Last week I went to the ER. Not once, but twice. I was severely dehydrated because I couldn’t stop puking. On the second day, while lying in the hospital bed, Dan was sitting beside me. We didn’t really know what was wrong, but we knew that I was in bad shape.
I swear to God Dan’s eyes got a little blurry with tears as we speculated what could be going wrong. I was scared as shit too.
About seven days earlier, I’d finished up my last Decadron (dexamethasone) and was confident that withdrawal was severely messing my shit up, but the big scary question in front of us was whether or not coming off that steroid was causing brain swelling.
Long story really, really short: it was not.
It was run-of-the-mill withdrawals I was experiencing, but I’d put off going to the doctor for so long (because my health insurance and job were terminated two weeks earlier) that I was not just dehydrated, I was severely dehydrated.
I could just barely get myself to the toilet. I had’t showered in an entire week. And everything I tried to eat and every medicine I tried to take returned to the outside of my body via my mouth in a most violent fashion.
So I’m recovering, but still pretty damn low on energy. More later, but no promises when.