Well, she finally took the plunge.

Remember many, many moons ago when I freaked out because I thought my mom had gone insane because she'd joined a drillteam for old Republican ladies called The Plungettes? Well, turns out she DIDN'T actually join them then. Instead, she just hung out with one of her "friends" (who she bitches about constantly because this friend is certifiable, mind you) who's a Plungette at some Plungette events. I was relieved that my mom hadn't totally gone off the deep end. I was relieved, that is, until earlier this week when she informed me that not only has she joined, she'll be picking up her plunger and marching in a Hill Country 4th of July Parade in all of her Plungette glory.

You know, something along the lines of this...

I'm secretly hoping this deluge of rain continues so that the parade gets cancelled.


Holyfuckingshit, ya'll. My mom's a fucking Plungette.

Enough already.

So things were going along just fine. I got that damn drain out. I had an appt. with the infectious disease doctor who confirmed that yes, I could stop the IV antibiotics and get the PICC line out of my arm this Friday. I was able to sleep on my side--as opposed to flat on my back--for the first time in over a month. And yesterday, I had a stellar day, feeling good albeit a bit sore, running errands, requiring nothing stronger than a couple of Advil to deal with my pain.

And then last night at 4:35 a.m., the fun was over.

I don't know what happened. Maybe I rolled over in bed or some such shit. All I know is that I woke up screaming in pain. Not unlike I imagine I would if say...somebody were stabbing me in the side with a red hot fireplace poker. The area right underneath my healing (and SUPER gnarly looking) drain incisions was on fire. Literally. I mean, I couldn't catch my breath. I was lying there gasping in pain, crying and praying all at the same time.

"Dear God, please make it stop. Please no infection. No hernia. Please God no."

I managed to get up and get to a thermometer. No fever, thank ya Jesus. So, for the moment that ruled out an infection. But still, the searing, sharp and very specific pain that was making me see stars was NOT normal. What the hell was going on? I'd just had such a good damn day. Damn it all to hell.

So I took one Vicodin (my supply was seriously dwindling) and got back in bed. The pain would go away and then come roaring back. It didn't matter if I was lying totally still or moving around, seated or standing. Nothing was helping keep these flaming knives at bay. I tried to sleep with little success until Mom woke up. She and The Geej came in my room to wake me up, but I was already awake and crying. "Something's not right," I told her.

After we got GJ off to school, I talked to Mom: What the hell should I do? I didn't even know which doctor to call. I knew that if I called Dr. M, the colo/rectal guy, that I wouldn't be able to get in to see him. He would just immediately send me to get a CT scan and I'd never get to see him face to face or tell him what the fuck was going on. My infectious disease doctor, Dr. B., is just that: a scientist-y doctor, not a patient-y doctor. So no to that. So I opted to call the office of my gyno/oncologist, the one who did my initial surgery on 8/30 that got me into this fine mess. I felt like, at the very least, she'd see me out of some sense of guilt. I'm not sure if that's what did it, but I got in to see her within 2 hours.

She thinks it's "inflammation due to over extertion." In other words, I've been pushing it too hard. But she's not ruling out a recurrent infection/abscess in the drain site area, and--guess what--wants me to have ANOTHER CT scan tomorrow. This will be like my 150th CT scan in the past month. And at about $1,900 a pop, I know my insurance company is loving me. I may as well just drink barium every day just to keep it in my system...you know, just in case.

The upside to all of this? I got a new prescription to some fucking horse tranquilizer pain killers. Hooray! Also, when I got on the scales at the doctor's office today, I realized that I've lost 22 lbs. since August 30th. It's a helluva way to lose weight, but I'm happy that it's gone.

So yeah, I'm so damn sick of all this shit, I can't even express it. Mentally, I'm spent. I just WANT TO BE WELL!!! That's it. And as soon as I start feeling like, hey, maybe I'm actually getting well, I up my activity level and then end up in insanely painful Hell because I've "over exerted" myself. WTF?!

Oh, and want to know something beautiful? After my jaunt to the doctor was finished, it was lunchtime, and my mother insisted on going to the effing Cheesecake Factory. That's right: I'm writhing in pain every 5 minutes, but let's go sit down and have a nice long lunch. And hey Mom, why don't you order a bloody Mary while we're at it? Sure, I'm great over here on the other side of the table. Don't mind the clenched teeth and tears running down my face.

I feel like a lame racehorse that needs to be shot.