I have spent a lot of the weekend in pain, with my splendid leg giving me gyp. I love the word gyp. It is so very English. It is a word of the world of Victoria Wood, and what’s not to love about that? So there’s that to be grateful for.
Saturday night’s sleep was massacred by a winning combination of leg pain and hot flushes. It’s hard to be sanguine about the days when I don’t have insomnia being shat on, sleep wise, by other things. I am trying, because it doesn’t look to be abating any time soon.
I have to report, in the interests of science, that hot flushes are exacerbated (for me, anyway) by extremes of emotion and/or pain. Which is nice. I am trying to look on the excessive sweating as a reason why I am, despite eating everything, still looking reasonably trim. I think I sweat off about a pound a night at the moment. Let us not talk of women glowing. I suspect that if we duct taped a dozen, menopausal women together whilst in the midst of a flush, we could keep a small town warm for a week.
Trying to look on the positive side, I get a lot of reading done, and the cat is overjoyed that she has someone to stay up late and hang out with, because who wouldn’t want to be prmmping (this is the noise she makes. It’s not a typo) about at 3.00 a.m. whilst galloping up and down the hall like a pack of tiny ponies in mid charge?
My sleep patterns were so fucked up that Sunday was spent falling asleep in inappropriate places and eating. This is ok. In fact, this is generally a perfect way to spend a Sunday, except that it has done nothing to help me pull my sleeping patterns back to some semblance of normality, so I sit here, typing this, only having been awake for about an hour, and still in my pyjamas, while the day is half gone and I have achieved almost nothing.
You may be able to sense that I am feeling a little low. You may be right.
Recovery from anything is, I find, a series of ups and downs. Some days I feel like it’s all going in the right direction and I can conquer the world, and waiting to be fully well again is fine and I can be patient. Other days I feel like it’s all gone to shit, and why am I not well now? And when is my life ever going to start up again? I feel paralysed with fear over doing ‘normal’ things in case I ‘can’t’ do them anymore. I feel tired, and in pain, and anxious that this is going to be it forever and ever amen.
That’s today. The good thing is that my rational mind is humming away in the background telling me that things are already better than they were. It’s telling me that nothing is different from yesterday when I felt fine, albeit knackered. It’s telling me that the two, big events I have planned for this week are both with friends who love me, and if I fall apart, they will look after me and not think that I have failed them and myself and I am being a massive, stupid baby about being frightened of fucking up something that simply cannot be fucked up, because that’s not how friends work.
It’s telling me that I am recovering with every day that passes, and what I am feeling now is a thousand times better than what I was feeling in the summer, when I still had migraines, and I couldn’t do my clothes up because my fingers didn’t work, and my breasts were full of cysts and my hormones were trying to kill me etc, etc. It’s telling me that being sweaty with a sore leg is pretty, fucking good, considering. It’s telling me that I am feeling this way because I am over-tired and if I can get my sleep sorted, I will be on top again. It is right. I know this. It is all true, and yet I am feeling pretty sad and very overwhelmed today.
Nearly all of it is tiredness, it’s true. It will pass. Some of it though was down to chasing the letter for my endocrinology appointment this morning in a series of fairly futile phone calls (8 weeks since I was referred and told I would have a letter in 4 weeks) only for a letter to plop onto the mat just as I’d put the phone down.
To be fair this is the second letter I’ve had. It doesn’t help when the first letter was a cancellation letter for an appointment with an entirely different department, when I never received the initial appointment letter at all, and this letter is a cancellation of an appointment that I was told on the phone I probably had on December 12th. There is no probably about it now. I did have the appointment on December 12th, but it has been pushed back to January 16th.
The good thing is that it is not in the middle of the one week of holiday I get this year. The bad thing is that it is now next year and I am not convinced they won’t cancel this one either.
The worst thing is that the only way I have found I can cope with the whole blood pressure saga is to ignore it and this has pushed it to the top of my mind again, and I am struggling.
I have coped all these weeks by refusing to take my blood pressure, whilst taking the pills as prescribed without thinking about what they might or might not be doing and what it means. I have basically stuck my fingers in my ears and started singing ‘la, la, la I can’t hear you,’ because I simply cannot cope any more with people on the one hand telling me I am at high risk of a stroke, and on the other hand shouting at me for not ‘relaxing’ while they’re telling me I might die of a stroke. Especially when these are the same people who keep giving me conflicting information about medication AND failing to give me the one hospital appointment that might start to deal with the issue. If I die of a stroke, please crowd fund Jason so that he can sue them. It’s only fair.
I will be fine. I am fine. I am better when I don’t hoard the crazy in my head. I am putting the crazy out there so that I can look back at my bat shit ways and shake my head in a patronising manner at myself.
I am going to work hard today to bury the anxiety about my blood pressure, back in the deep cave where it belongs. I have a fun week planned and even though I am anxious, I am going to do all the things and have that fun because I am a stubborn cow.