Sunday, June 13, 2010
Pity...Party of One?
The metaphorical restaurant hostess is constantly calling out to me in my mind, inviting me to be seated. I resist most of the time, but sometimes it’s easier just to raise my hand and say – yep, that’s me: the Pity party.
I know I’m lucky to be alive. I know I’m fortunate to be awaiting a heart outside of the hospital. I appreciate that I can work and socialize and maintain a relatively normal life during this ordeal. But sometimes looking on the bright side just requires too much effort. Sometimes I just want to feel sorry for myself. Sometimes I just need to throw myself a pity party.
I’m tired. I’m tired of carrying around a pump for my 24-hour IV meds. I’m tired of waking up early every morning to change them. I’m tired of feeling like I need to wear long sleeves to cover the site. I’m sick of hurrying through my showers so I can reconnect myself to my medicine source. I’m tired of twisting myself up in my tubing while I sleep.
Aside from the IV, I’m just tired of being tired. On the weekends, I sleep about fifteen out of every twenty-four hours. During the week, I’m awake for about two hours each day when I’m not working or commuting. I’m sick of dreading social gatherings because of how exhausting they are. I’m tired of taking the elevator to my second floor office.
Even as I write this, I know it could be so much worse. A friend and coworker lost her battle with breast cancer about a year ago at age 32. Soldiers are injured and killed in Iraq and Afghanistan every day. Plenty of other heart patients are hospitalized or stuck with ventricular assist devices, which are far more cumbersome than my IV pump and defibrillator. Most of the time, I can maintain this perspective and be grateful that I’m alive. But occasionally, I allow myself a brief pity party.