It began last Sunday.
I woke up intermittently between 4:30-6:30 a.m. with "rumblings." Between 6:30 and noon, I was losing fluid at both ends and passed out twice. The first time I hit the tiled bathroom floor. The second time D was helping me from the floor to the bed and eased my deadweight to the carpet.
On Tuesday night I could barely sleep because my legs ached so badly, as if I had the flu in just my lower extremities. Evidently, this is a sign of dehydration. Wednesday and Thursday I drank 1 gallon of a combination of Gatorade, water and hot tea (each day....1 gallon). And ate bananas.
The legs were better by Friday, but I still didn't feel 100% so I checked in at the doctor for bloodwork and a urine analysis.
Today, I still don't feel 100%. Everyday is like an incremental 1% improvement, and while I'm not complaining because I feel so much letter than earlier in the week, I keep expecting myself to "bounce back."
Apparently, that stops becoming a thing in one's 40s. Bouncing back is just a memory....sorta like consistent sleep and non-cracking knees.
While I would say there is nothing good about a stomach bug, it did remind me of how much I need D in my life. He was a good caretaker to me, and although I like to think I run the show, he is a big part of me being able to run the show around our house as well as I do. As the children have gotten older, it has become easier for him to help me.
Being sick, especially when I don't bounce back, tends to set off my anxiety. At one point I was worrying if I had kidney cancer. All that relentless peeing from the gallons of water, you know. I realize this is ridiculous, but anxiety doesn't care if my rational brain knows the difference between what is absurd and what is not.
The stomach bug, especially on Sunday when I was half out of it and sleeping most of the day, made me consider people who have late-stage terminal illnesses. Whenever I think of dying before my kids are grown, I become terrified, but there is something comforting in knowing that if sickness befalls a person, eventually they truly are so out of it (either via pain/discomfort or drugs), they really don't care about anything they once cared about. I think of people dying as struggling right up to the moment of death, fighting against it, but whenever I'm really sick, I reconsider this idea.
Sometimes I wish I could just be sick without all the thoughtfulness that goes along with being sick.
I woke up intermittently between 4:30-6:30 a.m. with "rumblings." Between 6:30 and noon, I was losing fluid at both ends and passed out twice. The first time I hit the tiled bathroom floor. The second time D was helping me from the floor to the bed and eased my deadweight to the carpet.
On Tuesday night I could barely sleep because my legs ached so badly, as if I had the flu in just my lower extremities. Evidently, this is a sign of dehydration. Wednesday and Thursday I drank 1 gallon of a combination of Gatorade, water and hot tea (each day....1 gallon). And ate bananas.
The legs were better by Friday, but I still didn't feel 100% so I checked in at the doctor for bloodwork and a urine analysis.
Today, I still don't feel 100%. Everyday is like an incremental 1% improvement, and while I'm not complaining because I feel so much letter than earlier in the week, I keep expecting myself to "bounce back."
Apparently, that stops becoming a thing in one's 40s. Bouncing back is just a memory....sorta like consistent sleep and non-cracking knees.
While I would say there is nothing good about a stomach bug, it did remind me of how much I need D in my life. He was a good caretaker to me, and although I like to think I run the show, he is a big part of me being able to run the show around our house as well as I do. As the children have gotten older, it has become easier for him to help me.
Being sick, especially when I don't bounce back, tends to set off my anxiety. At one point I was worrying if I had kidney cancer. All that relentless peeing from the gallons of water, you know. I realize this is ridiculous, but anxiety doesn't care if my rational brain knows the difference between what is absurd and what is not.
The stomach bug, especially on Sunday when I was half out of it and sleeping most of the day, made me consider people who have late-stage terminal illnesses. Whenever I think of dying before my kids are grown, I become terrified, but there is something comforting in knowing that if sickness befalls a person, eventually they truly are so out of it (either via pain/discomfort or drugs), they really don't care about anything they once cared about. I think of people dying as struggling right up to the moment of death, fighting against it, but whenever I'm really sick, I reconsider this idea.
Sometimes I wish I could just be sick without all the thoughtfulness that goes along with being sick.
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