The other day, while I was on the phone with the 911 operator, I realized that if I'm going to be on my own against the world, without an emergency contact, I really ought to find some way of keeping my relevant medical information on me at all times. Because when you're in excruciating pain and on the verge of passing out, spelling the name of your connective tissue disease for the third time after coaching someone who really doesn't want to be responsible for the information through the problem of not having a field on their screen in which to type such things (to which I say, in general, why the hell not because things like blood type and collagen defects may not be relevant to the PHONE CALL but can be crucial once you've reached the HOSPITAL, and in specific, GET A PENCIL AND A PIECE OF PAPER, PLEASE) just seems extra cruel.
I'm considering getting it all tattooed on the front of my torso. Because believe it or not, that is less expensive than having it engraved on an anklet, and also impossible to lose.
My friend Dr. Anonymous deserves a medal for putting up with me. Not only did she handle the phone call on Friday with polite aplomb (after dismissing Hotter's suggestion to call an ambulance out of hand, because FUCK THAT GUY AMIRITE, and spending a further five minutes down at the workshop in screamy contemplation of my symptoms since Big Child was due home momentarily and I didn't think he ought to see me when he walked into the house, I realized that maybe I was not the best problem-solver and called Dr. Anonymous in as a tiebreaker) (I still feel bad about that phone call, because I was having an extremely hard time toning down the shrieking enough to form semi-coherent words and suspect I did a poorer job of it than I thought at the time), but she also gave simple enough instructions that even I could not find a way to weasel out of following them (it's like she knew I'd try to drive myself to the local teaching hospital and expire on a sidewalk somewhere after trying to parallel park a straight-shift car that does not idle rather than trust a valet or security person with the task if she left ANY room for interpretation), namely "Emergency room. CLOSEST emergency room. Now."
I just opened up the Facespace to a message from Dr. Anonymous; a mutual friend of ours has been trying to talk me into accepting a loan and pursuing COBRA so that I can try to get some more medical treatment and I've been saying that no, I will not borrow more from a friend than I will realistically be able to pay back and wouldn't invest in COBRA right now if I had the money anyway because my car is on its last legs and my almost-eight-year-old is still sleeping in a toddler bed. Said mutual friend brought Dr. Anonymous into the thread as an appeal to authority, and Dr. Anonymous instead said something along the lines of "oh holy shit I didn't even KNOW about Hotter and I am SO SORRY all of this is happening right now," and I replied with "oder gor oder gornit."
The tattoo on my right arm is less specific than the one I'm considering with all of the medical information, but it's a lot more succinct.
For those who have been asking, the most likely cause of my physical misery seems to be adhesions from previous surgeries, which isn't something emergent enough to fix on an uninsured patient so the hospital sent me home with strong narcotics and instructions to take them with Miralax, and I am no longer in acute agony but am still distinctly unwell. Eschewing solid foods makes it bearable and I think I'll be okay for work tomorrow.