As we approached sun-up I told Sam to please call the hospice and request a nursing visit. I was so sick I couldn’t stand it, and I continue to lose my battle with a three-year-old urinary tract infection. Rachel got here shortly after 8 a.m. and called in an antibiotic prescription to the hospice’s pharmacy in Fort Worth. It probably won’t work, though. (I’m resistant to antibiotics.) Shortly thereafter I threw up for two solid hours.
THURSDAY, 12/5/2019, 7:18 A.M. Since writing the two preceding paragraphs I’ve been even more fucking miserable … and I didn’t think it was possible! My temperature remained normal all day, which was an improvement, but the churning stomach hoo-hah came back worse than ever and I just finished my third round of projectile vomiting in two days. And just so you’ll have an appreciation for what’s going on with me, I’m bedridden, reclining at a 30° angle, and throwing up into a giant green mixing bowl. Nothing actually lands in the bowl, however. It runs out the sides of my mouth, all over my face, my neck and my shoulders. I’m literally lying in vomit, trying to hang onto a shred of hope that I’ll be happy again one of these days, while Sam mops me up and dries me off. He is an angel on earth.
Sam has been in touch with my hospice medical team, and they’re sending over a prescription this morning that will neutralize and reduce my stomach acid. I haven’t eaten food in several days so all that’s in my stomach is acid. I never knew there was so much of this damn stuff.
I’m limp. I’d better publish this post so you’ll know what’s been going on here. Thank you for reading this.
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