File under TMI...Way, way TMI....
Things have not been peachy keen at Casa de Thumper. I mean, it was fine on June 2nd at about 6:30, and then not so fine at about 6:35, and super not fine at 10:30 when the Spouse Thingy determined that like it or not, I was going to the ER.
On the afternoon of the 2nd I was beginning to get ready for the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer; I dyed my blue camo shorts fuschia and they came quite pretty freaking sweet, and I planned on dyeing my hair white-blonde on Tuesday and then hot pink on Wednesday. After the shorts were dyed and dried and folded, we had dinner, I played online for a while...
...and this is where the TMI flows, so you might want to hop on over to reddit'saww subreddit and look at pictures of cute things.
Go ahead. It's ok. You can be pretty sure that in the end, I survive.
Alrighty. I played online for a while, and then had to use the facilities, so to speak. Quite badly. Seemingly urgently. I grabbed my iPhone—to play Solitaire, because who the hell can go to the bathroom without a phone now?—and went into the restroom, where nothing happy happened. Right about the time I was about to grumble about the false alarm, though...the ringing in my ears jacked up, the world felt like it was closing in on me, and I got serious tunnel vision. Within seconds, I was starting to sweat, was pretty sure I was going to pass out, and had the fleeting thought that at least I wasn't sitting there with a pork chop to choke on.
Just in front of the toilet is a wicker hamper; I grabbed it and pulled it toward me, and set my head on it, hoping everything would pass and I would just be grumbling later about nothing.
Several minutes later, nothing had passed. I still had that gripping oh-hell-gotta-go-NOW feeling in my gut, I was soaked in sweat, and still felt like I was going to pass out. I have no idea how, but I dragged myself to the bedroom and onto the bed and kicked at the wall, hoping the Spouse Thingy would hear me in the other room where he was playing some computer game.
We waited for it to pass; after ten minutes it was no better but I had to bolt back to the bathroom, where eruptions of Oh Hell No occurred.
Max decided to take over.
I agonized with sitting there, hugging the hamper while drenching it with my sweat. Max hovered, walking a line outside the (open) bathroom door, growling at the Spouse Thingy if he even looked like he might intrude. In between growlings, he came in to see me, standing on his back legs, stretching up to look at me, then headed back to the hall to growl more.
Leave her alone.
His intentions were good.
I sweated through my clothing, leaving wet foot prints on the floor. But this was good, I would be done, I would feel better.
But I didn't. I spent the next three hours darting between the bed and the bathroom, with Mike hovering, trying to figure out when I had crossed a line. I kept my phone with me, just in case, and at 10:30 I sent him one text:
I'd crossed the line; he bolted into the bathroom, looked at the evidence—it was only blood—and announced we were heading for the ER.
I did not argue.
On the plus side, I was no longer covered in a cold sweat and didn't feel like I was about to faceplant onto the floor. I only felt like I belonged in an Aliens supporting role.
When you feel like complete crap, a fifteen minute car ride feels like it takes an hour. A five minute wait for vitals feels like ten, and a ten minute wait in a quite room while they discharge someone else so you can have their bed just feels like oh-gawd-let-me-lie-down-already...that's all I wanted at the point, to curl up in a bed and do as much nothing as possible.
Within half an hour of getting the open bed I had an IV in place and enough pain relief on board that I was almost comfortable. Lots of waiting, a digital exam, a CT scan of my abdomen, and a few hours, and I was discharged with a diagnosis of Colitis, and had scrips for 2 different antibiotics, a heavy duty pain killer, and anti-nausea med.
But hey, I was going to go home and sleep in my own bed, and in the morning the Spouse Thingy would get my meds and I'd feel spiffy by afternoon. Right?
On the ride home, the nausea ramped up.
I barfed just outside the front door, twice. He got me into bed, got most of my clothes off, and got me a bucket, which he set by the bed but not in my path...by 6:30 in the morning, I was heaving into it.
At 8:30 Buddah decided to check it out and knocked it over.
At 8:31 I decided I needed to chew better, threw a towel over the mess, dashed for the bathroom again, and then crawled back into bed where I pleaded with Someone to make the cramping and pain stop. At some point there was Percoset and something for the nausea...and sleep.
Lots of sleep.
I know I got out of bed on Tuesday long enough to post something on Facebook, but for the most part the next week was spent in bed, curled up in a tight ball of please-let-the-pain-stop, unless I was aseleep...and I was asleep a lot. Between my natural inclination to sleep when I'm sick and the Percoset, I'm not sure I got out of bed other than to go to the bathroom, which was just an ongoing issue of Blah.
For the most part, Tuesday afternoon through Monday of this week are one mushed together lump of sleep and pain; there's photographic proof that I got up at one point and went into the living room, where I feel asleep on the couch, but other than that it was sleep, drink, meds, crawl to the bathroom, sleep more, refuse food, sleep...
And I missed the Avon Walk because of it all.
That's what chaps me the most; I'd been looking forward to the walk and hanging around in SF with DKM for weeks. Instead of camping, we were going to stay in a hotel, and we were going to the Cheesecake Factory, dammit!
But, while DKM walked, I slept. And whined about the crappy taste in my mouth and how uncomfortable I was, and kept refusing food that the Spouse Thingy (who had to take off work to care for me) was more than willing to make for me.
Every day he struggled to get me to eat something. Half a slice of toast was a victory. Half a cup of rice was amazing. I needed ice water, he got me ice water. I needed Gatorade, he got me Gatorade. I wasn't sure what I wanted, he went to Walmart and brought half the store home with him, creating a pyramid of junk food on the kitchen counter to tempt me.
Nothing sounded good, or even like eating it was remotely a good idea.
By the weekend, I had lost about 15 pounds. I highly do not recommend this method.
I think this Tuesday was when there was actual food I craved. Macaroni and Cheese. He made some, I ate about 6 ounces. Later, cream of potato soup with white rice in it. I ate about 7 ounces. Yesterday, blueberry muffins. Yogurt. Somewhere in there was a chicken wing I inhaled.
Today has been the first day of regular food—10 days after it all started. I saw my doctor last week—he renewed my pain meds and don't-barf meds—and had me come back today. Since I'm improving (in spite of the wonderful case of Thrush the antibiotics have given me) I can just continue on and don't have to go back unless I get worse, but the big thing is we still don't know what caused this or why...so I'm getting a colonoscopy in September (right AFTER the Komen walk...like, 2 DAYS after) and I just have to keep my fingers crossed it's not chronic and I eventually (sooner rather than later, please) am not glued to the bathroom.
I definitely feel better; there's no crushing pain in my belly right now, and I can sit upright for a couple hours, but I'm still exhausted and sleeping more hours than not. I've had most excellent care here, and we all need to keep our fingers crossed that Mike never gets this sick so that he doesn't have to see which end of the stick he got in this relationship.
Though I suppose I wouldn't flinch too hard at him holding up toilet paper to me and showing the result...
Told you that you wanted to go see the aww pictures...