Down with the Sickness

So I've been sick for the last month with this wonderful disease. It has caused a lot of pain, both emotionally and physically. The simple act of getting out of bed during the first week was difficult, time consuming, and infuriating. I had an IV attached to my arm with morphine and all the saline my body could handle. We derisively called the entire stand Rosey because she was like the Jetson's robot following me around.
In my case I had an absess. I had waited so long to have the pain my abdomen examined that it turned into a mess inside me. Not that it was that long, mind you. No more than a couple of days. It was the kind of aches and pains a person might have normally, but when I found myself hunched over while trying to walk out to my car when leaving work, I knew something was seriously wrong!
So I went into the emergency room on the busiest night of the week, waited around until 1 AM or so and then spoke with the doctor while in a morphine haze. He told me I was sick and I was like "oh, that's nice." He could have told me I was giving birth to an elephant and it would have meant about as much to me.
By three AM I was sound asleep in a hospital bed in a nice quiet dark room.
The next week was chaos. I didn't know what was happening and then looking back on it now I remember so little of it that I wonder about some of the things I think may have happened.
Long story short, they poked a tube in me, drained the nasty stuff, and sent me home. I sat around for a week singing songs and reading the last Harry Potter book while my body tried to figure out what to do next.
I ached to get back to work or to be doing something constructive. I wrote a bit, wondered about what I wrote, then moved on to something else as I was still feeling the affects of my painkillers.
In the end I did go back to work and I've just finished my second full day at work. Sounds great, until last night when I started feeling pain again in my lower abdomen in the exact same spot I had the first time.
Panic ensues.
So now I sit here on the couch waiting for a return call from my doctor's assistant. What I expect will happen is she'll tell me to come in and get a CT scan--love doing those!--to make sure I'm still doing ok. They'll then give me a prescription for some drugs I can't pronounce--not that I can pronounce too many words mind you--and then I'll have to go home for the day.
Let me tell you, I'm getting really sick of this. I hate being unhealthy, I hate feeling like an invalid, I hate feeling like I'm a weight on my family's shoulders. And I'm mad as hell that I did EVERYTHING I was supposed to to get better and I'm not.
I took the pills. I laid on the couch. I didn't over extend myself. I took more pills. I ate the food I was supposed to. Yet still I'm sick and there's no end in sight. Damn it.
It is what it is, I guess, and I get to wiggle through it the best I can, but damn it damn it damn it.
Ok, enough whining for the day. Maybe I should go eat some oatmeal.