I broke down again last night. I was talking to my best friend, ranting even, about the day I had had, when I felt it coming from deep inside. I knew it was going to happen a full minute before it did, but I tried to keep it together. I tried desperately to gain control and as I was doing so, I thought how ridiculous that attempt was.
I thought, "If you can't let go with your best friend of almost 15 years, who can you lose it with, anyway?"
And so, as I felt it welling up inside me, bubbling to the surface, I dropped the levies and let the full force of my stress, my frustration and my fear flood the phoneline. My voice cracked as I said, "If it were your fucking son, what would you do..."
And then I cried, great racking sobs. Everything upsetting me came flowing out. Everything I fear, the way the day's occurances had made me feel. Everything.
And it was good. She was amazing, as she always is. The stress dissapated, at least for that moment in time. The stress scurried away to hide under some rock in my psyche, where it can regroup and build over time once again. But for the moment, I felt overwhelmingly better.
Today, I was contemplating the breakdown and I realized something probably everyone who reads this already understands, but which I have yet to fully analyze and that is that these breakdowns are cyclical with me. I keep it together for a period of time, maybe a month, maybe two months. But then some catalyst or catalysts occur, generally grouped together in such a way as to send all of my defenses packing.
It's my own private pressure-release valve and every so often, I've got to just open that shit up and let it out full force. Here's the real point of this realization for me and that is that my valve is good and healthy and probably keeps me from losing my fucking mind. It is not a sign of weakness. It does not mean I am losing my mind.
Maximus is getting worse. This blood pressure issue is quite a bit larger than originally thought, but instead of it being its own thing, instead it is actually tied to his renal failure. They believe it is signaling a breakdown in his systems, his organs beginning to work against each other. They believe the catheter surgery pushed his renal function over the edge and that his heart then began to overcompensate.
His heart is causing what is known as hyperfiltration. It is pumping so hard that it is flushing his kidneys, flushing the toxins through his system, causing the electrolytes to not collect and therefore producing artificially good lab results.
Those results I was so proud of, I was so in awe of, are not indicating he is doing better. In effect, when combined with his sky-high blood pressure (even though he is on BP medication), they signal that he is getting worse. He is far worse and the hyperfiltration is most likely causing even further renal damage, damage that can not be fully ascertained until his blood pressure is controled.
Controlling the blood pressure has, so far, proved futile. We doubled his medication on Tuesday and I take him in tomorrow for another check and for labs. They believe once his BP begins to come down, his labs will quickly deteriorate.
In the words of Dr. A: Dude. He needs to be transplanted.
Ok, so she didn't say 'Dude', but you get the picture, right?
So, this was a major source of my stress, obviously. Combine that with a fairly rude interaction with the transplant coordinator, at the end of which I hung up... as.she.was.still.talking, which is not like me in the slightest when it comes to dealing with Max's healthcare providers, and a long, ongoing battle with Apria Healthcare (read 15+ phonecalls since Christmas week) that did not fully get resolved until I got a replacement portion of his last monthly order they had fucked up today (3 weeks late).... and perhaps then, you can see why my stress level built to a breaking point last night.
I.was.stressed.
I was so stressed I think I even bitched about my beloved grandma during the height of my sob-fest, my grandma who has been bugging me for weeks now about taking a family picture of the four of us, so that she can put it in a new frame she got for Christmas. Good fucking god, she asked me about taking a damn picture twice yesterday. Twice. While I was at work for fuck's sake.
I finally said to her firmly, "Grandma. I will get out my new tripod and take a picture of us as soon as I can get everyone in our family bathed and dressed at the same time and when my kids are sufficiently worn out enough so as to stay put for several moments, but not so worn out that they are crabby. And when I do, I will send it to you immediately."
What I did not say was, "Do you have any idea what my life is like? Do you have any idea what a fucking feat it is to get myself and Moose clean within an hour of each other? Do you have any idea how much effort would have to go into doing this? Why don't you come out here and stay for a week or two, see my life since Rowan was born and became mobile, since Max stopped eating all formula on his own, since he had his surgery and I have to clean and change his dressing daily and then decide whether or not you want to press me on this."
I did not say this because I love my grandma and I know she means well. She just wants a picture to show off, to put in her new frame and eventually I'll get off my ass and make that happen. But this week is really not the week to worry about it.
I'm also getting extremely nervous. We may find out tomorrow. We may find out early next week. But soon, we will find out if my cousin's husband is even an initial match and I am trying not to focus on it. I am trying desperately not to think about it and yet I can't stop myself.
I can't stop myself from hoping. Hoping. Hoping.
