Thursday, July 23, 2015

Getting Better

It started three months ago, in April.

I (foolishly, it transpires) went on a road trip to Ontario for a friend's wedding.  It was a great trip, if a little taxing, and I felt really proud of myself for getting through it with equanimity and only one or two major panic attacks.  I was tired, I was anxious, but I managed, and it was the biggest thing I'd been able to handle in a couple of years, so yes, I felt pretty good about myself.

Two days after I got back, my Gramma died.  The week after that, my sister got married, and the week after that, I starred in two separate plays on two separate nights in the same theatre festival.

Somewhere in the midst of all this, my body abruptly decided it had had enough with this whole functioning properly business, and I got sick.  My throat and head throbbed to the point that I couldn't get out of bed.  My Mom stopped by with ginger ale and eventually dragged me to the doctor, who diagnosed strep and prescribed antibiotics.  I got better just in time to be a bridesmaid, though my sister's wedding pictures show me with fever blisters around my mouth, too big and painful to hide with makeup.

May was miserable.  I was too exhausted to fix meals for myself.  Depression resurfaced with a vengeance, I stopped being able to keep up with my job, only left my flat when my boyfriend persuaded me out on a walk around town, and only washed my hair when it reeked.

Finally, in June, for about a week, I started to feel better.

Then things really fell apart.

When my throat randomly swelled up again to the point that the doctor at the walk-in clinic couldn't see down it to tell what was wrong, I got sent to the hospital.  Strep again?  Mono?  They settled on mono but medicated me for both, hydrated me by IV (I couldn't swallow), prescribed steroids to reduce the swelling, and sent me home the next morning.  My doctor warned me to cancel plans for a while.  Foolishly (again), I decided I could still manage the BC provincial theatre festival two weeks later. I was wrong, and ended up in hospital in Kamloops for ten days.  Apparently the antibiotics they had prescribed for strep can wreck your intestinal flora and give you colitis.  Oops.

So now I'm on more antibiotics, stronger ones, and because I've got to seriously rest for a good long while in order to get better, which means no work, which means no money, I'm going to be living at my parents' house for a few months, and giving up my flat.

I've been trying to be chill about the whole thing.  To be happy, to be content.  It is what it is, everything works together for good, que sera sera, etc.  Tonight, though, I'm cranky, I can't sleep, I miss my bed, and I'm kind of royally irritated with God.

Because this wasn't my plan.  I don't want this.  I liked the little life I'd been building up for myself over the shops in the bustling metropolis of Duncan, with my cat.  I'm not ready to give it up.  And I had a lot planned for this summer--working, directing, acting, hiking--; I don't want to be sitting in bed in my parents' spare room at four in the morning writing stupid, bitchy blog posts about the state of my guts.


I should be grateful that things aren't worse, I know.  That I have a family to move in with, that I live in Canada where my medical bills are covered, that I managed to avoid the threat of surgery, that morphine is a thing that exists.  There is so much to be grateful for, and most of the time, I can keep that in mind.

Not this minute, though.

It's funny how feeling wretched exposes your weaknesses.  Crankiness, impatience, sloth, ingratitude, have been rearing their ugly heads since I left the hospital.  I feel like Oscar the Grouch, but less green and more pimply, with a spare bed instead of a garbage can.

I guess I have some more growing to do.  Maybe I'd done all I could in the flat over the shops, and had to have things change in order to keep becoming the person I'm meant to become--to get better, not just physically but in all ways.

At least, I really really hope so, because I don't want it to be for no reason.  Please, God, don't let all this be for no reason.

Help me get better.


  1. Thanks for sharing this late-night, bitchy blog post. I really wanted to know what was going on with you. Hang in there! I will pray that you get a good respite from God's "special kind of love" for a while.

  2. Thanks, Dr. Kerr. That really means a lot to me.