Has it ever happened to you where you've totally lost track of time?
One day, you're fully engaged in a routine and then suddenly, you're not.
And the next thing you know, you're sleeping a lot, wandering aimlessly around in your pajamas until noon, eating things like carrots and hummus for dinner and watching an obscene number of Netflix movies? And before too long, you don't know what day of the week or month it is and without serious consideration, you might even flub up what year it is?
I've been residing in a blissful mental fog. If not for the nagging exhaustion, dizzying spells and inability to do more than tie my shoes without taking a siesta, I'd say that my detour in to la-la land has been a nice venture. Tonight, just as I was about to crash out after a grueling day of ... um, can't rightly remember ... Charlie suggested that I post an update to my blog because several people have sent him e-mails asking what's happened to me.
How incredibly nice is that?
Thank you so much, all you wonderfully kind people!
In response to your inquiry, I really wish I knew what's happened to me.
In posting this update tonight, I realized it's been two weeks since I've even turned my computer on. Which also happens to be approximately the same time I stopped taking any steroids. My doctors (I'm currently up to three) are still running a magnitude of tests because as of yet, nothing has been ruled out. Except male pattern baldness and Addison's.
Although, Addison's not entirely completely because some of the test results are a little iffy and will be retaken over the next few weeks. Along with a few other tests, but hopefully by then things will have cleared up and I'll be training for my next triathlon. (Or, at a minimum, I'll be able to eat an entire bowl of Cheerios without stopping to rest.)
In lieu of me continuing on indefinitely with this sluggish lifestyle, next week, I'm due to resume work after almost - who knows how many? - weeks off. When I saw doctor #1 this morning, (now yesterday ... er, Thursday, it's taken me
two three days to write this) she told me that getting back in to some kind of schedule will do one of two things. Either it will accelerate my healing. Or, it will render me unconscious.
Should we start a betting pool?
In other news...
William recently met a little boy who moved to this area from Alabama. Within five minutes of their introduction, my son grabbed him by the hand and ran to me where he excitedly shouted, "Mom! This is my new friend. He speaks COWBOY language!" At that exact moment, I had no idea where this child was from or what my son was talking about. The little boy was just as puzzled as me when William prompted, "Please SAY something!"
He shot us both a confused expression before asking with a thick southern drawl, "Hey. How y'all doin'?"
William had a huge smile on his face when he stuck his thumbs in his belt loops and leaning back on his heels responded with an equally heavy southern drawl, "Well, I'm doing mighty fine. How you doin', Sheriff?"
Since I've lived a large portion of my life in what I consider the Deep South and have been known to spontaneously break in to a drawl whenever I think of grits or sip sweet iced tea, I feel like I've earned the right to laugh at this. So I did. And so did the boy's mother.
(Thankfully, even louder than me.)
So although my official diagnosis isn't yet in ... I think it's fair to say my funny bone definitely ain't broke. Now y'all come back now, ya hear?
I promise to do better staying in touch.