Oh Lord (will you ever, ever have a plan for me?)

I love Prairie Home Companion. I missed this episode a few months ago, but fitting for the day, it popped up on my Facebook feedamajig. Josh Ritter is from this little town I've grown to think of as home. 

Sometimes I wish I could curl up inside a speaker box and just let the bass notes and crescendos reverberate through and around me like blankets.  

Josh Ritter could sing me to sleep, or strum me back together.

Dinglehopper? Snarfblat?... In any case, thanks for all the fish...

Well, you were all with me for the beginning, and, well, here, I'm happy and sad, not to mention, terrified, relieved, resolved, reeling, yet resolute, in my reporting an arrival at the end.

In some state, still, of disbelief, i'm crying while laughing, and trembling a bit with uncertainty, as i pass along my tiara. I'm no longer the Queen of Broken Things. Yesterday I quit my job. I'm burned out on life lately, but I've been burned out at work for a year or two, at least. After attempting to effectuate change in my department for so long, it's become clear that the company and I have very different values.

I meant to stay a few more months until I was 'fully-vested', but i couldn't take it any longer. My patience has been dozered down to nothing these days. I am not a very good automaton. Sometimes stopping in life to scrape a turd off your shoe, gives you too much time for re-evaluation and introspection. I've had a few turds to scrape off recently. I'd far and away rather have a job that inspires me intrinsically than one that pays higher wages.

Haven't told my sister or my mom.

So much for my half-crocked plan to have a solid lead or two on some job prospects before throwing the towel in. Maybe it was ill-timed, ill-conceived and rash. The frontal lobe regions of our brains are correlated with matters of judgement - mine may compromised. Oh fucking well.

I really don't know guys.

But, I'll have a lot more time for blogging, and i still have more of that confounded story yet to tell. Foof.

Thank you for being here.

Thank you for being.

Alli

Befuddled and Breaking Free (pt. 4)

The big pink thing on the horizon is the sun

The only doctor I remember that week, (save for a flash of a dark-complected, black-haired, female), was a neurologist far younger than your typical Neurosaurs, but a serious dweeb-and-a-half. We thought he was making a feeble attempt at drollery when my sister mentioned something about organic and he quipped, "Oh, organic? So you'd rather be eating bug poop? Because you can't have bugs on your plants without bug poop..." We har-har-ed for a second, until we realized he was serious. Between glyphosate, 2-4-D and the litany of other endocrine disruptors and known carcinogens, I'd rather eat straight bug poop out of a squeeze tube, but whatever dude. 

Somehow my old-as medical records were still in their system, and they're still consulting with a specialist I haven't been to in years. Gah. Shouldn't the advent of electronic medical records clue them in on this? They were precious and denigrated me in all means of censure and condescension in regard to the fact that last time I'd been seen by that provider, i'd been prescribed two drugs, at higher doses than I was currently taking. (Never mind i'd had some of the worst seizure control under their careful watch...) So, in the matter of a day or two, they ramped up those meds. One that i was still on was doubled, and the second (Vimpat/lacosamide), went from zero to the highest recommended dose.(?!) Plus, i was still being thoroughly and utterly benzofied. Holy crap, Batman. The hospital room was orbiting around me so fast, if i had spurs on, theyd've sparklered like the 4th of July and set the sheets and curtains on fire.

Sunset breaking through Labor Day haze

Both of the drugs give me insomnia for a week or so after increasing the dose. The Vimpat makes me dizzy and the lamotrigine gives me strange vertigo. It feels like drunk spinning, but focusing your eyes is more difficult. They feel like they're darting rapidly, left to right in their orbits. When you try to sit or lay still, it feels like your body is swaying side to side like your eyes, but almost imperceptibly like a shy, yet speedy metronome. (Or maybe that's how drunk spinning feels and i've just forgotten?) All night I spun and spun. So even if i could make pretend i was napping on a 90 degree beach somewhere, sleep was not the fortune in my cookie. Self-pity and exhaustion overwhelmed me sporadically, welling up as a hot, heavy weight in my chest and seeping out in tears and contorting my face in miserable anger. The waves of emotion did nothing to mask or quash the spinning or the nausea, they just added different salty  to the sleep-deprived shit sandie.

No-filter Sepia view from the same place last week

To all of our chagrin, i was still having seizures, only one or two a day, but some, nonetheless. I don't really remember much of anything about them. Except one. It sounds foolish in telling, but in my bleary, depleted state, it was traumatizing.

There were bed alarms. I don't remember attempting to disembark from my white, padded, battleship, but i do remember bed alarms. And, whether it matters or not, i don't believe i was ever balled up weird at the head or foot of the bed. With the world spinning, curling up and laying on my side was a less-than-preferable position. I laid mostly on my stomach, hands clawed into the sheets and alternating bent knees in hopes one might finally anchor me into the ground, or prop me stable like a kickstand. Anyhow, I woke up with my body hanging down off the bed and my face on the cold floor, within a short reach of the back wall. (I tend to go back and to the right when i have seizures.) I remember waking up and feeling the mess of cords and wires. I couldn't move myself backward onto the bed, or pull myself farther forward. I was wedged between the rounded corners of the top and side rails. Blood was rushing and pooling in my head. I don't know if it was panic or the way my body was jammed, but breathing was more terrible effort than easy. There was blood around my face. I couldn't figure out if i'd hurt myself on the way down there or if it was coming from my mouth. I remember thinking nobody would find me until after i'd passed out. Where are your bed alarms now?!

Welp, I guess they found me, and it was at least some time before morning, but i don't remember many specifics after that. Either that day, or the day after, my mom came and kicked ass and took some names. (She's been working in the healthcare realm for the past 30 some-odd years.) And not so much in regard to that incident, but had the power of persuasion over Dr. Bug Poop and Co. to get me out of there. So we got all the discharge paperwork, and after a full week, that i mostly don't remember, I finally got to go home.

And I wish the saga ended there...

Hat's off to all of you. Stay safe and dry, and free of smoke and fires.

Love and all it's verses,

Alli