the traveling Crohn

The adventure, three days in, has already been packed with thrills, chills and hospital billz [yo].  On a mild Sunday evening in the Bay Area, I find myself with a moment to reflect on the first phase of this great adventure.

The back story is very important here.  I have never lived more than 1 hour away from my childhood home, in which 20 nigh consecutive years of my life were spent.  When I went to college, I was an hour south.  When I went to work, I was half an hour north.  Although I have traveled some, I have never done the "big move"; and the "big move" includes a three-bdrm apartment of stuff that I didn't have before getting married last year.  With that in mind, let us begin.

I had planned for Wednesday the 27th to by my final full day at work, giving me a little buffer room to wrap up final minutiae.  Come Monday evening, and after accepting that the newly deposited moving POD is probably too small for what we need, I receive word that someone very dear has been addicted to narcotics for the past three years and is now ready to seek support in deciding the next steps toward recovery.  As if I weren't stressed enough -- if you ask H.K., "freaking out" would be his word choice -- this was pretty much icing on the cake.  Or fondant, if we're going for the full-blanket "heavy and surprisingly not good" analogy, and I am.

Tuesday morning during a short tea with Boss Man, I announce that I will be finishing up everything today and that I will be leaving early to be able to devote some time to Loved NA before I disappear.  Emotions abound during good byes and I flee the lab and go directly to Loved NA's abode.  It is pertinent, here, that I have not eaten much/well in several days because nausea and evening Crohn's attacks have become frequent and increasingly more painful.  This made the evening spent with Loved NA et al much less fun than it could have been.  However, it was a productive evening and I was sure that I could leave knowing that Loved NA was in good hands and of good-ish mind.

H.K. has already spent Tuesday packing up his small business into the POD, and Wednesday morning brings my involvement.  We get the thing a bit less than halfway packed before retiring.  I spend the night in and out of the Thunder Dome (ya like that?).  Thursday morning is blur of half-consciousness and sore limbs (does it come as a surprise to anyone that I'm totally out of shape but still lifting boxes and furniture twice my size? no.).  Loved NA is over helping a bit while kept a close but friendly eye on.  My mother has come as well with a repeated strain injury in her wrist and still clambering to help so I am delegating her to very small items.  Bless their hearts, delegating is the last thing on this earth that I want to be doing.

Wednesday evening, happiness arrives in the form of Minister Man (*totally unaffiliated best bud who kindly got ordained solely to hitch H.K. and I).  At this point, my diet of saltines, broth and beans has rendered me Throughputless, and I indulge in salmon and rice.  Then, I die.  The next morning, H.K. and Minister Man take over the heavy lifting as my body is near useless.  Mid-morning, I get a call from Loved NA, whose "watcher" has been called away and who is in need of a safe place.  I drop what I'm doing (which in honesty is not much), and leave the boys with the packing burden for the next hour, the poor things**.

Eventually on Thursday evening, our lives sans the trash and recycling bins and a dragon flower plant are packed, the apartment is in better condition than we received it despite the gaping cement hole and Frankinsteinian counter in our kitchen.  Without the extensive help of Minister Man, my mother, my sister and Loved NA... there is no way in the world that this could have been accomplished in two days.  No friggin way.  H.K. and I spend the night at my parents, where I [again] indulge in foods which encourage peristalsis, and [again] spend the evening with the Thunder Pot in more excruciating pain than I have been in over two years.

Had we not planned on leaving at 330am the next morning, I would have woken H.K. and fled to the ER for morphine salvation.  Instead, and without any form of painkiller, I endured.  Because I am an idiot.  And then got up at 330am.  Because I am an idiot.  You betcha.

H.K. was kind enough to do the majority of the driving to the Bay Area (a 12 hr trek).  We arrived with ample time to greet and have dinner with his family, after which we made for the ER where I was plugged into saline and chugged a gallon of CT scan contrast (in apple juice, which I have never had but was surprisingly effective).  Four hours later, I had peed I'm pretty sure at least 20 times, was given a "negative" CT scan and prescribed oxycodone and a very acute steroid dose.  Come again?  Acute steroids and no inflammation?  Sorry bud, not going there.  The oxycodone will do me just fine until I get down to New Home Base and find a new Dr. GI with whom to discuss an actual treatment plan.

The weekend has been lovely so far, with morning swims in the heated outdoor pool directly on the Bay, breezy walks on the Bayside promenade, coffee to encourage the Throughput and relaxing games, all less than 10 min from the nearest Thunder Dome.  I'm starting to return to functional status.  H.K. is loving this mini-vacay.  Neither one of us are yet dreading next weekend when we drive down to L.A. to meet our moving POD.

** lest I have over-sold my impotency, please know that in reality I did a ton of work for this move.  just... the heavy lifting paled in comparison to H.K. and Minister Man.