The Inmate’s Running the Asylum

Let’s step aside from the emotional rollercoaster of Solumedrol for a few moments to take a look at the death-drop ride instead.  I stayed home from the office yesterday, uncertain of what to expect as I began to taper from 5,000 mg. of Solumedrol over five days to just 60 mini-milligrams of Prednisone on day one.  The hubby took a day as well, to be close to the asylum. We can’t have the wacko running around at large, endangering the general public.  We both miraculously slept in until 8 am (a larger feat for him than me – apparently just being around a Solu-girl must be exhausting to those near her).  He whipped up a huge breakfast for me, to prepare the tummy for the gauntlet ahead.  We decided to ease into the day watching the previous night’s taping of “Lost.”   The poached eggs were barely half-gone and I was already itching and wiggling and toe tapping my way to lunacy.   Despite the energy level, I was completely exhausted.  Just thinking about what my day would hold wiped me out, but at the same time, I couldn’t imagine just laying on the couch resting through another television episode.  While I wanted to so badly, that would require sitting still.  Impossible.

Since I couldn’t sit up straight without my stomach aching from the inside out, and I couldn’t bend or stretch my legs due to the painful water retention throughout my thighs and around my knees, I decided it would be better to at least try to make something out of the day while feeling miserable.  I threw on a hoodie, tied up around my nose, and headed out to sit, all scrunched up on the lawn tractor in fifty degree weather.  The spring rain had turned our front yard into the Klampett’s and the hubby and I couldn’t wait another day to make a dent in our country mess.   I sat on the tractor, hunched over, feeling the wind in my face, wondering how I’d get the energy to step on the foot brake if necessary.  Then after a whirlwind of circles through three acres of glory, “Bam! The yard was done.”  Just like that.   I think the hubby was amazed.  

I literally fell off the tractor and crawled back into the house.   While showering, I actually debated foregoing conditioner, just because of the extra work.  Exhausted again.  I determined my day’s efforts had to be done and it was time to just call it a day and crawl back under the blankets.  That lasted maybe 45 minutes, just 15 minutes shy of the ending of my DVR’s- CSI episode.   Groceries needed purchased.  I needed another big breakfast for day two of the taper and we were out of eggs.   Too tired to don mascara or any form of makeup, I threw on a giant pair of sweats (to hide my water-retaining sea-cow legs that were gushing and swaying with every step) and decided to drive to the very expensive small town grocery store down the street instead of making the journey into town for less expensive, more publicly humiliating options.  The hubby, who likely was just hoping for an hour’s worth of peace, tried his hardest to assuage my worries about my appearance as I walked out the door.

Just the day before, the man had called me “Uncle Fester” when I walked in from work.  Apparently, I looked like a ghoul – white faced, with nasty black circles under my eyes, barely visible though due to the swelled cheeks that filled in to my nose.  As I prepared to fly to the grocery store, he compared me to a famous movie star, shopping without makeup and purposefully dressing down trying to hide her glamour and beauty behind her giant Foster Grants.  At least he thought I bought the compliment, but I knew exactly how bad I looked.  Who can’t find the energy to dry her hair and apply some lipstick, but has so much energy she just has to go grocery shopping while not being able to stand up straight?

Sixteen-and-a-half minutes and $150 later, the shopping was done.  Turbo shopping at its finest.  By the time I reached the check out, I knew my goose was cooked.  My back had seized up and my legs felt like an elephant’s.  In a way, I was relieved.  I just wanted the clock to wind down, to turn itself off.

The groceries unpacked, I lit a few candles, took Patrick’s advice from yesterday’s posting about quiet music, a good book, and a little tea, and curled up on the couch.  I’ve always been a quick reader.  I’ve been known to fly through a good Grisham on a single, Sunday afternoon without blinking an eye.  But yesterday evening, I broke all historic records, finishing a Nora Roberts in less than two-and-a-half hours.  I’m not sure I retained a word, but I think it was a good story.   Two different times during the day I made meals for myself.  My body was craving food wildly, but then didn’t want to welcome it in when the time came.  I washed the kitchen sink (a rarity) twice.   The entire time thinking how I was living deep in an asylum, all contained right inside my screwed up brain and body.

The hubby escaped for a few hours last evening, leaving Lab Oboe in charge of the prison. He patted the pup on his head, telling him to take good care of his Mama.  Then, ever so quietly, also gave the pup his permission to sit on me and smother me if I happened to manage to drift off at all during the evening. By 8 pm, while looking out the front window at the beautifully cut acres of land, my eye landed upon the seven yards of fresh mulch delivered onto our driveway earlier in the day.  For just a split second, I actually considered finding that hoodie again and wandering out in the dusk to lay mulch.  Then I giggled, realizing that I couldn’t do the “dip and drop, dip and drop” needed to shovel and smooth the mulch.  That would require both tummy twisting and knee bending – still not a viable option for the sea cow whose stomach doesn’t appear to be getting any better as the days wear on.  Instead, I gave in to the magic of Tylenol PM and made a huge dent cleaning out the stored up shows in the DVR.

The funny part?

Eleven days remain until parole.

Eleven more days of tapering. 

Eleven, very, long, days in the asylum.

God help us all.