Throwing Out My Trash
Your Liver is both a Recycling Bin and a Garbage Dump. When you put everything into you, it all swirls around, various organs wake up or go to sleep, but your Liver basically has insomnia.
It works non-stop. If there’s anything left that’s good from what you stuffed in you, cool! We’ll clean that up and chuck it back into you, fresh blood added, no charge!
Blech. What was THAT?
This is the Garbage Dump Situation. Too much Toxic Waste and your Liver. Well? Who on earth has internal HAZMAT Suits for all of their organs!
It appears, mine might be more of a Garbage Dump right now. Maybe? Not worthy of HAZMAT though.
I have a whack of bloods to do. And one “serum.” A, B, C…serum! There are no types of blood screenings for Hepatitis C.
Yes, Sweetie GP is thorough! Either that, or my Liver is a massive Garbage Dump and I’m really sick.
It all started with an elevated enzyme but which one? I don’t know. One nurse in the office wasn’t available to go over all the results and give me all the levels of anything off.
I know it’s related to alcohol. Mostly. 20+ years of “Drink Any Man Under the Table Bipolar” has done that to me. I wish it hadn’t.
And please don’t blame me for blaming it for blaming me. Bipolar does many awful things. Things where you have no control when not treated. So I say, under certain circumstances, “Blame The Beast.”
But not all of them.
I can’t believe all of the other enzymes she’s ordered that she’s never done with me before. There are basic ones that are always done with just standard Physical Exams. But…
Still, here I sit. Still drinking. Right now, actually.
It’s hard being an addict.
And yet, she could tell me I have three months to live and I’d be fine with that. Enough time to get my affairs in order, work with her for what I wanted and needed…and have her there.
I’m not afraid of death. It surrounds me.
Forever wanting to work in the Funeral Industry, working in an HIV/AIDS Hospice, pursuing a career in Medicine as a Palliative Nurse.
Attempting suicide and ending up in a coma for three days. I still wonder if I did clinically die before being fully intubated and put on a respirator. The records are too spotty to tell. I should have been dead.
Why do I feel so scared now?
Is it because I had complete control over death in all of those situations?
Is it now because I’m staring at a piece of paper I don’t understand?
Is it a piece of paper that could lead to a place where I have no control?
Delivered by WP+Android=Technocrap