Forgive the title.
I mean it literally.
In related news, I have some sort of weird stomach infection…
I’ve actually been sick on and off for about 3 weeks now.
Nope, Chronic readers, as much as I wanted to, I did not hang up my Chronic hat and ride off into the sunset of gainful employment and desert you.
I’ve just been spending all my free time throwing up.
I managed to continue to work through the agony up until this past week. I had already arranged to have time off for Thanksgiving. (Happy Belated Turkey Day, my fellow Americans!)
This is the picture I posted on Facebook on Thanksgiving. The caption was, “These are our ‘When’s Dinner?’ faces.”
Except, I didn’t even really eat dinner on Thanksgiving. This is what I really did on Thanksgiving:
#SocialMedia #LiesWeTellOurFacebookFriends #AtLeastMyDogGetsMe
I’ve had to take additional time off from work this week, because when you get to the point where you are so sick you don’t even want to look at food anymore, it’s high time you head on over to your friendly neighborhood emergency room.
It’s making me kind of crazy, this first foray into being super duper acute sick while navigating my newfound employment. I had been doing so well: Visions of Sigourney Weaver ‘Working Girl’ greatness danced in my head (I’ve been saving up for a kick-ass power suit), and Donna Sommers’ power ballads have been echoing on repeat in my ears, just for good measure- I work hard for the money/so hard for it honey/I work hard for the money so you better treat me right…
But sickness snuck up on me.
I actually just typo-ed and wrote “ickness” which I think is a more accurate description.
I won’t gross you out with excessive details, but pretty much everything icky your digestive system can do, mine is doing with a vengeance. I’ve had every icky test where you have to drink icky stuff so they can take icky pictures of your icky insides. I have been poked, prodded, and stuck. So far they aren’t sure what’s wrong beyond knowing something isn’t right. Super helpful, n’est pas? It’s not just an average cyclical vomiting spell either. There’s a whole lot more going on, but “what is it???!!” is the million dollar question.
In the meantime…
Best thing about overnight hospital stays? So. Much. Saline. Saline is my favorite. I wish I could take it home with me. Someday I will write a whole post dedicated to my love of saline and the incredible difference that being venous-ly hydrated makes.
Worst thing about overnight hospital stays? Everything else.
I didn’t sleep more than a few hours due to hourly poking and prodding. The bed was weirdly squishy. More than 1 person said I was “too young” to be so sick to my stomach (Which was weird in context because don’t kiddos get diarrhea? Like a bunch? I didn’t think only old people had cornered that market…) I haven’t eaten since Sunday, except the 4 cups of hospital jello I hoarded like a maniac and then “savored” bite by tiny bite.
Reaction to 1st cup of Hospital Jello: Sweet manna from heaven! Thank you, Lord! Has anything ever tasted so good?
Reaction to 2nd cup of Hospital Jello: Ok, so yeah, jello and I are friends. But not like best friends, just like good friends, you know? Like I wouldn’t invite jello out for 1-on-1 time, but if I needed to beef up a guest list, jello would be on it.
Reaction to 3rd cup of Hospital Jello: Who the flip brought me orange jello? Why is there even such a thing as orange jello? Why does this taste like someone melted an orange popsicle and then left it in a lukewarm fridge for 3 weeks?
Reaction to 4th cup of Hospital Jello: I am never eating jello again.
Wait, what’s that you say? Jello is the only thing I can eat for the next 48 hours while I await extensive GI workup testing?
Whyyyyyyyyyyy, Universe, Whyyyyyyyy?
I brought a book, but I didn’t read it.
There was a TV in the room, but I didn’t watch it.
Mostly I stared at the ceiling repeating my name and birthdate in my head over and over because everyone kept asking (ID verification), and the morphine they gave me made me weirdly panicked that I would suddenly forget this vital information, which would mean that they wouldn’t give me more Zofran. And I needed that Zofran.
Yeah, morphine is going on my “Please don’t give me this” list. STAT.
When I wasn’t doing that, I was, of course, writing this blog in my head.
I have missed writing, but I can honestly say, I have not missed having Chronic things to write about.
But what can a Chronic girl do?