I wake up. My head hurts. My body hurts. It feels like I have whiplash. The good news is my speech is a little less stuttery, my tremors are less pronounced.
I’m nervous. Today I see the neurologist my doctor got me into. I’m confident my ultrasound will show everything is just fine. Look an IUD! It’s there! Suck it up and deal
I’m nervous about the neurologist. What if he says I’m faking it? I’m beginning to doubt myself. Am I making myself twitch? Could I make it all stop if I wanted to? No. I definitely truly experienced a response to lidocaine in Dr. McHH’s office. I know this is true. What about at the hospital? No. My whole body was so out of control. That was real. Still.
Honestly, sometimes it feels like I could. I could just stand up and go and carry on like normal. Of course, this lasts a few seconds until the facial twitches start or someone tries to talk to me. I continually test myself to see if I am at a point that I could get back to work.
Things I know:
If both hands are holding onto something tightly, like a laundry basket, the tremors go elsewhere. Usually, my eyes are forced closed.
If I think hard, I can stop things for a moment. But then I feel all the energy build up and then it explodes. I have to let it release.
I can let the tremors out in different ways. Like sometimes my hand gets really exhausted from shaking. I can rest it on my lap and it will pulse, but then more whole body has to rock back and forth.
It’s surprising that I can type. Since my hands are in use, I twitch constantly in my face, one or two feet shake, and my body rocks back and forth. My left pinky likes to get in on the action too.
Sometimes if I get talking, the stuttering gets a little better. Maybe my facial muscles are releasing? It does mean my body compensates by rocking.
What I do know is that I am doing better than I was a week ago today when I was admitted to Danish Blueberry Mound.
My friend, Colleen, shows up at 2 pm. She has brought me an almond croissant as requested. Colleen is my driver for a trip downtown to the neurologist and diagnostic imaging. In the car, she lays a weighted blanket in the shape of a dog on me (because she knows how much I like dogs. I don’t. I am generally am terrified of animals). She offers to not speak and listen to a book on Audible. She is too cute.
I want to talk. Colleen is one of my friends that I never feel self conscious around and we never run out of things to talk about. She has 3 kids as well. An afternoon without children? Speak we shall!
We talk about teaching (she is also a middle school teacher), we talk about religion (she is thinking about becoming Catholic), and she asks the hard questions, the ones no one else would dare ask and I appreciate it.
Do I blame the doctor? No.
Do I want to sue? No not right now, although I’m still not happy about Danish Blueberry Mound.
Have you considered taking the rest of the year off from school? No. Absolutely not. I want to go back. I love the group of kids I have this year. The visiting team for accreditation for International Baccalaureate is coming this Spring. I need to be there. I’m in charge of taking the 6th graders to camp in May! It won’t be the same without me, although I know my partner teacher could do it.
When do you think you will go back? When I can drive, speak clearly, and my facial twitches calm down. I teach with a hand tremor. Maybe I will do a slow start, like teach a half day and see how I respond. In all honesty, I don’t know when that will be.
While Colleen gets gas and parks, I head inside. I take the elevator to the 7th floor. I keep my eyes averted. I don’t want anyone to look at me. I get to the neurologist. I have no patience for this intake form’s questions.
What brings you in today? I had a bad reaction to lidocaine. I want an EEG.
Do you have any questions you would like to discuss? Why is this happening?
I don’t wait long. The Doc Y is nice. He seems concerned and doesn’t make me retell the whole story, just the highlights for clarification. He’s read the notes in my chart. Doc Y does the same tests everyone else does. Grab his fingers, push, pull, resist. My body has decided to be kind enough to twitch and tremor full throttle.
Doc Y says he doesn’t think it tourettes. I’m listening….
Doc Y says what’s happening is definitely not normal and maybe it’s an atypical presentation. This is what I’m talking about. Okay.
Doc Y says lets do an EEG. Finally. And afterwards if you are open to it, we could talk about anti-anxiety meds. SCREEECH! Something like Celexa or Zoloft.
I speak, “Well I’ve taken those before.”
Doc Y asks curiously, “Oh? And how were the side effects?”
“Manageable I guess. Nothing surprising. I mean I’m taking Zoloft right now.
Doc Y, “You are?” MOTHERFUCKER! Are you kidding me? Read the F—ing chart. I thought we were going to get along here buddy and then you do this shit.
Doc Y, “Well lets just do the EEG.”
“Can we do that here? Like now?” I’m still hopeful.
Doc Y responds, “Probably not. I don’t think they do them today.” They will schedule out at the desk.
I now have an appointment for Monday morning for an EEG. 3 days away. I just learned that neurologists do not have direct access to an EGG. It’s not even in the same building, but a mile away. Grr.
Frustrated I take the elevator down five floors to diagnostic imaging. I still have an ultrasound to get done. I’m embarrassed as I wait and later, as the tech walks me to the room. I feel compelled to explain. Once I do, I watch her face turn into sort of a horror/sorrow. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you.” I can relax now. She now knows I’m a normal person. I don’t need to be treated differently.
This is not my first rodeo when it comes to ultrasounds. There is nothing cute or fun, no nice little jelly on the belly. This is wand inserted and then moved around all over to get different angles and images. It could be worse. I mean, the wand could have spikes?
Both appointments over, we head home. About halfway through the drive, my facial muscles relax and I am able to talk more clearly. I have a pounding headache. Constant facial twitching is awful. I’m looking forward to seeing my friend, Megan, and her kids. She is my kids’ godmother and graciously offered to come to my house and watch the kids after school.
I enter the house. Dinner is cooking, kids are playing. There is a large banner hanging in the entry way. At school, Linus organized his class to make it. I’m so touched. I watch Linus organize games with his little god-siblings (ages 3 and almost 5).
We eat, kids play. Megan is understanding. We are able to exchange Christmas presents. After they leave, I finally can read the notes on the banner.
Sometimes even a simple get well statement can encapsulate a student. I laughed out loud and then beamed when I read one eleven year old boy’s note to me.
“I hope to the fullest extent that you shall be better soon.”
After the kids went to bed, Dave and I talked. Apparently, we both had been thinking the same things in terms of my recovery, what needed to happen in order of importance. I was surprised, and yet not, that our lists matched.
- Be able to drive
- Facial twitching
- Back to work
- Body tremors
The appointment with the neurologist left me insecure yet determined. I am going to get better. I am known for my stubbornness. Through sheer force of will, I am going to make my body listen to me.
Twitch. Twitch.
Comments
LOL – I finally figured out what Danish Blueberry Mound is. Thanks for the continued updates. Typical doctor, they ask you on the paperwork at every single visit what meds you’re currently taking. And then they pull something like that. But I’m glad he is discounting the Tourette’s theory because that seems highly improbable. I kind of wonder if the lidocaine bottle was mislabelled and it was something else.