The first time I contracted diverticulitis, it was a months-long ordeal. I started having stomach pain in September of 2012, but it eased off after a few weeks, and I just assumed I had pulled a muscle. That Christmas I was completely off my game, but it was a holiday at my dad's house, and I have a really bad track record of being ill when I go to his place. It stopped being a funny coincidence years ago. It wasn't until the end of January that winter, when I ended up in the hospital, unable to convince myself any longer that whatever I had was just a virus that I'd get over with time. From there, it took three courses of antibiotics, and four or five months before I was completely over it.
Thus, I am not allowed to be surprised that I'm back on the couch, staring at an assortment of pill bottles (is there anything worse in the world than metronidazole?), with the second flare up since August. My whole day was split between the doctor, the lab, and the couch. I'm supposed to be getting a referral back to the gastroenterologist I saw last time. Yippee.
I am trying very hard to follow doctor's orders. Even before I saw him today, I heard his voice in my head telling me clear liquids only. I stopped eating solid food Sunday evening. Doc says I'm not even supposed to eat Thanksgiving. I'm not sure I will be compliant on that last one. I won't overdo it, but I'll be damned if I don't get a little turkey and potatoes come Thursday. I might even have a bit of the chocolate angel pie I'm planning on making. Don't try to stop me.
I'll sift through the pictures I've taken over the last week. Surely there are a few cat pictures worth putting out there, to make up for my forced stillness.
No comments:
Post a Comment