Come home, out of the fog.

I told Jeff on the way home today that it felt like Tuesday. Most of this week vanished in a combination of sleep and fever. But I have answers now.

Jeff wasn't able to go in to work at his usual time this morning; the truck just wasn't able to make it up the ice-covered hills this morning. So he came home to me sitting in my overly-plush terry bathrobe. We talked. I mentioned that I wasn't sure if I'd be able to make it to the doctor's office because of the ice.

He offered to check my throat to see if he could see anything. In retrospect, it bothers me that neither of us thought to do this sooner. After a couple of mishaps and me nearly gagging on a soup spoon, Jeff says, essentially, "What are these white spots on the back of your throat?"

I am not laughing, and this still is not funny!

Obviously, I stayed home from work today. My fever dipped to 99.x for a while today, but it's gone back up to 100.3 again. That weird queasydizzy feeling is back again, so I'll keep this short. Same symptoms—sore throat, tiredness, stiff and sore neck, headaches, lightheadedness, fever.

I'm having trouble concentrating on things for more than a minute or two at a time. I have to point out, though, that some of my friends would probably say that this is beneficial for a worrywart like me, and not something that could be classified as a symptom of something wrong.

I'm trying to decide what to do about work tomorrow. If I'm still running this fever I have no business sitting in the middle of a cube farm. But I'm desperately needed there right now, and no kidding on the desperately part. (I have two major deadlines looming on the 29th that must be met.)

The day of surgery

A compilation of a day's worth of entries:

1:48 p.m.:

While under the best of circumstances I could be considered a worrywart, I think I'm at least a bit entitled today. My father underwent surgery this morning to repair his aortic aneurysm. So far, I haven't heard anything from my mother. I'm going to assume that's good news, though in truth I really don't even know how long the surgery is supposed to take.The surgery is fairly serious stuff. From what I can gather, Dad's aneurysm is serious enough that a section of the artery has to be entirely replaced. (It can't be clamped off.) Mom reminded me that the surgeons will have to stop Dad's heart for the duration of time it takes to graft the replacement vessel into his aorta.

No matter how you look at it, that's just a little bit terrifying.

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It's all about the zits.

I'm going to warn you now. Some of you are going to finish reading this entry and scream TMI. ("Too much information!" for the abbreviationally-challenged.) If you keep reading past this point, it's all your fault if you're offended. It's my stinkin' journal, for goodness' sake.

I'm thinking of going back on the pill. I've been off for ten months now—and yes, it does take me a while to come to decisions like this, hush! I'm still not totally sure I'll do anything about it; perhaps I'm waiting for things to get so annoying that I feel I have to get back on the pills NOW or it's all going to drive me crazy.My prescription lapsed in January. For those of you who remember, I was finishing up at my helljob at the credit union in January. I didn't have enough time to curl up in a ball and cry, much less get to a doctor.

A snippet of lyric from the song currently playing:

it possesses me controls me it makes me run and it makes me kill

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A birthday trip

This is Day Two of "Extremely Tired Amy"[tm]. Last night I went to bed at something like eight-thirty, because I was wiped out. I've done a little better tonight—10:15—but I can feel the tireds creeping in on me, and I know that as soon as I curl up in bed, I'm going to go to sleep.

It's worrying me a bit, because I know that someone at work was sent home with influenza today. I'm just trying to rest and take care of myself in the meantime.

Other news: it's official. While it's been official for some time now that I was going to D.C. for my vacation, it turns out that I'm going to be spending my birthday in one of the few major American cities I've not yet been to—New York City.


Mmmm, chemical fog.

So I went to the clinic after work, right? Everything was fine and dandy until I said the phrase "car accident." At that point, the nurse-on-duty did the quickest backpedaling act I've ever seen. She flatly stated, "We cannot treat you. Go to the ER."

Tonight's thumbs-up comment goes to Lee Cornelius out in the Huntsville ER. Seinfeld-esque bedside manner—while answering my annoying questions to boot. I hate x-rays. I've had way too many of them in my life, and these were the most pain-free ones I've dealt with in a long time. Has more to do with his good cheer, flippant sense of humor, and general tolerance of my mouthiness than anything else.

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