probably not for the faint of heart; definitely not for me

[just a warning that this is really long]

i got out of the shower this afternoon only to realize that my towel was exactly where i'd left it three days ago (also known as "the last time i showered") - on the floor of my bedroom. i hate it when this happens, and yet it happens a lot. so i ran my dripping wet, freezing cold, naked ass through my apartment to where the towel was, hurrying back to the bathroom before i got everything i own wet.

the bathroom, which was covered in blood.

i thought i was hallucinating, too little sleep or more likely too much; blinked twice, twice more. it was still there, little puddles of it on the floor, pink rivulets traveling lazily down the sides of the tub, the toilet tank, the sink.

i panicked, of course. spent at least two important minutes that could have been better used checking myself for mortal injuries staring blankly at the carnage and thinking i need to call my doctor which doctor i have so many doctors and what do i say i need to call before i even bothered to look.

there was nothing, i couldn't see anything. even in the mirror, nothing but my skin, lately paler white than ever, blue veins alarmingly prominent in the more delicate areas. lately, the backs of my hands are disarming, fragile looking, the webwork of capillaries exposed to the world.

it took a while to figure it out. an infected hair. one. on my leg. it's been plagueing me a while now, probably because i can't help but poke at it, make sure its still there. among other things, i've been disallowed the time honored custom of removing my body hair with razor blades, so i know it's been at least three weeks since it popped up post shave. and it finally gave up the ghost. a little tiny pinprick of a nothing bodily annoyance, so small i have to contort into a ball to get a good look at it. and so much blood, any normal person would have at least cut off a hand to achieve such stunning results (never doubt that i'm an overachiever).

this is the truth of my current existence, a moment bringing skillfully home what i've been dealing with (read: avoiding) for a while now.

everything has changed.

-----

a couple of weeks ago, my leg swelled up and started hurting like a little whiny bitch. like a constant charley horse in my calf, if you can imagine. stoic that i am, i chalked it up to a tendonitis flare up, iced it down and went about my business. it didn't get better. three days, four days - the swelling didn't go down even after propping it above my heart for an entire (restless) night. so i went to the doctor.

in hindsight, i realize her reaction was telling. i think at the time i was too tired to notice. this, i would later learn, is the conversation going on just outside the door:

"we need to call KIC, i've got a young woman in here with a blood clot."

"a blood clot, really? how old?"

"twenty four."

"shit, are you joking?"

(two weeks later, that second doctor would say, "consider yourself lucky, hon. i've seen girls your age have strokes." needless to say, i was not comforted.)

two seconds, my leg in the on call's small hands, and i was out the door with a prescription for one ultrasound ("IMMEDIATELY") in one hand and written directions to KIC in the other. i got lost three times. i'll admit it: i was bawling like a little baby. too much stress, too much shit. alone in a new city, four hours from home. now was not the time for this.

i cried all the way there, through the ultrasound, the waiting room where finally they said, "didn't anyone tell you that you're going to the hospital?", all the way to the hospital, through triage, registration and on up to my room. by the time night rolled around, it would take a lortab 750 to kill my headache. i don't handle crisis well, i don't deal in stressful situations, and i don't like being lonely.

it was only a couple of days. bed rest, injections, pills - all manner of pills. my mom and my brother were there within five hours. i slept, i caught up on L.A. Ink, i pressed the call button and made an announcement to whoever answered, every single time i had to pee.

the problem, see, is not the issue itself, not the blockage or the pain or the swelling. not the degradation of being totally helpless, trapped in bed for 36 hours. not the side effects of the medications, or the inability to do anything on my own even after being out of the hospital. that doctor was right, i was lucky. i could have had a stroke. i could have had an embolism. so many people my age have it so much worse.

the problem is my body. this body, that i've loved, cherished my entire life. this body that gets potatoes when it craves potatoes and water when it craves water. and now i'm alone in this city because i'm trying to do something, because i want more than an office job and a husband, because i have to not spend the rest of my life being ordinary. but my body, it isn't, apparently, up to the task. the first four weeks i lived in lexington, i was sick. i've felt like it betrayed me, it gave up on me, it faltered when i most needed it to be strong. but let's put blame where blame is due. when i asked for the pill, last august, i was asked to sign a paper stating that i had been informed and understood the risks of taking it. see, a girl isn't supposed to get the pill when she smokes a pack of camels every single day and has a dad who died of heart disease at 45.

i can't even explain the helplessness.

i did it anyway. took the damned pill every day, smoked my cigarettes and thought nothing of it. me? i'm 24. i eat lots of leafy green vegetables, never get constipated, drink at least a gallon of water a day. i'm fucking invincible (a theory which, despite this interlude, has yet to be disproven. just saying.).

it was pretty much a year to the day of popping that first tiny hormone tab that i landed in the hospital with my leg on a pillow (did i mention the awesomocity of being moved to a negative pressure room upon the nurses' discovery of my fun shingles?). the saddest part?

in that entire year, i never got laid.

true, i was considerably less pimply and almost never pre-bleed cranky, but mostly it was completely worthless. now, i'm out the pleasure of cigarettes, and i am never, ever allowed to use any kind of hormone birth control, ever again. the pill, the patch, the shot, the ring.

seriously. never again. i'm pretty sure this is divine retribution for that time i went to boarding school, celebrating the fact that my new absence meant i didn't have to get confirmed into the catholic church, a fate i'd been certain for years i'd be unable to avoid.

-----

so let's just say that everything's gone a little haywire since then. i'm on all kinds of medications right now, keeping my blood as uncoagulatin' as safely possible. disallowed the indulgences of things like spinach, oatmeal, and a second cup of coffee. breaking, rather successfully (but with a little help from my new best friend) my smoking habit - though that, i think, is made more difficult by the fact that i can't drink on these medications. not smoking is a lot easier than not drinking - case in point, i forgot to take any chantix at all today, and cigarettes never occured to me. i also have instructions to lose 75 pounds. that's going fairly well for me, but who knows for how long. fear only motivates as long as it sticks around. and yeah, this episode has been rife with the fear, but it's receding into the past pretty quickly, buried in piles of textbooks and the detritus of everyday living.

it's pretty nutso. tap me on the shoulder, it leaves a bruise. under my clothes, i'm pretty uniformly mottled with purple and yellow. insanely frequent blood tests have left me looking like a junkie and on a first name basis with all staff at the hospital lab (yesterday, i asked how long it was gonna be before they had to stick the needle between my toes - no one was amused). and on saturday morning, at 6:14 am, i got a phone call.

"i just got the results from your blood test," the on call told me. "i need you to go the emergency room."

i'd been in bed for maybe three hours. "huh?" i said. "blood test?"

"the emergency room. NOW."

i went, driving slowly; i was shaking and i get disoriented when i drive in glasses.

"i think they called about me?" i told the triage nurse. "my inr was over ten yesterday." she startled. maybe it was just my familiarity with the jargon.

there was no wait. they gave me a vitamin k shot (i considered asking for a smack on the ass, too, but it seemed in bad taste), another blood test, three heated blankets, and a couple of hours to sleep on a bed. i'd been carefully following the restrictions on my diet: one cup of coffee per day, no leafy greens, no cranberries. the list of prohibited foods is taped to my cupboard. set alarms to take my medication every twelve hours on the dot. screwed up my courage and found a blank spot on my belly to give myself a shot, twice a day. but there's no telling, no way to ensure things don't spiral out of control. the new blood test indicated an inr so high they couldn't read it.

among other things, this apparently meant that i could just start bleeding spontaneously out of random important places - like my brain. internal hemmorhage was at any moment another moment away. i was told not to clip my toenails. it would take about 24 hours for the vitamin k to work its mojo, but until then something so simple as cracking my hip against the counter could be fatal (so, clearly, i decided to enjoy a trip to indianapolis later that day - evil was weighed against evil, and i decided that four hours risking a car accident at someone else's hands was infinitely preferable to having an anyeurism in my living room when every single person i knew in lexington was in indianapolis. plus, i like getting what i want, and i wanted to go to that show). now it wasn't just my body working against me, but everything that was supposed to help it. doing what i was told put me in more danger.

fortunately, that's past. things seem to be under control (at least until i start getting billed).

but, like i said, everything has changed. i hadn't given up smoking for all the things that went along with it: coffee and crosswords with frank, tv nights with lisa. it's hard to change everything all at once. no cigarettes, suddenly. no liquor. a new diet.

i falter. and i'm going to need help. that's the point of this post. routines need to be deconstructed: no more coffeeshop chainsmoking, no more delighted group bingeing on various things (booze, pasta, etc). did i mention that losing 75 pounds decreases my risk of a recurring event by 90%? and that air travel is going to constantly be a fearsome adversary? and that i'm supposed to go to africa next summer? and that it apparently takes something like 40 hours to travel from indianapolis to lusaka, zambia?

i haven't got much time, which means i haven't got much time for relapses. i hate this shit. i hate that i have to be this girl. but, friends, you're what i've got. so i'm asking for support. and i'm telling you all of this in the way of an obligation, a binding contract. because this, it's serious. and because i'm fucking serious. so it's gotta be.