Today, I made it out of my room. My brain is still scrambled. My head still pounds. My body is aching. Everything inside feels dead. But I made it out of my room. I heard the cleaning lady say something in Spanish this morning. It sounded like, "I think-o he's dead-o." What is Spanish for pathetic vegetable? It was at that point when I figured I should get up and out. I needed to give the cleaning staff an hour to bring some order to a room that has housed me non-stop for two straight days.
Also having problems with my skin. Now it's coming off. It burns then itches and then peels off. Like a really powerful athlete's foot. My throat feels like some of my homies took a knife to it and didn't put it back together. Sleeping is really intense and uncomfortable. I can't say I enjoy it. I never feel better after waking up. But I do it a lot.
Can't tell where the troops are. One night I woke up and my right side was frying. I figured they torched a cancer shanty town or two. My boys are doing a Sherman's march or a Dresden fire bomb. Nice. Like the drama. Just wish it wasn't inside my body.
Wish I could have something more interesting, fun or more pleasant to say. I did make it through the Super Bowl without feeling nauseous. I thought the ads would do that to me.
Tomorrow's a big day. Lots of people seeing me to make sure l qualify for a stem cell transplant. The most important test is the pulminary function test, which is generally really easy. You just have to blow into these machines. I'm not just worried about passing it, I have no clue how I'm ever going to get it together enough to find the place.