Fever

Fever - in the morning, fever all through the night.
Everybody's got the fever, that is something you all know
Fever isn't such a new thing, fever started long ago...
~Peggy Lee


It's Tuesday. I finally talked to the ID doc this morning. Dr. C.

She asked me how I felt.

--Sick. Sick sick sick. Like a dead dog.

--Okay. Now tell me, how does feeling like a dead dog feel to you? How do you feel sick? Describe it to me.

--My head is swimming. Fevery. Everything hurts, every bone in my body. Everything, from head to toe.

I can tell I'm not totally coherent. She speaks to me carefully.

--Okay. Now I want to tell you this, this is important: Stop taking the Rifampin. It makes some people sick that way.

--Is it safe? Safe to stop?

--Yes, I think so. I see you tomorrow. If it changes, call me.

--Okay. It's less swollen today, less red. Less hot. It's better than it was Saturday night.

--Good. Good. See you tomorrow morning.


Last night, Monday night, I fell asleep in my office chair. I woke up and realized I'd been surfing and leaving comments of questionable content all over the place. Whoops. Went to bed.

Woke up and checked things over. Did I leave anything embarrassing behind in my delirium? Naw, not too bad.

what day is it? where am I? what have I been doing?

Reality check.

It's Tuesday. I'm at home. Saturday night around midnight I got home from the ER. Slept. Saturday night, Sunday, Sunday night I slept.

Monday morning I checked out the papers from the hospital. *If the cellulitis is in an extremity, keep it elevated as much as possible. Use the affected extremity as little as possible.*

I am sick of sleeping. I want to play in my yard. I use my improvised post-surgical sling. Worked for the right hand, huh? Stuck my left hand in it. Keeps it elevated and unused. Pretty much. ha!

So I could weed just a LITTLE patch in front...

I sat there, shaking like a leaf and sweating like a hog, pulling little weeds with my trembley fingers. Jeff the English guy came by to check on me. Doesn't seem to like what he sees, but doesn't say much about it.

Starts telling me about his workday, and his cell phone rings. He walks around talking on it, checking out the yard, admiring my new plants, and eventually must have toddled off down the street, back home. I have no idea when he left, no recollection of him going.

I sweated and butt-walked my way around on my brick path, poring over my little ones. Pushed rain lily bulbs back in the ground that had surfaced from rains or such. Replanted some baby agaves that hadn't rooted deep enough to suit me.

Doing this on a little patch of ground around 10' x 10' or so in area took ridiculously long.

I watered, too, laying the hose down and moving it around the new plants every half hour. Tottering out using one cane, taking six-inch steps, old lady steps. By then I wasn't trying to do anything like weed any more, just playing phone tag with Dr. C and sitting in my office chair.

Where I fell asleep.

I woke up, stumbled out to move the hose again, and discovered the Saturn was back in the driveway, yay! Horacio had taken it in for me to get the windows fixed, they weren't working and it's the rainy season. He's been my hero all week. And I couldn't even drive him in to the garage this morning. Too dizzy.

I call him on the phone. I speak very carefully. *Guess what I found in the driveway!* How do you thank someone for everything he's done? I try my best. I say it clear, twice. Thank you, Horacio. Thank you.

That was my Monday.

I didn't kid myself about doing anything outside today.

Slept. Talked to doctors. Slept. The stupid dishwasher broke and I wanted to cry and cry. Stop it! I scold myself.

Tomorrow will be very hard. Dr. C in Ft. Lauderdale at 10:45, and Dr. E in Hollywood at 1:40.

I'll manage. I usually do.