Poison dew drops

Last night I dreamed of airplanes. Again. Every night I dream of airplanes. Every night for the last seven nights, anyway. Big ones. Little ones. New ones. Old ones. But my dream planes aren’t soaring high and wild in blue skies like they were built to do. There’s always something wrong with them. They’re broken down. Out of fuel. Victims of weather. My dream planes are trapped, barred from their natural environment. In my dreams, they are prisoners of the ground. This morning as the fog of dreams lifted, I put it all together. My subconscious is processing the fact that I, too, am a prisoner.Oh, Lord, where to even begin this story? The last week is such a blur of confusion, and fever, and pain, and fear that a coherent tale is not within my grasp to tell. But if I don’t remember the course, I do remember the start. And it started on Christmas Eve, on my drive home from the clinic.Do you know that peculiar deep, dull ache that signals the fact that a virus has successfully established a beachhead in your body? Yeah, that’s right, the one that triggers your brain to say: Oh, f., we are going to get sick and there’s not jack-shit we can do about it. I got that pain, but in a very strange place. In my right hand.By the time I got home, both hands throbbed. And I got sleepy. I actually took a nap. I never take naps. By Christmas noon, it felt like all the bones in both my hands had been smashed to bits with Thor’s hammer. My body was wracked first by chills, then b...
Source: LifeAfterDx--The Guardian Chronicles - Category: Diabetes Authors: Source Type: blogs