Fangirl

Here I am, about to fangirl a fangirl. 

I had an appointment yesterday morning at the hospital at which I receive most of my epilepsy care. For the past few months, I’ve shuddered at the mere mention of the hospitals that I associate with being really sick, but I approached this visit with a surprisingly positive attitude. Maybe I was excited to have good news to report to my epileptologist, or maybe some part of me sensed that I was in for a praise parade, one of my very favourite things. Either way, I didn’t have that basketball-sized ball of anticipation and dread in my stomach that’s accompanied me on almost all recent trips to medical facilities.

On the way there, I smugly reflected that it’d been months and months since I’d last graced the halls of this hospital and even longer since I’d needed to go to the ER. It’s hard to believe that I’ve gone from being a frequent flyer (seizer?) to someone who requires only relatively routine checkups. Yesterday was further reinforcement of how great it is to be that person.

The resident I saw before meeting with my epileptologist greeted me in a familiar, friendly manner that I at first chalked up to his seeming like a nice guy. He was, as I discovered, an exceptionally nice fellow, but his warm welcome was at least in part due to the fact that he knew me: apparently he was my neurologist during a longish hospitalization for status epilepticus in January. Who’d have thought? Not me, apparently.

He wasn’t insulted that I had absolutely no memory of him. “You were in really rough shape,” he said reassuringly(?). “I wouldn’t expect you to remember me.” He asked some standard questions and then pivoted a little. “I’m so glad to see you like this. I’ve wondered ever since meeting you if you pulled through. It was pretty uncertain at the time.” Another pause. “Can I just say that I’m honestly fangirling right now? You’re a true success story.” (I am, of course, paraphrasing a little; my recall is by no means perfect.)

Yes, good sir. Yes, yes you can.

And then he asked if I still have my Barbar-doing-yoga pencil case. (I do.) A+ doctoring skills. 

There are few things I enjoy more than beating the odds. Listening to my husband play the K-pop song “Cupid” at full blast while making dinner in the other room, a frequent occurrence in our household, is right up there, but exceeding expectations by setting my own health goals, reaching them, and then setting them higher tops even that. This getting-better thing is hard, draining, and impossibly monotonous work, and it’s not always easy to avoid getting discouraged, especially since I’m an instant-gratification kind of lady. I want results, and I want them now! I’ve been better lately, however, at truly understanding that consistency—doing the difficult stuff every day, whether or not I’m in the mood and whether or not I’d rather have a little vacay from dealing with my problems—is the only actual solution.

The rest of the appointment went well. It was indeed validating and gratifying to be able to report that my seizures have been stable. It was validating and gratifying to note smiles and nods rather than concerned glances. It was validating and gratifying to give life updates that weren’t related to medical emergencies but rather to the ways in which my life is getting bigger and better.

And, of course, it was pretty darn flattering to be told that I have a fangirl.