Monday, January 11, 2010

Turning Points

We all face turning points in our life that radically change us and the shape of our lives from what they were when we had awoken that morning.  A lot of the times we do not see these moments coming, and sometimes we don't even realize what was the pivotal moment until later, when we are out of the situation and have time to look back and reflect.  There are times, though, that we do know there is an event that will inevitably be a turning point--like the birth of a child, a marriage, an audition or a job interview.  And for some people, that pivotal moment comes to them in a doctor's office, when they hear news about a condition that will either eventually kill them or make them wish it would just hurry up and do the job, with all the suffering they know is possibly going to come as a result of that fateful news delivery.  


Today is the day, after about a month of waiting for this appointment date, I see the neurologist today for the results of an MRI and an EEG.  These tests were ordered by my family doctor because I told him that for months I have been so out of it I've been barely functional, and that the symptoms of seizures his physician's assistant ran over with me when I first went in to see her about the problem came back to me one night when I woke up and felt like a truck had run over me, and when I wanted to reach for my phone to call 911 to inquire whether it was possible I had had a seizure (like I had when I was much younger, because of prescription medication interactions), I couldn't move.   I passed out again and woke up hours later and still couldn't get out of bed, even though I had to pee since the first time I awoke.  Eventually, I was able to function again, but something just isn't right, and this is not the only time that has happened.


That was not what got me into the doctor's office in the first place, though; it was, however, what I think got the doctor to roll his chair over to his laptop computer and order the hospital tests.  There are many contributing reasons why I headed to the doctor's that time.  


For one, I had been foggy for quite awhile--passed it off as "fibrofog," something other sufferers of fibromyalgia like myself can tell about.  I wasn't reading like I used to do, which was voraciously to the point the librarians knew my name and stopped being surprised at the number of books I checked out at a time because they knew I would read them all.  Last time, my books ran overdue and I was not able to read them at all; I doubt the fact that they were resume and cover letter writing manuals was the reading, for having recently graduated with a Master's in English, I think lofty or complicated reading material was not the problem.   I was not able to write my resume though, and give it to my Office of Vocational Rehabilitation caseworker, though, and post it on career websites and send it out to prospective employers.  Every time I came close to working on it I blocked and had trouble with the silliest things, like having to rely on spell check, not being able to figure out format, or know which was the best way to present my assets and educational skills.  Resumes are tough, but considering all the research papers--some of them over twenty pages long with correct MLA citations--I've done in the past six years, I doubt that the complexity of writing resumes is the main problem.


Also, while I am seeking a position as a professor of English at a community college or online school, my main dream and the reason why I returned to college in my thirties in the first place was because it is my dream to be a published writer and screenwriter/filmmaker, and I believed completing my education would help me towards those goals.  I have had many story ideas in a cabinet in my home office that I call "Development Hell," because they have been there in limbo during the six years it took me to earn both degrees.  All that time I fantasied about having time to write what I wanted to write, to let my characters finally find their voices and share the stories that have been living inside my head with the world.  I've been out for months now and still haven't written more than a few hundred words at the start of National Novel Writing Month in November.  It's not like I have anything more pressing to do, but all I've been able to do is chat with friends on Facebook--which actually can get complicated sometimes, for there are games I've deleted even there because I couldn't follow how to play or keep up anymore--or watch DVDs, curled up on my bed.  But still, the door to my "Development Hell" has been closed, the computer in my office remains off, and the characters still call out to me to let them out into the world.


My husband has been slightly concerned about me for months, because often when we've gone down to his mother's in separate cars I have needed him to drive me back home, even though it is only a five minute drive.  Too often I felt too dizzy or disoriented to risk it, so I asked him for help.  This concerned us, but it wasn't until another time--I suppose another turning point of my life--that I knew there was a problem.  That was the day I set out to take the six-hour drive out across Pennsylvania--a drive I had taken in the summer with my ten-year old in tow--and had to turn around less than two hours distance away and head back home, because I was too afraid to keep driving, because of an air-headed like feeling--like the head was going to implode--kept impairing with my ability to react to sudden stops or people pulling out in front of me, or remembering which roads to follow to reach my destination.  I made it home somehow myself, because I couldn't find someone to rescue me and bring my car back, but it was one of the most terrifying trips of my life.


And that was the day that I missed my last remaining grandmother's viewing, and her funeral the next day.  My heart broke and it was probably only my determination to get there that had me even try to make the trip in the first place or keep going from the first point that I started getting frightened of my capacity to drive this long and wearying trip.  Missing something like that that meant so much to me was the wake up call that told me that I couldn't just ignore this "not right" feeling and take care of it somehow, with my doctor's help.


Today is another turning point--either I had seizures or other problem with my head, or it has just been my thyroid hormone levels and depression that have been standing in the way of my being able to focus and do something about getting a job. I haven't been myself for months and I am frightened not knowing why or what to do about it, but I'm almost as scared to find out what's wrong. Does that make sense?  All I know is that I wanted to write this letter to myself to remind me of the situation and give myself some hope after I come home knowing the answers.  


So many times I've gone to the doctors after having some scary tests, like breast exams and ultrasounds because one doctor felt a lump, or an EKG because another felt an irregular rhythm to my heart, but there was nothing wrong.  When I read over the records after I lost my hearing for Social Security Disability, despite all the health problems that I have, I read that a doctor that I thought liked and respected me and really supported me going back to school felt that I was going to the doctors so much to get attention.  Excuse me, but this is one case where WTF is the only response that makes sense!  I was in so much pain!  So now, even when I know I have a problem, I let it go because I do not want to be seen as "needy" in that respect.  My heart has been broken and I hate being so reliant on doctors and the medications that they use to regulate the conditions that plague me, but I have no choice because I have family and friends that rely on me to try to keep my health in check because they love me no matter what my mental or physical defects.


I apologize for that last rant, but that is part of my insomnia inflicted mind rambling there ... and partly fear because I know whatever the results, I will be dependent on the doctors and their medications to get me back to normal--whatever that is.  I will accept "functional"; that will do just nicely.  It just will be a long road, whether I have neurological problems, thyroid hormone problems, or psychological problems, and today is the day that I find out which direction my path to recovery lies in.


And with that I close the longest piece of writing that I have done since I made my false start of this blog in September and the last two research papers I finished up for school in early summer.  For now, I bid you adieu, and I pray that when the dust settles and the tears have faded and the fears coped with enough for the moment, I will return to continue this saga once again.  As Tigger--a true hero for his upbeat attitude and love for his friends--would say, "Ta Ta for Now!"

1 comment:

  1. So what were the test results? Do you have to have more tests run? At least you have health insurance to cover all that. The reason Brian can't be treated w/ extensive testing is that he has no insurance. :/

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