Syncope

CW: Blood

Lots to do. I get in a groove. Robot mode. Work. Work. Work. All the work.

And then I catch a glimpse of the bruise on my arm. It’s been a week since a well-meaning, yet clumsy, nurse desperately tried to find a vein. She missed. She dug the needle in deeper. Blood pooled under my pale skin as she blew out my vein and then another. 

It burned. 

Bubbled up. 

Hardened. 

I was the one being poked and prodded, yet I gave her encouragement. Don’t worry, I’ll stay really still, I told her. It’s ok. You’re doing fine. She was shaky and nervous each time she got it wrong. Another nurse looked on warily and joked about how I wasn’t yet allowed to get up from the hospital bed on my own, but I could keep my wits about me at the sight of blood flowing out onto the sheet when the nurse stuck me again. And then a fourth time. 

But I told her, that’s me.

Cool under pressure. The gal you want by your side in a crisis. The one who figures it out and keeps others calm. 

Yet, I look at my arm today and I can’t help the emotion that rises up from my core to collect as a lump in my throat. I’m not cool at the moment. And I doubt I’d be any good to anyone in crisis right now. My bruise is a speckled deep brown today, but hints of yellow around the edges tell me my body is healing from the inside. Slowly. Still hurts. A reminder of my failings.

I wonder how long it will be before the bruise is a distant memory. 

I need a break. 

I get up from my hidey hole of a home office setup and peer out of my bedroom window onto my backyard. I’ve been thinking about the writing prompt this week that I was sure I wouldn’t have time to get to – take a moment to look out the window, to really see what’s out there. Write what comes to mind, whether it’s memories, describing your view, or a sexy story that’s sparked by your view.

Maybe I should write something? Fuck off work for a change and muster some words. The sexy stories won’t come, that much I know. I look for the owl who rests on my big pine tree from time to time for inspiration, but the limbs are bare. All is still. Not even a bird flutters across the blue sky in my contemplation. 

But that’s not why I’m angry. 

Ok. Write about that. 

My anger is visceral. I feel it within every cell of my body, no matter how much I try to shake it off or drown it down. I’ve carried it with me in everything I’ve done this past week, like a backpack full of hard cement or bile lingering in my esophagus after a tumultuous bender.

If I’m being honest, I’ve been angry for a long while. Much of it at myself for what feels like bad choices — professional and personal — that I can blame no one for but me. But right now, I’m most angry at those things I cannot control. 

A week ago today, my son was in crisis. Real, physical crisis.

Emergency.

As everyone else around us in the moment struggled with what to do, I sprang to action. Call 911. Don’t let him fall asleep. Make him comfortable until help arrives. Calm everyone. Keep it together people, I demanded! I put on a bra and made sure I had on shoes. Dug out the medical insurance card from my overstuffed wallet. Cleared a path in my messy living room for the EMTs.

You got this, Carolyna. 

When they arrived, no one could speak coherently. Tears flowed. Panic settled into their expressions. But I could speak. I willed my calm. His name? Yes. Date of birth and medical history? Yes. What did he eat today?

What did he eat today?

What did he eat today…?

I’m told that’s when I dropped. 

Apparently only for a few seconds, but the next thing I knew, I had a cuff tightening around my arm. I was lightheaded and my vision was spotty. A deep, resounding feeling of dread roiled in my belly.  Distant voices reached my ears as if I was wearing earmuffs. 

Calm down, Miss. Take deep breaths.

Your blood pressure is really low but we’re gonna get it back up. Did you eat today?

I looked at my son. His eyes were glazed and he was fighting sleep, but he sat up on our couch as a second set of EMTs attended to him. I think I tried to smile at him, and I hate that I don’t know for sure if I did. 

Look at me, Miss. 

A pair of warm, brown eyes held my gaze. His mask covered his mouth, but I could swear I saw his lips move. 

You’re going to be okay. You’re gonna feel a pinch from the IV, but just briefly.

I wish I could hug him – that encouraging young man who kept me calm on my ambulance ride to the hospital. It almost felt like a hug when I began to tremble uncontrollably and he covered me with a blanket. Maybe I’d forgotten what hugs feel like? He promised my son was right behind us. That we wouldn’t be separated if he had anything to do with it. 

I just wish I could hug him. 

He witnessed my moment of weakness — when my body decided at the worst possible instance to betray me. After weeks and weeks of relentless endurance, sleepless nights, impossible deadlines, and hopeless hope — there I was laid out. Not with my son when he needed me the most. But with this kind soul who was doing his job but didn’t let on. It’s an open secret we share that I’ll never forget. I hope to fuck he does. 

My diagnosis was simple. 

Vasovagal Syncope — when you faint because your body overreacts to certain triggers, such as extreme emotional distress. Also called neurocardiogenic syncope. It triggers your heart rate and blood pressure to drop suddenly. 

My son’s diagnosis? Not so much. His medical challenges will not fade away like the bruise on my arm eventually will.

And I’m fucking angry. 

I’m angry at the universe for giving him this lot in life. This sweet, loving, innocent person I created who doesn’t deserve that. Was it something I did?

I’m angry that no one thought to make sure my son had shoes on when he was loaded onto his ambulance.

I’m angry at a body that betrays me — be it my autoimmunity, my twisted back, achy joints, perpetually pounding head, persistent dark under-eye circles, or my stubborn clit that won’t let me have even the slightest hint of an orgasm these past few days. A body that now decides to faint under pressure. 

I’m angry at the exhaustion that kept me from being there in person for my closest friend when she tackled her own medical emergency just a day later. 

I’m angry at the bottle that beckons me nightly and makes me fight the urge to chase the numb.

I’m angry at a world that disintegrates into madness more and more each day.

I’m angry at the fair-weather people who are present when I’m the one comforting them, but fall back when I’m the one who needs them to step up for me. And I’m angry at the smile I keep on my face when I tell them “it’s ok.”

Because it’s not.

But I’m grateful, too. 

I’m grateful for the roof over my head and the food in my fridge. And even for the ridiculous pace of my job that often distracts me from the chaos in my brain.

I’m grateful for rain and coffee and soft pillows. 

I’m grateful that music exists in the world, for the tree standing tall in my yard, and the mysterious owl who visits it from time to time. 

I’m grateful for the moon.

I’m grateful for those beautiful souls who choose to stay in my life, meaningfully, even when it gets hard — for the jokes they share, the songs and voice notes they send me, and the love they give. 

And I’m grateful for messages like these from my closest friend, who I relentlessly beg to guest blog for me because she’s wise as fuck – 

Until we break. 

Or until we win.

The synonyms for syncope include blackout. Collapse. Unconsciousness. Stunning blow. Lack of feeling. Stupor. Debilitation. TKO. Etc.

Ha!

I wonder how long it will be before these bruises are a distant memory. 

I pause and gaze out of my window one more time. I’m reminded of a day a few weeks ago when rain and wind pounded against that same glass. Storm Isaias. But despite that, my pine tree still stands. Strong. Resilient. It doesn’t give a fuck. 

It won’t break. 

Neither will I. 

Neither will you. 

Bruises heal. Even if the memory of them doesn’t.

Until then, we rage.

Post Images Credit: Carolyna Luna