May I ask for your kind thoughts?
Hopefully, I am not going through some fundamental change, just through some temporary difficulty.
It's as if I were under water, peering up toward the surface of the moat, trying to grab at the bright shiny disc, wanting to latch on -- however precariously -- to a stray ray.
The only thing I can think of is that my adrenal status may be messed up -- that would explain my fatigue and inability to think, as well as the more overt physical symptoms.
We are always guessing -- when one is supposed to "double up" on a steroid dose in the event of acute illness, and when one gets stuck in the pattern of an acute [chronic] illness like osteomyelitis? It's a real crap shoot, deciding how much steroid is needed for basic survival.
I didn't think it would fluctuate this much, though.
It's a piece of cake in situations like the flu or a urinary tract infection -- even in the event of a misnomered "flare" of lupus or CRPS.
I had forgotten how adrenal insufficiency sneaks around, a real lowlife among hormonal imbalances. That's how it has almost killed me on a number of occasions -- it muddies the waters, slows the wits, and only amplifies what was already vague.
Yes, my big clue about falling into an adrenal crisis is the absence of specificity.
I sound like a dolt.
I whine; I emote; I sound all of 3 years old.
My back will ache; I may develop diarrhea.
Since fever and bone pain are already extant, those things don't offer any diagnostic gift.
I crave salt to such an extent that mere popcorn won't do -- I am more likely to lick the tiny iodized crystals directly from my palm.
At a certain point, I begin to call myself names. I mean, I get really angry with myself. All I need do to forestall disaster is to dose myself with steroids.
But it becomes a big mental deal. I don't want to... I hate steroids... Nevermind the absence of logic, nevermind that I am risking death over a dislike of the side effects of a bleeping medication.
Red flags wave. I sweat. I swear.
I cannot find the form the body prefers -- hydrocortisone -- but easily lay a hand on a huge bottle of 20 mg peach-colored prednisone.
Back in the day when I was really brittle, we kept the makings of an emergency injectable dose of Cortef in a baggy and I would refer to it as I might speak of an evacuation plan in the case of fire. After years of dealing with it, I came to prefer just grabbing some pills and washing them down with a Diet Coke.
Every time, I would note that another of my idiosyncratic symptoms for adrenal insufficiency (when unnervingly close to adrenal failure) was difficulty swallowing.
Friends, I am so tired.
Of pain, yes. Of inutility, of course.
Of being a living advertisement for a wasted life, mostly. And that, it follows, leads to massive self-pity, such that excess value comes to be placed upon what, just moments ago, I knew to be worthless.
All this, presumably because of a gland.
Fred has fled (say that 20 times, quickly), off to buy another huge container of Saw Palmetto for his benignly enlarged prostate -- he must be in tune with all things glandular today! It has been a long while since I cried like a spoiled infant, angry and frustrated to be left at home, wanting a ride in Ruby, the Honda CR-V, outfitted with sexy, virile Bruno, the wheelchair lift.
But it doesn't feel like what I imagine a tantrum to be. It feels more like an overflow valve has been activated.
Like seepage.
CRPS is attacking the right side of my body with an unbridled ferocity that has left me strangely unmoved. I am losing beaucoup vision from the center field of my right eye. I have collapsed into the bathroom wall several times this week, having reached that exact moment when falling was not a choice, no longer a case of "well, if I just let go, I can fall and the worst will have happened... then I can get back up."
Yes, seepage seems right.
"Bubbling crude."
Do you wonder about Force of Will? I do, too, as I usually am not without a good supply. It seems I've been found lacking.
Anyway, I've downed the pills. Surely they should kick in any half hour now.
Let's call this a post, then, and go be hot and cold simultaneously over there, where we can at least see the television and reach the phone.
[As always, I am so grateful you stopped by. We have 42 bedrooms, all in a state of readiness, if you would like to stay the weekend. Most of the staff is off duty, though still in residence, as we celebrate May Day like nobody's business here at Marlinspike Hall -- but what creature comforts we have are yours. There will be a skeletal crew on call in the kitchens and stables. Remember that internet access is restricted to The Turret.]
May 1, 2010: Clearly, I survived and am faced today with this ridiculous post born of cortisol-lack. I will leave it, I supposed, as evidence of exactly how stupid and self-obsessed I become when circling the drain of an
Addisonian Crisis. I have a high fever that seems unrelated to the infection in my bones, and more like a cold/flu/viral sumpthin'. Once the steroids were on board, the nagging, annoying symptoms of adrenal insufficiency cleared right up, leaving behind just the usual fatigue, the usual pain, and the usual wealth of self-pity.
Thank you for your good and kind thoughts.
