And actually beginning to feel somewhat human, but that may only be the Prednisone talking. I went back to the after-hours clinic on Friday night, because Friday was frankly a slog. I could barely catch my breath. I was still needing my inhaler almost every four hours, when I should already have been able to taper off to a more normal every six hours. (When I'm feeling well, I may not need to use the inhaler for several days in a row, but that is not my current reality.)
This morning was my third dose of three Prednisone tabs. How can anything taste that vile? I mean, do they do that on purpose? I took this morning's allotment roughly three hours after I woke up. Yes. It took me a bit to figure out that that is my body on Prednisone. On the other hand, there was not one single instance of feeling drowsy, and I was wonderfully productive at work in spite of having had maybe three and a half hours of sleep last night.
My dreams, what there were of them, seemed to be about police procedurals where the folks in the observation room could hear the thoughts of the perps being interviewed, as well as being incapable of keeping their own opinions to themselves. Lots of embarrassing self-revelations going on, but nobody seemed to be aware of what they themselves, or their coworkers, were saying. Just me, standing there blushing redder and redder and redder.
The bipolar bears have recently gotten me onto Discord, because its notifications do not strike daggers straight into Middlest's cerebral cortex when he has a migraine, which he usually does. I finally decided on a screen name, and Middlest found me an avatar I adore.
I worked from home today, because I didn't know if I'd remain lucid and safe to drive on so little sleep. I have to drive in tomorrow, as there are things I need to do ASAP, that I can only do when I'm there. Plus I have five four days of work to shoehorn into two one if I want to be off all day on Wednesday after Fourthborn's oral surgery, maybe off on Thursday, and off all day on Friday after taking the bipolar bears to their monthly checkup and picking up their refills. In addition to that major miracle, I need to clear up my backlog before I can take more than the absolute minimum PTO necessary to get them where they need to be.
I'm hoping that the Prednisone is going to be my spiritual and physical ace in the hole to get me through the rest of this week, and then I can sleep all weekend. Maybe.
In less me-focused news, I tried something on my phone when I drove into work last Friday. I switched my Book of Mormon app to read to me in French and quickly realized that there's no way in hell (sorry, Sir!) that I can catch more than one word in ten at normal speed, so I geared it down to 70% of that and am planning to read along as I listen. Which I haven't done since Friday. Because bronchitis.
My phone tells me it's time for evening meds. I need to stay up for an hour after that in order to take my antibiotic. But y'all? I'm definitely tired and I'm definitely not sleepy. This could be interesting.
I think I've caught all of the typos and the weird grammar, but I'm typing faster than I have in years, and I'm hoping this all more or less makes sense, and I could probably draft another chapter or two of memoir before bedtime, but also probably better not.
Your intrepid heroine, Ms. Ravelled, on performance-somewhat-enhancing drugs. Yeehaw!
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