My mother and sister showed up mid-day Saturday when I was starting to have a coherent train of thought. By then I was in one half of a semi-private room with a woman with a brain tumor who hadn't been able to take a shit in five days [which became six, and then seven...] who was quite nice and lent me her copies of Cat Fancy to read which was about all I could take in.

At this point I could assess the damage: no bodily damage except some muscle pain from the seizures and needle bruises up and down my arms from the IVs; my truck [they said] was fine except for a dent in the front end; my brain, though pokey, still seemed to be all there. I was on a Dilantin IV drip to prevent further seizures. Even though seizure-type activity is a known side effect of OD'ing on this drug, and 30% of people who have a seizure never have another, I was being closely monitored and medicated. I was also coughing up blood. Maybe from the intubation, maybe not.

I had already told the doctor what I had been taking. He had never heard of it. One of my few memories of the ICU is prattling on at him in my medicated haze "oh, it's made of this and this and you can make it yourself, it's really supposed to be a mild euphoric, I don't know what happened...." The other is talking to the shrink who was sent in to determine if I was suicidal. From the outside, I guess I certainly seemed suicidal. I assured her I was not. No, really.

I was assigned to bed rest and got kvetched at when I walked down the hall, carting my IV behind me. I asked for, and received, another robe to cover up my butt, and got to wear my one surviving set of plastic beads from Burning Man. The OD folks in the hospital always look the best because they haven't been wasting away from something awful for months on end. I'm not bragging -- it's just being King of the Dipshits.

My Mom and sister went on a mission to check out my truck and remove the rest of the drugs from it, if possible. I wasn't sure if this would turn into a criminal deal -- I had hurt no one but me -- but it seemed good to be on the safe side. They had gotten cut rate tickets to see me because I was listed in critical condition.

hospital life