|Thank you to Jeanne, Erica, Karen and Sri. Check your mailbox soon.|
If you'd like to listen, I recorded an episode with The Dirbag Diaries. Click here to listen to The Miracle of Darkness.
Now. On with the story.
Can I get a hallelujah? Because we're done with the Mepron. At least for the next two weeks. Actually, I haven't received the next treatment regiment, the one that comes after I complete the Lyme Biofilm and Babesia Protocol Part B, so perhaps we're not done forever. But for two weeks at least I don't have to swallow the Mepron and for that I'm happy.
Mepron is neon yellow and has an instant numbing effect on the mouth and throat, and because it's so foamy and buoyant it's difficult to get all the way down the tubes. It stains the measuring spoon, your fingernails and your teeth. I used to swallow it over the sink each morning, but it came back up so often that our sink and any dishes in the sink became splattered in what looked like thick yellow paint. Now I take it over the toilet. Swallow, throw it up, spit up out, swallow again, clamp my mouth shut, keep it down.
Thumbs up on whatever the Mepron was doing to my invaders, but I hated what it did to me. One odd side effect of the medication is that it makes it difficult to talk. I'm not sure how much of this was Lyme and how much was the medicine, but for the last few weeks I've stuttered, lost my thought mid-sentence, got caught up on my S sounds ("Dinner tonight? That ssssssssssssssssounds like fun") and my T sounds ("I've been having a little T--------------t----t-ttttttttt-trouble T---------t-----t-tttttalking lately.") It's been sssssssssort of tttttttttttroubling.
I'm telling you. Lyme Disease is no joke.
A friend of mine who lives in Africa gave me some gentle advice about the Coartem. "Try not to lie down after you take them, because they can get really lodged in your throat." She said. And then, carefully, as if it were a casual aside: "They also have been known to bring on a little fever."
Seeing how it was the early evening in late spring, it was very bright out, and I still haven't gotten around to putting up curtains in my room. I lifted the dog into bed and crawled in next to her. What is my job? I was freezing, so I got up one more time to close all the windows, then fell back in bed, dug myself a spot beneath the flannel covered down comforter. Keep taking breaths. I remember one final thought before I tumbled into a thick sleep swimming with strange creatures- "What is my job? My job is-"
David came home a little after 10 and found me burning up in my bed, slick with sweat and smothered in blankets. I woke up just briefly as he threw open the windows and yanked the comforters off of me. The dog startled and rolled over onto her back. The next part I either dreamed or it really happened- Dave was sitting next to me with a bucket and a blue cloth, wiping my forehead and murmuring, "It's okay sweetheart, fevers are how our bodies kill the bad things." To which I replied, or I think I replied, "I never get fevers."
My friend Steph called me the other day. Stephanie, who has been through her own 16 month long journey to hell and back. "Is this real?" She asked. "Is this actually happening? I keep wanting to believe this is just some dramatic story you're telling."
I think it's real, Steph. Although I'm just catching up to that fact. I think I've been in denial for a long time about this situation, how serious it is, how long it might last.
What is my job?
What is my job?
Join me on Instagram: @thewildercoast & @theglowery
If you're interested in helping me get better, here is how, here is why, and here is how I'm going to say thank you.