It'll be nearing midnight soon...perhaps even before this post has reached its end?
Most of you understand that this is a period of intense struggle for me, for which I have had wavering feelings of kicking the GP and mito square in the face and other times where I'd prefer to sit in a corner and scream and cry, relinquish all my responsibilities as an adult with two TOUGH illnesses and give in to their tantalizing promises of giving up completely.
Giving up kills you faster, after all...
It's only when the sun continues to rise, despite some of my most wallowing and selfish times...do I realize how foolish it is to sit and await death to take you on board, expecting the end to your suffering...
No. Not only I "won't", I also simply can't.
There have been too many wonderful, beautiful things in this life to be had. What a fool would I be to deprive myself of these experienceses? Or abort my responsibilities as a daughter, a sister, a friend,
While I long for my brother in heaven...would simply giving up expedite our joyous reunion? I fear I would enter with a bitter taste in my mouth and my heart full of regrets.
As much as I grow weary, I won't let go.
We've entered into a critical state. My lovely enteral pump setting is at .2cc/hour for hydration. Nothing for feeds as of now. My odd therapy protocol helps to try to build this process along. I only get out for doctor and therapy appointments.
To be frank...I am unwell.
I lose all sorts of time now. And my pump is giving my an error message every 15 minutes. Perhaps the slow rate becomes a tedious task for that poor, poor machine after some time, and fancies a break.
Which is lovely, as I do too.
There haven't been any recent pictures of me. I don't use triggers in my posts to the best of my ability. That includes trauma and eating disorder based ones. I look pretty scruffy and like...well...a stray cat, if you will. One that has not had it's nails trimmed or seen a meal in quite some time.
My wonderful team is taking careful measures to improve the situation. It pains me to hear cracking voices on the other end of the line ("am I really THAT sick?"). I cannot wrap my head around it. I feel crappy, yes. Critically ill? I'm sure they are over reacting?
The new rule is this: if my legs give out from under me, I have to be taken in for fluids. As in, I may protest, but my cries of how I'just BEEN A TAD CLUMSY fall on deaf ears.
I've been seen there for five years. They know all my excuses, and this matter they aren't willing to play guessing games.
As for now? Too much hanging in the air. Too many decisions to be made.
So we shall see what tomorrow's sunrise yields