A tale that goes nowhere

Mike has requested a prompt follow up to my previous post. He is worried that you will be unjustly concerned for my wellbeing. But I know my readers would prefer an ever popular Shortland Street cliff-hanger rather than a cheesy happily ever after fairy-tale conclusion. A fairy-tale would be a lie anyhow; I am far from a princess and there is yet to be an ending to this story. Do not fear, the Shortland Street theme will be short lived; the last time I caught an episode Dr Ropata was still a regular character, I can’t keep it up for an entire post. So, this entry is to appease my husband, but I need you to know that I have no intention of deceiving you.

I have noticed, with a tinge of remorse, that I have only managed two posts this month. Granted, I still have a day to push the number to a staggering three, but I feel the number two is an accurate portrayal of exactly how I have been feeling, a proportional relationship to my energy levels, although there are only two points of reference so not really statistically significant. But psychologically significant, I can assure you of that. I have been running above my physical capabilities for the last month. My down time is almost exclusively occupied by sleeping, or at least in a horizontal position with a desperate hope of sleep. If I am lucky I can find enough energy to read, but even that pastime has suffered greatly. That makes writing, a hobby that requires a significant amount of my already limited brain capabilities, near impossible. It takes a week to write a post and a week to tidy it up, thus explaining the meagre two I have managed this month. I find this utterly frustrating. It is not as though I am incapacitated, I am walking and talking and breathing, yet internally I am aware that every tiny little task I undertake is requiring more and more conscious effort. It is as if I have lost or am in the process of losing all innate thought processes; I need to actually remind myself to lift my feet when walking up steps, elsewise I run the risk of ending up the next stairs fail YouTube sensation.

The compounding fatigue is also making work difficult. No longer am I able to lighten the day of my workmates with my charming anecdotes and whimsical smile. The task at hand is all I can concentrate on. There are no explosive starts to address urgent results, blaring telephones or bleeping analysers. Well actually I am still attempting these spurts of anaerobic BMS-ing (the most active laboratory based career I can assure you) but I cannot sustain the energy levels. The fatigue comes on too quickly. It has already risen, cast its blackened clouds around my brain – lightning, thunder, hail, clearing fog - before I am aware of what is going on. I am the three year old child, inconsolable, merely because her elder sister is standing too close to her, frustrated because she is not entirely sure what is going on in her brain, and cannot appropriately communicate that all she really requires is a nap and quite possibly some chocolate.

My thoughts end up entirely engrossed with my health and my work. Don’t worry, the irony is not lost on me. I am well aware that these preoccupations are going to negatively impact performance in both areas. But I cannot seem to break the feedback cycles. One upregulates the other, which in turn enhances the primary initiator. If only we were talking about diuretics, aquaporins and renal water absorption, then I might actually be able to contribute some knowledge on the matter. But no. I am scrambling in the darkness of a long foreign corridor, socks slipping on the polished linoleum, desperate, in search of a light switch that may offer me the correct path forward. I guess the obvious solution is the cessation of my employment. It is more than stubbornness and pride that is preventing this outcome; I do need human interaction to stay sane and, in a startlingly humble admission, work is where the majority of this interaction happens. I like my colleagues, I look forward to seeing them each day, but it is possibly the wrong reason for dragging my ass an hour each way across Sussex four days a week.  We don’t want another ‘hide under the bench’ episode now do we?

That was all a bit wanky wasn’t it? I may have pushed it a bit far with the corridor analogy. I was hoping for a Mansfield flare. Shoot for the moon, if you miss you'll land among the stars. What a ridiculous proverb. The moon is closer than the stars. If you shoot for the moon and miss, which you will because of, you know, gravity, you’re only going to end up with a face plant on the surface of Earth. This is exactly what happened with that Mansfield attempt. I am all for metaphors, but the overuse of phrases a six year old's rationale could destroy really grinds my gears. I believe it may be a Wilde quip as well, although probably a rework of an older proverb. Way back from when astronomy wasn't really practised. 

Don’t worry, I have just taken a little break to read a few of excerpts from the Australian version of Card’s Against Humanity. It will be crass from here forth. Political crass, but crass none the less. All it requires is a little perspective to make me cease my moaning. By reading those cards I was reminded of the suffering the poor Australian citizens have gone through. I had almost forgotten that Russell Crowe’s band had actually been a thing. Anybody who has seen Les Miserables will indeed sympathise. It was a tragic period in history. I could have gone anywhere with that tangent, be grateful it was as clean as it was. It is a little early in my life as a blogger to start inciting internet outrage.

I had intended to burden you with my thoughts and feelings on blood transfusions, but I shall postpone that for another day. I know, I can hear the cries of disappointment echoing around the globe. You’ll just have to wait. I have rambled on in mild self-loathing and moderate self-pity for long enough, I believe. I realise that this decision has made the post rather short, but hopefully it will make Michael happy and let you all know that I am still alive. I do feel much better after writing this, although it has taken the entire day. And I suspect the sneaky glass of Alsace Riesling may have also added sufficient lift to my mood.