F*cking Coward

 On July 6, I asked Steve to take me to the ER. This is a huge thing for me, because I'm one of those people who would do anything to avoid the hospital, but I truly thought I was dying -- and it turned out, I was.

Everolimus and Exemestane had (of course) decided to hit me with the worst possible side effects throughout my short run on them, and I was suffering from pneumonitis:

Pneumonitis (noo-moe-NIE-tis) is a general term that refers to swelling and irritation, also called inflammation, of lung tissue. Lung infections such as pneumonia also can cause lung tissue to become inflamed. But pneumonitis generally refers to inflamed lung tissue not caused by an infection.

Pneumonitis is a result of an extra strong defense response by the body's immune system to an irritating substance. Common causes of pneumonitis include airborne irritants at a job, in the home or from hobbies. Other causes include some cancer treatments and many different medicines.

Trouble breathing, and often a dry cough, are the most common symptoms of pneumonitis. Treatment focuses on avoiding irritants and lessening the inflammation of lung tissue.

-- Mayo Clinic

I was at the point where I couldn't walk a few metres to the washroom without being so out of breath that I was panting and seeing stars. My blood oxygen level when they checked it at the hospital was 83 when it should be over 95. Basically, I was suffocating to death. 

Now I'm just waiting to see if the massive amounts of steroids, antibiotics and antivirals I was given in the ER were worth a damn. This article gives a pretty good rundown on what will happen to me if I am not lucky enough to have the "good kind" of pneumonitis that will be cured after I'm finished this current round of corticosteroids. (Spoiler alert: it's gonna kill me.)

But we're here to talk about cowardice, so let's do that.

I'm a goddamned coward . . . and I proved it in one night

So in the afternoon of July 6, I asked Steve to take me to the ER. I was already terrified. I thought I was going to suffocate to death just by walking a few steps, but I was more afraid of going to the hospital. I have a long history of medical PTSD dating back to when I was a child, including severe phobias of male practitioners at all levels, a needle/IV phobia, and a well-founded fear of having things done to me without my consent. 

I managed to get through almost all of it despite the IV and the fact that my nurse was a man using psychotherapy techniques I've been learning through my therapist, as well as a little help from my good friend, Ativan. I was actually proud of myself for a while (stupid), and then the night shift came in and I completely fell apart. 

First, the now TWO surly, bossy, rude and intimidating male nurses who were taking care of me kept alluding to "my doctor" -- a person I'd never met before or even heard of -- and all these "orders" that were coming down from him (yet another mystery male to deal with). The nurse came in to let me know that this doctor apparently ordered a blood thinner for me and that I'd apparently talked to him and given consent. I hadn't. I panicked a little -- huge injection, bossy male, and procedure without consent checked every box -- but Steve managed to shoo him out and said we wanted to talk to the doctor again.

Then they got rid of Steve. I lasted about 45 minutes without him and then had the biggest panic attack I've ever had in my life. I called Steve and told him to come get me and that I was packing my things right now. I couldn't stay; not with these untrustworthy men. And what did they do when I said I'd like to leave? They, and the mysterious male doctor who I had definitely never talked to or met before stood over me, arms crossed, and berated me about leaving "against medical advice" until Steve showed up, when they turned their attention to him while I sobbed some more. 

I was sitting there saying, "I just don't want to stay the night; I don't feel safe here; I'll come back for appointments in the morning." I was ignored. Instead, they managed to get some token woman to talk to me on the phone to repeat the threats about leaving against medical advice. 

For someone whose breathing they were supposedly concerned about, they definitely didn't seem to care about causing further breathing issues while I was sobbing and hyperventilating.

Steve used his officer voice and I was released. I had the privilege of being a middle-class white woman with cancer and no trouble with addictions or the law, and my middle-class white military husband rescued me from a situation I was too soft and too much of a coward to go through with.

I was also such a coward that I told my friends and family that I did make it through the night and was discharged the next day. I lied about that because I didn't want anyone else to chastise me about my panicked, cowardly decisions, because I don't want them to see them yet.

That was my first trip to the ER in my history of having cancer, and I don't know what will happen if I have to go again. What I do know is that I'm too much of a coward to do in-patient treatment or hospital stays of any kind. I know that they psych warnings on my charts aren't being read and that I will continue to violated by male physicians. I know that I can't possibly do anything emotionally hard like MAID or something similar to that; and I know that I only have a 45.31% chance of living to Fall 2027, and dying in the hospital isn't an option. I hope my family is ready to dig down, find some courage of their own, and feel some of the fear I feel every day while they drag the river to find my bones.