Depends on who you were backing.
The day started out in a drugged fog from using the medication properly to help me sleep from the evening before. 1mg Lorazepam at 10:00 p.m.
11:00 p.m. still awake. Watching TV and twisting and turning. My legs were kicking as if I were running a race. Now, there is little different between this and any other night. But, this night is different from any other night. How is this night different than any other night?
Because, I am exhausted from not sleeping for three nights now. I have become incredibly weepy. I turn around and tears are flowing hot down each of the outer sides of my tired eyes. My stomach is playing havoc with me. Well, my stomach and intestines.
I have stomach cramps like one gets with intestinal flu. I do not have the intestinal flu. I do however, have the intestinal cramps that make you ONE HUNDRED PERCENT CERTAIN I have to poop. Except, I don’t have to poop 99.9% of the time. I just don’t know which is the singular time out of that 100% that I need to actually evacuate. In order to cover all bases (meaning: Not covering myself with shit) I run to the bathroom every twenty minutes, or less. I sit, my bottom hurts. I press down because, some autonomic response tells me to. So, I press down on my gut hoping that something tangible actually appears or slithers smoothly out of the out-spout that is about as rough as leather that needed to be oiled six months before it spent the past six months in the bright son on the ground in Las Vegas.
Damn. Nothing is there. Liar. Not nothing. A tiny little fart. Then, why am I still bearing down as if there is something behind it waiting to be allowed down a welcoming opening being waved through to see the light.
Even though it was nothing more than a fart I still must wipe my already angry skin from the last angry non-extrusion. Yet, I have BagBalm at the side of my toilet. What I hadn’t realized until my skin became so much thinner and crinklier is that there is mentholatum and citric acid in this mixture meant to soothe broken skin.
Someone must have forgotten to tell BagBalm people that the entire definition of Balm is meant to soothe, comfort, and if at all possible, begin repair of damaged skin. And that mentholatum and citric A C I D do exactly the OPPOSITE to tender skin.
Now it is about an hour later than the last time I wanted to be asleep. It is still that same hour past when I took the second 1mg Lorazepam to help me sleep. I did btw, take the medicine I was prescribed to stop the intestinal dispute. Which, had not yet, had enough time to work.
SO, I take the THIRD 1mg Lorazepam praying it will knock me out before I even reach the edge of my bed.
In thirty minutes my frustration level is so high I get up, growling at no one in particular, but, growling just the same. I stumble (apparently some of the Lorazepam was starting to impact my system. Either that or I was just so damn tired I would have stumbled using a walker.) I take number FOUR 1mg Lorazepam.
I go back to bed and lay on my side. My other side. My back. My side to side to back and finally I no longer give a shit what position I am laying in.I wake up looking at the time on my ceiling not exactly understanding why it means something. Yet, it does mean something. I get the sense it means I need to get up and not allow my eyes to close again. HOLY SHIT! I am LATE. I did not hear the alarm. The clock is quietly telling me that I should have been up thirty minutes ago. By this time I should have been out walking the dog already. I get up and stumble. Shit. Now, when I need to be awake all I want is to be gently supported again in my bed with one foot out from under the sheet and my CPAP keeping me breathing back into sleep. STOP!!! GET UP!!!! GET UP!!!! GET THE FUCK UP!!!!! NOW!!!!
God damn it. My friend is picking me up to drive me to my daily radiation appointment. I have to be on time. I am late. I shower and dress in a hurry I didn’t think I was capable of considering I nearly stumbled getting into the shower. My foot didn’t quite get pulled up high enough to clear the side of the tub. I do not take baths. I wish my shower were a walk-in. But, it is not. It is a stumble into over the tall wall of the bath I will never take shower. I am mumbling to myself.
Keep going. Medicine for dog. Get her out so she can poop. Not that I can but, I hurry the dog up because, aw crap my friend just drove up. “Go poop. Hurry up. Go poopy.” I urge her. Fortunately, she needed to go as bad as I but, she has the goods to back it up. I get her back into the house, lock the door, grab my purse, and ditty bag (thank you god). Slam my ass down in her car and start to mutter about the circumstances. She is so good-hearted she laughs and tells me it will be ok.
We get to the oncology center on time. I somewhat unsteadily lead her downstairs show her the coffee, water, and magazines near the comfy chairs. Then, I sign in and head back to the “Patient Waiting Room”. Patient, my ass. I am impatient. I am tired. I have crampy intestines and a sore ass. I am in an unhappy mood without much patienCe in it.
I get called back. Yipee. It’s my turn to lay on the table and assume the “reproducible” position. I close my eyes. “Find your happy place. Find you happy place, Where the hell is my happy place again?” I think I start to snooze. I think this because I recall jumping awake at the sound of my own snores. Apparently, not enough of a movement to disrupt my position. So, back to snooze. When they are done with me I need two people to help me sit up. Even then, I am pretty unstable. My bottom is on the table yet, I am unstable. Ah, the Lorazepam is working. TOO FREAKING LATE!
We do determine that it is best from now on that I start taking the Lorazepam earlier in the evening to give it time to overcome my system. Ok.
The staff realize I am in an unusual state and lead me to a very comfy chair while still covered with the warm blanket/sheet they use to keep my legs warm. I just sort of sink into the chair. One of them is getting the wheelchair. I am too unsteady to walk. Shit. I walked into the place. Why am I not able to walkout of the place? Lorazepam.
My friend gets her car and I am rolled right up to it. I keep the blanket. It feels good. She cannot take me right home. No problem. I can sleep in the car while she does her thing. Works for both of us. Clearly, I don’t care where I sleep only that I sleep, at last.
She goes her way and I goto sleep. I have no idea how long I was asleep. I only know I wake up because I have to pee. REALLY pee. Like in a hurry. I see two grounds keepers up the hill to my left. I hurry up to ask them if they can let me into the closer of the two buildings to use the bathroom. “No. It’s locked.” I ask, “Do you know where there is a restroom I can use nearby?” “That building at the bottom of the driveway should be open.” Great. Now, I have to try to keep my bladder in check while I hurry down a steep driveway to a building I have never before been to. I get about to the car when I realize I can stop now. I no longer need the bathroom.
I no longer need the bathroom because, I can feel two comfortably warm rivulets running from under my jean shorts down inside my socks and into my shoes. I am not actually worried if anyone can see me. The two groundskeepers up the way are busy doing their thing and there is no one else in sight.
Suddenly, the sprinklers come on to water the large grassy area abutting the driveway. Oh well. Like a child I decided my best option is to step into the sprinkler. I am letting the sprinkler hit me crotch height to wash my jeans and legs and socks, and shoes clean. I have to keep moving front to back and back to forward. The sprinklers are gaining height and power as they continue to build pressure. My shirt gets wet. And I yelp. I hadn’t realized the water was so cold.
Finally, I feel like I am washed clean. Soaking wet. But, clean. I have to change clothes. Stumbling or not I need my Ditty Bag. Thank god for my Ditty Bag. Standing inside the open car door with the blanket wrapped around be tied at my neck so I have both hands free I pull off my shorts and underwear and socks an shoes. I have done this kind of quick change many a time at a beach or pool when there was not enough places or time to change into or out of a swimsuit. My blanket becomes a towel. I dig into the Ditty Bag and find a sealed plastic bag with three sets of adult underwear. I only need one. I pull that one out and reseal the bag. I dig around to find a clean pair of shorts and find them. No socks. Never occurred to me I might need a clean pair of socks. Next time. Ok. So, I pull on the adult diaper under the blanket half hidden by the car door in a fleet parking lot of a college on summer break. No one to see me. I pull on my dry shorts. I fold the blanket and place it on top of my ditty bag. I pull out the large black trash bag I have for just such purposes and shove all my we clothes into it. I keep on my wet shoes. No extra pair of these either.
Once I am back into shape and my bag back in order I realize I should still find a bathroom. The back side is calling and I do not have a second change of clothes.
Luckily, the building at the bottom of the parking lot is open. And they have a bathroom they are generous enough to let me use.
Now, I must say that it was a hot day. So, I wore a bright pink paisley pattern on white background camisole with dark pink straps. The clean, dry pants from the ditty bag were more like jammy pants. Comfy and soft. Hot orange with white pineapples all over. I may be dry and fully taken care of but, I look like I got dressed while I was high.
Blame the Lorazapam. I do.