Wednesday, April 17, 2013

He Told Me To (Part I)

Today I saw Brian, my ubertherapist. Somewhere toward the end of the session he said, "You should blog about this."

Eyebrows raised, I asked, "Really?"

"Yes," he said, "Some of our sessions are phenomenal."

And they are. Today was one such example. Problem is, without a recording, I recall less than half of what went on in an hour session. Yes, I can nutshell it, but the process is as revealing as the outcome and leaving that out, well, just doesn't seem right.

But maybe I should back up a little. Saturday I spent most of the day at the Villa Rica Art Fest, one of the volunteers available to assist artists and guests. At eleven I ate a hot dog from the concession stand, the first I'd had in ages. For the last eight weeks I've been on a mostly vegetarian diet. It tasted yum, even without the requisite onions.

Then, at the end of the pollen-filled, sunny day, too lazy to make a smoothie or a juice, I broke my own rule and went to Johnny's for a slice of their Italian Special. Sausage and pepperoni, onions, peppers, olives. Mmm. I also allowed myself a Coca-Cola, something I'm no longer drinking. Dinner was divine. But did you hear about the meat recall? I hadn't.

Around midnight-thirty, I turned The West Wing off, stretched loooong in the recliner, and felt a touch of vertigo. Uh oh. Don't need a case of that. On my feet, the vertigo's there and now, hmm, there's that feeling in the back of the throat that says 'make a dash for the toilet'. So I did.

Fast forward an hour and a half (be glad I'm sparing you the details). My long-sleeved tee is soaked with sweat, I have a wet towel around the back of my neck and I'm freezing cold. Also, don't forget the violent retching every time I move.

Desperate to get warm and go to sleep so the erping will stop, I ditch the wet towel and take my trashcan to the bedroom where, hallelujah, I finally get prone without retching. And almost passed out.

That did it. Pretty sure I might not wake up (ever) if I pass out, I punch 911 on the cell. A matter-of-fact, concerned female voice started asking me a series of questions. Bearing down on a brain that is as haywire as my guts, I answer each one. Until she asked if the door was unlocked. Uh. No. It's not. It's in the wee hours of the morning, after all.

Lisa? Linda? Whatever the saint's name, she stayed on the phone while I crawled to the front door, too weak by now to do anything else. I did have the presence of mind to grab my Uggs and a fleece jacket and managed to drag them on while I lay shivering on the floor, waiting for my bumpy ride.

The ambulance got me to ER (only a mile from my house) and delivered me unto the hands of the staff who stripped off the wet tee, slapped an IV on my left hand and a blood pressure cuff and sensor on my right hand/arm and proceeded to take my temperature. In the ambulance it had been 94.7 degrees! After several attempts orally, I was told to roll over. And you thought they didn't use rectal thermometers on adults. Wrong.

Now it's confirmed. My body temp is only 95 degrees. I am hypothermic.

At body temperatures under 95 degrees, the organs don't work well and the heart can (and eventually will) stop pumping. But passing out comes first.

Thank God, thank GOD, I called 911.

Otherwise you'd be minus one Rebel. Not that you'd notice much difference at my blog. I've hardly been around this last year or so. In my defense, I did write the bulk of a 95,000 word novel.

Only I digress. It's time to get back to Brian and our session, but I've decided to keep posts to manageable sizes. Stay tuned for Part II to be posted tomorrow.

Sayonara, Olivia J. Herrell

P.S. Rather have the full post all at once? The whole 1022 words? Rail against the machine. I'll put it up.

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