Motherfucker finally got me yesterday evening, 20 minutes after taking my rescue pill. Oh, the orange popsicle that tasted so good going down an hour earlier...
It was a rough afternoon/evening. See-sawing between momentary bursts of alertness to a comatose state on the couch fueled by a combo of stimulant/depressive meds. And the smells of Pete's wonderful cooking all around me at so the wrong time.
I managed to stay in bed most of the night, thanks to a little hit of Gravol before hitting the sack, but it was a strange sleep with unrelated dreams... think the Old Spice guy showed up in there somewhere.
Today I'm showered and my face is less white but it feels like a semi is parked in my gut. Dying for a big bowl of hearty cereal or a stack of pancakes, but know I'd be doomed. Apparently the nausea is supposed to subside 24 hours after treatment, so holding on until 1 pm today.
In all, not a party. But I still plan to beat on the brat with a baseball bat. Oh yeah.