Another Tuesday Night In April

Content warnings: hospitals/medical stuff (including needle mention), asthma/lung stuff, death, near-death experience. 

 

I spent most of Tuesday night/Wednesday morning in the hospital.

 

There's a lot to unpack here, and I'm mostly writing this to sort things out in my brain.

 

On Easter Sunday, we went to the in-laws' place for an Easter meal. This had been planned for a couple of weeks, so we dutifully woke up early to make the drive out. When we arrived, we found that 90% of the family had either had a cold within that past 48 hours or were actively in the throes of one. My husband's sister sounded like she'd been chain-smoking for centuries. If it wasn't for that, we may never have known. Nobody said a single word about being sick. Even the sister said at first that she'd just lost her voice yelling during a hectic card game the night before. Less than five minutes later, she was saying she caught it from her son.

 

Within hours, my husband was showing symptoms. He took it upon himself to sleep in the spare room to spare me. He had a very sore throat and complained of headache and joint pain -- just a regular, annoying cold.

 

Tuesday night, April 7th.

 

I was sitting at the kitchen table playing Core Keeper (I LOVE THIS GAME) and my husband was beside me at his desk, playing Valheim/Helldivers, depending which of our friends on the Discord call needed more help at the moment.

 

I started coughing more than usual around 7:30 or so and my immediate thought was 'oh no, I'm getting that cold too.' But the cough felt different than both my usual chronic cough and the cough I get when I have a cold. It was an abnormally dry, persistent cough that moved absolutely nothing, and it was happening after every. single. breath I took. Not intermittently, not every other breath, every single breath.

 

I noted that that was weird, but kept drinking my tea and kept playing the game. I took shallower breaths to try to avoid triggering the cough, and while that sort of helped, that also meant I was not getting as much oxygen. Focusing on the game became harder and harder, even though I tried to switch to more mindless in-game tasks like gardening. Finally I quit the game and rested my head on the table. Breathing was taking every ounce of my focus and I no longer had enough spare brainpower to hold up my head.

 

I slid to the floor and literally crawled to get my blue inhaler (maybe ten feet away, if that?). I laid on the ground for ten minutes trying to gather enough energy just to shake it. I managed one dose, at 9:30pm. My lungs were burning, like a chemical burn, like there was acid in my chest. I was trying to breathe slowly and calmly to avoid triggering a panic response on top of whatever was already happening.

 

The entire time I lay on that floor with the inhaler in my hand, I kept thinking of the girl who lived in the room next to mine in my freshman year of college. She was a bit of a writer too, energetic and empathetic, with that determined zest for life that many depression survivors have. I remembered reading the news stories that ran after she died of influenza in January 2020. Healthy to dead in eight hours. She had only been married for a few months. She had been so happy for those few months.

 

Was this what influenza felt like? Or was I just overreacting again?

 

My husband asked if I should go to the hospital. I said 'maybe,' and started packing a bag. Phone charger, extra sweaters, extra pair of warm socks, water bottle, my daily meds in case I wasn't home by morning.

 

Around this point, my chest muscles were becoming fatigued. After every exhalation my muscles were so exhausted that I didn't have the physical energy to trigger an inhalation. I would sit there in a fully exhaled state for a full 5-8 seconds before my automatic nervous system would kick in and force an inhalation. This was happening every breath. I considered calling an ambulance to transport me due to the fatigue, but tho hospital was less than ten minutes away, and the decision to go to the hospital had given me enough adrenaline to stand. I drove myself.

 

By then it was 10:15. There were exactly three other cars in the entire parking lot. The place looked abandoned. I parked as close to the entrance as I legally could, shuffled very slowly to the door (wondering the entire time if I was overreacting by coming here), pressed the 'night call' button, and lurched through the automatic doors into a dark and completely deserted emergency room. A nurse appeared at a door to the side.

 

"Are you here as a patient?" she asked. I had no breath left to respond, so I just nodded. She beckoned me into the room behind her and got me registered and triaged, then led me straight into a room.

 

I fully expected them to do bloodwork and 'diagnose' me with anemia, the way every other doctor in the country has for sixteen years. But no needle appeared. The nurse listened to my chest in several places with a stethoscope, then the doctor came in and did the same thing. He quickly formed the opinion that I had a virus, and I feared I was going to be sent home to struggle, but I was not officially released. The doctor swabbed my nose for a COVID test, then left. After some interval of time (I was so focused on breathing that I didn't track how long), the nurse returned and deposited a pile of inhalers and a cup of water on my little side table.

 

It was then that I learned I was having a legitimate asthma attack.

 

She gave me a spacer and careful instructions on how many doses to take of each inhaler, then brought me a cup of applesauce with a Reactine and a Prednisone crushed and stirred into it (because I can't swallow pills). She returned yet again with a needle -- not for bloodwork, but to inject Toradol. I tried to argue that the pain wasn't that bad and probably a standard Advil would suffice, but I did not officially refuse so she went ahead and gave it to me.

I took all the inhalers as instructed, then got the medication slurry down (Prednisone tastes awful, even in applesauce).

 

Then... nothing, for a very long time. I drifted in and out of sleep, wrapped in all the sweaters I'd brought with me. The pain in my joints and my chest did ease up, a little.

 

Sometime around 1:00am, the nurse poked her head in to ask how I was feeling. I asked what exactly we were waiting for, and she said the doctor wanted to keep me for observation for a few hours.

 

That felt strangely validating. It meant they were actually worried about my condition and didn't feel safe just handing me a prescription and sending me back home. Content with their level of concern, I texted my husband an update and drifted back to sleep... no easy feat on such a hard bed.

 

Around 2am the nurse went off shift and was replaced. Shortly after, the doctor came in and gave me the option to stay the night or go home and rest there. As much as I wanted to ask to stay the night, the bed was so hard and the burning in my lungs had indeed gone away. He asked how far of a drive it was. I told him not even ten minutes. He asked if I felt safe to drive that far. I said yes (after all, I had driven to the hospital in far worse shape). He then gave me a run-down.

 

The COVID swab would not get back for testing until late the next day (there are no testing facilities in this region; all specimens are picked up daily and trucked in to the capital city some 3-4 hours away for actual testing). His educated guess was that I had a viral infection, so he prescribed three more days of Prednisone. This as-yet-unnamed infection had triggered an asthma attack, so he directed me to keep the inhalers I had already taken -- two puffs of one twice per day and two puffs of the other one every 4-6 hours as needed. They would contact me with the results of the test once they had it, if it was COVID or influenza, I might be asked to return for further treatment. (Personal aside: I don't think it's COVID, as I've had it twice already and both times it presented like strep throat. This does not line up at ALL with my experience this week. But maybe a different version would cause different symptoms?)

I packed my colourful collection of new inhalers and went home.

 

The next day (yesterday) I was tired but feeling surprisingly good, considering. I took all the inhalers as directed and filled my prescription. My boss had already found someone to cover all my shifts for the week and told me to focus on resting.

 

I thought a lot yesterday about my cousin. Playing with her siblings at the playground across the street one Tuesday evening at 7:30, dead in an ER bed by 10pm. Tuesday nights were tainted for years following that one. Tuesday nights in April were the worst of all. And here I was fighting the same monster that killed her eleven years less three weeks before.

 

The losses echo in my head. Eight hours to dead. Three hours to dead. Healthy to ER in three hours. It seems hours aren't really that long, and yet within each one hangs an entire life in suspension. When lungs hit a wall, they hit it hard and fast. Somehow Brittney lived like this every day for 22 whole years.

Today I feel measurably worse than yesterday. I've set a timer for the 4-hour inhaler and am taking it EXACTLY every four hours (not seeing if I can stretch it to five or six hours), but I'm not sure it's helping as much anymore. I am considering going back to the ER. The burning has not returned, and the cough is not quite every single breath yet, but my chest muscles are getting fatigued again and there is a distinct sense of pressure. At what point do you go to the hospital? How close was I to death on Tuesday night, really? Should I have gone sooner? How bad is too bad?

 

I don't feel that this will be my last post on here, however life is only dealt out to us in hourly doses and none of us really knows how many doses we have left.

 

If it is, thank you for being here. Remember me as a quiet courageous person who felt whole while writing and dancing, who loved her husband, her friends, and her family dearly, who could do nothing but rely on the scandalous grace of God (as she was not capable of earning His favour). Play some Daniel Amos or White Heart and dance for me. Maybe learn some choruses from the Nachmo Alphabet project.

 

If it is not, then I look forward to writing in this composition window again soon.

In the meantime:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qMgFRTfeGYI

 

 

 

 

(Don't think I wasn't tempted to do a Rick Roll there.) 

Day 1

Silence all, nobody breathe

How in the world could You just leave?

You promised You would

Silence that evil with good...

 

- Elle G, Newsboys, 1994

Day 1 without Jesus.

 

Remember the day after that good friend or close relative died?

 

Remember how you had to navigate the world without getting to bounce ideas off of them, tell them stories, vent to them without judgment? Remember how you kept counting them in place settings? Remember finding little gifts or cards that you couldn't buy for them? Remember having to correct yourself when you talked about them in present tense? Remember how every single atom of your being protested having to make those changes?

Remember the day after the end of the world?

 

That's what today was for the first followers of Jesus.

Crossroads

I don't know how to preamble this post.

 

I've been thinking lately about officially giving up dance. Possibly both dance and choreography.

 

I tell myself it's a time thing. While I like my job, it still takes away from my creative endeavours. I anticipate staying with this company for a long time (with construction and fast food, I always knew those were stopgaps and not a career). But I'm not fully convinced that's the real reason.

 

Maybe it's fear. Even though my two most recent performances were very well received, the memory of having an entire cast and assistant choreographer turn against me no matter how hard I tried to accommodate their self-professed 'lack of ability' (which was really a lack of commitment and/or self-confidence) still burns deep into my brain.

 

I know I don't really like making the videos. Shooting practice footage is fun, but I feel the need to make 'real' dance videos, with visual themes and costumes and stuff. I don't even mind editing, but I hate trying to scout viable locations and trying to motivate myself to practice enough and trying to put together a costume that isn't either stupid expensive or the same as literally every other dance video ever.

 

And I've 'locked' myself into making a dance video that's supposed to premiere in May.

 

I have the dance memorised and relatively clean (other than the ending -- which is probably also a contributing factor for the resistance I'm encountering). I love this song and I've been wanting to do a video to it since the song was released. I've already test-driven it in front of a live audience and heard nothing but positive feedback. There is absolutely no reason for me NOT to do this.

 

Am I just letting the fear and the bad experiences win, or am I finally being rational about my time and energy for once in my life? Is the distance in my soul a call from God or a siren song from Satan?

 

Despite all the pain and discouragement I've gone through in my career, this is the first time I have legitimately, peaceably, rationally considered quitting. (I had decided to quit performing once before, in 2019, but that was mostly for attention/as a way of self-harm. It was not, by any possible stretch, a rational decision.) I'm really not sure what to make of this. Even when dancing was difficult due to health, lack of motivation, busy schedule, emotional trauma... I never considered quitting, not truly. I still saw the dancers in my head. I still danced to music when doing housework. I still do.

 

What I loved about it was the feeling of flying. The air rushing between my fingers, my muscles firing, the elation of 'solving' a difficult passage and being able to perform it automatically. Performing in front of people or cameras was cool, but those weren't my driving force. I just loved the act of dancing. I love the way my body and mind felt when I danced. It cleared my head like nothing else. Maybe this is the same high people get from meditating?

 

As far as I know, I still love the act of dancing. The alphabet superset I did for Nachmo this year was a lot of fun. I've lost relatively little from the extended pandemic/apartment life drought, and what I had lost seemed to come back with little difficulty. I came out of Nachmo with one full piece that I really love, and some great starts to quite a few others.

 

And yet... I'm still sitting here, wondering if I should officially walk away.

 

It wouldn't be hard, really. I stopped posting the rehearsal videos years ago, when my in-laws banned me from posting on social media. As far as most people are aware, I've already stopped. If we're perfectly honest, the only person acting under the delusion that I'm still actively choreographing (let alone actually dancing) is me.

 

Would life be simpler without dance? Absolutely. Without a doubt. No question.

 

I would have free time. The imposter syndrome would have far less fodder. There would be less paper cluttering the house and annoying my husband (I find it easier to choreograph longhand). It would be so much simpler to just stop even thinking of myself as a choreographer and focus on my day job, or marriage, or housework, or entertaining, or writing.

But twelve years ago, I was on this very blog saying that I felt called to walk this path, no matter how difficult or lonely it got. I believed it then -- in many ways I still do believe that. I believed God had called me to dance, to choreograph, to somehow bring hope to people through it.

I don't think I've done that. If anything, I'm farther away from that now than I was when I started.

Is the work done? Is my work done? Is it time to pass the torch? If so, to whom? Both my sisters have also stopped dancing. M is dead. Most of my surviving dance friends have already moved on to 'real life.'

And if my work is not done, than what work is it, and why can't I see the way forward?

 

And if I can't answer those, there's always the question I would have asked twelve years ago on this very blog -- which option gives God more glory?

 

As usual, I don't know. I never know. I'm always paralysed by fear and uncertainty and indecision and it characterizes me as a person and the way I live my life. 

2026 Goal Update

We're two months into 2026 already. Time to check if I've even started on any of my goals.

 

Financial: I did get a little bit of Christmas money. It has not been invested, however it has made it as far as the 'we forget this money exists' savings account (which is better than usual). There have been several opportunities to spend it, but so far I have stayed strong. I'm not sure it's enough to actually invest. I haven't set up the autotransfer yet because my unemployment benefits didn't kick in until literally last week, and the plan was to schedule the autotransfer for the days that I'll be receiving the payments. I applied for a job opportunity that someone mentioned to me that I'm actually really excited about and would be a great side hustle (and then I could dump most or even all of that income into savings/investments), but I haven't heard anything back yet. That makes me nervous.

 

Dance: The Nachmo alphabet project went well overall. I have gotten very little feedback from the hand-picked group that I emailed, which is disappointing. But I did get my 50th YouTube subscriber! I guess it's not a lot by most people's standards, but considering how little I actually advertise my YouTube channel (and by that I mean I literally never mention it at all), that's not bad.

In February, I switched to working on actually memorising the dance I want to film in the spring as well as developing another longer show (similar to Sottovoce). I'm already one piece deep into the longer show (already memorised and everything!), and I'm intentionally taking a lot of time to really slow down the dance I'm planning to film in the spring and nail down the exact footwork and dynamics. This piece has the potential to be incredible, but it will take a ton of work to get there. While it is possible to shoot from the hip on this piece (that's exactly what I did when I performed it live last year), familiarity will make it really shine.

I'm still planning the Project Board, however the corkboard in the size I want is over $45. This is a significant amount of money considering we lived on $50 total (for gas, groceries, meds, etc) for the entire past two months. For now, I'm testing out smaller-scale versions in journals with post-it notes and colourful pens. I have also made a schedule for the videos I want to create in 2026. I have written down dates to start memorising, filming, editing, AND uploading (not just an 'upload' date). Hopefully having multiple milestone deadlines will help the ADHD spend some sustained amount of time on it rather than trying to cram the ENTIRE thing into two days and then inevitably getting angry when it's decidedly sub-par. (That being said, I have put myself in a position where that's exactly what I'm doing for my next YouTube post.)

 

Kyrie: This is actually the area where I've made the most progress. That one-sentence-minimum has been MAGIC for this thing. I finished the 'date' scene that I'd been stuck on for two years, and the next day I did over half of the following scene. I have, like, actual momentum for the first time since I did the first rewrite in 2022.

 

The WIP pile is still much larger than I had hoped it would be at this point. I only just finished the Christmas gifts at the beginning of February. The sewing projects are on an indefinite hiatus again as my sewing machine has broken in a way that renders it completely useless. It will cost over $120 just to diagnose the issue. So it's on ice until money grows on trees.

Sleep: I spent January marking down, with colour-coded pens, what time I 'go to bed' (with my pile of music and books and other assorted crap) and what time I actually turn off the light and go to sleep. The 'go to bed' time hovers anywhere from 12:15 to 1:30. The 'go to actual sleep' time is consistently after 2:45am. I think it's been before 2:45 ONE time in the entire month of January. I was very close to despairing over this goal. I honestly didn't think it's attainable in any universe, and it's been made very clear to me that the goal is not just 'better/less bad,' the goal is ABSOLUTE PERFECTION. I don't even know where or how to start with this.
In February, my goal was to at least brush my teeth before 1:30am. Brushing my teeth seems to be the sticking point that prevents my brain's programming from jumping to the 'initiate actually going to bed' sequence. It actually sort of worked, I managed the goal 2-3 times most weeks, and probably 2-3 times outside of that I was less than half an hour late. This is progress. For March, I want to walk back the time to 1:00am, and I'm much more worried about that.

Community: can't invite people over if we don't have money for ingredients to feed them... I'm perfectly okay living on soup and sandwiches for weeks on end, however I feel that guests should get something with a little more thought put into it. Since our financial situation had us living on rice and whatever was in the freezer, we have not invited any guests over other than my sister.

That being said, I did make some connections at the local church (yes, I'm going to church even after everything that's happened over the past decade or so), and will be attending a Bible study on Tuesday and see how that goes.

Something I've been trying is picking one major month-long project to focus on, with two other main projects to touch on daily. January's project was the Nachmo alphabet project (with the secondary ones being Kyrie and one of the crochet WIPs). For February I chose to focus on a writing opportunity with an early March deadline as my major project for the month, with Kyrie as a co-focus (I work on both during my writing session). The secondary projects are usually dance/choreography related, and so far the third has been continued work on the WIP pile.
The project for March is kind of two-fold: the writing opportunity will be the main one until the deadline at the beginning of next week, and I might shift to a dance-related primary goal after that.

Grief, Ten Years Later

The Year From Hell (2015, for any new readers) is now ten full years ago.

 

In retrospect, this was probably the time when we should have started to suspect my brain wasn't quite up to par. I was sending college update emails trying, trying, trying yet again to explain the depths of the pain I was in. I was writing five and six thousand word emails to everyone back home, trying to make sense of everything that was happening to me. And to be fair, it was a lot. How many other 21-year-olds are mourning three deaths in two months, two family-destroying divorces, and a late-stage aggressive cancer diagnosis (for one of the very few not-dramatic members of the family) while also trying to graduate from an extremely demanding program from a very tough college?

 

By all rights I should have been making friends and going on dates to find the guy to build a family with and starting a career. Instead I was losing friends, losing family and watching money divide what little family survived all the deaths.

 

I was such a baby adult, and instead of getting 'real life' drip-fed to me over the course of 30-40 years like everyone else does, I got a full lifetime (maybe more) of pain and betrayal in one three-month wallop. And I could not understand how everybody thought I should just pop right back up and continue on with life as if nothing at all happened. I still sometimes think if none of those things had happened and the only bad thing that happened to me in 2015 was some kind of romantic break-up, I would have gotten ten times the love and concern from home compared to the amount of love and concern I did get during the Angel Of Death rampage that actually happened.

As the anger from the readers back home mounted about my (rightful?) despair, my emails grew longer and longer as I tried to make them see just how bad things really were. But of course they never saw. I was still in that naive autistic phase of 'if I just explain better/more then they'll understand.' I know now that some people have absolutely zero intention of understanding and that explanation in general is essentially worthless. That's a big part of why I don't really talk to people at all anymore. I'm so completely done with the wilful misunderstanding.

 

I can't even tell you how many times people just sent a terse email saying 'you need counselling,' only for me to fire back that I was, in fact, in counselling twice a week. Two hours a week was not even close to enough time to process everything. I would sit in the counsellor's office, talking non-stop for the full hour (and sometimes a little bit longer if his next person wasn't there yet), and leave without any appreciable difference in my soul other than the tiniest modicum of relief that I didn't get scolded for simply acknowledging all the bad things that were happening to me, in real life, in real time.

 

If I wasn't neurodivergent, would my grief have been smaller, easier to manage? Would it have been easier for all the email recipients back home to relate to me and show a little kindness? Would the pain have gone away at some point instead of still lingering in the shadows even today? Would the angry replies from back home have added less hurt to the already-insurmountable mountain range of pain? Would I have a slight hope of ever being happy again... without looking over my shoulder, still fully expecting to see the Angel Of Death leering over me, scythe raised?

I dreamed last night about a child drowning and I woke up crying, with the ever-familiar ache of loss in my chest. I didn't actually know or recognise this child, but in the dream, in the story my brain spun, it was my brother. He didn't look like either of my real-life brothers, but when he died the pain was the same.

 

Ten full years and I still dream of death when I sleep.