I woke up this morning with a strong desire to euthanize myself. Is euthanize even a word?

From the moment my eyes popped open, and the room came into blurry focus, I could tell that my health, which incidentally has been the bane of my existence for the past two months, had further decompensated, accelerated by the fact that I have been trying to lower the dose of prednisone I am currently taking.

Prednisone is bad stuff. While it is suppressing the immune system in a bid to stop the body from attacking its own organs, it is also destroying said organs. It leaches calcium from the bones, thins the skin, causes acne, and makes the face swell, causing one to resemble Humpty Dumpty, or Mike Duffy (take your pick). Worst case scenario? I could wake up one morning to discover I am sporting a moustache. Kill me now, and call it a mercy killing.

I have an auto-immune disorder. To date the doctors cannot determine which particular one, because apparently there are hundreds, or possibly thousands of them. Mine has affected my eyes, lungs, throat, joints, heart and neurological system, creating weakness in my left leg and arm. When in an acute phase, I am rendered useless.

For anyone who knows me, useless and sedentary are two states incompatible with my character. When well, I am in constant motion.

Nap? What’s that? Napping is something that my friends do. They frequently extol its virtues on their Facebook updates. “Going for a nap, catch you on the flip-flop”. ” Just had a glorious two hour nap. Feel so refreshed now.”

I can nap at my leisure when I’m dead. Right now I’m bent on living. I have important shit to do, not the least which is maintaining a house and property, which requires mobility, dexterity, strength and time, all of which are needed in full measure and particularly after the winter from hell we recently experienced. In addition to those sundry tasks, I have a third novel to finish writing, new songs to record, and a strategy to devise for promoting the two novels I recently published. My house is also currently on the market, and once it sells I will be scouting for new digs. Packing up a house is no small task.

I was off work for a week and a half before I somewhat stabilized on the prednisone. All I could manage in my infirm state was to sit in a rocker and watch back to back episodes of the Mexican telenovela, Corazon Salvaje (Wild Heart). At first I followed along with the Spanish sub-titles, trying to read and interpret while the actors were speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. At episode 30, the sub-titles ran out and I was forced to pump up my listening comprehension. It didn’t take long before I was understanding almost everything that was being said. A strong motivating factor was my inability to do little else other than sit in a chair, and the fact that I was passionately in love with the main character, Juan Diablo.

Prednisone heightens emotions. One moment I would be weeping over Juan Diablo lying on a table from a gun-shot wound, and crying out for Monica, his one true love, and the next, raging at the cat for tangling himself underneath my feet whenever I would try to ambulate my way to the kitchen to grab more tissues. The litany of swear words that came out of my mouth was truly awe inspiring.

I’m edgy at work. Small things irritate me. I have a co-worker who likes to emphasize a point whenever she is sharing a charming, but boring anecdote, by jabbing at my side with her index finger. It’s all I can do not to break it.

In tandem with my prednisone driven irritability are nasty random episodes of heat flashes throughout the day. When they erupt out of nowhere, I am forced to cool myself with the help of a paper fan given to me by my mother (may she rest in peace) during those tropical moments when I was going through menopause. Were I not located in my office, guaranteed I would be shucking off my clothes right down to my underwear, a clearly inappropriate solution given my location.

When I’m not showily fanning myself and panting at my desk, I am doing random checks in the mirror to determine if my face has expanded or begun sprouting chin hairs.

Not to be undone by all of this, I am fighting back tooth and nail. When taking latrine breaks, I use the opportunity not only to tinkle, but to leverage myself off the sink with 50 push-ups, finished off by three sets of deep knee bends. Because I use the wash-room several times a day, I get in some serious work out time.

Before bed, I unroll my yoga mat and do 200 abdominal crunches, plus several routines of butt enhancing exercises. If the prednisone or auto-immune disorder decide to take me at some point, at least I will be in fighting form when I go.