The Lamentable Death of Yours Truly

I’m telling you, dudes, I’m not long for this world.
I feel like a big bucket of miscellaneous crap. Wikipedia says I have “general malaise,” but I say I have the early stages of the bubonic plague. The problem is that my symptoms are so nonspecific that I sound downright crazy when I try to tell people how I feel.

Take the conversation I had with my doctor yesterday, for example:

Doc: So, the nurse says you’re not feeling good
Me: Yeah, I’m feeling pretty awful, actually
Doc: What are your symptoms, exactly?
Me: I dunno. I just don’t feel good.
Doc: Muscle aches?
Me: No
Doc: Headache?
Me: No
Doc: Nausea or vomiting?
Me: No
Doc: Sore throat?
Me: No
Doc: Fever?
Me: No
Doc: Cramping?
Me: No

At this point, he looks pretty darn exasperated.
“Fatigue?” He asks, eyes bulging, as if he will drive his ballpoint pencil through my skull if I say ‘No’ one more time.

Me: YES! Yes. I definitely have fatigue.
Doc: Okay, fatigue…and what else?
Me: I dunno. I just don’t feel good.
…
My Doctor is a saint.

So he gave me a physical exam and orders up a round of bloodwork. His best guess is Lymes Disease, considering that weird mark I had on my lower back about 3 months ago. But if the Lymes test is negative…then what?

As an adolescent, I puked every morning like clockwork. It was like having morning sickness for FIVE GODDAMN YEARS. As a result, the toilet and I developed a close, intimate relationship,and I was accused on several occasions of having bulemia.

As if I would EVER treat my food so callously. Please. Look who we're talking about here..

Problem was, they never figured out what was wrong. I had every test under the sun: I got poked and prodded and scoped and x-rayed. I was given acid reflux meds and barium work-ups and limited diets. It was ridiculous. And to this day, nobody has any idea what was wrong with me. I eventually just grew out of it.

So when it comes to medical tests, for me, the worst possible outcome is one where everything checks out okay.

As a result, I’m now staring at my phone, willing the doctor’s office to call and say “the test came back positive.” It’s truly a strange day when you’ve got your fingers crossed for a Lymes diagnosis.
But at least then they can prescribe me a healthy dose of antibiotics and I can get on with my life.

Until then, I have a wicked case of the “icks” that has me completely wiped out and slumped over and generally pretty pathetic looking.

So my apologies for this weeks’ posts – they are far from my best work – but at this rate it’s all I can do to get through the day without curling up under my desk and refusing to come out until my doctor comes up with a diagnosis…

Or until I keel over and bite the big one.

Which ever comes first.