My Iron Lung... Not.

I cannot breathe.

Every time I take a breath, a stabbing pain jabs me in my lower ribs that feels like Edward Scissor Hands is using me as a pin cushion for his digits. It fucking hurts.

Andrew and I spent six hours in the ER waiting on results and doctors only for them to tell me that they're not sure what's wrong. I've never had tests done on my heart, or X-rays for my chest and I was oddly enough, mildly ok with it. Doctors, hospitals, needles have never been my thing.

The doctor actually said, "I don't think you had a heart attack, it's highly unlikely. So are blood clotts, but if you feel any pain in your legs, come back for an ultrasound right away."
What the fuck is that? We don't think you had a heartattack? Well I think that you shouldn't be a doctor if all you can do is guesstimate the probability of my heart exploding.

He thinks I have an inflamed lung and I'm just going to run with that theory because the other options are considerably more scary. Inflamed lung, I can deal with.

We got home at two thirty in the morning.
When I woke up the next day Andrew was gone for work, but the pain was still there.

I can't do anything.

Walking up the stairs winds me. Carrying my laundry down the hallway is impossible. Getting in and out of the truck is like climbing a mountain and I don't even want to talk about yawning.

It just sucks, feeling this useless. I absolutely hate it. It makes the constantly busy life of last week incredibly desireable. It makes me feel fat and lazy. It makes me scared that I've done something to cause such a horrendous pain.

I still have my hospital bracelet on just incase I have to go back. I've never been this worried about my health before.

It fucking sucks.