The Lovers, the Dreamers, and Me
At my doctor's request, I had my valproic acid levels retested last night. She was having a hard time believing that without adjusting my medication, and without my performing the test incorrectly (10-12 hours after last dose), that my levels could have plummeted so severely with seemingly no explanation. I balked. I didn't want to miss any more work than I had already missed for medical problems. But Chris was sweet enough to drive me to the clinic after work, and I showed up to work an hour and a half early, so I went and got the test done again. Thankfully, it seems that not many people go to the laboratory for bloodwork at 5:30 PM on a Tuesday late afternoon, so I was in and out of there relatively quickly.
The numbers came back at around 3:30 AM (I was, thankfully, asleep); I checked them as soon as I woke up. Had I been wrong? Had this whole months-long bout of insanity been a figment unrelated to organic causes? The result: 41. Still substantially below what it had ever been before, and still definitely below therapeutic levels. This is a relief in some ways, but I am also still very tired.
Unrelatedly, I'm also on Tylenol-3 now in combination with ibuprofen for my weird, rotated pelvis, and I've got physical therapy for that tomorrow. It hurts the worst in the morning and at night -- I need to strengthen my core. I need to remember that I feel better when I eat. I need to remember that it gets better. I need to remember not to ask for too much.
It's 6:48 AM. I got out of bed before 5. It's pitch-black outside, the streetlamps are on, and I've got my light simulator blasting at me full-force. The book is on hold right now. I don't have it in me. I somehow managed to get my holiday shopping done. I don't have it in me to mail everything before the holidays. If you are reading this and expect a present from me, mea culpa.
I leave you with this:
Come back to us. However cold and raw, your feet were always meant to negotiate terms with bare cement. Beyond this concrete wall is a wall of concrete and barbed wire. Your only hope is to come back. If sing you must, let your song tell of treading your own dung, let straw and dung give a spring to your step. If we never live to see the day we leap into our true domain, lie down with us now and wrap yourself in the soiled grey blanket of Irish rain that will, one day, bleach itself white. Lie down with us and wait. from "Gathering Mushrooms," Paul Muldoon