It all started yesterday. Actually, that's not quite right. It all started about a month or so ago, maybe even more, but yesterday it was given a name.
I'm 42 years old and I'm not ready to die just yet. I've not been given a terminal diagnosis or anything, and I'm not writing this in an effort to launch the world's largest anonymous pity party, 'cause let's face it, I've got it pretty good. I've got an awesome job (it doesn't pay huge money, but I love what I do, and I feel like it makes a difference, and that's what matters to me), I'm married to the woman of my dreams, I've got a whole bunch of friends, and I play a pretty decent rhythm guitar. What can I complain about?
Probably nothing.
In all likelihood, this blog will be like so many other abandoned projects left to float in cyberspace for eternity. And that's okay. Sometimes, you have to do stuff just because you feel like doing it, not because you have any end goal in mind. Truth is, we all have pretty much the same end goal... Make it to the end of the day, hopefully a little better off than we started, in one way or another.
But I'm no philosopher, and any nuggets of truth or wisdom you encounter here are purely coincidental or are blatantly taken from some other, more brilliant source... I'm just another bozo on the bus, trying to make it to the end of the day, hopefully a little better off than I started.
So what about yesterday? What makes is so important? Well, a little while back, I started experiencing some pretty gnarly gastrointestinal pain, and along with the pain same some pretty gross looking poop. I'll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say, any commode with which my buttocks have made contact over the past few weeks has developed a tendency to resemble a crime scene. No, I'm not killing people in there. I'm just expelling blood and mucus from my bowels. Oh. I promised to spare you the gory details. Sorry 'bout that. It won't happen again... hopefully.
Anyway, after hoping, praying, and waiting for the sickness to somehow magically leave my body (which has been known to happen on occasion), I finally surrendered and went to see a doctor of the highest order. Okay, he might not be of the highest order, but he's a likable fellow. He put me on some gnarly antibiotics (Cipro and Flagyl) for a couple of weeks and that made things no better... It only made me feel worse. So yesterday (remember yesterday? this is a blog about yesterday), I got up really early in the morning (after having eaten nothing for over 24 hours and spending the better part of Thursday drinking a nasty concoction of Gatorade and Mirolax and entirely vacating my bowels of their contents) and go to the special doctor's office place. At the special doctor's place, I shed my smelly sweats and t-shirt in favor of two (one in the front, and one in the back) and a pair of ambulatory socks. After I've changed into the Mr. Sexy 40-something Man 2013 outfit, I go back into a little room and before long, I'm injected with the same stuff that killed Michael Jackson. The stuff that killed the King of Pop didn't kill me (obviously), I just went to sleep, and as I slumbered so sweetly, the doctor and his pals took a camera, shoved it up my butt and looked around to see what they can find. (Sounds like a fraternity initiation gone horribly wrong)... About 40 minutes later, I was aroused from my slumber to the sound of a diagnosis I didn't quite (and still don't quite) understand.
My diagnosis? Colitis and C-Diff (or Clostridium Difficile for the more verbosely inclined).
My treatment? More antibiotics and a medication called Asacol.
So here I sit, about 36 hours into this diagnosis, a little bit afraid, a whole lot exhausted, and in a fair amount of pain. I don't tolerate antibiotics well. So, being on yet another round of Flagyl is taking its toll on me. The Asacol doesn't seem to be having too many bad side effects, but it's hard to tell because Flagyl messes me up so severely.
And speaking of exhausted... I'm tired. So I'm going to wrap it up here. The whole point of this thing is to give me an outlet for my thoughts as I go progress through treatment of this, and who knows what'll happen? I'll probably end up being just fine in a little while and will look back on this as some point and go, "Hmm... was I over-reacting or what???" at least, that's what I hope I'll say.
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