The one insidious understated, overlooked symptom of heart failure is this overwhelming crappy feeling. The one where I feel like a swollen slug that just wants to crawl under some wet leaf and sleep. And sleep. And sleep. And sleep. Trouble is, when I am in these funks, no matter how much I sleep (and I can sleep until my jammies feel like they are permanently stuck to my skin) I just can’t seem to get enough. I wake up just long enough to take a bite of something already partially eaten, sip some warm tableside iced tea, wriggle my toes to get some blood flow reestablished and go right back to sleep.
I am learning to accept feeling like crap. But when I add this crap to the already top-heavy pile of psychological baggage this disease has created my life begins to resemble the teetering back of the Clampett’s truck on the way to Beverly Hills.
So, I’ll be the one in the rocking chair perched on top of that heap… sleeping.
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