Swoon.

The last week (well 'weeks' if I think about it, but that's just plain old depressing) has been a health shit fight.  My body has decided to demonstrate just how incompetent it is on the whole functioning front.  My BP has been all over the place as has my HR.  There is no consistency, no rhyme or reason for the crappapaloza that's going on.  It's not like I can say it was particularly hot on Thursday and that's why I don't recall from early afternoon till the next day, because it wasn't that hot.  Similarly, why did my body go arse up whilst I was driving, so that my panicked eldest had to tell me to just drive straight home from his bus stop, because I was green and my face "wasn't quite right"? 


Most annoying, troubling, for me is that I have gone back to the swoon or the 'less than one second till' swoon, whereby I barely get enough time to lie down to avert full swoon mode.  This just isn't part of the plan and I wish that my stupid body would get with the bloody program.  Yes I used the word swoon.  I much prefer it to the inadequate terms like 'passing out', 'fainting', 'blacking out', syncope or my personal least favourite "simple faint".  Simple faint my arse.  That term could only be thought appropriate by people who have never experienced the delight of a 'simple faint'.  Unlike these inadequate words, 'swoon' just screams 1920's silent movie glamour and is much more palatable.  If I have to do the whole syncope thing I'm picking my descriptor.

I do quite like this modern day version as well (well more the clothes really) All very Mad Men.

Amy Neunsinger

Unfortunately the reality is more likely to look like this:

(Ahh the elegance).

In reality I know I shouldn't be complaining.  For some, swooning is an every day event or for the unlucky few an hour to hour phenomenon.  Luckily for me I'm an occasional swooner thanks to the meds.   I mostly do a sort of half-hearted piss-poor excuse for a swoon now.  Yep can't even do that right, my body is such a useless douche bag.

Early on in the piece I had no real warning.  It was case of me standing in lounge room.  Then me waking on the floor going 'WTF'????  Meds have changed that thankfully.  Now I get a lead up.  What's known as pre-syncope.  This is the delightful state of hot flushes, greying vision, nausea, muscle weakness, pasty chic with a touch of vomit green, confusion, lack of coordination and so on.  Unfortunately this lead up is pretty much my permanent state now.  The only difference being the symptom severity.  But these last few weeks my lead up has shortened. 

I knew last week things were not looking good early on in the day. 

(Hmmm should I stay home and try and rest. No.  Go out and do lots. No problem).

But at least my heart rate was out of the low 40s.  I had hoped that the day would improve.  Looking back I realise the lack of blood flow to my brain was probably begining to affect my thinking.  I managed to get to my friend Kezza's house, luckily only 5 mins away.  I managed to stay for a couple of hours chat and have coffee.  I should have realised that the fact that it took 3 of us to create a Wii character for Wii Fit that things were not exactly shining brightly. Problem was that this was really the last thing I recall clearly that day.

I don't really recall driving home, picking up the kids, shopping or getting home but I must have done it all as I had 2 kids winging like usual, there was food in the fridge and I was KOed on my own couch.  But that's it.  I know I ended up in bed but I'm not sure how.  I took my BP but I don't recall pushing the button.  Luckily my machine records your last level.

 (Bugger.  Pretty sure I may have been away with the pixies by this stage).

Call me crazy, but I have a feeling that this could be reason why I don't recall the rest of the day.  And they keep saying high blood pressure is the problem.  (They also say salt is bad.  Unless you are a freak like me.  Obviously Bob is the king of Bizarro Illnesses).

Unfortunately it was Ground Hog day, yesterday.   I kind of remember David telling me to get out of my dress and put on my pjs, but I could be wrong, I'll have to check.  I do know I woke up in pjs so I guess it happened at some point.  WTF body!!!  I am on a cocktail of drugs to stabilize my BP, I scull water and eat so much salt I could pretty much double as Lot's wife, and this is what I get.  Stupidly I also have other days where my BP does stupid things like 140/115.  Or days where it is 100/92, so I have no pulse, which gives a whole new to the term 'looking like death warmed up'.  I have also had periods with a HR of 150+ just sitting on the couch.  Who says you can't get a work out whilst watching TV?  Mind you one of those times I had just been watching Jensen Ackles on Supernatural so maybe that's the true cause. 

The result of this is I am exhausted.  As I sit here writing I am feeling like a space cadet.  I am pretty much the poster child for "Lights On No One Home".  My head feels like it may explode in the next 3 seconds, my muscles are jelly, I am uncoordinated and keep hitting walls, tables, fridges etc, I really wish they'd stop jumping out at me.  I also put my saucepan of milk on the stove this morning, only problem was I forgot the milk part, and turned it on anyway.  Mmmm nice warm air to put on my oats, tasty.  I have a series of 'mystery' bruises on my legs, arms and feet and I have no idea where I got them.  So now I have purple and black legs, sexy!  I am also starting to rue the day we picked a house with 3 fights of stairs, which leave me breathless.  Now it's just the week of recovery, ie back to normal crappness. Swooning sucks.

It may be time to send my body a 'Dear John" letter.  I think it'd go a little something like this:

Dear Body,

You are a dick.

Go self fornicate.

Cheers 

Michelle.

Ok so I may be a little shitty today.  I've had a crappy week(s).  I did hear that Bob used to be called 'Irritable Heart', and I know I also have an "Irritable Bowel", so maybe I'm just plain old Irritable.  I'm sure when I read this back in a few days I'll be horrified by my poor attitude but hey at the moment there's no blood going above my irritable shoulders so the old brain filter is on the fritz and I've pushed the publish button.  I'm pretty sure this is the blogging equivalent of drunk dialling.  So I guess I should leave it with "I luvs yas all. I do. (hic) I really, really (hic), really love you. I do.  You're the bestus".

Swooning Michelle :)

I think I may have to invest in a Fainting Chair.  I've always liked them.  Maybe that was a sign of things to come.  They were very popular in the Victorian Era for all those poor corseted women, with such small waists they made Posh Spice look like Barbar.

How To Spot A Sick Chicken.

I'm pretty inured to the whole "you don't look sick" line. It all becomes white noise after a while, though I will admit to often thinking, "well you don't look like a knob either", but I generally have enough tact to keep that to myself. Well sometimes. According to my loving family, I occasionally have a bowl of bitchy for breakfast, and my Mother Teresa persona is replaced by a large dose of bitch with a side of cow. Usually, this has something to do with a lack of coffee, and really if you speak to me pre-caffeine that's your own fault.

[Image: A Vintage image of a woman holding a cup of coffee. To the right of frame in black text it reads: I haven't had my coffee yet. Followed by red text which reads: Don't make me kill you.]

In many respects, I'm over what other people think. I have enough on my plate without taking on other people's issues. But recently my happy-hippy, zenness slipped. A few weeks ago I was informed by a relative who shall remain nameless (but we both know who you are and you should know better than to piss off a person with a blog) that, "You can't expect sympathy with that face".

For some reason, the bluntness of this statement hit me like a full on sucker punch to the gut. I was lost for words and just stood there with my mouth hanging open. What was I supposed to say to that? Would I have been within my rights to pick up the coffee pot and send it flying across the room at their head? Was it okay that I had a whole montage of Looney Tunes-inspired cartoons going through my head? Think lots of anvils and frying pans.

The whole idea that I was asking for sympathy was like nails on a chalkboard. I'm pretty sure the effort involved in holding my tongue, and coffee pot, did leave me with an odd twitch and a vein pulsating out the front of my forehead. But other than that I was cool as a cucumber.

Anyone who has ever read my blog or spoken to me for more than 3.2 seconds knows how I feel about the whole pity issue. I HATE pity, it sucks out your soul like a big hairy-arsed incubus (or succubus for those of you of the male persuasion). It is disempowering and frames you as a victim. If you are going to give me pity then you might as well just give me a chilli enema or poke me in the eye with that bastard offspring of a fork and spoon, the spork, and why don't you make it rusty while you're at it. To you and your pity, I say a big fat Bite Me!

Now, this isn't to say that I don't hold my own private pity parties every now and then. But its a very exclusive invite list of one, and may involve chocolate, hiding under my blankies and watching bad sci-fi or horror shows (yes I know the geek alert just went off, but until you've watched a shockingly bad sci-fi or horror show you don't know what you've been missing. If you haven't seen The Blob circa 1988 you haven't lived. The horror of Kevin Dillon's (Entourage) hair alone, is worth the effort of tracking it down). My pity parties are all infected with the Cinderella effect, so they are short-lived. After a couple of hours, I wipe the snot off my face, pick up the mounds of soggy tissues and chocolate wrappers, suck it up and move on.

[Image: a coloured still from the movie The Blob (1988). It shows a white man with glorious 80's curly long hair and a leather jacket to the left of the frame, he looks shocked. To the right a white woman with dark hair and wearing a cream top holds onto Matt Dillon looking scared.]

So in case, I haven't been clear:

NO PITY ALLOWED

So once again I am forced to revisit the question of "what does sick look like"?

If I am sick should I look like this?

[Image: a movie still from The Exorcist (1973). A close up of Linda Blairs face after her demonic possession, pale, scary, horror]

(The Exorcist is one of my all-time favourite movies. So happy when Linda Blair was on my favourite horror eye-candy show Supernatural).

Would I then appear legitimately sick? Currently the most I get is a "gee you look tired". Mind you some mornings when Bob is beating the crap out of me I would be grateful to look as well as young Linda. Problem is when I do look sick, I am usually too ill to go out in public. Conversely, if I'm out I'm feeling 'better', by which I mean instead of death warmed up, I feel like that little bit of goop you get in the corner of your eye in the morning, I look okay. I've most likely brushed my hair and put on some BO Basher, no guarantee of the dreaded shower or clean clothes but there's nothing a few squirts of Chanel No. 5 can't cover.

Not looking sick enough can create many problems. Recently a friend sent me a link about a woman who lost her health benefits because she appeared too happy in her FB pictures and therefore was deemed to no longer have Severe Depression. Damn that brain-fogged woman for trying to break through her depression to attempt some sort of life instead of succumbing to the expected levels of overwhelming hopelessness. It's a miracle. One smiley day and Depression is cured. Maybe I should burn all the pictures of me standing up and wear a disguise when I manage to go grocery shopping? Obviously, the trolley of milk and Green & Blacks mean I'm cured, just ignore the puke bag and salt sachets sticking out the top of my handbag.

Damn those invisible illnesses. I couldn't get a good illness where I look like crap, no I'm such a loser I picked dysautonomia. Way to go Michelle!

Now I did think about getting "SICK" tattooed on my forehead, but I am a wuss. I can't even pluck a rogue eyebrow hair or take off a band-aid without screeching like someone is cutting off my leg. So the tattoo plan has gone out the window. I think I need to accessorise. I'm sure that just like the right accessories can make an outfit, the right sick accessories will enable people to easily pick me for the sickie I am.

So what kind of accessories do I need to purchase and where do I get them? Is there an e-store called Sickies R' Us? Do Maybelline or Napoleon put out a line of anti-bronzers to give you the pasty sick tint? Where to start? I decided I'd google "What does sick look like?", in hopes of finding an answer to my problem. Alas, there was no answer to my question. I could find out what a sick fish looks like, or a hamster, but no answer for a sick 36-year-old woman. Just when I had given up hope I had an Oprah light bulb moment. A ray of sunlight fell upon my computer screen and I found the answer in the form of the humble chicken.

What does a sick chicken look like?

• A sick hen will usually be listless, not moving around much.
• They often sit quietly with eyes shut or partly closed.
• They may move slowly and possibly stagger or lose balance when walking.
• They do not run away when approached, they often just drop down into a crouch and wait to be picked up.
• They may have mucus around the eyes and beak.
• The vent area is often crusted and dirty (ok I did giggle at this one).

Thank you Wiki Answers, once more you have saved my life.

So there you go chicken/human its all a bit the same. Your hen may look pretty on the outside, sexy feathers and all, but look a bit closer and she is just not quite right.


[Image: a black and white cartoon of a chicken sitting in bed with a tray and bowl in from of them. Next to bed, another chicken wearing an apron stands. The text underneath reads: Quit complaining. For one thing, chicken soup is good for a cold. For another, it's nobody we know.]

So if next time you see me and my vent is a bit crusty, you will know with complete certainty that I am sick.

The clucked off Michelle :)