So, I guess there was a little more to my dyspepsia yesterday than just a grumpy sour stomach. Avert your eyes now if you can't handle me complaining about my health like an old woman. I'll try not to use too many icky personal words. Can't guarantee that, though, because I'm trying to rush the blog out now, before the Percocet I just took kicks in. Anything could happen. I'll try my best not to give out my internet passwords and social security number while my defenses are low.
Nearly two years ago, I started having a whole lot of abdominal pain, feeling like I had been gut-punched, but it would last for days or weeks. I was in denial for months that this was a real problem, and I refused to seek medical attention for it. It slowed me down at Christmas that year, and I did a lot of sitting around when I should have been having a good time with my family at my dad's cabin. The next month, on a ski vacation that my man had been trying to arrange for years, first he and then I caught a horrible stomach bug that took us out of commission for most of the holiday with the kids. When I came down with sharp stomach pains at the end of January, the memory of the violent intestinal distress from the ski trip blocked out my memory of the months of abdominal soreness, and the ubiquitous news reports of the Norwalk virus making the rounds convinced me that I merely had another stomach bug, and the absolute worst luck in the universe. I started having stabbing pains one Saturday morning while I was out with ladies from my club, and by the time I was home after brunch, my whole world went to hell. I was just sure it was that virus the teevee people told me about, and I stayed on the couch all of Saturday and Sunday, thinking I just had to ride it out. By Sunday evening, I was dehydrated, smelly, and had given up on wearing pants or brushing my teeth after I barfed. The man was out of town, as he always is when I get sick, so I had to call one of the neighbors to come help me. I knew I was too far gone to be able even to walk to her car, much less sit upright in it to ride to the emergency room, and there was no way I could sit in an ER waiting room and survive. I needed to go in the fast lane, in style. I got my first ambulance ride, pantsless and smelling like death. The radiologist handling my CT scan told me I had "a very angry belly." Gee, I think I figured that one out.
It turned out to be diverticulitis, common among older members of my family, but I might be the youngest to present with an active infection. It took three nights in the hospital and couple quarts of morphine to get me through that first experience (or so it seemed), and it took three rounds of antibiotics and months to heal fully. It had a devastating effect on my productivity, and I completely gave up all my aspirations of leadership in my club. I didn't know which direction the cause and effect went, the stress from the club keeping me sick, or the sickness making me less capable leading the club. Either way, it drained the life out of me.
Last night, I started to hurt again. The infection two years ago was the first thing that qualified as a bona fide 10 out of 10 on the standard pain scale for me in fifteen or twenty years. I got very close to that overnight. I learned my lesson about putting off a trip to the doctor, and I went racing in today. It appears to be the same thing, but we are nipping it in the bud. I am back on antibiotics and pain pills, and I get to spend a few days on "bowel rest," eating/drinking only clear liquids. I've chilled a couple flavors of Jello, and started mixing chicken stock and vegetable broth, and telling myself it's filling. So far, so good. But I have a long way to go before this episode is over. For now, it's time to let the Percocet do its job.
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