Had a treatment on Tuesday.
Which means my body should be at it's utmost highest point of immune suppression.
Which means I should be as healthy (or as symptom-free) as possible for the next four weeks.
That's the way it is supposed to work, anyways.
That's the way it USUALLY works.
When I woke up and started pooping my brains out.
Or my guts out.
Eight pounds worth to be exact.
I even pooped in the shower.
Isn't that just the most awesome thing to be able to admit?
That you are almost 40 years old, have a college degree, unbelievable ninja skeelz, and poop on yourself in the shower?
I'm freezing cold.
I'm loading up on meds and carbs and bananas.
My mother asks if I've called the doctor.
Why would I do that?
What the HELL is HE going to do?
It is not ALBATROSS fishing season.
I know what to do.
It will get better.
Eventually there will be nothing left to poop.
Eventually it will be another day.
Praising God that today is a horribly yucky day outside and it's okay for all of us to be in our jammies and lay around.
Praising God that so far there has been no blood or vomiting.
Praising God that the children are getting along today (well, sort of).
Praising God that my husband is being amazingly understanding today, knowing that this is such a freaking weird thing to happen just AFTER a treatment, and especially since he spent the entire day with me yesterday, and he is just as perplexed as I am as to why the hell this is happening.
Praising God because it seems like that's what I should be doing than Damning him.
But sometimes I just feel like saying Dammit, at the same time that I'm really Praising HIM.