The GI guy scheduled me for an endoscopy and a sigmoidoscopy for the end of the month to see if he can see any reasons for the vomiting and retching and blood from not good places and even the inevitable constant nausea.
The stress and strain overwhelm me and I found myself asking James if I'm in some kind of ororoborous (sp?) hellhole? Am I depressed this badly because my body can't handle the adrenal insufficiency or does my depression cause the adrenal crisis? Did Shawn's financial punch out of nowhere cause my ear to get three different places of infection or do they both happen at a similar time to cause me to want to follow where first Rachel and then Diane have led?
The pain and nausea are bad. The doctors have either seen it all before or they know to just mask their concern under quick explanations. But my GP saw me with no notice today. She offered yesterday. James and I both thought it highly unlikely she could fit me in, but called anyway. She said come in now. So we did and I've got a topical antibiotic and directions to use heat compresses and up my steroids for the next few days.
The similar situation with my GI guy. Two days notice squeeze me in and a quick push for a look inside to see, if anything, what's up. It doesn't weird me out anymore. But Steven and Erica's old joke about me being the making of some doctors name and reputation as he finds some new syndrome or disease attacking me sometimes hits a little too close to home. It's not for real, but it could be...if you know what I mean?
As usual, my terrible health days get hidden by my mask and I'm actually looking CUTE when I look in a mirror. How? No clue. But I do. I have a seriously cute look going on today. Feel like death but look beddable. I never get it. Maybe I've had to hide it for so long the mask has become almost immaculate and immediate upon the worse my illness gets. I don't know.
I wish I had somebody here that could document it. A cuddle buddy to massage the pain in my ass from the shot and twirl my hair through their fingers and photograph me in between the series we both enjoy getting sucked into. Oh well. I'll try for a quick self portrait and then go back to my Netflix and animal hoarders and how badly it makes me feel because my sister and I grew up with one who has all the ones I've seen beat. Her animals. Our chores. Now Greg's. It hurts because I know it hurts him though he hides it best he can from her. He loves her. Their love is incredibly codependent but that's their business. I just worry for both of them, incredibly. I bury it deep though, just like most things in my life.
Wrote Shawn a love letter. Why? Because it hurts enough when I bottle it up. So I may as well give him the truth so my Addison's doesn't have yet another stress buried deep killing me. Literally killing me. No joke. No melodrama. No lie.
The picture sucks, but it's all I can do to sit up long enough to snap it. Maybe tomorrow I'll still look cute enough to mask the disease ravaging my life - some people get it so it barely hurts. And some, like me, get hit a bit harder.