Had a scary incident this morning.

Was lying in bed when I suddenly realized I was having trouble speaking words.

Tried some test sentences. It was even worse : I wasn’t just having trouble, I was having trouble forming the sentences in the first place.

Couldn’t seem to remember the tunes I know on the synth either.

Cue total panic. Because I need my words, man. Without those I would have no reason to live and a lot of reasons to die. I write therefore I am. I live to express myself. If I had some kind of stroke and end up not even to string together a sentence any more, that would be orders of magnitude worse than killing me.

I could survive it all if I could at least type. It would hurt like hell to lose my power of speech – foxy loves to talk.

But I do the vast majority of my communication via text anyhow, whether as Fruvous on Tapestries MUCK or here on this blog, so I could survive.

Might have to learn to type way faster if I want to keep up with conversation in realtime.

It went away eventually, thank Dog. Knock on would. But this was not a one-off incident. I’ve noticed my verbal error counter going up over the last couple of weeks, especially the dreaded “wrong word entirely” error, and that’s enough to keep me worried.

I’ve had two more incidents of my left hand and the left half of my face going numb since I so confidently said “next time, I’ll go to the ER for sure!”

Ha ha ha.

Well I am going to have to do it some time soon, while I still have my faculty of speech.

Even knowing that they probably won’t find anything. Again. Even then, I need to do it because I need to at least be able to say I did what I could.

If I’m going to end up a gibtard anywhere, I might as well go down swinging.

Plus I think I have recharged my batteries enough to survive another long and quite probably utterly pointless trip through the bowels of the ER at RGH.

But I won’t be happy about it. And that’s good. I need that anger to remind me to be mad when they inevitably fail me by not producing a result, let alone a solution.

These symptoms are not normal, and I am not making them up. Bad, scary shit of the kind to which the phrase “warning signs” so easily applies keeps happening and I keep trying to do the right thing and tell a doctor about them only to get bubkis in return except a lost afternoon in medical purgatory.

Well I am going to raise hell if I get the same runaround again.

For all I know,. I am having mini-strokes all the time and they are shredding my brain.

God damn it, I am going to get me some answers.

More after the break,

A body bruise she got me with

Still drying, still falling apart.

My plan was to go to the lab for a pee test tomorrow. But Julian rightfully pointed out that it might be closed for Labour Day too. Damn it.

This is medical testing, not plastic surgery. Time is definitely a factor. So I really hope they are open on stat holidays.

Because if I can’t go tomorrow, it will have to wait till Wednesday because I am going to be using all my spoons to get to Wound Care and back on Tuesday.

Won’t be long before I am too weak to even do that on my own. And then it will finally be the goddamned wheelchair me at last, and that’s going to be a massive change because there is zero chance I can get a wheelchair through this order’s nest of an apartment. So I would have to move.

Not something I wanted to do even when I was healthy. But now when my health is in rapid decline seems like an especially bad to pull up stakes.

Oh well. It’s not like I can afford one of those fancy moving services that does the whole damned thing for you.

Guess I will have to leave it to the already put-upon Joe and Julian et al. Le sigh.

And I just plain don’t want to move away from my friends. Last time I lived along I want about as crazy I have ever been. The alienation gnawed at me and it felt like the foundations of my mind were as shaky as half-melted Jello. I spent hours frozen to the bed by the fear that if I moved, I would cease to exist.

Like I said…. crazy.

And I can’t go back to that. So I don’t know what I would do.

Get really good at playing “The Floor Is Lava”. I guess.

Of course, if this place wasn’t stuff with Joe’s “rescues” and Felicity’s archives, this would be a very roomy apartment. Airy, even.

But it is what it is.

I could definitely get around my bathroom and bedroom with using my legs. It would be rough while I built up my upper chest muscles, but it would be enough to get me from bed to computer and computer to bathroom and back.

And that takes care of the basics.

Maybe try to get my mini-fridge working again (it stopped forming a seal) so I can keep some refrigerate only type foods on hand, along with canned good of course.

Yeah. I could make it work here.

As long as I never wanted to go anywhere. No matter how you slice it, moving me is going to require some kind of cot, gurney, wheelchair, or other contrivance.

I suppose we’d have to keep that to a minimum. Not easy to do when you have all the medical issues I do.

Might be easier to just leave me in the hospital.

I know Munchausen’s Syndrome would get me sooner or later.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.