#i finally have a psych appointment in april but like what is that gonna do. they cant fix me its gonna be like this forever

[worstsequence]

🤪

[deadciv]

medical/personal stuff under the cut

i was definitely expecting it, but it is wild how many steps there are to going on HRT. like, i've been working at this to some extent since april, really started putting stuff in place in May. in June i finally got an appointment that was covered by medicaid. talked to the first guy; he had no idea what he was doing (very nice but he basically begged me to go to another arnp who's actually familiar with this stuff). another appointment the following week, on my birthday. go in, mega stressed, wait forever, finally talk to the lady, she's nice but very blunt. appointment ends up taking like twice as long as it's supposed to; also, she tells me that i don't Need to talk to a psych for this stuff but she recommends it. some of my vitals get fucked up because i'm stressed (heartrate, blood pressure) so i have to come back in a few days. have another appointment (phone) in a few weeks. i find a way to freeze my sperm without paying absurd amounts of money so i set that up for the soonest possible date, which is early july. the lady there tells me that prelim results will come back pretty fast, but full results may take up to 3 weeks to arrive, so i file that away. now it's time for the phone appointment, we talk, apparently my ***** levels are high so she wants to do another lab to make sure everything will be ok with the prescription. i tell her about the freezing; she says that's great, obviously we need to wait till we hear back from them before starting.

anyway it's just wild that i started this like, in april, and i don't think i'm gonna actually see a damn pill till mid/late july. it isn't the end of the world or anything but it makes me really sympathetic for people who have to do this in more stressful/less supportive conditions than i have--medical systems are just not designed for speed, or for the results you want to actually come in a timely fashion.

anyway this all means very little i mostly just needed to put it all somewhere

[abundanceofsoph]

SkyFire 2: Chapter 4

Tough Decisions & Bridesmaids Dresses: March 2016

Word count: 1.5k

CW/TW This chapter contains discussions of amputation

PART 1

SkyFire 2 MASTERLIST

It wasn’t an easy decision to make but after 5 months and nearly as many surgeries, Aurora was in pain. Her hand constantly ached, sleeping was difficult, and her life was so disrupted by the constant doctors’ appointments that she was reaching her breaking point. She talked to Sam about it first, explaining the research she’d been doing online since their appointment with Dr Walker and she explained her plan to him. He listened and told her that while it was her choice, she really needed to talk to Tony and Steve about it, as well as Harry, but before she could have those discussions, she went to talk to someone else. 

Since she’d first met him, Bucky had come a long way in his recovery, and she had slowly learnt to trust him. That wasn’t to say they were friends exactly, but they got along enough that Steve was happy. So, it was weird for Aurora to be standing in the doorway of his bedroom knocking on the frame with a nervous smile. 

“Mind if I come in?” she asked when he looked up from his book. He nodded in confusion and she walked across the room, taking a seat in the desk chair and facing him.

“Are you ok?” he asked.

“I was hoping I could ask you about your arm,” Aurora began, looking at her lap and playing with the hem of her shirt. “What’s it like? Having a part of your body that’s not really yours?”

“I guess I don’t really think about it much,” Bucky shrugged. “I hated the old one. The Hydra one. It hurt a lot but once your dad built me this one things are better, and it’s been so long I guess it doesn’t really feel like it isn’t me. Why do you ask?”

“The surgeons don’t think I’ll ever get full mobility back in my hand,” she said, “and it hurts constantly.”

“You’re thinking about cutting it off,” Bucky said, no hint of question in his tone, but Aurora answered him anyway.

“Yeah. I think I can get my life back if I do. I just thought I should talk to the only one around here with a prosthetic before I tell my dads and Harry.”

“Good luck with that,” Bucky replied, a small smile lighting up his face.

“Gee, thanks,” Rori scoffed. “I should probably go talk to them now.”

She stood up from the desk chair, pausing in the doorway as Bucky spoke up again.

“For what it’s worth, I think it’s the right decision.”

xXx

It took a few days for Aurora to work up the nerve to tell her parents. She knew that Harry would support her so she wasn’t worried about his reaction and decided to tell the three of them together in the hope that Harry’s calm support would help soften Tony’s reaction. Sam and Bucky helped keep the rest of the team away, ensuring that it was just the four of them at dinner one evening and Aurora spent most of the meal psyching herself up. Steve was cleaning the dishes from the table when she realised that she’d run out of time.

“Umm, there’s something I need to tell you all,” she finally said.

“This about why Sam went to your appointment with you last week?” Harry asked, having noticed how distracted she had been since.

“It is.”

“Are you ok?” Tony asked nervously.

“Sam and I have been working a lot on putting together a plan to get my life back together,” Rori began, ignoring her fathers’ question. “That’s why he went to with me last week. We talked to Dr Walker but what a realistic future looks like for me and based on what she told me and some conversations I’ve had with Sam and Bucky, I’ve made a decision.”

“Bucky?” Steve asked in confusion.

Aurora ignored him, watching as a look of understanding crossed Harry’s face, already catching up with Aurora’s plan. He reached across the table to squeeze her hand, silently telling her that he was with her on this. “Dr Walker believes that while I will, in time, regain limited use of my left hand, she doesn’t think I will ever be able to play piano again, at least not to the ability I used to. I’m looking at a dozen more surgeries and I’m tired. I’m in pain all the time and I just want to take back control of my own body.”

“Aurora…” Tony interrupted; his tone low with a hint of warning as if trying to stop her from what she was about to say.

She looked him in the eyes as she continued. “I’ve decided to amputate my hand and I’m hoping you will agree to build me a prosthetic.”

“Are you sure about this?” Steve asked while Tony and Aurora stared at each other in silence.

“I’ve spent a lot of time thinking this through,” Aurora said, turning to look at him. “I’ve done my research; I’ve talked to my surgeon. I’ve talked to Sam and I asked Bucky about what it’s like. I need to do this, and I need your support; It’s not going to be easy.”

“Of course, you have our support, bug,” Steve promised.

“You’re the only one that can make this decision for yourself and if you’re sure that it’s the right call then I’m going to be here for you every step of the way,” Harry added, his hand never leaving hers.

“Thank you,” Rori said, her eyes flicking back to Tony’s. He had yet to say a word. “Dad?” she asked, her hand shaking in Harry’s at the thought that he would argue.

“I hate that this happened to you, kiddo,” he finally admitted, his eyes damp with unshed tears. “I hate that you’re having to make this choice, but of course we’re going to be here for you.” Aurora smiled brightly, her own eyes growing damp as she launched herself out of her seat and into his arms. “Gonna make you the best damn prosthetic anyone’s ever seen,” he murmured as they hugged.

xXx

The next day Aurora contacted Dr Walker and the amputation surgery was scheduled for the second week in April. In the meantime, Aurora and Harry flew back to London so that she could go shopping with Gemma and her two bridesmaids, Ella and Lottie Tomlinson, to pick out their dresses for the wedding.

She smiled brightly as she approached the bridal boutique and saw the three girls waiting for her out front. They all hugged and then made their way inside, greeting the staff and explaining what they were looking for.

“Ok so I want you all in navy blue dresses but other than that it’s completely up to you,” Rori told the girls. “Pick whatever style you like, but I think it would maybe look cute if you all decide on the same hem length.”

They laugh and catch up as they girls flip through the racks of dresses, periodically disappearing into the changing room before re-emerging for everyone else opinions. Eventually they settle on dresses with the same lose flowing skirt that fall from their waists to the floor, but each of the women opt for a different neckline; Gemma’s is off-shoulder, Lottie’s is a sweetheart with lace illusion, while Ella’s is a one shouldered asymmetrical design. The dress maker takes their measurements and Aurora confirms the shade of navy blue she wants and then once the order is confirmed they leave and head off to find somewhere for lunch. They spend the rest of the afternoon chatting over food and plenty of coffees, discussing plans for a bachelorette party and Aurora’s upcoming surgery.

“Are you nervous?” Ella asked.

“A little,” Aurora admitted. “I mean it’s pretty full on but it’s also the right thing to do. I can’t keep pretending that they’ll magically fix my hand and it’ll be like nothing ever happened.

“But amputation?” Ella replied, “It just seems drastic.”

“So’s getting shot,” Aurora replied with a shrug. “Doesn’t make it any less necessary.”

“I don’t think I’d be anywhere near as calm,” Lottie added. “You’re so brave.”

“Trust me I’ve had my tantrums and I’ve lost count of how many nights Harry has had to deal with me crying over it all, but I don’t want to spend my life feeling like a victim. It happened; I can’t change it so instead I’m just going to make the best of the situation.”

“Like I said,” Lottie replied. “You’re so brave.”

Ella lifted her half empty coffee mug in mock cheers. “To Rori, the bravest badass bitch I’ve ever known.”

Her words had the effect she’d hoped for, eliciting laughter from all of them and breaking through the serious mood that had briefly gripped them.

“The bravest badass bitch,” Gemma echoed with a chuckle, lifting her own coffee mug to cheers with Ella’s.

NEXT CHAPTER

OR CONTINUE READING ON AO3

[danithebookaholic-blog]

SPOTLIGHT!

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In the Key of Be 

By Lena Hubin

Publisher:  Chatnoir Press Publication Date: April 2, 2018 Genre: Non-Fiction, Memoir

Synopsis:

Lena Hubin is a straight-A college senior when she lands in a psych ward. After her release, psychotherapy, illicit drugs, and sex distract her from her chronic anxiety--but none yields lasting relief. Despite teaching abroad, marrying, earning a masters and adopting two children, she remains haunted by anxiety. In her fifties, Lena returns with her family to the U.S., anticipating peace of mind. But when her son struggles with alcoholism, she feels her sanity swirling down the drain like the liquor she would dump--if she could find it. In a quest to help him, the author starts a journey that will change her life for good. 

Goodreads

Excerpt:

The Loony Bin

“…I saw the words just crawl up off the page like they were alive!”

I sat in Dr. Rubin’s small office on the fourth floor of Luther Hospital, reliving for him the incident in my apartment two nights earlier, when I hadn’t been able to wrestle meaning from a sociology text paragraph. The little black words had rebelled, marching into the air like a trail of ants. I shuddered. “I’ve just started the school year, and I think I’m going insane!”

“What else happened?” the doctor asked.

“What do you mean, ‘what else’? Isn’t that enough? I saw the words parade off the page in front of me. I’m seeing things. There’s something wrong with my mind!”

This hospital psychiatrist was my last hope. Back in school, I’d begun sinking like a leaky rowboat. No one could bale me out of my sudden madness: not my old boyfriend Andy; not John, the campus minister with UCM; not Dr. White, the college shrink. I’d panicked.

But Dr. Rubin wasn’t helping. He sat like a bent scarecrow, studying the papers scattered over his desk. “Your admittance info mentions another incident.” His small eyes squinted at me through wire-rimmed glasses.

“Well, if it’s there, why do I have to tell it again? I’ve already explained all this to two people here.”

“I’d like you to describe it for me personally, if you don’t mind.” The doc opened a desk drawer and took out a pipe.

His equanimity set me on edge. “Please, can’t you just read it in the report?”

His bony old hand shook as he struck a match and lit the pipe. “Tell me what else happened, Eileen.” He leaned back with a lop-sided smile and puffed. “Take your time.”

“Too much time’s already been taken! You must have the results of all those tests I took. What else do you need?” I’d waded through the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, the Thematic Apperception Test, some muddy Rorschachs where I saw Jesus throwing stones. Shouldn’t this top-of-the-line shrink know what to do with me by now? I was frantic.

But I was trapped, nowhere to turn. As smoke from his pipe swirled, I droned out the rest: “Yesterday at the end of conducting lab, Dr. Byrne put on a record of this Mozart music and made us stand and direct it. The jumpy beat scared me. I wanted to cover my ears and run away.” My voice quavered. “And the others were taking it so damn seriously, everybody holding up the stupid little sticks in their hands like puppets, and I felt so out of it, I could hardly hold the stick up. It scared me.”

“And then?” The doddering doctor’s head leaned back, his lips pursed around the pipe stem.

“Dr Byrne came up behind me and took hold of my elbow and said, ‘It’s simple 4/4 time,’ like I was some idiot, and he started pushing my arm back and forth….” Anxiety rose in my stomach. “Him touching my arm like that, it made me feel nauseous, like I was gonna pass out. I sat back and hung my head down so I wouldn’t faint.”

More puffs on the pipe. “And you didn’t faint.”

“No…, the bell rang, and I went out to the hallway and found Andy—that’s my old boyfriend. He felt my forehead and said, ‘You’re prob’ly coming down with something.’ Then he just picked up his French horn and went into his practice room.”

“But you continued to feel anxious.” His eyes followed the smoke drifting upward. I was sick of his pipe, of the smell. I was also dying for a cigarette, but having been told smoking was only allowed in the day room, I’d left my pack in my room.

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“I couldn’t stand it any more. I knew something was wrong. I rushed over to see John, that’s the UCM minister, and told him what was happening to my mind. And about Roger, this strange guy I spent the summer with—then he asked me if Roger could’ve slipped me a drug, but I know he didn’t; we just drank beer. Then John got me an appointment with Dr. White, this campus shrink, and—”

“I know Dr. White. He’s a good psychologist.” Puff, puff on the pipe.

“Well, he didn’t help me. He just gave me tissues and told me to cry it out.”

“So you were frustrated.”

“And then he said maybe I was overtired. He told me to go home and sleep as long as I could, and I slept sixteen hours straight—but it didn’t help. Nothing helps!”

“But you went back to Dr. White….” Dr. Rubin peered at a paper in front of him, his pipe poised in a quaking hand.

“Yeah, yesterday afternoon. There was nothing else to do! He said if I felt that bad, I could come here. So I went home and packed my suitcase and took a taxi, and here I am.” I drew in a sharp breath. “I committed myself!” I sagged into the back of my chair.

“And here you are.” His voice was dead-calm. “How do you feel right now?”

“I’m just sick of all this. I want it to go away!” I wrestled back tears.

“What are you sick of, exactly? What do you want to go away?” He still sucked at the pipe.

I sat up straight and leveled it at him: “All those other people out there, normal people, I feel like they’re in a different world, and I’m set apart—I can’t connect. It’s like I’m trapped in some kind of bubble, looking at everything from the inside out, stuck in here like one of those paperweight bugs in acrylic. Nothing outside makes sense!” I leaned back, and my voice pitch rose with a finale: “I had a 3.94 grade point last semester, for Godsake, and now I can’t even read! I can’t play piano. I can’t do anything! I’m just floating inside this damned, eerie bubble and I can’t get out!”

Tears stung my eyes. I began to sniffle; then I was gasping out faltering breaths. I let my head fall into my arms on Dr. Rubin’s desk and dissolved into racking sobs.

When I felt the doctor’s light touch on the back of my shoulder, I stopped crying. “You will get through this, Eileen. It will take some time and effort, but we’ll help you, and you’ll get well.”

I could have been a little kid with her parent telling her the monsters weren’t real. The doctor’s pipe bowl rapped against the glass ashtray. I opened my bleary eyes to see him shaking where he stood, bent like a question mark, beside his desk. He smiled gently at me and beckoned with his pipe stem toward the open door.

*****

Dr. Rubin lied. I’d been in the fourth-floor loony bin for over a week and was not getting better. In fact, I felt worse: anxious, bored, and useless, incapable of any normal thought or action. My mother came to visit. “We’re worried. We don’t really understand why you’re here.” I didn’t either; I couldn’t explain. I didn’t want to talk to her. Her teachers’ insurance was footing the bill, but I just wanted her to go away.

“Do you ever think of killing yourself?” Dr. Goldberg asked one day. He was the psychologist of my “team,” the team of him and Dr. Rubin.

“Why should I? I’m dead already.”

“You are clinically depressed,” he said. “Your test results are clear. And these are not unusual feelings for depression. Try to be patient. With some weeks of therapy and medication you’ll feel much better.”

“Some weeks! I can’t stand this for weeks. Send me to Mendota if you want. I might as well sit there in the state asylum in a rocking chair for the rest of my life.”

Dr. Goldberg jotted something on his clipboard. Then he smiled at me. “Let’s meet again in a couple of days, shall we? It must be almost time for dinner.”

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*****

Days on the fourth floor comprised a tedious litany. At 7 a.m. a breakfast cart rattled in, jarring me awake. I pulled myself up in bed and downed the orange juice, sloppy oatmeal, and limp toast. I pulled on clothes and sidled into the dayroom for a smoke, avoiding the eyes of a couple of loonies in there already playing cards. I trudged down the hall to a padded bench by the wall in a cavernous waiting area with a nurses’ station as the hub. I sat there fidgeting, hoping for a shrink to summon me for a session; meetings with the docs were haphazard, as far as I could tell. When I finally did get called I felt as if I’d won the lottery. I popped off the bench, salivating for the boredom displacement that was in store, an hour of attention focused on the hapless blob that was me.

Mostly I sat idle, staring at the dull green walls, at patients and nurses and doctors and orderlies who drifted through and chatted with folks for a spell and then moved on.

Back in my room at noon for lunch, alone by my request, I’d maw down whatever amorphous vegetables, starch, meat, and pudding or jello they served up, then dread the arrival of the prim, gray-haired lady at the door with her perky voice: “Coming to OT today?” Under doctors’ orders to take part in Occupational Therapy, I’d drag myself off my bed and trail her to a room with other patients at a long table, where I strung hundreds of beads, length after length, into necklaces no one would ever wear.

Group therapy met after OT, but I begged off. “I don’t want to talk with other crazy people,” I told Dr. Goldberg. “What’s the point? The problem’s in my head.” He didn’t make me go. Except to smoke, I avoided the dayroom, too, where the TV blared soap operas and people sat around playing gin rummy. Instead, I lay on my bed and stared at nothing for as long as I could stand it. Then I returned to the nurses’ station, and like a dog anticipating its master’s return, awaited a doctor’s call which rarely came.

In my room again at 5:00, I ate the entire crappy supper; feeding my face was something to do. Then I shuffled back to the waiting room.

The tedium-drenched days were as leaden as the skies outside my window, which threatened to drop their heavy load of winter any day. But after supper, as dusk fell into darkness, I perked up. In this best part of my day, I could revel in the anticipation of escape into hours of sweet, dead unconsciousness: sleep, my bosom buddy, the only prolonged relief from the anxious, aching dullness of my waking days.

One afternoon the orderlies herded squirmy patients across a road to a gaping public gymnasium, where they lined us up in teams on the slick wood floor. I stood where they planted me. A large rubber ball was suddenly in motion, people racing around me in pursuit. An orderly had barked out an explanation of the game—but I couldn’t concentrate enough to get it, and this filled me with terror. I kicked at the ball when it came near me—but I just wanted to vanish. A blur of patients scuffled past and shoved at me; sides changed up and an orderly snapped, “Eileen! Other side!” I winced, loped past where he was pointing, slunk down by a wall, and sat there in a shriveled heap until the game was over and I could shamble back to safety in the psych ward.

The next day when the nurse came in with my meds in the little white paper cup, I whined, “The afternoons are killing me. I just lie around waiting for dinner. It’s pointless. Can’t you give me something after lunch to let me sleep?”

Besides the Thorazine and whatever other pills they dished out to me three times a day, Dr. Rubin prescribed an afternoon sleeping pill. I sank into blissful nothingness, dead again, for a few more hours each day.

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Author Bio:

Lena Hubin has been writing since she was a young kid growing up on a small Wisconsin dairy farm. She has had essays and articles published in ISS Newslinks, The International Educator, Midwest Living, and The Sun. For four years she wrote quarterly book reviews for In Recovery Magazine. She has a masters degree in Creative Writing from California State University, Fresno. Lena writes, plays piano, teaches, and works for social justice in Prescott, Arizona, where she lives with her husband, dog, and cat.

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