Too much content for a Facebook post and not interesting enough for a column ... here is a blog about my sick day(s).
Hour 48: My hands are trembling. A steady dose of antibiotics and steroids flow through my body, put there via shots to my ass five hours ago. I could really use some ice cream or chocolate. Not alcohol. I'm not craving alcohol? Who am I? I can't have the chocolate or ice cream, which I would REALLY like because I can't exercise at my regular level. Also, I've come to see that I have the eating disorder that is the opposite of anorexia. We'll address the exercise thing another day.
Right now I want you to understand why I could never be a drug addict. Drugs are bad.
Hour 42: I poured myself into stained jeans, which are a bit tight these days, put the hair up in a pony tail and hustled on down to the doctor's office. My tolerance for seeking medical help is very low - until about 20 years ago when I realized I was a terrible sick person. Now I'm the first person to call the doctor and shell out my co-pay for better living through chemicals. You wanna sick my ass and promise me it'll make me feel all better - let me drop these tight-fittin' jeans and you can poke away.
The doctor listened to my breathing and sure enough, there's some wheezing going on - and not asthma wheezing, other wheezing. Stuff is going around; I probably caught it. Antibiotics, for sure. "How quick do you want to be well?" Dr. Haley asked. "Very! I have a tournament this weekend."
I usually refuse to do steroids and would have settled for just the antibiotics. Steroids make me batty. The mood swings, sweating, and hunger from pervious rounds were disgusting. But, there's a tournament. And I want to win. Oh, and I've very low on sick time - so I need to get back to work. Amazing how work is never the top of my mind these days.
Hour 43: What the fuck is wrong with these girls at the pharmacy counter? Walgreens on Brandon Street, you're not impressing me these days. I schlep up to the counter, give the people behind the desk my pouty look - and they IGNORED ME. For a good three minutes (think about how long that is when you're sick and standing at the pharmacy counter). I stared. They watched me. Like I was the freak behind the glass! I was tempted to wave my prescription forms for them to see that I wasn't just standing there for shits and giggles.
Finally they came over, "Last name?"
"Gregg - G-R-E-G-G" I spell it out always because of my slurring of it makes it sounds like Grey. Please NEVER align me with that book series - hence the spelling action.
"Are you going to wait or come back?"
"It'll be about 20 minutes."
"Does that count the three minutes I've already stood here and waited?" (No I didn't say that. I'm a rude bitch, but even I have my limits. I picked up a 90-count pack of Boogie Wipes and returned to the pharmacy area.
"Grey, yer ordr is redy" poured over the store's intercom in on swift word: Greyurordrisredy. Pharmacy people and pilots must attend the same intercom training sessions. It's a shame that people are given such a privilege of using an intercom and can't enunciate.
As I was checking out, my phone rang - and usually I WOULD NEVER EVER answer a phone call when checking out - because again, I'm a rude bitch, but not that rude! At that point I didn't care. It was a good call - and so I'm glad I took it.
On the way home, the cell phone died and the "Get some GODDAMM GAS" light comes on. I feel like I'm losing all kinds of control.
Hour 37: With three hours of miserable sleep behind me, I'm mildly convinced I should go to work. Feet hit the floor and I realize I'm wrong. Just call the doctor. I call - using my extra sick voice and hoping for an opening. It works.
The dogs hate it when I'm home sick - it's an absolutely beautiful day. The kind of day that you know God crafted as an apology for winter. Clear skies, 75 degrees and a slight breeze. I see now that this sickness is God's way of reminding me to calm the fuck down.
Life has spun so out of my control that the gas light is the least of my concerns. I've decided to sell the house and move to Seattle. The house looks great! Check here for yourself. At this point all I can do is pray, vision, and hope that it sells soon. This is a terrible mental state for me in - I'm miserable and miserable to be around. This is probably how I got sick and why I must take awful steroids to get better. Holding on to hope is exhausting. I can literally do nothing at this point. God is in charge, not me. It'll sell when it's time to go. I'll get a job when it's time to completely start over. I always feel the need to end on a lesson.
Here goes: don't do drugs. They'll make you miserable and long for things you can't have. You'll sweat and hate everything before loving it endlessly. A second bit of advice - don't ever get rid of cable TV. Since I can't see the future, my budget savvy self got rid of cable - and guess when it kicked in. At Hour 12. I've not gone through some very inappropriate and uncomfortable shows on Hulu and found the end of Pinterest. Don't do drugs. Don't quit cable TV.