I woke up super early yesterday morning so I could move the last of my shit out of the hotel. I begrudgingly got dressed and went downstairs to get a handcart from the lobby. Except there were none. FUCK. I had to carry this shit out by hand, and my back was giving me troubles. It took me a while, but I got everything down. I had enough time to give myself a half an hour to rest before I got ready for work and to leave the hotel for good.
[Not for nothing, but there were other people humping their shit out to their cars by hand. I'm not the only one the handcart thieves put through hell.]
Something told me not to return both keys. I'm glad I didn't.
On the way to work I started feeling weird, like maybe I was about to get another bout of my mystery illness, except I didn't have any liquid vicodin. I'd used the last of it two days previous to stave off another attack. Not that I had a bed to retreat to, now that the hotel was gone.
I got to work, and before I could punch in, I felt the illness come upon me. I begged to leave work, and I barely made it back to the hotel in time to puke my guts out. Horrible. Horrible shit. But it happened, and I knew it would continue. I tried to ride it out in the hotel bed for the two hours I had left before checkout time, but I couldn't do it. I gave up and went to the ER.
Surprisingly the ER didn't have much of a wait time. I got to my room pretty quickly. The doctor took a little while, but when I finally saw him he agreed to give me my Zofran and morphine. I felt the morphine take hold, and the pain went away.
But not the vomiting, which was unusual. I kept getting up and puking more and more until I had to ask for help. I asked for anything stronger. They gave me another dose of each. That seemed to put off the puking, at least a little bit. Because the ER rush had begun, they had to get me out of there. Except . . . where could I recover? The hotel was done for real this time. I couldn't drive to my new home in Joliet. I wouldn't have lasted very long on that hour-plus trip.
One good thing: when they discharged me, my primary doctor must have seen I was in the ER. My liquid vicodin was ready.
I could only go back to my old house. So far no one had changed the locks or cleared out the stuff we abandoned, and I hoped that would continue. Because I was puking again.
I went home and saw that thankfully I still had access. The place was cold as fuck and smelled like the bathroom, but I went straight to the couch we abandoned--an uncomfortable affair, I assure you--where I found a couple of throw pillows and took my liquid vicodin.
I passed out for a while, but when I woke up I still felt pukey. I drank more of it and tried to sleep again. I repeated this dance until about 10 am this morning. I was feeling a little hungry, which was the first sign of the horror passing.
So I brought all my stuff down to Joliet, where I'm typing this in the basement. I live down here with a cat and two ferrets. I'll be sleeping on my air mattress. But most importantly, it's a weed-friendly house, so I don't have to go outside to smoke.
I'm glad to be out of the hotel, but my mystery illness is a prick, and it struck at the worst possible moment. But I have the cure for now. I don't expect to feel this bad for another two months at least.
Also, my three minute commute is gone. My new commute is going to be an hour and ten, possibly thirty, minutes. Maybe not on Saturday, but still, that blows. At least my regular day off is tomorrow. I only have two doctors appointments, and the rest of my day is mine to unpack the rest of my crap. I just have the essentials out now.
To quote a great man, "OK for now." I'm going to bed.
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