I’m tired.

Today I’m supposed to write about my writing, but I just ain’t feeling it. I’m just so DONE right now.

Look:

I posted this on my personal Facebook page.

Feeling sore, tired, and feverish today. I think the past several weeks are finally taking a toll. I just want to crawl under my afghan and cry myself back to sleep. Everything just feels so damn difficult – ten steps back for every one step forward. I know this is just one moment in time and it will pass and I’ll feel better, but right this second I can’t imagine getting through this tunnel. It’s like every time I turn on the light the furniture has been rearranged and I have to figure out anew where the exit lies. For now, I’m done searching. I’m simply exhausted. Gonna sit down and relax for a bit. The world can just work around me for a bit instead of vice versa.

I guess it’s no wonder.

I mean, I’ve spent more time in the last month in hospitals, emergency rooms, doctor offices, and other medical-related place, than I ever have in a lifetime filled with physical issues beyond count.

It’s ridiculous.

Not the care I’m receiving – that’s been outstanding, for the most part. But it just keeps going and going and going. I’m ready to be over this bit and on the part where my daughter and I are both healthy.

Oh – my daughter.

I haven’t even mentioned her trials yet.

She suffers UTIs {urinary tract infections} more than any nine-year-old should. Like, a serious enough number of them to make our family doctor scratch his head and decide to send her to a specialist.

A pee-ologist, if you will.

Nah, just kidding. It’s a urologist. But my way sounds better.

So while I have been recovering from my unexpected double-surgeries, complete with weekly follow-ups and a trip to the ER, my baby girl has been to the ER, too, due to UTI-related fevers approaching 105 degrees.

{That’s Fahrenheit. I don’t know the Celsius equivalent. I’m sorry, UK and Australia and all you other Celsius–users. Please forgive an ignorant American.}

And in addition to the ER visits for the kid, she has also been back-n-forth to Children’s Hospital for testing of her bladder and kidneys to see what their beef is, if any.

So, I’m happy to say, she’s okay for today.

But I’m not.

I received a call earlier today from my doctor explaining why I’m having such a hard time healing properly:

The cultures they took at the ER revealed evidence of not just one or two, but FOUR separate infections.

One of them is E.coli.

Yeah, as in poop.

I have poop germs in my incision. How the fuck did those get there? I certainly didn’t poop onto my belly {your welcome for that mental image}. And I don’t touch my ouch-spot with poopy toilet paper or wipes or whatnot.

I think it was the revelation that poop germs are infecting me that sent me over the edge.

Because, you guys, that’s not fair. I’m fastidious. I shouldn’t have poop germs on me. Or around me. Or anywhere near me.

For a crazed moment in time, I felt like spraying an entire can of Lysol onto myself. Then I came to my senses. Lysol is expensive. Too costly to waste on my sliced up belly when I have like five-hundred antibiotics on the job.

Tomorrow I will get some answers.

I have an appointment with my doctor – my gyno – my surgeon – whatevs – and I’ll ask her why I have been visited by so many germs, including the caca ones.

I’m also having some extra skin trimmed off. Which is as disgusting as it sounds. My incision didn’t close up in a pretty or orderly fashion, and the top lip overhangs the bottom so there’s just this flap of useless skin hanging around.

But that’s all tomorrow.

For today, I’m going to stay under my afghan.

Magical healing powers, remember?

For now, I will leave you with this doodle I did a couple weeks ago at my sister’s house while I was busy learning how to pull up my panties by myself.

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