Lotiony hair, don't care

I made it! The work week is over.

This was illness and self-misdiagnosis week. It was also hell week, which is when all three leadership programs happen. It was also the week immediately following the Vancouver vacation. (I had a great time and will pester A for pictures so I can share that fun with you.)

We got back Sunday evening, and immediately went to celebrate N's birthday. I left by 8 and was happy to come home. Monday I went to work and felt exhausted, of course, but around noon I started having stomach and back pain. I took a couple ibuprofen and felt better. After work I went home and napped, then woke to find an angrier stomach. I went to kickball, but between my stomach, my exhaustion, and my nonstop hip pain since early March, I limped and lurched sadly around as catcher. We actually won that game, since the other team didn't have enough players show up in the freezing cold, so we donated a couple of ours and played for fun. Only girls are allowed to bunt, so every girl on their team bunted, because I couldn't move very well. Well, all except Sarah. Sarah's not a bunting kind of girl.

After the game, I was in worse pain and I was sore and tired and whiny. I took another couple ibuprofen, but it was clear by 1am that those were doing nothing, so I started doing research.

Oh jeez, the diagnosis adventure I have been on this week. The list of possibilities laid out by me and several nurses, a doctor, and coworkers covers a wide, entertaining to alarming range. Let's just summarize this one by telling you I still have pain in my belly and back, but the symptoms have improved greatly. I've got an appointment with my doctor next week and we'll just deal then. And yes, I will go back in if things get all crazy again. It's been miserable. I stayed home on Tuesday after my early morning ER visit and (don't be alarmed- that's kind of like urgent care) and again on Wednesday when I was still in awful pain and couldn't wear pants. My boss said she knew it was bad when I didn't come in to teach my class. My coworker was prepared to cover it, thankfully. Thursday I went in and was doing pretty well- did my writing presentation in an oxycodone cloud, then made the dire mistake of eating actual food for lunch, and had to run home to get rid of it. I went out and stocked up on Gatorade, diet ginger ale, saltines, tea, and bread for dry toast.

But today... today was the class I'm taking- the one I can't miss. If I miss a class, I'll have to make it up next year and graduate with that group. To hell with that.

Oh god, I wish I could tell you about the last 24 hours, but it's WTMI. It was so awful, and I was up sick all night. I dragged myself into class, though, and it wasn't looking good through the first half of the day. People were checking on me, and the nurse in class told me she was worried. My boss and a classmate brought me crackers and tea, which was the kindest thing ever, and I paced in a small circle in the corner. It got better as the afternoon wore on, and by the end of class, the nurse informed me that my color had returned. I got called a trouper, which always feels nice.

I'm feeling like a trouper lately- for being afraid and checking out the crazy heights on my trip anyway, for keeping myself calm in a prop plane landing in Reno on a very gusty day, for doing my 45 minute presentation while hurty, and for dealing with today. I had a scary, panicked moment last night when my symptoms seemed to align with appendicitis (they really don't, but it was late and I was stressed) and I was convinced that I had screwed up royally and was going to rupture that thing. I found the weirdest solution ever, which was to allow my brain to follow that through and say ok, if that did happen, what would happen next?

It's odd- I don't seem any good at stopping the anxiety, and maybe the key for me is to just not. I love this saying that the only way out is through, and I read recently that that's a big component to PTSD. People get stuck in the trauma when they don't get a chance to work through it.

I have things on file that I keep in my brain for bad times. I saw a funny video compilation on YouTube years ago, and one clip was a truck that overturned, sending a bunch of cows rolling out onto the road. It horrified me, not only because I felt terrible for the cows, but also because who the hell thought that was funny? Maybe you just did. Sorry. It's not meant to make you feel bad, and maybe you're of the mindset that it already happened and it was funny surprising more than funny ha-ha. It just made me feel really bad, long after the cows ever did. When I feel awful about the world, I add whatever self-flogging I'm currently doing into a file called Things That Make Me Feel Awful and review everything in it while I'm there. The cows are imprinted because I keep accessing that memory.

On the other hand, perhaps you remember me writing about the rat that I watched get run over. That made me feel really bad, and you know how bad that felt, because you read about it here. The rat is not in the Awful file, though, because I processed it. I wonder if (and hope that) the cows leave the file now that I have actually taken that thought out of my head and written it down.

So I have always loved drama and trauma stories, and what pulls me is not morbid fascination, but that one desperate, human moment where everything either works out or doesn't. I love the details of that moment- slowing it down and looking at it from every direction, and weighing the decisions made- the whys and the what ifs. Following through on my appendix fear and creating a mental screenplay allowed me to imagine a dramatic moment where I could be heroically stoic. It took me away from panic and into a game plan. If it really had been my appendix, the plan would have immediately veered off in another direction as plans do (definitely one that involved me crying), but thinking about any game plan is better than panic.

In my class today, we were doing a listening exercise that involved sharing a problem and receiving suggestions. Someone told me to make a pros and cons list about mine, which might seem obvious, but it was an interesting challenge to have to quantify my concerns. Are there really that many reasons not to go after this thing that I want, or am I just conflating a bunch of fears? Instead of trying to stop all anxiety or allowing it to stew, maybe the thing to do is give it a voice. It seems the worst that could happen is that I end up with writing fodder. Maybe I can write fiction after all.

Look at me processing and learning and growing and doing hard things. Last night was truly awful, and I knew I'd be exhausted today, but I was going to class anyway. I finally got to sleep around 5:15 and got up when my alarm went off at 6. I took a shower and thought about not washing my hair because I'd just washed it yesterday, but decided to be as put together as possible while being a disassembled mess internally. I was all impressed with myself for functioning on no sleep and making it out of the house, but just at the point when I started feeling like a smart and capable adult in control of her body and mind this afternoon, I reached up and ran my hand through my hair and realized with horror that I never washed the conditioner out. At least I looked as bad as I felt.