Man oh man, steroids are a mixed bag for sure. Last night I almost threw my iPad because I couldn't get Grey's Anatomy to download and Middle Child was pissing me off making a production of sweeping the hallway and singing loud and off key, and Hotter and Big Child were butting heads, and I wanted to eat EVERYTHING but my stomach hurt. Today I'm finally coughing up the chestful of pollen and city exhaust fumes and other nonsense that's been weighing me down and making me sweaty and tearful and short of breath. It's super-gross, and I know you all wanted to know. It's such a relief though, because as I clear it out my lungs are able to work again, and take deep breaths that relieve the awful feeling of air hunger, and it gives me hope that this was just a little hiccup, a thing that happens to people sometimes, and not The Beginning of The End. Because I'm not getting any younger, and had quietly worked myself into quite a funk. It's not lost on me that my next birthday brings me to my primary diagnosis' Median Survival Age. I don't feel anywhere near done (especially now that I can breathe again--I think low spO2, like low blood sugar, makes one overly pessimistic and prone to histrionics), and am trying not to get hung up on the number, because math can kiss my ass in general, and I've always been an outlier, and medical science produces new miracles every day. I think I'm going to try to see it not as living on borrowed time but rather as one more reason to be mindful of every day being a gift.
Which isn't to say I won't cry and drop the f-bomb at work tonight over something stupid like dropping a fork or a coworker being snippy, because Prednisone. But I'll also try to see the humor, and be kind to myself and those around me, because we're all human, and I know nothing of others' battles.