Hey, hey, dear bloggy friends. If you’re wondering why this space has been post-free for the past few weeks, for a change it has nothing to do with general indolence or shirky distractions. For the second time in two years, I’ve been coddling my brain after giving it a good thumping in January. Ah, post-concussion symptoms, what stabby little thorns in the side of daily life you are.
Clearly I shouldn’t be allowed to leave the house without a suit of full body armour. If any of you happens to have one kicking around, perhaps we can negotiate a fair price? Or perhaps I should just learn not to fall on my head, although if I haven’t mastered that skill in the past few decades, I’d say the body armour is probably the more realistic option.
It’s taken a while, including several weeks off work, and several more weeks of returning to work with modified hours, but next week I’ll be back to full-time. I’d say I’m operating at about 75% of pre-concussion capacity, and every week is a bit better than the last. Baby steps, right? No rushing a pummelled brain, apparently.
It’s been hard to be patient, though, and every now and then I fly into a panic, worrying that the changes are going to be permanent, that the fall has distorted my personality and turned me into not-quite-Kern. I find myself examining my behaviour for evidence that I am now Not-Me, and I end up having the following kinds of conversations with myself (mostly in my head but, sadly, not always):
Neurotic me: Oh, crap! I’ve become testy! and impatient! and unwilling to suffer fools gladly!
Less neurotic me: Hold the phone, self, you’ve always been testy and impatient, haven’t you? And, really, does anyone suffer fools gladly? Suffer them, sure, because, really, short of homicide, what’s the alternative, but gladly? I think not.
Neurotic me: Oh, no! I’ve turned into a grumbly-grumping cranky pants!
Less neurotic me: Wait. Never mind. The tendency to cranky-pantsing pre-dates the concussion by a couple of decades. At least Face it, self, sometimes you really do sweat the small stuff.
Neurotic me: Oh, woe! I can’t type a paragraph without woofing out at least two typos!
Less neurotic me: Um. Yeah. So very not new. While you’re at it, why not blame the concussion for your horrible penmanship? And your inability to draw a straight line? Not to mention your atrocious housekeeping skills? Honestly, know when to grab hold of an excuse, woman.
No, my personality, for better or worse, seems to be pretty much intact. And everything else–the sensitivity to light, noise, people in groups, anything sudden, people with shrill voices, and so on–is livable.
I’m still me. Phew.
And it’s nice to be back.