The Evil Sludge Returns!

The infamous sludge has returned. Probably. Nobody knows what it was in the first place, so it’s rather difficult to know for sure if it’s returned. WebMd thinks it’s either a panic attack or tuberculosis. My mother/in-laws/random strangers insisted it was morning sickness. Ryan’s diagnosis was rheumatoid arthritis of the stomach. My doctor’s guess was either a spasming esophagus or feverblisters in my throat. (Yeah—I want that diagnosis sheet.)

But I still think it’s the sludge. And since no one else knows what it was, I’m right.

Because the sludge is evil. Only the sludge is capable of producing the situations I went through, like:

• going to the doctor because I couldn’t breathe, panting through a million medical tests, and winding up flat on my back surrounded by six nervous nurses after I failed at getting my blood drawn;
• listening to the Big Boss tell everyone at work that I’m “on the nest” because I’d forgotten to remove my band-aid after getting said blood drawn;
• having Ryan leave work mid-day to rescue a very feverish me from my nauseous hell-hole in my car in the work garage; and
• worst of all, going in for a simple strep test and getting awkwardly questioned by my doctor about my sex life…in front of my father (who had accompanied me to the doctor since I’d left my ability to drive in my work garage).

Ryan’s been super nice throughout the whole thing—he didn’t laugh at me when I couldn’t breathe properly, even though I sounded like a whiny Darth Vader; he went to the grocery store early in the morning and bought practically everything in the store I had a chance at keeping down; and he quite generously let me sleep, ignoring the fact that I was clearly on his side of the bed. He’s truly Husband of the Year.

At this point, I’m feeling better—I guess it was a quick-acting sludge this time. Regardless, I’m rooting that next time will be a regular, more run-of-the-mill sort of sickness.