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March 10, 2013    |    0 COMMENT(S)

I was rushed to the hospital by my friends last night after a really, really bad case of abdominal pain. My monthly case of cramps is actually pretty regular, almost like an unwelcome visitor I've grown accustomed to. But for some reason, last night, it reached new heights, leaving me with no choice but to call for help.

After several blood tests and urine tests, I was discharged after six hours. It was dysmenorrhea, alright, but worsened by stress and fatigue, which led to that anxiety attack. Anxiety attack. At first, I couldn't fathom why or how. But then I recalled the lowest point of the night:

There I was on the floor, all curled up in pain, unable to move my numbing hands and feet, because my abdomen was hurting like it's being ripped apart. It was the worst episode of this I've had by far, and the most terrifying, because I was alone, and I only had my books and my readings with me, and the people I was trying to call weren't answering right away. I had every reason to be scared and to panic, and even though I knew I wasn't going to die, it was still frightening, especially when I was literally gasping for air. Yet in between sobs and dialing numbers, I remembered very clearly, all I could think to myself was, "Shit. I haven't finished my digests."



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