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Now with Your Right Hand

Now with Your Right Hand

Back in the beginning of November, I went on a brief online hiatus. As in, for a full two days, I, without announcement, was completely offline. The reason?

We thought I had a stroke.

It was a seemingly normal evening when all of a sudden I had some major internal organ pain. I felt like I was passing a gall stone like the doctors had suspected I did ten days after I gave birth to Dylan. Um, ouch. Really, super, holy shit ouch is all there really is to describe this type of pain. I would have much rather preferred the other type of stone I’m prone to developing.

All of a sudden, my dominant side was no longer dominant. Numb, tingly, non-functioning. I could not lift my eyelid, or smile, I even had The Claw.

Now with Your Right Hand

Next thing I know, I am the youngest patient on the cardiac floor at the hospital and have spent more time in claustrophobia inducing, highly magnetic tubes than I ever wished to spend. I am twenty-four so there was obvious reason for concern that resulted in my admittance for the following three days. Oh, and another thing, not being allowed liquids or solids because those things can compromise the tests no one is sure when you’ll be able to take is not a very fun thing. Especially when they strap an IV pumping potassium into your right arm. I have never been more parched in my life. Basically, don’t have a pretend stroke over the weekend when no technicians are working, but on-call, but not sure if they want can make it into the hospital for an alarming case. It was a teaching hospital after all…

The diagnosis: Variant Migraines. Basically, I don’t just get a “mean headache” when a migraine strikes, I get temporary, right-side paralysis. Fun!

I had no intention of sharing this with the internet. Not a shred of it. Up until I saw the video of a reporter at the Grammy’s, also in her mid-twenties, experiencing the same thing, I was comfortable with keeping this vital part of my personal health, well, personal. Needless to say, I feel her pain and now have an aimless intention to share my experience. Luckily there is this really juicy cocktail of meds that keep the variant reaction at bay. It’s like a martini with beta-blockers and two olives. You can totally (not) get crunk off this shit.

I’m now forced to take it easy. Not get riled up. Avoid the anxiety I’m also actively-treating. Type A’s do not handle “cool it down, sister” very well. Just sayin’.

A plus from the weekend were all the inside jokes and incriminating photos wearing compression socks and hospital gowns on my way to the bathroom put out in cyberspace by my family members.

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