years. She tells me a pregnancy will kill me and my baby (or babies), if I were to have one. She showed me how packed my ovaries were with eggs, but that if she gave me medicine to ovulate, I would have multiple babies. They wouldn’t survive a pregnancy because I am considered high-risk now. She refused to work with me.

The depression swallowed me whole.

I was unfixable. In pain. Physically, emotionally, and mentally exhausted.

I had a laparoscope put down my throat to check the inside of my stomach. They found a severe hiatal hernia and that the entire top of my stomach was red and inflamed.

“No wonder you’re in so much pain,” said the doctor.

I laughed like a maniac. I wasn’t crazy, and now, finally, I had a diagnosis. Now, to schedule surgery. Christmas break. The days came and went, and on the last Friday before break ended, the doctor called me to schedule surgery.

“I have to go back to work. My disability timing has run out.”

“Oh.”

We scheduled it for June. Six more months of pain.

I went back to work with extreme restrictions on what I was allowed to do. No lifting. No working with livestock. No barn. No FFA. Straight to work, then straight home.

Then, Grandpa got sick. Really sick.

I don’t need to repeat this story here. But I was there. In pain.

He didn’t get better.

The week Grandpa died, a coworker passed away. She was on the mend from cancer, and it was unexpected.

Then, on the way back from Grandpa’s funeral, we get a phone call from David’s mom. His cousin passed away, the one that was in perfectly healthy condition, got up, worked with his cattle, laid down for a nap, and never woke up.

Then my Great Aunt died too.

Emotionally, I was spent. So much death. I had lost any glimmer of happiness I once had. I went to work and came home and cleaned the house because the anxiety and the depression were at war with each other. I started seeing a therapist. Started taking medicine.

Then I lost it.

I can’t exactly say when it happened, but I lost my grip on my ability to see the future for myself.

I have known my whole life that I want to be a mother, and I’m one of the last holdouts of my friends that hasn’t had any kids yet. I know you’re not supposed to compare yourself to others, but at this point, I was lucky to get clothes on and make it through a whole day without a pain medicine break.

I went to professional development at school. The night before, I had been throwing up constantly because I had lost my tolerance to beef from the hernia, and I was in the most physical pain I could bear.

I was sitting in my truck at lunch. I wanted everything to go away. I wanted it to end. I wanted it to stop feeling like someone was endlessly running a chainsaw through my chest. I wanted my husband and mother to stop telling me to suck it up and go to work. I wanted a child, but couldn’t.

I could feel the tears building. I waited for the moment to pass. I held my breath. And instead of subsiding, the pain exploded. I was swept into an emotional tidal wave and I was along for the ride. All the grief, the anger, the pain, everything swirled around me, taunting me, cackling. I wanted to end my life. I wanted to be done.

I looked at my phone. Called Alexa. Told her I needed help. Left work, and went to the hospital.

You know what happens when you tell a hospital you’re considering suicide?

You get a body guard. They sit outside of your room. To keep you from finding something in the room from hurting yourself. They take your clothes and put them in a locker because you could be carrying something hazardous. They ask what your plan was. If you still have thoughts. I did.

My therapist office was calling me nonstop to make sure I had made it to the hospital and that I was supervised. That receptionist helped save my life.

I sat in the hospital bed for almost six hours. Talked with an evaluator and the shift doctor’s assistant. One told me I could go home. The other didn’t. Told me that since I didn’t ask for help that it was “the nail in my coffin”.

Finding out I was going to a institution was the scariest moment of my life. My stomach dropped through to the floor. I was shaking nonstop. My husband was furious that I didn’t call him first. My mom was terrified. I wanted my dogs. I wanted my home.

But I couldn’t go home.

I was strapped into an Ambulance and taken to a Rehabilitation unit for various maladies.

The story of my admittance is an important one, but it’s not the one for today. I will tell that one another time.

I stayed for the weekend, went to therapy, and got released. It was like being freed from jail. I was the happiest I had been in a long time. I felt okay.

When I went back to work, I didn’t mention anything to my students. They didn’t need to know how close they were to almost losing a teacher. I wasn’t allowed to be alone, so David stayed close by on sales calls. It’s a good thing he did.

While I was in class, someone anonymously called the district tip line and said I was going to use a weapon on campus. I was taken into protective custody, and while I understand that campus police has to do their due diligence for every possible threat, once they found out the anonymous tip was full of flaws in the story, like that I had left via ambulance from school the previous week and that I had weapons in my vehicle, when I didn’t even drive to work that day, I could have had a better explanation for them instead of sitting awkwardly in the office. While I was being evaluated by a third party trauma investigator and a sheriff to ensure I was mentally stable, they searched my classroom.

Would have been nice to know that was going to happen.

I was deemed suitable enough, but then I was asked to go to HR.

Great.

Anxiety swirled again. But this time I wasn’t alone. I had David.

HR asked me to get evaluated by a Psychologist to make sure I was mentally stable enough to return to work. I had to wait for two weeks. The appointment lasted two hours, but the doctor was nice enough, and allowed me to go back to work.

When I returned, my students laughed with me as I told them I had heard the rumors that I was a drug dealer, that I was going to bring weapons to the school, all the nonsense that happens when you teach at a small school where people like to gossip.

I told them people were crazy, that they loved to tell stories, and avoided the truth, because in reality, they don’t need to know.

But I survived. Somehow I rode the wave from almost disappearing into nothingness and started to try to see the joy in life. I noticed things again. I wasn't happy, but I had clawed my way through the mess to the other side, and started to pick up the pieces.

It’s been over a month since that day. I’m surviving, to put it bluntly, and taking things day by day. I took on a massive project working for a contractor in New York for my freelance writing business, which takes the majority of my time. But I’ve slowly been pulling the poison out of my life. Writing this was like lifting a boulder off my shoulders. I'm ending the silence.

It’s hard, but I’m better than where I was a month ago. Learning to deal with this close call has made me realize how much I really do have in my life. I am thankful. And I thank God every day that I won this war against my demons. They almost got me this time.

But I’m not giving up. I’m not giving in. This is my fight, and I won’t lose to them. Not this time. I have too much to live for.

#alwayskeepfighting