Struggling to Feel Better

After a good time in town today—where I had a nice lunch of Philly Cheese Steak at Core Brewing, followed by grocery shopping at Kroger and Sam’s Club—we came home and suddenly my energy just collapsed. I could barely get my clothes off and climb into bed before I fell asleep. But I didn’t stay asleep. Odd dreams, half awake and half asleep, coupled with weather radio warnings of impending cataclysmic atmospheric events, kept me from restful sleep. Even after my “nap” that lasted to few moments, I felt worn, beat, unable to cope with the world. But I finally got up. I prepped the pork ribs for tonight’s dinner, made barbeque sauce, and otherwise readied myself for making dinner. But I remained tired and weak. After a time, my wife emerged from watching recorded television programs and suggested we might want to wait for the pork ribs. Cheese and crackers and a  bit of hummus would suffice for the night, she suggested. And she was right.

Still, I’m beat. More so than the last few nights, when I’ve felt tired in the extreme. My doctor’s suggestion, via online reporting on my x-ray results, that I might have pneumonia, did nothing to boost my mood. In fact, perhaps I’m reacting to the idea rather than the reality of how I’m feeling. That would be a real pisser, wouldn’t it? Psychosomatic pneumonia. What an embarrassment. But my chest continues to feel out of sorts, my cough worsens (and then disappears for hours on end), and I feel like I am entering the early stages of a bad cold or the late stages of a terminal lung disease. I’m not in a mood I’d recommend to others.

I’m relatively sure I’ll be in bed tonight before 8:30 or, at the outside, by 9:00. That feels odd and otherworldly, too. Were I to speak in terms familiar to me in my youth, I would say I feel like shit. Though for the life of me, I cannot articulate just how shit feels. I know I would welcome a 48-hour stretch of restful sleep. Maybe that’s how shit does not feel. That is, sleeping without interruption for long periods. And waking to sensations of comfort.  I remember such sensations, though I was much younger then. Which reminds me: I fucking HATE arthritis and its attendant ills. Some days, I think downing dozens of fatal pills is preferable to coping with the nagging pain of arthritis. The pain isn’t awful at the moment, but I feel its capacity for agony just round the corner. Euthanasia should be legal. It should not only be legal but encouraged. People should not suffer through their final weeks or months on this planet. They should be allowed to exit gracefully and without pain. That’s my take on it. I feel pretty damn moral in my assessment, by the way.

Maybe I’m recovering from my doldrums and my physical maladies. Probably not, though.  I still feel a bit wrecked. Like I was in an auto accident that destroyed the car in which I was a passenger. And my medical records burned in the vehicle’s fire. So, my medical history doesn’t exist. My medical treatment relies entirely on my almost non-existent recollection of a life for which I have virtually no memory. This is depressing. What if they don’t find out, early enough, that I am diabetic? What if they don’t know, until after I’ve died, that my heart valves require regular electrical stimulation? What if? Nothing. Death isn’t an unusual outcome in intensive-care hospitals.

I’m done. I have much more to say, but my words would become repetitious and upsetting to anyone who were to keep reading.  Still, I’m sitting here wondering whether anything matters at this cusp of change in the universe. I guess I’ll know, or not, soon enough.

I’m trying to feel better, but so far the efforts have not paid off. That stinks, especially since I don’t feel bad. Or didn’t. My coughing these last few days has worsened, but I haven’t felt bad. Until today. Crap. I’d rather feel good and without a desire for locally-brewed beers than crappy and wishing for a nice, cold IPA. It’s after 8. Maybe I can try to sleep again. If no, maybe I can daydream.