Two weeks ago I had a liver biopsy to determine if I had non-alcoholic fatty liver disease and what stage I was into the disease. Turns out I am in the very beginning stages and it is reversible so I just have to lose some weight (which I have already done. 14 pounds down! woohoo!) and keep eating healthy and I should be good. Sadly, my liver biopsy itself wasn't without complications. Apparently, the large-ish needle that they used punctured my liver in a way that created a subdural hematoma (a bruise) on my liver and some of the juices from my liver leaked out into the needle site. Now, neither of these things will kill you, but it will hurt like a motherfucker. I don't think I can fully describe the levels of pain I was in. It's like nothing I have ever experienced. Breathing hurt, walking hurt, standing hurt, sitting hurt. At one point, I attempted to lay/sit in bed and the pain was so bad that my body was jerking uncontrollably. My husband was on the phone with the doctor trying to get a pain medication prescribed while also trying to decide if we needed to call an ambulance. I was panting, sweat was dripping down my head because I was in so much pain.
The car ride home was torture. Walking up the stairs to our third floor apartment was an exercise in mind over matter. As I slowly walked up those stairs I kept moaning, "Oh god, oh god." Even in my mind-addled state it occurred to me that I was basically calling out to a god who didn't exist and couldn't help me. So I switched to my husband's name. In a way, this was more distressing for him because there wasn't much he could do either, but he could do far more than a non-existent being could. He fluffed the pillows, held my hand, called the doctor over and over until they prescribed me pain medicine, heated up the heating pad, got me water, mopped my brow. At one point, in the midst of the worst of it, I moaned, "Oh [husband]. Help me. Help me." His voice cracked with tears when he replied, "There's nothing I can do." Just hold me, I told him. Just hold me. And so he held me until the muscles in my side stopped contracting and I could breathe again.
It took three hours to get the pain medication. Three hours of the worst pain I have ever experienced in my life. And I am proud of my choice to not call out to a being who, if it does exist, has little regard for the suffering of human beings. I am also proud of my husband who did everything in his power to make sure that I was okay, comfortable, and comforted.
This is a personal, but secret, blog archiving my deconversion from a Christian to a non-believer.