And the Saga Continues

First, I’m having a lot of trouble writing these days—locating words, typing, using simple grammar without immense effort, etc. (my personal hell, if you know me well enough), so please, please, be gentle with me if you find mistakes in this post: I’ve decided that it’s fair to blame it on the seven brain medications I’m currently taking, not on myself. [Note that my brain issues get worse as the day progresses, so I’m writing this before I’ve taken my first dose of meds.]

I’m not going to start from the beginning because, frankly, I don’t remember where I left off, and I don’t give a [insert family-friendly word instead of the one I want to use]. I might, however, repeat something I’ve already blogged about. Sorry, but is it really fair to blame someone who has had two brain surgeries and a day with twenty-one seizures in the past sixish weeks? Ask yourself that. (Passive-aggressive guilt fully intended.)

But anyways. I spent the vast majority of my time lounging around in a semi-private room during what could be described as the worst holiday ever (slight hyperbole). My roommate was an elderly woman who I actually had a soft spot for, even though she seemed to think that I was a nurse and was constantly yelling at me, in very, very broken English, to call her husband and son. I began looking forward to the meal trays, the benchmarks of my day, although the food was/is disgusting and I ate/eat maybe a third of it (except for breakfast, reliable cold cereal).

Besides the puke-worthy meal trays, the main issue with the first phase of this weird hospital vacay was that every morning, Monday to Friday, the chief neurologist would appear with his flock of eager duckings (OK, residents), notebooks in hand, eagerly jotting down almost every word he said. Examination complete, they would then go to the hallway, within my earshot, and discuss my case, as if the toddler rule of “can’t see you, so you don’t exist” applied. I appreciated it, though, since I learned lots of interesting, strange things about myself. But don’t get too excited: for once, I’ll practice a little discretion and keep some of my medical info private from the public, mostly because I’m too lazy to type it out (family and friends, if you’re interested, lemme know).

At a certain point of seizure “behaviour,” I was given what was phrased as amazing news. My epileptologist had pulled some strings to get me the next room in the epilepsy monitoring monitor. Since the seizures I’d been having in hospital quite similar to the seizures I have at home, while the seizures I had with the intracranials—remember them??—were quite different, this was considered a fantastic opportunity.

The catch: I spent all of January in the hospital. After a weekish-long break, spent mostly as home, per the the neurosurgeons’s orders, I had an emergency due to which my husband called 911. What a jerk, right? And I’ve been here ever since. And all I want to do is go home. I kind of assumed that there would be a team of people to whom I could plead my case, but instead a lone, rather good-lookng (completely irrelevant to the current topic)  neurology resident came in the early morning to deliver the wonderful news. A bed had opened up in the EMU! I would be transferred later that morning.

“Quick question,” I asked.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he responded, flashing impossibly white chompers [Seizure Me’s name for teeth].

“What if I refuse to go to the EMU and go home instead?” His chompers immediately clamped shut.

“Well,” he said, slowly, “this is something you should talk over with your husband.It’s an incredible important decision.”

“I already know what his position will be.”

“Do you know where you live?” He got me there.

“Muscle memory will take me there.”

We went through stuff about paperwork about leaving against medical advice and safety and how I would just end up back in the hospital. It was then that I knew that I didn’t really have a choice.

“OK, OK.” There were those chompers again, grinning at me with the smile of victory. Success. For him, anyway. I asked how long I’d be there, and his answer was “probably not longer than last time.” So not longer than a month? How comforting. Good thing you have nice teeth, random neurologist.

And a minor success for me, in that I got a single room with a gorgeous view—the same one I had in November 2015.

To be continued…

Well, maybe.