Monday, September 8, 2014

Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Publication

Today is a 50/50 day in that good news/bad news sort of way. Let's get the bad out of the way.

Bad news: I suffer a never-ending stream of tension headaches. These headaches then transcend my normal pain into an excruciating, mind-blowing, rail road spike through the dome, piercing out the eye and back down into the stomach level of pain that makes me fall and pay homage to the porcelain god and become bedridden for days. There isn't enough ibuprofen in the world that could stifle the pain. It's not a pretty picture.

The first stop to get me better was a trip to my local emergency room. The doctors treated my nausea, but neglected my headache. They blew me off. When you look a doctor in the eye and say, "Thanks. My stomach feels better, but my head feels worse." and they say, "Okay. Good. Good." and leave the room you've been blown off.

The next day we went to my primary care physician. He was grateful not to be affiliated with that other hospital staff. He ordered a basic blood draw and an MRI. (For the record those machines are torture chambers for those with sensitivity to sound.)

This led me to the most worrisome month of my life; they found an anomaly. My mother's mother died of cancer when she was 33 years old. Can you guess how old I am? I had to wait four weeks to see a neurologist. That was the fastest they could get me in.

Throughout this my doctor tried helping me with the pain. Bless his surf ninja heart. Though little helped at first, some pain meds made it worse, he finally came up with a concoction that enabled me to work through the pain instead of being ruled by it.

Long story short, (too late) the neurologist believes the whole problem is curable. That after almost seven years of working the graveyard shift the epitaph on that lifestyle has been written in stone. People joke that their job is slowly killing them. Mine is digging my grave as I type this post. The sleep deprivation, stress, anxiety, tingles, weight fluctuations, fainting episodes, nausea, vomiting, low blood pressure, and at times moments of depression stem from my night job. In the end it's no surprise.

Good news: I get two weeks away from the place trying to kill me! Two weeks to mandatorily sleep at night next to my husband. Two weeks to work on the Shadow Faith series with no interruptions! Two weeks to get my house clean, to get rid of the filth brought on by the kids' summer vacation. Two weeks to remember what it feels like to not fear the sunlight. Two weeks to figure out my new life.

There are two ways to fully correct the damage done and to make sure this doesn't happen again.
1) Give up the night shift. 2) Forego (gasp) caffeine with the help of medications for the pain that makes my beloved cherry coke taste like poop water.

For as much as I am looking forward to the new changes and the lack of pain there is one part of my night life I will miss with all my heart. And, no, it's not boogying. It will be my beloved dispatch partner. I have known her since fifth grade. She has seen me through every aspect of my life, adopted my children as a compassionate auntie and is the nerd to my geek. Kirstin Rowan, I love you and will miss our all night nerd sessions. Don't slip away again and don't you dare change. You are an inspiration in ways words cannot express.

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