Horrid Night in Miss Mills

What does 21.5 hours of awake time do to someone??????

Causes a relapse of withdrawal symptoms, apparently.

It certainly wasn't by design that I had been awake for 21.5 hours, really it wasn't.

You see, as I recorded here yesterday, I had become frustrated with awakening every hour on Thursday night so when I got up at midnight that night, I stayed up for what I thought might be a few hours before going back to bed.

I posted on this blog at 1:00am Friday, and then I watched some canned television until 3:00am and started getting heavy eyed again.

Another headache was developing too, so I took a couple of Tylenol #1.

So I headed off to bed.

But sleep just wouldn't happen.

So at 4:30am, I gave up trying and got up for the day (that's not an unusual time for me to start my days anyway).

It was my expectation that at some point late morning, I'd be able to have a nap of some duration (hell, surely I would need a nap by mid morning.)

Yeh, guess again.

My boys were playing ball at 8:00pm (first Exhibition Game to be aired -- the second to last game before the season opens on Monday!) and I really wanted to see the new team in action on my new big screen TV.  If I didn't nap at some point, there wasn't much chance of my still being awake to even see first pitch!

John was banished from the house for two hours so I could indulge myself without torturing him with the music of Jesus Christ Superstar (and oh, it was fabulously enjoyable -- on the big screen tv, playing at a volume to be heard in the next county, I sang my lungs out!).

You'd think that would have been enough to wear me out, but oh no!

I still wasn't able to go to sleep when I finally stopped.

And stop I did because physically, I had nothing left.

Remember, I'm still trying to recover from my lost month of March and it's going to be a long, slow recovery, so I'm told.  The spirit is willing, but the body is weak.

One of the best ways to put me to sleep has always been to sit me in front of the television.

So, I again put on one of my canned shows and my eyes got heavy, but sleep just wouldn't happen.

Later, when John was cleaning the deck (on April 2nd, no less -- can you believe it?) I even went out there and assisted with the physical labour (albeit limited participation because, again, I'm in recovery mode so I have to pace myself).

And still sleep would not come (John made dinner and hoped that I would at least "nap" while waiting --hah!).  I was sure I'd fall asleep in my soup because I was by then soooooooo tired, my eyelids were like lead.

I don't know whose energy I was using by that point, but it surely could not have been mine.

Well, I did end up making it to see the first pitch of my beloved Blue Jays' Exhibition Game.

Saw several pitches after that too.

Made it through to the third inning.

And finally, I crashed.

So I went to bed at 9:30pm last night.

And woke at 10:10pm.

And again at 10:40pm.

And again at 11:45pm.

That's when I woke with an urgent need for the bathroom.

Where I stayed for a half hour.

When John came looking for me.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"No, I'm not," I almost cried. (That's not what he's used to hearing when he asks that question.)

He cautiously opened the door (I can imagine what he was fearing he would find) to see me bracing myself against the counter, probably white as a sheet.

"Do you have the trots again?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, "four times in the past 20 minutes!"

He helped me back to bed, and I crawled under the covers and the shivers started again (I was drenched in sweat because the room was hot as hell, but that didn't matter to my body!).

And then the waves of nausea started.

"I'm going to be sick," I whimpered. "When the hell is this ever going to stop?"

I knew this had to be happening as a result of my having been awake for 21.5 hours straight -- it didn't matter that I had been "going slowly" physically, and "taking it easy" to rest and recover.  Staying awake for such a long period of time takes a toll on one's body (and it certainly is not recommended for a fibromyalgic).

John got up again and fetched me a Gravol.

And again later to get me a Ginger Ale.

Eventually the Gravol kicked in and the nausea stopped.

And sleep finally came again, at about 2:00am.

But I continued to wake every hour and a quarter (I've taken to keeping a written record of my wake-ups).

So at 5:45am, I rose for the day.

I can't say that I feel especially rested this morning.

But I do feel like I'm back in the land of the living.

Again.
No nausea; and my gut has settled right down.
Today will be yet another day of rest and recovery.

As will tomorrow, and the day after that.

And the day after that, too.

Because on Wednesday, I plan to drive myself into Ottawa for my physio appointment -- it will be my first foray into the city on my own since this nightmare started.

I have a sleep-over booked at my little chickadee's place that night.

I haven't seen my beautiful boy in a month, and we have a breakfast date on the morning of Thursday, April 8th, before he goes to school and I head off for my doctor's appointment (man, is that going to be a doozy of a discussion!).

And there ain't nothing going to interfere with my Wednesday/Thursday booking this time, my Little Chickadee!  No way, no how.