What I'd hoped to do when we got home was wrap up the trip, print off our photos, write some thank-you notes, but the universe had other plans.
First of all, we came home to a flooded house. Things could be worse. We are safe, all of the mementos we hold dear for whatever lame reasons are also fine. But seven rooms in our house are destroyed. That's right - seven, and it not like we're living in Kensington palace to start with. Seven rooms is most of the house. And while various crews and strangers come in and out, ripping up carpet, knocking down walls, sucking bacteria from the ducts, all of our extra paraphernalia has to go somewhere, which means the living room is packed to the gils and basically unlivable as well. But we've been living out a van for a month, squishing our daily lives into the kitchen and lone standing bedroom is doable, until. . .
I don't even know why I bother writing about it, because as usual, it's paralyzingly, obscure and until we know what it is, untreatable. Day two home starts with a dizzy spell for me. Dizzy as in, "holy hell, somebody from Rug Doctor must've slipped me a roofie, because I can't tell the walls from the ceiling." I figure it will be better once I get up and get a drink.
Long story short, after crawling out to the van, after repeated requests by my husband to just call the damn ambulance, I spent a day in the hospital. Why? Good question. You'd think after two MRI's, a pint of blood, a CAT scan, two EKG's and whatever else they did that day, I'd know something. But I don't. Not really.
We do know this much: I need physical therapy for something in my vertebrae, and theoretically could have some sort of adrenal fatigue.
Oh, I also know it sucks, and that I still need to pick out carpet.