Allow me to clarify that statement. At least I know I’m not crazier.
Since the end of September, I have been beat. Just exhausted. And that’s not my style. My typical routine is bed by eight or nine at night, up by four.* Clearly, I belong on a farm. I have the internal alarm clock of livestock.**
For the last six weeks or so though, I’ve barely been able to lift my head off my pillow. I sleep ’til six, six-thiry, even seven. I know, you’re laughing at me now. But if I sleep until five, I’m late. If I sleep until seven, please, check for a pulse.
And when I finally do wake up, with all this extra rest under my belt, am I refreshed? Energized? Ready to work, workout, and work some more? On the contrary. I feel like a sloth. On Seroquel. With a Sominex kicker.
I come down to my desk and can hardly put two words together.
I drag myself to my Jazzercise class with that promise that, if I arrive early, I can catnap in the car before I go in.
I keep that promise.
Then I go in. And I stand there, smiling and making small talk through waves of exhaustion-induced nausea, and praying please, please, please God, don’t let me collapse, or worse, throw up, on the bouncy black floor.
I’m telling you, it’s been bizarre. In addition to my newfound ability to fall asleep anywhere, any time, (including in the Oncologist’s office and in the car on the way to the Oncologist’s office which was really scary because I was the one driving), by lunchtime every day I’ve had a headache. By two or three, my tongue’s swollen and dotted with those damn little pimples that hurt so bad you want to bite ’em off and spit ’em out. And right after that comes a screaming sore throat. I’ve taken Tylenol. Gargled with warm salt water. Consumed shocking amounts of Chardonnay.***
In short order, I added crying myself to sleep to my list of ills. This quickly progressed to waking up crying (at seven, which, as you can imagine, only made me cry harder), which to me meant just one thing: I was crying in my sleep. And as far as I was concerned, this crowning symptom cried, “Get that woman a psych consult, stat!”
“Your meds are fine,” my shrink responded calmly when I called her and not so calmly begged for more of the happy pills I pop daily.
“But I feel awful,” I moaned.
“Susan,” she said soothingly, “you don’t treat a sore throat with Celexa.”
“Wellbutrin then?” I asked, cutting her off. “Or maybe something new, like Paxil. Or Zoloft. I’ve never taken either one of those. What do you think?”
“I think you should call your doctor.”
“But you are my doctor,” I cried. “And I’m not sick. I’m depressed. Do something!”
“Susan,” she said, a little more firmly, “it’s not your medication. Call your doctor and get some blood work done.”
And then she hung up. Just like that. Oh. My. God. I hate tough love. I want to be coddled, and told everything will be alright. In fact, I want it in writing. On a prescription pad. With at least two refills.
In the end, I got a prescription and believe it or not, it starts with a Z. As in Z-pack. I have strep and the tail end of mono. Mono! Maybe it’s some kind of cosmic payback for fantasizing about kissing Brad Pitt. Hell if I know. But at least I do know why I’ve been feeling like crap. And it’s not because I’m crazy.
Hmm. Allow me to clarify that statement…
*In defense of my odd hours, I have to say I get a lot done in the wee morning. It’s my favorite time to write, roam the Internet to see what Angelina Jolie is wearing, mourn the fact that I’ll never have lips like hers (or hunky Brad Pitt to kiss them), and keep up on stupid celeb and sports star indiscretions.
**And legs like them, too.
***It’s alcohol. Alcohol kills germs. And my thinking is off here… how?