*sigh* Right. Of course I couldn't quit this. The reason I entertained the idea of ending GF was because I no longer had the time to write it at night. But I've been on medical leave, and I have a lot of time, which I'm using wisely because holy fucking shit, since the last time we met at this hour? My life has somehow--SOMEHOW!!!!!--gotten way fucking worse. I'm doing my best to unfuck this horrid mess, but I won't get too much into that.
One of the things that is causing me misery is the mystery illness. It has plagued me for three days running. I can only assume that tomorrow will be day four of this madness. Through a series of events I'd rather not go into, I discovered that if I suffer a low blood sugar incident while going through a bout of my mystery illness, the mystery illness will stop.
So for the last two days, when I got up and first started feeling the symptoms, I purposely overdosed myself on insulin. Unfortunately it doesn't work right away, so I spend the next few hours trying not to go to the bathroom to puke. I often fail at this, and it ends in either puke (glorious relief for the next fifteen minutes!) or dry heaves (cursed to another trip to the bathroom in the very near--maybe even by forty-five seconds!--future). But then the low blood sugar attack comes, and I fight back because I had the foresight to have Tang or Coke nearby. Then, after my heart beats like crazy and my body slicks over with a sheen of sweat, the low blood sugar attack goes away. And so does my mystery illness.
Until the next fucking day. This solution only delays the mystery illness.
I *do* realize how insane that sounds, by the way. Some kinda Flatliners shit, just about. But the mystery illness has *made me* insane. I would do just about anything to get this fucking thing to permanently go away.
In case you're new, the mystery illness makes me puke and dry heave every 15 minutes for 3-5 days in a row, oftentimes causing me to lose significant amounts of sleep. It causes a terrible pain in my belly. It feels like pancreatitis. I know because I've suffered from that a few times in my drinking days. It feels like someone is pushing a sword through my belly and out my back. It is the worst fucking pain I've ever experienced in my life. By the time a bout is done, I've begged for death at least a dozen-dozen times. And I'll have also lost a lot of weight. Last year, for example, I cumulatively lost nearly seventy pounds because of this goddammed motherfucking mystery illness. And, as one time proved to me, there is also the risk of rupturing my esophagus from puking too hard.
So in breaking with tradition I'm not going to bed tonight. Because the ERs down in the Joliet area suck, I'm going to drive to the Elmhurst ER. They also know me better there. I also know that, if they put an IV in, it won't just fall out like it did down here. It's Monday, so I wanted to wait until later. Give the ER crowd a chance to die down. I can't have this happen to me again tomorrow morning. I have a shit-ton of very important things to do. I hope to get the treatment needed to ensure the attack does not continue. If things go well, I'll get an hour of sleep at the ER. I'll also get a couple of hours when I get home. And then I'll be ready to knock tomorrow out of the park.
If tomorrow does *not* go well, I can expect my misery to continue for the foreseeable future. So I'm focusing everything on making it go well. If I must beat reality into a much more pleasing shape, then so be it.
Wish me luck. The good kind, I mean. The bad just sorta . . . lives wherever I do, I guess.
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