Drugs are Fun Until They Eat Your Brains

On Thursday, I slipped on an icy patch and twisted my foot, tearing the ligaments on the lateral side of my right foot. No big deal--except that I woke up Friday morning in extreme pain (and I have a very high pain tolerance) and unable to walk. Did the whole checkup thing, got a few x-rays, received the ligament diagnosis, and left with a pair of crutches and a codeine prescription.

On Saturday, I learned the hard way that I am allergic to codeine. I spent the night convulsing in Joe's arms, unable to breathe. My skin was cold, and I had episodes of uncontrollable shaking, scaring the crap out of my boyfriend and myself. He begged me to let him take me to the hospital; I begged him not to do it. I won; he consulted my mother (a nurse) who came out to his farm and got me. She dug out medical books and consulted no fewer than three doctors. I was officially diagnosed as having overdosed (on exactly one Tylenol 3).

By Sunday, I had a wicked headache, a terrible rash, my throat had swelled shut, and my face was puffier than that of a garage rocker who'd tangled with Jack White.

I spent the next four days in a bizarre stasis, drugged on diphenhydramine hydrochloride to combat the allergic reaction. Mass quantities of Benadryl are very fun. I drugged my way through school, succumbing only on Monday and going home sick. Thursday was my first no-drug day, and I went back to work for the first time since last Tuesday.

It's been that kind of week.

In other news, Joe and I are still completely in love.