Sanity? Who needs it...?

Well, I've resisted temptation to blog for so long, just knowing that my life isn't really that interesting. I don't have any world-changing ideas, I don't go out doing great works, and I'm definitely not one of the "it" people. Then again, how many people in the world are just like me? Average human beings with baggage that either stays locked inside, or gets released in diaries, blogs, conversations...

I hate the thought of pity, so please don't bother pitying anything I put down. It's catharsis to release my thoughts into the world wide web, and maybe someone out there will think "Hey, I know where you're coming from" and nod sagely. Others might think "Why are you not in a mental institution?" and they probably have a point.

Are we all insane to some degree? What is sanity anyway, and do I really need it when I can have more fun being me? Some of the things that have happened to me over the past few years would probably have sent some into an assylum, and I can't say I'd blame them. I'm one of the lucky ones though: I have family that have supported me through the bad years. My mum and dad are, for me, the best people in the world. They listen and love unconditionally, comfort through the bad times and share the good ones with the joy that is appropriate.

It's a support that I've needed recently. I've not really spoken too much about me of late. I try not to, because, like I say, I hate pity. People pitying me makes me depressed, because I start wondering if it is as bad as they are seeing. I work within my limitations, try not to be a burden to my poor, suffering husband who has to put up with my manic mood swings as I fight against my limitations and lose, sometimes worse than other times, and the frustration that ebbs and flows through every day. It's the same. Every day, the same frustrations, the same limitations, the same old blah existence.

I laugh off the questions of why I have to walk with a stick. I have vertigo. I joke that I can't stand being five foot two. People think vertigo is a fear of heights, and it's not. It's a balance disorder that has so many contributing factors or root causes, and nearly a year after mine started, we are still no closer to finding out the root cause of mine, or even if it's permanent.

It's silly really. It all started with sore feet. When I say sore feet, I really mean it, to the point where walking was agony, but I still had to do it, although I stayed sat whenever I could. It worked its way up into my knees, and at that point, I decided it wasn't going to get better on its own and went to see my doctor. Several blood tests later, and they work out I have a thyroid problem. Don't ask... Thyroid gland in neck, sore feet. I couldn't work it out either. Anyway, that was the diagnosis, so I got sent off for all sorts of scans to find out what was going on. I had a lump on my thyroid. This was bad news in all sorts of ways for me. I had skin cancer when I was much younger, and it is always something that is in the back of my mind. Is this going to come back and bite me in the ass (or neck) however many years later?

Anyway, they stuck a needle in it (yes, it really is as unpleasant as it sounds) to find out what was going on, and whether it was a bad lump or just an annoying one. By that point, I could feel it when I swallowed, which was quite unpleasant. It was like having something lodged in your throat, but it was merely uncomfortable. They decided it was inconclusive. I had been given the choice of killing it off with radioactive iodine, or having it cut out. I decided to go for the latter option, because if it was a bad lump, it would have to be cut out anyway, so let's just cut to the chase, do the deed and get it over with.

I named my lump Eric, for reasons I best not go into, which caused no end of amusement for people, some of whom looked at me strangely when I said I'd named it. I have a morbid sense of humour, and it helps to look at the silly side of things occasionally. It was either that or get all depressed about it (which I did anyway, but that's besides the point, and it was a lot less depressed than if I couldn't laugh about it). My surgeon thought I was mad, but he went along with it anyway, and probably to humour me, always referred to the lump as "Eric". Blessim. He's a lovely man.

Anyway, I left my work on the 21st of June last year thinking I would be back in a fortnight, hedging for three weeks, just in case. I went into hospital the next day, and in typical me style, I had made friends by the time I'd been in there an hour. I like to have people to talk to, and it's always fun meeting new people. I had all my measurements done: height (short), weight (OMG, I so need to diet), pulse (yes, I do have one, thank you) and all the other silly things they do, including sending the vampires round to leech out more of my blood.

I went in on my own, with himself having to work that day. I'm not scared of hospitals. Frankly the food scares me more than anything they could do to me. Hospitals are the only places on earth I know that can serve ice cream that looks and feels like ice cream, but it's warm! The tea's not too bad though, if you can manage to get one off the wee lady who pushes the trolley round. More about that later though...

...By the way... I forgot to warn you... I take ages to get me started talking. The problem then is stopping me....

Back to the plot...

So there's me, sat in hospital, reading, chatting to the other people in the ward, mooching around general, but not going too far so I don't miss the tea trolley. I'm a tea junkie. I live for my cuppas. Always have done, but I'm getting off the story again...

I napped, slept, listened to music, chatted, read and waitied till it was my turn to go into theatre the next day. Off I toddled, right on cue in my terribly flattering backless gown and robe, into theatre. I don't know about anyone else, but I just love that feeling where they inject you with the first anaesthetic. The light, floaty feeling where everything just drifts into fluffy clouds. Then they do the other one, and your hand goes cold, then the lights go out...

I woke up in recovery later, and annoyed the nurse a bit by trying to take off my oxygen mask. I get claustrophobic in those things. Silly, I know, but I do, and I seriously didn't want it on my face. She was insistent though, and the mask stayed, much to my disappointment. I went back to sleep in a fit of pique. I woke up again when they decided to move me off the recovery trolley and into bed. Now there's a panic and a half... They'd just cut my throat open and stitched it shut again. I felt as limp as a rag doll, and because they'd been poking about, pulling muscles all over the place, I couldn't hold my head up. The panic I felt was unbelievable. I wanted to hold my chin down, but couldn't. I couldn't speak either to ask them to hold my head because the thyroid is right behind the vocal chords, so speaking was off the menu till that bit recovered from being pulled about as well.

It must have been hell for himself, who had managed to get into the hospital just as they were busy slitting my throat. I would have preferred him to be there before, but it didn't happen. So there I was, crying because I couldn't communicate my fear any other way whole the nurses moved me back to my bed. I made it without incident, my drip and my drain tethering me to the bed. Yup, drain, you read that right. A nice tube in my throat taking away any bruise blood to stop the swelling that could have ripped my stitches out. Charming eh? I must have looked so utterly delightful.

So I'm a terrible patient. Decidedly independant. I was told I had to have company and help if I wanted to get out of bed and go to the toilet. You must be joking! I don't "do" company in the loo, and if I can make it under my own steam, I don't need nursemaiding about either. By the time I'd become more awake and alert, I'd worked out how to detatch my drain from my bed and reattach it. Freedom! I could go to the toilet on my own... Well, almost... I was a bit wobbly, but I had my drip stand to wheel about and keep me company, so I leaned on that and sneaked off while the nurses were busy. I made it back to bed before I could get told off. They told me off anyway.

The nights were the worst I think. All quiet apart from the occasional snores and the squeak of nurses comfortable shoes on the flooring. They dropped by every couple of hours to check on me as I lay and read, napped, read some more, and generally didn't sleep much. It's kinda difficult to sleep when you've had your throat cut. It's just a tad uncomfortable. I was getting everything checked and tested every couple of hours, so I didn't get too lonely in the night. The nurses were really nice, and I don't know if they appreciated the fact I was awake and compliant when they did the observations. I was anyway.

My surgeon dropped in the next day to see how I was doing, and was most surprised that I could talk almost normally, and tell him I was fine. I also chastised him for the lack of Eric in a jar, and the really small scar. I wanted something grim to show friends, and a piratical look (I told you I had a morbid sense of humour. Now do you believe me?) but he was quite apologetic, and so nice, I let him off. I forgot to tell him about the numbness I'd noticed on my face a few hours before. Well, I couldn't feel it, and the bit on the bottom lip I assumed was from the tube during the op. I decided to tell him next time he was round, but by then I'd forgotten again.

They kept me in an extra day because my normally boringly normal blood pressure had decided to visit my boots for a short period of time. Bah humbug. More hospital food. The day they let me out, himself had serious car trouble and I didn't get out till about eight at night on the Friday. I was happy to be home, and just wanted to sleep. I ended up on the sofa for a fortnight because I couldn't lie with my head back on the pillows. It was too uncomfortable.

I'd noticed a distinct lack of balance when I was poddling about the ward, but I assumed that it was to do with the anaesthetic. Two weeks later, and I still had it. Delayed reaction? I went to the doctor. No clues there. I mentioned the numbness. It might pass. It didn't. It got worse. Two weeks later and I'm still not able to get around too well. I was walking like a drunk and still unable to go back to work. The dizziness was causing insomnia (You try sleeping when the bed is doing a good impression of a fairground ride) and I wasn't functioning too well as a human being. Zombie was closer to the truth. I was drinking tea and spending large amounts of time either parked in front of the television watching rubbish, or sat in front of the computer talking to old friends and new.

I slept for maybe an hour or two a day during those dark days, sleep punctuated by nightmares that would wake me up in cold sweats after being in bed for maybe an hour. I tried sleeping tablets. I got two hours in before the nightmares hit. It was hell, and I had to live it. I had to live it quietly and not complain too much, laugh it off, wander round the house like a drunk zombie and drink water on the days when my balance wouldn't let me boil a kettle.

Months of tests and specialists have turned into nearly a year. I will pass another birthday and this time I won't be able to think of celebrating. What do I have to celebrate? My work understandably needed someone who could get there and do the job, so I got Ill Health Severance. I didn't appeal the decision. I thought about it, but on a good day I could only see more waiting for specialists and a possible cure before I would be fit. On black days I could see nothing but a shell of a life, one where every day is the same.

The black days come and go. I wonder sometimes what earthly good I really am now. I can't walk far. I have to use a stick to get around and I walk like an old lady. I have trouble some days even thinking of getting into my kitchen and cooking a meal. Himself has to put up with microwave food and ready meals, when one of my great joys in life was cooking.

Ah well, I have another appointment coming up in July. I wonder if I will get an answe then, or if it will still be as clear as mud. They've tried everything to find out what's caused it. It wasn't the cut throat, because that's the neck, nothing to do with facial nerves or balance centres. It's nothing to do with any brain disorder. The MRI came up with nothing.

On the good side of things, the thyroid op was a complete success. No more lump, no Eric Junior, but I have a low-dose thyroxine that I will have to take for the rest of my life, because the half of my thyroid that's left is being lazy and not producing quite enough.

I suppose it's made me evaluate my life a bit. It's made me realise that friends are important. I get stuck in my house for days on end, and having people to talk to has stopped me going insane. Or has it? Is this the first sign of insanity? Talking to myself and talking to the world about a problem that really only concerns me if truth be told. It's my problem and I have to deal. Perhaps this will help. Perhaps sharing this bit of me with whomever can be bothered reading my vast quantities of... I don't know what to call it really... will help me find a path through the darkness that haunts my sleep and tinges my waking hours.

I've taken so much for granted. My independence, my friends, my family. This last year has made me look deeper into myself than any other time in my life, and while I've not particularly liked some of the bits I've found in there, there's other bits I can pull out and say "Yes, that was a good time".

Every day I wake up, wander round, hate my dependance. Every day I wonder if I will ever be me again, or if I'm destined to remain this other thing that isn't me. I'm not dependant. I'm not reliant on the charity and help of others. That's not me. That definitely isn't me, but it's what my life is. Every day I look into the abyss of a life like that forever, and I wonder if I can do it. Every day I need to find the strength and determination to go and do something, anything, to just find a little bit of the old me. Every day I hide behind a front of cheerfulness and cry when I'm on my own and feel the abyss looking back at me. Every day I talk to people on the computer who can't see my stick, and I talk banalities, brushing off questions about how I am, because I don't want to admit anything to myself. Every day I try and find the motivation to push my limits, and I don't always succeed.

Every day is the same. Every day is exactly the same.