There is one story of heretofore uncharacteristic dedication to running that I accidentally left out of my last post. As it happens, though, that particular little gem developed into an incident that deserves a story all its own.
The day I got my port out, which was August 10, was a Friday. Obviously I wasn't going to be going to the 4-miler training on Saturday morning with a fresh incision, so I dutifully decided to do my Saturday run on Friday morning.
I was allowed no food after 6am that day, and I wasn't due to the hospital until noon. I knew I'd be hungry enough without the running. So I actually got up at 5:30am so I could have breakfast, so I could run 3.5 miles with appropriate calories on board. This blows my mind. But it's true! I did that.
Then, after a very hungry morning and an uneventful procedure, I am making a bathroom trip while we wait for wheelchair that will deliver me to the car and I notice a little scab on my thigh that looks like it's been grazed so it's just attached by one edge. I try to pull it off and I can't. I try again, and again. But then I decide that I'm not very coordinated at the moment, on account of the drugs they give you, which are very effective at making you not care that they are doing things you would normally find disturbing. I think of food and a nap. The scab can wait.
Come Sunday morning, which, mind, is two days later, I rediscover said scab and again attempt to pull it off. But it doesn't come. And it doesn't come. And then I think... That is not the same color as it was on Friday... And I think it's moving.......
It's a good thing Mom was here. I come out and say, Will you see if this is a tick, and if it is don't tell me? And she looks. And she pulls, And she looks up close and says, I'm not saying anything, and heads to the trash.
Ew. It seems that on my little 3.5 mile adventure, which went down the river trail a ways, I picked up a friend. I wonder what its experience was of those incredible drugs? Well, that's fine. I had a tick for a few days and didn't what it was--apparently I was not only uncoordinated but unobservant. I suppose that's to be expected.
But a week to the day after the tick was removed, I wake up with a very round spot about the size of a dime around the bite. Uh oh. And come Monday morning, I'm picking up antibiotics for Lyme disease. Lyme disease! The only tick I've ever had, and Lyme disease?! Are you kidding me?
Nope, not kidding. But on the bright side, because I knew I had a tick, and I knew it was attached for 72 hours, and I could see the rash start (which didn't look like a bulls-eye until it started healing, but they don't all), we could treat it immediately and I didn't experience the flu-like symptoms or any of the crazy complications that happen to people when it takes a long time to figure out what's going on.
It was too early to test the blood for antibodies, but based on the story and the symptom, and the prevalence of Lyme around here, it is not at all unlikely. It would explain why the week before was the first time since early summer that I felt very compelled to nap and unable to finish planned errands. Still, I feel silly saying that I had Lyme disease, since I didn't really suffer from it and recently a friend of mine really did. But it's just such a kicker to, well, the cancer. Like I needed that. It gets to be funny, because it wasn't serious. And it's another opportunity to be grateful for how fortunate I am even in my misfortune.
I still haven't made it back to the river...
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