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Things are not so good around here.
Things are, unfortunately, getting progressively worse around here.
It’s been a really bad past week or so.
I was optimistic before I left for L.A. Even though the trip was going to involve a pretty grueling schedule — each of the four conference days began at 8 AM and went as late as 1 AM — I hoped that if I could just survive the cross-country flight, I’d be fine.
That was a week ago.
Much has changed in a week.
The flight there turned out to be the least of my problems. I was supposed to be in a window seat, but the sweet girl in the aisle (she had a puppy on board!!!) agreed to switch with me. I had to dash for the airplane bathroom a bunch of times, but nothing tragic happened.
The first night in L.A., I spiked a fever. Each night it topped out around 100–102 degrees and I sweat right through that pretty hotel bed. When I stepped out of bed, everything ached — my lower back, my knees, my ankles, basically anything that could hurt, did hurt. My legs felt swollen and heavy and I was constantly dizzy.
I also developed a nasty cough and a stuffy nose to go with it all.
Meanwhile, my stomach was getting worse. My doctor had hooked me up with some extra-strength-type Immodium goods and the amazing pharmacist gave me some samples of VSL #3s that she said may help my stomach.
But nothing helped. I dreaded going to the conference each day because I was constantly running out to use the bathroom. And when you’re in a huge convention center, there are always lines for the bathrooms.
It was just bad. All around bad.
I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I was exhausted and feeling sicker than I had ever felt before.
By Sunday, the fourth day of the conference, I couldn’t get out of bed. So I didn’t. I raised my white flag, and I missed the final day in favor of staying in bed and playing a rousing game of “Life’s not fair.”
I’m awesome at this game.
I can’t stop thinking about all the people I know in this world who are awful: They are mean, they are selfish, they cheat, they lie, they drink, they smoke, they take terrible care of themselves, they never work out, they work out too much…and they never get sick. They go through life just fine.
I like to think I am a good person. I donate to charity. I give back. I take care of myself. (Cadbury Mini Egg consumption didn’t give me Crohn’s, right?)
But I’m sick.
And right now, life just doesn’t seem fair.
I was terrified to get on the plane back to NYC on Monday.
I was able to switch into an aisle seat — though it was one that didn’t recline, and that was also hugely uncomfortable — and I probably used the bathroom at least six or seven times over the course of the five-hour flight.
Since then, each night has been a little worse. I sweat through at least three pairs of pajamas each night, the sheets are consistently soaked and eventually I’ll just burrito-wrap myself in towels to attempt to stay dry. The fever refuses to stay down, and when I’m not shivering or sweating, I’m hanging out in the bathroom in pain and misery. I haven’t returned to work and I’ve only left the couch to see my doctor Wednesday morning.
This is, without a doubt, the sickest I have ever been.
The way I feel right now does not compare to anything I have felt before.
When I came back from L.A., my plan was to stop taking all the medicine I’m on, since it’s clearly not working. I’m pumping myself with so many chemicals and poisons — and for what?
I placed a massive Fresh Direct order and vowed to do a strict two-week juice cleanse to give my digestive system the break it obviously needs. My body is breaking down and it needs to heal.
But then, after a particularly bad night on Tuesday, I knew I couldn’t wait two weeks for things to possibly get better. I needed a faster fix, whatever it would take. This is not a way to live.
Wednesday at 10 PM I got admitted to the hospital, where I’m currently setting up camp.
After last year, I swore I’d never need to go back to this place. But because I’m so dehydrated, my doctor wants me on a fluid IV, and we’re going to administer double the dose of Remicade I usually get, hoping that will at least provide some relief. I got a chest X-ray at the doctor’s office to rule out pneumonia, and the doctor wants me to have a CT scan while I’m in the hospital, though I’ve assured him there’s no way I’ll be able to get the barium down…and keep it down.
I’ve been trying so hard to remain optimistic, but it feels impossible. Every night when I come back from the bathroom, I can’t get comfortable and I’ve just begged Brian to toss me out the window. He hasn’t obliged. He obviously enjoys seeing me in pain.
I’m reminding myself that as awful as the hospital was last summer, I left and felt amazing for four full months. I would love four months right now — hell, I’ll take four hours.
That’s my life.
I am sick.
I am exhausted.
I am in the hospital.
I don’t have a lot of fight in me right now.
So I’m just going to hold up my white flag for a while and wait for the drugs to kick in.
Here’s a puppy:
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