This has become a survival situation.

I don’t know how I can possibly be this ill and weak and still be vaguely functional. I’m still going to work, but I’m throwing up almost every hour, if not more often. By the end of my shift I am so weak and shaky I can barely drive home. Once I’m home, I sleep until Daddy gets home from work, simply because I can’t do anything else. When he gets home I get up and curl, miserable and shaking, in the corner of the couch–only getting up to barf some more. I’m retching so hard that I’m afraid I’ll pass out, and I find myself actually praying for mercy.

My knees and hips hurt from kneeling, my back and shoulders hurt from hunching. My chest hurts from heaving. My stomach hurts constantly, my throat is raw and my voice is starting to fade. Even the underside of my tongue feels strained.

I can’t drink more than tiny sips, and I can’t hold down any solid food. My life has deteriorated into a game of getting enough liquid and calories into my wretched body that I will neither die nor have to go to the hospital for IV fluids.

I cannot imagine how I can make it another month (or more) as sick as I am. Every time I wake up there are a few blessed moments before the waves of nausea hit me. And then the daily cycle begins. Each day I can’t imagine how I’ll make it through work. But I do. Each afternoon I wonder how I’ll get through the evening. But I do. Each night I am only grateful for the hours I blessedly don’t feel the pain, the aching, the constant hot and cold flashes, or the endless rounds of heaving.

I feel like I’m in a war.