Less than stellar 2.0
I was released from my non-slumbering prison about 7:30 this morning and I'm STILL steaming over the unfortunate events of last night. Like a good little patient/inmate, I clambered into bed at 10p.m. And proceeded to have my tech (who had the personality of a piece of wet cardboard) enter my room every 5 to 10 minutes for the next TWO HOURS. First, the monitoring unit wasn't plugged into the wall properly. Then something wasn't plugged into the baseboard properly. Then something was unplugged behind the nightstand. Then the left leg electrodes weren't firing: swapped with the right leg. Then the right leg electrodes weren't firing. Wow. Really? I would have never guessed that...
And did I mention that while I was being hooked up to everything, I got to watch an informative little video about sleep apnea? And did I mention that the video very subtly mentioned the name of the company that manufactures the C-PAP machines used to treat sleep apnea? And that the video was -- drumroll please: produced by that very same medical manufacturer? But the piece de resistance was the tubes rammed into my nose. Much like having an oxygen line, except this had nothing blowing through it; instead, it was to monitor the flow of air coming out my nose. The tube wrapped behind each ear and was then tightened under my chin alongside the collection of electrodes already residing there. As if that weren't bad enough, they piggy-backed another tube directly over this one that hung down and touched my lips. Did they monitor my blood pressure? Because at this point, mine was SKYROCKETED. Who thought up this mess? In this day and age when I can start my car from inside the house or set my home security or my dvd recorder from my cell phone in another state, you mean to tell me this crap couldn't be monitored WIRELESSLY?
At this point, I pretty much figured out there would be no sleep for me. So I laid awake, tossing and turning for the next several hours. And did I mention I was breathing through my nose the whole time? See, folks who suffer through sleep disorders, for the most part, are mouth breathers. When their soft palette relaxes, their epiglottis drops down and blocks their airway, causing them to stop breathing. Which disrupts sleep and can cause heart arrhythmia. Or so the video merrily informed me. But I breathe through my nose most of the time, unless I'm congested. This was evidently not the results they anticipated nor wanted, because wet-cardboard returned to my room about 2a.m. to add YET ANOTHER TUBE INTO MY NOSE. Which successfully blocked the amount of room I had to inhale and therefore FORCED me to breathe through my mouth.
I. HAVE. HAD. IT. My blood pressure is pounding in my ears and I have to bodily restrain my own hands to keep from ripping this crap off and storming out. The only thing stopping me is the $200 check I just handed over to these bozos about 6 hours prior. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 3a.m. and out of pure exhaustion, I fall asleep. When someone (NOT wet-cardboard) enters my room about 7a.m. to tell me they're releasing me, I am up like a shot, informing him this was their one shot to monitor me. No second overnight stays. No "let's see how you sleep hooked up to the C-PAP." This was IT. Dunzo.
Off to Starbucks...
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Monday, December 06, 2010
I am in a less than stellar mood right now... I am sitting at The Center for Sleep at Baptist Hospital, waiting for someone to come hook up a bunch of electrodes and monitors to my head, my face, my chest and my legs. Quite conducive to sleep, non? When I voiced that opinion to one of my new doctors (a pulmonary doc who specializes in sleep disorders) he didn't see the humor. Guess sarcasm isn't big where he's from.
The room is ok... quite "motel-like." Until you see the bed completely covered with wires, electrodes, monitors etc. and then note the notice on the wall that reminds you you're being recorded on camera at all times. This is like a bad movie... How did I get here, you might ask? Well, my new primary doctor isn't allowing me to slide on ANYTHING. My former doc was a sweetheart, but after 10 years together, our comfort had become complacency, so when he moved out of town, I was faced with the prospect of obtaining a new physician. "I got a guy" on high recommendation, and he is quite pleasant, but HE MEANS BUSINESS. Don't mention anything to him if you don't want the issue dealt with. Pronto. He asked how I slept, and I deferred with humor. He laughed along with me and then persisted until I answered that I'm up anywhere from 2 to 4 times a night, but wake about every 15 minutes to change sleep positions. I've attributed it to pain in my back from multiple work-related injuries (and surgery years ago that was somewhat successful) and constant pain in both shoulders. But because I've been told recently that I snore (THAT'S a whole 'nother can of worms I might not discuss here for fear of incriminating the guilty complainer), primary doc raised the possibility of a sleep disorder.
So here I sit. And stew. I've just been informed that I need to be in bed by 10 p.m. ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME!?!?! The sleep doc had informed me I would need to maintain my normal sleep patterns. Which is: I go to bed between 11:30PM and 1A.M. Oh, this is going to be one big fat joy ride. And to top it all off? I'm barely in the door before they're hitting me up for $200. Someone needs to tell these folks that their patients would come in in a much better frame of mind if they at least bought 'em a cup of coffee first. Oh that's right: NO CAFFEINE.
--------------------------
The nurse/sleep tech just left. I wish I had a picture of me right now. I would post it. I look like some type of experiment gone bad. Like Frankenstein's less successful sibling. I have a band around my abdomen, another around my chest, electrodes on my legs, my shoulders, in my hair, under my chin, behind my ears, and ON MY FACE. Seriously? SERIOUSLY? I'm supposed to sleep like this? Oh yeah: and hanging around my neck is this contraption that all 24 wires plug into. Yep. TWENTY-FOUR wires.
Is it Tuesday yet?
The room is ok... quite "motel-like." Until you see the bed completely covered with wires, electrodes, monitors etc. and then note the notice on the wall that reminds you you're being recorded on camera at all times. This is like a bad movie... How did I get here, you might ask? Well, my new primary doctor isn't allowing me to slide on ANYTHING. My former doc was a sweetheart, but after 10 years together, our comfort had become complacency, so when he moved out of town, I was faced with the prospect of obtaining a new physician. "I got a guy" on high recommendation, and he is quite pleasant, but HE MEANS BUSINESS. Don't mention anything to him if you don't want the issue dealt with. Pronto. He asked how I slept, and I deferred with humor. He laughed along with me and then persisted until I answered that I'm up anywhere from 2 to 4 times a night, but wake about every 15 minutes to change sleep positions. I've attributed it to pain in my back from multiple work-related injuries (and surgery years ago that was somewhat successful) and constant pain in both shoulders. But because I've been told recently that I snore (THAT'S a whole 'nother can of worms I might not discuss here for fear of incriminating the guilty complainer), primary doc raised the possibility of a sleep disorder.
So here I sit. And stew. I've just been informed that I need to be in bed by 10 p.m. ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME!?!?! The sleep doc had informed me I would need to maintain my normal sleep patterns. Which is: I go to bed between 11:30PM and 1A.M. Oh, this is going to be one big fat joy ride. And to top it all off? I'm barely in the door before they're hitting me up for $200. Someone needs to tell these folks that their patients would come in in a much better frame of mind if they at least bought 'em a cup of coffee first. Oh that's right: NO CAFFEINE.
--------------------------
The nurse/sleep tech just left. I wish I had a picture of me right now. I would post it. I look like some type of experiment gone bad. Like Frankenstein's less successful sibling. I have a band around my abdomen, another around my chest, electrodes on my legs, my shoulders, in my hair, under my chin, behind my ears, and ON MY FACE. Seriously? SERIOUSLY? I'm supposed to sleep like this? Oh yeah: and hanging around my neck is this contraption that all 24 wires plug into. Yep. TWENTY-FOUR wires.
Is it Tuesday yet?
Thursday, November 11, 2010
I've been busy the past several days with multiple endeavors, not the least of which is getting established with a new primary care physician (more on that later ... GRRR). But I also got an article written for our Nashville Harp Society website (as seen below). This just gives my loyal readers (all 3 of you) a little taste of a different style from me.
A Harpist to Watch
The Nashville Harp Society was privileged to have Heidi Van Hoesen Gorton as guest artist for our Fall 2010 meeting. As winner of the Young Professional Division of the American Harp Society (AHS) National Competition in June 2009, Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton serves as the current AHS Concert Artist, touring extensively throughout the country through 2011, all while completing her masters in harp performance from The Juilliard School and serving as principal harpist of the Hartford Symphony Orchestra. Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton’s appearances have included recitals as well as taking part in workshops with local harp societies, and generally serving as a wonderful ambassador for the harp. Both Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton’s performance for NHS and her “question and answer” session following the recital served notice that this is definitely a young harpist to watch.
Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton opened with the three-part “Sonate” written by French-born Pierick Houdy, regarded as one of the five main composers of sonatas for harp of the twentieth century. Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton was privileged to meet the naturalized Canadian Houdy at an international harp competition in France, and it was obvious in her playing that she admires the composer. Of special note was the bell-like quality of the central Lento. Up next was a modern take on an old theme: Kati Agocs’ “John Riley,” the first movement from ‘Every Lover Is A Warrior.’ Agocs is a modern classical composer and fellow Juilliard grad, who has taken the traditional Appalachian folk ballad “John Riley” and adapted it for harp. Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton allowed the listeners to appreciate the bluegrass feel of “John Riley” while yet maintaining its classically lyrical line. Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton closed the first part of her performance with Jean-Michel Damase’s “Sicilienne Variee.” Although not technically perfect, Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton showed with every note that this is her favorite piece for harp, and she played it with a style and passion that thrilled everyone present.
After a short intermission, Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton returned to the stage and gave us pieces from three of the greatest composers for harp. Up first was Marcel Tournier’s “La Voliere Magique, Opus 39.” The title of this piece roughly translates as “The Magical Aviary” and it was easy for the listener to appreciate the magical bird-like tones she evoked with the harp. Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton’s next piece was probably the most notable of her recital: Grandjany’s arrangement of the Bach composition “Andante from Sonata No. 2 in A Minor.” This piece was originally composed for solo violin, but Grandjany reworked Bach’s masterpiece and it stands as one of the most beautiful works for harp being played today. Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton infused “Andante” with such feeling, she made it obvious to everyone listening that it holds a special place in her heart: her mother studied under Grandjany and this particular piece was played at her parents’ wedding. Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton concluded her performance with “Ballade, Opus 28” by Carlos Salzedo. Along with Grandjany, Salzedo is considered to be one of the most important performers, teachers and composers of music for harp, and this piece was a fitting end to a stellar recital.
Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton gave her listeners all they could hope to hear packed in one dynamic performance, and yet they wanted more, bringing her back to the stage for an encore. She finished her recital with a lighthearted and enjoyable rendition of Alfredo Rolando Ortiz’s “Red Merengue.”
While taking questions following her performance, Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton stressed to the audience the importance of playing from the heart and finding something to love about every piece one performs. It was obvious to all who attended that Ms. Van Hoesen Gorton is following her own advice. She plays each piece with such style and passion that it is easy to see she is doing what she loves to do, and that each composition holds a special place in her heart. And we, as listeners, are privileged to be along for the ride. We look forward to hearing more from this talented young artist as her career unfolds in the years to come.
Saturday, November 06, 2010
A sense of melancholy has overtaken me tonight. After a fairly uneventful day at work, I went to see my mom as I always do, and instead of sinking mindlessly into her couch to watch college football all afternoon, I decided to actually follow through with an idea that struck me earlier in the day: to take my mom book shopping with me.
For me, book shopping is a fairly standard thing: I am a voracious reader and therefore spend inordinate amounts of time at Books-a-Million, Barnes & Noble and the like. My mom is a voracious reader as well, except she has vast expanses of time to enjoy it, and yet no way to get her hands on anything new unless I provide it.
You see, my mom is 83 years old and no longer drives. She gave that up 5 years ago at the behest of my brother and me. I know it was the best decision -- slower reflexes and poor vision had made her a danger behind the wheel, but she is now at the mercy of others to go anywhere and do anything. I do my best; off days are spent running errands and fulfilling the obligations of numerous doctor's appointments. Mom's health isn't great, but it's the best I can hope for, for this 12-year breast cancer survivor. Chemo saved her life but ruined her bone marrow. And her immune system. And the entire chemical makeup of her body. And yet she survived against some pretty stiff odds. Her hearing is almost gone and she has trouble getting around, but my mom's mind is as sharp as ever. Because she reads.
She's worked her way through almost my entire library. She could probably give Maura Isles or Kay Scarpetta herself a run for their money after reading every Patricia Cornwell novel I own ((which is all of them.) She devoured Gregory David Roberts' 1000-page masterpiece Shantaram and barely came up for air until she was through. (I'm still somewhere about the 500-page mark three weeks later, but I have been busy.) This week it was The Help by Kathryn Stockett.
But my mom would probably be scandalized if she knew how much I spend on books. She lived through the Depression, and that struggle for survival is a scar that she carries deep within her soul. Money is not to be spent frivolously or excessively, and living on Social Security, she doesn't really have any extra to spend (and is too proud to allow me pick up the tab on much. Believe me, I try.) So I came up with the perfect solution: I took her to The Book Attic, a nifty and quite well-organized used book store. It was like seeing a little kid turned loose in a candy store with a pocket full of money. I can't believe I'd never thought of this before. And then I took her to BAM and when she protested, I told her about their sale tables and markdowns. SCORE!!
I was thrilled that such a simple afternoon could give her such pleasure, and yet I was disappointed in myself for not doing this sooner. I get so bogged down in all of the necessities of filling prescriptions, and going to the hospital for tests and checkups that I forget that this is also a necessity: an afternoon spent enjoying a basic pleasure. I realize that she won't be with me forever, and I need to make a solid effort to ensure that she gets to enjoy happy times that she so richly deserves.
For me, book shopping is a fairly standard thing: I am a voracious reader and therefore spend inordinate amounts of time at Books-a-Million, Barnes & Noble and the like. My mom is a voracious reader as well, except she has vast expanses of time to enjoy it, and yet no way to get her hands on anything new unless I provide it.
You see, my mom is 83 years old and no longer drives. She gave that up 5 years ago at the behest of my brother and me. I know it was the best decision -- slower reflexes and poor vision had made her a danger behind the wheel, but she is now at the mercy of others to go anywhere and do anything. I do my best; off days are spent running errands and fulfilling the obligations of numerous doctor's appointments. Mom's health isn't great, but it's the best I can hope for, for this 12-year breast cancer survivor. Chemo saved her life but ruined her bone marrow. And her immune system. And the entire chemical makeup of her body. And yet she survived against some pretty stiff odds. Her hearing is almost gone and she has trouble getting around, but my mom's mind is as sharp as ever. Because she reads.
She's worked her way through almost my entire library. She could probably give Maura Isles or Kay Scarpetta herself a run for their money after reading every Patricia Cornwell novel I own ((which is all of them.) She devoured Gregory David Roberts' 1000-page masterpiece Shantaram and barely came up for air until she was through. (I'm still somewhere about the 500-page mark three weeks later, but I have been busy.) This week it was The Help by Kathryn Stockett.
But my mom would probably be scandalized if she knew how much I spend on books. She lived through the Depression, and that struggle for survival is a scar that she carries deep within her soul. Money is not to be spent frivolously or excessively, and living on Social Security, she doesn't really have any extra to spend (and is too proud to allow me pick up the tab on much. Believe me, I try.) So I came up with the perfect solution: I took her to The Book Attic, a nifty and quite well-organized used book store. It was like seeing a little kid turned loose in a candy store with a pocket full of money. I can't believe I'd never thought of this before. And then I took her to BAM and when she protested, I told her about their sale tables and markdowns. SCORE!!
I was thrilled that such a simple afternoon could give her such pleasure, and yet I was disappointed in myself for not doing this sooner. I get so bogged down in all of the necessities of filling prescriptions, and going to the hospital for tests and checkups that I forget that this is also a necessity: an afternoon spent enjoying a basic pleasure. I realize that she won't be with me forever, and I need to make a solid effort to ensure that she gets to enjoy happy times that she so richly deserves.
Friday, November 05, 2010
I had dinner with my wonderful cousin/great friend/traveling companion the other night, and she commented that I seem so busy and yet happy right now -- and she's exactly right. I have battled depression for a number of years now, and there have been a number of contributing factors, not the least of which is a general dissatisfaction with my job and the inherent stress that goes along with it. I have a really low tolerance for bull crap, and yet I work for the government and deal with the public -- both ready-made crap producers. Go figure... And yet something happened the other day that has given me a newfound appreciation of my vocation.
I have split days off in my current position -- Sundays and Tuesdays for the past 3 years. It has it's advantages, but one of the larger disadvantages is never feeling like I get enough rest (which greatly contributes to my depression.) So when a position came open at another location with weekends off, I bid on the job -- and then almost immediately had reservations/regrets. Indecisive much? I had actually thought it through before bidding and thought I was doing the right thing, but when the panic set in almost immediately, I'm like "What have I done?" And with 25 years of seniority and no additional training required, I was pretty sure I was going to get the job and then be forced to take it. But then amazingly enough, I didn't get the job and I was happy I didn't. (Some doofus with FORTY-ONE YEARS seniority got the position. Seriously, dude? Why are you not sitting on your porch in a rocking chair already? Or out shooting something like a good Southerner?)
The relief was almost instantaneous and overwhelming, and I realized I'm right where I need to be and right where I need to stay. I'm literally 150 yards from my house to work. I can go home every day at lunch and check on mom and spend time with her. I can leave work almost any time I need to if an emergency arises. And I've built an amazing rapport with some of my customers -- one friend and her husband gave me tickets to the Nashville Opera, another brings candy, several have loaned or given me books (since anyone who spends time around me realizes I am a voracious reader.) One customer even stood in a long line just to say "hi." No, she wasn't even mailing anything -- she wanted me to meet her Mom who was visiting from New York. How special is that?!?
So even though I might not love my job, I love many of the people. And I also love what it allows me to do. I get a lot of vacation time, therefore I am able to travel extensively, and it also pays well enough that I am able to afford to travel extensively. But with this newfound contentment has also come a feeling of freedom. Instead of constantly feeling bogged down, I have begun to be productive again. Hence the revival of this blog along with several other writing endeavors (most notably as editor of the Nashville Harp Society website.)
But this week also brought another dream to fruition: the co-founding of an independent record label with my immensely talented best friend. We are initially producing her music, but down the line hope to sign other like-minded artists. She will head up the artist development end, and I will be working on the marketing and promotions end of it, which will be yet another outlet for my writing skills (I've already composed her full-length bio as well as the more abbreviated version for promo packs.)
So... if you're in need of well-traveled, music-loving writer who can also package and mail anything you want to anywhere in the world, I'm your woman.
I have split days off in my current position -- Sundays and Tuesdays for the past 3 years. It has it's advantages, but one of the larger disadvantages is never feeling like I get enough rest (which greatly contributes to my depression.) So when a position came open at another location with weekends off, I bid on the job -- and then almost immediately had reservations/regrets. Indecisive much? I had actually thought it through before bidding and thought I was doing the right thing, but when the panic set in almost immediately, I'm like "What have I done?" And with 25 years of seniority and no additional training required, I was pretty sure I was going to get the job and then be forced to take it. But then amazingly enough, I didn't get the job and I was happy I didn't. (Some doofus with FORTY-ONE YEARS seniority got the position. Seriously, dude? Why are you not sitting on your porch in a rocking chair already? Or out shooting something like a good Southerner?)
The relief was almost instantaneous and overwhelming, and I realized I'm right where I need to be and right where I need to stay. I'm literally 150 yards from my house to work. I can go home every day at lunch and check on mom and spend time with her. I can leave work almost any time I need to if an emergency arises. And I've built an amazing rapport with some of my customers -- one friend and her husband gave me tickets to the Nashville Opera, another brings candy, several have loaned or given me books (since anyone who spends time around me realizes I am a voracious reader.) One customer even stood in a long line just to say "hi." No, she wasn't even mailing anything -- she wanted me to meet her Mom who was visiting from New York. How special is that?!?
So even though I might not love my job, I love many of the people. And I also love what it allows me to do. I get a lot of vacation time, therefore I am able to travel extensively, and it also pays well enough that I am able to afford to travel extensively. But with this newfound contentment has also come a feeling of freedom. Instead of constantly feeling bogged down, I have begun to be productive again. Hence the revival of this blog along with several other writing endeavors (most notably as editor of the Nashville Harp Society website.)
But this week also brought another dream to fruition: the co-founding of an independent record label with my immensely talented best friend. We are initially producing her music, but down the line hope to sign other like-minded artists. She will head up the artist development end, and I will be working on the marketing and promotions end of it, which will be yet another outlet for my writing skills (I've already composed her full-length bio as well as the more abbreviated version for promo packs.)
So... if you're in need of well-traveled, music-loving writer who can also package and mail anything you want to anywhere in the world, I'm your woman.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
I saw a dead body Saturday evening, and I just can't seem to shake the image from my mind. Oh, it's not the first time I've seen death -- in fact, I've seen it up close and personal more times than I care to admit. But this was somehow different...
-----------
I am on my way to dinner at a fancy restaurant with some of my upscale friends, and I'm running late as usual, when up ahead in my lane I see flashing blues that have just come to a screeching stop. Not wanting to become part of the traffic stop/wreck, I quickly brake and move to the right-hand lane, as do the two cars immediately ahead of me. As we creep by the scene, I see there is only one car involved, and the officer is assessing the driver of that SUV. While my mind wonders if it were a hit-and-run, I glance over, and that's when I see him -- a young black male lying face down, half in the street and half in the grass of the median. My immediate thought is to slam on my brakes, pull off the side of the road and run to this boy. But something registers in my brain and tells me it is too late -- he is already dead, isn't he? That's why no one is attending to him, isn't it?
But why didn't I stop? Sure, the cop was flagging every car forward impatiently, trying to clear the scene for the impending arrival of other officers, an ambulance which surely must be on it's way... but why didn't I stop? I'm not one to blindly obey orders if I think they're wrong, so why did I pull away as the officer was beckoning me to do? Someone needed to be there for him, to pluck the grass from his hair, to hold his hand, to caress his face one last time... Oh God, why didn't I stop?
-------------
Dinner was an enjoyable affair -- great food, fine wine, and stimulating conversation. But my thoughts kept wandering back to that scene on the side of the road. So I drank a little too much, talked a little too much, and tried to shake the image from my mind of a young black man, lying lifeless, face down in the edge of the street.
------------
His name was Damon Donelson, and he was 15 years old. A solid student at Hillsboro High School and an all-around good kid, his grandmother trusted him enough to take the city bus to the East side where he was to get together with some friends. When he didn't return home that evening, his grandmother began to worry, but quelled her fears by thinking he must be staying with friends. When she was unable to reach him the next day after repeated attempts, his grandmother knew something was wrong. Deep in her bones, she knew something had happened to Damon.
------------
It took Metro police 3 days to make the connection between the missing persons report filed by Damon's grandmother, and the young man with no identification and a dead cell phone who was struck and killed by an SUV on Saturday night as he attempted to cross the parkway.
I guess we'll never know what made Damon run in front of an oncoming car at dusk on a beautiful Saturday night in October. Maybe it was the feeling of invincibility we all suffered through at that age. Whatever the reason, it will be a long time before I forget the sight of this young man, lying lifeless in the road. But I want to remember Damon Donelson, in the hopes that next time, I'll stop.
Let me begin by making the proclamation that Benadryl is a wonder drug. What prompted the rave review, you might ask? Allow me to recount the strange happenings of last night, and I'll see if you concur.
Yesterday was my day off, and instead of being productive in any way, shape or form, I spent the day piled up in bed, reading a wonderful writer I've discovered on LJ: snuffnyc. Her R&I fanfics are absolutelystellar, so I had to go back and read everything in order so as to be caught up for the next installment. Hey, I've got my priorities straight. OK, "straight" might not be the best choice of words, but I digress... About 11pm I called it a night, closed the Mac and drifted into peaceful sleep. Upon returning to bed after my 3am bathroom foray, I noticed that the palms of my hands were itching incessantly. And not just any ol' itch -- I'm talking "claw 'til you've drawn blood" kinda itching. After several minutes of this, the itching has spread to the soles of my feet. OK, this is getting kinda ridiculous. I can handle hand to hand combat, but now I've got 2 more appendages clamoring for my attention? This. Will not do.
I next progressed to palms and soles are blood red, fingers are swelling, along with elevated heart rate and rapid, shallow breathing, although I attribute these last 2 to dancing around my bedroom, stomping my feet on the hardwood floor. Hey, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, and the feet were late to the party. At this point, I'm looking for answers, so Google to the rescue. Newsflash: I'm suffering an allergic reaction of some sort. Wow, tell me something I don't know already. At this point, it's after 4am and I'm at a loss.
Time to call in the reinforcements. "Mom? Hope I didn't wake you, but I've got a problem." I then recounted the aforementioned symptoms, and she calmly tells me to get dressed and walk down to her place so she can see me. Living 2 doors up from Mom can be trying at times, but I've come to the conclusion one never gets so old as to stop needing Mom when they're sick. After a quick quizzing, Mom pronounces, "allergic reaction. Benadryl and call it a night." Hmmppfff... who needs Google when they've got Dr. Mom at their disposal?
I've now slept about 6 hours, I'm fuzzy from the drugs and I still itch a little, but this, I can manage. I'm now off to my house to investigate the cause of last night's histamine hysteria. Calling Rizzoli and Isles...
Yesterday was my day off, and instead of being productive in any way, shape or form, I spent the day piled up in bed, reading a wonderful writer I've discovered on LJ: snuffnyc. Her R&I fanfics are absolutelystellar, so I had to go back and read everything in order so as to be caught up for the next installment. Hey, I've got my priorities straight. OK, "straight" might not be the best choice of words, but I digress... About 11pm I called it a night, closed the Mac and drifted into peaceful sleep. Upon returning to bed after my 3am bathroom foray, I noticed that the palms of my hands were itching incessantly. And not just any ol' itch -- I'm talking "claw 'til you've drawn blood" kinda itching. After several minutes of this, the itching has spread to the soles of my feet. OK, this is getting kinda ridiculous. I can handle hand to hand combat, but now I've got 2 more appendages clamoring for my attention? This. Will not do.
I next progressed to palms and soles are blood red, fingers are swelling, along with elevated heart rate and rapid, shallow breathing, although I attribute these last 2 to dancing around my bedroom, stomping my feet on the hardwood floor. Hey, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, and the feet were late to the party. At this point, I'm looking for answers, so Google to the rescue. Newsflash: I'm suffering an allergic reaction of some sort. Wow, tell me something I don't know already. At this point, it's after 4am and I'm at a loss.
Time to call in the reinforcements. "Mom? Hope I didn't wake you, but I've got a problem." I then recounted the aforementioned symptoms, and she calmly tells me to get dressed and walk down to her place so she can see me. Living 2 doors up from Mom can be trying at times, but I've come to the conclusion one never gets so old as to stop needing Mom when they're sick. After a quick quizzing, Mom pronounces, "allergic reaction. Benadryl and call it a night." Hmmppfff... who needs Google when they've got Dr. Mom at their disposal?
I've now slept about 6 hours, I'm fuzzy from the drugs and I still itch a little, but this, I can manage. I'm now off to my house to investigate the cause of last night's histamine hysteria. Calling Rizzoli and Isles...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)