#I am severly dehydrated

[catfacedcat]

i wanted to draw this out cuz it gave me an idea

[walnutcookie]

chat i dont feel so good

[mysicksecrets]

i went on a run but i am severly dehydrated so i almost passed out

[angie-massei]

Hi guys so it’s 3 am here in Poland and I woke up severly dehydrated so I ordered korean cold fruit bowl called hwachae

[shittygaypornmagazine]

Does the hamster need a bohle wohah?

I am severly dehydrated, so yes.

[lolli-says-stuff]

I am severly dehydrated. Last time I had water was yesterday at like 6

[ofdreamsanddoodles]

current pain level: if someone doesn’t buy me a straw i am going to get severly dehydrated and that is a THREAT

[hehaschosenthebees]

The Type

Steve Rodgers just isn't the type to ask for help.

He will not be weak for anyone but Bucky.

He will not be gentle nor will he be sparing if anyone brings this to him.

He trusts, but only after solidness, after many years of friendship and hardship together, Tony Stark being a fine example.

Only Bucky may see the cracks in his mask, the broken in his tender and loving heart, fiercly harded by war and pain.

So when Bucky is gone, who is there to help him?

The answer is no one.

That's why on the eleventh day of Bucky's mission (the one that was supposed to be over after a maximum of three days) he's bent to his snapping point. Since Bucky's freedom from HYDRA, they have not parted for more then a week. Nightmares torment the blonde, and each night ends up with the fammilar pinch of tears behind his eyes, but he refuses to let himslef cry.

He's not the type to cry.

So finally at two in the morning of the eleventh day, he sits on the shower floor and cries. It starts slowly at first, hesitant. Then the aching, body draining sobs shudder through him, stealing his breath and weighting his chest.

He spouts all his fears to the tile floor of the expensive shower, each one lined up and scored away.

Just like a perfect soldier should.

Neat, orderly and calm, he lists them out, hiccuping occasionally and remaining silent as the last one slips past his quivering lips.

"I'm afraid Bucky will leave me."

"I'm afraid he will get hurt, and I will have no one."

"I'm scared all my friends will die, and it will be my fault."

"Im afraid Tony will hurt Bucky becuase he doesn't trust him."

"Im scared Bucky will forget me."

"I'm afraid Bucky will hurt himself becuase he feels like a burden."

"I'm afraid to be left alone."

He shudders, the hot water doing nothing to soothe the coldness, the vast emptiness blowing through his bones. So he sits there for hours, eyes closed, forehead rested against tile and drifts. Naked and tired and hurting, he softly cries for hours becuase he will never admit it.

Steven Grant Rodgers will never admit he still needs to be taken care of. He refuses to let himself feel sad or scared becuase he is Captian America. He is the perfect soilder. And soldiers do not cry.

Though it's early morning and he has exasuted his tears, he barely manages to stumble from the shower and dry off. Wondering to his room, he selects a set of clothes he knows to be Bucky's.

It's one of the few comforts he has.

He lays on Bucky's side of their bed, eyes shut but not anywhere near sleeping. Mabye if he wishes hard enough, lets enough tears seep into the plush pillows, he can never feel them again. Never feel the hot streaks down his face, never taste the salt of his sadness on his lips.

Becuase Steve Rodgers isn't the type to cry.

So he lays there, tears slow but sure as they leave grey marks in the duvey covers and droplets in the pillowcases. He cries until his body shakes, dry sobs and low, whimpering whines.

He cries himself to sleep without Bucky.

Becuase when he wakes, he'll be good ol' Cap, right?

Wrong.

He opens his eyes to late evening sun.

"Oh well,"

He thinks. Not like he had any reason to be up anyway. He rolls over to grab Bucky's arm and shake him awake too, only to feel emptiness strike him deep in his core.

His wail of pain is audible.

Friday awakes at the sound, clacking and beeping softly in the open windowspace, converting the sunset into a computer screen. "Captian Rodgers," her pleasant voice chimes. "Do you require assitance?" It's the first words he's heard in days. He hasn't left his floor in over a week, too scared to break down during movie nights.

Who's he supposed to cuddle with, give soft tending kissess to if Bucky isn't there to enjoy the movie too?

"No," he croaks, surprised by the dryness of his throat.

"My vitals show you are severly dehydrated and low on essential nutrients. I am ordering treatment." Steve rolls his eyes, but isn't surprised when Bruce slides into his apartmet moments later. "Steve," he caps the blond on the shoulder, eyes roaming over the taller man.

He's barely standing, dark circles ringing his swollen and red eyes. His hair's a mess, tangled and swept to the side. He's in a Tee-shirt Bruce knows to be Bucky's, and a loose pair of sweatpants. His feet are bare, and the look in his eyes haunts Bruce.

Gaunt, deep depression shades his baby blues with grey. His hands shake as he cuffs Bruce back, managing a half smile that doesn't dent the gaunt look in Rodger's eyes. "You doin' alright?"

Steve deflects the question. "Under the weather," he quipps. Bruce nods, stepping back a bit. He understands the way Steve's feeling. He seats the blonde man on the couch, inserting an IV into the crook of his arm with practiced ease. "This is very important, Steve. Your serum makes you much more suseptible to passing out from malnutrution or dehydration. Please keep on it, yeah?"

Steve nods. "Yeah. Thanks pal." Bruce smiles that heartwarming, sweet smile. The one that hides something deeply concerned. "Any time, Rodgers. Call if you feel woozy, alright?" Steve nods, just a bit of happy poking through his misery.

Both he and Bruce know he would never call.

Becuase Steve just isn't that type.

So he sits. He eats and changes his IV bags like Bruce showed him, turning on the TV, though never really watching it. He scrolls past the shows that he and Buck watch together, the ones that latch onto memories that lift the corner of his mouth in a sad smile. He does the dishes and sweeps the house and sleeps his solid eight hours, always awaking to see the sunrise.

He remebers the way the sunlight gleamed off Bucky's metal arm, framing his face. Beautiful even in sleep.

It brings tears to his eyes every time, so he shares his tears with the sun every morning. The emptiness of the house fills every fold of their sheets, the one Steve refuses to wash becuase they smell of Bucky.

So ticking off the days of the calander with the marker Bucky keeps on his nightstand becomes robotic. Until one night, the twenty third evening of his emptiness, the sound of the elevator doors startles Steve out of bed. It's only 8:30, but he likes to go to sleep early, too afraid to see the stars his lover lays awake on the balcony to name on clear nights.

He scrambles, in only an old button down of Bucky's and breifs, to the living room, noting in his head where they keep three handguns in the house. (One under the bed in the gunsafe, one locked in a crane-stine drawer in the hall closet, and the one beneith the paneling of the wardrobe in the guest room.)

Creeping out around the island peeking from the kitchen, he does his best not to let blood drip from his arm where he yanked out his IV needle with haste. A sight that makes Steve fall to his knees awaits him.

James Bucanan Barnes stands in the living room, stripping off the leather holsters strapped to his body. The mission must have been dangerous, as he's got a full body harness, one for guns on either side of his chest, plenty of slips for the knives he's so keen with handling.

Steve chokes on a sob as the harness hits the couch, rattling. Empty of all but the knives. Bucky's head flicks up, eyes flashing in surprise. "Steve." His voice is warm in the dim, unseeing just the shape his lover is in. "Didn't mean to wake ya, Punk."

Steve lunges, leaning his full weight on Bucky. "God, you were gone for so long..." He whispers, hot tears pouring rivers down his pale face. Bucky hugs back, squeezing tightly. "Bruce said you weren't doing too well, love. Are you fee-" He stops short. Steve's in the light now, in all his sickly glory. Bucky swears he can see the old, skinny Steve glimmer through the still-muscled body in his arms. "Good god!" He yelps, litterally picking Steve up and carrying him to their shared bedroom. "What the hell happened?"

Steve is quiet.

"I thought you weren't comming home."

Red stains Steve's hand, and Bucky panicks. He yanks the blond's hand away, seeing the thick redness pooling in the crook of his arm and drooling down his palm. "Sweet Sara Rodgers, what the fuck?" He barks, digging through his drawer for a med kit while shoving the IV pole aside.

Steve takes his time (the best he can, at least) to talk Bucky through it. The pain and the lonliness he felt by himself, the reason he didn't want to eat or drink. Bruce's kindness, and even crying on the shower floor.

Bucky shares why the mission took so long, and spends the rest of the night with a crying angelic Steven Grant Rodgers becuase yes, it's okay to cry. They sleep in eachother's arms for the first time, sharing soft and gentle kisses until Steve's tears become something more.

Tears of joy.

Beacuse that's Steve's type.

And he won't ever have to feel those tears drying on his face ever again, becuase Bucky will always be there to wipe them away.

Becuase that's who Steve fell in love with.

A man who loves him and cares for him more then anything else in the world.

I guess you can say Steve Rodgers has a type.

--------------------------------------------------

A message for all those who feel like they are weak for crying. You are human. If you need to just let go, please do.

@the-mad-starker @peachystarker

@starkerchemistryy @starkerforlife6969

@sunflowerstarker @im-a-goner-foryou

•••above are the tags of the people who inspire me to write.•••

[originlarik]

So I went on like a 3 or 4 day binge of drinking. Which is usually what i do alot these past few months but lately my alcoholism fucked me up so bad. Not just financially but mentally and physically. Its been 3 days since the day i consumed my last drop of alcohol. I went through one hell of a hangover the worst I ever put myself through and i had mini seizures and severe dehydration and got hospitalized but this one broke me mind, body, and soul. Bht this time I encountered i was severly dehydrated, severe fatigue, delirious, confusion, and i dont even know what else but i was fucked up for the past two days and i still dont feel right. My mind is shattered I'm questioning if life is even worth it. But fuck im so lonley, so tired, and so scared. I dont even know what to do anymore. My dreams lately have been so realistic I dont want them to end. They make me filled with such raw emotion I break down cause when i actually see whats around me it's nothing compared to what my dreams have been showing. I really fucked myself up this last binge.

I wouldnt want to wish this on my worst enemies, shit is making me question my entire existence. I just want to stop it all so I can finally breathe in a nice crisp gulp of air and say "I am alive"

"We exsist together now, two corpses in one grave"

[fizzysquish]

Actually

Fuck it

I wanna go back to bed

Back to being the repair man, I guess

[leslieeve]

Sick of Being Sick.

Just the beginning... Hi, my name is Leslie, I'm 36 years young, and l am currently living the battle of my life. I'm talking a figurative blood and guts UFC fight. Medically, emotionally, spiritually and financially I could have never imagined the intense downward spiral that my life would begin in the spring of 2014. This could have happened to anyone, but it chose me. I entered into and started living a chapter out of a Steven King novel. I'd like to preface my journey by saying that I used to work 2 waitressing jobs, 7 days a week. I prided myself on being kind, generous, a hard worker and pretty freaking witty. Sarcasm was my best friend. I had 5 cats who I loved more than anything, and lived in my house that I bought in 2002, and kept 100% by myself. I loved being crafty, scrap-booking, journalling (since I was 14- I have about 37 of them), cleaning obsessively and making people smile. I'd been accused of, "liking everybody" and, for the most part- I did! That's why I loved waitressing so much, I met amazing individuals on a daily basis, and for an hour or so, I was able to make them happy. So, summing this up, I'm one of those annoying 'smiley' people, and I love it... How to begin blogging a nightmare... Well, It all started on May 5, 2014, my sweet bunny was losing his battle to pancreatitis, and we were at the veterinarians office. I was laying around him on the floor, sobbing like an infant as he took his last breath. After a half hour, I got up off of the floor to move to another room with him, and noticed the ridiculous pain and swelling in my knees. I sat with him for 3 additional hours, saying prayers and telling him how much I love him. My heart was broken and now I was facing headache and flu-like symptoms. By the time I drove home, I was incredibly sick. (I really mastered the art of 'puking while driving' starting that night.) For the next few MONTHS I had a constant fever of 104, night-sweats, fatigue, exhaustion, swollen hot shiny red joints, nausea, chills, vision problems, breathing difficulties, dizziness etc. Being my Father's daughter, and having been raised as a fighter- I was still trying my very, very best to continue to work an overflowing schedule. I was a head waitress at both jobs and I was failing miserably. I wasn't eating because my mouth had a funny taste, I had zero appetite and the fatigue was unreal. Coca-Cola had become my litmus paper, as to how sick I was everyday. I would buy bottled Coke, and by sipping it and seeing what it tasted like 'that day'- I could gauge the severity of my illness for the next few hours. I was not bathing, or even taking my clothing off when I was home. I would just sleep in my uniforms (shoes and all) until it was time for work the following day. My knees had become so swollen that I had to cut my pants on the sides to make more room. Breathing was getting tougher too. I would find myself having to stop and force myself to take deep breaths. If I exerted myself too much I would end up laying on a booth, numb, shaking and drooling, with incredible difficulties trying to get verticle. If I took the risk and showered, I had to set aside 60 minutes to lay naked on the bathroom floor because I was 100% drained. Again, drooling, slurring and borderline consciousness. What was happening to me?!!? F.Y.I. puh-lease don't think I wasn't going to the doctor during all of this terror, because I was. A lot. A looot. My Dad was making my appointments and driving me weekly, all while he was watching me slowly die. Just waste away. (His car now sporting a smooth "vomit" scent, thanks to me.) The doctor was putting me on antibiotics one day and anti-inflammatories and steroids the next, unfortunately I was only getting worse. The fever continued to hang around and some nights would hit 104.6. All of the vomiting was ruining my throat, my knees were so swollen and hot to the touch, that they could melt bags of ice- in minutes. With those 2 symptoms and a blood test, he diagnosed me with Rheumatoid arthritis immune disease. From that point forward it appeared that ALL of my symptoms were from RAID. It was as if the doctor stopped looking for the root of my demise, because he found one. Maybe he was scared too, but so was I damn it and my health was deteriorating at the speed of McDonalds drive-thru during lunch-time. One evening in early October, I honestly thought it may be the end for me. I woke coughing up blood, and felt as if every inch of my body had giving up, I was out of gas, and barely running on fumes. Out of pure desperation and necessity, I went to an Emergi-Care center in Bethlehem. (First, I left a note behind on who would take my cats, incase I would never return home.) The doctor was very blunt (a.k.a. a$shol*) and as he talked AT me, he said he thought I was unbelievably sick, and that he thought that I would surely die if I left the building. Then he scolded me for getting sooo ill, and then decided that he couldn't treat me, because I had "chosen" to wait too long to see him (a man I'd never met before). I was seeing a physician, but it hadn't been him and he was clearly annoyed and disgusted with me. He reluctantly did a flu swab of my nose (that he said I didn't need, because it wasn't the flu virus) which came back negative. So then his majesty stepped off of his high-horse long enough to put me on the antibiotics which combat Anthrax, and that was that. What? Anthrax? Because I was exposed when I was never in the military? What an incredible mind fu*k, and 3 hours that I will never get back. I rate his bedside manner a big fat zero. So, I went home, spooned with my Eddie cat, and cried myself to sleep- which didn't take long because I was dehydrated and falling apart. Needless to say, I continued to get sicker. I'm 5'10" and was barely weighing 95lbs. My once tan skin had morphed into a light yellow hue, my lips were red, but now were cracking, peeling and gray. My eyes had always been green and bright, framed in mascara, however they'd become blurry, wet and had large dark bags underneath. I constantly smelled mold in my nose. At this point I had been suffering for almost 5 months with these horrendous symptoms. Alone in my house, afraid that each nap had become a gamble that I would lose, and not wake up. Russian roulette immune disease style. My Dad had simply had enough. He was not going to sit by and bury his best friend- he was putting his foot down NOW. He took me to the doctor yet another time. However, this time, he put aside his gentle, humorous demeanor and told the doctor in no uncertain terms that he was watching his daughter die and that if he didn't do something else to help me, he would call his attorney and sue him for malpractice. Shockingly enough (insert sarcasm here), the doctor suddenly had a fire lit under his ass and ordered me an emergency appointment with a highly respected rheumatologist. She normally has a 3 month wait, but not for this sicky- It was Friday, and the appointment was for Monday. Just one question though... how on earth was I going to survive the weekend?! Woke up early Monday and crawled to my front door. I slept on the floor, vomiting relentlessly, all weekend because I couldn't muster up the energy to walk. My superhero Dad then had to basically carry me to his car. Once buckled in I proceeded to vomit and cry because I was too weak to sit up. Thankfully my Dad tried his best to stock the car with pillows, blankets, water, crackers and plastic bags so it took the edge off of sitting in traffic. Every car ride seemed hours long, I couldn't wait get back in bed or atleast lay on the floor. We arrived at the new doctors around 11am, she dressed very unprofessionally, tight work out spandex. Da fuq? She took one look at me and said that I was incredibly sick. No sh*t sherlock. While listening to my heart, she asked "how long have you had this heart murmur?" I told her that I don't have one and never did. She put the stethoscope to my ears- I had a f*cking heart murmur?? Immediately, sent me for a plethora of blood work and cultures, 16 I think, which drained me severly. I had almost passed out when my Dad showed up with O.J. and muffins- to save the day. Again, he carried me out to the car and took me home. He tucked me in, and I slept for 20 straight hours. I didn't get up to eat or even use the toilet. The following morning I felt better than I had in a very long time. Maybe some of the useless medications were finally starting to kick-in. I took a chance, (a.k.a. stubborn) and drove myself to my psychologists office for my 2:00pm appointment. We were about half-way into my mind enlightening session when my phone rings. Then again. Then again. So, I looked at my therapist with lump in my throat and picked up my phone. 3 missed calls from my family doctor. Then my phone rings and it's him again. I answer and it's my doctor, he says that I have a horrible infection in my blood and that I need to drop everything and RACE to the hospital. He said to run red lights go through stop signs, speed and if I get pulled over- keep going and the hospital would explain it to the police. After a quick "ohmyGod" and freak out, my psychologist hugged me and I promised to go directly to the ER. So, I did what anyone else would do, I went home and I fed my 5 cats. What the heck was I thinking you ask? Well, I figured that I would only be in the hospital a day or two and that if I fed them and cleaned their litter boxes then no one would have to come care for them while I was in the hospital. Plus, I really needed a hug from my Eddie-cat. As anyone who knows me will vouch and say that I might be just a little bit obsessed with my pets. Haha. Especially Eddie-cat, I worried about that feline like nobody's business. I got my much desired cat-fix, and then shortly after, I got in my car and headed towards the hospital. (I may have also stopped for a Coke- my memory's a touch foggy... I totally did.) As soon as I got there my dad was already waiting for me. (#bestdadever) I could see the pain and fear in his eyes and it truly broke my heart. We ended up waiting 2 hours in the dirtiest emergency room. We killed time laughing and joking until they finally called my name. (Kind of ironic since they told me to race to the hospital, but anyhow.) Dun dun dun. The nurse put me in a bed in the emergency department and hooked me up to IV saline and antibiotics. Dad and I watched bad tv, until they took me upstairs and gave me a room alone, in infectious disease. I was fairly relaxed, happy to finally end this era of illness, when the nurse came in to ask how I felt about my upcoming open heart surgery. MY WHAT?! No, no, no I told her, I was in for a blood infection. Silly nurse, get your mind right. She said the doctor would be in to speak to me momentarily. Ten minutes or so passed, and my Dad walked into my hospital room. Yeah! All is good, my Daddy is here... and then the doctor walked in behind him. Ugh oh. This nightmare is suddenly very real again. My Dad, looked more handsome than ever. His blue eyes had been crying as he walked over and took my hand. The doctor stood on my other side and explained to me that I had an infection in my blood and that it had destroyed the mitral valve in my heart. He said that the next day, I would be transferred to a larger hospital and would spend 2 months there on intense IV antibiotics before I would have to have open heart surgery to replace my mitral valve. I went into shock. Open heart surgery?!? They're going to break my chest?? But I don't have heart problems!!! I just have a blood infection!!! I'm only 33 years old!!! I want Eddie cat! My dad and I hugged and cried for the next 2 hours. I finally sent him home around 10:00pm to get some sleep. Loneliness and pure terror set in fast and I couldn't bare to be away from him, so I called on the phone and we talked all night. The following morning, as promised, the doctors and nurses packed me up in an ambulance and I was transported to a much larger hospital. Once I arrived I was quickly set up into "infectious disease." Heavy antibiotics were a-flowing. Every inch of the place was an upgrade. Once I was left alone, my thoughts flooded my mind. I tried to start figuring out how I was going to survive this travesty, pay my bills and most importantly- who was going to help take care of my five cats??? Fu*k. Fu*k. Fu*k. The doctors tell me that they are not certain how I contracted this infection. I hadn't been out of the country, nor had I undergone any dental surgery which could have welcomed the bacteria. Well that's zero help. Endocarditis. My possible kryptonite... The next few days I mentally took a bubble bath in my shock. I was trying to wrap my mind around spending the next 2 months in the hospital BEFORE undergoing open heart surgery. I became introverted, not wanting to Facebook my drama, or even text friends. I felt a strange numbness take over me, and honestly decided that I would make the best of it. I had multiple medical procedures and I did my very best to make the doctors laugh and tell them about my cats, of course. Looking back, I was nervous as all hell. I even neglected to press charges on a customer from my old job who consistently showed up UNINVITED into my hospital room. Stalker much? The hospital ended up having to put a password on my room, before all deliveries, calls and visitors were allowed in. Not to be all, "poor me" but seriously dude, just sooo not the time for a creepy creeperson. On the bright side, my mother who hadn't contacted me in over a year at this point, did text me twice- to ask if the doctors were giving me enough antibiotics. (She's no doctor, so her "medical concern" was hilarious) I had to fight the urge to sarcastically reply, "Antibiotics? Good idea! Thank Gawd you texted me when you did, the doctors hadn't thought of that!" But, I was sweet as a blueberry muffin. By the way, those were the first and last two texts that I heard from her. (Now, 3 years later she has never even once contacted me. Not. One. Single. Time.) Ahh, a mother's love. Ha. Friday, October 31st- Another day, another dollar. Ha, juuust kidding, it's another day full of tests and procedures. I was taken upstairs for an internal ultrasound/view of my heart. Basically, they knock you out and gently push a scope down your throat. This technique gets them extremely close to your heart for an excellent read in cardiac patients. So, after my test was done they woke me up... ohemgee, what medicine did they give me?! I saw a giant dippy egg with bacon, a 5 foot tall cat, a cow standing on its hind legs and a MINION. This. Was. Amazing. I later learned, as the anestethics wore off, It. Was. Also. Halloween. doh. 4 days into my stay at the hotel, I mean hospital, it was getting harder and harder to breathe (Maroon5?). It felt as though I had a gorilla sitting on my chest. I would get spells where it became so difficult to inhale, the nurses would come rushing in my room, rip my gown off, hook me up to oxygen and inject my IV with morphine until I could take a deep breath. I apologize to any and all of my visitors who showed up at the wrong time- and had to witness this. Sorry? You're welcome? (I now know, I was having a difficult time breathing because I was internally bleeding. Shame on you.) It was Saturday, November 1st around 7pm and I was watching Despicable Me for the +/-30th time. Hey- a free cable movie channel is a free movie channel, no matter the circumstance. Not only that, but Minions were making me unbelievably happy. My friends will vouch for me, I never even liked cartoons. (Well, except for Nickelodeon cartoons. #TommyPickles.) Perhaps it was providing a 90 minute escape for me, maybe it was appealing to the crying little girl inside of me- I don't know, but it helped fill a void, and I'm still grateful for Gru. Anyhow, while I was embracing the yellow and eating gummy bears (Albanese- my Dad ordered specially from Indiana) my future heart surgeon popped his angelic head in. I offered him gummy bears- even the red ones; he said that it looked like I was right on track as much as I could be and to just relax and they would take care of me at the hospital. He said to get comfortable because I would be there 8 weeks before the surgery. So around 10 weeks total. Well, ok,*sighs* it could be worse, it sounds like I can, "simmer dawn naw." WRONG. Five minutes pass and my surgeon comes back. He said that he checked my latest blood levels and my oxygen was far too low, I would reqire surgery in the next 12 hours or be dead before Thanksgiving. I felt all of the blood rush out of my upper body. Next, a cardiac nurse came into my room and gave me the choice of a Pig Valve or a Mechanical Valve, to be implanted into my heart to relace the damaged Mitral Valve. (Being vegeterian at the time, I thought this was incredible irony.) She weighed out the pros and cons for me as to which valve to choose. All I really remember hearing was that the Pig Valve had to be replaced every 10 years, and being so young that would demand atleast 5 more open heart surgeries in my lifetime. So, I thought it was a simple choice. Mechanical valve = forever vs. 10 year Pig Valve: I went for the mechanical valve. Then I had to do something much harder, call my Dad. It was incredibly difficult to dial my Dads telephone number. I knew that I was about to ruin any type of peace he was able to salvage for the evening, he would soon be as devestated as me, this still felt surreal. I felt selfish and heart broken having this kind of power over my fathers emotions. He answered on the first ring, as usual. My being so immensly ill had really been taking it's toll on him, emotionally, physically and spiritually. His little girl being so sick, and he could do nothing to fix me. Little did he know, HE was the reason that I wanted to be fixed. I cared more about him having to deal with my death, than I did my own life. There was no way in hell that I was going to let my Dad bury me. I would NEVER be responsible for putting him through that pain. Back to the phone call, my Dad answered cheerfully (for my benefit of course) and asked how I was feeling. I would say that, that is the very moment when my tears started falling, I couldnt catch my breath, but finally slobbered out that the heart surgeon had just been in my room and that I would be having surgery at 7:00am. I could hear him choking back the tears as he told me that this would get me home to Eddie-Cat faster. My Dad, always the optimist, and I stayed on the phone for the next 6 hours. We cried, talked about old times, (I also crammed food down my throat until midnight) and finally we decided that I was going to get through this. It cant be my "time." One tiny detail that I failed to mention before was that I was given a 37% chance of surviving. I sat alone in my hospital bed and wrote goodbye letters to my friends and a few chosen family members. Was I really doing this? Possibly saying GOODBYE to my life? Was I going to be dead in just a few short hours? It upset me that I might never see Eddie cat again. Who would explain to him that I didnt leave him by choice? That I died because of an infection. That I was so so sorry, and that I tried my best. All 5 of my cats, nobody was ever going to love them like me. I couldnt entertain the thought of losing my kids- I made a vow to save them forever when they were rescued, and now I was disappearing from their lives forever. This was all too much. I was sick to my stomach as I stared at the clock, counting down the seconds until my Dad, twin brother and friend were scheduled to arrive. Sadly, my twin brother never showed up. He never even called to wish me luck and it absolutely shattered my heart into a million pieces. I wanted to see my womb-mate so badly. I knew that we were no longer close but my soul really ached to be hugged with his arms. It really destroyed my feelings, but I did not have the time to dwell on it- it was 5:00am I had to start getting scrubbed down for surgery. I still felt fairly numb, more worried about seeming alright to try and ease my Dads horror. I was nervously joking around and begging the nurses for morsels of food. Then the dark cloud came. It was time. TIME FOR OPEN HEART SURGERY. Two nurses from transport and a doctor wheeled me down to the surgery floor, my Dad was walking next to me- I refused to let go of his hand. I was wheeled into a very well lit, curtained, waiting area. The operating room was empty. It was just myself and all of the nurses and doctors, no other patients. I later learned that Sunday mornings are reserved for emergencies. Look at me V.I.P. well, they made me feel that way anyhow. The nurses were exceptional- as they had been so far my entire stay. I was really blessed with the most amazing care. I mean, up until this point I would beg to estimate that the nursing staff had spent around 8 hours listening to me ramble on about my cats. I was a few minutes away from open heart surgery and I was getting make-up tips from one of the surgical nurses... well until the surgeon had to spoil my ignorance and walk in. He said they were ready for me and it would only be 2 or 3 minutes longer. Boom. That's when I turned into a two year old who needed her Daddy. He couldnt hold back his tears, and nor could I. I was wailing uncontrollably, telling my Dad how much I loved him. The fear was real. Very real. Almost indescribable to have to face the possibility of DEATH. This could be the very last time that I ever see my Dad. I was going into this obscenely serious surgery with horrendous odds. Who was I to think that I would survive fate? I had all but pulled my Dad into my hospital bed at this point. I just couldnt say goodbye. I wanted him to just hold me and make it all go away. But it was time. I held my Dads hands one last time and as they wheeled me down the hall, I yelled to him that I loved him and would see him soon. I secretly prayed that the next time he saw me, he would not be looking down at me, dead on a cold, steel table. I was given a sedative, and apparently it worked because shortly after I found myself complimenting everyone on "how nice they were," next I told my surgeon, "Don't let me die, I have my Dad and cus' nobody wants 5 cats." My doctors and all of the nurses did their very best to try and reassure me that I would wake up. A clear rubber mask was placed over my nose/mouth and I started slowly counting back from 100 (trying to enjoy the drug induced high and fight the anesthetics at the same time), and for the next 8 hours, my life was resting solely in the hands of this "Dream Team" surgical team. As you may have guessed already, I SURVIVED! It turned out that my heart was in much worse shape than previously expected, so not only did they have to replace my mitral valve but my aortic valve was covered in vegetation and needed to be scraped off. The doctor said that after seeing my heart, I would not have lived 2 more weeks without this procedure. I'm pretty fuzzy as to the timeline for the next few events. I recall waking up in a very bright room with lots of doctors around me. It was horrifying because the breathing tube was still down my throat, yet I felt like I was suffocating. In a complete panic I was trying to talk with my eyes, and scream to the nurses, "I can't breath!!" They must have read my mind because next thing I know, the nurse is leaning over my face telling me to relax. She said that the equiptment was breathing for me and that I just had to- annnnnnnnd I passed out. I woke up again, I guesstimate about 5 hours later. I was in a different room this time. It had a tiny little observation deck in it for a nurse to sit and, well, observe. I'm still with a breathing tube, but I'm a bit calmer this time. I can see all of the tubes coming out of my stomach, and I can see my chest raise up and down- with zero assistance from me. I didn't feel well. I was sick to my stomach and frightened. I was aware that my health was improving dramatically, but being alone and awake with my thoughts was extremely sad. The nurse came in to check my vitals, fluid loss, urine out-put etc. and realized that my body temperature was low. Especically for someone who just had major surgery. So, she covered me in what I remember to look like a space blanket. You know, those thin silver on one side, blue on the other ones? Think back to space field trips. Anyhow, it didn't take long until I was exceptionally warm. Then I began to sweat, next was the anxiety. I felt like I was cooking alive under this blanket, but nobody was around to tell. Even if they were, I had a breathing tube down my throat and was unable to speak properly. Fifteen minutes passed- no nurse. Tears were just continuously rolling down the side of my face. Thirty minutes passed- no nurse, it was beginning to feel like an eternity. At forty minutes I passed out for a few minutes and I woke up to the nurses taking the blanket off of me. Thank you Jesus! Praise The Lord! Once I cooled off, that was it for me it was lights out until the next morning. Rise and shine! No rest for the weary. The beautiful nurses had me up bright and early to remove my breathing tube. Hallelujah. Although I will admit it was not that easy to take my first unassisted breath, but I did it and in no time I was back to inhaling and exhaling with my own free will. Ill hold my breath if I want to damn it! A parade of white coats for the next 2 hours. I was avoiding looking at the 6 1/2 inch scar down the center of my chest. (and the scar from the pacemaker) I was still uneasy knowing that they had to break my sternum and WIRE it back together. After a brief unscheduled siesta, a young red haired man entered my room. He explained that he was there to remove my chest tubes and I basically told him that I accepted his challenge. Are you joking? Long, bumpy, blue, rubber tubes are INSIDE of my body and he's here to "pull them out?!" Insert gag and vomit here. Nope. Nope. Nope. Clearly he had dealt with trouble makers like me before, because his sweet talking game was on point. He said he would remove both tubes at once, and I would feel minimal discomfort. Ok, Prince Harry, let's go. He started by counting me down from 3. Try #1: 3...2... and I would interject, "No no no no no nope no no no no." Try #2 : 3...2... "No, no, nope, no thats enough no no no." After a pretty serious pep talk involving either living with the tubes forever VS. dealing with 3 seconds of slip and slide- I took a few deep breaths and decided this was gonna happen. Ok, this was it... Try #3: 3...2...1... and this freckled God pulled the tubes from my abdomen and quickly plugged the holes up with gauze to stop my bleeding. It felt exactly like you would imagine. As if he had gripped up my large intestine, and just pulled! I felt no pain, but it was the creepiest sensation having the bumps from the 2 feet of rubber being yanked inch by inch through your insides. Bucket list: Check! They really dont waste any time at the hospital. It was only the day after surgery, or the next day,(again still foggy) and the nurses were getting ready to have me sit up out of bed, in a chair. This sounded like a miserable suggestion. I verbally detested as much as possible, claiming that I felt sick to my belly and especially light headed. I was quickly assured that both symptoms were normal, but that I had nothing in my stomach to throw up. As she and the tech were trying not to pull IV's out of my arms and neck, I told them again that I was going to throw up. It really was like IV Jenga. Move this, not that, move this wire, not that etc. I was seated upright! My chest burned like nobodys business and woops, I made good on my promise to vomit. Note to all readers, If you ever have open heart surgery- DO NOT VOMIT! The pain in my sternum was enough to make me vomit again. Ugh. Part of me felt accomplished. I mean I HAD told them that I wanted to puke.. nobody listened.. hehe. Leslie- 1. It's the small victories. On a quest to still discover where this deadly infection originated, the doctors had me scheduled to be transported to an oral surgeon 3 days after surgery. Doped up just the right amount to deal with the situation, I was moved from the ambulance stretcher to the dentists chair. In no time at all, I was prepped to have my tooth removed and examined to see if this little bastard was the cause of my saga. Unfortunately, the tooth was fine and was not the root of my illness. Then, on the way back I tried to bribe the ambulance drivers to stop for donuts. Fail. **constant edits and updates being made, my story is far from over.. Please check back often, like it's your horoscope**

[girlcrushau]

i went home for the weekend to get myself some serotonin for the first time since march and in the process i missed 1 watering day for my most beloved plant and i think she’s dead dead :( serotonin revoked

[psiwhirl]

i have to write a short story that's a couple thousand words by 2pm tomorrow and i have not started nor do i have any ideas so instead i'm sorting magic cards and that's just how my life's going

[ry-regard]

Ryan clutches Bo like a lifeline and cries into his shirt.

Fucking google

Where the fuck is my dad?!

[petitommo]

Oh can you please tell us about trees communicating? Now i wanna know as well

AAH, okay, i am sorry this took so long to answer!! i know i promised it days ago, but okay!! here it is (finally). Let me just say, first of all, I am not equipped to validate any of this research, but here's what I found and have been emotional over for a week;

Trees communicate and push nutrients with/to each other through their roots. It's a complex system that's been called the Wood Wide Web. (source)

Peter Wohlleben, german tree-researcher, says trees are more intelligent than we've thought; alert, social, sophisticated. Trees of the same species communicate with each other, and will often form allianses with trees of other species. "Trees share water and nutrients through the networks, and also use them to communicate. They send distress signals about drought and disease (...), and other trees alter their behavior when they recieve these messages". To communicate, the trees sends chemical, hormonal, and slow-pulsing electrical signals. (source)

Wohlleben also says that trees fall in love. Trees can feel pain, and emotions such as fear. They like to stand close to each other and cuddle, they love company, and they love to take things slow. Trees have friendships, form bonds like an old couple where one looks after the other. Trees have feelings. (source)

That last part sounds insane, imo, and I have no idea if his research is backed up by others, but just the thought of trees forming bonds made me so goddamned emotional.

I also found other articles that said trees can see and observe what's happening around them, and that they do release sounds of distress, for example when severly dehydrated, but humans can't hear it. Cannot for the life of me find where I saw that now, but it's out there.

I remember a bioteacher telling us she'd read a whole book on it, and I am so intrigued right now!!!

[blogfromgrave-blog]

I want to cry but tears wont come since i am severly dehydrated