Friday, January 11, 2013

Hello Dizzy

 in Which our Heroine Airs her Dirty Laundry .

On Thursday morning I had a seizure, a facial tick that went down into the neck.  Clearly my new anti-epileptic is a massive FAIL.  So now I must set my medicinal pal free where it can fly in the wind, (much like dirtly laundry hung out to dry).  Mine erstwhile medicinal friend was also messing with my ever-erratic emotions way too much—now that’s some grimy laundry for you, kind reader.  Goodbye lamotrigine, and good riddance.

Enter oxy… something. Ah, here it is: oxcarbazepine. (Who names this stuff? It’s ridiculous). Another anti-eppiletetic, eteleppic, epliteptic, epileleptic.  Try saying it three times fast.  Ready, set GO!

So far I am really, incredibly, unabashedly, furiously dizzy and off balance.  I am an adept when it comes to walking into furniture.  Thus far my wonky combination of lamotrigine and oxy-something seem to be a 24/7 thing rather than the previous 3-4 hour torture that has been my life every day from 11 to 3 pm.  I hope that I will feel better when current archenemy No. 1 is purged from my system.  I will know in four months time.  If that doesn’t work then I will begin, or possibly go back, to a different medicine.  Or perhaps a combination? Up and Down, Up and Down.  I have always loved roller coasters. 

It’s rough, and I will tell you truthfully that this has been an eventful, frenzied, confused, out of the ordinary, awful week for these and other reasons I cannot articulate at this time.  But I will survive, prevail, triumph over, keep my chin up, fight the good fight, and continue on.  Think of how much I’ve already been through.  Nothing can stop me now.  Except that I have to wait another six months to drive legally.  Nevertheless, I continue on with optimism, though it be at a slower pace.  Kind of like fresh, white, clean laundry blowing gently in the breeze in a quaint mountain valley.

Friday, January 4, 2013

Christmas 2012

In the which our Heroine Backtracks to Prior Events.
Santa came a few hours early this Christmas.  He did not use a chimney.  The doorbell rang.  I opened the door, and then closed it again.  Like on TV when the character can’t believe what they’re seeing so they shut and open again just to make sure it wasn’t a figment of their imagination.  Well, there was no such confusion or romance in my reaction (but isn’t the parallel funny!).  It was cold, and I had a bag of bread in my hands (PBJ’s commin’ right up!) and I had to put it down because there was no way I could hold it and all the gifts at the same time. 
Yes, I said gifts in the plural.  You know, in general, giving has some sort of limit, but this easily crossed the line.  The persons/Santas in question remain anonymous despite my many cognitive efforts. 
Take it from someone who has time and time again proven that she is terrible at gift giving, these presents were good.  And they, combined with those of extended family and friends, were ALOT.  Christmas morning came and there were still more for my girl to unwrap.  Eva was rolling in the splendor of so much wrapping paper.  She was clearly experiencing new horizons in toy-play.  It is clear that she is still experiencing this as she has neglected all other and older toys in favor of the new.  I don’t think she’ll ever go back.
I was not soliciting for charity in my last post, but it came anyway—and in such incredible generosity.  We felt this charitable love from other unexpected and fantastic presents on our doorstep that evening—again, really good—from good friends who spilled the beans the next day (surprise! Thank you Hendersons and Rappleyes), to a delicious pumpkin pie.  Of course, the expected gifts received in trade far exceeded my own miserable presents.  I feel the largesse, but cannot seem to produce it.  Except for mine to Eva, which of course lay at the heart of my sarcastic “anger” toward St. Nick.  Due to the benevolence of others, I was able to take credit for the other big favorite of the day: A box of Disney Princesses with multiple changes of clip-on dresses.  How could a three-year-old girl not love these?
And so, to the Santa’s in my life, I raise my glass (of left-over eggnog) in salute.