Though my body and spirit might say otherwise, vital signs have confirmed that I haven't died. I feel worse than a corpse, but the coroner assures me that he is unable to sign a death certificate while arguing with the dearly not departed about it.

If I haven't been melodramatic enough, I feel like poo. Not just regular poo, but poo that had been stepped on by a 500lb man wearing cowboy boots that is trying to scrape it off on a curb.

I finally got approved for the picc line a week and a half ago. I went in, got the procedure done, and had to drive a block over to get an x-ray to confirm the foot of tubing is in the right spot. Finally, I thought, things are going my way. Then I got back in my car to get my first iv treatment and somehow the tape from the picc line got stuck on the seat or center console and I proceeded to promptly pull said picc line halfway out. RN was not happy, but what I had was usable for the time being. It lasted me until sunday, when a wayward paper decided to come between my arm and the dangling picc line (the part that remained outside of me from Monday's fiasco).

Swell.

Then insurance wouldn't cover a replacement picc line.

Then the place wouldn't let me pay out of pocket because I was paying by insurance.

That's when I was really glad I didn't have a gun.

Thankfully, the RN, a real nice guy, used me as a teaching tool and I got a picc line off the books (the government will take 15 % of my arm during taxes).

Now, the medicine makes me tired. Really tired. Like the reason I thought I was dead was because corpses appear more lively. I'm supposed to be on bed rest. But, you already know I'm not. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor pulling out picc lines, nor puking up meals from a century ago shall keep this paper girl from haphazardly flinging a paper in the general direction of your driveway while muttering curses that she hopes last sever generations.

Did I mention puking? Glorious. This is the "you don't have time to make it to the potty" kind either. Where ever I am, I hope I have a canister or a lawn or a parking lot. I can't eat anything spicy, it seems, or vinegar based. No pickles or sub dressing or sausage egg mcmuffins. I'm down to crackers.

Now, onto the job. Since my foot still is hobbit sized and not getting any better, i have to be on iv antibiotics 24/7. Not really true. I get a second IV every 8 hours and I have to show up to the place that put in the picc line for something else. Real powerful stuff. The name is probably kilital or something like that. I don't know if it's designed to get rid of the infection or the patient, but it's doing its best at both. Anyway. I walk around with an IV pump in a bag and the IV in my arm. I explained to my boss that I probably should resign because I can't do the job. He told me to put in my 30 day notice (done). I told him I can't get the papers to my car. He said he would get me help, but it hasn't happened in a week and a half. I also told him I can't do the 8 apartments I have. He said he can't help there to have Felix do it. Felix goes to work at 4am I can't. Oh well. I get to puke in apartment walkways. Next week is my last week there.

For now, I am struggling. I can't write, I can't even think straight. I ask for prayers and well wishes or a good recipe for hemlock for those who simply can't stomach me (which I know are many).

Be good to yourselves, and don't step on rusty old nails.