Evergreen State of self-pity

Surgery this round has kicked my ass.

Good gods I cannot believe how much of me has been removed until I gingerly inspect the highway of sutures left behind and the firm, aching tissue that groans at me like an  infection but thankfully is just hateful fluid build-up. I gained a fever and a MRSA sore on my leg that brought me  back to the hospital for a good four or five days just 36 hours after my initial discharge. I spent Memorial Day Weekend in an inexplicable cold sweat, no fever but a grumpy stomach and a complete inability to sleep. My dear mother had to convince me I was not dying. I know it sounds stupid dramatic, but the drenching sweat, the queasy chemical feeling from my many antibiotics and painkillers, and the insomnia delirium convinced me that my clammy, shaking body would break down any moment.

I feel a bit better this evening; the sweating finally stopped and I managed to get calories down and hydration in. Still, I have been miserable in bed for maybe more than two weeks and I do not hardly recognize myself. My already toneless limbs are shaky and bony, my lungs and heart feel constricted and weak. I see spots when I amble about too long. My eyes are sunken, my face looks waxy and drawn, and even my mohawk looks pale pale and pathetic. My whole body feels ready to collapse in on itself; I'm trapped and mortified at my sobbing alone over the pathetic state I'm in. I feel sorry for myself.

I just want to be okay.