I'm a bit stuck with who I can talk to about brain-stuff, I don't really use Facebook that much, and Twitter isn't the type of place to really spill your guts. I make regular blog posts about the ABI, and the recovery process, but, a bit like Facebook, it's like shouting into a welly-boot, essentially pointless, and with a probability of being arrested, or sectioned.
I don't have any real friends, I have one, but he was with me when the aneurysm ruptured, so I don't want to dump on him. I may already have alluded to the fact that my marriage is dead, I just can't afford the funeral. Throw in the complicating factor that the husband's mother died following a brain haemorrhage, when he was 11, and his stock response to me feeling in any way unwell is "I'll strap you to the roof-rack, and take you to hospital." I'm isolated, and it's my own doing, I'm not a very sociable person, and I was sick of 20 years of being dragged around as his groupie/lackey/arm-candy, so I just stopped going out. I was irritable BEFORE the aneurysm ruptured, I just had a bit more inclination to cover it up, and keep up appearances. There's no appearance to keep up, I had a traumatic medical emergency, and I'm still a walking, talking, sleeping, crying, living git.
I haven't done this on here before, because I know that a lot of you are living with much more severe impairments than me, and I didn't want to appear to be crowing about how lightly I've gotten away. My impairments are surmountable, but I've always been the tenacious, relentless sort of cow who just gets on with things. I gave birth to my son without pain-relief, because the hospital insisted I "Wasn't in labour, it'll be hours yet..." six minutes later, they had to play catch. I wandered around for two weeks with a broken bone in my hand, insisting it wasn't broken, because I could still do *this*. (*This* being all manner of things that made colleagues cringe, because it was obvious that the bone was broken.) I'm a cast-iron-cowbag, and that's part of the problem. 'Being careful' doesn't come naturally to me, four-months post-surgery, I'm back at work full-time, walking an average of about 9km a day, and doing everything I used to do, just with a whacking great scar on my scalp, and two areas of hair that have grown back in such a way that no matter how many hair-grips I use, I still have a sort of alfalfa-sprout sticking up.
See, I'm doing it again, I'm making light of it, and that's why everybody thinks I'm some sort of miracle. I'm not, I'm a statistical anomaly, but I'm in no way a miracle. I have a pretty much constant headache, I've lost part of the sight in my left eye, and the left side of my neck REALLY hurts, because I'm having to turn my head much more, to compensate for the reduced field of vision. I've lost some of the sensation in my right leg, not the functionality, but it does feel like I'm dragging a dead-leg most of the time. What's wearing me down, and what I've tried to explain to colleagues, and family, is the constant hyper-vigilance. Him saying he'd knock me out, and strap me to the roof-rack is offensive, but, what I'm doing to myself is worse, I'm playing 'what if?' with every ache, pain, and twinge, and I'm going to drive myself mental with it. I've always been able to ascertain what's wrong with me, and, through a combination of kitchen-witchery, and standard pharmaceuticals, I can generally sort myself out. This is different, though, there are two remaining aneurysms in my brain, I'm going for an MRA at the end of July, and then a further appointment with the Consultant around four weeks after. (Assuming he's not on holiday, or counting the stripes on his pyjamas, I didn't get my initial follow-up until the appointment had been cancelled and rescheduled 3 times.) I am 'mindful', I am self-aware, I know what's normal for me, and what's not, but I'm sort of running out of ways to tell myself it's OK.
I'm just venting, I'm in a strange place in my life, with Facebook telling me I'm a miracle, annoying work-people telling me I 'should' be thankful, and the husband and his family assuming that everything is now sweetness and light between us. It's not, he woke me up at all the right times to take my medication, but he still can't manage to put his dirty socks and pants in the washbasket, or his dirty plates in the sink. I'm not his mother, and I'm very close to screaming "It's not MY fault I survived!" at him.