I am really feeling SO much better. It’s funny how you don’t realize exactly how fond you are of oxygen—and the partaking of it with unencumbered lungs!—until that part of your life is a bit hampered. It’s been a long time since my asthma got aggravated like that, and I’d forgotten that the so-tired-and-achy feeling I was having often signals an inability to breathe. So. Definitely enjoying taking deep breaths, again, and trying to finish recovering from this stupid cold/allergy thing.
HOWEVER. Oh, steroids. How you eat into the gunk in my lungs! And then on into my brain! I’m sure there’s a perfectly valid scientific explanation for why Prednisone makes it hard to sleep, but I neither know nor care what it is. All I know is that I am awake and I must GO and MOVE and DO and be extremely cranky about it.
This, of course, means I am really a joy to be around. What with the BUSY and the CRANKY and the SLEEPY and the enhanced NEUROTIC from the convergence of all these things. Prednisone’s tagline should be: “You, only TOTALLY MORE ANNOYING.”
First there was the vacuuming. I would love to tell you that I’m a super-vigilant housekeeper, but that would be a total lie. I don’t know how often I vacuum, normally. And it’s very, very rare for me to do the entire house. Generally I will do the downstairs one week and the upstairs the next, maybe; or I’ll do the bare floors one week and the carpets the next. Or I’ll just vacuum my office after Licorice destroys a toy in there. (Yes, my decorating style could most often be described as “Eclectic Toy Detritus.” It’s all the rage in Paris.) Or I won’t vacuum anything until the cobwebs are really thick. Whatever.
Well. We were due for a good vacuuming. Plus my mother-in-law is coming to visit this week (for the first time ever!), so it seems like a good time to pretend we normally keep the house clean. PLUS who doesn’t want to spend hours vacuuming after a long night of tossing, turning, and staring at the clock? EXACTLY! Yesterday I vacuumed the HECK out of this house. I sure did. Woo! I went everywhere. I used crevice tools! I traumatized the dog! And when it was all done, I collapsed in an exhausted heap.
Ten minutes later a child walked from one end of the house to the other in a pair of mud-crusted shoes. Suffice it to say that the shoes were nice and clean by the time said child finally made it outside. Also suffice it to say that as I didn’t beat anyone to death with the vacuum, I am awesome. Ahem.
So I vacuumed some more, after that.
I did many many loads of laundry. I meal-planned and prepped and dusted and tidied and FILED. (I never file. My desk is where paperwork goes to die.)
I played with the dog up until 10:00 last night, at which point we had to pick up her dishes and not allow her to have any more food or water in preparation for her teeth cleaning today. See, if you’re having company, there are a few basic things you need to do. You need to vacuum the cobwebs, plan to have enough food, and make sure that your adorable family pet is not only totally lovable but also doesn’t have breath that smells like rotting cheese. I am nothing if not an incredibly thoughtful hostess, you know.
Now, it had been a productive weekend. The house is clean. Cleanish. Cleaner than usual. I got some stuff done. I’m breathing well. Heck, I ever got to have that trip to Target. By all accounts, I’m on top of the world!
And I was. Right up until I had to pick up the dog’s dishes and I collapsed into a fit of OH MAH PRESHUS BABY DOGGIE IS HAVING SURGERY WHAT IF SHE DIEEEEEEEEEEES.
That loud smack you heard last night was me hitting the wall of the Prednisone lack of sleep, I think.
There is no reason to believe that Licorice will not only be perfectly fine, but will return home this afternoon sweet-smelling and exuberant to be back with us. But on very little sleep I found myself whimpering that HER BREATH IS REALLY NOT ALL THAT NASTY IF YOU DON’T BREATHE IT DIRECTLY and I WILL BUY HER SOME MORE DOGGIE MOUTHWASH. And then after a good night’s sleep (translation: another night of staring at the clock, sleeping in half-hour fits and bursts, and generally examining the ceiling in detail), this morning she was all WHERE’S MY BREAKFAST, BITCHES?? and I got upset all over again.
Because how do you explain to a dog that really, withholding food and taking her to the vet and leaving her with strangers is for her own good? (Hint: Whispering, “DON’T YOU DARE DIE TODAY” into her furry little ears is probably not all that helpful. Not that it stopped me.) When I walked out of the vet’s office this morning she was doing that pitiful cartoon-scrabble of her paws on the linoleum, trying to follow me, but foiled by the leash and the slippery floor.
But everything is going to be fine. I took my last dose of Prednisone this morning and someday soon I am planning on sleeping again. Licorice will come home this afternoon and her breath will smell like minty newborn kittens and she will not be too mad at me. I hope. And all children will be forbidden from wearing shoes in the house. Hallelujah and amen.