I was digging through my older entries and realized that most of my flares happen in fall – August or September, to be specific. Since I’m feeling crabby, I’m tempted to blame them on my inability to deal with (or warm to, heh) the Texas heat, but it’s a phenomenon that started before A. and I moved here. It’s possible I don’t deal well with any heat? Or perhaps there’s something about fall that sets my gut a-squirming. Season of change? Forgotten back-to-school jitters? The harvest moon?
Things have gotten quieter on the intestinal front, but there’s still some delightful cramping and blood going on. In addition, my thinking is getting typically insular, my vision is tunneling, and my fingers are dried out and wrinkly from too many trips to the bathroom and the subsequent required handwashings. I am eating homemade chicken soup (the real kind, not my cheap-ass speciality). I am throwing all my meds down the hatch. I am contemplating calling the damn doctor, who will be sure to put me the Devil Pred. This is all eerily reminiscent of last year, when I finally finished the damn taper at the end of October.
Hmph. Stupid flare. Stupid Pred. Stupid everything.