Special Update

So...

I was back in the ER yesterday, screaming and vomiting, in total terror, and getting pumped full of blistering IVs of crap.

I had been vomiting constantly for six straight hours to get there, and I was crying because something was trying to cut its way out of me by clawing through my back, my stomach, and my brain.

As usual, I just wanted the thing to finish cutting its way out me so I could die, or maybe for someone to have enough mercy to kill me. But no.

What I got was a nurse snapping at me to 'settle down' and stop 'making a fuss' because I began to scream when she shoved the IV in my arm.

I never had an IV before last year, but now I've become a grim regular. They hurt, they keep hurting, but not like this. This felt like she had taken a knife to my arm, over and over.

I couldn't stop screaming, and she got more snippish and left, and the Spousal Unit finally flagged down someone, and it turned out the IV was on super flow, and my veins were trying to blow out and yes, that was why it hurt so bad. A quick flick of something or other and I went back to only the agony I came in with, thank all.

Eventually enough meds went in my veins that I could stop vomiting and crying. Oh, I was still violently nauseous and in agony, but it was down enough that I was released from custody, being told I was fine.

It was a serious downer to be back in the ER. I started off May fighting my specialist for a new treatment. He didn't want to, citing the risk of stroke. I countered that I was getting worse, far worse, that it was only 4x--which I got by being born--to 7x, and it was damn time to get more aggressive, because it was my only chance at getting better.

I won.

I tried arguing for surgery too, but lost. As a consolation prize I had to repeat an extremely painful test. I had that a week later and spent the next four miserable days on steady painkillers. Gah, that is so not an accurate name, more like pain-pussy-kick-in-the-shins.

I tell you, the whole point of tests is prove you're really really sick. Because it's the only way you'd ever do them.

My new treatment hasn't made me worse, but it hasn't made me better. Exhibit gruesome highlight being the ER, of course. But I knew before that. Still, meds are slow, so so slow, and hope isn't gone.

Not until I'm totally dead.

And never as long as my family still loves me, and, still, they totally insist that's not going to stop.

Okay, it's true, Hiss hasn't really said so, but she still lays on my feet. I'm pretty sure that means 'Don't go anywhere. Ever.'