In Which I'm Certainly Uncertain

This medicine I'm taking seems to be negating the worst effects of this suspected idiopathic epilepsy. Then again, I have started to feel a bit nauseous at points, and a bit dizzy but without the spinny-ness. It could be that the epilepsy was always going to worsen so that I would feel sick and... well, odd, and that the 100mg of Lamotrigine first and last thing are keeping things in check. However, it could be that these are side effects from the Lamotrigine, whose paper insert says that the side effects might include suicidal thoughts, or better yet, could actually make the epilepsy worse. It could be that for some reason, the misfiring brain activity spiked and has now fallen and plateaued to a more manageable level. So the medicine might not be helping me all that much. The problem is that this thing has come on so fast that it's rather hard to tell.

Anyway, writing this blog is proving to be somewhat cathartic. It's like therapy for someone who isn't willing/can't afford or, let's face it, couldn't be arsed to go and see a therapist. Writing about stuff wot goes on around me keeps my mind in check, provides a safety valve. I have to be careful about what I write, mind, because incriminating someone is the last thing I want to do. It's not great to be around friends who are scared of doing anything because they have the Essex Stasi on their case. Well, I say it's therapeutic. It could be that for some reason, the feelings of existential angst spiked and have now fallen and plateaued to a more manageable level. So the writing might be helping me all that much. The problem is that this thing has come on so fast that it's rather hard to tell.

Today's Tune

In Which I Try and Become Magneto

I went to the Neurology department in Colchester General today for a spot of Magnetic Resonance Imaging. The all-seeing all-knowing consultant who diagnosed me with epilepsy referred me to this department as well to confirm his diagnosis/cover his back in case of a lawsuit. Apparently Neurology and Neurophysiology are quite separate departments, hence the appointments on different days.  After a little bit of fraughtness with Network Rail and one of their hilarious delays, I made it to the MRI unit 5 minutes early (after having rapidly stripped down outside into shorts and a t-shirt as to not have any metallic clothing on that might bugger up a God-knows-how-much-piece-of-equipment).

  

The NHS is perhaps the finest institution the British have to offer, and is by that token inherently British. This was confirmed when I was left in the waiting room for 40 minutes, exhibiting my knobbliest of knees and my palest of pins to all and sundry. I had come prepared for this eventuality by bringing a hefty book (Palin’s “Full Circle”, since you asked) and a bag of sweeties. Alas, I couldn’t find a kid to eat them in front of, saying things like “Mmm, these sweeties are delicious, my mummy got me loads, because she really loves meeee…”

Eventually I was led to this portakabin full of magical gizmos, where the nurse who was dealing me openly mocked my milk bottled leggies, saying that there was no need for me to have stripped because it wasn’t my legs going into the machine. The letter I had received was very clear on the point that I should have no metal about my person at all, else a couple of NHS nurses called Derek and Denzel would come and put my head so far up my arse that my face would be poking out of my mouth (I know, I didn’t understand it either).  To take attention away from the fact that I looked like some sort of anaemic albino 80’s throwback, I asked her if there was some music I could listen to in there as staring at the inside of a white chamber wasn’t exactly my idea of a night out. I thought of the first relaxed artist I could think of, and I’m not sure why I said him, maybe it’s because I saw Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery the other day. Perhaps it was my brain misfiring, but I did hear from a distance someone else’s words coming out of my mouth- “Have you got any Burt Bacharach I can listen to in there?” I don’t even like the guy. Anyway, she told me that they do let some of the patients have the radio on. She also let me know in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t going to let me have the radio on and I wasn’t allowed music because I liked Burt Bacharach and was therefore a massive twat.

You know that scene in Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan where it’s Spock’s funeral and I can’t h- where some of the people watching can’t help but cry? What d’you mean, no? Well, he’s in a space coffin and the space coffin is slowly slid into this photon torpedo tube to be shot into space. That’s what it feels like to go into an MRI cylinder. Except Spock’s not dead and he has earplugs and his head rigidly fixed into place.  The nurse was wrong about not having any music though.  For the 20 minutes I was inside that chamber, there was throbbing and pulsing and noises all over the shop. It was just like one of the latest dubstep tracks someone played me, only it was different this time  because when it was “playing” I had put earplugs in. Hmm. No, come to think of it, it was exactly the same.

Today's Tune

In Which I Start Blogging and Get Bullied by an Antipodean

  
Just as it was mediocrity that made me embark on “The Neverending Project That Dare Not Speak Its Name”, it was mediocre blogs (not yours, A.W) that made me think that I probably need to try my hand. That way, if mine is any good I can have a go at the ones that aren’t (most of them) and if mine is cack, then I shall get with the winning side and contribute to the ever increasing stream of effluent. I’ll be writing about myself, as it’s one of the few things I’m an authority on. When there’s anything that affects me directly or indirectly and that I can/am willing to juice a few words out of I will. So.

I went to the Neurophysiology department in Colchester General today for an Electroencephalogram. The all-seeing all-knowing consultant who diagnosed me with epilepsy referred me to this department to confirm his diagnosis/cover his back in case of a lawsuit. This involved having the electricity produced by my brain measured on a screen whilst having instructions barked at me by an Australian. I asked if he was from New Zealand when I heard his accent, even though there’s about five times as many Aussies in the world. The reason is that if you’re wrong about an Australian they’ll laugh it off, but if you accuse a Kiwi of being from Oz, they will rip your head off and use it as a chamber pot.

For some reason, he decided to try and put me at ease by asking me about my aspirations. I muttered something about having unfeasible and unrealistic dreams, and he countered this by saying it’s all about attitude and believing I can do it. Perhaps the Aussies have a slightly less jaded and cynical outlook than the British. Anyway, he pushed me for an answer for what I most wanted, and I told him that it was to accumulate all the wealth and materials on Earth, become King of the world and leave everyone else in the gutter wishing they were me. He countered by telling me that that was his plan and he was a little closer to it than me, but that I could be his acolyte. We eventually agreed on the condition that I would be able to delegate responsibility but not power (so blame the lower down bastards whilst not letting them actually do anything) and for me to be able to rid this Earth of one person. I chose Hugh Dallas, a referee who as yet is the only person to cause me to make these noises.

So there I was, lying back with electrodes pasted to my scalp having to hyperventilate on command whilst lying on an NHS La-Z-Boy chair (other brands are available). The most interesting part was being made to stare at these futuristic lights that were strobing with the brightness of a thousand suns- reminiscent of the bit in 2001: A Space Odyssey where David Bowman has all those otherworldy lights streaking towards him at a huge velocity. Also a bit reminiscent of that bit in A Clockwork Orange. The ultra-violent droog Alex has his eyes held open and is forced to watch violent images that he slowly grows sickened and scared of. After that, he commits or looks at acts of violence again due to intense nausea. Consequently, I suppose I’ll start gagging the next time I’ll see a strobe light. Perhaps that’s the consultant covering his back again. After all, he wants me to look like an epileptic…

Today's Tune