We have to stop meeting like this, said me to every doctor everywhere. But yes, yes it’s true: I thought I was on the mend after a better (but still wobbly) Thursday. I at least made it through an entire day of work. But Friday morning was a struggle. My severe abdominal pain was back, and though I tried to fight through it, everyone I saw at work asked what I was doing there. When it got to the point that I couldn’t answer any of them without doubling over in pain, my friend followed me home, waited while I grabbed some stuff and let Fenway out, and then dropped me off at the ER on her way back to work.
This new ER was so much better. I maybe had to wait around a little bit long (turns out hospitals are a lot busier at lunchtime than they are at six in the morning), but the doctor was a lot more attentive, confirmed some more tests and got me on the right antibiotics. WHAT A CONCEPT.
I thought the fact that I couldn’t stay out of the ER – well, and the fact that the first one wanted to admit me until they saw signs that the infection was going away – meant that I would be admitted for the weekend for sure. But after running a couple bags of IV meds and getting my pain back under control, the very hott doctor said I could manage from home again. If I wasn’t seeing a difference by Sunday, I could come back.
So my friend came and collected me when she got off of work. [The boyfriend was dying of guilt at this point. Wednesday was the one day he couldn’t leave work, and then Friday he was collecting the parental units and leaving on vacation with his extended fam. I told him I am fabulous girlfriend with horrible timing of crises and not to worry about it. Yes, yes, pitching stones in glass houses with the “not worrying” bit. Whatevs.] All of the plans I’d made – letting Fenway out so she could roam the living room; giving my friend the house key so she could swing by and let the dog out every few hours; coordinating with John and Corrie so they could take turns; grabbing a book, the power cord to my cell, and changing into yoga pants and a tshirt – it was all moot. Or maybe it was all the prep that meant I didn’t have to stay. You know how that goes.
In any case, I was feeling much better even the next morning. Oh, I was sore, but the abdominal pains hadn’t come back. My stomach complained after I tried running errands – too much moving – so I stayed home and slept. Worked on a freelance project. And worked on getting better. Turns out doing nothing isn’t the easiest thing for me. Hunh.
Now I just have to stay “better” for a few days strung together while not doing nothing. This crisis after crisis is getting a little much for me. So I’m shooting the moon: let’s go for an entire week of boring, every day life in which nothing emergent happens, mkay?