Tuesday, I had an appointment with my neurologist. She entered the exam room, in which I'd turned off all the lights, still had on my sunglasses, and I was curled up in the fetal position on the exam table.
I am never on the exam table when she comes in, nor do I wear my sunglasses or turn the lights out. She pointed to the darkened ceiling, and said, "I don't like what I see, here."
After about five minutes, she informed me that I was going to hate her, but she was hospitalizing me for my migraines.
I definitely didn't hate her for that. Yet. But I knew that I needed something other than the "wait and see" approach we'd been taking.
Four hours later - after 3 hours in the emergency room - I was in a hospital room, and my mom was on her way to pick up my schtuff from her house. I'd just missed dinner at the hospital, so I had Chik-Fil-A for my first hospital meal.
I was in the hospital all day Wednesday, and spent most of the time reading a novel by Henning Mankell called "The White Lioness." I recommend it, by the way. It's a novel thriller mystery type thing, so obviously, it was purloined from my mom's collection.
Wednesday night was pretty hellish, though. I couldn't sleep, so the nurse had to give me a super-sedative, and I only fell asleep after 5:00 a.m.
But my migraines had stopped, and I was doing much better, I thought. So did my neurologist, who announced Thursday afternoon that I could go home. Three hours later - yes, three - I finally left the hospital for my parents' abode, and here I am.
Once home, I discovered that my brain isn't working, properly. I've been loaded up with demerol, Atavan, and gobs of migraine drugs and steroids for the past 48 hours, and they're all working their way out of my system, now. So I can't concentrate on reading, writing, or even scratching the dog (whose back leg starts shaking, threatening to topple him over).
So I'm blogging. Blogging under the influence.
Hope the internet police don't pull me over for this one.