The Price of Optimism, Part II
When I wrapped up the previous entry, I was clouding the scene with dire overtones. For the next three nights, I was sleepless. The coughing and incredibly painful swallowing combined to rouse me from sleep every time I drifted off. There weren't more than five or ten minutes sleep in each day, and that usually came in the afternoon when I'd managed to eat/drink enough of the right things to grant me some duller pain moments.
My brother reported hearing A (1) snore from the couch where I was sleeping. Once.
I don't know if you classify that as insomnia. I always had much more fuzzy mental pictures of "insomnia", with the chronically afflicted people working away into the night on projects of one kind or the other. It wasn't that they couldn't get to sleep as much as they'd simply determined they could do without!
This was like dying of sleep thirst. I desperately wanted to go to bed. My entire brain screamed continuously how much sleep I was missing. But the medical conditions conspired to keep me away from anything resembling sleep.
At first, it wasn't too bad. The first night was an oddity. "Oh, look! I'm up all night. How "Animal House"! I laughed at the lack of things to watch on TV at 3 AM. In the morning, I ate breakfast and hit the ground running.
The second night was less fun. I tried to sleep in the bed, but moved downstairs earlier than the first night. I ended up playing commentary tracks to "Return of the King" in the dark with a warm cloth over my eyes, so I wouldn't go insane waiting for the next time I absolutely had to swallow. I don't know what anybody talked about during those commentaries, but with a four hour-plus movie, it eats up a lot of time.
The third night I no longer made an attempt at starting the evening in bed. I knew it would be pointless. The madness was starting to percolate to the top. I watched a wretched movie with Julia Stiles, who wanted to be a doctor, and some generic British guy, who was the crown prince of Denmark. But she didn't know he was the prince and they fell in love, even though he starts as a Jerk. But then they move to Denmark, and Miranda Richardson was his mother and James Fox was his father. I kept waiting for Miranda Richardson to be the evil witch, as she so often is. I was disappointed.
Luckily, I was still sane enough to avoid the sequel which aired immediately following. Same guy, different girl, still trying to get married, etc. I remember crying a couple of times, which had less to do with the movie and more with the awful constriction in my throat.
The next morning, Monday, we tried to get into the doctor's office. Whatever I had wasn't getting any better, and I really couldn't be relied to shrug off a fourth night's sleep as easily as the other three.
We couldn't get my previous doctor, but got an appointment with one of the other fellows in the office. He turned out to be a short, brusque man who looked in my ears, nose, and throat and announced what I needed to do and take. I was happy to have anyone tell me to do anything.
The cough syrup he recommended was nice (though foul tasting). The aerosol steroid was fun (never had an inhaler before) but didn't really seem to do anything. It was mainly for wheezing, which I wasn't doing. And I had a prescription for antibiotics, but directions not to fill it unless it unless things seemed to be getting worse.
Things didn't improve. I felt that I had a stone in my throat. When I swallowed, it would go down, until it got low enough to cause me to cough. That would make it ascend until it started to tickle, which would force me to swallow, which lowered the stone again. Also, coughing and swallowing still hurt tremendously. I couldn't escape this stone. It became my entire reality; getting the stone up, bringing it down. It wasn't even possible to distract myself with other things; eventually my eyes would lose focus and I'd swallow or cough again.
By dinner, the prospect of another sleepless night and many more to come was starting to burden my emotional control. After coughing so hard I strained by neck and chest (which produced no relief from the (imaginary?) stone, I broke down crying. Not that "two or three tears" stuff when people get married, but a composure-destroying sniveling-fest. I felt so helpless and frustrated. What could be done?
Eventually, we went to the emergency room. That produced people who actually listened. Acute sinusitis and acute bronchitis were diagnosed. Much time was spent making sure we understood what was needed. It was like being wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. Everyone was so helpful and concerned.
At the close of our stay, the nurse was talking to me and my mom about what to take at what times, when to use warm cloths on my face...... when suddenly, I felt strange. My vision swam and I felt pins and needles on my lips. The nurse was talking, but I tried my best to interrupt her. "I..." "I thi...."
Finally she stopped talking. "I feel strange," I managed to get out. By this time, visual noise had completely covered my vision. I heard the nurse start moving into action.
"Do you feel like you're going to pass out?" She asked that two or three times, and I wanted to explain that I've never really had the feeling of passing out before. I have no idea if this is it or not. That was too long a sentence, though, so all I ended up getting out was, "I feel like I'm ... fading."
By this time, I'd gone white. Apparently, my lips (ordinarily quite red) had gone blue. I could feel people stroking my arm and commenting on the clammy and sweaty nature. My blood pressure, which had been 130/90, had fallen to 80/40.
Eventually, my "fainting spell" passed. It was a possible side effect of running 103 degree fever (as I was). Exciting, though.
As I write this, a week later, I feel fine. The cough has receded to a one-in-a-while thing. The throat pain has vanished. The headache is gone, as is the fever. I'm basically back to normal.
In the height of my sleep deprivation, I had passing thoughts about all those people over the years who have complained that I don't show enough emotion. Surely they would have been satisfied to see me break down sobbing after coughing yet another time. Or the fact that I saw a Christmas tree in someone's window on the way to the ER and cried. Or that in the dead of night I had conversations with myself about whether or not it was possible to die of lack of sleep like that "Star Trek: The Next Generation" episode.
I eventually decided that no matter what I thought, part of me was correct in that the lack of sleep would just be a contributing factor to death. I was certainly able to put me in my place!
My brother reported hearing A (1) snore from the couch where I was sleeping. Once.
I don't know if you classify that as insomnia. I always had much more fuzzy mental pictures of "insomnia", with the chronically afflicted people working away into the night on projects of one kind or the other. It wasn't that they couldn't get to sleep as much as they'd simply determined they could do without!
This was like dying of sleep thirst. I desperately wanted to go to bed. My entire brain screamed continuously how much sleep I was missing. But the medical conditions conspired to keep me away from anything resembling sleep.
At first, it wasn't too bad. The first night was an oddity. "Oh, look! I'm up all night. How "Animal House"! I laughed at the lack of things to watch on TV at 3 AM. In the morning, I ate breakfast and hit the ground running.
The second night was less fun. I tried to sleep in the bed, but moved downstairs earlier than the first night. I ended up playing commentary tracks to "Return of the King" in the dark with a warm cloth over my eyes, so I wouldn't go insane waiting for the next time I absolutely had to swallow. I don't know what anybody talked about during those commentaries, but with a four hour-plus movie, it eats up a lot of time.
The third night I no longer made an attempt at starting the evening in bed. I knew it would be pointless. The madness was starting to percolate to the top. I watched a wretched movie with Julia Stiles, who wanted to be a doctor, and some generic British guy, who was the crown prince of Denmark. But she didn't know he was the prince and they fell in love, even though he starts as a Jerk. But then they move to Denmark, and Miranda Richardson was his mother and James Fox was his father. I kept waiting for Miranda Richardson to be the evil witch, as she so often is. I was disappointed.
Luckily, I was still sane enough to avoid the sequel which aired immediately following. Same guy, different girl, still trying to get married, etc. I remember crying a couple of times, which had less to do with the movie and more with the awful constriction in my throat.
The next morning, Monday, we tried to get into the doctor's office. Whatever I had wasn't getting any better, and I really couldn't be relied to shrug off a fourth night's sleep as easily as the other three.
We couldn't get my previous doctor, but got an appointment with one of the other fellows in the office. He turned out to be a short, brusque man who looked in my ears, nose, and throat and announced what I needed to do and take. I was happy to have anyone tell me to do anything.
The cough syrup he recommended was nice (though foul tasting). The aerosol steroid was fun (never had an inhaler before) but didn't really seem to do anything. It was mainly for wheezing, which I wasn't doing. And I had a prescription for antibiotics, but directions not to fill it unless it unless things seemed to be getting worse.
Things didn't improve. I felt that I had a stone in my throat. When I swallowed, it would go down, until it got low enough to cause me to cough. That would make it ascend until it started to tickle, which would force me to swallow, which lowered the stone again. Also, coughing and swallowing still hurt tremendously. I couldn't escape this stone. It became my entire reality; getting the stone up, bringing it down. It wasn't even possible to distract myself with other things; eventually my eyes would lose focus and I'd swallow or cough again.
By dinner, the prospect of another sleepless night and many more to come was starting to burden my emotional control. After coughing so hard I strained by neck and chest (which produced no relief from the (imaginary?) stone, I broke down crying. Not that "two or three tears" stuff when people get married, but a composure-destroying sniveling-fest. I felt so helpless and frustrated. What could be done?
Eventually, we went to the emergency room. That produced people who actually listened. Acute sinusitis and acute bronchitis were diagnosed. Much time was spent making sure we understood what was needed. It was like being wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. Everyone was so helpful and concerned.
At the close of our stay, the nurse was talking to me and my mom about what to take at what times, when to use warm cloths on my face...... when suddenly, I felt strange. My vision swam and I felt pins and needles on my lips. The nurse was talking, but I tried my best to interrupt her. "I..." "I thi...."
Finally she stopped talking. "I feel strange," I managed to get out. By this time, visual noise had completely covered my vision. I heard the nurse start moving into action.
"Do you feel like you're going to pass out?" She asked that two or three times, and I wanted to explain that I've never really had the feeling of passing out before. I have no idea if this is it or not. That was too long a sentence, though, so all I ended up getting out was, "I feel like I'm ... fading."
By this time, I'd gone white. Apparently, my lips (ordinarily quite red) had gone blue. I could feel people stroking my arm and commenting on the clammy and sweaty nature. My blood pressure, which had been 130/90, had fallen to 80/40.
Eventually, my "fainting spell" passed. It was a possible side effect of running 103 degree fever (as I was). Exciting, though.
As I write this, a week later, I feel fine. The cough has receded to a one-in-a-while thing. The throat pain has vanished. The headache is gone, as is the fever. I'm basically back to normal.
In the height of my sleep deprivation, I had passing thoughts about all those people over the years who have complained that I don't show enough emotion. Surely they would have been satisfied to see me break down sobbing after coughing yet another time. Or the fact that I saw a Christmas tree in someone's window on the way to the ER and cried. Or that in the dead of night I had conversations with myself about whether or not it was possible to die of lack of sleep like that "Star Trek: The Next Generation" episode.
I eventually decided that no matter what I thought, part of me was correct in that the lack of sleep would just be a contributing factor to death. I was certainly able to put me in my place!
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