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:
Bleeding.
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...
Maybe.
