For the second night in a row I’m fuzzy-headed and slightly peevish and probably not the best company. I’ll try harder tomorrow, but just did us all a favor by deleting a rant about a vice-presidential candidate whose Wikipedia page will eventually include a section called “Allegations of Couch-F*cking.”*
Most of today’s irritations were medical in nature, but it was all bureaucratic stuff involving prescriptions and forms I needed to fill out for SSDI purposes. Though I’m still congested, there was no left-sided chest rumbling, which again makes me think it may have been neurological — like the time, for one night only, my upper lip kept moving like it was possessed by the spirit of Elvis.
“Left side?” the MDS asked expectantly when I reported it to her, not looking up from her note-taking.
“Yes,” I replied after a second’s thought, amused that something I’d found so unusual was so routine to her. That was when I began to realize in earnest that all bets were now off when it came to one side of my body. My left leg might barely move all day when I’m awake, then do the hokey-pokey overnight as I drift in and out of sleep. Occasionally I’ll get a muscle twitch in a random spot, like just above my elbow, that happens every few seconds for hours at a time before it disappears.
When I get stressed or feel emotionally overwhelmed now (even in good ways), the shaking in my left hand and leg intensifies while my right side is steady or comparatively subdued. The doctor says it’s normal and I’ve since met people with YOPD who left their jobs, and in some cases their marriages, because of it. Once Crankenstein and I realized how horrible ‘Niles’ was for my health, we made some adjustments in how we deal with her anxiety and OCD, separately and together.
In some ways it has improved our relationship and in others it’s put a greater distance between us. Previously, we’d mostly arranged things to minimize stress on her; now there are times when less stress for me might mean more for her. This disturbance in the force isn’t too comfortable for either of us since, by her own admission, she isn’t a natural gardener, and we’d probably both cackle at the thought of me as a delicate flower.
Early this morning, when Muriel melodramatically demanded breakfast, I could feel Crankenstein trying to mentally will me awake. If she had any confidence in my balance, she might’ve ‘accidentally’ nudged me out of bed, but instead she went downstairs and fed her. She’ll probably have to do the same tomorrow, because it’s already long past my bedtime and I can’t sleep, which is why I continue to ramble despite having nothing to say (and originally not intending to write beyond the first paragraph).
It’s a good thing I kept going, though, because she’ll be annoyed again tomorrow — until she clicks the Vance link and is temporarily filled with mirth.
* What’s really going to send me over the edge is Peter Thiel, in a fit of buyer’s remorse, finding a way to replace Vance with Hulk Hogan.