It’s been a while since I last updated…
Nearly 18 years ago
I had a newborn and a toddler to care for while my common-law boyfriend and I shopped for Canadian Thanksgiving. He kept on taking his blood pressure and was getting weird readings. I told him to go get himself checked out. He refused. That was Friday. Sunday, he said he couldn’t breathe and had no energy while the oven was full of turkey. I called in a friend to look after the kids and I took him to the hospital. He was in atrial fibrillation. For five months, I took care of house, home, CPS, the children, breastfeeding, and him. I was terrified I would be a widow-without-wife and would have to raise the two kids all on my own.
A year almost to the day after the doctors finally got around to converting him, he smashed right through all my consent limits. 9 months later, our youngest was born.
That was 18 years ago.
That was the first time I had to deal with a man with heart issues. A lot has changed since then. The newborn graduated from high school. The toddler is off doing their own thing. The child that was born after the fact is still in school. I got both married to and am now divorced from that common-law husband.
615 days ago
That’s the amount of days it has been since I arrived here.
That’s how long I have been in Black Ort’s arms.
That’s how long since Princess Sofia graced our lives. The poor kitten died in Black Ort’s arms as I sat at his side.
I called my father at some point. I begged him to sponsor me. Black Ort would have paid for it all.
He said no.
I am not surprised. A man who never had anything to do with me as a child, who only saw my worth as the crotch fruits I made to give him grandchildren. He refused to do the one thing he could have done to simplify my life. Instead, it has cost me over a year of wages because I can not legally work here. The advice that he gave me has forever chilled me to the bone.
My father has proven himself that he was nothing but a sperm donor to my mother so she could make a baby she could use as an excuse for why she never remarried. The excuse for why her life did not go as she wanted it to.
That’s how long it’s been since Black Ort first touched me in real life and I surrendered to him for the first time.
That’s how long it has been since Black Ort asked me to change my name on the air.
(20-2-2022) Relina Zhan added, “Oh, no need for blunt force trauma….. what the FUCK?????p DID HE JUST PROPOSE??????
That’s how long it has been since I did change my name and become Mrs. Black Ort.
Yes, it was a tight turnaround, but with Covid, we didn’t have many guests we wanted to be there. A small gathering of friends. Two who flew in from out of state. There was also “uncle Mike,” a gaming partner I had. Black Ort’s previous wife’s best friend was there and her medical status meant it had to be small. We could not risk her life to Covid.
Or our lives.
That’s when I performed for Second Life’s 19th Birthday for the 5th time. The Moles and Lindens loved me. I performed several times during that week as my feline avatar cause I did not feel like being humanoid.
The handful of days since Black Ort nearly turned me into the Widow Ort.
We argue about who woke who up. I wasn’t quite sleeping and had rolled onto my back to finally settle in for the night. I reached over to touch him and his wrist was soaked and he was cold. He grumbled and shook me off. Then he got up and went to the bathroom and came back complaining of being drenched in sweat. He took his pulse with his pulse oximeter. “I’m over 200. I’m calling 911.”
He says he woke himself up and doesn’t remember my touch.
I went into action, throwing on all the lights I could, racing around to get him clothes and me dressed. I threw open the front door and shone a light out to show the boys in uniform where to go all while functionally blind myself.
“Ma’am, are you driving up behind us?” I shook my head. All I could see were lots of blurry people. I told them to not worry about the mess, take care of him. I’d deal with the mess later. I ended up picking up bits and pieces of debris for a month.
“She’s my wife. She’s staying home,” he told them. They converted him in the house shortly after getting an iv in. Neither of us wanted me to go to that covid cesspool.
Little did either of us realize as they were carting him away that we both would live there for the next two weeks. My whole world contracted down to the room he was in. In theory, his racing heart rate was the start of a “widowmaker” and we – he and I – got it stopped just in time.
“I wanted at least ten years with you,” I said snuggling up to him at one point. “Five months is not enough.”
Thirty-one days ago was when Black Ort underwent open heart surgery. I went to sleep exhausted from worry. He was safe. He was alive. He had made it through.
The hospital lost my number, so they called his emergency contact who called me. I was back at the hospital by midnight because he needed me.
I got to the ICU and stood at the doors waiting for someone to notice me. I told them who I was to see, that I was his Mrs., and that I had the equipment they needed for him – his Cpap. I was shown how to get to his room.
I stood outside and breathed, shrugging my shoulders and stealing my spine for what I was about to see next.
I walked into his room and did that tiny mew sound I make when I want to let him know I’m around but don’t actually want his attention. I didn’t know if my husband was awake or not. I mewed again as I crossed in front of him to the area that the hospital made for family staying with icu patients. This hospital was smart that way.
He called out to me. “Wifey, are you there?”
I mewed a third time.
“Wifey? I can’t see. Where are my glasses? I’m so thirsty. Wifey? Is that you.”
After dropping the bags I brought and went to his side. He was begging for water and his nurse came in and gave him a sponge of water. Then ice chips. His hand was tied down. His feet were tied down. I was told later that he had come out of the anesthetic fighting and they had to tie him down. I believe it, because he had three people land on him to do things to him shortly after I arrived. They had to hold him down and he fought them all.
I never wanted to see him that way. I’m thankful I didn’t see him with the tube down his throat. The tubes I saw him with was enough. There were two coming out from his chest. Multiple from his neck. Did he have one or two IVs? There were also wires connected straight to his heart. He had scars on his leg, burn marks on his back and so much more. I fed him sponges with water and then all the ice cubes he was allowed to have. I brought him his favorite diet non-caffeinated fizzy to drink. I brought the nurses chocolates. I had been bringing chocolates the entire time. It offered me a bit of leeway, but not when it was really needed.
On his second night in the ICU, I felt an elephant on my chest. My watch was going off and it wouldn’t stop going off. Looking at it now, I was bradycardic for at least half an hour, about 3 metres from where my husband struggled to breathe. 3 metres away from help. 3 metres away from protecting him from an abusive phlebologist who tortured my husband to get a blood draw. 3 metres away from my husband, and I was bradycardic. I was under 40 and my sheer willpower kept me alive. My husband needed me and I was unable to draw in enough air to say “help.” 3 metres away from my husband and he could have lost me.
Two days later, it happens again. I manage to will myself up to sitting and my heart speeds up. By then, my cardiologist has pulled the heart med to see if that will fix things. It doesn’t.
The waiting game begins to get him out of the hospital. Two of his numbers were “wrong” and that stupid phlebologist shows up again. This time, my husband is able to protect himself without needing my help.
That’s how long it’s been since he’s come home. It’s slow progress, too slow in his opinion. He’s weaned himself down to about 2.5L/O2/hr. Until he’s off of that, he’s probably not doing his show anymore.
Each day is a challenge. He has to do things or he won’t recover, but if he overdoes it, it will take him longer to recover. His drive and desire and need for me is higher than I’ve ever seen. Each day he gets a little bit better.
That’s how many Ort Clouds and Black Ort’s Master’s Round Tables I’ve done since all this started. This Sunday will be my 6th. Last Sunday, he did speak on the air for one minute and it exhausted him.
Carry on wayward daughter. There’ll be peace when we’re all done…