Last night I laid here sicker than sick. So sick all I could do was moan in agony as every single nerve fiber in my body ached. Throbbed. Shot with jolts of an electrical firestorm. The other signs of flu were present, too. I couldn't stand up for more than a minute without passing out. Eating food seemed like the most disguising thing in the entire world, after existing, that is. I was nauseous and bloated and even vomited a little, but not profusely. These symptoms hit me so hard and fast I couldn't tell if I had the good old-fashioned flu, or was it just Fibromyalgia being mean? Or was I dying? I mean I sure felt like it, and every time I turn on the television the news tells me Ebola is on its way to a friendly neighborhood market near me...
My dear medically traumatized husband, who has been to hell and back with my many maladies, wanted to take me to the ER. I barely had the strength to protest, but informed him if I wasn't already dying of Ebola, a trip to the ER would surely reverse that prognosis. Not only did he think the woman gasping and grunting in agony was going to expel her dying breath, the New York Giants lost too, so he really had nothing going for him last night. Then he got sick. Did we actually have food poisoning? About the only thing I could rule out at this point was Fibromyalgia, because he doesn't have it.
So we're a sorry lot over here. Having to take the dogs out to pee, and sit on the sidewalk because I was too weak to stand up while they did their business, made me especially compassionate to single parents. How on earth does a person take care of a child by themselves when they are this sick? Since I'm actually sitting up, and can focus both my blurry vision and thoughts enough to write this blog, I guess I can rule out Ebola. I mean I'm not getting sicker, so that's gotta be a good sign, right?
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