"repeating a thing doesn't make it better"

“How long has he been like this?”

I don't know, I got home from work and found him like this.

I worked late today, because my work has been piling up because Oct 1st Medicaid changed their formulary so they're rejecting 80% of the prescriptions the doctor writes and patients need their meds, and yada, yada, yada....

I have had my ass chewed by patients this week like you can not imagine because I'm not jumping through hoops fast enough or with the correct landing and it's just been unbelievable.

Three weeks ago I started my game plan to get Rich to call the doctor, any doctor, because he's not feeling well, and at the result of my gawd-damned bitching and demanding he takes his blood sugar and it is WAY too low. Repeatedly. For three weeks, results all over the place, So my campaign begins and carries on.

As per usual, I get ready to leave work at 18 :30 and call to let him know. No answer. Okay, so maybe he's in the potty, or maybe on his phone.

Fifteen minutes into my 45 minute commute I have a vision of how I will find him. Then I struggle mightily to reject this negative energy, focus on the positive; all while the vision of him is in my head.

I pull into the driveway and the house is DARK.

I walk into the kitchen and the entire downstairs is exactly as I left it at 07:00. Seriously, you know that feeling and it's god damned creepy. I dropped my bags and ran up the stairs. He was lying on the bed, a god-awful noise coming from him almost like snoring but only if it were coming from a daemon in the depths of Hell. His eyes were partially opened, rolled back in their sockets. There was foamy drool coming out of his mouth. I fucking panicked. It was the god damned vision I had fought during my 45 minute commute.

I did everything I knew to rouse him and failed. All I had was a freakin glucose tab on the beside so I placed it under his tongue and tried to hold it in place while I took his blood sugar. It was 31.

I tried desperately not to panic and held onto the glucose tab under his tongue while I called 911.

Time stood still. I'm rubbing that glucose tab under his tongue and begging him to hold on for me, and where is the god-damned squad, and how long has he been like this if the house looks like I left it twelve hours ago, and please don't leave me, and where is the god-damned squad and flashbacks to our last tour through the ER, and should I just lock the doors and crawl into bed beside him till he's gone, and can I go too, and where is the squad, and holy shit I've been here before, but not like this, and Please, please, please don't leave me, Richard, I love you.

The squad arrives and I can barely talk. As it turns out, it didn't matter. Because anything I said, I had to say in triplicate. So that could ask me to repeat it..... in triplicate.

By the time the squad arrives, I'm explaining the scene for the third time.

“I got home from work and found him unresponsive, struggled breathing, foaming at the mouth and his blood sugar is 91.”

For the third time—Is he diabetic?

NO. Not diabetic, not on insulin, no new meds.... I repeat three times his meds. I had to spell “flecainide” three times. They want to know why I checked his glucose. Because he exhibited signs of hypoglycemia?!?!?!?!? So again they ask me how long he's been like this and what symptoms he's had over the past few days.


So okay, I'm going to spare all of YOU what I was not spared of. I calmly explained to them the medical records you can recall from this blog. I shared this info in triplicate. They repeated their questions in triplicate. I answered in triplicate.
As they are trying to start an IV, they are getting increasingly FREAKED by the fact that his pulse ox is 100%, his BP is 142/74, and his pulse is 76. He is still unresponsive and drooling foam.
If they were to ask me again if he had symptoms, a fever, or how long he had been like this, I would have grabbed the pen from his hand and shoved it into my jugular vein.

Luckilu the dextrose IV kicked in.

Within 4 minutes of the glucose drip, Rich started to respond. Ten Minutes later Rich is holding court and everyone is happy that they saved the day and Rich is making new best friends and I'm standing in the dark quarter of the room holding back sobs while one of the EMS berates me for attempting a glucose tab and one of the voices is screaming “Yeah—like possible choking was the priority here,you sorry ass fuck..”

And while the EMS squad is congratulating themselves and directing me towards producing a peanut butter sandwich post haste, I suddenly find myself in a close encounter with hell. I have been here before. I know this place. I know the frustration, hopelessness, and sheer pain of this place.

EMS demanded that we sign papers that “we” were refusing transport. I said. “Have him sign.” Rich was happy to do so, and made quite a grand show of it—per the EMS.

They left, and I could not stop crying. I kept hearing them ask the same questions and me giving the same answers, and them repeating the questions like my answers were unacceptable. I relived my recent days of nagging Rich to call the doctor because he wasn't feeling well and his blood sugars were running low, and feeling like shit because all I do anymore is nag. I felt flashbacks to the last time we called the squad that drove us to the ER where I signed papers, and then 27 days of sitting at his deathbed because he wouldn't call the doctor after I begged him to call the doctor.

So I looked at him tonight after the dust settled and he was all comfy and chatty and glad to be alive. And I asked him gently....”what the fuck do you want from me?” He had no idea what I was talking about. So I explained.

“I can't go to work anymore, because I need to be here to take care of you. That means we will lose our insurance, and then we will lose everything. Or I could hire a babysitter for you to make sure you do want needs done, in which case I'll be working to work; or I could just put you in a nursing home. What do I need to do???? What do you want? Because I'm at the end of my fucking rope.”

He just looked at me.

I don't know what I have to say or how I have to say it to make him hear me.

I sat on the edge of the bed beside him and cried. He stared at me while I cried. I begged him to tell me what he wants me to do. I screamed in the empty space between us ---I love you, I believe in you. PLEASE help me know what to do. He stared at me a moment, shrugged, and looked away. I told him I believe he will beat this. He nodded. I begged him to tell me my place in this. He shrugged and looked away.

So I came downstairs and sat on the couch and cried through two cups of tea and three handkerchiefs.

I'm just a bit tired now. A wee bit off my game. Not quite sure what my next step should be. Can't stop crying and feel like I have gallons to go....