Apartments and hospital rooms

In the space of 72 hours, I moved into my own apartment with my boyfriend, got myself hospitalised, came home and promptly flooded my new apartment. It has been… a week.

To start at the beginning, I’ve been frantically trying to find somewhere to live before June 1st as that’s when we needed to move. I found one, with the help of my friend (it was his old apartment tbh this is all thanks to him) and moved within the week. During this moving time, my entire lower body puffed up and doubled in size. Which is why, on the second day of moving, I was taken to the emergency room at 9 pm. It was such a big deal because I am immunosuppressed, and sudden unexplained things like swelling are often very very bad.

I was in the emergency room until five am, listening to the constant groaning of a woman in the bed opposite me, and the endless shrieks of machines, being poked and prodded with needles. I fell asleep twice, both times I was immediately woken up for more blood tests and updates on the fact that there was no news. They moved me into a different ward at 5, and I was there until about 4 pm. This ward was full of insufferable snoring.

During this time it occurred to me that hospitals may be the very worst place in the world to be sick with the intention of recovering.

I got released, plied with prescriptions and threats of long-term ‘observation’ which is code for being chained to a hospital bed, and a follow-up appointment on Tuesday.

I then came home, to several baskets full of washing, and put some on just to try and make a dent which it didn’t. Within half an hour the bathroom floor was filled with about two inches of water, and the hallway carpet was squelching. We dried up the bathroom, but the hallway is still recuperating, two days later.

This is all outside of frantic uni submissions.

It has been one hell of a week.

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