Slept half the night on Hubby's recliner, hoping that the seated position would help. Didn't. Woke up this morning, took an old antibiotic I found in my desk. Immediately regretted it as reckless self-medication.
Blood sugar normal, this morning, and I haven't gained any of the weight I've lost, but I still feel genuinely icky. Hubby all but insisted, before he left for work, that I go to an actual doctor and get fixed. Which I shall do, today, because I feel like death on toast. Really stale, soggy toast. Death is hating the itchy toast.
So Mom called today, wanting to know when we can come up for anniversary/birthday dinner. I suggested it might be a couple of weeks, because I still feel really sick and Hubby is also sick, now. But, to Mom, I SOUND better, over the phone.
I have to hook her up with all the people who see me in real life and tell me I need to get back in bed. Honest! I am sick. Not pretending, not weaseling out of dinner with my parents, just actually sick as a sick dog, and maybe slightly sicker than that.