First, I would like to thank the Steem or Hive community for all the emotional support, it really means a lot.
Unfortunately, I don’t have good news, and at the moment, I feel absolutely dreadful: I have a terrible migraine, spinal pain, can’t eat, can’t sleep, waves of nausea and I’m having trouble thinking, so I’m not even sure if I should be writing this.
The neurologist found that the pressure on my brain is so high that I’m on the verge of blindness and if it increases by a few points I will die. To make matters worse, depression is known for increasing the pressure by a considerable amount, well over the point of my demise, so, I can’t even get sad about this, how fucked up is that!?
At first the neurologist offered a little hope, instructing that if I were to lose 30 lbs, the pressure might decrease, but then he began back peddling, claiming that I’m not fat enough.
“I’m a fat bastard!” I blurted out, while clutching at my belly as proof, but he wasn’t convinced. What I really don’t want to admit is that I had all these symptoms even when I was underweight, so, what the fuck does this mean, that I’m about to die?
Here’s my rational, I’m only a little overweight, but I’m definitely considered globally weak, because I have cerebral palsy; maybe having no muscles actually puts me into a grossly obese category even though my body still appears normal: soft, supple and ready for a good time. So I’m thinking that exercise should save me.
I honestly can’t believe that we’ve got all these Boss Hoggs managing to live-the-dream at the all-you-can-eat-buffet, when I’m just a Krispy Kream and a sad memory away from a dirt nap, it makes no fucking sense. I wish I was strong enough to strangle someone, some fucker who really deserves it, I mean, if I’m going terminal, why not, right?
So, now I’m in this crazy situation where my only option is to rapidly loose weight, but God forbid I do any cardio, because that adds more pressure. Also, sleep adds so much pressure that every morning I wake up blind and somehow I’ve managed to convince myself that this is normal.
As you can imagine, Sarah is freaking out, with the notion of me not waking up tomorrow, so, now she’s brewing up these weird potions and making me do some eerie Druidic-looking dance called Tai Chi. Imagine trying to not get depressed when after ten minutes of larping in slow motion, Sarah hands me a rapidly bubbling concoction, while chanting “Quit being a baby! It’s just vitamin C, bicarb and vegetable glycerine!”
To be honest, her magic brews and Salem-witch-dances sound a lot better than the side-effect-ridden pills that the neurologist is offering and I hate to say that I know better than the doctors, but I’m beginning to realize that I don’t trust the NHS.
What they didn’t tell me until just before the procedure, was that he was only performing it for diagnostic purposes and the pressure would only remain low for a few hours and trust me, these were some of the worst hours of my life. Imagine the sensation of experiencing liquids slowly, brute forcing their way into every crevice of your brain and it’s still happening right now. So sometimes when I speak it sounds like, “Sarah, will you bring me a nuh-nuh-nuh… Fucking hell!”
To top it all off, the neurologist wants me to come back to the hospital tomorrow to see some special consultant, but I haven’t even started taking the prescription yet, because I’m allergic to that family of drugs. So, the neurologist is half expecting an allergic reaction, and he went into great detail on who to call when the blisters show up. Then, while I was attempting to remember the number that would save me from small pocks, he got all serious: “I must warn you! The first few days are going to be hell! Try to get through them and the side effects should begin to wear off.” and with that, I forgot everything.
At the moment, I’m not even well enough to google the side-effects and I’m definitely in no shape to be swallowing capsules full of misery. I really just want to skip my appointment and to tell the NHS to fuck off, because I need more time and I feel like I’ve got vultures, each with different agendas, circling me. I suspect that saving the life of some dirty foreigner is the last thing they’re interested in, it feels more like they’re just documenting everything with indifference for some royal medical book titled: “Peasants And Their Symptoms.”
I’m not going to take this lying down, fuck their stupid opinions! I’ll lose weight regardless, while drinking some crazy shit and who knows, maybe I’ll outlive all those fucking doctors. God, I wish I lived in the good ol’ days, when we were still allowed to kill the messenger, because I would be having a field day.
Anyways, I haven’t even called my family back in America, because I honestly don’t know how to downplay this, so, unfortunately, there’s a possibility they will find out from this post.
This really isn’t good, but all I can do is laugh, because of how ridiculous the situation is. I mean we’re probably all just overreacting, there’s no way I’m actually going to die, right?…
While writing this I think I’ve managed to experience every stage that grief has to offer, because my emotions are literally all over the map; I guess I’m back into denial and I think that’s where I need to be, because denial offers some hope.
Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead posting something this personal and downbeat, because I really like to suffer in silence, but I keep thinking of others that have or will receive news like this. If they see me openly broadcasting my extremely flawed reactions to bad news, they might find it relatable and maybe it will help them resolve their emotions; allow them to complain or even lash out, without all the guilt.