Yesterday I had my yearly exam. I liked the doctor, and while I was there, he schedule an ultrasound for me to find out why I have so many girly problems (long-time readers know this is way overdue, etc). He had some sensible possible explanations and some sensible possible solutions. He also diagnosed me with a sinus infection (I like to multi-task while wearing the paper gown, don’t you? I also showed him a mole on my knee I’ve been worried about) (WHY IS MY LIFE ONE GIANT SINUS INFECTION) and prescribed some stuff. Thank goodness, because I’d been feeling pretty gross. The last week I wouldn’t even rest my chin/cheek on my hand because my face hurt so much, and I felt like some kind of sissy with an imaginary illness. I can’t call in sick for unexplained face pain.
Obviously.
Instead I’ve just complained a lot to my husband and asked for about a week if he thought I had a fever.
I’m not annoying at all when I’m sick.
In other news, I am terrified of the ultrasound, because they instructed me not to “void” when I wake up Wednesday morning, and also to drink a ton of water. And then they will prod me, and my bladder will be teetering on the brink of despair. They even wrote on my appointment card in large print, “FULL BLADDER.”
I said something loud along the lines of, “THIS SOUNDS HORRIBLE!” and the doctor, nurse, and secretary all laughed.
I was serious.
Laugh it up, medical professionals! Just LAUGH IT UP.
In other news, I stupidly took the All-egra and antibiotic when I got back to work (around four) without realizing the All-egra was the kind that had a decongestant. This is especially stupid, because when you have a sinus infection you always take decongestants. And even more stupid is the doctor TOLD me it had a decongestant, and I mentioned it to Jut on the cell phone while I was in my car, waiting in line at the pharmacy drive-through.
What I am trying to say is, I was wide awake most of the night because of the medicine, all jittery and glaring at the alarm clock. At 12:45 I thought, it MUST be about time to get up! What should I wear today? What was the forecast again? And then I put on my glasses and experienced rage.
I got up for a few hours, and the dogs are never good insomnia companions. They will not even stir when I stumble across them in the dark. Coltrane was too busy purring/drooling/planting herself firmly against my husband’s knees to get up. Jelly Roll, however, loves when I can’t sleep. A) He might get an extra dinner–that’s what his brain thinks anytime one of us goes downstairs. B) He gets extra lap time.
I sat on the couch downstairs, and Jelly Roll first proved to me that he is neglected by gnawing on some dog food. (I’m pretty sure he only does this when a human is around to witness it, and it is more ridiculous than you can possibly imagine.) After staving off certain death by starvation, he threw himself all over me, repeatedly, purring and cat-talking and getting fur in my nose. He shows his love by thumping up against me, flopping down again and again. Think “love flailing.” It’s sort of infuriating, because, JUST FIND A SPOT ALREADY. After an hour of tolerating his flopping and rolling, I went back upstairs to blow my nose and get back in bed. He followed me to the bathroom and jumped into the bathtub. He meowed mournfully and loudly, over and over. It echoed against the tub walls, and cat owners everywhere know which soulful, dramatic, gut-wrenching meow I am talking about. You know. The sorrowful one, that sounds awful, but probably means the cat is just bored or indignant about feeding time, or the cat is getting a bath. “I’m right here,” I hissed, and he squeaked happily. He poked his head out from behind the shower curtain, looking surprised. Purring, he jumped out and flopped against my feet a few times. He watched me get back in bed, then thirty seconds later I heard him in the hallway, yowling sadly again.
He is an idiot.
In other news, Coltrane bit me when I got back in bed.
There is no good way to finish this aimless story. It’s true.
I like the cats, is all.
Love,
black sheeped
