Fleeting control

Last week was hell; total exhaustion.  The previous Sunday spent trying to understand Least Squares Regressions and Transformations for the one class I missed due to complications to be mentioned next paragraph.  Great question marks animated above my head when I tried to sink deeper into the equations.  That offset Monday’s Australian History due to an apathetic attitude on my behalf.  Following this was the Doctor’s recommendation to get my arse into gear and have the chest scan completed (I procrastinate way too much!).  Tuesday’s effort at work felt good, I was energised because I took care of some issues on my ‘plate’ so to speak.  Wednesday’s maths test was to create more confusion with mixed up IV’s and DV’s (apparently they’re different to Psychology); I worked my best, that’s all I can do.   Thursday was fine also, no ankle pain, no chemicals swimming around causing problems.

This was all to change Thursday night, when the Doctor informed me that it is definitely ‘Sarcoidosis’, there are nodules in my lungs and further scans are needed ASAP (They will be taken this Thursday).  I felt deflated when she told me about the chest examination and much as Special K tried to reassure me, I didn’t want it to happen.  The ankle pain has flared now for over a year and started at one of my other workplaces – it was no-one’s fault – just another genetic flaw to add to my repertoire.  If I were to look at it positively, I could say this: had I not damaged my ankle abseiling at the Grampians way back in 1990, there would have been no preemptive indication of this condition worsening and the important thing to realise: it is treatable!

This offset my whole thinking on Friday morning: no sleep, worried, over-analysing and feeling the growing tension in my shoulders.  I forced myself to go to work, though really felt drained.  I knew I’d be miserable the whole day (this was not psychosomatic, it was a perception of my current state).  This was most certainly received and I tried hard to keep to myself, for fear of lashing out at my co-workers.  It is difficult to know really what they think about me; I try to stick to my guns as much as possible, particularly my ideas on ethics: ‘honesty is the best policy’ has always been my motto.  But lately I’ve started thinking that no matter how much you tell the truth, some people won’t believe you anyway.  It makes me think of an episode of Futurama when an entity says to Bender ‘do what people want and they won’t be sure you’ve done anything at all.’  I was going to write off my time sheet at 12pm so that I could go home and try to feel better, this didn’t happen.  I took it home with me, to Special K.  This furious desire to explore mountains and forests, but unable to walk long enough without flaring and crippling pain.

Still at least I have my writing hand; I thirst to write about people on the train – they are such interesting characters.  Of course there are stereotypical derro-bogans bitching and moaning that life hasn’t treated them fairly, so they make others lives a living hell with their alcohol enduced fights and verbal tantrums.  On the other hand, one could take the opinion that these people face hardship daily, real issues of survival and though many would have drug-related issues and dependancies; many others are likely to be homeless and jobless and from that perspective my problems are finite in comparison.  If we all look down our noses at misfortune, it is only a matter of time until we face the same reality.