If you’ve been following my Facebook lately–you know I’m having a pretty craptastic week.
Sunday night I was in crazy amounts of pain so Monday morning my mom dragged me, half asleep, to the sleep doctor so we could discuss the option of Xyrem–that’s the new medication for narcolepsy that we’ve been debating putting me on.
This decision has been debated between me, my mom, my step-dad, my fiance, Dr. Santa Maria, the sleep doctor, and now another sleep doctor we’ve consulted.
I’m basically expecting to see it on the news this week.
If you’re wondering what the debate is about when it comes to this medication let me Google that for you.
We spent so much time debating this week that I actually missed out on catching the sleep doctor this afternoon to finally have him prescribe it. Dr. Santa Maria says it’ll probably be a few weeks before I can get a hold of it anyways.
By Tuesday I knew that the shit was going to hit the fan fairly soon. My body was getting to that state of fatigue where my pain threshold just snaps and to top it off my nausea was becoming immune to Zofran.
Wednesday night, after I washed Happy, I got this terrible pain in my back and ribs–which, and I know it sound strange, but I’m 99.9% sure is related to the fatigue and just not being able to carry around the weight of my chest. I was too nauseated to keep down a pain pill so I ended up in the emergency room. I got a shot of dillauded and was tripping the light fantastic until my chest started burning and the nausea came back ten-fold, despite the shot of Zofran. They gave me a cocktail for my stomach and sent me home to rest.
Thursday I was still too cracked out to go to lunch with Brooke (one of the girls I had met at the support group) that I was so looking forward to all week! I spent most of the day sleeping off the pain killers at my mom’s house and the rest of the night frantically trying to catch up on all of my client’s work while icing my spine and wondering if they make a higher dosage of Zofran than a dissolveable 8mg.
This morning I leaped out of bed after a phone call with my mom where she, in a panic, asked me run over to her house to meet some contractors. By the time I pulled into the driveway she called to let me know they had cancelled. I drove home, continued to try and catch up on work then passed out for two hours before my last two meetings of the week.
I have literally no idea how I managed to work this week at all, but I did. A solid 35 hours of bleary-editing, fact-checking and dry heaving. Seriously though, I think I might have went even more insane if I quit working. I know the day might come again when I have to slow down–but frankly I rock at what I do and it’s going to take very hot hell and very high water to stop me now.
In fact–and don’t roll your eyes. I actually took on one more little thing this week. The totally awesome people at IG Living Magazine were kind enough to offer me a regular column on chronic illness in your twenties.
Now I’m going to go ice my ribs and sign some contracts.
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