I didn't sleep last night. I organized my drawers,
found a million headbands
and this shirt,
baked oatmeal cookies for my dad,
and left the house at 8 for an appointment with Social Security Disability Therapist Person.
The first hour was me telling my life story. Which sucked. I cried a lot. I'm pretty sure the second hour was some kind of IQ test. And I have to go back tomorrow. (Note: I SUCK at spatial reasoning.)
I came home and crashed in a much needed nap for a few hours, and then went to another appointment. Last monday I had a Dr. appointment. Since then she's called me almost daily.
I've also been getting calls from my old PHP program, Opal. After my appointment last week, Doc asked me to schedule an appointment for today. That seemed excessive, but I agreed. At our appointment today she asked how I was doing and then dove right in. . .
"Camilla, you need to be in a program. Now. Like tomorrow."
"I'm not sure if I should tell you this, but when people ask me who of my patients I worry about the most, it's you. Of all my patients, old people, others with eating disorders, people with all kinds of diseases, I'm most worried about you. Your heart rate is too low. It's 35. Even professional athletes don't have heart rates like yours. You need to be in residential NOW. I know that might not be possible, but that is what I recommend."
Well fine, but I'm not bad enough to be hospitlized
"You have [X, Y, Z,] conditions that do qualify for involuntary hospitalization. I'm not doing that because sticking an IV in your arm for a night is not going to solve the problem."
This isn't happening. I know I needed to be there SOON, but I didn't realize it was THIS urgent.
"My supervisers and other physicians agree with me and are very concerned."
Well they haven't seen me
"They have seen your charts. Your charts scare us."
It's so bad they want me to go somewhere in the interim if I can't get into Avalon fast enough.
But I feel fine.
Or as fine as someone with an eating disorder can feel. . . I mean I DON'T FEEL like I'm going to drop dead.
I stayed there for an hour crying and trying to convince my doctor and my mom that I was ok to be in my brother's wedding in two weeks. That I don't need to go in now. That I'm FINE.
Yeah, that didn't work very well.
I'm so angry. Maybe irrationally angry, but angry. My brother is getting married ONCE. My brother who is practically my twin. My brother who is my hero. I CAN'T MISS THE WEDDING.
My mom cried.
"Do you think he'd rather have you in the wedding or dead."
Oh please. This feels so DRAMATIC. I FEEL FINE.
"Mom, I am not going to die. I feel fine. I SEE people out and about who are smaller and sicker than I am."
"Camilla, you don't know that those people aren't already dead. And it's not about your size. It's about your heart. And no one with these issues thinks they're going to die."
And Doc interrupted,
"I can't say that you're going to die tomorrow, but I can't in good conscience recommend anything other then you going into treatment NOW. As soon as you can get all the papers in order."
I've never had her talk to me the way she did today. I can't even express it adequately here. It was frustrating because I couldn't get her to take back what she was saying. And she was so blunt that I couldn't skew it into something else in my head, which I certainly tried to do. She was painfully straight forward. Which hurt.
That's where we are.
I have a follow up on Monday. If they don't commit me first.
"Camilla, I want to see you on Monday if you're here. But I really hope you won't be available because you'll be at Avalon."
Grateful. Terrified. Angry. Not ready.
I feel fine.
. . . . And then I went to watch the Packers/Seahawks game, but only with the condition that my mom checked my heart rate every 5 minutes. Because that game was CRAZY. And the refs. . . oh goodness. Bless their hearts.
see how I try to make jokes? Fail.