Context: I'm epileptic. For about six years I've tried various medical cocktails none of which worked. If it was just a case of scarfing down two piles of pills a day, giving up drugs and alcohol, and giving up strobe lights, there's a fairly decent chance I wouldn't have ended up here, reading about SN, the pros and cons of SN DSMO vs just SN, and dreaming of acquiring N.
Alas, god is a piece of shit like that, so here I am.
After six years of being a lab rat, I've settled down on a cocktail that keeps me relatively stable and started talking to my neurologist about surgery. I've read that focal epilepsy can be cut out and that afterward life goes on. Even if there is a chance for some cognitive issues later on. But frankly, turning a little stupid sounds like a grand deal in exchange for getting rid of auras and gran mal seizures. I'm already a little stupid today, I'm just better aware of it.
About three weeks ago I went to what was advertised as a grand meeting: the entire epilepsy wing, their assistants, and myself, and we all discuss what to cut, how much to cut, and where to chuck it once that thing was cut out. A very much needed anxiety-inducing affair.
On the day of the meeting, the first thing I did was take a massive dump, evacuating every atom in my colon in order to prevent any pants shitting during the event.
The doctors did arrive, most of them are men, two women, and an army of assistants, all dressed in what I hereby christen "casual doctor", wearing the same pair of high heel pumps. Marching together they sounded like a minigun.
Seriously, I swear on my life, back in the 90's high heel shoes used to be less loud! It was a noticeable, but quiet sexy click. Now it's all BOOM BOOM BOOM like a mortar barrage!
They arrived, the assistants surrounded me, pulled out notepads with impressive synchronization, wrote something down, and all of them left, save for one guy.
This guy proceeded to interrogate me and that was that. Colon evacuation was still very much needed as he clearly tried sticking me in a nuthouse.
Now comes the less pleasant part: waiting until he processes what he got from the interrogation and passes it to the next guy. Until last week it was an oiled machine. Not a well-oiled machine, but one that works well enough. Normally, when the doctor tells you "so and so will call you next Monday", one should expect next Thursday. Monday after "next Monday" is usually the time to call the guy and ask what's up if he doesn't call.
Hospital bureaucracy is a beautiful thing: you need papers to call somebody, but that somebody you need to call is usually the one who needs to send you the papers to call them.
As I was saying, the guy didn't call me. I started freaking out. His secretary doesn't pick up the phone, everywhere else I call sends me to phone-robots ("Press 1 for Hebrew. Press 2 for English.") and I can't get ahold of an actual human being.
I proceeded to look up on the site, and lo and behold, his email!
Lo and behold, EVERYBODY'S email!
So I did the only logical thing: bombard the entire neurology wing with emails begging the guy to call me.
Today he called me twice - once at 07:41 and once at 14:00. The meeting is set to the 18th. Normally, getting this guy to meet you is one hell of an affair that takes roughly three months. Heavy freaking out apparently means VIP pass. Who knew?
Alas, god is a piece of shit like that, so here I am.
After six years of being a lab rat, I've settled down on a cocktail that keeps me relatively stable and started talking to my neurologist about surgery. I've read that focal epilepsy can be cut out and that afterward life goes on. Even if there is a chance for some cognitive issues later on. But frankly, turning a little stupid sounds like a grand deal in exchange for getting rid of auras and gran mal seizures. I'm already a little stupid today, I'm just better aware of it.
About three weeks ago I went to what was advertised as a grand meeting: the entire epilepsy wing, their assistants, and myself, and we all discuss what to cut, how much to cut, and where to chuck it once that thing was cut out. A very much needed anxiety-inducing affair.
On the day of the meeting, the first thing I did was take a massive dump, evacuating every atom in my colon in order to prevent any pants shitting during the event.
The doctors did arrive, most of them are men, two women, and an army of assistants, all dressed in what I hereby christen "casual doctor", wearing the same pair of high heel pumps. Marching together they sounded like a minigun.
Seriously, I swear on my life, back in the 90's high heel shoes used to be less loud! It was a noticeable, but quiet sexy click. Now it's all BOOM BOOM BOOM like a mortar barrage!
They arrived, the assistants surrounded me, pulled out notepads with impressive synchronization, wrote something down, and all of them left, save for one guy.
This guy proceeded to interrogate me and that was that. Colon evacuation was still very much needed as he clearly tried sticking me in a nuthouse.
Now comes the less pleasant part: waiting until he processes what he got from the interrogation and passes it to the next guy. Until last week it was an oiled machine. Not a well-oiled machine, but one that works well enough. Normally, when the doctor tells you "so and so will call you next Monday", one should expect next Thursday. Monday after "next Monday" is usually the time to call the guy and ask what's up if he doesn't call.
Hospital bureaucracy is a beautiful thing: you need papers to call somebody, but that somebody you need to call is usually the one who needs to send you the papers to call them.
As I was saying, the guy didn't call me. I started freaking out. His secretary doesn't pick up the phone, everywhere else I call sends me to phone-robots ("Press 1 for Hebrew. Press 2 for English.") and I can't get ahold of an actual human being.
I proceeded to look up on the site, and lo and behold, his email!
Lo and behold, EVERYBODY'S email!
So I did the only logical thing: bombard the entire neurology wing with emails begging the guy to call me.
Today he called me twice - once at 07:41 and once at 14:00. The meeting is set to the 18th. Normally, getting this guy to meet you is one hell of an affair that takes roughly three months. Heavy freaking out apparently means VIP pass. Who knew?
