The Patented Kelly Bergin Recovery Process

The needles have been pulled, the wounds dressed, the hospital gown thrown in the corner. It is time to go home.

This is what happens next.

Step 1: Secure admission release. This first step involves copious amount of begging; it helps to pinch the inside of your thigh to produce some watery eyes. Waver your voice appropriately and repeat the following: "I haven't slept in days. Please, please let me go home." It helps to refrain from showering at this point; the stench alone will point to your release. No one likes a smelly Kelly.

Step 2: Lay down in your hospital bed as you watch various family members and friends gather up your stuff. For this phase, you'll want to switch into cranky mode. "MAKE SURE YOU PACK MY SWEET MASK, YO!" When this is forgotten, retaliate with one very swollen finger. (That mask made me feel like a goddamn superhero!)

Step 3: Take the last of your drugs from the nurse, knowing that you won't have access to Dr. K (Klonolopin) until you get home. Pass out for the car ride home. Note: this portion of the recovery will be very hazy and involves sending incoherent text messages. A choice one, from myself to my friend: "Call bike suit." I'm not sure what that means, and judging from his lack of response, I don't think he did either.

Step 4: Set up shop in your childhood bedroom. 

Step 5: Demand fan and sourdough pretzels. Refuse showering, as each step you take is wobbly and the last thing you need is a head injury. (On Saturday, I fell face forward into the tub whilst on the john, proof of my lack of strength.)

Step 6: Flood your minions with demands. "Apple sauce! Snapple! Sugar Free Twizzlers!" The sky is the limit, kid. Take full advantage. This is a diabetic's dream. Forget the protein, go with sugar free everything.

Step 7: Sleep. Dr. K has arrived in its bottled glory. Take a copious amount. Even though you will wake up every twenty minutes and continue to send questionable text messages, revel in the pain-free existence that K-dawg has brought into your life.

Step 8: Awake at sunrise and debate briefly taking Shea for a walk. One step out of bed proves your strength is not up for it. Crawl back into bed and watch and weep through the series finale of Family Ties.

Step 9: Stare in the mirror at the constellation of bruises from the Heparin shots injected into your stomach. Debate the best way to take a picture of this to send. Quickly realize that no lens in the world has the ability to siphon away this belly fat.

Step 10: Engage in brutal fight with Mother, who insists your smell is overwhelming the house. Hold your ground. You have earned the right to stink, and dammit, you will.

Step 11: Submit to shower. Reread the 100+ tweets you sent while under the influence. Question sanity and ability to function in society. Crawl back onto the couch and once again, yield to the power of mindless sitcoms on Comedy Central. Repeat the following mantra: "Sitcom, sitcom, slow death."

Step 12: Make goals for tomorrow, to add structure to your life. Suggestions include the following:

a) Go outside; a possible dip in the ocean is always healing

b) Find a freelance writing job, as your current life/work style is possibly unsustainable. (Help, Twitter!)

c) Find an apartment, as you must move in two weeks

d) Eat protein and lower your blood sugar so that you stop fainting

I think we're getting there, guys.

How I'm In The Hospital Again, Part One

On Monday I woke with a hangover and a mouth sore.

On Tuesday morning I got up for work, noticing my mouth had swelled considerably overnight. I could barely eat, talk,  and, worst of all, annoy my coworkers. The pain intensified with every movement of my lips, cheek, tongue.

I COULDN'T EVEN SARCASTICALLY SMILE.

It was clear I was having a rough day; my coworkers kept looking at me with concern, which made me well up with tears. (To think I was once called a robot! Suck on that, everyone!) I fled to the old office stairwell and cried with my sunglasses on. 

My mouth was so raw, wide-open and vulnerable that the tears only burned it more. I went back to my desk, stared at my computer screen. I sat on the lid of the toilet and rested my head in my hands. I shook and shook and laid on the floor in Keogh’s office. It was all very dramatic, especially because I continued to wear the sunglasses for the rest of the day.

Around 2:00, I realized I needed to take something to make it through the day.

Advil did nothing. Orajel? Squat. Then I remembered how I usually keep medicine on my person (like a drug dealer), or in my drawer.

Digging into my desk and purse (veritable medicine cabinets in their own right), I found a couple of pills. My heart swelled with joy. Xanax! That’ll relieve the edge. Allow me work in peace. Before I popped the pill, I thought... Hmm...these look weird. These are Xanax, right?

With my extreme pain driving my impulses, I ignored my gut and swallowed it. It wasn't long before I realized that I accidentally took Oxycontin (and a strong dose at that!) instead. Stoned and confused, I alerted my coworker, prompting her to post this on Facebook: 

Quote of the day, via my co-worker, who shall remain anonymous (unless you work at H&S and will most likely figure this out): 
"I found some pills in my desk and I’m in agony so I took one. Now I might pass out at my desk. Boss just called me and I’m pretty sure I sounded stoned. The pills say K 56 on them and they are definitely a prescription. I wonder what they are. At least I’m not shaking from pain anymore." Tuesday at 2:18pm · 

Yes, that really happened. Don't worry, Boss--I did good, fine work afterwards. Maybe even mediocre.

On Wednesday morning, I got up and tried to get ready for work. Instead, I punched my fist into the wall (it didn’t make a dent; I am very weak), scratched half my skin off, stared into the mirror and let two dramatic tears fall, all because I tried to stick out my tongue and brush my teeth.

I got back in bed and screamed (more like moaned loudly--I couldn't open my mouth) into the pillow.  My entire body continued to involuntarily shake from the pain and I kicked the sheets, myself, the AC until I was sweaty and breathing hard. My palms were red and engraved with nail marks.

Not sure of what to do, and knowing I couldn't verbally speak on the phone, I wrote my parents a frantic email, asking them to call my doctors.

I waited for their response. I took 2mg of Xanax (Next up on kelly-bergin.com: How Xanax Ruined My Life and More!) and passed out until 2.

When I woke up, my phone was ringing. My dad was downstairs (like…at my apartment in NEW YORK CITY downstairs!), ready to take me to the ER. Disoriented (take 2mg of Xanax and you try to call me in the morning...it takes 12 hours to get back to normal), I showered quickly, put on my Old Navy Kids' underwear backwards and dashed out the door.

In the waiting room, to avoid speaking, I scribbled down notes (medical history, symptoms, doodles of hearts) for administrators and triage nurses who continued to ask why I wasn't communicating well. I EVEN HELD UP THE PAPER TO SHOW, but their questions persisted.

At the bottom of the page, I was tempted to add: I CANNOT TALK, SO DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT. WOULD YOU DO THE SAME THING TO HELEN KELLER? HUH? WOULDJA?

In the ER, I got a room and then lost the room and then was given morphine and was looked at by blurry figures in coats and scrubs. Everyone looked so familiar. And why wouldn't they? I was there a week before, looking way uglier due to Little Mount Vesuvius (aka the huge, erupting staph infection on my face).

This time I made sure to do my hair and wear makeup due to the ratio of single hot doctors : attractive lupus patients. Of course my face was swollen and my hair dried weird, so I made sure to rock the Granny sunglasses. Can you believe I didn't even get one number! Don't they know I have to be a bridesmaid in less than ONE MONTH? And I still DO NOT HAVE A DATE!

After four hours of pointless tests in the ER and a haze of drugs and cool medical emergencies (SOMEONE CODED IN FRONT OF ME!!), I was finally admitted. Because he felt bad, my dad bought me a People magazine before he departed. (Bethenny got married, y’all! Her childhood wounds are healed and her baby’s ugly!) This lifted my spirits. And THEN I opened up to the page where Snoop Dogg talks about his daughter, who has lupus. Snoop! Lupus! Weed!

This might be the coolest thing to happen to my disease then since the time Lady Gaga thought she had it!

After my dad left and I got Snoop-Lupe-ified, they put me on a gurney and brought me upstairs. To my room, with an elderly patient and bedpans galore.

The excitement of Snoop the Lupe had worn off and the morphine had, too.

Once in my room, I dry-heaved from the medicines and cried from my raw mouth. I started thinking that I wouldn't wish this kind of pain on anyone-- not me, not Snoop Dogg's kid, not even Dick Cheney. (Clearly, I was deluded)

I laid back down on my hospital bed. Looked around, at the dry erase board, styrofoam cups, IV pole to which I was tethered. Each and every one a familiar object. 

I turned my face to the left and watched the morphine drip, drip, drip. I shut my eyes so tight it hurt.

Placed my hands under my body, fists balled, ready for a fight.

I took a deep breath and wept.

----------- 

Coming tomorrow: Kelly kills her roommate, eats a pudding (!!), and possibly contracts diabetes, pancreatitis or something else completely random and shitty!

Wednesday Morning Incoherencies

I'm starting to think NYU had it wrong when they designed this hospital. The building is huge but each room is tiny and each day here feels like a WEEK.

My parents arrived in the morning after rounds. They crowded into my half of the room for only minutes before the space dissolved and my dad took the paper to the waiting room. He also stepped out to get me a computer charger, as I believed death would become me if I didn't have Twitter to check. My mom fetched me Gatorade and actually tried to change my shirt for me before I reminded her that I’m 24, not 3. They stayed for most of the day until I got cranky and told them to go home.

I wasn't in the mood for visitors to due to the fact that I look like I got some "work" done down in South America, but I had Meghan come by anyway. She’s good company and she promised to bring Chinese food. We've been friends since before I discovered eyeliner and hair straighteners, so she's seen me in far, far uglier states. She stayed until I decided to try and go to sleep.

But sleep is impossible in the hospital so I listened to the attending doctor try to explain to a team of residents and medical students what was wrong with me. I listened for 5 minutes before I got bored and cranked up the music. Four songs later, the students and doctors came in and beckoned me to repeat "what happened this time" for the 30th time. (Here's an idea, guys: check the fucking chart! It mentions it hurts to talk.) I pulled a bit of Helen Keller move on them: I didn't say much, grumbled and made no eye contact. Rude, maybe, but it's no fun to have 10 nerdy med students staring at you when you know you look like Joan Rivers: the Prequel.

Later, my rheumatologist came by and said I’d probably in here until the end of the week. Before she left, she cocked her head to the side in sympathy and said: "Poor Kelly Bergin, I'd hate to be you!"

I get this comment a lot. That and: “You're always sick! God, I would never want your life!” I understand the sentiment behind both, but sometimes it sits me with me the wrong way and I never know how to respond.

I want to have a life that others want, too. I mean sure, I’m sick and my hair is badly dyed and I’m lying when I say I’m 5’2 but it’s not so bad, is it? Do you not see these blue eyes? These irises sparkle!

I'm livin' the dream here, people!

Anyway, I’m here until Thursday unless my elaborate bribery plan works on the attending. I keep refreshing the new Hanson music video for entertainment and downloading episodes of Six Feet Under on iTunes. (Well, I was until I realized it's not the best show to watch in the hospital...did you know people die on that show?). I just want to go home and back to sleep and eventually see the outside. There's only a short time period in which I can take advantage of the official Kelly Bergin Mouth Sore Weight Loss Plan™, and that period is the next week. Soon my appetite will come back, and boy do I have plans with some complex carbohydrates and some good food. (Yuca, Supper, Frankie's, Luke's Lobster--I am coming for you.)

UPDATE: I tricked the residents into letting me come home early, as long as I rested, took mad drugzzz and ate and drank. Thanks for all the well-wishes, offers to visit, flowers, phone calls and messages. I appreciate it all, I really do.