I have been bed-ridden for the past three days with terrible nausea. I made it to the doctor's office yesterday, where I was diagnosed with a gastrointestinal virus. The doctor prescribed anti-nausea medication, which has been somewhat effective. As I type this, I am not actually nauseated, which is really quite an improvement. What I am, however, is desperate.
I have not, to the best of my memory, every felt as truly desperate as I have during this illness. The aftermath of being struck by a car and nearly crippled in 2006 did not induce such feelings of despair as this persistent nausea has. I cannot imagine how I could tolerate the chronic nausea that accompanies chemotherapy.
Despite the fact that my nausea is now mitigated, I am left wondering just how one is supposed to survive this life we are given without being driven to madness. If nausea can induce such feelings of despair in me, I wonder if I can live with the ailments that will accompany my old age.
I can produce witnesses that would vouch for my resilience during the long period of recovery that followed my accident in 2006. I never felt as if I wouldn't walk normally again, despite the doubts of my doctor. Yet here I am, laid low by a virus and left wondering what the point of life is. I must admit that the disintegration of my marriage over the past year-and-a-half, and the illness and death of my mother that preceded the end of my marriage, and my accident and recovery prior to that are probably all contributing to my current despair.
I have been battered over the past few years and despite the fact that I am loved and valued by many people, I am at a loss to understand why I have suffered so. And I am cognizant of the fact that millions of people suffer much worse that I have.
I fear I will never recover from what the past few years have dealt me. What is the point of all this pain?
That is what three days of nausea has brought me to.