After dealing with an abnormally high level of stress and frustration in the past 60 days, in a fit of rage last weekend I shouted to my husband, “Maybe I am just better off dead! Take the life insurance money! Pay the bills and start over without me!” As usual, when I start a round of outbursts, the result of stress, menopause and heredity, he just looked up calmly and said “Sure.” And then went back to whatever he was doing.
By Tuesday, I had calmed down but my right arm was swollen, lumpy red and painful. Given my breast cancer history, swollen, lumpy and rashy anything is not a good sign, especially crawling up my arm to my armpit. I went to the doctor at the end of the day with plans to go to a friend’s 60th party afterward since her apartment was convenient to the doctor’s office. In other words, I was festively “dressed to the nines” when I showed up to show off my red, swollen arm.
The doctor examined me, looked at my history, wrote notes and then said slowly, “I want you to go immediately to Lenox Hill Emergency Ward. I am concerned you may have a blood clot.
I gasp and twirled – a habit when I become anxious- A BLOOD CLOT? You die of blood clots! People who are embedded in tanks in Iraq and travelers who do not move their limbs on long flights get blood clots. AND THEY SOMETIMES DIE! High anxiety ensued. The doctor told me to breathe in slowly and stop dancing around the examination room. He asked if I had any Lorazepam pills at home to calm me down.
The fragility of life and the fleeting essence of time bore down on me as my cab rattled and shook en route to Lenox Hill Hospital. Suddenly the words I uttered on Saturday. “Maybe I should just die!” rang hard in my head, and I wanted to take them back. I prayed and I repeated to myself, I will never wish I would die again. Please just not tonight; not this week; not now.
I spent four hours at Lenox Hill. I tried not to focus on the tests or the possibility that I had something potentially fatal going on. Instead I focused on my friend’s 60th birthday party taking place just six blocks away, determined to make it. I was all dressed up and hooked up to needles and machines. Nope, this week was not going to be my week to die or even to be down for the count. I have more birthdays to celebrate and more champagne to drink with friends. Screw the I.R.S.! Screw Wells-Fargo! and screw my clients who don’t pay their bills on time. They will not lead me down the path to another E.R. moment.
Fortunately, the evening ended better than it started. I did not have a fatal blood clot. I have a nasty bacterial infection of the skin. I am on antibiotics for awhile. Four hours later I did make it to my friend’s birthday gathering in time to drink champagne and have a piece of just-sliced cake. We sat around a table and laughed and toasted. “To life! And to more birthdays!” And the words had more meaning that night than ever.
As for the stealth skin infection that appeared out of nowhere, without a sign. We still can’t figure out how it happened. I have no cuts on my arm; no obvious signs of my skin being penetrated. But something really bad got under my skin. I’d say both physically and emotionally.
Oh, well maybe there is one sign: Someone higher up was giving me the Big Sign.
It said,”Melanie, Be Careful What You Wish For. Refocus! Regroup!”
