I went to bed early.  The dogs were going all Sominex on me, laying on my legs and feet, and snoring and emitting some kind of crazy sleep-enhancing drugs from their unconscious pores, and who am I to resist the lure of Dog Sleep?

It’s powerful stuff, that Dog Sleep.  Resistance, futile, you know the drill.

I almost made it, too.

*  *  *

The past few days have been challenging in a whole lot of ways.  Rewarding.  Happy.  But challenging.

I know I talked a little about the evil infection of evil in my chest last week.  They gave me horse pills and told me to rest (hush, Minnie.), and after a few days, they said, the infection would go away.

A few days later, when my fever was 102 and climbing, they said that perhaps we just needed some heavier guns.  Gave me bigger antibiotics.  (Which were, ironically enough, smaller than the first ones in size.  Go figure.)

A couple days after that, when my fever broke through again, and I was exhausted, I went back to the office (to which, incidentally, I can now drive in my sleep), where they took a look, poked at the weird red places, pronounced it Not Good, and X-rayed me until I thought I might actually glow.

Turns out the infection isn’t just a staph infection.  It’s a streptococcus and staph infection.  Like, the Dastardly Duo of infectionworld.

And, even better, it had moved into my actual chest cavity, where it’d made a cyst-like mass near my left lung, which was, presumably, compromising my ability to process oxygen.  (Go figure.)  I’d noticed the Big Tired, but no shortness of breath or blueness of lips (which I would have totally taken as A BIG FAT SIGN, mind you), so I had no idea.  I knew that my chest hurt.  I knew that (avert your eyes now if you’re squeamish, by the way)…it was draining all ickylike.  But I didn’t think it was all that serious.  Kinda thought it was just part of getting better from the Big Evil Infection Of Doom, actually.

I’ll spare the goriest of the gory details.  But they sent me to a place with very big needles and a guy with very cold hands and a lot of lidocaine, who jabbed a Very Big Needle through my chest.  Drained a bunch of really disgusting stuff that was living on my body’s figurative couch, eating my food, and leaving dirty socks on the floor.  He essentially evicted a really bad roommate, with a giant needle and a “Oh, this might pinch a little.”

(Lie, by the way.  It did not pinch.  It felt like someone was stabbing me.  Which they were, really.)

I started feeling better pretty much right away, however.  Part of that might have been the drugs they injected in my hip after the fact.  I claim ignorance of the way the body works.

Either way, the new-found oxygen was fabulous today.  I had more energy today than I’ve had in at least a week, but didn’t know that I didn’t have.  (I knew the coffee wasn’t working.  Kinda thought I’d built up an immunity to Starbucks, actually.  But nope — was that whole not breathing right thing.  Go figure.  Who knew oxygen was good for you?)

*  *  *

I bought tickets to fly away at the end of this month.

I was trying to make it through until at least mid-April, but I couldn’t do it.

I’m strong.  I’m just not that strong.

*  *  *

The clock was ticking in time with my heart earlier.

I was laying in bed.  Early, like I mentioned.  And the clock next to me kept time with my heart, which is, despite being irradiated and drugged and infected and poked/prodded, still beating.  Thankfully.

For half an hour, I lay there, looking up at the godawful acoustic ceiling and trying to will my eyes to shut.  (I blame oxygen.)  The wind has been picking up all night, after what passes for a near-Spring day, and I just could not make the brain stop.

I’m surrounded with the most amazing people.  People so amazing, in fact, that I wonder what in the hell they need with the likes of me.

Sure, I can be amusing.  I bake a wicked pie.  I’m smarter than your average turnip.  But compared to some of these people I’ve been around lately, I’m like the dorky kid in every bad teenage movie from the ’80’s.  Flolloping along behind the hero/ine and acting as a combination of comic relief and confidante, until finally finding some equally-dorky cohort to ride off into the sunset with.

Or maybe we all feel that way, and inside, we’re all the dorky kid with a pocket protector, playing heroine in everyone else’s perception.

Some smart person said once that we’re all the hero of our own stories.  But I think she got it wrong.  I think that we may be heroes, but only in everyone else’s stories.  To ourselves, we’re just us:  bumbling along and making it up as we go.

*  *  *

I should sleep.  Or at least go stare at some more acoustic ceiling and listen to the rhythms of dogs-breath and clocks.

I just wanted to check in.  Tell you what was up.  Babble incoherent philosophy from the Land of Dorks ‘r’ Us.

Someday, I’ll have it all figured out.