That Time My Heart Broke. Literally. – Part 11 (Why Didn’t I Just Leave?)

June 20, 2012

Homer Simpson on little train contraption in hospital gown, pumping arms to escape on train tracks
(Photo credit: Fox and Matt Groening (The Simpsons))

It’s Wednesday night , so this series continues.

Last week, I was wondering why I didn’t leave the hospital.

I was (am still) super stubborn. Yet, I listened to the doctors (for the most part), and always stayed in the hospital when I was told I needed to.

I remember being pretty persistent, though still polite (I hope) both this time and two weeks prior (when I’d first been admitted), that I wanted to go to work, if possible.

(I’m sure poor doctors and nurses get so tired of arguing with people day in and day out over what they want versus what they need. Sorry, y’all.)

Someone explained to me that the hospital’s not like a hotel where you can choose when to come and go. And let’s get real, it would’ve never been convenient even if I could’ve chosen all the days and times that would’ve been best for being sick. I still today wouldn’t know what was wrong with me, ’cause I would’ve never made enough time to go in for tests and things.

My understanding is that you can sign the AMA form and leave. But I guess then there could be problems with your insurance. And I think that hospital then has the right to refuse to treat you if it’s the same problem, and not an immediately emergent situation, maybe?

For sure, I don’t know all the ins and outs of leaving the hospital early and AMA forms. I just remember it seeming pretty hard and complicated if I wanted to ditch the hops, yet still get help at some point.

And the doctors were making it seem very serious. They weren’t scaring me, but I think they wanted me to understand the gravity of the situation. I was told a few times that the most common way Wolff-Parkinson-White is found is through an autopsy after a young-ish person has a sudden death. Everyone made it seem like I should consider myself pretty extremely lucky.

And I do. I mean, I might complain about how hard this all was, and how it threw my life plan a little (completely) out of control. In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have had a weird, congenital heart defect. But in the world where I do, I’d rather be set back a few years from where I thought I’d be, than not have a chance to make my dreams come true someday (being held back by being dead and stuff).

clock showing the quote - remember time lost cannot be regained
This is a sad quote/idea. So, let’s not think about it. (Photo credit: Flickr user Matt Gibson)

And who’s to say that everything in my life would’ve gone according to plan if I wouldn’t have gotten sick? Since when does life ever go according to plan for anybody?

While in the hospital, wrestling with the disappointment of lost time, one of my friends pointed out that obviously I’m gonna be a super huge deal someday (a sweetheart thing to say, right?).

Therefore, it’s better to get all this over now than when I’d have to miss shooting a movie with the sexiest man alive, Ben Stiller.


Going back to the idea of being way too obsessed over never missing work – it all started in high school. I gush about high school a fair amount on this blog; sometimes it’s hard not to. ‘Cause it was amazing, my friend. I had the most spectacular teacher in the universe. I adored her, and I adore her to this day.

And she’ll be mentioned in part of this story next week.

I'd love to hear from you! So whaddya say?