Okay, enough is enough. Now I'm starting to get pissed.
For the last three days, I have spent 95% of my time getting sick or trying to prevent getting sick. It comes out of no where: in bed, in the shower, sickness in hurling, heaving masses and leaves me shaking and in tears. I've lost eight pounds since Thursday. I'll be the first to admit I'd like to lose a few pounds...but not this way.
Quaking in tears, I wrote my friend Joann two nights ago from a dark, dark place of desperation, fear, and a sadness I've never experienced. In broken sentence structure, I typed the words:
"Things have only gotten worse since I got home. I throw up all the time - and no one is sure why. I am so weak I can hardly walk across my living room. I'm afraid I may need to find someone to take the huskies."
Did I really write that? Could this...whatever this is ...really bring me to my knees and make me give up this dream? My dream? My dogs? What I've invested so much time and money and love into?
Nephrologists throw up their hands without a clue; other docs don't concur. I finally end up back at the hospital today. More needles, more blood draws, more phenergan and Zofram.
Nada. Blood cultures: NORMAL. I'm discharged with some well wishes and Saltines.
That's it. It's time for some good, old fashioned stubborn Irish will and determination, damn it. I'll be damned if I'm going to let this thing kick my ass, I don't care if I eat nothing but Saltines from now until January! Tonight, I'm ready to fight for what I love. I will not give up. And besides, who doesn't love a good come back story?
I will be back on the runners, and better for all of it, on that I swear.