Ok. All right! Everybody just Don't Panic! After much hemming and hawing over the decision, it appears that my body has decided NOT to go completely corpsed on me. (Is that a word? Shaddup, it is now. And that's corp-sed, thank you very much... like, bless-ed... as in... Bless-ed are thou that you are not completely corp-sed by this ass-chapping-est kidney infection).
Right, so it started Sunday night, during that oh-so-mediocre made-for-TV-movie Lucy. Ok, so her voice and accent was right on, and she did the Lucille Ball schtick pretty well but, hello? The woman - what was her name? Rachel York? Something York, anyway. Well, Miss York, even at her most be-red-wiggededness, Did Not Look Like Lucy! But I digress. Back to my kidney.
You know when you've been lax in your 'going to pee' duties, feeling that perhaps you don't really have to go right this moment, that you could perhaps hold it for another little bit, and then you hold it for far too long, beyond the point where your eyeballs are floating even, but of course by then there's either (a) no opportunity to go or (b) no clean bathroom for another 8 miles? No? You don't get that? Well, bully for you. Anyway, as it happens, when you finally do get the sweet relief of release, you tend to get a minor cramp sometimes, because those altogether too taken for granted muscles were working overtime in your favour. Well, Sunday night, right around the time that Lucy uttered her first "WAAAAAHHHH", I started to get that crampy-wierdy feeling. Crampy because it hurt like the fires of hell, and wierdy because I didn't remember having to go. Like, in a long time.
By five the next morning, I was whimpering for mercy from the torturous ring of pain that had wound itself around my middle. I fought the sensations of nausea (which produced nothing but dry-heaves), having to run to the bathroom every 3 minutes (which produced nothing at all) and a temperature that was making like it was on Viagra. Oh yeah, baby... I had the fever... and not the good, Peggy Lee kind either.
The doctor saw me that afternoon, graciously poking around and trying to make me cry. She asked for a urine sample, even after I explained that there was nothin' coming out!. After using the same amount of concentration one would use to, perhaps, balance an egg on it's point or write a medical school entry exam, I was able to produce a mere dribble which she bustled away with, waving away my apologies for the somewhat humiliating and pitiful quantity.
Ten minutes later, she was back with the pronouncement that it was a Very Mean Kidney Infection. She took my temperature again, which had risen to 39.5C, scribbled out a 'scrip and sent me home to bed with instructions to run from dairy and drink lots of water and cranberry juice.
By Tuesday morning, the pain was still preventing me from doing anything other than lying directly on my hip, but I wasn't screaming anymore. My fever finally broke yesterday afternoon, which left me feeling a lot better, albeit a lot sweatier as well. I'd let you in on the more colourful parts of my recovery, but, frankly, that talk just isn't fit for polite company.
And so we wind to Wednesday, today. I've made it to work, and though I keep fidgeting from trying to hunt down a comfortable position in which to sit, I'm still alive.
Gracious, but a kidney is a horrible thing to piss off, huh?
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