It's been a bumpy couple of days.
The doc thinks there's something wrong with my gall bladder. He was alarmed when I told him how much I'd thrown up during that first 48 hours. The good news: my BP was 122 over soemthing-or-other, which he said was the best reading he'd ever gotten off of me. I remain suspicious, though, that the BP medication is somehow contributing to this... not causing it, but making it worse.
Yesterday was miserable. I worked about two hours and left. I still have an intermittent sharp pain in my chest just below my sternum. Yesterday it was so bad I couldn't stand up, couldn't lie down at times, and was breaking out in a cold sweat.
It has eased up today, replaced by a headache that's hovering in my left eye socket.
I went to the radiology clinic this morning for an ultrasound of my abdominal area, including my gall bladder.
So I continue to wait for answers.
I have to wonder, of course, how ol' Cold Mountain would have dealt with this -- lying there alone, flat on his back, barfing and groaning in his mountain cave. Would he have written a poem about it? Would he have just laid there and died?
Of course, this could be all stress-related, in which case it wouldn't have happened to CM in any event.
While this spell has been worse than the previous ones, it's not the first one. I'm thinking my first extended barf-o-rama was when I was 13. I remember that clearly because my mother was livid because I threw up on the floor. She was not the nurturing type at all. The fact that I was sick wasn't on her radar at all -- she was just furious that I was inconveniencing the diva of the Shreveport bar scene.
I've had barf spells like this about once a year ever since. And unfortunately, they always remind me what a distant and aloof person my mother was. Don't get me wrong: she was very popular. Other alcoholics loved her.
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