The weather in Ohio always seems to mirror my mood, or perhaps it’s my mood that mirrors the weather. It’s cold, gray, and the sky started spitting frozen shit. Not snow, but sleet. Rain and ice pellets. Nasty.
Nausea can kiss my ass and fuck off. I despise it. I’m cranky and worthless while I’m trying to carry on without harfing. It takes me twice as long to do anything because a quick movement will jar my stomach and then it’s game over. I spend the next several hours hunched over a bucket, a bag, or a toilet. I have a cornucopia of anti-emetics at my disposal since this is a chronic problem for me, but if I take them I will fall asleep. If I fall asleep I’m even less useful. It’s quite the conundrum.
I’m trapped here alone with MC, which is nice except that he’s one needy fucker (he always has been, now he has an excuse). I’ve taken this small period of autonomy to be a complete slob. Who isn’t getting dressed today? Me! Who hasn’t put on a boobie trap or even brushed through her hair? This girl!
The nagging pain in my gut and bouts of extreme nausea are probably crohns reminding me that for better or worse, we’re stuck with each other. My small intestine probably has enough room for a grain of rice to pass through and I may as well be eating the whole planet because no matter what I eat, it’s like shoving a football through a nail hole. A common misconception is that if there’s an obstruction, there will be no deuce dropping. Untrue. If it’s a partial obstruction, it’s often frequent and watery. Obstipation is a very bad sign and needs to be addressed immediately. Attempting to tough it out can lead to rupture, sepsis, and death. That’s a delightful thought, yes? If this is going to happen to me, it may as well happen when I’m stranded. That’s just the way things work out in my world.
Heating pad, apple juice, trips up and down the stairs – I’d like to invite Michelle Obama over to help me encourage my guts to get moving. If the FLOTUS can’t get them motivated, nothing will. Man, am I going to miss her. 😭
My appointment with the super gastroenterologist is next Monday. I will call him Obi-wan Kenobi, for he is my only hope to stress eat the way I want to.