So, gentle readers, the news is good. The drs are no longer talking about a spot or a lump or a lesion; they are now referring to the mysterious Thing as nothing more exciting than an “architectural distortion”; and after weeks of high-level anxiety, all that happens next is that I go back in six months to be checked out again. WELL NOW WASN’T THAT A PARTY.
*brief musical interlude while mrsfinch does her patented Awkward White Girl dance*
The sleep lab follow-up was not outstandingly good news, but none of it was a surprise to me, and what was surprising is that it appears something can be done to help me out here. As predicted, I do have sleep apnea: apparently I stopped breathing 3x per hour, and during the eight-hour sleep study I achieved deep sleep exactly once. Well, no wonder I feel like a goddamn slug all the time. But there is help on the horizon: I have to go back for another night study, but this time I will be fitted with a CPAP machine to see how much it alters my sleep patterns, and with this baseline in mind I will be prescribed my own CPAP (which, I have already learned from a co-worker who is also our union rep, will be covered at least in part by our benefits plan). The theory is that once my brain starts getting the oxygen that it needs, my blood pressure will go down, my sleep quality will improve, and my energy level will increase, which I devoutly hope will be the case ... because by my count I’ve been feeling like crap for over thirteen calendar months at this point and I don’t know how I can go on like this. And if my energy level improves I can actually start to do stuff again, like ceasing to live like a poorly organized hoarder, and maybe, just maybe, improve to the point where I might be able to keep up with a puppy in the spring.
OMG GUISE THE NEWS IS GOOD I DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO PROCESS GOOD NEWS ANY MORE