Seizures SUCK.

Two days ago, I woke up, tired, after only six hours of sleep. Not awful, but I had been abnormally tired over the past week. The previous afternoon, I had a 3 hour long nap, and felt I could have slept another three hours.

I also had a muffin for breakfast, a few slices of pizza for lunch, plus a bit of water, then some gelato afterward. Probably what some people would consider not bad for meals, but it wasn't enough for me.

Finally, I went to a choral concert, invited by a friend of mine. It was fine, but I was just exhausted throughout the entire thing. I was invited for canapés and drinks with said friend's family, but politely demurred, partially because of my fatigue.

I came home, saw Mr. Man in the bedroom watching Mad Men, and joined him, just laying down on the bed.

...

Next I knew, I found myself in a wheelchair at the nearest hospital, utterly exhausted and unable to comprehend much of what was going on around me. Mr. Man finally told me (as he probably had numerous times over the previous half hour) that I had had a grand mal seizure. First one in eight years, almost to the day. I'd like to say that the news frustrated me at the time, but I was so wiped out, I could barely feel anything, and was only just capable of performing simple tasks like going to the bathroom. Mr. Man took excellent care of me, getting me situated, and making sure I was okay until the nurse or PA or whomever took me back to rest about 10 minutes later. I got an IV in the back of my hand and a bit of Ativan (my least favorite drug EVER), just to take the edge off, and tried my best to answer basic questions given to me by the nurse, missing only one ("What month is it? What's your name? Do you know what happened?"). My parents showed up a bit later, certainly concerned, but in my stupor, I couldn't really read their expressions. Still, at least I was secure and being watched over. And atypically, I didn't have a pounding headache, nor was I really all that tired after a bit. But my tongue was chewed up pretty badly (still is, in fact), and I was more or less a lump of clay, just sitting there, trying to engage everyone in conversation, and (I'm sure) failing badly. Finally, after a few hours, when it was evident that I had stabilized, I was released, and Mr. Man took me home for some dinner and some rest.

Only the next day did I realize how much I had scared him. He had asked me a question in the bedroom, and noticed that I wasn't answering him. Then he looked over and saw a weird grimace on my face and my arms starting to spasm, and he freaked out. I'll spare you the details, but he thought I looked possessed. I can't imagine what it must feel like to see someone you love suddenly going through something so frightening, suddenly unconscious, yet jerking uncontrollably for minutes on end, then seeing them collapse and not breathe for up to a minute, sometimes more...then seeing them gasping for breath while barely coming to. You can't do anything to help them in the meantime, other than just keeping them safe from themselves and anything around them that might harm them. And you never, NEVER put anything in a seizing person's mouth! Want said thing to break off and puncture their palate? Want to lose a finger? Didn't think so. Tongues and sides of the mouth heal. Scary at the time, but really, they heal uneventfully.

Also on the next day, I felt fine. Perhaps a bit tired, and I had a hard time talking because my ragged tongue was swollen, but otherwise, no issues...almost as if nothing had happened the day before. Mr. Man and I went shopping around town, but nothing too taxing. And I slept well and ate well.

...

Two days ago marked the eighth seizure I've had in my lifetime. And let me tell you...they SUCK. So miserable. Only six of them have been actually witnessed and diagnosed; the first two were never discovered. Only years later, after putting symptoms together, did I realize that some unexplained symptoms I'd had (pounding headache, confusion, extreme exhaustion) made sense. I've been on medication for much of my life...coming on fully half, actually, to be accurate. The times I've had seizures since, I believe, could be chalked up to suboptimal levels of meds in my blood for one reason or another (not taking meds, taking supplements that speed up the metabolism of meds, being overweight), and it's frustrating and frightening.

For me, perhaps the worst part of having a seizure is the legal inability to drive for six months afterward. I love to drive. I love my car. And I will miss it sorely until December 24th. But also, poor Mr. Man is justifiably concerned also because the last time I had a seizure, I began to feel trapped and purely under his control. And it wasn't long after I got my freedom/car back, that I began to exult in my freedom and...uh...look around. I found myself in what then seemed an innocent affair, but it honestly came thisclose to breaking us apart over the next year and a half. I'm ashamed of it, and really, really don't want to open myself up to that again. I know what a great thing I have in Mr. Man, and I'm not willing to shatter it.

So there's what will probably amount to the excitement of 2013. I will do what I can to get by, but it's going to be tough for the next six months. Wish us luck. (I say us, because it will inevitably be a team effort.)

I'd like to be positive...I just don't have the energy.

Things that really don't affect me, (despite everyone around me insisting that they do, or else they wouldn't be posting them on Facebook with such gravitas and insistence), and my admittedly asshole-ish responses.

• James Gandolfini - Really could care less. I never watched The Sopranos. Never had any desire to. My interest, passing as it was, with the Mafia began and ended with watching Goodfellas. Joe Pesci's "You think I'm funny?" scene was beyond chilling, but holy paregoric, Batman, I am forevermore turned off of "Layla" because of that neverending...uh...ending. And the movie was just fuckin' deathless. Anyhoo, the guy never did a thing for me. As my oh-so-compassionate dad would say, "We all die. It just happens. Move on." (Said most recently about my sister-in-law's mom dying suddenly of cancer, while said sister-in-law was still, understandably, grieving a few months later.)
• Paula Deen - A Southern woman being racist. Is this where I'm supposed to act shocked? Pass the butter, please.
• Another of my colleagues - First off, let me say that I'm a traitor to the cause, and my colleagues are becoming less and less my people every day. I've mentioned my annoyance with astrology and a certain doc's reliance on it for her life's direction (despite the fact that, yes indeed, I do fit the picture of a Pisces perfectly), but this post, with no context whatsoever, implying its universal application, just...I just can't. "Hang on to your haciendas. There is a huge energetic clearing afoot. Trade 'pushing through it' to surrendering to the moment today..."
• Still, anything bear-related - For me, this is the equivalent of girls/women looking at fashion magazines and the perfect models therein, and alternately desiring those bodies for themselves, and seething with jealousy, frustration, and self-loathing that no matter how they try, they will never be able to measure up. And yes, I am going to one of the biggest bear-related events of the year (a good friend is on this page, bottom center.) I have such mixed emotions about it. Anyhow, I see endless posts about this bear event, that woofy guy (worst term ever, by the way), this bear group, and I die a bit inside. How ironic that the bear community sprang from annoyance about big hairy guys not fitting into the clone/twink culture of the '70s and '80s. I'm closer to being a bear than a twink or a clone, but nope, it ain't me. I know, I know...breathe, breathe, you're perfect as you are, don't compare yourself to others, just be yourself...sometimes it ain't easy.

Maybe this means that I should spend less time on Faceplace, or just cull my friends more judiciously. Of course, the whole Gandolfini worship and anguish seems pretty endemic, so I'll just have to ride this one out.

Um...I invented Post-Its.

Nope...looking at pictures, of my 20th high school reunion, I still do not regret not going. Actually feel a bit of relief and vindication about the whole thing, to be honest. A varied assortment of folks I did not get along with then, and around whom I would still have been uncomfortable now. There were, to be sure, a few friends scattered here and there, but they reside here in town, and it'd be easy enough to catch up with 'em. But otherwise...I kinda like Don Draper's assessment of his life: "My life goes in one direction. Forward." Doesn't mean I always adhere to it (witness my high school avuncularisms...and college may be burbling beneath the surface here, too), but it can come in handy. Particularly when justifying not going to high school reunions.

And thus ends a quick one. Off to begin the work week.

The grumpy old contrarian strikes!

- I do not like David Sedaris.
- I do not like alcohol...at least, in huge amounts.
- I am a natural doctor who has little interest in nutrition.
- In particular, I hate pushing nutritional supplements.
- It is "brrr" when describing how cold you feel. Not "burrr." That's a misspelling of a thorn. So there.
- I hate Michelangelo Signorile. Simply because he has such an infuriatingly long, pretentious name that's hard to pronounce. And he insists on the full version, too. I don't care that he's a gay activist/writer. Of course he's gay. No one who's straight would go by "Michelangelo" nowadays, unless they're Italian.
- David Beckham can suck my left nut.
- And Victoria Beckham can rot for all I care. She's not worthy to suck either of my nuts.
- Not going to my 20 year high school reunion. The people all in charge of it were the people I abhorred back in the day. The pictures they're posting (particularly of 20 years ago) nauseate me. And if people really want to see how I'm doing, it's not like I'm hard to find online. (Only thing that may change my mind: if the Silver Skating Dame herself actually ends up showing up, but that's kinda doubtful. She keeps a pretty low profile online as well.)
- I'm not gluten free. And I won't go gluten free until I personally decide it's worth it, despite what the vast majority of my colleagues say.

Speaking of where my colleagues and I are concerned:
- I am NOT a fan of Breitenbush Hot Springs.
- I am not a fan of much that is new-agey.
- I HAAATE, with a withering hatred, The Four Agreements.
- I likewise hate the egomaniac Wayne Dyer. (Publishing an audiobook where you recite the Tao te Ching, then give your personal interpretation of it immediately pushes you into the realm of douchebaggery.)
- Many of my colleagues with whom I shared Portland for four years, believe that the sterile, often warehouse-like Powell's Books is the best bookstore in the universe. These ignorant, misguided dolts have never been to Tattered Cover here in Denver.

Obviously, you'll see more. Go ahead and judge me as bitter. So are you, deep inside. Give in to it. Cold pricklies are your friends.