Hurts.

I apologize in advance for what I am about to share with you. For those who know me well, know that I harbor little personal discretion when it comes to the sordid details of my life. So, really, it should come with no surprise when I tell you that I have spent the last 72 hours of my life on the shitter.

I woke up Sunday morning, groggy from the previous day's 13-hour trek home from Tennessee, lamenting over the idea of returning to work, and carefully planning my last day of freedom when the pain struck. Like a semi-truck losing control and careening into my abdomen with the speed of a sleeping driver behind the wheel I was HIT. Doubled in pain, I made it far enough to the closest toilet where I began a lengthy relationship with my porcelain companion.

And that relationship continued throughout the day and extended into the next morning when I realized that my vacation would be lengthened by one day- provided I continue to pay tribute to the toilet. At first it seemed like a pretty sweet compromise. Sure, I have some stomach pain to deal with, but look at that-a legitimate reason to miss going back to work. However, after a few hours spent with my body wrenched into positions thought only to be achieved by prepubescent Chinese gymnasts, I changed my mind.

It fucking hurt.

So I tried to ignore the internal battle that was brewing in my lower abdomen. I cuddled up to my laptop and switched on the Lifetime Movie Network. There I lay for the next 7 hours in a near comatose state- interrupted only by my frequent runs to the bathroom.

I was miserable, and on day TWO of not having any substantial food in my body. I was starting to show it. I was weak and pale and stalked through my house like a member of the un-dead.

Day THREE proved to be little better than the previous days. I forced myself to return to work. The pile of trash that awaited me there was daunting and I knew that the longer I left the work to accumulate, the less likely I would be to actually try and tackle it.

I'm a sweeper. The more work I can carelessly brush to the side, the happier I am. Unfortunately, this does not bode well in the corporate world.

But I couldn't return to work in my current state. I could hardly unfurl myself long enough to mix my Carnation Instant Breakfast, how would I remain in an upright position at my desk for 8 hours? My answer lie in a small blue tablet that was half the size of my pinkie fingernail. Salvation, I thought as I ingested the tablet. Less than an hour later I was back flipping my way through the office, a new woman.

Where was the pain? Gone!
The cramps? Finito!
The chuckles*? Not for this girl!

I was made anew.
And that last for all of about...eh, 30 minutes.

And once again I was doubled in pain. Take a 20oz bottle of soda. Shake it as hard as you can upside down. Release the cap and then try to cork that.

Welcome to my life.

So I suffered through the work day and came home to collapse on my couch, vowing that I would spend the next day with a medical professional.

And here is that day. Day FOUR. I'm at work- once more, because I can't get in to see my doctor until 4:50 pm and I couldn't justify using all of those hard accumulated PTO hours to sob another day on my couch.

Especially when I can sob here, and be paid for it.

*There are certain words even I cannot tolerate. And diarrhea is one of them. I gag as I type this even. Ew, sorry.