It's eleven-twenty, and I have to be up at quarter of eight for work.

So I'm blogging. Seems logical, correct?

It isn't. But I can't stop coughing long enough to breathe, let alone sleep, and my best friend isn't answering my text, and I don't want to be a nuisance and call him. So instead I'll sit in bed, trying not to puke again, and be unaware of whether or not the tears running down my face are because I'm scared or because I'm coughing so hard I'm vomiting. Take your pick; either one isn't pleasant.

We are reaching the five year mark of my first diagnosis, and I find that my body is going through hospital withdrawals. How else will you explain the fact that I've been in the Jimmy Fund twice the past two weeks, and on the Pulmonary floor, as well? If you have any other explanations, please let me and the med school grads know, because they have no fucking idea, and it's pissing me off. Doctors have the tendency to want to ignore something if it's not there right at the moment they're looking for it. So when I'm meeting with the pulmonary team today, it's only sensible that they think because I'm a two time cancer survivor, we're blowing this out of proportion, and decide that the best course of treatment for this six-month long cough and puke-fest is a third course of antibiotic, because obviously it's just a really persistent strain of bronchitis. And, of course, the antibiotic is one I'm allergic to. Life's great.

But really, all the antibiotic means is that they have no idea what's wrong with me. Join the club. It was a toss up between the antibiotic and steroids, and while neither sound much fun, I'd rather not go up another pant size. I need to shed some poundage as it is. {Also, in case you were wondering, total puke count during this post - seven minutes so far, fyi - is three.}

I spent the past week worrying that what was making me cough was Graft V. Host Disease. If you don't know what that is, google it. I don't feel like freaking myself out again by going through it. We've pretty much ruled that out of the list of suspects with the CT scan from today, though apparently there were some pretty little dots by my liver that are cause for an ultrasound next time I'm in Boston. {Which, apparently, when/if the antibiotics don't work, will be within the next two to four weeks.} After this, they're going to rule out asthma with the steroids, which I can already tell it won't be. {Let me just also insert here that if this thing is fucking bronchitis, I am going to be incredibly pissed off.} And after it isn't asthma, well, then we get to go do the fun stuff. Bronchoscope's and lung biopsies, anyone? Because you know, since the docs assuaged my fears of GVHD, they had to bring in a new one. Also not very likely, but still a possibility, considering how my body likes to buck the odds. Leukemia in my lungs. Wouldn't THAT be fun? Now I get to freak out about that.

Okay. I have work in eight hours. I'm going to go make some tea, try to stop crying/coughing induced-crying, and go to sleep. {Puke tally - now four. Phone calls made - one. Phone calls answered - zero. Freaking out stage - past defcon five.}{edit: the phone call was returned because he's awesome.}