I Learned As A Child Not to Trust In My Body, and That Was Truly The Biggest Heartbreak of All*
In spite of the fact that I have some very serious things to worry about and things that I would like to be doing either to further the efforts to find my missing cousin, or at least distract myself from the fact that she is still missing...my body, traitor that it is, is making most efforts impossible.
Still aching from surgery, I had about 48 hours last week wherein I did NOT feel like I was going to die. I started to feel, I don't know, what's the word? Better? Less awful? I called my office. I called some clients. I typed emails to my assistant for her to send to clients. I was thinking that going back to work next Wednesday was actually within the realm of possibility.
And then Thursday came and by bedtime I was beginning to feel extremely ACHY. And TWITCHY. And I kept feeling like I had to pee. (Sorry if this is TMI). Except that I really didn't have to pee. And I couldn't lie down on my stomach because it felt like someone was stabbing me.
At 4:30 in the morning I paged my doctor's office, because I had been (again, TMI) peeing every 3 minutes for four and half hours.
Oh, and ALSO? I had the distinct impression that Freddy Krueger was INSIDE MY PELVIS trying to CLAW HIS WAY OUT.
Anyway, the nice doctor who called me back was not my doctor, but one of his partners whom I have never seen. I explained to him that I was clearly dying. And he said, "I think a more likely scenario is that you have a bladder infection ~ which is pretty common after a hysterectomy. So I will call the pharmacy so that you can have some antibiotics for that? Okay?"
Oh, okay. Probably not dying, then?
He called the 24 hour pharmacy and drugs were obtained, although he warned me it would be about a day before the antibiotic kicked in.
Friday passed in a blur of feverish chills and painful twitching misery and the consumption of cranberry juice and lemonade.
Around 11:00 PM on Friday, I began to feel that I no longer had a fictional serial killer in my pelvis. I slept. I sucked up sleep like a heroin addict sucks up...well, heroin, I guess. I slept for eleven hours, broken up only by two short potty breaks.
Saturday, I felt a bit better. Not great, but not wretched. Fever gone. THEN, Saturday evening, the Freddy Krueger feeling began again. And again with the marathon peeing.
This morning I paged the doctor's office again, explained the situation to another of my doctor's partners (this one a man who looks like he should be on the cover of GQ and therefore far too pretty, in my opinion, for me to have ever actually made an appointment with within this practice. I kind of think that there are some men who are too pretty to be ob-gyns.) (It's possible no one should listen to me right now. I have lots of drugs in my system and it's possible my brain has been fried by fever and boredom.)
Anyway, HE felt that a different antibiotic might be in order. Which Husband has now obtained for me. And six hours later I am feeling someone hopeful that it will be effective at keeping Freddy Krueger at bay.
The worst part is that I am still achy from the surgery and I cannot stand to put any pants on (there I go again with the TMI). Not even my loosest shorts. Not even my pajama pants. I have been living in nightgowns and swimsuit cover-ups for 12 days. I am bit worried about this, as I cannot possibly practice law in a white nightgown covered with lady bugs, or a black thigh length swim cover...it just won't do!
Sorry to be a pain and complain and complain.
And if you are the praying sort, please keep praying that Kelsey will be found.
*Bruce Cockburn, The Last Night of the World