The neurologists have decided to phase out phenytoin from my morning cocktail. The latest blood test has shown it yet again to be at a sub-therapeutic level (the technical term for being as useful as the title of this post). I don’t know what my body is doing with the higher-than-usual amount of phenytoin going into my body daily but it’s clearly not using it wisely. They are going to introduce my body to another anti-seizure drug and hope that it’s a match made in heaven to cease the seizing.
On that basis, we’ll see how it goes over the weekend (seizure and side-effects wise) and then I can hopefully be transferred to Chez Turner on Monday/Tuesday. I’ve thought about it a lot over the last week or so and, while it’s not what I’d choose (although, that said, given a choice between the seizures and the Squatter, it’d be no contest), even if the seizures don’t stop entirely, I’d take a seizure once a day (on average) as long as they remain self-terminating and last a minute or two. Mr H said last night that I need to prepare myself for such a scenario (great minds think alike).
I just met one of the epileptic nurses and she said that the goal is still to get me seizure-free but it’s important to think about the safety aspects of having a seizure at home. She said the common triggers for seizures are tiredness, stress, alcohol and drugs. It’s hard to explain why I’m having seizures when I’ve got three out of four of those triggers…
Absence Makes The Jobs List Bigger
I finally saw my husband yesterday for the first time since Sunday. He kept his distance given that he still has tonsillitis, but it was nonetheless still lovely to see him in the flesh as opposed to via FaceTime.
In a loving way, I told him that one of the nurses (Gordon) had said that he nearly didn’t recognise my hubby with a beard. I added that Graham reminded Gordon of Tom Hanks in Cast Away! That set the tone for our reunion. I added some jobs to his to-do list for good measure. I hope that Graham was reassured that ’twas ever thus.
I think that was the longest I’ve gone without seeing Graham since I was four days’ late for a train in 2010! That was a deal-related delay in travelling back from London rather than tonsillitis-related attention-seeking.
Laces Out (Part Two)
Yesterday, I had my 24 staples removed. Here they are:
A few of them were slightly more painful than the removal of my seven staples from the biopsy, which had felt like a discomforting tugging. The pain of those troublesome staples yesterday, however, was fleeting and caused a brief wince rather than an expletive, much like whipping off a plaster would.
It seems too small a gesture but it would equally feel remiss of me not to end this post on Armistice Day with a tribute to all of those lost to war. I fear greatly that the lessons of history are not being heeded:
Dulce et Decorum Est, by Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime …
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under I green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.