'Roid Rage!

It had been a good two weeks since I'd returned to work, and I was still going into the onesie bathroom twice a day to lie on the floor in total exhaustion. At night I lay in bed, wondering how I could hear the whistling of a radiator when there was none in my room. And then realized it was me. Breathing.

I finally just went to the doctor. My regular doctor was, ironically, out with a lost voice, so I saw a sharp guy who diagnosed me with bronchitis, and since I'm asthmatic, put me on antibiotics and steroids for a week.

He said, "Now, some people on prednisone have some issues..."

"Is this the drug that's going to make me puffy and bitchy?" I asked.

"Yes. But you'll only be on it for a week, so you'll be fine."

"Trust me, nobody will notice the difference," I assured him.

I mentioned it to Sven.

"Now your testicles will shrink," he advised.

So each day I take antibiotics, steroids, an anti-anxiety drug, and vitamin D supplements. Oh, and glucosamine for inflammation.

Here's the thing about prednisone: Over the long term, it can do terrible things to you. But for this girl, to suddenly stop feeling like I have a bag of jelly where my lungs should be is worth it. I'm done with the antibiotics, and I'm starting to cough up all the bio-cement that has been coating my bronchial tubes.

This part is not so good. I have these coughing fits that are more like seizures, taking me over and forcing my head down and forward, and my whole body convulses. Then I have a dizzy spell. Or a bloody nose. Or both. My co-workers were amused. People who heard me came over, concerned, and I assured them I was not contagious and that it was part of the healing process. I reminded them that the Marines believe that pain is just weakness leaving the body.

So now when I cough/seize, someone calls out, "Pain leaving the body!"

"Wooo!" I crow, gripping my desk as things go gray.

I don't seem to be bringing much up. I'm taking an expectorant, but what I probably need is some good hot sauce to make everything run. I bought a pound of scotch bonnet peppers to make Demon Sauce; we'll see how that goes.

The other thing the pred seems to be doing is counteracting the compulsive speaking-inhibiting effect of the anxiety med. So I suddenly realize that my thoughts are audible because, well, I HEAR them, and people I'm walking behind turn their head as if to say, "You talking to me?" I do the very smooth "I don't know who that nut was that spoke, because I'm staring in fascination at that engrossing newspaper box."

The pred has also taken care of the stiffness in my joints from not running for a month, but alas, not the weight gain, which has my tights spontaneously rolling down my hips in protest.  I'm hoping to try running Saturday; to assuage my concern over getting out of training I've been downloading new songs from iTunes to run to. Oh, because I made it into the Chicago Marathon!!! Right now, as I sit here on my double ass, coughing and sounding like someone from a TB clinic, that seems kind of funny. But I'm determined, because I recently realized that everyone who finishes gets a medal.  A medal! I'm such the goodie whore.

Bath time!