I just officially got out of bed, but in truth I’ve been up since 4 AM running between my bed and the toilet. I’ve taken all the Imodium I had left ( 6 pills), and – for obvious reasons – a trip to the corner drug store would probably be ill-advised. My doctor says I’m still losing weight, even though my labs are great and , in general, the latest med (Humira) seems to be working. But my Crohn’s symptoms are severe again today: the pain that makes you want to disembowel yourself, and the diarrhea that feels like your body is doing exactly that. The Prednisone I had to start taking again (in an attempt to increase my almost non-existent appetite) has skewed my mood downward, and Death seemed attractive again last night. Prednisone alone is bad enough, but in combination with antidepressants and anti-anxiety pills and tranquilizers it’s a brick wall in your brain that you can’t stop banging your head against…it’s compulsory, apparently. So the Sun is shining through the blinds, and the radio insists on telling me the ‘news,’ and the dog is waiting to be walked while I carefully count the minutes between bowel movements and consider calling 911. The hospital always knows how to plug you up, and end your pain. After three days of Jell-o and clear broth, two days of low-residue dreck-on-a-tray, and five days of IV Dilaudid and steroids and antibiotics (etc.) I would come home with a short reprieve.For a few days or weeks I would feel like an almost-normal person, as I did before my diagnosis. The hospital can actually put you in remission, but like a crashed car fresh out of a bad body shop the damage is still there, under the bright, new paint. But the driver, for a short while, can dream that the repairs are permanent ( or at least long-term ) until the next minor accident reveals the hard metal scars all over again. My colon is that car, a lemon that can be dressed up to look and feel like a sweet, Georgia peach. One bite is all it takes though to taste the sourness beneath. Okay, I’ve tortured that metaphor enough now. For fun, maybe later I’ll count the mixed metaphors in this passage. If I move my desk I can even do it from the bathroom, and, unfortunately, I’m probably going to have to. A short about Crohn’s by someone I have never met who understands me better than my friends and family do.
another shitty day (literally)