A neurology resident stopped by my room yesterday and told me that since I was doing better than expected, I would be discharged and my medication titration would continue on an outpatient basis. And so the wires on my head were taken off, prescriptions were called in to my pharmacy, a discharge summary was prepared, my saline lock was removed, I packed up my belongings, and my husband came to pick me up.
I’m so happy. Seriously.
After eight (I think?) days in the hospital, the simple pleasures of not being confined to bed are hard to describe. The feeling of sunlight on my back! The ability to make a cup of green tea whenever I like! Sleeping between my own sheets! I suddenly appreciate what I normally take for granted. If only this would last forever.
Leafing through my discharge summary was enlightening. My husband often says that the fact that I lose consciousness during my seizures is a blessing, and I can’t help but agree with him after reading pages documenting such an extreme experience, of which I have little recollection. Over the next while, I’ll take time to process what’s happened: I think that it’s important to not let this pass without some understanding, or at least acceptance, of it. I wear its consequences on my body—bruises, IV and injection sites, a cut under my eyebrow—and in it—dizziness and double vision that are the result of adjusted medications and being in status epilepticus a week ago, as well as a sense of not occupying myself as I normally do, probably because I didn’t move more than a little for a significant period of time.
These, though, are minor concerns. I’m here, after all, writing this from my favourite coffee shop near my apartment, and I’m mostly fine. I’ll continue to get stronger, to move forward, to sort things out. That’s all I can ask of myself, and it’s more than enough.